Attic Fragments

It was the sort of place you might find in any small town. Yellow brick worn by time, lead-pane windows, and an elusive cat in an upper window. Utterly forgettable. Ordinary by anyone’s standards. Its only outstanding quality was the walled garden. You smelled it before you saw it. Vines with glossy, heart-shaped leaves clung to the walls, their red berries still wet and heavy from the earlier shower.

“Remnants of Her,” Sarah whispered. The gold-gilded sign above the door was almost obscene, given the building’s condition. As if it had been recently painted and hung without regard for the shop it advertised. Despite the awful signage, as she pushed past the wet vines to feel the stone beneath, she could tell the shop was the one she was looking for. Officially completed in 1862, Remnants of Her boasted in its advertisements that the building had once been a church and school. One that provided hope and guidance to a small settlement of pioneers seeking refuge.

A bell chimed above her head as she pushed the heavy wooden door open. The air was still and stuffy and…old. She hated it. Decay, dust, people’s useless crap, all stacked up and arranged like it still had purpose.

“Hello!” she called out.

She waited.

Nothing.

Silence.

Dust.

“Ugh. Fine. I’ll just find it myself,” she muttered, lifting onto her toes to see over the rows of haphazard shelves full of defunct kitchen tools and questionable children’s toys. Spotting a wall of books along the back wall, Sarah smiled. There. That was as promising a start as any.

As she made her way along the shop floor, avoiding the glassy-eyed stare of dolls long abandoned by their once loving owners, a tightening along her spine gave her pause. She was not alone in the shop.

“Freaky-ass dolls. Freaky-ass eyes. Why the fu—”

“Can I help you find something, Miss?”

Sarah’s hand flew to her chest as she stumbled back against a glass display case of smaller glass bottles. 1815…whispered in the back of her mind as she clutched the warm mahogany, but she shook the thought free. Not important right now.

Just behind her was a tall, thin woman with dark, wide-set eyes. Her black turtleneck was pilled, full of what looked like white cat hair, and the collar had been stretched until it hung in a strange, misshapen slump around her neck.

“Um… if you could just point me towards the religious books. That’s all I’ll need,” she says, trying not to wrinkle her nose at the strong smell of herbs coming from her.

The woman tilted her head and regarded her for a moment, “If you tell me the title you’re looking for, I could probably tell you if we have it or not. Petra is better with the books, but she’s primarily in charge of housekeeping and the garden. She should be around here somewhere.”

“No, no. Really. If you could just let me touch them. I’m just looking for texts from a specific year.”

“Ah, I see. You can see dates when you touch physical items?” the woman asked, turning towards the back of the store, “This way.”

“Only if the items are from the 1800s, unfortunately. Pretty ridiculous, honestly. But apparently useful to rare book collectors.” Sarah said, “Sorry, what’s your name?”  

“Maren.”

“I’m Sarah.”

Maren led her further back into the store, where the shelves seemed to get taller and more precarious. A brass candlelabra, patinated with age, now doubled as a jewelry holder, and a moribund guitar, held by what looked like a sullen stuffed gorilla, sat crammed in the corner against the ceiling.

At the back of the shop, a collection of mismatched chairs huddled around a squat wooden table. A delicate lace doily sat atop it with what Sarah could only assume was an antique tea set. Small yellow cakes were arranged on a platter in the center. In the corner, a Tiffany lamp, with rich greens and bright blues, illuminated the cramped seating arrangement.

“Please sit. The tea should still be warm,” said Maren.

“Did you know I was coming?” asked Sarah, eyeing a dark stain on the pink velvet of one of the armchairs.

Maren shook her head and laughed. It was a sharp, breathy sound, like she had the crumbs of the cake on the table stuck in her throat.

“Goodness, no. I always know when someone is coming, but not who, or what they might need,” she said.

“Useful,” said Sarah.

