From: Edigo <salix@iname.com>
Date: Thu, 23 Dec 1999 02:23:02 GMT
Subject: NEW Serenissima (1/1) by Edigo

Serenissima
by Edigo
salix@iname.com

Summary: "Only this dark cocoon before
I get my gorgeous wings and fly away."
Category: VA
Rating: G
Disclaimer: You'd be surprised.
Feedback: Please and thank you.

Notes at end.

~~~
He doesn't want to, nor should he remember why this night, he
finds himself on this particular barge.  He just knows that all
around him everything is silence and darkness.  And he feels
numb in this loneliness.  A lantern illuminates the old, crude
vessel's four passengers with its wavering light: an old man, a
woman with her child, and himself.

The man, one godforsaken and ragged drunk, had lain down on the
bench and started talking soothingly to an invisible figure,
but eventually dropped off.  The woman sits tightly between
the sleeping man and Mulder, cradling her baby in her arms.  She
is young and pale, the long dark mantle that covers her head
making her seem older than she should be.

He considered talking to her when he first got on the boat.  But
this trip should be ending soon, and until now, not a single
proper word has occurred to him.  It didn't even fit very well
with such a spartan place like this; the luxury of dialogue.

There is nothing to do, nothing to say; just watch the ebony
furrow this boat leaves in the water.

Leaning against the rotten, wooden rail - mildly adorned for the
season with a few small flickering lights - he sighs, his breath
swirling white in front of his face.  Here are the four of
them, silent like the dead on an old boat - of dead - sliding
through darkness.  However, they are all very much alive.  And
it is Christmas.

He takes the tiny, neatly wrapped package from his coat pocket
and carefully turns it in his hands.  He wonders briefly if she
will like it, but quickly dismisses the thought - of course she
will.

Abruptly, the package escapes from the grasp of his fingers and
almost falls in the river.  With a muffled curse, he crouches
to pick it up, and feels a slight spraying of water on his
cheeks.  He pauses and, unknowing of his motives, leans further
until he dips the tips of his fingers in the freezing water.

"That was close," he mumbles with a frown, and returns the gift
to the safety of his pocket.

"It's a bit warm by morning."

He turns, seeing the woman who is rocking her child and
observing Mulder with a half smile.  She has beautiful clear
eyes, an unusual shade of brown, and her ratty clothes hold much
dignity.  "This river is warm by morning," she insists, staring
at him.

"Warm?"

"And green.  So green that the first time I touched my fingers
to it I thought they would turn the same color.  Is it the
first time you've been here?"

He shifts his gaze to the floor of large, unpolished planks, and
after some time, answers her with another question.  "Do you
live in this area?"

She blinks quietly.  "Yes.  I've taken this barge countless
times before, but I never would've thought that today--"  She
is interrupted by her baby, whimpering helplessly.  The woman
tightens her hold around the bundle in her arms, covering the
child's head with a shawl and swaying him gently.  Her face is
calm, but her restless hands betray her.

"Your son," he assumes softly.

"Yes.  He's sick, I'm taking him to the doctor.  Just yesterday
he was fine, but suddenly... it's a fever.  Only a fever," she
whispers vehemently, thin chin raised defiantly.  But her eyes
are gentle.  "I just know that God won't leave me."

For a brief moment he considers telling her how many times her
god has abandoned humanity, but he opts not to.  "Is he your
youngest?" he asks instead.

"He's the only one.  My first child died last year.  Climbed the
brick wall... he was pretending to be a magician when he
announced - 'I will fly!'  It wasn't a very bad fall, nor was
it a very high wall... he just fell in such way... you know?  He
was four."

His eyes narrow painfully and his jaw clenches slightly with
memories of another lost child.  He looks away, to the water,
but sees only darkness.  With a sense of desperation, he tries
to change the subject.  "And this one?  How old is he?"

The woman looks at him silently a second too long, then lowers
her eyes to the baby.  "Soon he'll be one year old," she states
quietly.  Then, cocking her head to the side and with a
different tone to her voice, she continues.  "He was such a good
boy.  So full of life.  Had a real thing for magic.  Of course
he didn't manage anything right, but it was so funny...  just
his last trick.  The last one was perfect.  'I will fly!'  And
he did."

He scrambles up, looking frantically around.  He wanted to be
alone tonight, without memories, without compassion.  He had
managed to avoid human bonding until this moment, but now he
feels unable - or unwilling - to break it.

"And your husband awaits you?" he asks weakly, sinking to the
bench once again.  One of the mini-light bulbs wrapped around
the rail ahead of him flickers dramatically for a few moments,
then dies completely.

"My husband left me."

He wants to laugh bitterly with the absurdity of this woman's
life.  It isn't any more absurd than the life he and his partner
led on every single day, but he has no right to judge that.

Tilting his head back, he stares up at the sickly colored clouds
