Trembling With Fear 10-15-23

Such a Lucky Boy, by Vivian Chou

Momma was sick, and I had to help her. She was used to being the strong one and hated feeling fragile. For weeks, she’d been hacking brown phlegm, forehead hot as white coal.   

“Enich, my boy,” she croaked. “Go into the forest and bring me spiny petunia thorns for a poultice.”

I swallowed my dread out of love for her. “Yes, Momma. But how will I see in the dark?”

She pressed a spreengon seed between my toes. “For your night vision. But beware of the creatures – be quick!”

I left. Fear gripped me as I crept between the trees, the bramble scratching my scales like witches’ nails. I had to save Momma. And if she died, who would protect me from the beasts in the wood? I hated feeling so feeble and wished I could be as sturdy and radiant as Momma.

Darkness cloaked the sky. I’d never ventured this far alone into the forest that had spat me out. Chased by beasts, weak and sickly from birth, abandoned by my blood parents, I was the lucky one, rescued by Momma, who had hand-sewed an iguana out of burlap for me and stuffed it with straw, who had sung lullabies to soothe my terrors. Every night, she bubbled my favorite savory rabbit stew on the fire for my dinner.

“Eat, eat,” Momma always said, hugging me tightly. “Have more stew to keep your strength up.”

I clutched the spreengon seed closer. In the clearing of a thicket, I glimpsed headless flowers, stems naked save for errant flower petals. I recognized the stalk of the petunia from the sketches of herbs and nettles in Momma’s medicine book. I gently tore at the root of the plant with my teeth, holding the stem in my webbed feet. 

“You, there!” a voice called.

I froze in my tracks. Beasts spoke all languages and deployed devious wiles. 

A small human child emerged, his hair as golden flax as Momma’s, skin smooth like hers. He didn’t look like a beast to me.

“Well, I’ll be,” the boy said. “Not seen a river iguana ‘round here. Thought you was all done for.”

I backed away slowly, mindful of Momma’s warning. But I’d never seen another human besides Momma before.

“Done for, how?” I said.

“’Cause of your lifeblood properties, of course,” the boy blinked. 

“I have no such properties,” I said. Perhaps he was a beast in disguise.

“You did, for the crones,” the boy said. “But they all vanished too – couldn’t live forever anymore, without them iguanas. Where’d you come from, anyway?” 

“Just down the hill,” I said, pointing in the opposite direction of our cabin.

“That’s funny,” the boy said. “I play in this forest day and night and I never seen you before.”

“My Momma is sick,” I said. “I must get home.”

“Oh,” the boy nodded. “The thorns can heal someone in one night. But don’t over-grind ‘em. They’re fickle.”

“Fickle, how?” I ask.

“Too much of it, and you can never get enough.”

With the petunia stem in my mouth, I scampered back home, barely catching the glint of the fireplace in the dark. Momma was pale and gray-colored in bed. I mashed the petunia thorns with our lava rock and served it to her in a cup of water.

“Enich, dear boy.” She drank it one gulp. Then, she slept.

The next morning, I made myself rabbit stew, but it tasted bland. I didn’t know what spices Momma used. I finished half a portion and opened Momma’s medicine book. There had to be something else I could do to cure her. Her neat cursive notes graced corners of worn pages full of wispy silhouettes of stinging nettle and vincrastium.  

Runes for a Home Unseeable to Others

Infant Mouth Rot Soothing Brick

Elixir for Weak Constitution 

But there was nothing to cure a sick Momma. I wept at the thought of her never waking up. I’d failed her with my tiny body and my weak eyesight.

The back cover of the book had a long recipe written on it, but it was blurred. I squinted hard and rummaged through Momma’s spice jars. I found another spreengon seed and held it in my foot.

Rabbit Stew for Children 

(Cure for Crones’ Mortality)

Essence of spiny petunia, to keep him always wanting more.

Rabbit shanks, for a mother’s undying love.

Pickled carrot greens, to induce fear and weakness, self-doubt.

Sweet tuberose, to counter with soothing and encouragement, praise.

Vivre-snake venom, to emanate the lifeforce of the children he will never have, to you.

Gray pepper, for his life and yours together, always.

Bitter parsley, for his terminal bloodline and early death.

Feed your child daily, keep him close, and you will live forever. Repeat with new children, as needed.

Terror bubbled in my stomach. Maybe I’d always known, deep down, that Momma’s love came at a price. The thought of rabbit stew now rankled my tastebuds as rancid and foul. What other lies had she told me? Had I ever been truly feeble, or had she sickened me with her own desires? And how many other children had come before me?

“Enich!” Momma cried from her bed. “I feel better now. What are you doing? Tell me about your adventure into the forest. Did you see any beasts?”

I clutched the jar of spreengon seeds in my foot and edged towards the door.

“Yes, Momma,” I said. “There was a dangerous beast in the forest. But I escaped.”

I scampered away as fast as I could, my breath fluttering as my heart thumped in my ribcage. I didn’t know if I would survive, but I had to be free. 

Momma was sick, all right, but I had to help myself first.