The Height Of Sorrow

The rattle rocked in gentle derision in the empty cradle, a soft clinking sound that rang in the eerie silence of the attic. The attic was musty and airless; yet some semblance of breeze had set that old teakwood crib rocking. Marla clutched her wrap closer around her chest with one liver-spotted hand and shone the flashlight into each dark corner.

A pile of old boxes and chests, cobwebby and grimy was piled on one side. The other side had a jumble of old furniture heaped higgledy-piggeldy; the broken interspersed with perhaps a usable piece or two. Only the center had recognisable items, a ladder-back rocking chair and the crib. Both were free of the decay of the rest of the collection, in fact one could still trace the decorative inlay on the sides of the little crib.

She waited with her head cocked to discern the sound that had drawn her to this relic storehouse, but there was only the echo of her own heartbeat, as her pulse throbbed in her temples. I am getting too imaginative in my old age, but I was sure I heard a kind of desolate keening.. She shook her head in mock admonishment and took careful little backward steps down the rickety stairs. The last thing she needed was a fall and a broken hip.

Aunt Sabrina had a beautiful old house, but the emphasis is on old; if only I knew why she left me the place rather than her own direct descendants.

The estate hadn’t consisted of much, just the house and five acres of land, all overgrown by wild roses and bramble. Not that the grand-children seemed to covet it anyway, it was too far from town – at least twenty-five miles of ruts and ridges.

There had been no direct male descendants; the unusual fact was that it was a family of daughters. No son had survived past the first year of childhood. There was a family history of SIDS or Sudden Infant Death Syndrome. The child would be found lying peacefully, as though asleep, with nothing to show why it had died. The syndrome was a recent discovery, before that it was put down to ‘sickly’ women unable to bear an heir. Some even muttered about the ‘evil’ eye.

Well, at least I will soon have Janet to keep me company, and Norm will make this old place come alive. She bustled into the downstairs spare bedroom. Her god-daughter was a gifted painter. The countryside was full of beautiful views and she could sketch her ideas without much traipsing, Marla could watch little Norm, he was just an infant yet – couldn’t get up to much mischief.

There was the glimmer of light in the darkening driveway and an old Fiat 2000 grumbled its way onto the flat patch at the back that served as a parking spot.

“Janey, Janet dear.” Marla clicked on the porch light and made her careful way over the creaking wooden boards.

“Hi, Aunt Marla.” Janet was the picture of competence, neat twill pants and a checked shirt tucked back to the elbows – one quick release of straps and a scooping movement made Norm crow in delight as she lifted him out of the car.

Norm was settled on her hip, he had one starfish hand splayed over her back; but her small suitcase was easy to maneouver out of the boot. She strode into the house with brisk steps that thudded on the worn planks and navigated her sure way to the room at the front. A couple of trips was all it took to transfer her things to the room; Norm all the while swaying on his mother’s hip and staring at the strange surroundings with wide bemused eyes.

“I’ll just get him down for his nap, he’ll be sure to grizzle otherwise, and then we’ll have a cosy chat. How about a cuppa, dearest aunt? He’ll be off before the kettle boils.”

Norm was tucked up in his little sleep roll, a thin baby mattress she used over the large bed. She liked to keep him near her.

“He’s all I’ve got after all. After his father chose to abandon any movement to commitment by making an abrupt disappearance, I keep dreaming Norm will vanish just like that. One day making his presence felt – loud voiced like all the Moores, next day no sign that he’s ever been there.

Marla made the suitable non-committal noises; Janet was never so strong that a mention of Norm’s sperm-donor –that’s what she liked to call him – could not provoke a storm of recriminations and a flood of self-pity.

“Y’know Janet, this old house is already playing tricks upon me. I have been up on the upper floors, even in the attic twice, trying to find out the source of an odd sound.”

“Sound? What do you mean? Like a dripping tap or maybe a tap at the windows? Relax, it’s only the wind in the ivy.”

“No, it is soft, but sad, sort of like bagpipes, but not musical. More like the sound of a soul stirred to anguish and immense grief. It makes me grit my teeth when I hear it”

“Really, Aunt. You should have been a writer, the descriptions you use.” Janet chuckled as she took another sip of tea. “Come on, I’ll give you a hand with dinner and then we can let that anguished soul go to bed like all Christian spirits ought.”

Marla made a clucking sound of dismay and gave a guilty look at the portraits on the wall, as if to apologise for Janet’s irreverence. But, after all, the modern generation has little patience for another’s afflictions.

The next day, Marla was just placing Janet’s breakfast on a tray when Janet herself walked in, bleary eyed and hair standing up in contrast to her usual trim coif.

