The Moth and the Candle

-Keep thy faith, the old woman said.

She held out a fully half-clenched fist of fingers gnarled by arthritis, the tissue around the joints thickened and swollen. Macken always felt guilty when he saw her hands yet he never knew why. Regarding them induced one emotion but that was entirely overwhelmed by what he felt on the rare occasions he took hold of one or other of her hands, the warm, bony, urgent fists encouraging him to be whatever he felt himself to be. They were reassuring hands. Reassuring in that they displayed something obvious and familiar but were secretly and shockingly strong at the same time. They were a mother’s hands, the hands of the only mother he ever knew.

-Keep thy faith. Tis’ the only thing worth having in the end. Every mother’s son will let you down but your faith will keep you boy. In here, she said as she smacked his chest with the flat of her left hand, in here is where what little all of us have is kept until it is counted.

Macken never knew what to say at these moments. It was ever the same, standing there in front of her, as her gaze scrutinised him, feeling twitchy and hot, the way he did when he had to speak in public. The feel of a bead of perspiration running down the clefts of his spine usually made him angry and resentful but in these circumstances he never minded. He knew, after a few false starts, that she was not appraising him or passing judgement but rather she was searching for issues or problems she could help him with. Like her touch it was reassuring but in the same, distantly observed kind of way.

-well? Are you listening to me boy? I know you had trouble in the past with things…that…well, things that don’t concern us here now but you mark my words. Don’t let the faith you have die. Don’t! she finished with a fierce crack, a look into his soul that came from deep within her being and it burned to look at. Madness always does.

- I will, I mean, I won’t Ma, he said, gently pulling her hand away and taking them both, pressing them into her sides. I have too much of it y’see. That’s always been my problem, too much faith, not enough substance, he said, laughing as he looked over her shoulder.

She followed his gaze and saw nothing. Angrily she shook her head

-don’t mock me boy, don’t you ever mock me.

She shook with anger at first, he thought but it was only when she wrapped her scarf in a tight knot around her neck that he realised she must have been freezing in the icy wind that whirled down the promenade and in off the harbour. He hadn’t even noticed it.

-ma, he said, ma look at me. I don’t think I will ever lose that. It has kept me going this far and even with all that has happened look at me.
He spread his arms wide and turned in a circle before his mother, terminating the circle in an elaborate, clownish half-bow. Capering now, he thrust his hand out in an invitation to dance

-may I mother? He said in an atrocious drawl

She blushed, she even blushed. Practically no one did that anymore except for his mother

-go away with you, she said, suddenly abashed and shy, the years falling away to push the hardchaw fanatic out of the way and allow the young girl to step into the light.
He danced some more, placing his hand above his head and twirling his fingers like a matador practicing his routine.

-I say, come now, the lady shall dance.

He held out for her hand and she laughed and called him an idjit and stepped in time as he waltzed her across the worn flagstones using the steps she had patiently taught him years before. One-two-three…one-two-three… one-two-three…one-two-three… one-two-three…one-two-three… one-two-three…one-two-three.

Dancing together, he with intent on having her enjoy herself, she with laughter and some concern that he get the steps right for the future that was already here, they moved off down the promenade to the bemusement of passers-by. The townspeople stopped in ones and twos periodically, pausing briefly to stare. Some smiled, others watched intently staring at the incongruous dance partners in hopeful malice.

- There will be no dancing here!

Thundering out of the crowd, thrusting unnecessarily aside the few knots of onlookers, a large bearded man strode towards the elderly woman and her son. He shook with rage and the long thick beard under his chin moved back and forth as his jawbone worked. He reached the couple and towered over them. Despite his proximity the old woman simply stared back, not flinching as the bearded man glared at them both.

- Tis past time and time past you and yours were got gone from this town Bodymaster Lemont. I never knew you to heed any opinions but your own and those of the tatty clatter you call the Circle of Elders

- You shouldn’t speak so ill of me nor of the Circle Mistress Perec, I….

- Mother Perec will do. I saw you brought into this world which was more than your poor mother did. A life for a life a that time and what a poor return on the investment, she sneered as she looked him up and down.

Leaning forward she spat, drilling a long thin gobbet of greenish spittle onto the toecap of his right boot.

Yet still, although what little history that wrote itself in this town seemed to hold its breath and expect some everyday laws to assert themselves, the bearded man called Domonic Servian Lemont did nothing. In fact he did. He stepped back before the old man, his rage at her previous behaviour frozen. His face betrayed little of his emotions but told a larger story for all that. The old woman had showed no fear, none whatsoever. It wasn’t even contempt. She had merely turned and reminded the man of her authority over him and he simply tipped his hat and nodded at the truth of it.

Such is true power.

Mistress Perec took Macken’s limp hand and danced the final steps of the waltz that had been interrupted.

- I don understand, he said. Why was he so angry?

Mistress Perec looked back at the tall man, standing still and staring.

- Because, she sighed, he thinks I stole his wife away from him. And he thinks I blame him for his mother’s death.

Macken held both of her hands in his and squeezed. He felt compelled to ask. Something within him revealed the desire to be both desirable and true so he did.

- Did you? Do you?

She held him back and eyed him through gimlets.

- You have become borne up strong these few years gone. I hadn’t noticed this before in you.

- I hadn’t noticed it in myself, he said quietly.

- To answer you no I never blamed him. It was a thing that was done to both but by neither and that was the way of it. No bendy thinking of mine would fix that. She lost herself and he lost a mother. He grew that way too, lost in both minds, in himself and in his relations with others. He makes a great show of knowing but he knows the devil and fuck all.

- What about his wife?

- Oh there he has me. I fucked her. Many many times. She was not the only one and she wouldn’t be the last.

- A man’s wife, Macken said, you should not. I think…

- Oh I know what is said by all, that I bewitch them, that they know not what they do, that my seduction is based on sorcery or drugs or blackmail but tis all less than so. Tis a much simpler thing, one they all know but won’t acknowledge. They like it. They like to lie with another woman who treats them kindly and sensibly and with tenderness and an expectation that does not focus solely on themselves. Men in this place know nothing of anything other than duty and devotion to a life learned less expansively than the narrowest of them can think. I release trapped butterflies and let them live. Men like Lemont, well…look’see. He is not evil, principally down to a lack of imagination but he does call forth a less than charitable manner for all.

Macken stood there, listening but not believing. He opened his mouth to call the old witch a filthy, disgusting animal but the words wouldn't come. A cramp-pain hit his stomach. Bad food, he idly thought, until he looked down and saw the blood.

Mistress Perec watched him try to pull the blade from his lower chest. She shook her head and said

- Tis triangular, tha'll never get it out, she said as he slid to the ground, his boots slick with red. She watched him quiver and shake, like a man in a fever yet he never made a sound as he died. He breathed his last breath with a look of puzzlement on his face at the end. She nodded.

- Just like tha father.