Maren just smiled and gestured to the table, “Have some tea. I’ll collect the books and Petra. She’s much more knowledgeable about these things than I.”

Sarah nodded and sat on the gold oak dining chair. She poured herself a cup of tea. No date filtered into her mind at the touch of cool porcelain against her skin. Strong mint and chamomile wafted up from the cup. She took a slow sip. It was decent enough to ward off the chill from the earlier rain, at least.

Maren returned shortly, balancing a preposterous stack of books in her arms. She narrowly missed squashing the yellow cakes as she dropped them on the table.

“I think these are all of them. Petra would know for sure, but she’s digging in the garden right now. She should be along soon, though,” she said.

“The housekeeper?” asked Sarah, starting to run her fingers along each book, waiting for the telltale whisper of a year in the back of her mind.

“Housekeeper, gardener, cook, herbalist. She loves making things grow and keeping things tidy. She dried the herbs for your tea, you know,” she said proudly.  

Sarah kept her opinion to herself, but the tea was definitely lacking. The mint had been overwhelming, and the chamomile was starting to make her drowsy.

“You should definitely try the cake too. She made it just this morning. It’s a very special recipe,” said Maren.

Forcing a polite smile, Sarah picked up one of the yellow cakes and took a bite, chewing and swallowing until the dry sponge was gone, to avoid Maren’s expectant gaze. “Delicious,” she lied, “Um, you wouldn’t happen to have any other books, would you? None of these are from the 1800s.”

“Oh dear,” Maren frowns, “Petra might have a better idea. Why don’t you have another cup of tea, and we’ll go see if she’s done in the garden.”

“Oh I cou—”

“I insist. You’re looking a little pale. This weather must not agree with you. The tea will help,” Maren smiled.

With a growing sense of unease, Sarah poured herself another cup of tea because she was feeling a little off. She would have blamed the dry cake if it had a chance to sit in her stomach longer. But the nausea had been building slowly for a little while now, and her hand was beginning to itch.

“Come. You can bring your tea,” said Maren, “Petra is eager to meet you.”

“The housekeeper?” Sarah asks, following Maren through a small dark alcove with an arched door at the end. Spider webs tickled her face.

“Yes. You can imagine how much work it takes to keep a place like this clean. All the odds and ends. Knowing what types of chemicals to use on different types of materials. We’d be out of business if we ruined the antiques!” Maren laughed.

The back garden was a lush green space, overflowing with flowers Sarah could hardly begin to name. She recognized some daisies and blue cornflowers tangled in with others that looked like they came from a children’s storybook. A stone path wound its way between shrubs and small decorative trees, but she couldn’t see where it led. She supposed this had once been the church’s kitchen garden, or perhaps a private sitting area for members of the parish.

“Did Petra plant all this?” Sarah asked, “She must have quite the green thumb.”

“Oh yes! She’s very talented when it comes to plants. She can coax just about anything to grow, as long as the ground has been tended to correctly.”

“Is that part of her useful talent then? Like your ability to tell when someone is going to show up at the shop?” asked Sarah. She really wished they would just get on with it. She thought it was just the hue of the garden, but was everything starting to look just a little too green? She took a sip of tea.

Maren laughed and beckoned her to follow her down the shaded stone path.

“Do you not find your talent useful, Sarah?”

“It would be more useful if I could identify years other than the 1800s. It’s ridiculously restrictive. Especially when there are so many more lucrative eras. God, do you know what I would do to be able to pick out pre-1970 Frye Campus boots by touch alone, or a genuine Chanel 2.55 flap bag from 1955? Instead, I’m stuck running around these small-ass towns, looking for things only niche collectors want.”

At the back of the garden, a small blue shed had been built against the wall next to a glass greenhouse. Inside the shed, a petite woman with straw-colored hair and a pink paisley bandana around her neck was tying stalks of flowers together.

“Petra dear, we have a guest,” called Maren.

