Begin: Section II

*~*~*~*

Melly, 
 
Perhaps idealism is the final luxury of youth, as my father says – a 
romantic's way of refusing to see life as it is: short, nasty, and 
brutish.  According to Father, I am an idealist, among other 
distressing things.  I search for the best in this world, like the 
Greek philosopher who carried an unlit lantern in his quest for the 
truth.  Unlike Diogenes in Athens, sometimes I find it, but always 
were I least expect it.  In newborn babies and the sweltering 
afternoons of Southern summers and steaming mugs of coffee at 
dawn – to my surprise, there is peace.    

In my mind, I can see you: wrinkling your pretty forehead in 
bewilderment.  You do not need to understand my ramblings, only 
that I have set down my lantern for a moment so I will not drop it 
in exhaustion.  For a few heartbeats, I have a comfortable life – or 
lie - and a hundred excuses not to leave it.  Normalcy, with its 
gentle routine and placid smiles, is as seductive as any woman, and 
I let it envelope me as if I belong.
 
Yesterday, my friend saw a daguerreotype of you – the one where 
you were irritated with me and look as though there was ice in 
your veins – and commented on how beautiful you were.  I opened 
my knapsack and eagerly showed her the rest of my photograph 
collection of you and Sam, and she said I had a lovely family.  I 
agreed, not knowing what else to say.  I had a lovely family, 
Melly, especially in the photographs.  She wrinkled her forehead at 
me, just like you did, and I wish I could bring myself to explain, 
because I think she would understand.      

I already know I won't mail this letter, but I'll sign it anyway -

Mulder  

*~*~*~*
 
He wasn't eloquent – never had been, but, Jesus, usually he could 
stammer out something better than, "Ma'am, you have cows."

Yes, she was lovely: he wasn't blind.  Yes, he was lonely and they 
had briefly shared as much romance and intimacy as an old slave's 
bed, moonlight, and a placenta could offer.  Just because she was 
willing to listen to his Sam stories and give him a shoulder to cry 
on didn't mean she felt anything more than gratitude and 
friendship toward him, just as he felt toward her.  She had her bed 
and baby – and husband, and he had his barn and pictures of 
Melly, and never the twain would, or should, meet.     

"Those aren't mine," Dana told him, carrying a basket of fresh 
eggs as she emerged from the chicken coop. "I thought you just 
left.  Weren't you going to Savannah?  Did you get lost again, Mr. 
Mulder?" 

"I found them wandering.  Do you know who owns them?" he 
asked, one hand on each of the rope halters he had fashioned.  
When she nodded 'no,' he grinned proudly. "Then, until the cows 
say otherwise, they are yours.  I thought they would be good – for 
the baby."

"I don't know that she cares for cows."  

"For milk," he added, as though she might really think he had 
brought them to be house pets. "For Emily."

She crossed her arms over her breasts, and he cleared his throat, 
finding something else to look at.  That was an underhanded trick: 
her being a woman on purpose just to distract him.   
 
"That cow does not have any milk – she will not until she has a 
calf.  And your other friend," she gestured to the big creature 
contentedly chewing his sleeve, "is a bull."

"I know that," Mulder said defensively, jerking his sleeve away. 
"But I think they like each other."

Oh, Christ, he was going to take a vow of silence.  He bit the left 
side of his tongue between his teeth, knowing there was a 'why 
buy the cow when you can get the milk for free' pun in this 
somewhere and afraid it would slip out if he wasn't careful.  

"You can put them inside your posts," Dana decided, leaning on 
one he had already set.  He'd found various repair projects to keep 
himself occupied and rebuilding the corral had seemed like a fine, 
time-consuming idea, but he'd only gotten as far as sinking the 
fence posts: it still lacked any actual enclosure. "Just explain to 
them where the rails should go.  I am sure they will understand. 
Cows are bright, obedient creatures." 

"You are very difficult – you know that?" he said in exasperation, 
knowing that wasn't really true.  She didn't pick at him needlessly; 
she just didn't allow him to pretend a pretty story instead of stating 
the facts.

"Did you really think I desperately needed cattle, or did you just 
need an excuse to come back?  I bet you didn't even make it as far 
as the boat dock. I promise I can breathe without your supervision 
for a few days."

"I saw the cows and thought you could use them.  And you can't 
have cows without a corral.  And I do not like going off and 
leaving my fence half-done," he said, using a tone that he'd always 
thought sounded like he 'meant business.' 

"I thought that was the case," Dana answered, somehow managing 
not to collapse into a puddle of pliant womanhood.

He gritted his teeth, hating when someone else had the last word.  
"Are you telling me you want me to go?  I will finish my corral 
and then go," Mulder said firmly, crossing his arms in imitation of 
her posture and hoping he didn't look like a child threatening a 
tantrum.

"I did not invite you to stay and I am not telling you to leave.  You 
just come and go as mysteriously as the tides.  I can stand on the 
shore and yell all I like, but the ocean is still going to ebb and flow 
as it pleases.  I might as well save my breath."

"It doesn't seem like you save your breath sometimes," he 
mumbled just low enough for her not to hear, wiped the cow snot 
off the back of his hand, then following her inside before he 
missed part of the argument.  Experience told him she could hold 
an argument with or without him, but he had a slightly better 
chance of winning if he was present.

