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The pounding in Zanka’s head after Beltane was almost not worth the celebration.
He moves to the side with a groan. Lifting a hand to his forehead, Zanka rubs at his temple. He felt… damp. Oh, my Goddess.
Zanka sits up, wincing at the sudden movement and the lightening that shoots through his skull. He’s outside. Bright, warm sunshine blinds his sensitive eyes. Dew sits on his clothes and his hair. Across from him, Jabber laid on the grass, the green strands tickling that dark skin.
Mn, he looks like a piece of Mother’s art, Zanka muses. There’s dew sitting in coarse hair, the golden ornaments decorating looked like mini suns. Zanka tilts his head at the other witch, it’s strange to Zanka. The fact that Jabber was willing to participate in Beltane not for Mother but for a random man he met.
He’s so interesting, so strange.
And those rings of his. Zanka noticed the first time he touched them but didn’t actually realize until way after. The rings had protection spells on them. It was a deep and archaic magic, something that spanned centuries.
Did Jabber enchant them himself? Or did he acquire them somewhere? Zanka muses internally. So many mysteries surrounding one man. Zanka hasn’t had this much excitement in years.
Eyelids flutter and Zanka’s attention is snapped back to his guest. Jabber lets out a groan, riddled with morning rasp.
“Oh,” He says as he catches sight of Zanka, “Mornin’ Beautiful.”
Zanka’s face has never turned red so fast. He clears his throat and pushes himself to standing in an instant, “A-ah, Jabber, good morning.”
He turns and heads inside, his hand scrubbing the back of his neck as he goes. It’s embarrassing, why am I acting like this?
There’s a snicker behind him, Zanka ignores it.
--
It’s Spring, officially, and with Spring comes rain. Shortly after the two witches pull themselves together and enter into the cottage. Clouds gather, and one drop turns to two drops turns to pouring sheets of water. It’s been a week or two, Jabber hasn’t left Zanka’s home. But it’s not an issue, as Zanka finds they pair rather well together.
Jabber stands in the kitchen, a blade in his hand as he chops vegetables at Zanka’s order. How far they’ve come, from Jabber threatening his blood, to tossing carrots into a stew. Zanka almost laughs- almost. Instead, he stands next to the window, prepping ingredients for his spellbags. Mr. Yuuji contacted him, he’s been having hip troubles again.
He tucks comfrey, a main herb for aching bones and tissue, then ginger, and a few drops of Jabber’s gifted frankincense. He has a hematite gemstone, which he drops inside. It’s a well done spellbag, one he’ll infuse with magic a bit later when he’s feeling up to it. For now, though, he allows his thoughts to wander as he stares out his window.
The rain drips like a dance. The water tracing the edges of leaves, a trance-like behavior as it slows towards the end before ultimately dropping fast. Like a ballerina on a stage, great swooping movements, then hesitation, then a dip when you least expect it.
“You, O Goddess, sent a plentiful rain. Whereby You confirmed Your inheritance when it was weary,” He mumbles the memorized prayers. His book of sayings, spells, blessings, and praises was given to him ages ago. The journal is well-loved and Zanka has memorized almost every word in its bindings, “As the rain and the snow come down from heaven, and do not return to it without watering the land and making it bud and flourish, so that it yields seed for the sower and bread for the eater.”
“How many of those do you know?” Jabber interrupts his train of thought. Zanka blinks, having forgot the other man was there. He’s not used to people being in his home, usually he can mutter and mumble his prayers and praises for his ears alone.
“Ah,” Zanka says, glancing behind him, “Many.”
“Many?” Jabber smiles, “You ain’t gotta number?”
“Well,” Zanka tips his head, “The prayer book has over 150, and I have my own and others passed down to me as well.”
“Oh, your family is witch?” Jabber asks. Zanka goes silent.
He grits his teeth, turning from the window. Sliding next to Jabber he grabs his kettle, “I’m thirsty and it’s chilly out, I’ll make tea.”
Jabber’s eyes are on Zanka as the other witch flits about his home. He kneels next to the fireplace, stacking two logs with kindling between them. He flicks his fingers, a spark, but no flame.
Zanka nibbles on his lip and he flicks again, a spark, no flame.
How useless of a witch? Can’t even start a fire.
“I’m the only witch in my family,” Zanka comments and with a final flick he manifests a flame. It’s weak and struggles to breath as he pushes into the fireplace. A blaze grows higher and Zanka sits back, “the other members of my family… have no interest in witchcraft.”
Jabber stands behind Zanka and then drops down next to him, “My mother was a witch.”
“I know,” Zanka mumbles softly, “you mentioned it once.”
“Ah, right,” Jabber says, amusement and light from the fire flickering in his eyes. He turns his head and grins at Zanka, “When I beat you.”
Zanka scoffs immediately, “Ya didn’t beat me.”
“Yeah? Your motionless body begged to differ.”
