by Zoje Stage
Nestled in the dark womb, Tycho lay curled on his side, asleep.
“Tycho!” Orla charged in, scooped him into her arms.
“Run!” called Eleanor Queen.
Above them, the largest boughs cracked, broke away, and started to fall. One of them smashed down on a tree only feet away, exploding into splinters on impact. Orla clutched her unconscious boy to her chest, ducking as she grabbed Eleanor Queen’s hand. They fled homeward. Behind them, the tree collapsed in a cloud of dust and shattering limbs.
When they emerged in the clearing behind the house, the tree line had retreated to its original place, no longer a threatening encroachment. Orla dropped to her knees, choking. Particles of blackened tree tickled her throat, her nostrils, but the expanse of snowy yard was a balm, a relief from weeks of pressing claustrophobia. And it filled her with hope that her daughter would be able to keep her—their—word: Orla would finally be able to leave the property and fetch food for her children.
Eleanor Queen stopped beside her, hands on her knees as she too coughed, clearing out her lungs, restoring her breathing—as the nineteenth-century girl within her had never been able to do. The forest behind them lay in a blanket of sooty fog. The ash settled like dark snow.
“Tycho?” Orla laid him gently on the snow, shook him a little, brushed the hair from his dirt-streaked, unresponsive face.
Eleanor Queen huddled beside her. “Is he all right?”
“Tigger?” She kissed his cheeks, rubbed his arms. “Why isn’t he waking up?”
“I don’t know…Tycho?” Eleanor Queen gripped her brother’s fingers, and his eyes sprang open. He blinked, groggy.
“We’re right here, baby.” And Tycho smiled at her. “Oh, love.”
As she held him, rocked him, Eleanor Queen wrapped her arms around both of them.
Her son had come back to life. Her daughter contained a powerful, ageless entity. Christmas miracles. Orla laughed even as her scratched throat protested.
“I’m thirsty, Mama.” Tycho pushed himself into a sitting position, rumpled from his long slumber.
Eleanor Queen cupped snow in her hands. “Tilt your head back.”
He listened to his big sister. The snow emerged from her hands as a little stream of water, which he caught in his open mouth.
“Me too?” Orla tipped back her head and opened her mouth. Eleanor Queen scooped up more snow; it trickled like a faucet from her hands.
Not quite a human ability, but a practical one. A generous one. The spirit might not have always remembered Her human relationships, or communicated the way they did, but She had Eleanor Queen now—a kind girl who would become kinder, wiser.
The threat, at last, was gone.
As Orla carried Tycho the rest of the way to the house, great flakes of snow began to fall. They stopped to marvel at them, each six-pointed wonder the size of a hand, with intricate dendrites. The delicate sculptures drifted from the sky to be caught on outstretched woolly mittens.
“Oh boy!” said Tycho, finally delighted by the magic he’d never understood.
Eleanor Queen tried to hide her pleased grin. “You’re welcome.”
45
It wasn’t the priority it had once been to find a signal and call for help. When Orla was ready, nothing would stop her, but first she ran a bubble bath for Tycho. Washed him, warmed him. Fed him grape jelly with a spoon. He sang a little song about living in a cave as Orla helped him into clean clothes. He hugged his stuffed moose to his chest, and Eleanor Queen told him about the herd of moose and the one she had ridden.
“I want to ride a moose too!”
“I might be able to arrange that.” She stroked his cheek like she’d never felt skin before. “People are so soft,” she murmured.
Orla looked at her daughter. It didn’t matter anymore what the spirit was, beyond being part of Eleanor Queen. She wouldn’t think of them as separate or wonder which aspect of her was doing or saying what. She wasn’t sure when she’d decided that, but it felt right; she would treat Eleanor Queen as a human child, even if that meant chastising the transcendental part of her if it grew mischievous. Orla would keep raising her daughter, making sure she remained thoughtful and brave. A girl with integrity and all the potential in the world.
