Shortbread Stories's Blog › Magna Mater: Shortbread's…

Magna Mater: Shortbread's Light Bite

Published 9 months ago

For today's Light Bite I urge you to listen to the audio recording of this story. The narration and the story fit together perfectly and take the reader on a rather weird and wonderful journey. 

Magna Mater by Nell Grey

I had taken to wandering the city streets late at night. Unable to sleep in this new and alien environment, with its serried rows of faceless houses, identical in their anonymity; its lumpen tower blocks of concrete and steel standing like sentinels against capitalism; its confined parks with their sickly trees gasping in the foetid air. I discovered by chance that darkness had transformed the suffocating labyrinth into a strange and magical otherworld whose possibilities seemed infinite.

I may have drifted a little, but always woke in the hours just before dawn to find proper sleep eluding me. I had arrived in July’s pasty heat, but by September the sun had lost its brooding menace and I was able to breathe again. The small room with its thick protecting walls felt suddenly less like a sanctuary and more like a cell. I left the bed to tell its tale of restless altercation, and donning a light coat over my pyjamas and finding my shoes I slipped from the safety of the four walls and made off into the night.

Having no idea where my footsteps would take me I wandered at will through the deserted streets and alleys, finding myself at last by the river, pausing to gaze deep into its swirling blackness as the relentless flow swept all before it to the sea. I became almost mesmerised, disorientated by the movement, and remained there looking down from the embankment until my senses perceived that it was I who was racing upsteam whilst the water below me stood still. Fighting a desire to throw myself onto the belt of water to uncover the ultimate mystery I turned at last and entered a narrow passageway between the houses on the other side of the narrow street. I found myself in a maze of twittens that ran along behind the dense conglomeration of dwellings and soon lost myself in its timelessness.

The walls that enclosed the yards and grassy patches behind the tall houses and directed my path were built of flint, and some revealed the dull sparkle of coloured glass set into the mortar at the top. I was able to see my way by the light of an occasional street lamp that had been strategically placed at crossways, and although this light was barely adequate it added to the feeling that time had somehow folded, and I had slipped into the gap between. There was a sense too, that in all of the sleeping city I was the one human survivor of some quiet catastrophe, for although the occasional scurry of what I took to be a scavenging rat or feline disturbed the still silence of the moonless night, the dark windows offered only the odd reflection from the lamps.

I had turned a corner into a passage identical to all the others when, apparently materializing from the flint wall further down the twitten on my left a vast dark shape appeared before the light of the lamp at the next corner, almost blocking my path. It was some distance away and seemed to pause and note my presence, whereupon it turned and fled, bobbing away from me like some huge helium-filled balloon escaped from a child during an instance of carelessness. Temporarily arrested by shock and surprise, but recovering motion with the sudden and urgent onset of curiosity, I rushed down the passageway and gave chase.

The great formless object disappeared at the lamplit corner, and plunging through the pool of golden light below I stopped and looked to the right. An enormous woman was crouched against the wall a few yards from where I stood. I could hear her panting, and see the slight glisten of saliva where the light fell upon her parted lips and protruding tongue. She said nothing, but appeared to be in a state bordering on terror, and it suddenly occurred to me that she had good reason. Hoping to calm her fears and convince her that I meant no harm, I stepped backwards a couple of paces and spoke.

‘I’m sorry if I frightened you. I really didn’t mean to. You appeared so suddenly and I wasn’t sure… whether you were a person or a ghost. Is everything all right? Why are you wandering these lanes so late at night? Do you need help?’

She looked at me for a moment and rose with difficulty, seeking handholds on the rough wall and hauling herself to her feet with gasps and exclamations. She stared at me for some moments as if deciding whether I could be trusted, and it occurred to me that I was as strange a figure as she, with my coated pyjamas and sockless shoes. At last, recovering her breath, she gestured in the direction from which we had come.