With one arm, Zanka shoves Jabber off of the stool he was perched on. The stool slips from underneath him and Jabber scrambles on the floor for purchase. Zanka stares at him in amusement, “Not so motionless now.”
Jabber’s eyes give one pink glint before he throws himself forward. A bark of laughter pushes itself out of Zanka’s lungs and hands wrap thickly around his wrists. His back hits the floor and Zanka twists at the moment of impact, rolling out of Jabber’s grasp.
The two grapple. Snickers and laughs slipping out as hands gripped and grabbed.
“Look at you! Holdin’ your own!” Jabber lets out with a breathy chuckle. Zanka grins down at him and then with a wink, Jabber pulls his balance out from under him. The two swap positions, Jabber stares down and Zanka pants up. Blue meeting pink and then-
“Alright, get off,” Zanka clears his throat. He reaches a hand up and pushes at Jabber’s shoulder. He’s stiff at first, then he loosens up and moves off of him. Zanka’s ears feel hot, he doesn’t think about why.
Jabber is quiet for a bit as they shuffle back to whatever chore they were focused on. Then, Jabber starts, “My mother, she was…”
He trails off. Zanka remains quiet until Jabber finds his word.
“She was nice. Pretty as a doll. She had these lil’ ribbons in her hair and her hands were always soft,” he allows his head to swivel over to Zanka. Those eyes of his, usually playful, were filled with a heavy gaze.
Zanka moves to the kitchen, snatching the lemons they had bought yesterday. With efficiency, he began slicing them. The knife slid easily and Zanka cleared his throat rapidly.
“Ya good there, Mr. Bad Attitude?” Jabber asks and Zanka’s hand slips. The blade catches his finger and he pulls back sharply. He lets out a hiss and Jabber is grasping his wrist before he can say anything. He tuts, “you haveta be careful.”
Zanka feels scolded and he looks away. Jabber grabs a cloth lying on the counter and uses it to halt the bleeding. Zanka tries to pull his hand away, “it’ll stain!”
“Who cares, just buy a new one!” Jabber snaps back and holds it still. Pink meets blue and Zanka glares harshly. Jabber wiggles his eyebrows and then sits himself on the counter.
“Get down,” Zanka pulls on his wrist again. Jabber just smiles at him and Zanka rolls his eyes. Then something crosses Jabber’s face and Zanka looks at him real closely, “what’s wrong?”
“Nothin’, just…” Jabber’s eyes look to the side, as if he doesn’t want to meet Zanka’s gaze. Am I too much for him? Zanka wonders, he doesn’t like that Jabber won’t look him in the eye. Jabber inhales, “I’ve been thinkin’ real hard lately.”
“You? Think?” Zanka teases, but he only gets a small smile from the other witch.
Jabber nibbles on his lip a bit, “how do you have so much faith?”
Zanka blinks, taken back by the question. Jabber notices and clarifies.
“Like, the Triple Goddess, what has she done for you to earn this devotion you give her?” He looks up, his pink eyes are hardened a bit and there’s genuine confusion in his eyes. Jabber presses again, “You’re all alone out here. Who would’ve done this-” he shakes Zanka’s injured finger “-if I wasn’t here?”
Zanka stares at him. It’s a fair question, but not a simple answer that many would understand. He sighs and lets his wrist drop in Jabber’s hand.
Tilting his head, Zanka gives Jabber a weak smile.
“You blame Mother for not being here when I get injured,” Zanka says. Then, carefully, he adds, “but she did give me help. She gave me you.”
Jabber blinks and his eyes widen a bit. Zanka continues.
“She gave me my home, and my garden, and the warmth from the fire. My magic is her gift. My bed is her gift… My solitude is her gift,” he adds the last part with a flash of his family through his mind. Zanka wanted to be away from people, he doesn’t want to be with his family. Then he twists his hand, keeping the cloth on his finger while entwining Jabber and his’s palms, “Then, when solitude weighed heavy on me, she gave me you.”
He looks up again and rubs his thumb on Jabber’s hand while he talks.
“The Triple Goddess gives and takes like the tide. Giving to my needs, and taking to them as well,” Zanka explains, “I give her devotion as thanks. Thanks for everything, the taking and the giving.”
Jabber stares at him in silence, “What about the hard times?”
“I had a hard time once, before I came to my home,” Zanka says, his mind elsewhere as recalls vivid memories of screams and pain. He smiles, a bit sadly, “And even though I suffered through it, Mother delivered me. And the pain I went through to get here built me up into the man and witch I am today, so in a difficult way… I am grateful for it.”
“My mother was killed,” Jabber says. Zanka’s heart aches the moment he says it. Jabber’s eyes aren’t on him anymore, “killed for her shitty devotion to that shitty Goddess.”
It’s not offence that builds in Zanka this time, but grief. Grief for Jabber and for his mother and for the pain they both had and have to go through. The anguish of losing someone and fumbling around with blame. Because Zanka knows that Jabber blames himself just as much as he blames the Triple Goddess.
