Power of Desire

       I was sixteen the first time it happened. As was customary on a Wednesday morning I headed to the village bake shop to pick up bread and biscuits for the week. On the way there I dreamt of cherry hand pies, imagining the flakey, buttery crust housing the sweet, sticky cherry jam. I could practically smell the aroma of a freshly baked pastry and my mouth watered with desire. However, as the weather had just begun to turn from the cold winter fury to the beginning tendrils of spring, I knew my craving would go unsatisfied for many more months. The trees in the orchard were just beginning to pop out neat green little leaf buds and would not bear fruit for some time.  

             I smelt the aroma of wood smoke and fresh brown bread as I reached my destination, feeling my whole body with a feeling of comfort and peace. My mind was brought back to a time when mother was well, and we would spend an entire day together baking our own goods in the beehive oven of mother’s sister Agnes. Many years have passed since mother became unwell, driving her to the solace of her bed, refusing to see anyone other than me and my father and forcing me to take over the running of the household. Aunt Agnes tried to help in the early days after mother took to bed, but gave up after mother had a conniption, screamed and yelled until she left with promises she would not return.

             The bell chimed as I eased open the door of the village bake shop and the proprietor Mr. Malcolm raised his hand in greeting. He was a man of few words, but a perceptive nature. His shop was one of the few places of solace I had in the village, one of the only places where I was not greeted with stares and snickers. When I arrived each week he always had our weekly order ready to go and wrapped in a tea towel on the counter, charged to my father’s account. There was nothing unusual when I went into the shop that week, everything was just so as always. It was not until I returned home that something struck me as strange. When I unfolded the tea towel from our weekly order, in additional to the loaf of fresh bread and dozen biscuits we always received there was one, single cherry hand pie on top. I froze when I saw the pie, unsure what to make of such a coincidence. It was not the first time that Mr. Malcolm had sent a few extra items or treats in with our regular weekly order, but it was like the pastry had been plucked straight from my head and into our order. I could not understand how Mr. Malcolm could have known exactly the item I had been craving, or why he would provide such an extravagance as during this time of year cherries must have been bartered for with one of the trade ships that pulled into the harbor.

             I did not think on the incident again until some time later. My life was filled with a multitude of mundane tasks which took up most of my time and energy, from washing to gardening, cooking to care of my mother herself. Although we could have easily afforded domestic servants to take on many of these tasks my mother refused to let anyone outside of our trio of family into the house, which left the housekeeping, cooking, nursing, and other household tasks to me.

             Another incident occurred a few months into the summer when I picked up some new aprons and bonnets from the tailor. The night before I had been dreaming of a set of delicate, lace gloves more beautiful than any I had seen before. A set of gloves not used for work or warmth, but simply for beauty as a queen or duchess might wear. When I returned home from picking up our new items and was placing them away in my armoire what should I find inside the pocket of one of the carefully folded aprons, but the very same gloves. This time the coincidence was far too much to bear, and I was terribly frightened while I considered the implications of this discovery. This was the second time an item of desire had come into my possession with no explanation. Was this some sort of witchcraft or sorcery? Something of my own unconscious doing or another inhabiting my soul and reading my thoughts and dreams. Either explanation terrified me.

             As I lie in bed that night pondering the possible explanations for my hearts desires to be fulfilled by an unknown force a long-ago overheard conversation returned to me. I was still a babe in the cradle and my mother was still my mother. Her and Aunt Agnes were busy kneading the bread and discussing their own experiences with the supernatural. Aunt Agnes inquired to my mother regarding the possibility of my powers and whether I was showing any signs yet. My mother expressed her fear over some small coincidence that had occurred. My favorite sweet berries appearing in the garden months after the bush had dropped its harvest, a baby kitten appearing which almost identically resembled a stuffed toy I had been given for Christmas. It was clear that I did have a power born of desire, and my mother was concerned about the possibility of discovery by others in the village. However harmless, supernatural power was regarded with suspicion and hostility and recent events had frightened my mother. Together my mother and Aunt Agnes discussed ways that my abilities could be dampened, at least until I reached maturity, at which point I could be trained to cloak my powers and hide them from the rest of the common folk in our village.

             Unfortunately, by the time my powers showed themselves Aunt Agnes had not been seen around our village in ages and my mother was not well. I tried to broach the topic in multiple conversations, but that only ended with my mother in hysterics. I was left to figure out on my own how to hide and control my powers. Our family was already looked at with suspicious eyes due to the state of my mother and I could not afford any further whisperings. If not for my father’s military history we would likely not be welcome any place in the village. Over time it became easier, and I was able to assimilate into the rest of the village. I found a nice young man and was able to settle down and start a family of my own.

             This morning the spout popped right off of the honey jar as I was pouring a smear into my daughter’s bowl of porridge. She squealed delightedly and sopped up the mess with her fingers, licking off the sticky sweet syrup. I am beginning to see the signs of the awakening of power within her. I resolve that today will be the day I reach out to Aunt Agnes. Although she abandoned me after my mother’s episodes began, she has knowledge that I need. Sadly, not much has changed since I was a toddler myself. I need to find out how to protect my own daughter as my mother and aunt protected me all those years ago.