Poster of Her

Chapter Six

He did not stop running till he was on the beach.

He fell down in the sand, and tried to get his breath back. When the sound of his gasping had receded, he realized that he was not alone. He sensed the hollow breathing of someone close to him.

He lifted his head.

Seated on the same bench as three months ago was another woman. This one was in pink, but she had the same white complexion, the same silver blond hair, and the same incomparable beauty. And he was again mesmerized; drawn toward her despite his best counsel.

“Who are you?” he asked her. This one was not crying but she was brooding over something.

“Annette,” she said.

“What are you doing here?”

“Looking for someone.”

“Whom?”

“She is like me, but dressed in blue.”

“Bessie?”

“Oh, you have seen her.” There should have been rejoicing in her voice, but she said that in a very detached sort of manner. “Where is she?”

“Gone.”

“Where to?”

“Don’t know. Why do you ask about her?”

“I am her mother.”

He stepped back from her. She did not look like a mother in the least. She looked youthful and beautiful; she did not at all have the matured appearance that a mother is supposed to have. And, when he stepped back, he saw something in the darkness behind her shoulder.

The house was just as he thought it would be—green walls, white paneled windows and a large red roof with a chimney atop it.

“Whose house is that?” he asked.

“Mine,” she said.

“I have been looking for it,” Orson said. “Where was it all this time?”

“It only shows to people when they need to see it,” she said. “Would you like to see inside?”

He stepped inside with her. And the moment he stepped into the house, everything changed. It was another night, and suddenly the house was filled with children. There were at least four of them, all aged below ten, and the youngest could have been no more than three. He looked at her and was suddenly amazed. It was her—the little child was Bessie! There was no mistaking the hair and the complexion; he knew instantly it was her.

And then there was a commotion outside.

“Burn them down,” the men outside were hollering, “burn all of them.”

Annette, who was still dressed in pink, but somehow appeared younger, came up to a window and looked at the men spreading fires everywhere. She sent all the children away, and they immediately dispersed. Then she took the youngest—Bessie—in her arms.

“They have come for us, Bessie,” she said. “They will kill us because they cannot understand us.”

Bessie was too young to comprehend anything.

“What mumma?” she asked.

“We have to go,” Annette said. “They have already burnt the rest.”

“Where?”

It was a valid question. There was nowhere to go to, except the beach. She had no time to think. Cradling the little Bessie in her arms, she ran to the beach, leaving footprints in the sand. And Orson followed. The men with torches ran after them, many of them running right through him with their unseeing eyes.