Page 59 of Death is My BFF

“Alexandru!”

A hot wind surged against my face as I shot a frantic look over my shoulder. I twirled the weapon around my fingers in a dance of skill, before stuffing it into the hole I’d dug. Shoving dirt with my forearm, buring it in seconds.

“Alexandru!”the woman’s voice grew louder I cupped my hands around my mouth. “Over here!”

The woman trudged up the grassy hill to meet me at the mulberry tree. Her soft, feminine features were cradled by unblemished olive-toned skin and wavy curls cascading down her back like liquid gold. My mother, Phoebe Cruscellio, renowned for her broad knowledge in herbal medicine and her deep care for the deprived of Rome. Townspeople flocked to her for affordable medical services.

Little did they know what she truly was. How her late mother, my grandmother, had taught her magic since she was a little girl, and now she was the most powerful witch in her inner circle.

Giving commoners medical advice, while keeping her powers hidden, left my mother with a dangerous employment. Nobody could ever discover the eccentricities of our family. We’d risk exposure, or worse, executions, as my father constantly reminded us.

Father could not see the hypocrisy in his own words, how he was entrenched in mortal society and risking our lives more than any of us. No, he would never see the whole truth, like I did. Mother went to great lengths to save others because she could never find the courage to save herself from him.

“There you are, my naughty child,” Mother said, slightly panting as she hiked up the satchel slung over her shoulder. “I was picking olives for a snack, when I saw you racing down the rows like the farm dogs were nipping at your bottom.” A small smile curved her lips as she approached the mulberry tree, her hand pressing against the bark as she looked up into the canopy blooms. “The Fates work in mysterious ways . . . ”

“What do you mean?” I asked, watching Mama pluck a berry to taste it. Her lips puckered as the berry was not ripe yet.

“I too used to climb up here to be alone,” Mama explained.

“I would sing to you under this very tree. You were only a small swell in my belly then, and I came down with a great sickness while you grew. Your father would climb up here to collect the mulberry leaves and its fruit to aid in a healthful pregnancy. These berries were my only cure.” She touched her flat stomach with a reminiscent smile and laid a kiss on my forehead. “Have you fed your animals, my sweet?”

“I fed the dogs and the sheep,” I said, plopping down in front of the dirt pile so she would not question it. I fiddled with my wooden figurine of a lion and made it pounce on top of a rock.

Mother bent down to pluck a twig out of my hair. Her fingers wiped dirt off my cheek, too, the scar on my face tingling before I flinched away. The large vertical mark slashed through my lighter green eye was a cruel reminder of the trauma I’d suffered a year ago.

My face had been torn by a wild cat during a combat exercise, jagged flesh mending together to form a grueling permanent mark. It was still pink from poor healing, but I did not mind the appearance as much as Mama did. I only wished it wouldn’t ward off other children my age. Since I was homeschooled, I rarely had any social interaction with others.

“And the horses?” Mama asked, drawing my attention back to her. “Have you fed the horses? Cruentas needs a wash, my love.” Her nose scrunched up. “As do you.”

“Father told me not to visit Cruentas today. I hurt my arm . . . sparring.”

I trained daily with my father. The harrowing lessons with him were the worst parts of my day.

My mother looked down at me for a prolonged length of time.

“You lie to me. I can hear it in your voice.” Before I could move away from her grasp, she reached down and tugged up the sleeve of my toga, exposing a darkening purple bruise on my upper arm.

Her eyes widened, and she gasped. “Did your father do this?” I didn’t want to instigate another fight between them, so I began to draw in the dirt again. Her voice only amplified. “Answer me, Alexandru!”

“I went out in the forest early this morning,” I said, stabbing a broken branch into the ground and snapping it in two. “Father went looking for me, though he was not concerned with my safety as I am sure he will tell you. He was angry because I was late. His only concern is my training.”

Mama stood and hugged her arms to her chest. “I have tried to get through to your father, but he is so stubborn, and he only wants what is best for you. There are many dangerous animals, hunters, even drunk men that wander about the forest. He worries for your safety when you run outside our land all alone.”

I shook my head at my mother’s naivety, laughing bitterly. “I only wanted to show the town boys my new secret spot in the woods.

They are allowed to play in the morning, and it is not fair. I am forced to spar with Father until midday break, and if I disobey him, I am treated like an animal. And you . . . ” I tried to hide my seething tone from my mother and failed. “You do nothing about it.”

My mother slid a hand over her mouth, her eyes pooling with emotion. “If I could, I would take you far away from here.”

“Then why not try?”

“It is complicated, Alexandru,” she murmured. I’d heard that vague answer a thousand times before and had grown numb to it.

“Do you wish I was not your mother?”

“Never.” Absentmindedly, I dug in the ground beside me for the blade I had buried. “I wish for a friend. A true friend.”

Mama was heartbroken by this, and it made me feel worse. I didn’t talk to her often about feelings because I knew she had her own issues with my father.

---