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English
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Published:
2019-01-11
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1/1
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The Tree of Life

Summary:

I was writing something else, and then I ended up on this sappy, symbolic tangent about Violet and both Beatrices and tree-womb symbolism and I don't even know. I have feelings, ok?

Notes:

Note to show fans: In the last book, star anise tea is something Violet associates with her mother.

Work Text:

Violet carefully laid Beatrice down in her basket, and tested the temperature of the water one more time before stripping off her dress. Violet had not noticed until now that her period had come, and her thighs were smeared with blood. She would have to find a rag to fold up later.

She stepped into the dented metal tub and sank down to her knees before carefully picking up Beatrice and settling her in her lap. Bea did not seem to mind the water, and Violet let out a sigh of relief. She gently rubbed at the baby's back, and her eyes drifted up to the curving walls formed by the roots of the tree.

She had been a babe in the womb here on the island, Violet mused, and now here she was once again, naked and bloody in the womb of the tree. Perhaps it was the wind in the tree's canopy, or waves on the shore, but it formed a rhythm that sounded like a heartbeat. Somewhere far overhead, branches shifted and sighed.

She had been conceived on this island, and Bea had been born on it. Unexpected emotion hit her, and Violet felt tears prick her eyes. She hugged Bea closer to her, placing a kiss on the crown of the baby's head.

Bea squirmed in her arms, and before Violet quite realized it, Bea had latched onto her breast and begun to suckle. It would not yield anything, Violet knew, but let her anyways, cradling her head in the crook of her arm.

Beatrice, her mother. Beatrice, her daughter. She had returned to the womb to become mother to her own mother's namesake.

Violet hugged the baby to her chest as she cried; cried for her own mother; for Bea and Kit as well. It had been a long time since Violet thought of her mother in terms of anything but loss and secret keeper. Here on the island, though, she sat in the midst of a life Mother had once lived. This house, built by their parents, was another inheritance of sorts—a far kinder one than their fortune or their secrets. A jar of star anise still sat on the shelf in the pantry, just as Mother had left it—Violet had seen it this morning, and knew, from the thick layer of dust on its lid, that Ishmael had not touched it during his stay.

Violet cried softly for the feeling she could not name but which was Bea cradled in her arms.

She took a cloth and began to gently rub the baby clean as she tried to recall what Klaus had told her when he had read a book discussing the tree of life. "Etz Chaim, Yggdrasil, Kalpavriksha," she cooed to Bea.

Violet knew, with aching certainty, that someday they would have to leave the tree, the island. The tide would rise, and they would go, into the terrifying, treacherous world outside. They would not be like Aunt Josephine, Violet vowed; they would not cower from the world. They would, as all children must, leave their mother's house someday.

The seawall would flood again in a year. A year; time to heal, to grow, to invent. Time to rest, to learn, to read.

For now, Mother, Violet thought, thank you for taking us back.

"We will go," Violet whispered aloud. "But not quite yet."