"Mother's Love"

"Mother's Love"

by Riveter Bailey

She found the wool at the marketplace in Shepherd's Valley. It wasn't much to look at—lots of dark, matted hair among the fluff, plenty of sheep dung, too, mixed in with dried grass and Lord knows what else. But it was good Leicester wool, just the same, and she bought enough for the job she had to do. She added the bundle to her basket, wrinkling her nose a bit at the smell. "C'mon now, young 'uns," she spoke out behind her as she made her way to the grain stall. "We got lots to do 'fore sunset." Her passel a young'uns followed her like ducklings, five in all—from a young woman of 16 to a boy of 5, they were dressed in homespun that had known many darnings, but they were clean. Momma insisted on that. "Won't have folks speaking out agin my family," she'd grumble, but inside she was proud to do the work of raising these kids to be right proper folks and a credit to the 'Verse. Least, she hoped they'd turn out right. Having a pa who'd drunk more and shot more than was good for him was a bad example, but she hoped that having a ma to watch over and protect 'em showed 'em the way. Even if her firstborn…

Shrugging off the thought, the woman bustled to the grain booth. "I need me a peck of rice and one of wheat, Mr. Aken." Turning to face her, the stall-holder cracked a wide smile. "Well, How-dee, missus. Just a peck of rice and wheat? We got some mighty fine barley just in, weevils hardly been in it—you'd never know. Just pick 'em right out easy as pie, or leave 'em in for a little protein. I'd do you a special deal—" His glance was hopeful.

"Naw, thank you, sir. Just what I asked for—without any extra livestock, if y' please. My flour's holdin' out just fine, too." She was a firm customer and he knew it—kinda halfway teased her about her standards, but she weren't the type of woman to feed bugs to her kin. 'And thank God for the money to buy this food for my young 'uns,' she prayed silently, her mind once more on her eldest boy. Not a boy, now—hadn't been for a long time. She began to hum a sprightly tune from her childhood: Oh, I won't take none of yer weevily wheat/ and I won't take none of yer barley/ I want fine flour in half an hour/ to bake a cake for Charley!

"Ah, well—only the finest for you, ma'am," Mr. Aken sighed as he packed her goods for her. Into the basket they went, squeezed in by a rather ripe-smelling parcel. "Whatcha got there?" he pointed.

"Just a bit a wool for spinnin.' Good day to you, Mr. Aken." She walked away with her trail of kids, still hummin' and haughty in her own way, despite her worn clothes and shoes down at the heel. Her head was held high and her thick chestnut hair, showing only a touch of gray, was wound into a luscious coil at the nape of her neck. Though her careworn face had known more than its share of troubles and sorrow, she was unbowed to the last. 'That's a mighty fine woman,' Aken thought to himself as she made her way through the market. "Mighty fine." He turned his attention to his next customer.

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She soaked the wool next. Lor-dee, how it stank! What the hell were they feedin' them poor animals? She pursed her mouth and bit her tongue as she worked the wool under the water with both hands. Ugh. Cussin' never passed her lips in front of her young 'uns—they just noticed the look on her face as she doused and lathered it with homemade soft soap. Ain't never too poor to afford soap, her mama always said—

"Geez, Momma—what's that for?" her oldest daughter asked, holding her nose carefully and completely with two hands so not a whiff would filter through.

"Just a bit a wool for spinnin,'" was all she'd say as she patiently worked through the muck, using her small shears to snip out the bad bits. Once the fleece was dry she carded it with her granny's old carding combs. They was carved all along the back with knots that twisted and twined about each other, and a thistle and a rose in the center. Granny said they was older than old, from long afore Earth That Was was dried up and abandoned. These thoughts drifted through her head, and she found peace and comfort in the notion that she was using somethin' touched by her granny's granny's granny, all the way back beyond reckoning. Made her feel connected, somehow…Important, even.

She spun it that night by the fire, for nights were turning chilly. The wheel hummed as she treadled it and she thought about winter comin' as her fingers twisted the fibers a-runnin' through her hand. She'd seen them punkins out in the fields on the way home—liked that color, yes, she loved that warm, sweet color that conjured up the scent of cinnamon, cloves and pie…Mmm…Laughing to herself, she knew what nut hulls and roots to gather now.

