The Antique Mirror

 The Antique Mirror

 

A mirror is simply a piece of glass with mercury-based paint brushed or sprayed on the back, so that whoever looks into it sees their own reflection in it. Isn’t it? Mirrors are everywhere – in furniture and jewelry boxes, on bathroom walls and automobile sun visors. Their only purpose is to reflect an accurate image. But when is a mirror not just a mirror? 

The image in an antique mirror may show its age when the mercury backing is faded or worn away, so that the reflection you see in that glass is distorted or diminished. But what would happen if you looked deeply into a mirror and didn’t see your reflection at all? When does a mirror not reflect but project instead?

My husband, Marshall, laughed at me when I told him I was afraid to leave the security of the small town surrounded by the Blue Ridge Mountains, where I grew up, attended college, and lived with him after we were married, to move to the big city in the flat, exposed Piedmont region of Virginia. That wasn’t unusual, as I was often afraid of silly, ridiculous things that didn’t bother him or most anyone else, and Marshall never hesitated to tell me so.

“Bess, sweetheart” he’d say, “You’re just being silly – afraid of shadows. There’s no reason that anyone should be as timid as you.” Handsome, brilliant, Marshall, was my rock. With his Structural Engineering degree from Virginia Tech, he was as solid and unyielding as high-strength concrete. When bridges were necessary to span the gaps in our marriage, it was Marshall who built them.

When we found a renovated bungalow on Golden Road in Henrico County, Richmond’s West End, an adorable place that reminded me of the small, clapboard farmhouse I’d grown up in, I agreed to give the big city a try. The neighborhood was attractive. The neighbors were extremely friendly. Before long, I began to feel safe, well, mostly safe, anyway.

Marshall loved the hustle and bustle of Richmond, and was very happy with his new, challenging job a busy engineering firm. His salary was more than sufficient to support us; nevertheless, I was afraid we wouldn’t be able to meet our significant mortgage, so I got a part-time job at the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts, working as a cashier for the lunch-rush crowd in the café. It was an educational, enriching, and exciting place to spend several hours a day. I made new friends and thoroughly enjoyed the experience.

We’d only been living in Richmond for about a year when I found out I was pregnant. I located a great obstetrician in the West End, near out home; and thankfully, my pregnancy proved to be totally uneventful. That didn’t stop me from letting my fears consume me. Every day, I had to overcome a horrific litany of what-ifs that filled my mind with dread.

Marshall was sure I’d relax and stop worrying, after I carried our baby to term without a hitch, and our precious son, Lucas, was born, healthy and strong. But no, the numerous, possible catastrophes that tormented me during my pregnancy, only shifted to a laundry-list of other, potentially fatal concerns, with crib death at the very top. I pushed down my fears, swallowed my panic as much as I could manage, and went on with my many day-to-day responsibilities.

When I was still a few weeks from my due date, a co-worker invited me out for a late lunch at a Greek restaurant in The Fan, an historic and very intriguing neighborhood of the city. After we’d eaten our fill of tasty Gyros, we took a little walkabout and did some browsing at several of the unique shops in the area. We stopped by an interesting antique store with a macabre vibe, where I found a cheval floor mirror that was a perfect fit for the solar-system theme I’d chosen for the nursery.

It was beautifully fantastical, oval in shape, with a carved, mahogany frame resplendent with moons and planets, and encrusted crystals that looked like stars. Marshall didn’t like it much, saying it gave him “the creeps,” but I found it magical and mesmerizing. I placed it in the far corner of the small, baby’s room, where I could sit in my grandmother’s battered, ancient rocker, while I nursed Lucas, gaze into our reflection, and dream of my perfect son’s promising future.

I treated my mirror to the utmost care, religiously cleaning the dust off its carved frame and wiping away the smudges from its reflective surface. One afternoon as I was polishing it, sunlight slanted in through the window pane and flashed across the mirror, so that when I looked into it, the reflection seemed to change, to become cloudy and dark, like an old, heavily-tarnished, silver serving tray. I shook my head to clear the vision, knowing it to be my wild imagination getting the best of me. When I looked back, the mirror reflected the empty rocker, just as it had the dozens of times I’d gazed into it before.