‘I live down there. The garden has an entrance to the twittens. I like to come out at night when no one will see me. I haven’t been out during the day for years now – since I became so large – I can’t bear the way they look at me out of the corners of their eyes; the whispers, the little sniggers. It’s peaceful at night – the children are all asleep, my husband is at home and I can leave them for a while without worrying, forget about my size. I saw you and panicked, but when you’re this big running’s not easy, and I didn’t get very far before I had to stop. I rather hoped you’d dash past without seeing me, but…’ The implied appeal in her voice touched me. Now that she was upright I could see by the streetlight that she was perhaps in her late thirties. Her skin shone pale against the dark hair, which was gathered into a rough bunch at the back of her head, and she was dressed in a voluminous garment of indeterminate hue. I had a sudden rush of feeling – instinct almost – that I mustn’t let her go, that I should somehow befriend this poor creature and uncover her story. Maybe even help her. It was as if fate had briefly touched one life against another for its own momentous reason. I felt around for the words that would keep her with me a little longer.

‘Well, I’ve seen you now, but should you be wandering around on your own at night? Let me walk with you for a little while, I’ve become something of a night wanderer myself – insomnia – we can keep each other company.’

She agreed – readily it seemed to me – possibly she had little contact with people outside her immediate family, and we wandered through the twittens for almost an hour, until a low glow above the rooftops signalled the coming of dawn. I walked her then to the garden door in the ancient wall and we took leave of one another with a promise to meet again the following night. Thus began my friendship with Mata.

During the weeks that followed I learnt her story. She was Irish, and had married an Englishman while still in her teens, leaving the country home in her native land and moving to the barren city from the tiny jewel-like fields of County Antrim. Homesick for family and those childhood haunts, she had at first returned at regular intervals when limited finances allowed, but soon the death of her mother, followed shortly by that of her father and the arrival of her first child, made these visits difficult to accomplish, and their frequency diminished.

Motherhood suited her though, and she found deep satisfaction in caring for her child. In less than a year Jimmy had a little sister – Catharine, and by the time she had been in England for five years there were no less than six little places set around the table for tea. The children were welcomed and loved passionately, not only by Mata but also by her husband. They had both come from large families – he was one of twelve and she of fifteen, although not all of these had survived childhood. I am speaking now of those days before antibiotics and vaccination were widely available, and childhood diseases like polio and diphtheria culled the population indiscriminately.

The problem with this abundant fertility was that her body had little time to recover from one pregnancy before another coupling of cells embedded itself in the soft tissue of her uterus and began to grow. Loving her children so much, and unable to bear the thought of destroying those potential babies to whom she might offer all the love and nurturing that suffused her generous soul, Mata decided to let nature take its course. She realised that her size had increased alarmingly since Jimmy’s birth, but felt powerless to do anything about it. Her babies were all breast-fed, and although the experts will tell you that this is the surest and most natural way to recover the figure after the birth of a child, Mata found that in her own case breast-feeding seemed almost to increase her weight. Not only that but the constant preparation of food proved a temptation in itself and, coming from a background where nothing was ever wasted, found herself feeding on their leftovers and foregoing meals, hoping that this would at least arrest the problem of her burgeoning size. But by the time she had been married for ten years there were eleven children in the tall house that backed onto the twittens, and Mata had not only given up trying to control her weight but was ashamed to leave the house.

Through all this time the love of her husband never wavered. Wanting to help her in any way he could, and desiring only her happiness and that of their children he took over those tasks that forced her to venture outside the confines of the tall house, and thus allowed her fear of the outside world to make her a prisoner. By the time that we met Mata had had sixteen children, although of these one had died shortly after birth and another had succumbed to pneumonia at the age of three.

Our friendship grew during those nightly rambles, and after many months had passed I was able to persuade her to leave the familiarity of the maze of passages, and with my encouragement and protection venture a little way out into the city. We stood and gazed at the dark rushing water just as I had on the night of our first meeting, and it seemed to hold as great a fascination for her as it did for me. Once we came across a small garden square in an enclave of villas. It was surrounded by railings, but we tried the gate and to our delight discovered that it swung open at a touch, and glancing conspiratorially at one another slipped like children in amongst the black trees that stood like illustrations from a story book, their dark hands reaching out to finger our hair and clothing as we drifted between them. Ah, the magic of the night! I believe that I could have shared that magic with no one else but her. Our love of this alternative reality stemmed from different needs, but for those few short hours we were at one with the darkness and each other.

