Salamander

Chapter Three: Fallen Windmills

I was waiting for Mariam’s mom to say something. To do something. But she just stared at me in disbelief, her mouth slightly agape, her eyes wide with shock. She closed her mouth and gulped. The only noise coming between us was the nervous tapping of her fingers against the armrest of her chair. I knew what was going on – she was torn between what to do: either to keep her promise, or to tell the Policetrons and to get me away from my father. Finally, she spoke up. “Your . . . father.”

            I nodded slowly, unsure whether or not she believed me. “Yes.”

            Just then, her calm composure seemed to collapse, and she stood up and began to pace in front of me. She stopped in her tracks after about a minute. “Wait wait wait. Let me get this straight – your father has been doing this to you?”

            I knitted my eyebrows. “Isn’t that what I said?” I knew it was hard for her to believe; to everyone outside my family, my father was a nice and considerate man. He wore a mask the minute he exited the house, a mask that seemed to fool everyone but me and Bale. But now it wouldn’t be able to fool another person as well – Mrs. Falker. That is, if she believed me in the first place.

            But she didn’t look doubtful. She looked genuinely frightened. “What does he do to you?”

            I scraped my teeth together as I thought back to the early morning, the whip, the punches . . . “He . . . he hits me,” I forced out. I wasn’t used to talking about it to anyone other than Bale and my mother. “He uses his horse’s whip on me, too.”

            At that, Mrs. Falker let out a short, soft cry. She quickly covered her mouth as the tears began to form at her eyelids. Once she regained enough composure to talk again, she lifted her hand from her mouth and whispered violently, “Every other week?”

            I looked down and kneaded my hands together. “Yes,” I murmured. “Every other week.”

            “Dear?” Mr. Falker called from the kitchen. He appeared in the doorway, his eyes bright with excitement, dulling into a grey cloudiness when he saw his wife’s forlorn appearance. “Are you okay?” He looked at me as if he expected me to give him an answer.

            “No, I’m fine,” Mrs. Falker said with a fake smile. She glanced over at the tall clock at the far side of the room, ticking with every passing second. It stated that it was a little past twelve thirty. “We’d better get the horses ready,” she said. “Alan, would you care to come to the festival with us?” She looked at the nurse who was walking from the kitchen to stand beside me. “You too.”

            The nurse quickly shook her head and gave her a gracious smile. “Thank you for the offer, but I have patients to attend to.”

            Mrs. Falker gave her a disappointed look. “I understand. Well, I can take hold of his wheelchair, if that’s okay.”

            The nurse was already walking out the door. “Sure, sure, that’s fine.” She gave me a look that I could only describe as forlorn. “Get better, Alan.” And then she left, passing the still-singing girls in the front courtyard before the wooden door slammed shut behind her.

            We all stood in the living area in complete silence. Mariam quickly walked up to me, holding out a cup of herbal tea. “This helps relax the body,” she explained.

            I took the porcelain cup with tentative fingertips; it was just as hot as the tea that was contained inside, and I couldn’t help but let out a startled hiss. I ended up jerking my hand upwards, causing a good amount of the tea to spill onto the floor. “Sorry,” I said sincerely.