When Lucas was only ten months old, something I could never have dreamed of, much less obsessed-over, happened. It was a warm, late-spring afternoon. Marshall was out, golfing with a group of his friends from the office. Lucas was napping. Our next-door-neighbor started his lawn mower fifteen-feet from the baby’s window, so, I laid aside the book I was reading and hurried to the nursery to make sure the irritating noise hadn’t disturbed Lucas’s sleep.

I cracked open his door and peeked inside. What I saw sent my heart shooting up into my throat. My knees almost buckled. There was a strange woman in my son’s room. She was wearing a heavy coat with a wide, fur trim on the hem, and a midnight blue, woolen scarf, spangled with silver stars, tied around her head. She stepped through the antique mirror, carrying Lucas, wrapped in his favorite blanket, in one arm, and a pitchfork in her free hand. He called out to me in a puzzled, plaintive voice, “Mama? Mama!”

I screamed and launched my body at the baby thief but she was too quick for me, disappearing into the smooth glass of the mirror. I got a brief glimpse of the unexpected, other side, as she landed on a narrow, moonlit path that wound through a wooded grove. The woman, or witch, or whatever unnatural creature it was that had invaded the sanctity of my home and absconded with my child, was still visible for a few seconds, moving quickly down the path through the woods, before the glass faded to black.

I was both terrified by what I’d seen and horrified by what I knew I had to do. No one would believe me if I tried to call for help, least of all my skeptical, unflappable husband, who always dismissed my imaginary fears and did his unwavering best to ground me in reality. So, there would be no one coming to help me. I had to muster up enough courage to go after my son on my own. Just me. Alone.

My heart racing, smacking against my ribs so hard I could almost hear it, my breath coming in ragged gulps, I reached my hand out to touch the surface of the mirror I’d cleaned and polished daily, and for many weeks. This time, however, instead of sliding over the glass smoothly as they usually did, my fingertips went right through the cool, silvered surface and into a frigid nothingness. I jerked my hand back and shook it. So cold! A bitter, winter wind was blowing, hard, on the other side.

I sprinted to the coat closet in the hallway, and tore through its jumbled contents until I located my heavy parka, stocking hat, gloves, and insulated boots. After dragging everything on as fast as I could manage with trembling limbs, I sprinted back to the nursery, and without another thought, stepped through the mirror.

My head spun, my stomach churned for the interminable seconds it took before my feet landed on the well-worn, dirt path. Darkness enveloped me. It was terrifying. I felt a panic attack coming on but forced it down by sheer will. Not now!

As my eyes adjusted to the dimness of my surroundings, I realized that I could see shafts of pearly moonlight shining through the canopy above. Huge trees lined the trail, their boughs reaching over it and forming a spooky, ominous tunnel. I started to run.

My pulse pounding in my ears, my lungs burning, I pushed myself, forcing my rubbery legs to keep pumping, despite the waves of nausea flooding over me. A huge owl swooped low, gliding over my head on silent wings, screeching out a warning. Red eyes glowed like charcoal embers in the edge of the tree line. Branches reached down and plummeted me with their bony, wooden fingers.

I ran faster. When I was almost spent, the path finally dropped out of the woods and onto a flat plain that reminded me of the hay fields near the home where I grew up. I could see a small, thatch-roofed cottage in the distance, its windows glowing yellow with a flickering light. I slowed to a walk, desperately sucking air.

After a minute, the icy breeze cooled my sweat-covered face and urged me into a slow jog. My booted feet hit the hard-packed path in a steady beat. “Lu-cas, Lu-cas, Lu-cas,” I chanted with each footfall, trying to keep the horror I was feeling from completely overwhelming me.

Despite my breathlessness, I kept up a steady pace that seemed to cover the distance to the cottage more quickly than it should have, and before I expected to reach my destination, I found myself standing at the rough-hewn door of the small, waddle and daub house. Not waiting for an invitation, I threw the latch, pushed open the door, and bolted inside.

The witch-woman was standing with her back to me, next to a huge stone fireplace where a wood fire blazed brightly. The pitchfork was prominently displayed, leaning against the adjacent wall. Lucas was asleep in a cradle at her feet, apparently unaffected by his rapid and unexpected journey. I breathed a deep sigh of relief.