I think I loved her then. Our meetings took place only outside the walls of the tall house – she never asked me to come and visit her during the day, and I never suggested it. Her husband and children were known to me only from her descriptions of them, and although I sometimes wondered what they were like, I was happy with our arrangement, and never sought to change it. We met almost nightly for years. Her family continued to grow, although I was scarcely aware of this. I believe the older children helped with the younger ones, and of course by this time the oldest ones had left home to start families of their own. Indeed, I believe there were grandchildren too – six if I remember correctly. During this time I rose in the company until my position was not only well-paid but influential, yet I remained in the small flat, eschewing all social intercourse but that necessitated by my position.

Then, one night as we gazed silently into the blackness of the river, she turned towards me, and I saw the tears reflecting the light of the single streetlamp like threads of silver on her cheeks. I took her hand, and begged her to tell me what troubled her, and after a moment’s hesitation she began to speak; quietly, haltingly.

‘You know that for years the doctors have said I must stop having children. They tried to encourage me to have the operation, but I never would – never could. My children are my life, as you know – they are all that I am, all that I will ever be. Without creation what am I? A monster, a freak that has to hide away from the ridicule of others. You know me so well, yet even you have never seen me by day. I think I should die of shame if you did. Yet now they tell me that the children must stop or the next one will kill me. And that’s not all – I must lose weight too, for my heart will not stand the strain much longer. I’ve tried – you know how I’ve tried, but I cannot, will not go out by day and food is such a consolation…’

I fumbled for the words to comfort her, but somehow they eluded me. I stroked her hand, surprisingly small with long slim childish fingers, and said nothing. What had I done for her? My first instinct had been to help her, yet years had passed and all I had done was to keep her company on her nocturnal rambles. I kissed her cheek as she left me to slip through the garden wall, told her I would think of something, and walked back through the quiet streets lost in thought.

The following day was a Saturday, and I chose to walk beside the river. This was a different river from the one of our nightly wanderings. The huge warehouses loomed above the turgid stream like inflated building blocks from some gigantic toybox as the cranes below them stood like mechanical raptors waiting to drink. There were people all around; walkers, joggers, mothers with pushchairs, families with children and dogs, all seemingly out to enjoy their few hours of leisure, and my thoughts flew to Mata in her self-imposed confinement and wished that she could enjoy these simple pleasures. I walked on, thinking. Somewhere below me I could hear the laughter and shouts of children, and almost mindlessly I felt myself drawn towards the sound. I found them – a small troop of boys somewhere between the ages of nine and fifteen – jumping and diving from a platform at the bottom of some steps in the concrete wall. The water seemed almost still – the tide was on the turn – and although it carried them a little way they were able to swim back without difficulty. I stood and watched for a while, and then it came to me. I had always been frugal – the habit was a natural one – and my savings had grown marvellously since arriving in the city. The idea materialized in my imagination until I almost believed it done, and the thought of Mata’s joy if only I were able to persuade her filled me with an almost childish delight that made me laugh aloud.

I could barely wait for night to spread its soft dark cloak on the city streets, but at last she was there and I told her my plan. Her face revealed little in the dim passage, but after some persuasion she promised that she would discuss it with her husband and let me know the following night. We spoke little during the remaining time we spent together. Mata seemed thoughtful, and I didn’t want to interrupt the flow of any internal reasoning that might lead her nearer to a positive decision. She left me with her assurance of an answer when next we met, and I had to be content with that.

The beating of my heart as I watched the vast shape appear from the old wall almost seemed to shake my frame, and I was trembling as she bore down the passage towards me like a galleon in full sail. The night was kind; it imbued her with a grace that full daylight with its merciless stare would never have bestowed. I took her hands in mine, and kissed her cheeks. The question hung between us like a hungry ghost and she smiled, and I felt the relief flooding through my body like a cleansing wave. We talked then, and I was glad to find that the idea I had planted had taken root and begun to grow. There were questions which I answered as best as I was able, and restrictions which must be agreed upon before the work began, but at last we were in agreement and I left her with a promise to make all the arrangements. She was to leave everything to me.