as they rush in the same direction as the boat, and listens as
the woman talks freely about the misfortune of her marriage and
the misery of her life.  And she will tell each story with such
calmness, like she hasn't participated directly in the facts.
She has lost much, and is here without rage, just confidence.

Apathy?  No.  A person with such vivid eyes cannot sustain
apathy.

She reminds him so very much of another woman.  An obscure
irritation makes him smile.

"I have faith, mister," she says slowly, watching him.  "God has
never left me."

"God," he repeats vaguely.

"Do you believe in God?"

He blinks at her, looking into her honest brown eyes.  So easy
to lie.  "No."

Hearing the feeble sound of his answer, he feels perturbed.  Now
he understands.  There is the secret of this confidence, of this
calmness.  The so called faith that will move mountains...

The woman watches him quietly, a solemn expression to her
features, as if she considers his lack of belief a hole in his
soul that might, someday, swallow him.  She does not, however,
criticize.

Changing the position of the bundle in her arms, she exhales
softly.  "It was right after the death of my boy.  I woke up one
night so desperate that I burst out of my house, huddled into a
coat and barefoot, crying like a madwoman and calling out his
name.  I sat on a bench on our garden where every afternoon he
would go to play, and prayed incessantly that my boy would do
one last trick and appear to me, even if just for a second.
When I ran out of tears, I just lied Lay down and don't know how
I fell asleep."

She pauses, looking down at her new baby.  "And then I dreamed,
and there God touched my hand with his fingers of light.  And I
saw my little boy, playing with baby Jesus in the gardens of
heaven.  He saw me and came running towards me, hugged me with
all his might and we were so happy.  I woke up laughing, the
sun on my face."

He doesn't know what to say.  He gestures weakly with a hand,
and before thought can process, he lifts the edge of the shawl
covering the baby's face, but instantly drops it, as if burnt.

The child is dead.

He twines his fingers together, stopping his hands from
trembling.  The small, round face almost blue; lifeless - he's
dead.  The mother continues to rock him, to press him against
her breast.  But he is dead.

Breathing heavily, he closes his eyes, listening to the faint
noise of the river.

"We're here," the woman states after long silent moments, and
begins to stand up.

Hurriedly, he grabs his briefcase and gets up.  The important
thing now is to get out, run away before she finds out.
Leisurely, the barge makes a wide curve before stopping.  The
ticket seller appears and starts shaking the one other passenger
- that old man, still sleeping.

Awkwardly, he nears her, avoiding her gaze.  "I think I'd better
go," he says too quickly, stumbling over his words.

The woman doesn't seem to notice his discomfort.  Standing up,
she moves as if she will pick up the bag at her feet, and he
hurries to do it for her.  But her intention isn't that, and
before he can stop her, she removes the shawl from over her son.
"You woke up, sleepyhead!  And look at this, the fever has died
down."

"What?" he nearly shouts, his voice too loud for his own ears.

She glances at him, smiling.  "Look..."

He leans over.  The child has opened his eyes - those eyes that
he had sworn would be closed forever.  And he is yawning,
rubbing chubby fingers over his rosy cheeks.  Mulder gapes,
unable to speak.

"So, Merry Christmas!" she grins, grabbing her bag.

He stares at her.  Beneath the black mantle, her pale face
glows.  Mulder shakes her small, steady hand and watches as
she disappears into the night.

And he didn't even get her name.

Led by the ticket seller, the old drunk walks by him, resuming
his affectionate conversation with the invisible neighbor.

A quiet, familiar voice reaches out to him, shattering his
reverie.

"Mulder."

He turns around abruptly and a smile curls slightly at his lips
when he sees her.  Red hair flying freely, swept by the
speeding breeze, she looks up at him.  He rushes out of the
barge and nearly runs towards her.

Her nose and the tips of her ears are red because of the cold,
and although she is heavily coated, she still hugs her middle.
The urge to embrace her is uncontrollable, so he crushes her to
him, tangling his hands in her hair.  She wraps her arms around
his waist and he presses a fierce kiss to her forehead.

"I missed you," he declares, words muffled by her shoulder.

"Mulder," she begins, and he can sense her raised brow. "It has
only been two days."

He releases his tight hold on her, but doesn't relinquish her
hands.  "I know," is his only answer.

Scully smiles slightly, eyes puzzled but bright.  Looking down
with a small chuckle, she tugs at his fingers.  "Come on,
Mulder.  Let's go."

Nodding, he glances back briefly at the river, trying to picture
it as the woman had described.  Green and warm.  Scully does not
let go of his hand as they walk.

Green and warm.


~~~
end.

I would like to suffocate JET with love and gratitude, but I
can't really do that.  Also, many, many thanks to Lisa and to
Suzanne, as always.  Bouts of love and irish coffee afogattos
for these three incredible women.

Merry Christmas to you and yours.

salix@iname.com