Lucy's Shadows

From the moment I was born, people loved to tell me how lucky I was.

My memories were flooded with waves of people upon people giving me proud smiles and praising my gift. The words were nearly synonymous with the smells of my parents’ bakery, where I spent most of my childhood before my schooling. I would sit in a corner with my dolls and strangers would cast me badly hidden glances until one of my parents introduced me. I got used to the attention and perfected a smile to give in appreciation. My parents tried to shield me from too much attention, though I once heard Father note that it wasn’t terrible for business, having me around. I didn’t mind it.

A knock on my bedroom door interrupted the memory. Mother peered open the wooden door, letting a hint of light into the dark room. I had inherited her short height and black hair, but everyone said I had my father’s warm eyes. 

“Breakfast is ready,” she told me.

“I’ll come down in a minute.”

She nodded, closed the door again, and left. She never rushed me, not for anything, because she never knew if I was in the middle of hearing something important. Being the only person alive to have my gift, everyone regarded me carefully. Though it wasn’t as if I was very approachable to begin with.

My gift was that shadows spoke to me, and shadows had a lot more to say than one might think - though they were very selective in what they whispered to me. All I could do was listen and figure out the right questions to ask. I wasn’t the first person with this ability, and I wouldn’t be the last. Supposedly only one person alive at a time can do it. The way to tell a child would be a shadow speaker was through our eyes, black as night. 

Not that shadow speakers are asked to do much. There’s not much of a precedent given how rare an ability it is. In the past, some became religious figures, guiding others to spiritual awakenings and whatnot. Our abilities are a gift from the gods, after all, so it takes little effort for a shadow speaker to win the trust of the devoted, especially since the shadows can sometimes give indications of the future, though they never reveal anything so drastic. 

When I was very young, my gift hardly impacted my life. The shadows’ whispers were insignificant at the time. Once, they led me down a stray path - follow this path, Lucy, walk down this way - to a field of flowers stirring in the summer breeze. I plopped myself down in the middle of the field and took a nap. An hour later, I woke up to my father distantly calling my name. I called him to me, and a second later his tall figure emerged from the trees. He was upset that I had wandered off, but I told him the shadows led me there. His gaze softened. He bent down, picked me up, and told me to listen to my head before anything else. I replied that that was what I had done. He tickled my stomach and said I knew what he meant.

Father never treated me any differently because of my gift, but Mother always expected me to do something great eventually. The way she spoke of my future was different from the way she spoke of my brother’s.

I made my way downstairs for breakfast and was greeted to Nick slurping the last of his porridge at the table. Though he was several years younger than me, we shared a lot of features - round face, black hair, hungry appetites.

I fixed myself a bowl and sat across from Nick as he remembered to wipe his face before leaving. He stared at my bowl, then looked up at me. “Did the shadows tell you that you might be hungry  today?”

I scooted my bowl closer to me in defense. “They did not. Go get ready.”

“Let your sister eat,” Mother echoed from the kitchen.

Nick shrugged as if he had no intention of stealing my food, then got up and left to get ready for school.

It wasn’t until my own schooling began that I registered that not everyone saw my ability as a gift. Children of that age were hardly critical, but they were excellent parrots of their parents. All was well until I made the mistake of sitting next to some boy during a meal break who inched away from me at my arrival.

“My mother says you can see into my soul,” he had told me, staring at me like I was doing it that very moment. “She said you talk to demons.”

“Demons aren’t real,” I refuted. “And I don’t talk to them.” I wasn’t offended. In my naivety, I thought it was a misunderstanding. “Shadows whisper in my head.”

“I’m not supposed to talk to you.”

I realized then that I was being insulted, and having reached the end of my argumentation skills, I grabbed my cup of water and poured it over his head. He cried out like I had burnt him. Some instructors rushed toward us, ushering the boy away and asking me why I would do such a thing.

“He’s a liar,” I said, jabbing a finger toward the boy. “He says I talk to demons.” The adults casted each other worried looks, and their hesitancy made me stamp my foot down. “I don’t talk to demons! And I don’t talk to ugly little boys who tell lies about me.”

People stopped calling me lucky.

It wasn’t the last time I got in trouble, which came as a surprise to everyone. I was supposed to be wise beyond my years.

Father shrugged it all off. He told Mother that my gift made me different, and children didn’t know how to understand those differences yet. He said I would grow into my gift, and he asked how I was supposed to be a shadow speaker if I never spoke out.

