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[gypsy_merrique]

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There were days of late that it seemed to Merrique she was stuck in the places 'in between'. That was how her mind presented these feelings to her, without fanfare or fancy words. So many places in her life put her in between.

In her home life, her husband was . . . where? She knew that when (if?) he returned he would give her a one or two word reply meant to keep his secrets and her sanity. "Working," he'd say. Or perhaps this time, he would elaborate more, with something like "Important assignment. You know how it is," While Walter was off doing whatever it was he did, Merrique managed to pack up and move out of the house the family last shared; she could not bear to be trapped in its walls--especially alone. More and more, in the shadow of her husband's absence she found herself making excuses to stay away--even spending great deals of time with various branches of her extended and, until recently, estranged family. Lately Merrique began to wonder if these recent extended absences were Walter's way of avoiding her. Of blaming her.

My sons, she would wonder to herself. What has become of those boys whose youth she missed? How Shalcross broke her heart. How many times had she forced herself to admit that she would have gone out of her way to not conceive him had she known that Ceinwyn would demand his service to her city? Ah, but admitting hurt. It was so much easier to hide behind the anger, wasn't it? How she wished she could blame all of this mess on the fallen matriarch; but in her heart she knew she too bore responsibility. The hurt of Ceinwyn's cruelty still burned brightly. To this day, Ceinwyn had yet to explain her inexplicable casting aside, dismissal, call it what you will, of Merrique. That unwelcome voice often taunted her, asking her such things as, Made a really good choice on who to believe in, who to follow, who to ally with, hmmmm Merrique? Oh, to wish it all away.

And what of Warwycke? The toddler who was stolen so cruelly, she herself left beaten and bloody to die a dog's death in the streets of Britain--taken away and transformed to a man with the mind of a child by some unimaginable magic. Too briefly he was home before going off to study with the Magincian woman to 'catch up'. Still she felt him, knew he fared well. Well, but . . . absent. Thoughts of her boys often led to thoughts of Christopher. Little innocent Christopher whose eyes so strongly resembled those of her own boys, except for that odd green color. Yes, the shape was there, that unmistakable gypsy shape and tilt. Sometimes she pondered the irony of how something that felt so good--like holding that baby--could hurt so badly all at once.

Often, in the dark hours when these thoughts crashed their way over Merrique, the most horrifying in-between thought would come. Her mind would demand to know what had actually become of Merrique. Her true inner self would speak up, loud and strong and demanding, and ask of her--What has become of you, where have you gone? This cruel Merrique-self would give her an unwanted mental slide show of the events--some seemingly random and unrelated but connected nonetheless--that led her to this place in her life. How she wished she could close her eyes on the thoughts of leaving the love and protection of her people in exchange for her men, her freedom, her vagabond ways, for her blind service to the city that ultimately destroyed her family and would somehow in the end probably author her own self destruction.

How she wished she could wish it all away. How she wished she could wish away the years of hate she felt for her twin. Ah, but wishes are merely a cry in the wind, aren't they, she often asked herself.

It was the pointed rebuke of Maman Sabine while they spoke to the son of her brother, that brought the most recent episode of in between raining over her spirit. How she wanted to cry out, "You don't understand, you could never understand!" But, a yammering thought demanded, what if she did? What if she could?

Merrique stood and forced herself to leave Kallianos' grave. She took a deep, steadying breath, and approached the campfire where sat the maman. How child-like she felt, approaching this woman who raised her up as her own. How terribly small she felt when those small but unmistakably gypsy eyes beheld her.

"Sit, child," commanded Sabine in a voice that defied her age. "I've been waiting for you. There is much to say, isn't there, between you and me."

The strength ran out of Merrique, both physically and mentally. She sat down on the wooden fireside bench, wondering where to start, unnerved by the knowing that the conversation was foreseen.

Sometimes in halting, fragmented sentences and sometimes in an emotion filled rush, the words and feelings and worries poured forth. How horrible and awful it sounded when spoken aloud! By the time there were no words left, Merrique sat staring at the fire through stinging, tearful eyes.

The silence between the two women was deafening.
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. . . But the dark is very trustworthy.
It's always as dark as you thought it was.
And you don't have to work at staying there.
All you have to do is survive it.
And I've been doing that forever.
from the novel "Dark Debts" by Karen Hall