Ilna - Chapter 2

It was a damp autmn night. The ground of Montsally-On-Hill, the village in which Ilna Salisbury lived, was covered in a soft layer of slowly decomposing leaves. They were heavy with rain when picked up, all the more since, on a warmer day, they would have been light and dry. They left a small patch of moisture and a few bits of dirt upon the place they had just left.

Ilna was staring at such a patch. It seemed strange to the ten year-old that a thin and brittle being like the leaf she was holding up could hold so much water, and become so heavy. However, she had no time to dwell on this: she was called back inside by a shrill call, "Ilna!"

It was said, earlier, that Ilna had not made young friends like most children of her age. This did not, though, stop her from living up to the other things one would expects ten year-olds to get up to: this included pranking, ignoring duties and chores, getting dirty and wet, and running away from home to do some exploring.

On that day, Ilna had managed to do all four of these things in one go.

The girl dropped her leaf, a child caught in wrong-doing; she was torn between returning to the house and facing her mother's anger, and running away to temporarily escape it. The second option would, she reasoned, end the same, but with a harder scolding; she picked the first.

Slowly, she walked back along the leaf-covered street to the small wooden house which was hers and her mother's. The hood of her jacket over her head to escape the dripping rain, her feet trailing her muddy boots with them, she trudged through the puddles, taking as long as possible while keeping a clean conscience: she was coming, right?

Finally, she reached the equally wooden front door, and pushed it open. In the back of her mind, a thought tried to push it's way through: was it not a bit strange, that Miusa had not called again? That all was silent? Wasn't it peculiar that the doorway was mother-free, the atmosphere scream-less? Was there not something a bit off? But Ilna's mind was concentrated on the scolding she would get, and the thought was pushed back amongst, to her, ones that were much more important: what would her mother say to the fact that she was covered in rain and mud? That she had not cleaned her room? That she had run away? What would she say about the bucket of cold water placed onto the door?

Ilna opened the door wide. Inside, all was quiet. There was no sign of her mother, and the common street sounds seemed to be muffled by her absence. Ilna's eyes swept the room, which served as a kitchen, living room, dining room, play room and workspace all at once. A door at the other end was open, and, at the bottom, Ilna's thought of a prank: the bucket once placed on top was lying on the floor, the latter drenched with water.

But the bucket was not the only upturned thing in the room. In the very middle lay a shattered vase, and, amongst the shards of glass, the splintered remains of a piece of wood and a single, red rose.

Ilna ran. She was scared, very scared, but she had still managed to find the energy to run. The horrible picture still swam before her eyes: the door ajar, no signs of her mother, the silence, the broken things. The vase that now lay shattered had been an old gift from Ms Billson, and the rose one of her flower shop too - where had all the wood come from? - but it was not to Ms Billson's that Ilna now ran, it was to Mrs Dillus's. She lived furthest, ten minutes walking from Ilna's house; but Ilna knew her best, and, right now, she needed comfort.

Had her mother's cry of "Ilna!" been a call for help? Of course she would have called her name - Ilna's name was the only thing that Miusa had always been able to remember. Why, oh why, had she taken her time? If only she'd come quicker... But what had attacked Miusa? For Ilna was sure someone, or something, had attacked her. What had it done to her? Could... could her mother still be in the house, hurt? Should Ilna go back? But no, what if the thing was still in the house? Better go to Mrs Dillus for help...

Mrs Dillus's, though ten minutes away by foot, was reached in barely five by a panting Ilna. 

"Mrs Dillus!" She screamed, "Mrs Dillus!" Mrs Dillus opened the door, a frying pan in her right hand.

"What is it?" She yelled, looking over Ilna's head and into the street. "Has someone been killed? Robbed? Did the doctor step on my flowerbeds again? Is the tourist with the ten-legged camera back? Did - oh, dear!" She exclaimed, noticing Ilna. "Ilna, dear! You - have you been crying?" Mrs Dillus's gaze softened - Ilna's eyes and face were indeed filled with tears - but then it hardened again. "I'll catch whoever did this to you, I will! Tell me dear, what has happened? Why have you been crying?"