Jabber swallows and then, very intricately, he states, “I don’t think I’ll ever hold any respect for the Triple Goddess again.”
Zanka doesn’t answer. He knows that. And besides, Mother wouldn’t care about that. All She cares about is that Jabber is content and safe, no other worries cross Her mind. Zanka stares into Jabber’s eyes. Two different types of gazes, one filled with anxiousness and pain from the past, the other filled with patience and healed despair. Two broken souls, one fixed, the other still healing.
As they stand there, in the kitchen, Zanka holding Jabber’s hand. He offers a prayer up to Mother, a prayer of gratitude and of love. How grateful is he to Her, that She brought Jabber and Zanka together.
You are my Goddess; have mercy on me, Mother, for I call to you all day long. Bring joy to Your servant, Mother, for I put my trust in You. I will praise You, Mother my Goddess, with all my heart; I will glorify Your name forever. For great is Your love toward me; You have delivered me from the depths, from the realm of the dead. But You, Mother, are a compassionate and gracious Goddess, slow to anger, abounding in love and faithfulness. Turn to me and have mercy on me; show Your strength in behalf of Your servant save me, because I serve You just as my worldly mother did.
They stay like that in the kitchen until the sun starts to set and the fire goes cold.
--
A slap echoes through the alley.
Then it’s followed by a punch and a shout.
“Damn brat!” The man hisses and the bundle of skinny flesh and thin clothing cradles his head closer to his knees. The impacts make Jabber’s body ache and throb even more than the hunger that riddled his bones.
“I think ya got ‘em,” The other man burps out. They’re drunk. Jabber had made the foolish decision that they were drunk enough to pickpocket- he was sorely mistaken.
With one more stomp, the man finishes his beating and lets out a sharp exhale. They turn and meander back down the alley, chortling and making ugly noises that Jabber hates. After the alley goes silent, the boy sits up. Blood crusts at his lip, at his nose, and at his temple. All superficial. All temporary.
“It won’t matter after they’re gone, Jabberwocky,” His mama’s voice whispers into his ear, “What’s wrong with a little bump and bruise? Those fade. You mustn’t let them harm the real you, the inside you.”
Jabber sniffs, rubbing a hand across his nose and face. He stands, wobbling a bit, but standing, nonetheless. His mama had been real sick lately, coughing and hacking in a way that makes Jabber real nervous. But medicine wasn’t cheap, and she wasn’t well enough to make her own.
Swallowing, an action that was painful, Jabber turns and heads back home.
The door creaks open as he pushes it and he’s welcomed home with the sound of sick from his mother.
“Mama?” he calls. There’s a rasp and then.
“Jabber,” she returns and he hurries over to her room. She looks worse, eyebags deep and skin gaunt. There wasn’t much light left in her eyes.
“Mama,” he says again, burying his face into her stomach. Tears welled up instantly in his eyes. He didn’t cry while he got beat, not once, but for his mother he couldn’t hold back his tears.
She let out a sigh that was quickly followed by a hacking cough, “Oh, Jabberwocky, show me your face.”
He pushes his face farther into her blankets and stomach, shaking his head adamantly. There’s a tutting noise from his mother, and her hand lands in his hair. She plays with the pieces and then slowly, angles his head up.
Her eyes, a lighter pink than his own, stare at him with sadness painted in them. Shame curdles deep in Jabber’s seven-year-old stomach, how dare he make her worry.
“Ya should see the other guys,” Jabber claims, pushing a toothy grin to his face. She tilts her head and a weary smile graces her pretty features.
“I don’t like you fighting others, Jabber,” Mama scolds. She rubs a thumb on his cheek, pulling on a scrap, “your little face isn’t made to hold such hardships.”
He smiles at her, the smile stretching his wounds stung. Jabber turns away and then reaches deep into his pockets, “I have something.”
It’s jewelry, something that he had managed to snatch earlier before he was caught. His mother stares at the pieces he offers her.
“They can pay for a tonic, just something to help,” he says it almost pleadingly. Mama sighs and places the jewelry to the side.
“Jabberwocky, listen to me,” the nickname slides off her tongue easy. Jabber pushes himself up and onto her bed, folding his legs underneath him, he sits patiently. She fixes her posture, so she looks proper, “Stealing is not good. It’s not honorable. You mustn’t do it.”
“But we need to, we can’t-”
“Jabber Wonger,” She snaps and he quiets in an instant. Her soft eyes stare at him, her son. She lets out another sigh, “I understand you want to help, but you can’t throw away your goodness for something as silly as your mother.”
“You’re not silly!” He objects. Jabber’s eyes crease and he reaches out and grasps her wrist, “I just want Mama to feel better!”
“Oh my sweet boy,” she says and pulls him into a hug. She buries her nose into his shoulder and hair and holds him with something akin to desperation, “it’ll get better, I swear it will.”
It doesn’t get better.
