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Veil of Fire

By Marlo Schalesky

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Sometimes, when the wind blows just right over the fields, I can still smell the spice of her perfume. Sometimes, when the dandelion seeds dip and twirl across the sky, I see the way the silk slipped through her fingers, how the needle flashed in her hands. In and out. In and out. The seam straight, perfect. I pause to listen to the warble of a common loon, and in it hear the soft echo of her laughter. Lilting. Faint. Fading.
Then the sky turns dark. The wind stills. The bird is silenced. And in that moment, I am returned to the day my world burned. The day that changed everything I am, everything I was.
Listen, the silence whispers.
See, the darkness beckons.
So I wait. I remember. And in that quiet, in-between place, she lives again.

***

September 1, 1894
Darkness oozed through the windows and settled in the crevices of the sewing room. It weighted Nora’s shoulders and pressed like a cloth over her mouth and nose. She straightened, drew a deep breath, and coughed.
“You okay, Mama?” Ellie shifted her feet on the chair.
The needle paused in Nora’s hand. She glanced up at her daughter, standing on the chair above her. “Hold still, punkin, or you’ll be tippin’ over like a kettle of tea.”
Ellie snickered.
Nora grinned into the gray-blue eyes of her daughter. “And no giggling either, or the hem will be crooked.” The gray fabric brought out the flecks of dark blue in Ellie’s eyes, making them appear old for a girl of twelve.
“You almost done?” Wheat-colored hair bobbed over thin shoulders and dropped over the dress’s front, still loose on a chest teetering on the brink of womanhood.
“Just a few more stitches.”
“You were giving me that look again.”
“Look?”
“You know.”
Nora smiled and lowered her gaze. How could she help but look? Among stacks of folded taffeta, Swiss muslin, and pongee, baskets of thread, drawers overflowing with pressed lace, Ellie was the only thing of real beauty in the room. But she didn’t know it. Not yet. Nora bent over the dress’s hem and pulled the needle through the soft fabric. The silk was smooth to her touch, like the feel of water lapping her fingers on a warm day. Warm, like today. Too warm for September.
The darkness deepened. She squinted at the seam and cleared her throat. “Strange day, ain’t it? Like the light’s a-choking on the air.”
Ellie let out a long breath. “Light can’t choke. That’s silly.”
Nora swallowed her laugh as the needle dipped into the hem. “Then you explain it. Was bright as a bead this morning.”
“Well, now it’s as dark as … dark as … well, it’s real dark.”
“Yep, dark as dead coals after a campfire. That it is.”
“And it stinks like old fire too.”
Nora sat back on her heels, flicked the bottom of the dress, and watched as the silk settled into elegant folds. “Probably just Mr. Strom clearing his land. Don’t pay it no never mind.” She turned her daughter toward the mirror on the far side of the room.
For a moment, they each stared at the dress’s reflection. Gray silk fell in a straight panel in the front and bunched in demure waves in the back. Simple, stylish, wasp-waisted with gigot sleeves.
“It’s beautiful, ain’t it?”
“The best I’ve done.”
“Is it a traveling dress?”
“Yep.”
“Who for? Not that snooty Mrs. Jensen?”
“Be nice.”
“Is it?”
Nora sighed. “Not this one, punkin. This one is for someone special.”
“Who? Tell me. Miss Winnie? Mrs. MacAllister? Miss Blackstone?”
“No.”
“Someone new then? Someone who can pay for an expensive dress like this?”
“This dress I’m giving away.”
Ellie gasped. “But Mama, the others, they won’t like that. They’ll stop ordering dresses if they know you’re sewing a dress for a regular person. You know they will. You always said …”
“I know what I said.”
“But … then who …”
Silence settled between them.
Finally, Nora stood and touched the silk with her fingertips. “You’ll know when the time comes, child.” Her voice lowered. “Everybody will know.”
“If you say so, Mama.” She rubbed a bit of lace between her fingers. “Anyone would be beautiful in this dress.”
Nora’s gaze rose to capture her daughter’s. “Clothes don’t make the person, Ellie Jean. But people don’t know that. Sometimes it’s just the clothes they see. Sometimes they see truth only if it’s dressed up pretty.”
“Is that why you make dresses, Mama?”
Nora laughed. “Come here.” She lifted a hand and helped Ellie down from the chair. Then she brushed back a stray hair from her daughter’s forehead. “I make dresses so we can eat, and keep this house, and live. But this dress is different. It’s special. And it’s worth the risk.”
Ellie’s brows drew together in a knot. “Why?”
Nora ran her fingers over the dress’s scalloped collar. “Because this here’s a freedom dress. For someone who needs to be free.”
Ellie pulled out of her mother’s arms. “A dress can’t set no one free.”
“And air can’t choke.” Nora’s eyes narrowed as her gaze traveled out the window. “But it does. It does today.” She reached out and touched her daughter’s chin, raising her face level with her own. She studied the clear blue eyes, the wrinkled brow, the bottom lip caught between her teeth. “There are times you see a hurt and make it better. You can be a friend. You can do for another, make their burden a wee bit lighter. But there are other times, dark times …” She paused, allowing the silence to grow long. “Sometimes all you can do is give someone a dress. You remember that, Ellie Jean.”
“Okay, Ma—”
A sharp cry sliced through the window. Piercing. Fierce. Inhuman.
Nora spun toward the door.
Ellie grabbed her sleeve. “What’s wrong with Meri, Mama?”
The horse screamed again.
In five long strides, Nora reached the front door and flung it open. She rushed onto the porch. A hissing rumble, like a thousand cats spitting from fence posts, assaulted Nora’s senses. Flecks of gray floated in the dark air. For a moment, Nora stared at the gray specks, spinning, thickening, drifting onto the porch, the railing, her arms. She touched a flake, rubbing it between her fingers. Dust? No. Ash.
Another shriek pierced the air. Ellie grabbed her arm. Fingers dug into Nora’s flesh.
“Mama, look.”
Nora whirled. Burning heat slapped her face.
Fire charged across the western field toward her. Like a herd of stampeding bulls it snorted its smoke into the nightlike sky. Bucking, twisting, consuming the stalks of wheat in its path until she could see nothing but the flames and the blackness beyond them. Acres of burning wheat. A hundred acres. A thousand, devoured in a sea of undulating red.
Nora stared into the advancing darkness, smelling the bull’s bitter breath, captivated by its glowing eyes of flame. Suffocating warmth squeezed her chest, drove the air from her lungs. She gasped for breath and stumbled forward. The fire leapt higher, closer, red tongues licking clouds of ash . . .

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