Our Father Who Art a Mystery Part Five
She was still very young, and had notions about romance and children and her mother that couldn’t be entirely squashed by the snarky, cynical attitudes of her siblings. But growing up in such a family had made her wonder, had made her think about her mother and her father and their relationship.
Mori didn’t think it could be that great, if her father didn’t even want to be around them, but she wondered how Zelda felt. After all, to have so many children with one man-the others had assured Mori that it was only one man-Zelda must have loved him at least a little bit once. She must have valued him very much if she chose to keep having so many children. And since many of them were still young, Zelda must have loved him for a very long time.
Mori knocked gently. “Come in,” Zelda called, and Mori entered. “Hello, Mori,” Zelda said. “I see the trolls didn’t rough you up too badly.”
“Mommy?” she said tentatively, ignoring the troll remark. “Do you still love Daddy?”
Zelda stared at her for a moment. “It’s complicated,” she finally said. “Love usually is.”
“That doesn’t answer my question. Either you love him or you don’t.”
Zelda shook her head. “Oh, Mori. Very few things are ever that simple. But the short answer is that I am very fond of your father and I don’t regret any of it. It’s not love like picking flowers and taking romantic rowboat rides, but I suppose the short answer is that I do love him. Not as much as I should, but I do.”
Mori nodded. “Well, maybe when he comes later, you can love him more.”
Zelda smiled. “Maybe,” she said. “Or maybe we’ll just be friends. I don’t know.”
Mori nodded and turned to leave. Before she went, though, she said, “It’s always good to love people, Mommy.”
“Yes, Mori,” Zelda said. “Yes it is.”
“And I’m sure we’ll love Daddy when we meet him.”
“I’m sure you will, too. But you have met him before. You just didn’t know.”
Mori carried that information downstairs, though no one else seemed surprised by it.
XVIII. Courier Brill
She was the youngest of all who had come, but Brill had already found her use to the Treehouse. In spite of being small and easy prey for the trolls, Brill was very fast and would often take messages to her siblings from Zelda.
And she loved her mother, like any young girl does, and she often gave her mother plushies of the characters from the stories, the men and women who the children admired above all else. And Brill was elated to know that one of them, it didn’t matter which, was her father, and she would embrace whoever it was with open arms.
But she was worried. Her mother was leaving today, and all of them understood that Zelda wouldn’t be coming back, and that made Brill think. Why would their mother leave? Knight had told them it was because Zelda didn’t have a choice, but Brill thought there was always a choice, that no one had to do anything if they were willing to fight hard enough.
Why wasn’t Zelda fighting this?
Brill knocked very timidly on the door. “Come in,” Zelda called, and Brill shuffled in, clutching her plushie of Jaeris close to her chest. “Don’t be afraid, Brill,” Zelda added. “What’s your question?”
“Mommy,” Brill said quietly. “Do you still love us?”
Zelda opened her arms and Brill rushed into them, leaning on Zelda and hugging her and her plushie at the same time. “Of course I love you,” Zelda said. “What ever made you think that I didn’t?”
“You’re going away,” Brill answered, voice muffled by Zelda’s sweater. “Why would you go away if you love us?”
“Brill, I’m not leaving because of you. Someday, when you’re older, you’ll understand that sometimes people have to go away. They have other things to do, other places to go, and they can’t spend forever in one place.”
“I don’t want you to go.”
“I know. But you have to let me.”
Brill nodded and Zelda released her. “Now go downstairs and help like a good girl, okay?”
“Yes, Mommy,” Brill said, and she went down, tears streaking her face.
“Are you okay?” Dragon asked as soon as Brill got downstairs.
“I guess,” Brill said. “But will you tell me a story?”
Dragon nodded. “As long as Mosu doesn’t catch us,” she said, and she sat Brill down and began a tale for her.
XIX. Astra Aurora
She wasn’t stupid or naïve. Astra knew what was meant when Zelda said that she was leaving. They all knew, deep down, that there was only one way Zelda would ever leave the Treehouse.
It was odd to think of it, though. After almost two hundred children, all of whom were old enough to leave the house alone, Astra had come to think of her mother as immortal, infallible, undefeatable in every way. She could vividly remember a time when she had been very young and had tossed some garbage out to the trolls. Astra had been set upon, but Zelda had come out immediately and shot them all down, giving Astra a stern reprimand not to feed them. And that was when Astra knew that her mother was unbreakable.
So she had to know how this was happening. How it was that Zelda would leave them. The others spoke of it like death, and Astra felt in her heart that it was true.
