I awoke with a start to find Liliya staring at me in the darkness, sucking her thumb as she hadn’t done for a while now.
“Come here,” I told her.
The three of us laid our mattresses on the floor and we curled together like a nest of adders, which I’d been told were good luck to kill, each of us lying against the other, our limbs muddled and confused. But we all felt better for it, warmer, inside and out. I whispered to them and the language was strange in my mouth but it felt good for me to say it, “Allez dormir, mon cœur.”
In the morning there were no teachers, no one to greet us. We waited in the compound yard beneath the old oak with its skeleton crown but no one ever came. Even Ivet was beginning to worry, although she’d been the most confident among us the night before. We went to the teachers’ offices but they’d been emptied out. In the canteen we found the makings of breakfast and Ivet was able to prepare a thick, bitter coffee, which helped, but we were at a loss for what to do.
“We could stay here,” Liliya said hopefully but we all knew this was a bad idea. The compound seemed haunted by the ghosts of our sisters and I couldn’t imagine how we lingered among them, even for an hour longer.
“No,” I said at last, “I know a place. We will go there.”
Ivet and Liliya were both impressed by the steadiness of my voice, and so was I, if I’m honest. But the mountains seemed as good a place as any to go.
We gathered a supply of bread and cheese and dried meat from the canteen storeroom, an extra change of clothes each and a third set of woolly socks. We had no money, no map, but my memory was very good and Ivet had recently been granted privileges, including trips to the nearby town with her teacher-friend. But being outside the compound walls was disorienting, particularly for Liliya, who had not yet had her period of solitude. It was high summer so the weather was good at least and we passed huge fields of watermelon where we filched a few fruits to enjoy ourselves. This was the first thing I had ever got for myself and it felt exciting to break through the green rind and lick the juices from my fingers. So while Liliya continued to shakily stifle her sobs I began to enjoy myself, spitting black seeds into the ditch like bullet fire.
After several hours of walking like this our feet began to ache and we knew we couldn’t go much farther. Travel became easier when we realized there were other, faster ways. For instance, we could send our thoughts ahead of us. We simply pictured what it would be like at the end of the stretch of road we could see, at the top of that mountain in the distance. If we imagined it vividly it was simple enough to step into the picture—and there you were! We had to do this slowly at first because Liliya was not as strong as Ivet and myself, but we taught her and she learned. There were other things we could do to speed our journey. If we were passed on the road, for example, then Ivet found she could cast her spirit into the driver and make sure he carried us along with him safely for as far as we wished to go. The last of these we found was, I believe, a smuggler who knew the area well, as it was along a frequent route where State enemies had been known to attempt to escape. Except, of course, that escape was no longer necessary in the same way after “the change.” For most, anyway.
Our escape was of a very different kind. We were learning now to step through that door within our minds, to unshackle ourselves from our flesh. The border that to so many had been fixed and immutable had, for us, already vanished. If we wished to visit Paris, why, all we had to do was hold the longing deep in our hearts, hold the image of the tower and—yes!—there we would be. But we were learning that the crossing wasn’t as easy as we’d first thought. Just as we could transport ourselves by holding that picture firmly inside us, so too did we continue to carry within ourselves an image of the place we had left, indelibly inscribed. Those images that held the most horror—my mother as the nurses led her from my side, that last time I saw her—were the worst of these.
And so when I returned at last to my place in the mountains, where I’d had my first taste of freedom, it was not without some trepidation. We followed a dusty, snaking road—walking now, for we feared anyone, even those under our influence, to know where we were headed. At last we came to it: an abandoned village with a waterless fountain, a doorway thick with wet-petalled blossoms and the door to the cottage battered in, the contents raided for anything of value. Gouged windows. An old spring bed that something—or someone—had pissed on.
“This is a place where things disappear,” Ivet said at last.
I nodded. “We needn’t go any further.”
Liliya reached for my hand and I let her take it. She’d grown stronger on the journey, the pale of her skin burnt a dark copper now, but she was still so young and used to her cage. “Please don’t leave,” she whispered.
Then I crouched beside the poor girl, beheld her wax-doll stiffness. She was miserable with the fear of her freedom and I wanted no one I loved ever again to hurt the way she hurt in that moment. She feared that this was a ruse, all of it, our mad journey to this place, and my hope for what we might find here.
“Can’t you feel it? In here?” I touched my finger to Liliya’s temple and felt the headlong dash of the blood in her veins, how it glowed with possibility: a thousand voices murmuring to us, You are loved you are loved we will not let them hurt you we will tear them limb from limb we will grind their bones to dust we will stab them drown them burn them you need not fear ever again. Just like that she knew the world was opening itself up to her, making itself known in all its rage and fear and bright, burning beauty.
A glazed look of happiness came over her eyes. “Our sisters are coming.”
GOLD AMONG THE BLACK
Alma Katsu
Greta struggled to carry the bucket of dirty water up the stone steps and out to the courtyard. She had been scrubbing the floors all morning and the bucket was full of soot-gray water, as opaque as the fish pond after a hard rain. It slopped over the rim and wet her dress, splashed her legs and soaked her threadbare stockings. Nevertheless, she teetered carefully across the cobblestones with the bucket hugged tight to her chest, dirty gray water lapping under her nose.