Mother narrowed her eyes and told him - while staring at me - that shadow speakers would do well to speak when they had something valuable to say. I tried to insist that I was teaching the boy a very valuable lesson, but Mother sent me to my room while Father laughed.

I had finished my schooling nearly half a year ago, so I spent most of my time wandering outside and avoiding responsibility. I kept my distance from people in general because I didn’t want anyone to think I was collecting secrets from my shadows. Not that anyone had any interesting secrets for me to seek out. But they thought I could find secrets just as well as divine truths, and they knew I had little interest in divine truths.

Once, two years ago, a grieving wife asked me to try to communicate with her husband who had just passed away. I held his cold hand and asked the shadows for anything about him, but the shadows were silent. The wife’s heartbroken expression stuck with me from thereon. 

There will be a beautiful sunset, came a whisper in my ear as I began heading home. Go to the west hilltop.

I took their advice and changed directions, walking down the dirt-ridden path to the sound of the growing call of insects. I thought about my future. If I did what my mother wanted, I would find a way to use my gift to benefit our village, and the fact that I wasn’t spending every day vigorously doing so bothered her. Meanwhile, I was content to run our family’s bakery someday, if not for lack of better options. It was familiar, it was home, and it was a safe choice where no one would ask me to talk to dead bodies.

I reached the top of the hill to find blushing pink clouds surrounding the setting sun. I sat in the grass, stretched out my legs, and watched the sky, basking in the little time I had left before needing to go back.

Lucy, you need to go home.

The whisper startled me. What?

Now. You need to go home.

I rushed to stand and ran back down the path.

Ten minutes later, I burst through the door of our house, panting and sweating. I made my way to the kitchen, listening for obvious signs of distress. All I heard was my mother’s quiet chatter.

Father was sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of tea in his hand. Mother turned her head from where she stood at the sink.

Before she could speak, I asked, “Is everything okay?” My heart was still pounding, both from the running and my panic.

“What do you mean?” Mother fully turned around with a startled frown. Father raised a brow at me. “Everything’s fine.”

“Where’s Nick?”

“Upstairs, supposed to be sleeping, but probably not.” Mother shook her head. “What’s gotten into you?”

I breathed out a long sigh, then pulled out a chair to sit across from my father. “I was told to hurry home,” I explained. I didn’t have to specify that the shadows told me. “I don’t know why.”

“Ah.” Mother crossed her arms with a sharp nod. There was a part of her that always appreciated when I listened to the shadows, even when it entailed me running home like there was a fire. “Well, maybe Nick wants a story from you.”

“He hasn’t wanted a story from me in years.”

Father corrected, “He hasn’t asked for a story from you in years.” Then he let out a short cough, covering his mouth with the back of his hand as he did.

“Are you alright?” I asked.

“Just a little cough.” He held up his cup and smiled sweetly at Mother. “Your mother made me some tea to help. It’ll be gone by the morning.”

The fear returned, now more dreadful than panicked. I told them I was going to bed and left the kitchen. In bed, I forced myself to sleep because I didn’t want to hear what the shadows would say that night.

***

Father’s cough wasn’t much better by the morning, but he shrugged it off and said he was fine. Nick wasn’t at all fazed. Mother didn’t seem worried either, except I did catch her narrowing her eyes when Father said he would still go work that day. I left home quickly and spent the whole day by myself, walking in the woods and trying to find the answers before anything got worse.

What can I do to help him? I asked.

Silence.

What will happen to him?

Deadly silence.

I found a spot in the shade of a tree to sit and I held my knees to my chest and let the tears fall.

***

Several days passed and Father steadily got worse. Mother finally touched his forehead and found a fever, so she ordered him to bed and brought a doctor to the house the next day. I stayed away from the house again. There wasn’t anything the doctor would say that I wouldn’t hear on my own.

How long? I asked more bravely now.

A few months.

How many months?

Silence. The shadows didn’t like specifics.

I thought of the wife of the dead man, how her desperate expression contrasted the lifelessness of his face. Not a whisper surrounded him.

What can I do?

Stay by his side until the end. The shadows always spoke with neutrality, but I could detect a hint of sympathy in the words.

I got the rest of the details about Father’s sickness from the shadows, not because I was eager to hear them, but to spare Mother from having to tell me what the doctor said. The coughing would continue to worsen. He would become fatigued easily and would be bedridden soon. He would have difficulty breathing, but there was some time before that would get bad. Despite what the doctor may advise, he was not contagious.

