Life contains both burning witches and white unicorns

Henry completed his story-telling even though his daughter was already in a deep sleep, and when he realized it, he closed his history school book he pretended to read from, kissed her forehead and tucked her in firmly. He, then, went to search for his wife who was washing the dishes, “Can’t you start narrating her some different kind of stories? Or, don’t you know any of a funny genre or a tale made for children? Henry, she is merely five, for God’s sake!”

He didn’t answer her and went to the terrace, but he could still hear her complains about how unsuitable these tales are for their daughter, and that she started having nightmares already because of his horror stories about burning witches. His focus turned to the sky, which was stuffed with bright stars spread upon it elegantly, and to his breath, which wasn’t steady but slow. He closed his eyes and wondered how a person can rely on another for survival: how he relies on his family because they are his only reason to think of tomorrow and how they rely on him. He believed in purpose, in fate and destiny. He knew deep inside that he lived for someone or to achieve something he did not quite know yet, but he knew that revealing it has its time and he is not in a hurry to figure it out.

His woman patted his shoulders and shouted, “She is up, again, because of your stupid stories. Ugh, Henry, when will you ever think I am right? You are so stubborn. Listen, you go there open one of your stupid books and start faking a good story about a princess in a castle saved by her charming prince who has green eyes, mounting a white unicorn, okay? I want her to sleep happily, Henry, and not wake me up in the middle of the night holding her doll and crying her eyes out because of a knight running after her to burn her alive!” 

“Fine, Clair, just keep it down. I’ll deal with it.” It was all he said as he stood up and went to see his lively, gorgeous daughter, “Why are you up, now, pumpkin?” She hugs her doll and moved a little to give space for her father to layover, and when he did she wrapped her arms around his neck and didn’t say a word until they slept. 

The next morning, Henry awoke when his daughter kept jumping on the bed, “Papa, papa, wake up, it’s midday already.”

“How do you know it is?” he smiled. 

“Mama. She told me to wake you up. She said that you are a lazy man and that I am stronger, much determined than you are. I wake up earlier, take my breakfast and drink my milk, the whole cup, Papa!”

“Indeed, you are!” he held her firmly and started swinging her. She loves it when he plays with her like that, she doesn’t stop laughing and giggling until it starts to annoy her mother.

“Henry, stop it! She just ate, she could vomit!” she would say, or, “It is not the right time for this childish playing. You are already late.” And they would stop right away and start their lessons. Henry homeschools his daughter for a girl is not liberated to acknowledge the beauty of learning just yet, but he always thought it was wrong to exclude knowledge from girls’ lives, so they could only be fit for matrimony, knitting, cooking and cleaning. He saw something special in his daughter and he wanted that to grow in her and to speak her mind out. Her mother, nevertheless, accepted after years of convincing that she would not want her daughter to turn up like her but to have a purpose in life even if it meant breaking some of the rules. 

When they finished their math and English lessons, they had lunch together as a content family, and Henry thanked God for such a blessing. His satisfaction was always questionable to his wife, who was small-minded and always envied her relatives or neighbours over their carriages, fancy homes, luxurious dresses, servants, valets, and governesses. But what a man needs more than a healthy life in a beautiful abode to shelter him from rain and cold breezes or more than two suits to present him elegantly in front of his society and community. 

His work as a teacher had them live a normal life, they weren’t near poverty to feel starvation nor near luxury to feel condescension. They were normal. However, they possessed a greater treasure than that of a fortune, Henry would always mention it and his wife mocks him: it was knowledge. Knowledge, he believed, breeds satisfaction, inner peace and comfortable living—that is why his wife is never pleased; however, in the same time, she has not got the inspiration to change their living into something better. Her role is to nag and nothing more. Even if she reaches to the level of the people she envies so much, Henry thought, she will look forward to reaching the status of a Lady and later a Duchess or maybe that of a queen and the chain completes. 

“I am going to Wihelmive’s,” he interrupted, while his wife sighs in anger, “Would you like to come, pumpkin?”

“Yes, Papa, I can collect her some flowers before the trip.”

“Oh, surely, you wouldn’t!” Clair said, crashing the utensils over her plate. “Why can’t you treat me like how you want a woman to be treated a few centuries from now? Why can’t you give me the freedom, as you say a right to every individual, to speak my mind out? And, even if I do, you end up doing what you want. Why should it be so, Henry? Haven’t I got any say in this? But you don’t respect me, I am merely the woman, who hasn’t got a voice, who shouldn’t raise her voice before her man because she is worth nothing without him. A widow is something useless to a community! Right? But I am not like any other woman, I may be not well-educated like all others my age, but, at least, should you not respect my wants and needs? Or our sex have not, yet, been liberated to such enjoyment! I won’t allow you going to this Wihelmive nor will you take my daughter if you made your mind to go.” 

Henry calmly sipped his drink and waited for his wife to peacefully return to her seat and hear him out. He told her that this is something he is obliged to do and that this isn’t their first time to fight over something she knows pretty well he can’t do anything about because he is simply obeying a dead person’s will. Adding to all that, it wasn’t just any person: it was a great woman who taught him everything he needs to learn to go on with this harsh world, it was the mother he never had, the only parental figure he grew up to know. But, yet, this wasn’t the first time Clair hears those same pathetic excuses; it is just that she couldn’t take it anymore: the stories, the visits, and the growing intimacy between her daughter and a dead, symbolic woman.