As soon as her turn came, Astra raced up the stairs and pounded on the door. Zelda’s gentle call for her to enter only made her feel more panicked.
“Mum,” she said before Zelda could speak. “What’s wrong?”
Zelda stared. “Wrong?” she asked. “What makes you think something’s wrong?”
“You’re dying, aren’t you?” Astra asked. “You’re sick and dying and you just didn’t want us to know so you’re playing games with questions about inconsequential things like fathers and I need to know what’s wrong.”
“Astra,” Zelda said. “There’s nothing wrong.”
Astra stopped. “What?”
“Whoever said I was dying?” Zelda laughed. “I said I was leaving the Treehouse and suddenly you all assume that I’m at death’s door? Really, Astra. I’m immortal. How else could I have so many children?”
“Oh,” Astra muttered. “But then why are you leaving?”
“Astra…”
“Come on, Mum. Why?”
“I’m done here. My children are grown. Your father’s coming and I’m going away with him to other places. But I’ll come back and visit. You don’t all have to act like this is a funeral.”
Astra stared. “Right,” she finally muttered, and she stomped downstairs.
XX. Interlude Two
They looked slightly taken aback when Astra stomped back down, but none of them worried about it too long. They were all too busy getting the house cleaned up, stories written, pictures drawn so that they could persuade their father to stay, to love them as they had always wanted him to.
And yet, even as they did, all of them knew that it wouldn’t be so. After all, if he had loved them, he would have always been there. And it wasn’t that they were lacking love. They had their mother, and their aunts and uncles, and each other. Why were they so concerned about a father? But none of them said anything about that as they continued to work.
After all, some people like the illusion.
They had just finished when there was a knock on the door. There was an immediate argument about who would answer in before Amy drew a number out of the bowl. “Who was number nine?” she asked.
“I was,” Rampant said, and he went to answer the door. He opened it and finally, with clarity, he knew.
“Hello, Rampant,” Rob said. “Is your mother home?”
There was a beat as the children exchanged a look, wondering at how they had all missed it. It had always been so obvious, so clear. He had always been there, in the back, quiet, but making sure they were all safe and healthy. He was Critic’s brother, so of course the checks came from there… they had probably never been Critic’s checks to begin with, just another layer of secrecy.
It never could have been anyone else.
All of this passed through their minds before someone thought to answer. “She’s upstairs,” Sci Fi said.
“Thank you,” Rob answered with a smile, and he passed all the children and went up to her.
Mori didn’t think it could be that great, if her father didn’t even want to be around them, but she wondered how Zelda felt. After all, to have so many children with one man-the others had assured Mori that it was only one man-Zelda must have loved him at least a little bit once. She must have valued him very much if she chose to keep having so many children. And since many of them were still young, Zelda must have loved him for a very long time.
Mori knocked gently. “Come in,” Zelda called, and Mori entered. “Hello, Mori,” Zelda said. “I see the trolls didn’t rough you up too badly.”
“Mommy?” she said tentatively, ignoring the troll remark. “Do you still love Daddy?”
Zelda stared at her for a moment. “It’s complicated,” she finally said. “Love usually is.”
“That doesn’t answer my question. Either you love him or you don’t.”
Zelda shook her head. “Oh, Mori. Very few things are ever that simple. But the short answer is that I am very fond of your father and I don’t regret any of it. It’s not love like picking flowers and taking romantic rowboat rides, but I suppose the short answer is that I do love him. Not as much as I should, but I do.”
Mori nodded. “Well, maybe when he comes later, you can love him more.”
Zelda smiled. “Maybe,” she said. “Or maybe we’ll just be friends. I don’t know.”
Mori nodded and turned to leave. Before she went, though, she said, “It’s always good to love people, Mommy.”
“Yes, Mori,” Zelda said. “Yes it is.”
“And I’m sure we’ll love Daddy when we meet him.”
“I’m sure you will, too. But you have met him before. You just didn’t know.”
Mori carried that information downstairs, though no one else seemed surprised by it.
XVIII. Courier Brill
She was the youngest of all who had come, but Brill had already found her use to the Treehouse. In spite of being small and easy prey for the trolls, Brill was very fast and would often take messages to her siblings from Zelda.
And she loved her mother, like any young girl does, and she often gave her mother plushies of the characters from the stories, the men and women who the children admired above all else. And Brill was elated to know that one of them, it didn’t matter which, was her father, and she would embrace whoever it was with open arms.
But she was worried. Her mother was leaving today, and all of them understood that Zelda wouldn’t be coming back, and that made Brill think. Why would their mother leave? Knight had told them it was because Zelda didn’t have a choice, but Brill thought there was always a choice, that no one had to do anything if they were willing to fight hard enough.