Once in the courtyard, she stopped to set the bucket down. It was a long walk from the kitchen, but she didn’t mind, for all the inconvenience. Because once outside, she got to see Jesper.
Jesper was her dog.
He lay on the ground, his back to the stone wall, unflappable despite all the activity in the castle courtyard. He rose on his long legs and trotted over to her immediately. As she petted him, the same feelings she had every time she saw him welled up inside: she was lucky to have such a fine dog. They had been together for a year now. He was the only thing that was hers. She was an orphan without so much as a wooden spoon to her name, and yet she had this fine, strong dog.
“He’s been out here for hours,” one of the scullery maids called out to her. They sat in a cloud of tiny white feathers as they plucked chickens for the master’s dinner that evening. “He’s going to get trampled.”
“He’ll be fine,” Greta replied. It didn’t matter: horses, oxen, the tramp of guards, a charge from another dog, Jesper stood his ground. He’d stare down whatever was in his path with those golden eyes of his until the other party slunk away.
Besides, she had no place to put him. They had no home, no roof over their heads. By day, Greta worked in the castle, gladly accepting whatever work they threw her way—scrubbing floors, doing washing, cleaning privies—in exchange for food. At night, she went into the woods to sleep, Jesper at her side. When it rained, she snuck into the stable and slept in the straw, Jesper curled next to her in a ball. They kept each other warm.
She reached into her pocket for the handful of capon trimmings the cook had given her earlier and fed it to him, waiting patiently as he licked the fat off her hands. Then she tipped the water out, lifted the bucket by its rope handle, and headed back into the castle.
As always, she returned to the woods that evening, when her work was finished, J
esper trotting at her side. They went to their usual spot to sleep, a pocket under a large pine tree whose low branches hung to the ground. Greta fluffed pine needles for their bed, then the two of them lay side by side. Greta stroked the dog slowly, from his head to his flanks. His steady breathing helped to lull her to sleep. His coat was black all over, as black as coal, but if you looked carefully, you would find gold hairs mingled with the black. There was gold in his muzzle, in the long fringes hanging from his ears, and the swirl of hair on his belly. Fine golden hairs, as gold as his eyes.
She first saw Jesper a year ago. She had been working on a small farm in the valley. The farm was so small it could only support the farmer and his wife. Still, they took in the orphan, using Greta to help the wife. They let her sleep in the barn and gave her the wife’s old clothes, things she had worn as a child. They were not bad people, but when Jesper crept into the courtyard that day, a wild pup from the woods, the farmer became alarmed. He said Jesper was a wolf and would kill his livestock, but Greta could see he wasn’t a wolf. He was a dog, albeit not like any dog she had known. He was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen, though admittedly she didn’t know much of the world. Her entire life had been spent in this one village.
The farmer’s wife was afraid of Jesper. She said he had the devil’s eyes and she didn’t want him on the farm. Greta promised to keep him penned in the barn but that made no difference to the farmer’s wife, and so Greta left. She couldn’t send this puppy back into the wild, alone, or let the farmer kill him.
She had no alternative but to go to the castle to ask for work. The steward was surprised when she turned down the offer of lodging. She knew she wouldn’t be able to bring Jesper with her. She preferred to stay with him even if it meant sleeping in the forest.
* * *
Greta went back the next day, working until the sun was high in the sky. By the time she returned to the kitchen, the midday meal was finished. Den, the kitchen steward, motioned to a sideboard piled with leavings. “Get something to eat before you go back to work.”
As she sat on a stool by the fire, chewing the tough crusts, Den studied her. He was the same age her father would have been if he were still alive. Den supervised a small army of cooks and scullery maids and kitchen boys to haul firewood and water. He was a kind man, too. A father himself, Greta knew, with four boys and a girl.
“How old are you now, Greta?” Den asked.
She stopped chewing. “Thirteen.”
He furrowed his brow. “You are practically a grown woman. It’s dangerous for a woman to be on her own. Do you know what I mean by that?”
She did. There were already times walking through the village when she didn’t feel safe. Men had started to eye her in a way they hadn’t before.
“You should reconsider coming to live in the castle. You’ll be safer here.”
Her chest tightened. “I can’t. What about Jesper? He wouldn’t be able to come with me.”
Den scratched his chin, thinking. “That dog of yours, he’s unusual-looking… But he’s big and strong. He could be a guard dog. Maybe we could find a place for him in the kennel. Do you want me to talk to the kennel master?”
The guard dogs were kept in a pen, as muddy and stinking as a sty. These dogs frightened her. The guards made them compete for food to toughen them. The thought of Jesper being made hard and violent sickened her.
“Thank you for your kindness, but I don’t think so.”
“Don’t decide right away. Think about it, Greta. You cannot continue the way you have been. Surely you see that. You’ve got to think of yourself. Don’t worry about Jesper. He will survive.”