Jabber witnesses the fall of his mother. She can’t walk anymore and Jabber finds himself cleaning up after her and feeding her. He wipes her face and helps her sip water. It’s bad, it’s really bad, and even seven-year-old Jabber knows when hopelessness starts to set in.
Her book, Jabber thinks one afternoon, her book might help.
Mama was a witch. She doesn’t practice much anymore, but Jabber remembers a few years ago when they stood a maypole up at Beltane and danced around it. He remembers at Samhain making his mask. He remembers Yule and all of the yummy food. Recently though, they haven’t done any of that.
Mama says that the law says that they couldn’t do that anymore. That men called it heretical and evil. Mama told Jabber that he shouldn’t ever be ashamed off who he is, ever. But safety is more important than self-expression, and his mother made sure that they stopped practicing for the Triple Goddess.
Jabber knew though. He knew that Mama would’ve kept practicing if it wasn’t for him.
Her sense of responsibility towards him forced her to give up something she loved.
He’d help her, Jabber decides, I’ll help her get better.
Mama’s book was filled with spells and prayers, all listed with what purpose they served. All Jabber had to do was find one for illness and follow the instructions,
“My little Jabberwocky,” Mama used to say, “so full of Mother’s love, I can see Her in your veins. Making your light shine so far!”
He could do it, he could make magic. Jabber just knew he needed to start.
The book was dusty and the pages were so filled with his Mama’s fancy writing that he struggled to understand what needed to be done. Finding the spell was easy enough. Wellness medicine. He latches onto the title and scans the ingredients.
Bay leaf, black salt, frankincense, cloves, and pure quartz. It was simple. Why hadn’t they done this earlier, why had he allowed his mother to get to this extreme?
Jabber starts with finding the ingredients immediately. The kitchen supplies are easy, bay leaf, cloves, and black salt are sitting around his kitchen, unused since his mother was bedridden. He gathers them up and reaches on his tiptoes to push them onto the table. He slips into Mama’s room when she’s sleeping, guilt eats at him as he rummages through her stuff for frankincense and quartz, but when he finds some in a box at the back of her closet, the grief disappears.
With his ingredients ready, he starts with the bag.
Dropping each ingredient inside, each imbued with energy and willpower, he hovers above the open bag.
“All night long I flood my bed with weeping and drench my couch with tears. My eyes grow weak with sorrow; they fail because of all my foes. Mother has heard my cry for mercy; Mother accepts my prayer.”
He mutters the words to himself, quick and efficient and unstumbling. Jabber had practiced them to himself throughout the whole creation process so that he wouldn’t mess up. He ties the bag with twine and sneaks into his mother’s room.
Under the pillow, the book had said and Jabber lifts Mama’s pillow gently before pushing it underneath.
“Mm, Jabber, what’re you doin’ sweetie?” His mother mumbles. Jabber’s pink eyes snap to her sleepy face.
“Just worried,” he whispers back. She smiles at him, weakly.
“No need to be worried, I’m okay.”
Lying, she’s lying. Mama is not okay, she’s so far from okay. Why is she telling him this?
“Okay,” he whispers back, voice small. Then he pulls away and leaves the room. Tomorrow, Jabber will see results tomorrow.
He wakes. His body aches and throbs from the beating he endured yesterday. There’s a smell in the air, something delicious and wonderful. Jabber’s mouth waters at the scent and pulls himself from his bed (bed is being generous. It’s a filthy and the scraps of spare blankets). Jabber stumbles to his bedroom doorway, there is no door, it fell off long ago. He peeks around the corner into the kitchen.
Mama is upright and standing and cooking on the counter.
“Mama,” he says.
“Oh!” She turns abruptly. Her face is flush with color and life. Jabber blinks, it had been so long, seeing Mama so healthy. She smiles, “I’m makin’ breakfast!”
She holds up a ladle and Jabber can only nod. Eventually, he breaks from his stupor and climbs on one of the rickety stools at the table. His eyes never leave her figure as she meanders around the kitchen pulling items from cupboards.
“I feel so lively, Jabberwocky! It’s a miracle,” she laughs a bit as she stirs food in a big pot. She turns and beams at him, “I’m even craving oats.”
Jabber is so happy. His mother is up and moving and smiling and cooking and chatting and everything Jabber’s ever done seems insignificant to what he did last night.
Thank you, he sends to the Triple Goddess, thank you for making it work.
It doesn’t last.
She’s sick again the next day. Worse.
Her skin looks dead and feels like paper, and her eyes are bloodshot. Mama lies in her bed and pants with her eyes scrunched shut from pain. Jabber doesn’t understand, why is this happening? He fixed it! She was healthy!
“Jabberwocky,” her voice murmurs out and Jabber’s at her side in an instant. She peels her eyes open, squinting and struggling to keep her gaze focused. A dry and painful swallow, and then she speaks, “What did you do?”
Panic ripples through Jabber’s body. His bones tighten and his veins turn cold. What did he do?
