Rotten Wood (WIP)

     The River Saoirse was a wide beast with a penchant for mischief, but in Acacia’s presence, no current had been calmer. The young girl rested just on the edge of the river bank, her delicate fingers reaching down to graze the water’s cool surface as the grass tickled her cheek. The wind shifted, carrying with it the scent of damp earth and drying herbs. With a deep, indulgent breath, Acacia looked up at the slow-shifting sky and watched, noting how the stars seemed to dance just for her. She reached her other hand up, forlorn and yearning to accept their offer of a waltz.

    The river was a long walk from the cottage, longer still in the last moments of a dying night. But it was always worth it. It snaked through the countryside as far and sweeping as the young girl could recall. Down and down until it flowed into the River Blackwater before finally leading to Kells and beyond. Of course, Kells was as far as Acacia remembered, working only from the worn pages of maps and guides older than her ability to read. She had never been to Kells, she had never even been further from home than she was now, a blackthorn tree too early in its bloom marking her familiar spot. 

    Often in these early hours did Acacia’s mind drift with the current. Just further down the river, just far enough for the dawn’s hazy fog to obscure, did other children gather at the stream? She wondered if they dared each other to leap from the banks or if they caught tiny fish in their palms, only to let them wriggle free, sending their worries along with them down the river. She wondered if they had worries at all. She had never seen them, but sometimes, she thought she could hear distant echoes of voices carried by the wind. Maybe it was just the river talking. Maybe it was the stars. She mused and mused on the idea until the musing grew too tiresome, and she dashed the thought with the waning dark.

    The breeze was always gentle that early in the morning, when the two sides of the sky seemed to wrestle for dominance and there was nothing but Acacia and the river’s soft rhythm. But of course, as Acacia knew, the night would forever give way to day, and eventually, she would have to break from her daydreaming to return home. Soon, Mother would be off, and it would be up to Acacia to complete every one of her tasks to perfection. As the sun began its slow ascent, the young girl took one last look to the heavens above and whispered her farewell, as if the stars could hear her. As if someone up there might answer.

    She turned back toward home. 

    The cottage Acacia shared with her mother was a cozy thing, at least to some, built of sturdy stone and timber, with a thatched roof that had weathered countless seasons. While most homes in the countryside took the form of a modest brick, theirs boasted two stories and an extra bedroom. It was a luxury not granted without reason, and Acacia was reminded of that fact each morning when she returned home.

    The small house rested on the very edge of a forgotten ruin, dwarfed by the shadow of a once-grand estate. Castle Námhaid loomed over them, skeletal and still in its long silence, like a specter lost in its sorrow. Often during these morning returns did Acacia find herself enraptured by the ghost. As she marched along the familiar path home, never once did her eyes leave its ominous form. Overgrowth trailed up over the thick limestone walls, its plaster having long since worn away to leave only the rock exposed, its mortar following close behind in its decay. Long ago, Acacia imagined, it must have been a wondrous thing, emerging from the landscape like a dragon’s tooth. What was it like to gaze upon it and not be greeted with hollow-eyed windows in return?

     Her mother spoke of it sometimes, of the noble family that had lived there and the brief echoes of their legacy, but never for long. If Acacia asked too much, her mother’s voice would sharpen, her hands tightening around whatever task she was working on, and, one way or another, the subject would shift. There were many things they did not talk about. 

    Sometimes, Acacia wondered, were they the last remnants of a long history? The dying breath of an era gone by? Never did she get an answer, not to any of her questions. But still, her curiosity persisted.

    With a final glance to Castle Námhaid, Acacia crossed through the entryway into their home. The door frame was blessed with a small bundle of primroses hanging from a small hook in the wood, as was the case whenever her mother left the house, even if just for a moment. The girl’s cool fingers graced the flowers’ petals as she walked past, which, of course, was an act done entirely out of instinct and entirely for the sake of doing. 

    Acacia barely spared a moment to savor the breakfast her mother had left for her, shoveling down bites of bread and cheese between hurried sips of lukewarm tea. It wasn’t about enjoyment, it was fuel, nothing more. Quickly enough, her gaze settled with determination like stone behind her eyes. She rolled back her sleeves and squared her shoulders with a sharp breath. For the next few hours, the house was entirely hers, and she had no intention of letting a single speck of dust go unnoticed.