Who was this woman who’d stolen my son, I wondered silently, a witch who could walk through antique mirrors? She slowly turned to face me and whispered, “Welcome, Bess.”

When she raised her chin and her shining eyes met mine, I recognized her immediately. She was me!

“Wha…wha…what, I mean, h-how?” I stuttered. Then, standing taller, taking a deep breath, and gathering my courage, I demanded, “Whoever you are, give me my son! Now!”

“As you can see, my dear, Bess, I am you – or another version of you. Your eyes have not deceived you. There are many of us, you know, in many other places, different, faraway places. And I have every intention of returning sweet Lucas to you, unharmed. IF you can prove you are worthy of him.”

“What do you mean, worthy? He is MY son. I gave birth to him. Give him to me, now!” I demanded, taking a threatening step toward her, at least I meant it to be threatening. She casually held up a hand and my lurching body stopped abruptly, as if I had slammed into an invisible barrier.

“Your son is twice-blessed, a very special child. He deserves a mother who is truly worthy of him, a mother who will continue to bless him, a brave woman who isn’t debilitated by her many overwhelming and unreasonable fears. Tonight, you must face and overcome numerous challenges which will terrify you and test your resolve.

“If you are successful in completing your trial, you will find your personal talisman, as I have found mine.” She caressed the handle of the pitchfork. “It will be a lucky charm of sorts, that will sooth your temerity, protect you from your irrational fears, and give you peace and everlasting courage.”

Reaching out a familiar hand, she ordered, “Come with me.”

Having no other choice, I followed obediently as she led me toward the door, lifted a burning lantern off a hook, stepped out into the bitter cold, rounded the small cottage, and stopped next to a rough, stone well. “Climb up,” she said. “Stand in the bucket.”

I was petrified as I tried to pull myself up the uneven wall of the well, only to slip off the smooth-sided rocks and slide backwards. It took several attempts, but I finally made my way to the top and grabbed onto the large, hemp rope holding the bucket.

I was shaking so hard that the wooden bucket danced like a dervish in my grip. It took all my strength and courage to step off the wall and attempt to catch the see-sawing container with my booted foot. When I finally succeeded, I huffed out a prayerful, “Thank you, Lord.”

As my unusual conveyance started to descend, I cried out to the witch, “How do I get back, get out?”

My doppelganger answered, “All will become clear once you find your talisman.”

With that, the bucket lowered me into the dark, dank depths of the well. I don’t know how far I descended, but much too soon, the small circle of moonlight above me shrunk to a pinpoint, then disappeared altogether. I shivered in the bone-chilling cold as I felt water droplets, once suspended in the moist air, freeze on my cheeks and the edges of the scarf I had wrapped around my throat.

The darkness was absolute. I could hear strange, terrifying sounds all around me – squeaks, squawks, screams, howls, whispers, whines, and most frightening of all – the drip, trickle, and whoosh of water. How deep was this well? What if I reached the water before I found whatever it was that I was supposed to find?

Something whistled and flapped above my head, then landed on my face, wrapping leathery wings around my ears. A bat. I screamed and screamed again until the horrifying creature released its grip on me and flew away.

Voices assailed me, laughing, mocking hisses predicting my failure, pointing out my many weaknesses, promising me nothing but tragedy and pain. I cringed and hummed, “Lucas, Lucas, Lucas,” to drown out their dreadful taunts, wondering it would be possible to feel any more frightened and desperate.

As my wobbly ride continued ever downward, it plunged through something that felt alarmingly like a spider’s web. Sticky, cloying strands clung to me, in my eyes, nose, and mouth, tangling my hair. I couldn’t let go of the rope to wipe them away. My mind’s eye flashed with a vision of Frodo Baggins stuck in Shelob’s lair and I screamed again. Where was my Star-glass when I needed it? My body shook like the proverbial leaf which, thankfully, dislodged some of the gummy web from my face.

My fall seemed endless. Something furry ran down the rope, over my gloves, and landed in the bucket at my feet. I did my best to ignore it. A shrieking, ethereal form, that glowed brightly against the darkness, a banshee of legend perhaps, emerged from the wall, circled my bucket, and darted downward, followed by two more of the same, ghastly shapes.