I took the rest of the day to feel sorry for myself. Then I got up and went home to do as the shadows said. Stay by his side.

***

The days turned into weeks, and I was learning to live with our new reality. I tried not to pay attention to Father’s growing cough or the grating of his voice. Still, I couldn’t help but talk myself into some hope. He was still alive. Maybe the doctor was wrong. Maybe the shadows were wrong. They didn’t know my father.

“You’re going to run out of books to read.” Father shot me a look as I sat in the chair facing his bed.

He sat upright in bed with a glass of water - which Mother always ensured was full - on the table beside him. A window to the right gave me enough light to read to him. He hardly left his room now, and neither did I.

“If I run out of stories,” I said, “I’ll make one up.”

“Or you could leave the house every once in a while.” He gave me a wry look.

I shrugged, not wanting to spell out that I didn’t want to leave because there was only so much time left with him. “It’s not like I spent my time on anything so important before you got sick.”

“You’re not meant to spend your life waiting on people.”

“Because I’m supposed to be using my gift for the betterment of society?”

“Because you’re my daughter.”

I glanced down at the book. “I promised Nick I would watch after you while he was at school.” I gave him my best glare. “Do you want to hear the story or not?”

He relented, so I opened the book and began reading.

***

Another six weeks passed filled with lengthening coughs, more time spent sleeping than awake, and growing fear from Mother and I. We only hid our concern when Nick was home. We had an unspoken agreement to try to maintain some optimism for his sake.

I was helping out at the bakery one day when I heard a whisper:

There isn’t much time left for him.

That wasn’t such a surprise, but the words left me feeling sick, and I froze where I stood. It was different to hear it spoken so plainly.

I got back to work when Mother appeared beside me.

***

When Father died, even the shadows went silent. I woke up that morning to Mother sitting at the foot of my bed.

I blinked my eyes open and propped myself up to look at her. She turned to me with tears in her eyes. She didn’t have to tell me.

***

The next week was a rush of people visiting and offering their condolences. We made the arrangements for his funeral. I watched over Nick, try as he might to put on a brave face. 

Another week, and we began adjusting to the new absence in our lives. 

By the third week, Mother started casting me sharp looks when we ate together. I gave in finally and asked her what was wrong.

Mother was quick to respond. “You never leave the house,” she said, putting a bowl back in its cupboard. “It used to be that we could never keep you here.”

“I help with the bakery.”

“You haven’t done anything for yourself, I mean.”

If she was wanting me to reconnect with my shadows, a walk outside wouldn’t fix that. I hadn’t heard a whisper since Father died, and I didn’t know if it was my doing or if the shadows had the courtesy to give me some space.

“Look at you,” Mother insisted. She took a step forward and gestured at me. “You’re pale, you’re not eating enough.” She grasped a strand of my hair, which had grown longer in the last weeks. “You’re not taking care of yourself.”

I moved my head back. “It’s important for me to be here. For Nick.”

“Nick’s already returned to school.”

“I’m trying to help you,” I snapped. “I’m trying to help our family. I just can’t be your gifted shadow speaker at the moment. I’m trying to be your daughter.”

Mother’s face fell at the words. “Who said anything about your gift?” she asked, shaking her head. “Lucy, your father died. I’m not looking for miracles from you. I’m grateful that you’re alive.” She looked at me with a rare softness. “Eat. Go outside. Find something to do that brings you joy. And stop worrying about us.”

She walked away before I could respond.

***

I didn’t leave the house the next day, but I did start making plans. And when I told Mother, she told me a change of scenery would do me good. I planned to spend another year at home, for Nick’s sake. Then I would go out on my own and figure out what I wanted to do. It was hardly a plan, but it was something.

I woke up one morning before dawn. I dressed myself, taking care to wrap a scarf around my neck to protect against the leftover night chill, and took an apple from the kitchen to eat as I walked. Then I left.

The sky was beginning to light with the sunrise, so I hurried to reach the field before it fully rose. I didn’t need the shadows to guide me this time. I wouldn’t get the best view of the sunrise from the field - not like the hilltop I used to frequent - but it would do fine. It would remind me of Father.

When I reached the field, the sun lit up the flowers, bringing out colors of reds and yellows. I sat and enjoyed the cool breeze on my face.

As the sun rose, I couldn’t help but catch my shadow growing off to the side.

Good morning, Lucy.