Halcyon Days [Lyndis]

Wigan Imberline

Wigan spent the weekend morning as he usually did, helping his Aunt and Uncle with chores around their house. Saturday was the one day off a week but he spent it with the anyway, just as he’d done for the last few years. Their small house sat nestled between other tiny brick dwellings, their neighbors door not a few steps from their own. Inside was kept as well as it could be – an entry that led into a living room with a couch and a semi-functional television set. Black and white pictures were framed on walls of peeling wall paper. A tall lamp burned incandescent and yellow, giving life to the cold room.

It hadn’t always been this way. The pitter patter of feet across the hardwood floor had been commonplace a few years ago. He remembers a Saturday where Gilly had chased him in circles around the house, in another game of make believe. He was a dragon and she was to slay him, the greatest warrior that ever lived. He would laugh at her and her stubby little arms and legs trying to catch him. He didn’t laugh, now, having seen what she could do to others – how she’d been forced to disappear into darkness.

He clung to the memories like flecks of gold in his palm. Smiles and laughter that could echo through his head, harkening back to yesteryear. It was his armor here, in the house she used to live.

He didn’t begrudge his mother and father for asking to help with his Aunt and Uncle. They were quiet people, and quieter still now that Gilly had gone. It was more the weight Wigan felt crossing the threshold into their home. Each step took effort. He would scrub the floors and dust the finishes, sweep away cobwebs, and cook some stew for their lunch, but by midday felt as though his whole body had been anchored to this place. He didn’t tell them – he knew already how heavy their sadness was, and felt guilty knowing that he would be free from this place soon enough.

They never asked him to clean Gilly’s room. He had been in there once since she’d died, out of curiosity. There were still faded posters of pirate ships, little collections of animal figurines, a set of fake wooden swords they used to duel with. He smiled at the thought that they’d used to drive her parents crazy clacking together the wooden swords, so certain that they looked like true sword fighters. It was when he glanced at her empty bed that he felt his chest twist and his throat tighten, a knowing emptiness that left him quite alone. He closed the door and did not enter it again.

Fall had come and winter crept close behind, with chilly breezes and a grey skyline. His Aunt and Uncle had gone off to settle some afternoon business with a tailor (some argument about the amount of fabric to be dyed and purchased) and told Wigan they’d likely be back when the sun went down. He started with the usual course, sweeping the hardwood floor, then preparing the cleaner and wax. He sweat through the midmorning and surveyed his handiwork – adequate, if not exception. He polished the bits of pieces of silver they had tucked away, and made sure the dishes sitting idly in the kitchen sink were washed. He set about pulling out his uncle’s shoes, and carried them in his arms down the hallway. He passed Gilly’s old room and paused, lingering. He couldn’t help but feel the heaviness again, building up like a wave crashing down over him. He’d spent the whole morning consumed by chores he’d thought the feeling had passed but – here it was again.

And so he took to the stoop in front of their little home, with shoes in hand, shiner and rags in tow. He busied himself upon the stoop, eyes down, staring at his work, ignoring the weight of the house behind him.