Spilled Milk

White foaming liquid poured from the fallen glass, soaking through the fine lace tablecloth. Michael grabbed at the glass setting it upright quickly as if that action would erase the former miscalculation of his tiny fingers. He found twenty pairs of eyes trained on the growing stain. He ducked his head, the only part of him visible despite the huge cushions.

The deep voice of his father ordered the servants to clean up the mess. Guests settled back into their conversations, and the clanking of fine silver, the ringing of lead crystal, and the shuffling of fine china resumed.

A pair of hazel eyes surfaced the edge of the massive table. They were met by cold, black eyes which promised him payment for his indiscretion. He squirmed and lowered his eyes.

Michael had never been a child to his parents. No childish indelicacies were allowed him. He was as much a decoration as the fine artwork hanging on the walls around him. Scrubbed, polished, embellished, displayed.

During these formal functions little Michael would sit for hours forbearing the amusement that ladies found in tangling his unruly, curls of hair and squeezing his paunchy cheeks. Large eyes, innocent and transparent would watch in silence the interactions between guests from some perch in a high-backed chair.

Stuffy ladies, who feigned intelligence, would clap their hand and revel in his fluid portrayal of foreign languages. They commented on his fluidity, and marveled at his grace, not knowing that he in his discourse would say the most contrary things about them. It was the only amusement to be found in these dry dinner parties.

Michael's parents had ensured that he never wanted for anything. Every minute of every day was constructed- his every movement accounted for. From riding lessons, tutors, exercise regime, he was being molded into the model high-class citizen.

Yet, every now and then, their fine "work" would do something to shatter the illusion of polished perfection. The spilled milk- a glaring example of such a failure. After the guests had left, his father's rough hands found the small boy curled in a forsaken corner of the house. Heavy-lidded eyes opened to find an imposing figure whose features were contorted in anger.

In the horse barn, his father whipped him, then left him alone in the high loft over the stinking stables. Removing the ladder, Michael was left stranded.

Crawling to the edge of the loft, his tears streamed down his face as he screamed, begging not to be left alone. His cries went unanswered save the disgruntled neighing of the sleepy horses below. He crouched in a darkened corner, nursing his wounds, jumping at the night sounds which tormented him with their mystery. Hot tears splashed down his face and he threw himself face-down in the hay covering his head and crying himself to sleep.

The next thing Michael remembered was tiny rough hands wiping tears from his eyes. An angel - he was sure - she only whispered sweet soothing words in her Gaelic tongue. How she got up there he never asked, angels could fly - he knew that much. He also knew that he had found a friend.

Every night after his parents retired, the gangly eight year-old boy would sneak down the marbled staircase, knowing just how to avoid the watchful eyes of servants. Across the fields he and his angel would meet. She didn't know French, and he didn't know Gaelic, but it somehow never mattered; in fact, they barely noticed.

Caitlin was his nanny's daughter, only six years old and not an angel - really. Caitlin's house was but a cottage, dirt floor and leaking chimney which left trails of soot lining unscrubbed walls. She owned but two dresses, and she rarely wore shoes. Her face was always in need of a good scrubbing, while her eyes matched the color of the blueberries which often stained her pale face. Her hair was like white filaments of soft moonlight, when it wasn't filled with briars from her travels in the vineyards. Fingers, caked with dirt and stained blue and red, were rough as nails.

But, her laugh was like a deep-throated bird's song that floated like lines of a familiar melody filling his own heart with laughter as well. All of her was so different from anything or anyone he had ever known. He was quite sure he loved her, though at this age he wasn't quite sure what that meant.

When his parents were away, Caitlin and he would sit for hours playing side by side, sharing each others company, revealing their souls in the flower wreaths and wooden carvings that they created. Sometimes, they would fall asleep with the warmness of the sun deepening the sensation of fullness in their bellies and shining upon their raspberry-stained mouths.

On one such morning, they were making their way back to the main house, hand in hand, when his father and mother -back early- caught them together. Michael froze, pulling Caitlin behind him protectively.

His father's face turned bright red with anger. His mother began pleading with her husband; she attempted to restrain him.

In a couple of steps his father was beside him. He jerked him up by the seat of his pants, hauling him kicking and screaming into the horse barn. Michael landed a broken heap in the straw-filled stall.

His head was spinning from the blow to his head, but he willed himself to the door beating and pounding it with tiny fists. He could hear the sound of a swishing whip and the muted screams of his little angel-friend.