Why wasn’t Zelda fighting this?
Brill knocked very timidly on the door. “Come in,” Zelda called, and Brill shuffled in, clutching her plushie of Jaeris close to her chest. “Don’t be afraid, Brill,” Zelda added. “What’s your question?”
“Mommy,” Brill said quietly. “Do you still love us?”
Zelda opened her arms and Brill rushed into them, leaning on Zelda and hugging her and her plushie at the same time. “Of course I love you,” Zelda said. “What ever made you think that I didn’t?”
“You’re going away,” Brill answered, voice muffled by Zelda’s sweater. “Why would you go away if you love us?”
“Brill, I’m not leaving because of you. Someday, when you’re older, you’ll understand that sometimes people have to go away. They have other things to do, other places to go, and they can’t spend forever in one place.”
“I don’t want you to go.”
“I know. But you have to let me.”
Brill nodded and Zelda released her. “Now go downstairs and help like a good girl, okay?”
“Yes, Mommy,” Brill said, and she went down, tears streaking her face.
“Are you okay?” Dragon asked as soon as Brill got downstairs.
“I guess,” Brill said. “But will you tell me a story?”
Dragon nodded. “As long as Mosu doesn’t catch us,” she said, and she sat Brill down and began a tale for her.
XIX. Astra Aurora
She wasn’t stupid or naïve. Astra knew what was meant when Zelda said that she was leaving. They all knew, deep down, that there was only one way Zelda would ever leave the Treehouse.
It was odd to think of it, though. After almost two hundred children, all of whom were old enough to leave the house alone, Astra had come to think of her mother as immortal, infallible, undefeatable in every way. She could vividly remember a time when she had been very young and had tossed some garbage out to the trolls. Astra had been set upon, but Zelda had come out immediately and shot them all down, giving Astra a stern reprimand not to feed them. And that was when Astra knew that her mother was unbreakable.
So she had to know how this was happening. How it was that Zelda would leave them. The others spoke of it like death, and Astra felt in her heart that it was true.
As soon as her turn came, Astra raced up the stairs and pounded on the door. Zelda’s gentle call for her to enter only made her feel more panicked.
“Mum,” she said before Zelda could speak. “What’s wrong?”
Zelda stared. “Wrong?” she asked. “What makes you think something’s wrong?”
“You’re dying, aren’t you?” Astra asked. “You’re sick and dying and you just didn’t want us to know so you’re playing games with questions about inconsequential things like fathers and I need to know what’s wrong.”
“Astra,” Zelda said. “There’s nothing wrong.”
Astra stopped. “What?”
“Whoever said I was dying?” Zelda laughed. “I said I was leaving the Treehouse and suddenly you all assume that I’m at death’s door? Really, Astra. I’m immortal. How else could I have so many children?”
“Oh,” Astra muttered. “But then why are you leaving?”
“Astra…”
“Come on, Mum. Why?”
“I’m done here. My children are grown. Your father’s coming and I’m going away with him to other places. But I’ll come back and visit. You don’t all have to act like this is a funeral.”
Astra stared. “Right,” she finally muttered, and she stomped downstairs.
XX. Interlude Two
They looked slightly taken aback when Astra stomped back down, but none of them worried about it too long. They were all too busy getting the house cleaned up, stories written, pictures drawn so that they could persuade their father to stay, to love them as they had always wanted him to.
And yet, even as they did, all of them knew that it wouldn’t be so. After all, if he had loved them, he would have always been there. And it wasn’t that they were lacking love. They had their mother, and their aunts and uncles, and each other. Why were they so concerned about a father? But none of them said anything about that as they continued to work.
After all, some people like the illusion.
They had just finished when there was a knock on the door. There was an immediate argument about who would answer in before Amy drew a number out of the bowl. “Who was number nine?” she asked.
“I was,” Rampant said, and he went to answer the door. He opened it and finally, with clarity, he knew.
“Hello, Rampant,” Rob said. “Is your mother home?”
There was a beat as the children exchanged a look, wondering at how they had all missed it. It had always been so obvious, so clear. He had always been there, in the back, quiet, but making sure they were all safe and healthy. He was Critic’s brother, so of course the checks came from there… they had probably never been Critic’s checks to begin with, just another layer of secrecy.
It never could have been anyone else.
All of this passed through their minds before someone thought to answer. “She’s upstairs,” Sci Fi said.
“Thank you,” Rob answered with a smile, and he passed all the children and went up to her.