“Norm keep you up at night, dear?”

“Oh, no. He was a gem. He did toss and turn a quite a bit in his sleep though, I had to replace his cover five times. But he never woke at all; not until his five o’clock feed.”

Marla looked down at the little boy, he was seated on his mother’s lap, fat fists waving in some esoteric communication. He gurgled as Marla's glasses slipped down her nose and said, “Lala”. Then once more, in a firmer tone – “La-la.”

Janet gave him a kiss on the top of his head and beamed up at Marla, good humour restored. “Hear that, Marla? He just called you La-la.”

“Isn’t he a clever one then? Does he talk a lot?”

“No. He says Ma-ma, of course. Wa-wa for water sometimes, he once said Ta, but I don’t know what for. This is the first time he’s picked up on a name, so fast. I must have said Aunt Marla about ten times, max.”

Janet’s eyes fell upon the breakfast tray and she took it from Marla.

“Let’s just eat out on the porch, he can get used to this marvellous country nip. I’ll just slip his coat on.”

There followed the kind of inane noises only a mother can make to her child as she tries to coax now spaghetti-limp arms, now pipe-rigid limbs through something he does not want to wear. She emerged triumphant after a bout of tickling which got past his defences.

The two ladies munched toast in the company of a rose-pink horizon that smiled with benign pleasure upon the wild riot that called itself garden.

“I love the way the bougainvillea spills over that wall, with one cascade growing up into that old tree, giving its crown some jewels.”

Janet continued to enumerate the bucolic delights and Marla just revelled in her excitement. As the repast came to an end, it had been decided that Janet would explore with her sketchbook in the afternoon. Norm was a good for a three hour nap, but if he woke, she’d leave his cereal ready to reconstitute with warm water.

Marla lay down besides Norm in the afternoon, easier to keep a watch on him there. Her favourite author’s latest was ready in her hands. She had barely got to the part where the heroine is exploring a haunted house, when there was that sound again. It seemed to ebb and swell, pulling at Marla's heartstrings.

I can’t leave the baby alone, and I can’t carry him up around with me. I do hope Janet comes soon.

Marla fidgeted and fussed and tried to locate the whereabouts of the sound, it seemed to come from far away, high up. It has to be the attic. I’ll ask Janet to take a good look up there.

It is always the way of the world, the one we wait for, arrives too late. Janet’s cheery view hallooing sounded only after the 'banshee' took a rest. Marla was disgusted but tried to express her trepidation over Janet’s hearty disbelief. She stopped short of stamping her feet in frustration; Norm was still in his sleeping angel pose.

“I heard it, I tell you. It sounded like nothing less than a tormented woman.”

Janet became a shade contemplative and murmured, “I did hear something funny one of the times I woke up last night. I thought it must be the wind in the trees, but the curtains were as still as if carved from marble.”

“See, there’s something funny going on here. That’s why the other Nathaniel sisters and their daughters never contested the will. Sabrina specified it should never be sold. She often told me it was ideal for spinsters like she.”

“Okay, I’ll go and look if it makes you happy. I hope you’re satisfied when they later find my whitened bones there.”

Marla shivered and rapped out a curt, ‘Don’t even joke of things like that, there are spirits willing to do one’s bidding, if one is careless enough to express what amuses them.”

Janet was able to explore the entire attic, she left no chair unturned. She found one strange looking box, intricately carved, similar in design to the crib. She had rather lost her heart to the crib. She carried it, the ladder-back chair, and the box, in triumph to the living room.

Marla was looking more bewildered with each acquisition.

“What do you want with that old stuff? Isn’t Norm too old for a crib?”

“It’s exquisite work, darling. I can restore it with just a little polish. It can be a conversation item if Norm doesn’t want to sleep in it.

Norm didn’t. After months of being snug in a solid and unmoving bed, he howled if the crib rocked. Any turning or tossing caused that unpleasant swaying and he set up a cry that would have drowned out a dozen banshees. He refused to touch the rattle too, thrusting it away the few times they attempted to place it in his hands.

“He’s too old for the rattle, Janet; he’s also too set for the crib. You better return it to its solitary state in the attic.”

“I think I’ll let it remain in the corner there, it gives a certain cachet to the room. A romantic aura.”

Marla gave a sniff, she preferred comfort to art. She loved Janet though and changed the subject without acrid retort. “Did you ever get that box opened Janey? The brass catches were awfully stiff, beyond my arthritic fingers.”

Janet lifted off the box from the side board, “Oh, yes, didn’t I show you? There are some interesting things in there.” She opened the inlaid top as she spoke.

She let a tarnished silver chain dangle from her hand, her long fingers played with the locket that hung from it.