That night, she made a fire to roast a hare that Jesper had caught and thought about what Den had said. Jesper lay at her side, licking hare’s blood off his feet and muzzle. Greta stroked him absently, his fur like the satin of a gown she’d once touched. Under the fur he was hard as stone, all muscle and bone. He seemed regal to her, the way he carried himself, his head held high. He could’ve been a king in another, secret, life, like a prince put under a spell in a fairy tale. A prince who had been cursed by a witch to roam the forest as a dog until he found his true love. Not that she believed in those stories, not after her parents died.
“What am I going to do, Jesper? Maybe I am being selfish. Maybe you would be happier as a guard dog, living with other dogs, with a roof over your head and bones to gnaw on, and not hiding away with me in the forest.”
Jesper looked at her intently.
She stopped petting him and went back to the spit. “If only you could tell me what you want.”
I want you to be happy.
Greta gasped. She heard the words as clearly as the church bell. Jesper had never spoken to her before. She’d pretended he’d spoken many times before, making up things for him to say, imagining what he might think in a given situation.
But she had known, all those times, that the words and thoughts were hers.
This time was different.
Had his mouth moved? She hadn’t been looking at him at that moment, she had been turning the meat over the fire. Had she heard the words with her ears, or in her head?
She sat frozen, staring at Jesper, unsure what to think. They were my words, she decided. I put those words in his mouth. That must be what happened. Or else I’m going mad.
Jesper flicked his tail once, like a horse swatting flies, his golden eyes never leaving her face.
* * *
They trudged to the castle together the next morning as usual, making their way past stable boys leading the huge draft horses in from pasture, past the dairy where cows bellowed to be relieved of their milk. A cat stood just outside the milking shed, licking cream off her whiskers. Two women threw seed to chickens, laughing at a joke they had just shared.
If I lived here, my life would be so much easier, Greta thought as she looked about. But she felt traitorous having these thoughts as Jesper trotted at her side.
Greta was sent to change the rushes on the floor of the Great Hall with a girl named Liesl. At first, they worked in silence, sweeping the soiled rushes into the fireplace for burning. Greta never liked that fireplace and tried to avoid it whenever she was in the Great Hall. It was big enough for a child to walk into, and she could very well imagine being roasted there, like a piglet at a feast.
As time passed, however, Liesl’s tongue got the better of her and she began to ask Greta questions. At first it was a relief, for Greta spoke to few people in the course of her day, almost no one besides Den. Liesl seemed like a nice girl but by her clean dress and carefully plaited hair, Greta could tell she had a mother and father and lived a normal life in a house.
“Do you live in the village? They say you do not live in the castle and yet I’ve never seen you in town,” Liesl asked. She looked at Greta over her shoulder as she swept.
“I live outside of town,” Greta answered without looking up from the floor.
“On one of the farms? Which one?” When Greta didn’t answer, Liesl stopped sweeping and turned to her. “Look, I’m trying to help you. You seem like a good girl. Don’t you know what they say about you?”
Greta shook her head.
“They say you’re a witch. They say that you go into the woods at night to participate in black masses with the other witches.”
Greta tried not to show that she was frightened. She couldn’t tell Liesl why she really went into the woods. This girl would not understand. “I am not a witch.”
But Liesl wouldn’t stop. “They say that dog is your familiar and he can change shapes.”
Greta’s heart pounded in her chest. She knew what talk of witches could do to a town. She remembered one old woman who’d been driven away—at least, that was what they told children. She remembered men dragging her out of her cottage, their faces red with anger. Watching the townsfolk driving her away with stones, men and women she had thought kind-hearted. The old woman was never seen again, and another family moved into h
er home.
Run, run, run, sounded in her head, but she had nowhere to run.
“Everyone knows witches take cats for familiars, not dogs.” She didn’t know if this was true, but it was all she could think to say.
“It doesn’t matter. If he can change shapes, he can make himself into a cat, too, can’t he?” Liesl’s tone was not so nice now.
“This is ridiculous. I’m not going to discuss it anymore.” Greta went to the other side of the hall to sweep, and the girls did not speak to each other again, even when the job was done. The entire time, however, Greta worried: there were rumors about her floating around the village. It didn’t matter how the rumor started or that she had done nothing to make anyone think she was a witch. She knew people liked to make up stories when they didn’t understand something. She remembered what they’d said when her parents died. He was drunk. He’d stolen money. None of that was true.
She was an orphan, which meant in the eyes of most people she was unlucky, and people wanted to believe the unfortunate were responsible for their bad luck. That they brought misfortune on themselves, that they deserved it. The people accused of being witches were often unlucky, which—now that Greta thought about it—seemed wrong. Didn’t it make more sense that the wealthy would be witches? If you could have anything you wanted, why wouldn’t you make yourself rich?
Walking back to the forest that evening, Greta was disconsolate. She had been a fool to believe Den. Even if she moved into the castle, the townspeople would never accept her. She would be an outsider, alone and at the mercy of others, for the rest of her life.
You won’t be alone, Greta. You have me.
Jesper stared up at her.
Greta was too frightened and confused to question where the words had come from.
She made up the bed of pine needles as usual. When she turned to call Jesper, she found a young man in his place. He looked to be only a few years older than her. He was handsome with a noble face and a disquietingly familiar bearing.
Hex Life Page 27