I closed my eyes tight and prayed, trying to shut out the terror by conjuring up mental pictures of my beloved son. So, I was shocked when my conveyance came to a sudden stop.

I opened my eyes again to see a lighted, open archway in the well wall. Prying my frozen fingers off the rope, I left my furry companion behind, jumped out of the bucket, and onto a wide, protruding ledge, then stepped quickly through the opening and into an inviting and welcome warmth.

The stone-lined room I entered was enormous, lit by thousands upon thousands of candles. On the brick floor stood a row of wooden tables. Each table held an assortment of items, hundreds in all. Talismans. But which one was mine? How would I ever know?

The first table held an assortment of weapons – a knife, a bow and arrow, a slingshot, a battle ax, a broadsword, a mace, a saber, and even a gun – more specifically, a 38 caliber, Smith and Wesson handgun, just like the one my policeman grandfather used to carry. I knew without a doubt that none of these were for me. I would never be a warrior.

The second table was filled with a variety of symbols of bravery – a police officer’s badge, a sheriff’s star, a firefighter’s helmet, a soldier’s boots, a mountain climber’s ice pick, a diver’s snorkel, a smoke-jumper’s parachute, an astronaut’s NASA patch, a private detective’s conceal-carry permit, and a bull-rider’s championship buckle. None of which belonged to me, either. I wasn’t anyone’s hero.

The third table boasted numerous awards honoring brave and courageous acts – a plaque, an authorized certificate, a trophy, a bouquet of flowers, a diamond-encrusted ring, a medal, an embroidered emblem, a leather jacket, a BSA Eagle Scout pin, and a million-dollar check. Again, not mine. I’d never win an award for bravery.

The fourth table was lined with unusual jewelry, necklaces and bracelets, for the most part, engraved with severe medical conditions and handicaps that people much braver than I am overcome every day. Heart disease, cancer, depression, diabetes, severe allergies, autism, the list went on and on. I searched through the table’s contents until I found a medical alert bracelet with my birthdate on it, and “anxiety” sculpted in block letters.

Was this it, my talisman? Could it be? I wasn’t sure. I started to pick it up and put on, then hesitated. It didn’t feel exactly right. I didn’t think it would fit because it seemed too confining somehow. I pushed it away, stepped back, and moved on to the next table.

This one was much smaller than the others. It sat off to one side, easily passed over, unnoticed. It was covered with a wide variety of palm-sized trinkets, each with a motivational word written upon it – a clear, glass crystal etched with the word FAITH, a smooth, rose-quartz ellipsoid encrusted with the word HOPE, a terra-cotta cube stamped with the word CHARITY, a pewter disk with the word PATIENCE pressed into its face, a granite chip with the word STRENGTH scratched across its side, a tiny, worn, leather-bound book with the word HOLYNESS embossed in gold on the front, and finally a red-oak heart, polished to a warm glow, with the word LOVE carved into its face.

My eyes flew open wide. I literally felt my lungs expand and my chest fill with joy when I picked up my talisman and squeezed it tightly in my fist. A tingling, almost like an electric shock raced throughout my body and streamed out my fingertips and toes.

My witchy double’s voice immediately echoed in my ears. “Yes. You have found it. Your love for your son is your own, true talisman. Love is what gives you the courage to do the impossible. Take it with you and keep it close. My blessings go with you, Bess the Brave.”

I awoke on the floor of the nursery in the little house on Golden Road. Lucas was in his crib. He rolled over, smiled widely, and said, “Mama!” with conviction. I could still hear the whirring, clunking roar of the lawnmower hacking away at the backyard next door. Had it all been a very realistic dream? My gaze swept over to the antique mirror, where my prone form, lying on the floor in front of my grandmother’s rocker was reflected. Only a dream then.

When I sat up and stretched to ease my stiff limbs, a small, wooden heart rolled out of my fist as I unclenched it, and fell onto the carpet. On it was written the word LOVE.

Now, please think about this. The next time you gaze into a mirror, what will you see? Though you may expect to find your own reflection, what if another world appears there instead? Will it be the fault of an old, worn mirror in need of re-silvering, your imagination playing tricks on you, or just a dream? What if the mirror isn’t a mirror at all, but a gateway to another dimension, another time and place?