Tycho fell asleep on the couch soon after they came downstairs. Orla retrieved Shaw’s phone, and when there was no signal inside, she stepped onto the porch and then into the yard.
“Eleanor Queen? Can you help me?”
The girl shuffled out, wearing boots but no coat. She took the phone from her mother and held it toward the sky. “There.”
Forty minutes later a parade of flashing lights filled the driveway: a pair of police cars and an ambulance. The men and women moved about without urgency; greeted one another; asked about their families and holidays. The volunteer firefighters arrived next; they worked on the garage—towed out her trapped car and tore down the rest so the structure wouldn’t be a hazard.
A freckled EMT, like a grown-up Pippi Longstocking, showed Tycho around all the emergency vehicles while Orla and Eleanor Queen huddled with the police officers by the blue tarp.
“I couldn’t leave the children, after he died, and Tycho was feeling poorly and I didn’t want him to walk all that way in the cold until he was better, and I kept trying but the phone wasn’t working…” She gestured to the satellite dish dangling from their roof. Orla’s excuses sounded suspicious even to her own ears, though her tears came naturally.
One of the officers lifted a corner of the tarp—again—and they peered, again, at the remains of Shaw’s body. A second officer stepped carefully around the scene, taking photos of the deceased and the surroundings.
“I don’t deny it was my fault, but it was an accident.” She trembled and turned away from them to wipe at the snot that dribbled from her nose, stupidly embarrassed by her emotional breakdown.
A part of her wanted to hug the rescuers, tell them how beyond glad she was to see people again. But she knew she’d always have to hide the particulars of what they’d endured. They’d lock her up in a psych ward, at best. If they arrested her, now or later, what would happen if they tried to remove the children? Even if just to take them to the station? As it was, Eleanor Queen preferred to be outside, and she acted restless when she was in the house. It would be a long process that they hadn’t yet begun, exploring how far away Eleanor Queen could go, and for how long. Her combined selves couldn’t predict the consequences. Could she defend herself if they grabbed her, maybe transform into an owl and fly away? Orla had phoned her parents right after she’d called 911, and Walker after that, but it would be hours before they could come to the children’s rescue if the police wanted to haul them all away.
“Mama didn’t mean to,” said Eleanor Queen. “It was a bear, too close to Papa. He didn’t know what to do, run or stay still. So Mama got the gun. But she can’t…she doesn’t know how to shoot. She missed the bear and hit Papa.”
Orla inhaled a short, surprised breath, taken aback by the deftness of her daughter’s lie and the perfect tear that rolled down her cheek. So Eleanor Queen could still lie. Had she lied—or would she—about anything else?
The cops kept their heads bowed, solemn.
“I know I need to come in, to make a statement, but my parents are on their way from Pittsburgh. And Shaw’s family; they’re coming back from vacation. It’ll be several hours. I just want to get the children some food.”
“There’s no hurry,” the oldest of the cops said. Orla couldn’t remember any of their names. He went to his car and brought back a handful of greatly appreciated granola bars. “I’m sorry you’ve had such a hard time of it out here. It can be a tough place to move if you aren’t used to the winters.”
Orla smeared away the last of her tears. Eleanor Queen pressed against her, and Orla wrapped an arm around her; she’d thank her later for telling the cops a plausible but inaccurate version of how her father had died. And maybe ask if she’d wi
thheld any secrets that Orla needed to know. A shiver clambered up her spine, a naughty imp with ice for hands, when she thought of the possibility that She may yet have manipulated her. The persuasive teenager who’d devised complex schemes to ensure she got her way.
Her daughter—the precious girl who looked exactly like the Eleanor Queen Orla had always known—unwrapped a granola bar for her little brother and guided him inside. The EMTs bundled Shaw’s body into a bag and loaded him into the ambulance. The cops took a few more pictures. Asked a few more questions. The volunteer firefighters got her car started. She kept a smile from tweaking the corners of her lips; hopping in the car and driving to the local market had never sounded more appealing, or easier. Why had driving ever intimidated her? It wasn’t like she had to worry about tightly packed streets or changing lanes on the freeway. Deserted roads and a few turns. Load up on supplies and hurry back to the kids.