“There’s a lock of hair inside – see?” She snapped the two halves apart with one flick of her thumb. The hair was fine and like a twist of tow silk.

She lifted out a calf-leather bound volume from deeper within, it had a gilt border with intricate curlicues at the corners. The paper was brittle at the edges and she handled it with the caution of appreciation. It revealed a name and date in exquisite copperplate.

“Natalie Burns – 1712 onwards” it proclaimed.

“Natalie Burns? That was Sabrina’s great-grandmother. She was the first bride to move into this house. Many is the time I have heard Sabrina talk of her. Poor woman.”

“Why, what happened?”

“I just know she died young. She had a turbulent marriage and tried her best to please a despotic and philandering husband, but she was too frail in body and spirit to hold on to his interest. Read the diary, child. It may tell you more.”

Janet spent all her time trying to decipher the faded writing and the archaic language, Norm and Marla became good friends during the next few days. He soon became used to lifting up his arms for La-la to take him around the house as she pottered through her chores. He’d be ensconced in his high chair babbling infant secrets to her, or listening with rapt attention as she sang old ditties to him.

Janet gave a surreptitious wipe to her eyes and called out to Marla with a thickened voice.

“Marla, it is too sad for words. This poor woman was humiliated and abused, vilified and tormented by that brute of a husband. He had drunken routs with any serving wench, caroused and gamed away a vast fortune and taunted her for the one thing she could not help. She could not bear him an heir.”

“Janey, don’t let it get to you like that. Don’t let those emotions take you over.”

“No, just listen. He even bought her that crib and rattle as an ultimatum and told her that if his son was not able to use them within the year he would throw her off the roof of this house. He then shut her up in the attic and visited her every month, for three months.”

Marla grew interested despite herself, she drew Norm closer to her on the sofa and let him try his favourite game. He loved to bat her glasses off her nose.

“And?”

“Well, by some stroke of caprice she became pregnant in that third month. Her lot did not improve much, except that she was no longer forced to receive his loutish advances. He let an accoucher confirm she was pregnant, and then set up a midwife in the lodge. Apparently he visited that lodge pretty often.”

Janet’s voice grew scathing; it had a strange accent.

“But he continued to taunt her. The less she complained, the more he raged and tried to arouse sparks of feeling. One night, he berated her so harshly she fell faint at his feet, only to be kicked. Her water broke then. Her son was born, far too early. She had barely time to pass her fingers over the soft silky down on his head when he gasped and turned blue. The mid-wife rushed in, too late to do more than close the lax eyelids. They tore him from her arms. She begged a keepsake, the woman allowed her to cut a lock of his hair.”

Marla shook Janet's arm, but she was lost in the past, her voice droned on, dead and lifeless.

“She then announces that she will commit suicide in the manner he threatened to take her life, but that her husband shall never have ...

Janet’s eyes took on a strange glaze and she snatched Norm from Marla’s arms; he yelled out, “La-la. Ma-la”

Marla tried to protect Norm but Janet pushed her away with a surprising strength, Marla fell back upon the sofa. Janet raised Norm high and nearly threw him into the crib, holding him there with one hand. She pushed the rattle into his hands and clasped his fingers tight about it.

“Never shall the house know heir, the crib shall not long rock life. No boy to hold rattle and laugh, the end shall come without knife.”

Janet was now laughing with a hysterical laughter, her hair had come loose and flapped around a gyrating head. Norm had screamed himself to ruddy hiccups and had now got one hand outstretched to Marla – he mouthed her name in silent agony.

Marla found a last whimper of courage and determination, roused by the plea in his frantic eyes. She plucked him from the crib, Janet fell back before the ferocious effort and the rattle was dislodged onto the floor, just as a loud crack sounded.

The rattle gave one last clatter and the crib swayed and broke.

Janet pushed herself up from the floor where she had fallen and looked around as though waking from a strange dream. She tucked back some stray strands of hair and looked at the mute figures of Norm and Marla. One had a hand thrust into his mouth and was sucking at it in between hiccoughs of indignation; another had a mouth agape and slack, a strange comprehension, a wild surmise building.

“Janet Moore, what in the world were you thinking? It is that crib and rattle, not to mention the book; they are going out of this house.”

“You are right, Marla. I think we should make kindling of that crib and add the rattle and journal to that bonfire.”

“Some sorrows are just too deep to be shared or witnessed. Come on child, let’s go get that axe.”

Norm snuggled closer to Marla’s wrinkled neck and sighed, “Mar-la.”

Janet gave Marla an approving smile and they went out into the sunshine, hand in hand.

Word count: 2988