Then at last he said, “You don’t even know her, Mrs Howard, how can you judge?”

“Mama, please, let Papa take you to the cemetery and tale you the story there. I am sure you will like Miss Wihelmive just like I do!” 

Clair stood up, collected the untouched plates nervously she almost crashed them. And went directly to wash them and then cleaned the dining table, hanged the laundry to dry, broomed the terrace and took the girl to make her wash her hands. She finally came and said, “I will go, but on one condition, if I didn’t change my mind, you don’t take our daughter with you to any of your senseless Friday visits, eh? Henry?” 

Henry nodded, and they all dressed up elegantly to head to the cemetery before it gets dark. They walked hand in hand as if they were a newly married couple with an idealistic love story, it doesn’t mean they don’t love each other but like most marriages, it was arranged. Their daughter would run before them reaching the end of the road and run back to them again without tiring; she was utterly excited and they both saw it with a smile. 

“If you still don’t change your mind, would you please don’t talk ill of Miss Wihelmive in front of our daughter?” 

“I won’t, Henry, I promise you.” Henry kissed his wife’s gloved hand and patted it slowly with care. 

“Pumpkin, give Mama the flowers so its petals don’t fall when you run.”

When they reached the cemetery, the daughter grabbed the flowers from her mother and placed them over the grave and stood silently to pray she almost cried, she then brushed the dust off the tombstone and waited eagerly for her parents. Henry removed his hat and said to the tombstone, “Hello, mother, look who I brought! It is my wife, Clair. Is she not the most beautiful?”  

Clair blushed, but she was very confused until her daughter tugged her dress and told her to say hello to Miss Wihelmive for she is very pleased you came to visit this Friday, “Hello, Miss Wihelmive, it is good coming to visit you at last. Henry speaks a lot about you and so does our little princess here.” She whispered awkwardly. 

Henry fetched three chairs and placed them into one row before the tomb; they were silent for a while until the little one finally broke the silence, “Papa, come on, start the story.”

He coughed, “Once upon a time, there was an orphan boy named Philip. He was very skinny and weak; you couldn’t actually see him, but he was kind and patient, always have been, and never once did he wished his life to change however wretched it gets or difficult. He always felt that one day he will start over and get triumphed for his endurance. And, one day, on a winter night, he was very ill, he never felt such pain and unacceptance to his state—he felt despair. He couldn’t go to work, so he can’t get money for a proper physician and the nearest church was miles away he can’t walk and can’t ride either. He felt the end, he lost hope.” He looked at the grave and smiled, “But, God sent him an angel, a physician who is a woman, a healer, she heard his coughs from a distance and took him to her place, examined him and gave her a purple portion that tastes disgusting. A few days later, he awoke, but he didn’t know where he was. Then, she came in repulsively, and placed all her herbs over a table and started making her portions. Philip was confused, how could a woman be a physician, he panicked for she must be a witch, he thought. She was unusual; her dress ends were muddy, her sleeves rolled up, and obviously, she wasn’t wearing a corset, her hair wasn’t elegantly tied up, but recklessly fell down her shoulders reaching her waist, it was too long, too golden and too beautiful. She was beautiful, Philip said to himself, she can’t be a witch. If she were, her nose would be crooked, and she would have a mole right above her pale lips.

‘So, what’s your name boy?’ she asks him, and he answers. ‘How is it you feel today?’ she asks, and he answers. ‘Where are your parents? How could they leave you so?’ She asks, and he answers. ‘Would you want to see what am I doing here?’ She asks, and he nods. She told him about the ingredients for a healing portion and all the features garlic has which could be used for remedy purposes, then she added at last, ‘I figured this out all alone, but my dad taught me for a starter to love it.’ 

Day after day, Philip grew to love the witch for she was the only one who cared about him, fed him and taught him. They, slowly, became a family. Philip moved in with her and knew all information about herbs and such. But, happy endings don’t last: a plague broke out. She started examining sick people illegally even though Philip told her many times it was dangerous to risk showing anyone that you are a healer, but she would say kindly, ‘I have the ability to rescue people, I have something good to do, so I do it whatever bad things happen after.’ At last, she made a portion with the right proportion of ingredients, tested it on many patients and it did work. Just as her famous name started gossips between people, few monks came to the door and crashed it. They pulled the lady from Philip accusing her of witchcraft and without judgment or a jury she was sentenced to burn alive. She had him promise her that he will collect her ashes and bury her somewhere decent and wide, and to always come and visit. Philip was cursed to see the only person who was kind enough and genteel to him burn right before his eyes and he hadn’t the ability to save her. Her screams weren’t forgettable; it was the first time he cries and feels broken, but wouldn’t be the last because he knew deep inside of him she was unreplaceable. She died but her legacy lived through Philip.” 

Henry cried and Clair bent before him to kiss his hand as a way of expressing regret. Henry has always been tranquil, she thought, but that never meant he hadn’t had painful memories. She, too, wept over her ignorance that lasted with her seven years. A few minutes later, their daughter joined the hug, “I hate seeing you both cry,”

“How many times have you heard this story from Papa, Wihelmive?”

“A lot,” she said, “I’ll never get bored of it, I love it.”  

“I do, too.” Henry sighed, looking down at his small family. He recognised, now, that without some awful memories, the good ones couldn’t be cherished enough. “I love this.”