Six Thousand Days

Harlow crept down the darkened stairwell, one old, creaky step at a time. She should have known to skip the fourth step to the right and to avoid holding the banister about three feet before the ground, since it was fairly unstable, but her mind was preoccupied with other thoughts. Just that morning, she'd caught her grandmother speaking into thin air— and although at first she had thought that her mamma was simply speaking to herself, Harlow had gasped when she heard a second voice in the old study. But when she burst in, peppering her mamma with questions about the mysterious second voice, there was no one to be found— not even her mamma. The study had been completely empty. 

When she confronted Mamma about it a few hours later at breakfast, the old woman just sadly tilted her head to the side and sighed, “Oh, ‘Low, how I wish I still had your imagination.” Harlow wasn’t convinced. She pestered Mamma for more information, but Mamma was and always had been a straightforward person. Of course she responded that it was impossible for someone to be invisible, didn’t Harlow know about the Law of Conservation of Mass? 

By lunchtime, the thought that she had simply made it all up had slithered into Harlow’s head, slipping through every corner of her consciousness as the snake corrupted Eve in paradise. Harlow laughed slightly, as Mamma’s old, rambling house— Dexehileves— truly was a sort of temporary paradise for her since it meant freedom from her parents— and from the world, since there was no cell service. She resolved to put the morning’s incident aside— perhaps she’d just been delirious. Still, though, Harlow felt an inkling of doubt. She didn’t want to believe that she imagined it; she had far too much pride to automatically assume that she was wrong without any form of physical proof. 

Harlow went about the rest of her day focused on other tasks. She helped Mamma bake sticky toffee pudding, and when the oven stopped working, she trekked the two miles to the generator to restart the power. When she returned, she slumped down on the floor to study for her exams, since her attic bedroom was cluttered with old artwork, her own clothes and books, and Mamma’s collection of vintage glassware. Yet despite her rigorous attempts to forget about the morning, Harlow could not take her mind off it. For some odd reason, she felt like Mamma was hiding something from her, and it made her uncomfortable. 

Dinner was quieter than usual. Harlow was tired, and Mamma seemed tired, and an air of uncertainty spanned the distance between them in the grand dining room. Mamma stood up. “Goodnight, darling. I’ll see you in the morning. Close your curtains and don’t let the ultraviolet radiation bite.” Mamma had been ending her goodnights with that phrase ever since Uncle Ephraim got melanoma three years ago, although it still seemed as natural a phrase to her as ever. Mamma always focuses on science, Harlow thought. She crossed the room to kiss Harlow on the forehead and left through the side door to bus her plates.

“Goodnight, Mamma,” Harlow whispered to nothing more than her retreating footsteps. Later, Harlow lay in bed, staring at the ceiling beams that lined the edges of the attic, when she yet again heard voices from the study directly below her room. She crept downstairs, slowly, but accidentally stepped on the fourth step to the right and produced an eerie creaking noise. She’d hated that noise when she was young, since it reminded her of what she imagined a ghost would sound like. Then, she missed the spot on the banister and crashed to the ground, three feet below. Pain shot up to her elbows as she fell on her outstretched arms. Mamma rushed out of the study as the voices disappeared. 

“Darling! Are you hurt?” Mamma cried. 

“I’m alright,” Harlow gasped. “Mamma— I don’t understand. You said that this morning was impossible. But tonight, it happened again.” 

Mamma sighed. “Harlow, how old are you now?”

“About sixteen.” 

“No— to the day.” 

Harlow thought for a moment as Mamma helped her to stand. “Six thousand days, I think?” Mamma smiled, and led Harlow into the study, which was ablaze in light from the large fireplace in the corner. 

“Harlow, it’s time I told you of the history of Dexehileves. When our family came to England from Greece many years ago, we bought this old house.” Mamma patted the wall affectionately. “We called it Dexehileves because the eldest son at the time was sixteen years old— six thousand days exactly. Dexehileves. The English phonetic spelling of έξι χίλιάδες.” 

“But what does that mean?” asked Harlow. “How does that explain anything?” 

Mamma smiled. “That son made a living as a writer. He returned to Greece for research purposes, and there, he stumbled upon a powerful sorceress, who fell in love with him. They married, and as a result, we all have some form of magic within us.” 

Harlow laughed. “Mamma, you of all people know that that can’t be true. What about the Law of Conservation of Mass? Science?” 

Mamma shook her head, amused. “Oh, ‘Low. There are many things you’ll need to forget within the parameters of Dexehileves. Remember, you have come of age. You are a part of Dexehileves now; that is why you saw my magic earlier today.” Mamma muttered a few words under her breath, and the shadow of Harlow’s mother appeared, flickering in the middle of the study. 

“Mother?” Harlow gasped. “Mamma, is this real?” 

“Yes, ‘Low. We don’t know your powers yet, but we know that you’ve manifested as you can see magic now.” 

Mamma tucked Harlow into bed once more, signing off by ensuring that her curtains were closed tightly. Don’t let the ultraviolet radiation bite, she whispered softly, and Harlow smiled, fluttering her eyes shut. “For Dexehileves!” Mamma cried, and when Harlow opened her eyes, Mamma had disappeared. 

The next morning, Harlow woke to a sparrow singing outside her window. She ran downstairs, but found the house empty and deserted, with her parents waiting by the front door to pick her up and bring her back to London. “Where’s Mamma?” Harlow asked. Her parents glanced at each other briefly. “Where is Mamma?” Harlow repeated, more urgently. 

“Mamma is with Dexehileves,” her mother murmured. 

“I don’t— I don’t understand,” Harlow stammered. 

“When a member of the family comes of age, the eldest member becomes one with Dexehileves. It’s the rite of passage.” 

“It can’t be.”

“It is. She is here, all around us, one with us and without us at the same time.” Harlow’s parents gently guided Harlow to the threshold of the grand house. Harlow allowed herself to be pushed, but hesitated at the door, one foot still in the house, one foot on the cobblestone driveway. 

With tears forming in her eyes, Harlow whispered, “for Dexehileves.”