The work took many months to complete. There were problems with the planning department, the water board and the builders, but luckily I had thought to engage an architect, and was not unduly troubled by these. At last all was ready. Mata’s excitement was wondrous to behold – she could speak of nothing else – and her simple joy lifted my spirit until I not only felt more truly alive than ever in my life, but almost holy. I had instructed the architect to build the pool as large as the garden would allow. The bottom sloped from a depth of three feet to six in the deepest end, and there were Roman steps to allow easy access for Mata and the little ones. A system of filtration saw to the cleanliness of the water, and a gas boiler located in the house at ground level heated it to a comfortable temperature, which could be adjusted to suit the season. A huge inflatable plastic bubble enclosed the pool and ensured privacy from the windows of the tall houses on either side whilst allowing the sunlight to fall on the sparkling water. It was perfect.

I knew it was perfect because Mata told me so. One of the conditions we had agreed upon was that I should never see her in daylight, so although I had been kept well informed of the progress of its construction, I had never seen the end result. She loved the water, and had learnt to swim when still a child, and I hoped that the exercise would not only strengthen her physically but alleviate the boredom of being at home all day and distract her from the temptation of her kitchen.

Those few weeks following the completion of my project were a delight. Her joy manifested itself in so many little ways; she became very affectionate towards me, and would skip from the door in the flint wall and run down the passage to greet me. Her talk was all of the precious pool; of how it had changed her life; of how she loved to swim, and bathe with the grandchildren and her own little ones, and lie contented beneath the sun’s healing smile.

The problem was mine. It began as a small awakening of desire and grew alarmingly into a burning obsession. It was not enough to know that my gift had changed her life – I wanted to see for myself that it had, to watch Mata enjoying the water with the little ones, to see her happiness with my own eyes. I became as a man tormented. Mata and the pool filled my thoughts both night and day, but I knew there would be no point in begging to be allowed to watch her bathe – she had made her feelings clear from the day we’d met.

I’m not sure when reason deserted me enough to allow the sly infiltration of betrayal, but one day I discovered its presence and was powerless to expunge it. I made my plans carefully. If all went well Mata would never know, and I could return to the calm stability of mind I had enjoyed before.

I knew there was a spare key to the garden door in the twitten. It was kept in a small cavity behind a loose flint in the old wall. I noted this stone for future reference, and one morning after I had seen her through the gate I walked around until I thought it likely she would have gone to bed, let myself in through the gate and entered the plastic bubble, concealing myself behind a low seat that ran almost all the way along one side. I squeezed into the gap between the wall of the bubble and the back of the seat and crouched behind a large empty chlorine container, so that if anyone happened to glance behind the seat I would not be seen. I should not have long to wait. Already the sky glowed pale upon the roof of the bubble, and I knew that Mata would come to swim before the first meal of the day.

In what seemed simultaneously like a second and an aeon, I heard their excited voices and the opening of the back door and felt panic flash through me. But it was too late now. And the sounds of a multitude of little feet pattering on the tiles, the squeals and laughter, the splashes as they jumped from the side and the soft cautionary murmurings of the earth mother painted a picture in my mind that thrilled me. I had to confirm it for myself. I waited a few moments to allow their excitement to settle and to be sure that everyone was in the water, then manoeuvring myself past the empty container I slid on my stomach the few feet to the end of the seat and cautiously peered round the edge.

She was there, crouched over the youngest ones on the lower Roman steps, her great arms curved protectively, her vast bulk reddened by the sun, the older children around her, like some huge mother crab guarding her young. Prompted by some instinct perhaps, she looked up and caught sight of me, and the scream that issued from her mouth was like the scream of the live crustacean plunged into the cauldron of boiling water. I shall never forget that scream.

I stumbled from my hiding place and groped blindly for the plastic flap, panic having scrambled my wits. I found it at last, the never-ending scream still ringing in my ears as I burst through the garden door and into the passage, running until the blood pounded behind my temples and I thought my head would burst. Reaching the sunless sanctuary of my room and flinging myself on the tousled bed, head beneath the pillows to stop the scream that still reverberated in my skull I raged at my stupidity and the betrayal that had lost me that precious friendship.

And I never saw her again.

If you have enjoyed this story, please let the author know

Share This Blog Post

Recommend this blog post to other social networking services such as Twitter and Facebook.