*~*~*~*
 
"Why didn't you wake me?" Dana asked, each word draped in 
velvet by her Irish accent, then yawned, stretching sleepily.  She 
smoothed her faded skirts under her hips and then over her knees 
as she sat on the porch steps, modestly covering her ankles.  The 
air had changed, electrified – a storm was approaching – and she 
had brought a shawl with her against the chill.  Dana tried several 
times to drape it around her shoulders, but it twisted and wouldn't 
cooperate, and she stared at it in bewilderment.    

Mulder looked up from his seat against a peeling white column and 
smiled at her drowsy disarray.  "Emily's just sleeping; she's no 
trouble," he explained, gesturing to the tiny form in the homemade 
cradle beside him. "I didn't want to disturb you unless I had to.  
You-" 

He stopped short, wisely leaving off the words 'needed to rest.'  
Dana wasn't a woman who enjoyed being told what she 'needed' 
to do, unlike Melly, who had taken his lightest utterances as 
Gospel.  If he'd said the sky was falling, Melly would have agreed.  
Having known him since they were toddlers, she might have gone 
outside to check before she started carrying the china to the cellar, 
but she would have at least agreed to his face.  With Dana, Mulder 
had been forced to resort to subtly: sneaking the baby outside when 
he went in for lunch and discovered Dana asleep in the corner of 
the sofa, a pillowcase she'd been mending still crumpled on her 
lap.        
 
"Where did the cradle come from?" she asked, instead putting her 
shawl over the baby against the breeze starting to murmur through 
the swamps.

"I'd thought I would make her one, but this was in the slaves' 
quarters.  I scrubbed it and let it dry in the sun," he added, not sure 
how she would feel about having her baby sleeping in a Negro 
child's cradle. "It is simple, but she seems to like it.  If she was my 
daughter, I'm sure there would be pink satin bunting and gilded 
carvings, just so I could say she had the best.  I am foolish like 
that."

"Yes, if she were your daughter, I am sure there would be – pink 
satin and gilded inscriptions and fireworks to announce her 
arrival."  Dana looked past him, blinking and watching the 
ominous clouds rolling in from the sea, toppling over each other in 
their hurry to reach the shore. "Once again, you are not my 
husband."

Although she hadn't said it directly, he had the sense her husband 
wasn't going to be pleased to find a new daughter instead of a son 
when he returned, if he ever returned.  Of course every man 
wanted a boy, but it wasn't reasonable to demand one, as if the 
woman had any control over the sex of the child.  Any husband 
who actually chastised his wife for having a girl was a fool, at least 
in Mulder's reckoning.                

"That isn't what I meant, Ma'am," he said hastily. "Your child is 
just as content in her this bed, covered with your shawl, as she 
would be in the fanciest cradle money could buy.  She is cherished 
– shielded from all the evil in the world - and that is more precious 
than gold.  If a child has that, it's foolish to give it more just for 
show.  And no gilt and satin can equal a mother's love.  That is 
what I meant.  I lavished poor Sam with everything but silk diapers 
and pet elephants until he was old enough to fight back, and I'm 
sure I would have done the same if my daughter had been born."

He closed his mouth, having said more than he intended, and found 
Dana watching him with inquisitive blue eyes.  Mulder knew she 
wondered about the lanky stranger who frequently took up 
residence in her barn.  Dana had been out of bed two days after 
Emily came and back to her usual chores in less than a week – and 
yet August had blended into September and hedged at October and 
Mulder still hadn't ventured very far away.  He chopped firewood, 
hunted, fished, mended fences, helped with the baby, and fixed the 
hole in the roof of the barn – much to the owl's dismay.  There had 
been several trips to send telegraphs home and continue his search 
for Sam, but he always found an excuse to return to the 
Lowcountry to check on her.   

"Melly became sick after Sam came," he finally said softly, his 
words barely a whisper. "I told you that.  Even with the best 
doctors, it was a long time before she was well.  At least, I thought 
she was well, but then, with this last baby, it came back again even 
worse than before."
  
She blinked and he looked away, clearing his throat and fiddling 
with his wedding band.    

"There's a storm coming," he finally observed, squinting out at the 
black sky as the winds began to pick up. "A bad one.  You're 
shivering.  Take the baby inside before the rain starts.  I'll carry in 
some firewood and water and close the shutters."

"Mr. Mulder…"

"Yes, she is dead," he said quickly. "She died last summer."

She tilted her head, puzzled. "But you write to her; I see you 
writing to her all the time."

"Just because I write letters doesn't mean I have anyone to mail 
them to."

"I'm sorry," she said after a pause, putting her hand on his 
forearm, then sliding down until their fingers intertwined.  

"Now you think I'm insane," he mumbled miserably.

"This War claimed both my brothers and my father with a single 
torpedo.  All three were on the USS Tecumseh when it sank in 
Mobile Bay, and for weeks I was certain there had to be some 
mistake.  I was sure God would not do that to my family.  No, I do 
not think you are insane," she said gently.  "Do you know of 
Samhain?"        

He shook his head 'no.'

"On Samhain, at summer's end, the fairy gates open for the night, 
and the dead can roam between this world and the next.  In Ireland, 
we light candles so our loved ones can find their way home.  I 
think that is all you are doing, Mr. Mulder: summer is ending and 
you are holding a candle in the darkness for lost souls.  Death does 
not stop love – it only changes its form, and you love your wife 
very much."     
 
She squeezed, then released his hand, picking up the baby as she 
began to wake and disappearing into the house.

 *~*~*~*