He flew desperately against the wooden door. Running, jumping upwards, tiny hands just missing the edge of the door. Searching to find some crevice or crack, some method of propping himself, but he found nothing. Scraped knees, bloodied knuckles, and splintered palms were the only results of his feeble attempts.

It grew dark, and his petulant desperate cries were still unanswered. The next morning his mother found him in a crumpled heap half-covered in hay. Dried blood mixed with dried tears to paint an ugly abstract on his swollen face. She pulled him into her lap, smoothing his wild, curly hair and rocking back and forth. She scrubbed his dirty body in a small tub, then put him to bed.

He pretended to fall asleep, but once she had left, he crawled out his window, down the strong oak tree juxtaposed to his bedroom window. He ran as fast as his legs could carry him to Caitlin's house. Without knocking he barged into the small cottage. His nanny was holding Caitlin, softly rocking her near a fireplace that had gone cold. A few rays of sunlight from the open door sprayed a trail of light leading to the rocking chair.

He approached cautiously. Nothing could have prepared him for the site he saw in that little form. He backed out of the room, running until his legs gave out and the cool grassy meadow pillowed his head. His arms covered his ears blocking the sounds of a swishing whip. He didn't know it then, but that picture of his nanny and Caitlin would be forever imprinted in his memory.

Michael's parents took him away the next day. and he never got to say good-bye or apologize to Caitlin. They were gone for a month. His parents left him in the hotel room with a servant during most of the trip. Every night he folded his hand on his pillow, saying a prayer for Caitlin and nanny.

Upon returning to their manor, he discovered a lot had changed in his absence. Nanny did not greet him as she usually did. Instead a dark-cloaked man, tall and imposing, was there. Michael shrunk from him, but at his Father's insistence he allowed the man to lead him into the house.

Three days later Michael managed to elude his shadow long enough to escape to his familiar cottage. Arriving there he found it empty, abandoned. For hours he sat in the middle of the cottage floor sorting through things an eight year old boy should never know.


