Mother, I forgive you!
Anne Porter lay still, the night folding around her like a heavy quilt. One twilight she whispered softly for her daughter.
Mabel, my dear, I am dying. The hour has come for me to tell you everything. I fear I have little time left. Forgive me, child!
Mother, dont say that! Ill call an ambulance at once!
No ambulance! Listen, Mabel!
The ailing woman began her tale, her voice drifting in the halflit room as if spoken from a dream.
It was many years ago, my love. I had a friend, Agnes. We were both raised in the same orphanage. We became friends there, then together we entered the teachertraining college in Leeds. When we finished, the county sent us both to a village school in Norfolk.
They placed us apart: I was given the empty cottage beside the school, while Agnes was lodged with an elderly couple in the thatched farmstead at the edge of the woods. All our free hours we spent together, sneaking into the village hall for dances while an accordion wheeled through the night. The accordionist was a striking young man, darkeyed and handsome. The moment I saw him I knew he was the one I had waited for all my life. His name was William.
Every weekend we ran to the hall. I could not take my eyes off William; his voice rose like a warm breeze, and my heart fluttered whenever his glance brushed over me. Yet I soon saw that his eyes lingered on Agnes, and he smiled at her, while she blushed like a sunrise. I understood then that William had chosen the modest, plain Agnes over me.
I tried again and again to catch his notice, but he never saw me. Anger and jealousy boiled inside me; I grew to hate Agnes with a ferocity that scarred my soul. Agnes glowed with happiness, oblivious to my crushing hatred. One evening she burst into the cottage, her smile bright, and whispered:
Anne, William and I will be married soon.
I felt the world crumble. Despair pressed me into the floor; I stopped eating, stopped sleeping. The only thought that throbbed in my mind was that William must be mine, and I would do anything to make it so. I learned of an old crone, Morgana, who lived in the next village. I went to her, seeking aid.
I know why you have come, the crone croaked.
Fear gripped me at first, but thinking of William gave me courage. Morgana brewed a potion of binding, poured it into a bottle and handed it to me.
Give him a drink, she hissed.
I tried to slip her some money, but she roared with laughter.
I need no coins. You will learn what I require. Go.
That night Agnes and William visited. It was the perfect moment. I set the table, and while William was sipping his tea I slipped the potion into his glass. He drank, and his face changed as if a veil had lifted. Agnes, sensing something amiss, hurried him home. At dawn William stood at my doorstep, insisting that only I could satisfy him. The crones promise was fulfilledI had my William. We married swiftly, and happiness seemed to settle over our cottage like morning mist. William poured his soul into me, and I could not breathe without him. You ask what became of Agnes?
She kept away, though we still crossed paths. I still see her mournful face and tearfilled eyes. The elderly couple who had housed her spat at me, calling me a witch. Rumours spread through the village that Agnes was pregnant by William and had almost taken her own life. I felt pity for her, yet I loved my husband more than anything.
One day the old farmer, Arthur, whose wife Agnes had lived with, knocked on my door.
Come with me, he urged.
Why? I asked.
Your friend is dying. She calls for you, he replied.
He looked at me, and I, silent, followed. In the dim cottage of the elderly couple a child wailed. In the bed lay a pale Agnes, barely breathing. My heart clenched painfully; I wanted to flee. Then Agnes opened her eyes and whispered weakly:
Anne, I am dying. Take my daughter. Let her be with you. She reached for my hand, but it fell limp.
The old couple crossed themselves, muttering prayers. The matriarch, Matilda, shrieked and thrust a bundle into my arms. It was you, my child. I did not want to take you, but Arthur barked:
I would never entrust you to this child, but the will of the departed must be honored! She was a good soul; may she find heaven. Take the girl and go home, and God forbid you harm her!
Thus you entered my life. Your father was angry that I kept you. Your endless crying irritated him and me alike. William changed, began drinking, often staying out late. My oncebright life shattered before my eyes, and I could do nothing. Daughter, you cannot imagine how I hated you!
I dreamed of having my own child, and you fell upon my head. In time I discovered I was pregnant. When William learned this, he quit the bottle, dreaming of a son. It seemed happiness returned to our home. Yet, just before the birth, a nightmare seized me. I was in a forest clearing, a grotesque creature with black, shaggy paws staring at me, its voice a rasp of Morganas.
Do you know me? I have come to claim what is mine, it snarled.
I awoke with a scream of pain, and by evening I delivered a dead boy. Your father, crushed by grief, fell back into drink and died soon after, frozen in the snow. Arthur and Matilda followed, leaving me alone in the white world. Mabel, you became the meaning of my sinful existence, without which I could not imagine life.
You grew, bearing a striking resemblance to your mother. I tried endlessly to tell you the truth, to beg forgiveness, but never found the words. You married, gave birth to a wonderful grandson. Now I have no time to linger over heavy confessions, and I dread leaving this world with such a burden upon my soul, the woman paused, breath trembling.
I am guilty of my parents deaths. Will you forgive me, my child? My sin weighs heavily before God and before you.
A nervous shiver ran through Mabel. Tears streamed from the young womans eyes like a river. Mustering all her strength, she embraced the trembling mother, her voice soft and pleading:
Mother, I forgive you.
Anne Porter slipped away that night, in sleep, a faint smile frozen upon her lips.