“Just tell me, Sweetie, I won’t be mad,” it’s not desperate the way she says it. Instead, she says it like she already knows. A mother understands and knows every action of their sons after all. She raised him and taught him, of course she knows when he errs.
“I just- I just wanted to help!” Jabber explodes and shoves his head into her stomach. Sobs pushed out of him and tears burn through his eyes. The blanket beneath him instantly wets and Mama soothes him instantly.
“Oh, hush, hush,” she shushes softly. Her dark hands come up and sift through Jabber’s coarse hair. It’s melodic, the rasp in her voice evident. She lets out a sigh that’s instantly followed by a cough, “did you use magic?”
Jabber pulls his head up, his eyes hazy from tears, “I used your book, Mama, I just wanted to help. What did I do? Why didn’t it work?”
She stares at him, pity swirling around in her soft pink eyes. Mama sighs, “You don’t know.”
I don’t know what? He wanted to ask. But her tired face makes his voice fall silent. He buried his face back down. Then he mutters, “I’m sorry.”
“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” Mama states, “you said you wanted to help, that’s all you tried to do.”
Jabber’s hand curls into the blankets until his fist turns pale. Mama reaches out and peels his fingers from the sheets. She entwines their hands together. As hot as her skin is from fever, the rings on her fingers are cold and Jabber notices them.
They’re beautiful. Silver and perfectly fitted on each of her fingers. She also wore matching bangles, never once through her sickness had she removed them from her skin. Jabber blinks at them, but then his gaze leads to her eyes. She’s staring so intently at him that he can’t help but be captivated.
“Intent matters, Jabber. Don’t let anyone push unnecessary blame onto you. Wrongdoings aren’t wrong unless you intend them to be as such,” Mama instructs, “If you wish to harm someone, then you are wrong. But if you wish to help someone, and they end up hurt instead, you cannot fully take the blame because you intended to help their wellbeing.”
Jabber’s gaze is steady, but he is hyperaware of her trembling hands in his. She grasps him tighter.
“You did not intend for me to get worse, I know that Jabber,” her eyes bear into him, “So you cannot blame yourself for what happens to me.”
“But Mama-”
“No buts.”
Jabber’s jaw clicks shut. She stares at him, then her eyes soften. She ushers him into her bed.
“Come, lie with me,” she pats by her side and Jabber scrambles up to match her. Her body is a furnace, hot with sick. Jabber’s hands don’t leave her ringed ones as they both fade into rest.
He wants to try again.
Jabber’s eyes scan each page as he flips through the book. Something went wrong before, so he needs to pick a different method. He’s young, and little, but Jabber won’t stop until his Mama gets better. There’s a sickness in his mother, deep and woven into her very soul. He must cleanse it from her in its entirety, surface-level won’t do anything.
Jabber’s magic hums in his veins. It’s strong and vivid, and he can feel it more than ever pulsing in his bones. But he can’t find what he needs. The book is useless. Anger pushes through him and he stands abruptly.
I don’t understand. I don’t understand! This isn’t fair!
“Jabber.”
He freezes.
Then he glances to his mother’s doorway. She hasn’t moved.
“Don’t look to the book for the answers you seek.”
Oh, Jabber thinks and he glances up, Mama told me about this.
“All good sons should listen to their mothers,” the voice adds. It sounds warm and it buzzes all around him, “You’ve been trying so hard, haven’t you?”
“I just want Mama to get better,” Jabber mumbles and tucks his chin a little. It feels odd, talking to nothing- well, to something, but not something he can see.
“I’m so sorry, Little One, the natural world is a cruel place,” She says it achingly, like it hurts to admit it, “You’ve been born with such a blessing, but it’s going to seem like such a curse.”
Jabber doesn’t understand. He’s only seven, he can only scrunch his eyebrows when adults talk about grown-up stuff.
“My blood runs through your blood, Little One,” the voice explains, “but without control and without practice, it won’t work with you. You must control it, Jabber, or your mother won’t get better.”
“How? How can she get better?” Jabber asks with childlike wonder and honesty. There’s a beat of silence, or more likely, hesitation.
“There’s a poison in her soul, one that can’t be fixed by that book.”
A poison. Jabber doesn’t know how to fix that.
“But there’s a bigger problem coming. You must flee, Little One. Take your mother and run.”
“Mama can’t move right now, she’s too sick,” he says it so bluntly. It should be obvious, his mother cannot leave the bed, she has to focus on getting better.
“I care for all of my Children. But I cannot make them do as I wish,” the voice claims, “I will repeat myself. Leave, it is not safe to remain here.”
Then that fuzziness leaves.
And Jabber feels his bones ache in hollowness at the absence.
He forgets about the voice in the coming days and never mentions it to Mama.
Mama gets worse, Jabber can’t figure out how to make her feel better. He spends his nights sleepless looking at her in her bed, his mind running through so many different plans and ideas. What if she never gets better? What if I can’t fix her?
Then, one day, there’s a knock on their door.
Jabber cracks the door open. He peers through the crack, staring at the three men all standing outside the door.