Orla was afraid someone would ask about the massive tree that no longer towered above their property, but when she looked…a new giant tree, with more evergreen boughs, all dusted in picturesque snow. An illusion, of course. She glanced at the house; Eleanor Queen gave her a little wave from the living-room window. It should have been a relief, how well her daughter could now protect them.
A call came in on the police radios, a road accident, and Orla tried not to look too happy as the first responders headed to their vehicles. She had to go shopping and dismantle the postapocalyptic camp in her living room before family descended. Maybe Eleanor Queen would help her figure out what to tell them—not the straight-up lies they’d told the police, but maybe something with a few vague nods toward the truth. She could not set an example for Eleanor Queen of constant evasions and falsehoods. Not if integrity was the imperative she demanded.
She stood up straighter, hands clasped under her chin, as the ambulance pulled away, silent but with lights flashing. The police cars and fire truck trailed behind it, everyone ready to get back to work. Their cautious departure down her snowy driveway reminded Orla of a funeral procession, the bumper-to-bumper crawl from the funeral home to the grave. Her husband had loathed the idea of being embalmed. He’d liked some of the more modern options—becoming part of a coral reef or a forest. Cremation wasn’t out of the question, but he hadn’t wanted to be stuck in an urn like a genie in a lamp waiting for someone to rub it.
They hadn’t had a homestead back then, a place where he’d want his ashes to be dispersed. But Orla knew exactly what she would do with them when the weather grew warm and they knew their way around. She and the children would scatter him on their land. Around all of the places where they liked to walk. They’d always be together.
Home.
46
Spring came late to the North Country. After days of forceful sunshine, mud season was almost over, though the green smell of wet earth lingered. Orla still wasn’t sure if the summers lasted long enough to grow a proper garden, but she intended to try. She and the kids were planting green beans and tomatoes to start with; she envisioned fresh canned goods on the basement pantry shelves. She’d enrolled in a gun-safety and shooting class in town, and Walker and the boys were mentoring her on hunting and dressing various types of animals. One way or another, they’d never run out of food again.
Tycho, bored now that their little plants were in the ground, ambled off with his stick that had magically become a sword.
“What are you fighting?”
“The dragon and me are just playing,” he said. “She’s a very friendly dragon.”
“Okay.” Orla grinned as he swashbuckled around the yard. She turned to Eleanor Queen, who knelt beside her, knees and hands grimy with freshly turned soil. “The one thing I forgot to get? A hose. We’ve got the bucket, though.”
“We could wait for it to rain again.” The girl looked up, evaluating the sky. “Probably be a couple days.”
There were many moments now when Orla wondered if she was witnessing the knowledge of a tree—attuned to the elements in a way she couldn’t yet fathom—or something greater.
“I think it’s best for newly planted plants to have at least a little drink of water.” Orla pushed herself up and slapped the dirt from her hands. “Back in a minute.”
She headed toward the house. It hadn’t been so bad, acclimating to their reclusive life. Eleanor Queen hadn’t made it all the way to town yet. Partway there she’d inevitably start to feel weak, mumble something about passing out, and they’d turn back. But a violin teacher was coming out once a week to give her lessons. And with the internet, and regular video chats with her parents, and visits from Walker and Julie, Orla didn’t feel so isolated anymore. And her family accepted her excuse for why she and the children couldn’t travel or visit: they weren’t ready to leave Shaw behind, even for a day.
Orla had gotten her driver’s license and didn’t mind leaving Eleanor Queen alone for short periods when she and Tycho went out to do the shopping; the girl was more than able to look after herself. And when they were all home, with Shaw’s paintings on the walls and the music he loved accompanying their lives, he seemed near at hand, part of everything. They’d scattered his ashes in a circle around the house. And Orla saw him in her mind often, wearing his toothy grin. He liked the woman she was becoming, as independent in the country as she’d been in the city. And the children were happy; they played outside every day, regardless of the weather, and Eleanor Queen’s new boldness was rubbing off on her brother. He played by himself sometimes, imitating the songbirds, while his sister tested the whats and hows of her power. Tycho called her a magician. Neither Orla nor Eleanor Queen corrected him.