    The floors would shine like newly polished planks, the windows would gleam, and the air itself would be scrubbed clean if her skills could manage it. Every corner and every surface was vulnerable, nothing would be spared. With a deep breath, Acacia grabbed a bucket, cloth, and soap, the rhythmic slosh of water marking the beginning of her war with every stubborn stain and overlooked nook. By the time her mother returned, the cottage would look as though it had been built anew, that was the way Acacia worked.

    It hadn’t even been three hours when Acacia ran out of surface to clean. her relentless efforts leaving no trace of dust or grime behind. The sharp scent of lavender and citrus clung to the air, following her form as she weaved from room to room. It coated her hands, her clothes, even the strands of hair that had slipped loose from her braid. Still, she moved with restless energy, her nimble form dashing from one end of the cottage to the other, cloth in hand. She scoured the baseboards again, ran her now rough fingers along tabletops that had already been wiped twice over, and peered into the corners where shadows pooled. And yet, nothing.

    Eventually, Acacia found herself still in the center of the room, her chest rising and falling in quick, shallow breaths. Her fingers twitched at her sides, aching for something, anything, to do. But what was left? The house was spotless, even she couldn’t argue that fact. Now, with nothing left to correct beside her own heartbeat, she stood there, her sharp gaze raking over the dim spaces where the light didn’t quite reach, as if daring something to reveal itself.

    Her eyes drifted toward the farthest corner of the house, where the one thing she could never change, never control, remained. The basement door stood as it always had, firm, unyielding, a silent guardian against whatever lay beyond it. If not for the heavy lock embedded in the wood, it might have seemed unremarkable. But the iron was thick, its surface carved with intricate patterns that wove like flowering vines around the keyhole, extending over the rich, aged oak. Oddly enough, it was one of the nicest things they had in their little home. Acacia had spent countless hours in front of that door, tracing the metal’s details with curious fingers. She remembered the first time she’d laid eyes on the lock, it was a rough hunk of metal with rust and dirt threatening to erase all its intention. But she had refused to let it remain that way. She had scrubbed, polished, and tended to it with the same care she devoted to every corner of their home until it gleamed like a piece of armor forged for something important, something worth protecting.

    And protect it did. No matter how many times she studied it, no matter how much effort she put into understanding its design, the door remained shut, a reminder of the limits placed upon her. Whatever freedom Acacia pretended to have, she knew, deep down, that it had always been an illusion. A privilege granted, never truly hers to claim.

    Her fingers twitched, curling into fists before she forced them to relax. Her mother wouldn’t be back for some time now. And for once, she was done pretending. Like a siren, the call of the unknown had coiled itself around Acacia’s young heart.

    Without another moment’s hesitation, she turned. 

    The girl knew well enough that getting through the lock wasn’t an option. Her hands, unsteady and unskilled, would only fumble through any attempt to pick the mechanism, a feat she doubted was even possible on such an ancient contraption. Brute force wasn’t an option either, as the most strength Acacia possessed seemed just enough to lift a full water bucket. Her gaze flickered to the hinges. If she couldn’t get through the lock, maybe she could simply take the whole thing apart. Kneeling, she examined the metal pins holding the door in place. They were old but sturdy, wedged deep into place. She needed something thin but strong enough to pry them loose.

    She scrambled through the kitchen, pulling open drawers and cabinets until, finally, her focus shifted toward the mantel. As quickly as she could, her desperate fingers curled around the handle of the fire poker, and without another thought, Acacia dashed back towards the looming lock. It wasn’t a perfect plan, but it would have to do. She wedged the tip beneath the first hinge pin and pressed down. It barely budged. Gritting her teeth, she shifted her weight, applying slow, steady pressure. A creak, then a slight shift. Encouraged, she pushed harder.

    Minutes passed, her breath coming in short, determined bursts. Sweat beaded on her brow, but finally, the pin slipped free. Without any grace, the small metal piece was flung through the air and landed with a small chime against the wooden floorboards. The sound cut through the silence, and Acacia couldn’t help but laugh.