“A witch was caught down the street the other day, apparently, he’s been living in this neighborhood for some time. We have an order to check the other households in the area as a safety precaution,” the man explains. He’s wearing armor and traditional garb. The man’s eyes are cold and Jabber doesn’t like them. He orders, “let us in.”
“My mama’s real sick,” Jabber says, “she can’t talk to ya.”
“We don’t need to talk to your mother, boy. Open the door so we can search the house,” he spits the word house like it offends him, then scans his eyes over the rickety shack with visible disgust.
The man shoves on the door and Jabber stumbles back a bit as they push their way in. He doesn’t know what to do as they start pulling open cupboards and drawers and tipping over tables and chairs.
“Jabber?” Mama calls from her room and Jabber scampers over with speed. He dives into her side.
“There’s scary men out there, they won’t leave!” Jabber gushes and his mother’s eyes sharpen from their dulled state. She pushes him to the side a bit and then heaves herself up. Jabber panics, “you can’t! You’re sick! Lie back down!”
She ignores him and hobbles one step, then two. Sweat brims on her forehead and Jabber frets at her side. She shouldn’t be walking, she shouldn’t be awake. She stands in the doorway of her room, scraps of clothing hanging from her haggard form. Mama holds onto the doorframe to hold herself up and Jabber clamps his hands around her fingers, holding them tightly and anxiously.
“Who are you?” She asks, what strength she has left goes to her voice. It still wavers anyway.
“The Hell Guard, we caught a witch down the street, received orders to look into the neighbors,” one of the men toss at her.
She narrows her eyes, “there are no witches here, leave.”
“You don’t decide that,” the man growls and throws a stool over. Mama stands her ground and Jabber shuffles a bit behind her.
“You’re scarin’ my son,” she states.
The man walks up to her, his head inches above her. He stares down at her, scowling snidely. Then he chuckles, his breath is rancid and hot, “Look at you, all skin and bones. You can’t order me around.”
“This is my home-”
“You’re a woman, you can’t own a home,” he cuts her off, eyes sharp and dangerous. Mama’s jaw snaps shut and he sneers at her, “where’s your husband.”
Jabber’s mother looks away, a bit of shame eating at her pretty features, “gone. He left years ago.”
“A woman living without her husband and a rat for a kid, how disgraceful,” he spits.
Now, Jabber is only seven years old, he doesn’t understand much. However-
The look that enters the man’s eye is one that freezes his body. It’s predatory and hungry, and something that makes cold fear wash over Jabber. The man’s head tilts and his eyes trace up and down his mother’s sickly form.
“Fever eats at your body,” the man licks his lips, “though, a woman’s body is still a woman’s body.”
The room goes silent. The other two men stop rustling around and both turn their heads. Mama pushes Jabber behind her. The room’s air feels stiff and icy cold.
“A woman without her husband, I bet you’re just achin’.”
Slap.
The man lifts a hand to his cheek and then smiles, widely and unnatural. His hand moves too quick for Jabber to react, his palm whips across her face and she stumbles. Before she hits the ground, his hand snags in her hair and hauls her across the room.
Mama screams, Jabber screams, and the men pull her out of the house. Her sickly body can’t do much against raw strength and she’s dragged on the floor and her flailing body hits furniture and the wall.
Jabber scrambles after them, throwing himself onto the men and beating his fist against them. He shrieks, “Mama! Mama!”
“Shut up!” One of the men yell and backhand him. He falls, his gaze dizzy. His mother’s cry echo down their alley and Jabber runs after again. He’s sobbing, fat tears run down his dusty face, and he grips the men’s clothes and limbs.
“Let her go! Let her go, let her go, let her go, let her go!” He wails and they look at him in simple disdain. His mother is bleeding from her head, her hair ripped out in clumps from the men’s rough hands. Her nails scratch and pull at their wrists, but she’s too sick and weak to do too much damage.
One of her nails catches and pulls, and hot blood drips down the man’s. He slams a fist across her face and Jabber hears a sickening crunch of her nose. The brute of a man curse, “fucking bitch!”
Then he spits on her. Jabber can’t do more than cry and struggle against unstoppable forces. One of the men get sick of him, he leaves the struggle against Mama. Snatching Jabber by the throat he slams a punch across Jabber’s face, his eyes seeing stars from the impact. Dropped onto the dusty road, Jabber curls into a ball sobbing before a foot slams down onto his head.
He doesn’t wake up until the men and Mama are long gone.
He spends the next few days sitting outside the prison. Jabber had learned from a neighbor that they had dragged Mama there. Any bleeding had scabbed over, and his eyes were constantly puffy. He couldn’t stop crying.
Teeth dug deep into his lips as he gnaws on them anxiously. Every time someone leaves the prison door, Jabber’s head snaps to them. The men from that day have vanished, he hasn’t seen them since.
He stands up on shaky legs, and slips inside the door once before it closes. There’s a guard at a table, then a hallway of cells just to the left.