	Spilled Milk By: Kyara Caledonii Copyright May, 1997 A look into Michael's childhood. White foaming liquid poured from the fallen glass, soaking through the fine lace tablecloth. Michael grabbed at the glass setting it upright quickly as if that action would erase the former miscalculation of his tiny fingers. He found twenty pairs of eyes trained on the growing stain. He ducked his head, the only part of him visible despite the huge cushions. The deep voice of his father ordered the servants to clean up the mess. Guests settled back into their conversations, and the clanking of fine silver, the ringing of lead crystal, and the shuffling of fine china resumed. A pair of hazel eyes surfaced the edge of the massive table. They were met by cold, black eyes which promised him payment for his indiscretion. He squirmed and lowered his eyes. Michael had never been a child to his parents. No childish indelicacies were allowed him. He was as much a decoration as the fine artwork hanging on the walls around him. Scrubbed, polished, embellished, displayed. During these formal functions little Michael would sit for hours forbearing the amusement that ladies found in tangling his unruly, curls of hair and squeezing his paunchy cheeks. Large eyes, innocent and transparent would watch in silence the interactions between guests from some perch in a high-backed chair. Stuffy ladies, who feigned intelligence, would clap their hand and revel in his fluid portrayal of foreign languages. They commented on his fluidity, and marveled at his grace, not knowing that he in his discourse would say the most contrary things about them. It was the only amusement to be found in these dry dinner parties. Michael's parents had ensured that he never wanted for anything. Every minute of every day was constructed- his every movement accounted for. From riding lessons, tutors, exercise regime, he was being molded into the model high-class citizen. Yet, every now and then, their fine "work" would do something to shatter the illusion of polished perfection. The spilled milk- a glaring example of such a failure. After the guests had left, his father's rough hands found the small boy curled in a forsaken corner of the house. Heavy-lidded eyes opened to find an imposing figure whose features were contorted in anger. In the horse barn, his father whipped him, then left him alone in the high loft over the stinking stables. Removing the ladder, Michael was left stranded. Crawling to the edge of the loft, his tears streamed down his face as he screamed, begging not to be left alone. His cries went unanswered save the disgruntled neighing of the sleepy horses below. He crouched in a darkened corner, nursing his wounds, jumping at the night sounds which tormented him with their mystery. Hot tears splashed down his face and he threw himself face-down in the hay covering his head and crying himself to sleep. The next thing Michael remembered was tiny rough hands wiping tears from his eyes. An angel - he was sure - she only whispered sweet soothing words in her Gaelic tongue. How she got up there he never asked, angels could fly - he knew that much. He also knew that he had found a friend. Every night after his parents retired, the gangly eight year-old boy would sneak down the marbled staircase, knowing just how to avoid the watchful eyes of servants. Across the fields he and his angel would meet. She didn't know French, and he didn't know Gaelic, but it somehow never mattered; in fact, they barely noticed. Caitlin was his nanny's daughter, only six years old and not an angel - really. Caitlin's house was but a cottage, dirt floor and leaking chimney which left trails of soot lining unscrubbed walls. She owned but two dresses, and she rarely wore shoes. Her face was always in need of a good scrubbing, while her eyes matched the color of the blueberries which often stained her pale face. Her hair was like white filaments of soft moonlight, when it wasn't filled with briars from her travels in the vineyards. Fingers, caked with dirt and stained blue and red, were rough as nails. But, her laugh was like a deep-throated bird's song that floated like lines of a familiar melody filling his own heart with laughter as well. All of her was so different from anything or anyone he had ever known. He was quite sure he loved her, though at this age he wasn't quite sure what that meant. When his parents were away, Caitlin and he would sit for hours playing side by side, sharing each others company, revealing their souls in the flower wreaths and wooden carvings that they created. Sometimes, they would fall asleep with the warmness of the sun deepening the sensation of fullness in their bellies and shining upon their raspberry-stained mouths. On one such morning, they were making their way back to the main house, hand in hand, when his father and mother -back early- caught them together. Michael froze, pulling Caitlin behind him protectively. His father's face turned bright red with anger. His mother began pleading with her husband; she attempted to restrain him. In a couple of steps his father was beside him. He jerked him up by the seat of his pants, hauling him kicking and screaming into the horse barn. Michael landed a broken heap in the straw-filled stall. The walls extended to the ceiling on every side. The wooden door slammed shut. His head was spinning from the blow to his head, but he willed himself to the door beating and pounding it with tiny fists. He could hear the sound of a swishing whip and the muted screams of his little angel-friend. He flew desperately against the wooden door. Running, jumping upwards, tiny hands just missing the edge of the door. Searching to find some crevice or crack, some method of propping himself, but he found nothing. Scraped knees, bloodied knuckles, and splintered palms were the only results of his feeble attempts. It grew dark, and his petulant desperate cries were still unanswered. The next morning his mother found him in a crumpled heap half-covered in hay. Dried blood mixed with dried tears to paint an ugly abstract on his swollen face. She pulled him into her lap, smoothing his wild, curly hair and rocking back and forth. She scrubbed his dirty body in a small tub, then put him to bed. He pretended to fall asleep, but once she had left, he crawled out his window, down the strong oak tree juxtaposed to his bedroom window. He ran as fast as his legs could carry him to Caitlin's house. Without knocking he barged into the small cottage. His nanny was holding Caitlin, softly rocking her near a fireplace that had gone cold. A few rays of sunlight from the open door sprayed a trail of light leading to the rocking chair. He approached cautiously. Nothing could have prepared him for the site he saw in that little form. He backed out of the room, running until his legs gave out and the cool grassy meadow pillowed his head. His arms covered his ears blocking the sounds of a swishing whip. He didn't know it then, but that picture of his nanny and Caitlin would be forever imprinted in his memory. It would revisit him time and time again. Michael's parents took him away the next day. and he never got to say good-bye or apologize to Caitlin. They were gone for a month. His parents left him in the hotel room with a servant during most of the trip. Every night he folded his hand on his pillow, saying a prayer for Caitlin and nanny. Upon returning to their manor, he discovered a lot had changed in his absence. Nanny did not greet him as she usually did. Instead a dark-cloaked man, tall and imposing, was there. Michael shrunk from him, but at his Father's insistence he allowed the man to lead him into the house. Three days later Michael managed to elude his shadow long enough to escape to his familiar cottage. Arriving there he found it empty, abandoned. For hours he sat in the middle of the cottage floor sorting through things an eight year old boy should never know. Guilt and Shame became his playmates, his saviors, his archenemies. The sunshine and the berries lost their warmth and sweetness. The meadow no longer felt cool and inviting beneath his toes. At night he folded his hands and prayed not for trivial things, ....but for no more nightmares, ....no more sounds of a friend crying, ....no more love. THE END