When Petra looked up, Sarah was startled by the amount of dirt on her face. As if she had wiped away sweat or rain with dirty hands, then not bothered to clean up afterward.

“Ah, perfect timing. I’m almost finished. The foxglove was ready to be harvested. They’re beautiful flowers, don’t you think…”

“Sarah. Yes. Beautiful,” said Sarah. She wished they could sit down; that walk hadn’t been that long, but her heart was beating as if she had just jogged around the block. She took another sip of tea.

Petra smiled, tied off the last stalk, snipped the twine, and then handed the bundle to Maren, who slipped the flowers onto a line of hooks along the ceiling. The shed was full of plants in various stages of drying. Shelves behind Petra brimmed with glass jars of what looked like crushed petals and leaves. Was this a garden or an apothecary? Where were the books?

“Are you feeling alright?” asked Petra, “You’re looking a bit pale and sweaty, if you don’t mind me saying.”

“Sorry. I’m just looking for, umm.. If you could show me the religious texts, I’ll be on my way.”

“Why don’t you sit down for a moment?” said Maren, who was suddenly next to her with a wooden folding chair. She took Sarah’s elbow and gently pulled her down to sit, then took the mostly empty cup from her hand. Was she shaking?

“Oh my, it looks like you might have touched the Black Bryony vine outside,” said Maren, examining her hand, “There’s quite a rash starting.”

“Ah, is that what it’s from? I’ll be ok,” said Sarah, rubbing said hand over her breastbone.  “Where are the books?”

“You know I overheard you telling Maren about your talent, Sarah,” said Petra, “Such a shame you haven’t found joy in it. Though I suppose not everyone can find a use for their talent.”

Sarah squints at Petra as she leans casually against the garden shed table. Is the sun coming out? Why does everything appear shaded in yellows? She rubs her chest again, the thumping in her chest not slowing.

“Talents are always useless,” Sarah says, “Even Maren said hers was.”

Petra seems surprised by this statement.  

“Oh? But she knew exactly when you’d be here, dear. That gave her precisely enough time to prepare your tea. I imagine you’ve been feeling the effects of it for quite some time now. That’s a very useful talent to have.”

“What?”

“Digitalis, commonly known as Foxglove, has been used since the 1800s for its medicinal properties. But in too high dosages, it will paralyze the heart, I’m afraid,” says Petra.

Suddenly, the hammering in Sarah’s chest increases. She tries to stand, but everything blurs, and she stumbles. The hard stone of the walkway scrapes against her palms. The grit and sand dig into her skin painfully.

“It’s ironic, actually. Your talent being tied to the 1800s and all,” says Petra, “I almost feel bad, but you see, I also have a unique talent. Something I’m sure you would call useless.”

A pair of mud-caked boots comes into Sarah’s line of sight; clumps of soil and clay cling to the sole, and there are splatterings up her shins. Petra crouches down so they can make eye contact.

“I’m sure Maren has told you about my love of gardening. How I can make anything grow?” Petra asks.

Sarah only nods, the pain in her chest excruciating now.

“There’s a reason we set up shop here. It used to be a church, you know. And churches always come with the ingredient I need to make things grow,” said Petra, “But soil always needs a little amending now, and then, you know?”

Maren stepped up behind Petra, a shovel in hand.

“You see, Sarah, Petra can only make things grow in a graveyard,” said Maren quietly.

“No talent is useless, Sarah, if you learn how to optimize,” added Petra with a smile. “Maren here might not know what our visitors want when they visit us, but she still knows when they’ll be here. That’s awfully helpful when we need to replenish the garden. How else would I make things grow?”

Maren smiled down at Petra, “You do make the most splendid lavender cakes, dear.”

As Sarah watched the two women exchange satisfied smiles, she couldn’t help but wonder why they would kill for something as awful as those dry, yellow cakes. Had others wondered the same before they stopped wondering anything at all? What a useless, utterly pointless end…