“Kid,” the voice stops him before he wanders down it, “come here.”
Jabber hesitates a long time, then steps over to the man. Pink eyes glare viciously up at him, tear streaks on his dusty face.
“You look like shit,” the guard comments. Jabber just glares. The man sighs, “who are you here to see?”
“Mama,” he states. The man’s eyes widen a bit. Then he sighs.
“I can take you to see her.”
Jabber follows the man through the hallway. There were other people in the cells, old people, young people, people who looked like him, people who didn’t. Then-
“Mama!” He throws himself at the bars, his little hands grasping onto the cold metal. His mother turns her head at him. Blood mats her hair, and her clothes looked ripped in several places. A weak smile crosses her face.
“Jabberwocky,” she murmurs and she shuffles herself a bit closer to the bars. Her hand wraps around his and he’s never gripped so tightly before.
Jabber feels tears fill his eyes instantly and she shushes him.
“Don’t cry now, be strong for me, it’s okay,” she whispers. Moving her head to press her lips to his hair through the bars. Fresh tears ran down his face once more and he let out an ugly sob.
“This was good timing,” the guard said behind them, “her times almost up.”
Hope fills Jabber, “you’re gonna come home?”
He asks it so eagerly, and Mama stares at him with a look full of heartbreak. She exhales wetly, “ah, no. I won’t be coming home.”
“You’re mama here’s a witch,” the man knocks on the metal bars. Jabber stares at his mother, but she never confessed.
“I shouldn’t have slapped that man,” Mama whispers. Then she pleads with him, “promise me you’ll hold your temper, it’s not good to let it out.”
Still lecturing him, even when there’s a set of bars between them.
“Mama…” He says it watery, and buries his face through the bars into her, as close as he can get.
“My Jabberwocky, I love you,” she sighs. Then she murmurs into his ear, “don’t let anyone change you. You’re wonderful, every part of you. Perfect and flawless, how beautiful Mother made you.”
These were the last words Mama said to him.
Then, just a day later.
Mama is burned in front of the town.
There’s another man tied up with her, Jabber recognizes him vaguely as his neighbor. Jabber watches as excited flames lick up the wood and brush until the eat at Mama’s skin. He remembers her cries, full and powerful things, dripping with despair and anguish. He remembers watching brown skin turn to black, as ash drifts into the air.
He remembers screaming out to the sky, wailing for someone to save his mother. Begging anyone there to help, to douse the flames and rip her from her bindings.
But no one came.
And Jabber was left alone.
The ash mars his cheek. Jabber stares at the burnt mess in the middle of the courtyard. Taking just a few steps forward, he stood at the edge. Most of the villagers and townspeople already left, just the guards making sure nothing too suspicious happened.
There wasn’t a corpse. No, the fire burned too hot for there to be remains of one. But something shiny caught Jabber’s eye.
He stepped into the ash, barefoot, having not been back to his home since Mama was dragged out. The soot and remains tickle and prick his feet as he steps through. He bends down, right in the center.
Jabber’s heart hurts.
There, in the ash, is a cloth. Peeking from the cloth are ten silver rings and four bangle bracelets. His mother’s jewelry.
With shaky hands, Jabber scoops the cloth and the items into his hands. Tears well into his eyes once more, and he turns and flees. Wind whips his face as he rushes back to his home. There’s a yell after him from one of the guards, but no one pursues him.
He slams the old door shut and instantly caves into himself. Jabber screams, and he screams loud. It’s guttural and raw as he grieves the loss of his mother. His hands hurt as they clutch the metal tightly, so tightly they dig into his skin.
He cries for hours, until the sun fades and the stars rise.
Jabber does not notice the change in time.
Instead, he sits there, eyes throbbing, hands aching, throat raw, and mind rattled.
He seethes.
His mother was a good woman. She was kind, and smart, and loving, and devote. She did her duties and more and how dare she be taken like that? He thinks of the stories Mama used to tell him. Of a wonderous goddess who sprouted the forests and waters rain from the sky. How this so-called goddess cares for them and loves them as her own children.
Bullshit.
Why didn’t she care for Mama?
Why didn’t she love Mama?
Jabber hates that goddess, if she’s really up there.
He hates her.
Tears fall from his eyes once more.
--
Jabber pushes the cottage door open.
Chilly Spring air flows over him. The stars are out tonight, bright and sparkling in the black abyss of night. There’s no moon, so it’s rather dark out. Zanka stands a few steps away. His eyes are closed, and the breeze tussles his tassels and fluffs his air.
Ah, he’s really something, Jabber muses. His mother’s rings sit tight on his fingers, their size just a bit too small for him now that he’s all grown up.
“Zanka,” he starts and the other witch jolts, then turns.
“Oh, I didn’t hear ya,” Zanka exhales and then turns back. Jabber wonders what he’s so overtaken by. He steps up to stand next to Zanka.
He clears his throat, “what’re you thinkin’ about?”