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They sat, finished, in the basket by her feet, as warm and homey as eggs in a nest, all rolled up into snug balls…as rusty as autumn leaves, orange as pumpkins, and yellow as wheat in the field. Well, yellower than that—she'd left the yarn in the butternut too long that time when her youngest got stuck in a tree out back—but it was real nice, just the same. She picked up her double-points and cast on.

Rockin' and knittin,' that's what she liked to do of an evenin.' Just rockin' by the fire with her children all about her. Heads were bent over books and paper at the scarred old farmhouse table. "Now tell me yer ABC's," she said, her wooden needles clacking under her fingers and the slight rocking of the chair settlin' everyone with it's quiet rhythm. "Lord knows I want you young 'uns to have more learnin' than I did."

"Okay, Momma!" Caleb piped up. Her youngest was so full of spirit, happy and eager. "I know my shapes and colors, too."

"That's right. Go on, now," she smiled and waited with half an ear, listening to the childish voice singin' his letters, and listenin,' too, to the soft creaking floor while feeling the wool in her hands, and thinkin' 'bout sending it offworld. It was cold in the Black. She made a pom-pom for the top, and earlaps. She wanted her son to be warm, and to think of her and know she loved him no matter what. Her sweet little Jayne. Damn, she was so young when she had him…Head and shoulders taller than her, now! Lord, how he worried his momma. But he was a good son, just the same.

Lulled by the rocking, the knitting and the quiet sounds of learnin' all 'round her…thoughts drifted onto unwelcome ground and she flashed quickly to how he'd protected her that one time. The hair on her neck stood up as the memory of dust in her mouth choked her and she again felt ripping hands on her back and hips. She almost screamed as the images roiled full-blown into her mind, like a Capture she couldn't turn off. No! No. No. With an effort, she pushed the thoughts to the back of her head and made herself concentrate on weaving in the loose ends of yarn with her darning needle. She breathed deeply to calm herself, and blinked away the tears in her eyes, glad the kids didn't see. 'No. Cain't think on that now, Lizzy Cobb. I'm alive and he's dead. I'm alive and he's dead. My boy Jayne saved me, saved us, and he's prob'ly a mite cold out there. He needs me, even now he's grown. He needs his family.' At last she felt the horror of that day long past melt away until it left her completely. Her mind turned to how late it must be.

"Time for bed, lil' sugars. Run outside 'fore turnin' in, 'specially you, honey," she nodded to Caleb, who blushed and ran to the outhouse straight away. Lizzy laughed to herself at his little boy ways, and remembered a time when Jayne was the same. She banked the fire, rubbing the small of her back as she bent over the flames. "I'm tired tonight," she murmured, straightening, sighing. 'Gettin' old, I guess.' The realization did not sadden her. She was still here. She'd be here till she was called home, that's all.

All manner of feet made a patter behind her as they ran up the narrow stairs to the big attic under the eaves of her little old house. She heard the young 'uns squabblin' over the water bowl, brushin' their teeth, slippin' under the covers of their shared beds. Lizzy Cobb took the rest of the money out of her apron pocket and worked the little pouch deep into the open sack of flour. 'Thank you, Lord, for my son Jayne.' Lizzy wiped off the flour on her hands with a frayed sack towel.

'I do like the name of his ship,' she thought, wrapping Jayne's hat and her letter into a parcel by candle light, smoothing the knitted wool and packing in a sprig of wild lavender she'd gathered by the roadside. 'That's right enough. Serenity.' Darkness enclosed the worn kitchen as she blew out the light and made her way up the stairs by memory, her hand on one wall. "Serenity." The sound out loud comforted Lizzy as she settled into the soft quilts and feather bed. How many birds had she plucked and made Jayne pluck, too, she recalled, so's she and all her little 'uns could sleep warm in feathers? Lizzy smiled, close to dreaming. She'd send the package out first thing tomorrow, 'fore going to see Cousin Mattie. Sleep surrounded her at last, and she dreamed of fragrant autumn leaves, cheerful, round pumpkins, and fireflies sportin' 'neath a diamond sky.

The End