When Orla came out with the heavy bucket of water, she smirked at her wasted effort. She left it on the porch, spilling a bit on her shoe as she set it down, and strolled back to the garden—once the spot where the detached garage had stood. She’d had the generator moved to the other side of the house, and the SUV now had a new graveled slot where the driveway met the yard.
Eleanor Queen had summoned a cloud; a light rain fell on their little patch of earth.
“Make a rainbow!” Tycho skipped in a circle nearby.
With her outstretched hand, Eleanor Queen changed the direction of the falling water. The sun shone through it in such a way that a bright rainbow appeared, a bridge of color that spanned from one side of their garden to the other. Tycho skipped through the bands of color, tried to reach up and grab them as if they were fireflies.
Eleanor Queen manipulated the cloud, made it so the rainbow chased Tycho as he ran around. He squealed and let it chase him, fully accepting of the magic, and of his sister. Of the beauty and simplicity of their new life.
Orla dipped her hands in the gentle rainfall her daughter had created, washed away the dirt, and headed inside.
Before she made it back to the kitchen, the house rumbled from an earsplitting crack of sound—the kind that lights up your bones, makes you duck and wince even though the danger is unknown. Tycho screamed. Orla charged back out, certain the house—or her son—had been struck by a wayward lick of lightning.
She wasn’t far off.
“Sorry, Mama.” Eleanor Queen was too ashamed to look her mother in the eye.
Tycho ran to the safety of Orla’s arms. Relieved that he was okay, she finally saw her daughter’s mistake; the SUV still smoked from the strike, one tire flattened, the front hood mangled, the windshield shattered. It wasn’t the first thing Eleanor Queen had damaged, but it was the largest.
“Bean, you need to be more careful—”
“I know!”
“You can’t just experiment all the time.”
“Mother, how else am I going to learn?”
Annoyance flashed on the girl’s face. Orla had come to recognize the discernible presence of the other self. She didn’t emerge often, but She was distinctly not her daughter.
“Eleanor Queen Bennett, we’ve talked about this.” About not letting the older, otherworldly parts of herself surface; O
rla still worried that She would ultimately overpower Her young host, her real child. But she hoped her maternal love would eventually soften Her rough edges; She wasn’t used to being mothered anymore, but She seemed to like it. In her most patient, most of-course-I’m-right tone, Orla added, “We made an agreement.”
“I’m sorry.” Her daughter drooped with defeat.
“Thank you, love. Well, it’s time to come in anyway—you can set the table.” A beautiful table. Solid oak. With only one char mark on it from where Eleanor Queen had been lighting candles. Without matches.
Eleanor Queen leapt across the yard and ran up the stairs and through the doorway, clearly relieved to get away from her mother’s admonishing eye.
“You go and help.” She set Tycho down and he chased after his sister.
“I’m doing the spoons!” he yelled from the living room.
Orla gazed at the car. Had the lightning strike gone all the way through the hood; was the engine ruined? At best, the SUV was currently undrivable, and if she needed to replace it…it was an expense she couldn’t afford. A little nest had been growing inside her, hatching tiny termite eggs. Hungry, they took turns on her ribs, gnawing. That Eleanor Queen sometimes misjudged the execution of her new powers didn’t surprise her. But this reminded her too much of those early weeks. Trapped. Unable to hop in the car and go.
Was there a chance Eleanor Queen had done it on purpose? Could her other self yet have an agenda of dangerous secrets? Do I really know my child?
The trees had unfurled their endless varieties of green; delicate new leaves fluttered like waving hands all around her. Maybe it was an illusion, a trick of how much larger they seemed, blooming with life, but had the trees come a little closer? Curious neighbors desperate for gossip?