Zanka hums, his eyes trace patterns in the sky, “something’s wrong in the air. The stars are readin’ bad signs.”
Jabber looks up, “What kinda signs?”
“I’m not sure, my concentration isn’t in star-reading and cosmic influence,” he answers it so bluntly that Jabber snickers a bit at his seriousness. Zanka looks at him affronted, “what?”
“Nothin’, you’re just cute,” Jabber snorts. Zanka looks away, ears bright red and face flushed. Jabber hums internally, cute.
“A-anyway,” he clears his throat, “I need to visit someone, someone who can read the stars.”
“It’s that big of a deal?” Jabber asks, his eyebrow arching up. Zanka nods.
“I’m worried.”
They stand in silent a bit longer, then Jabber places his hand on Zanka’s shoulder, “let’s head in, you won’t learn more by just starin’ up like that. You’ll just kink your neck.”
Zanka sighs and follows Jabber inside their home. He had stoked the fire before heading outside, so it was warm inside. They settle on the furniture, sinking into cushion and opening books to flip through- well, Zanka flips through a book, Jabber twiddles his thumbs.
“Ya should read somethin’, it’s good for you.”
“It’s boring, I read through them too fast,” Jabber had complained back.
Zanka had looked at him with pride, “reading is a skill most people don’t have. It’s our responsibility to put to use our privilege and read.”
They never agreed, so Zanka reads and Jabber fiddles around with other things. Today, he twists Mama’s rings on his hands.
His hands shake a bit and his throat feels tight, he wants to say something. Then, Jabber breaks the silence, “There’s a reason I blame the Triple Goddess, it’s not just anger.”
Zanka stops, his eyes freezing on the page. Then, he marks his page and closes the book. He sets it on his side and looks Jabber directly in the eye, “explain it to me, so I’ll understand.”
Jabber doesn’t know where to start, “my mama was real sick. She was sick for a long time, I got desperate a few times and tried to heal her. Couldn’t do it.”
Zanka listens, Jabber keeps going.
“If she was well, if she was healthy, she wouldn’t have been taken away. Mama would’ve been able to explain herself, or defend herself, or do something. But she was too sick, too sick to explain, defend, or do something.”
Zanka listens, Jabber keeps going.
“She was murdered after she was taken, but if she wasn’t in pain, if she wasn’t sick-”
Zanka listens, Jabber keeps going.
“My magic, Mankira, the Soul Poison. She didn’t tell me at the time, but I know now. Mankira killed Mama, I was poisoning her the whole time, draining her of energy and killing her soul.”
Jabber shutters a breath.
“I didn’t know how to control it back then, I didn’t know I was doin’ it,” It feels like he’s trying to defend himself. Zanka says nothing, just listens. Jabber continues, “When I tried to save her, slipped the spell bag underneath her, it restored her magic and soul for bit, but it just made Mankira hunger more. The next day she was so sick, so tired and I-”
He breaks off, tears in his eyes.
“I just made everything worse.”
He doesn’t know why he feels the need to bare his vulnerabilities like this to Zanka. He’s never done this before, spill out his secrets and insecurities. Turning his head, he meets Zanka’s eyes. The blue is soft and he sees so much of Mama in those eyes.
“Say something,” Jabber whispers harshly.
“What would ya like me to say?” Zanka asks. Jabber whips his head to the side.
He snaps, averting his gaze, “yell at me! Shout at me! Tell me that I’m a monster and that I was cursed!”
Fingers touch his chin and lead him back to stare at Zanka. Zanka tilts his head, then, “I don’t think you’re a monster.”
Jabber inhales sharply.
“And I don’t think you’re cursed,” his gaze is full of, not pity, but sadness. He sighs, “I think you were born in a time and an area that was not good to ya. It’s not a curse, ya just didn’t even know that ya had it. How could you account for somethin’ like that?”
“Why did the Triple Goddess give me this? Why did she make me hurt Mama?”
Zanka winces, then reaches his other hand up, so his palms cup his face. He locks eyes with Jabber, “You were given a gift and the people around you didn’t understand that. Mother understands, She understands the burden She gave you and the awful things you’ve gone through.”
Jabber stares at him, and Zanka’s gaze goes sad.
“But Mother doesn’t interfere with life’s path, I understand your anger, I do,” Zanka restates, “but bad men aren’t bad because of Her, they’re bad because they choose to be.”
He pulls Jabber’s face closer.
“Your mama was a good person, she loved you, and nothing is ever gonna change that,” Zanka says. Jabber feels the tears fall from his eyes and Zanka pulls him in. An embrace, a hug, whatever it’s called, it makes Jabber’s heart ache and feel full at the same time.
He holds so much resentment inside of him. So many negative emotions that make it so heavy to move. Maybe though, one day, he could put them down and move forward.
“My Jabberwocky, I love you. Don’t let anyone change you. You’re wonderful, every part of you. Perfect and flawless, how beautiful Mother made you.”