But Ilna seemed to be beyond speech. She cried and sobbed, unable to stop, and was led inside by a bewildered Mrs Dillus, and sat on the flowery couch. It took ten minutes to calm her down: every time she showed signs of doing so, she suddenly remembered what she had come for, saw a dead Miusa in her mind, and started off again. Finally, she chocked: "Mrs Dillus - t-the house! I - no - my mother - vase..." She gave a great wail, then blurted out: "I was outside and then I heard my mother call but then the house - I came in - inside, the, the, the broken vase, and a rose and the wood, and no - no mother!" 

"Your mother was not in the house?" Mrs Dillus asked, in a reassuring voice. "But then, dear, she'll have been in the garden! What's all this talk of a broken vase? I'm sure your dear mother will have knocked it over at one point, no need to worry. Did you call for her?" Ilna suddenly felt very foolish. No, she hadn't called. She'd ran away, without a backwards glance - Mrs Dillus was right, her mother would have been in the garden... But then, why had everything been silent? Just me imagining things again, she thought. She declined the old lady's offer to accompany her home - Mrs Dillus was very slow - and then set off back through the village, feeling childish and foolish all the way.

When Ilna got home, she found her mother, indeed, waiting in the garden. "Ilna!" She called. "You took very long to come! I called for you..." She checked the battered old watch on her wrist, "Twenty-five minutes ago! Whatever did you get up to in that time? Anyways - come help me with the lettuce, it needs to be collected." 

"What?" asked Ilna, as she bent down to help her mother. 

"Sorry, Ilna, not 'What'" the latter corrected. 

"Yes, yes sorry - but didn't you call me to scold me about the bucket of water?"

"Whatever are you talking about?" her mother questioned, looking sincerely ignorant. "A bucket of water? Scold you? Ilna - do not tell me you placed another one of those 'pranks'! I've had enough for a lifetime!"

Ilna frowned. The bucket of water had been upturned when she'd come in; who, if not her mother, could have done so? Unless it was Miusa's worsening memory playing her tricks? But she'd never forgoten happenings before, only duties... Ilna stood up, suddenly, and walked out of the garden. She opened the door. She looked inside.

There were no traces of the bucket, nor the water, nor the splinters of wood; there, on a shelf, stood the vase, a single rose prodtruding from the top, perfect. Ilna's mouth fell open. She hadn't dreamt it, she was sure of that. What was happening?

She walked to the spot where the upturned bucket had been. She could still see a few long, swirling traces on the stone floor, like those left when someone mops up water with a rough mop...

Quick as ever, the girl ran to the old mop leaning near the windowsill. It was still slightly wet. "Mother?" Ilna called. 

"Yes, Ilna?"

"Did you use the mop today?"

"Your questions are becoming stranger and stranger!" Miusa laughed. "I used it a week ago, that's enough, I think? Or are you on a quest to completely rid the house of dirt and filth?"

Ilna stared at the wall. How many mops stayed wet a week long?

***

Ilna lay in her bed. She had a bedroom to herself, which was luxury compared to the usual Montsally-On-Hill standarts. It was on the second floor; the second floor was made up of three rooms: Ilna's bedroom, her mother's bedroom, and the tiny bathroom. All were relatively small, and, together, added up to the same space as the first floor. The first floor was only one room: that which served as a kitchen, living room, dining room, play room and workspace all at once. 

Ilna was staring at the ceiling. This had been a very, very strange day. The broken vase; the splinters of wood; the cold water bucket prank having succeeded, but on whom? Mrs Dillus; her mother home, but not remembering anything; the broken vase as good as new; the mop traces on the floor; the mop still wet... She recited them in her head, as if that would help. Again, and again, and again, until she finally drifted off to sleep...

Her dreams were troubled. There were leaves that turned into dots, and Mrs Dillus pouring a dot-filled bucket over her head, then the bucket shattering, leaving a single rose on the floor - then her father, staring down onto her. She had never seen him before, but she somehow knew that this was her father; he had shoulder-lengthed black hair, the inverse of her blond ones; his eyes were blue-green, like hers, and his nose was the same, too... With that, she felt like she wanted to wake up. She tried to open her eyes.

That's when she realised that they were already open. She was really, truly staring into her father's grinning face.

"Hi," he whispered. "I'm Authbert. Dad to you, I guess!" His grin turned even broader. Ilna wanted to scream, but she found that she couldn't. Authbert Salisbury, her father, stretched out a hand: "And you would be...?"