by Jane Yolen
Jeansen stood in front of the tent and watched the sun go down. It seemed to drown itself in blood, the sky bathed in an elemental red that was only slowly leeched out. Evening, however, was an uninteresting intermission. He stirred the coals on his campfire and climbed into the tent. Lap dissolve …
Lying in the dark, an hour later, still sleepless, he thought about the night. He often went camping by himself in the California mountains, away from the telephone and his fans. Intercut other campsites. He knew enough to carry a weapon against marauding mountain lions or curious bears. But the silence of this Greek night was more disturbing than all the snufflings and howlings in the American dark. He had never heard anything so complete before—no crickets, no wind, no creaking of trees.
He turned restlessly and was surprised to see that the tent side facing the grove was backlit by some kind of diffused lighting. Perhaps it was the moon. It had become a screen, and shadow women seemed to dance across it in patterned friezes. It had to be a trick of his imagination, trees casting silhouettes. Yet, without wind, how did they move?
As he watched, the figures came more and more into focus, clearly women. This was no trick of imagination, but of human proposing. If it was one of the columnists or some of his erstwhile friends … Try to frighten him, would they? He would give them a good scare instead.
He slipped into his khaki shorts and found the pistol in his pack. Moving stealthily, he stuck his head out of the tent. And froze.
Instead of the expected projector, he saw real women dancing, silently beating out a strange exotic rhythm. They touched, stepped, circled. There was no music that he could hear, yet not one of them misstepped. And each was as lovely as the girl he had met in the grove.
Jeansen wondered briefly if they were local girls hired for an evening’s work. But they were each so incredibly beautiful, it seemed unlikely they could all be from any one area. Then suddenly realizing it didn’t matter, that he could simply watch and enjoy it, Jeansen chuckled to himself. It was the only sound in the clearing. He settled back on his haunches and smiled.
The moon rose slowly as if reluctant to gain the sky. Arrhiza watched it silver the landscape. Tied to its rising, she was pulled into the Dance.
Yet as she danced a part of her rested still within the tree, watching. And she wondered. Always before, without willing it, she was wholly a part of the Dance. Whirling, stepping along with the other dryads. Their arms, her arms; their legs, her legs. But now she felt as cleft as a tree struck by a bolt. The watching part of her trembled in anticipation.
Would the man emerge from his hasty dwelling? Would he prove himself a god? She watched and yet she dared not watch, each turn begun and ended with the thought, the fear.
And then his head appeared between the two curtains of his house; his bare shoulders, his bronzed and muscled chest. His face registered first a kind of surprise, then a kind of wonder, and at last delight. There was no fear. He laughed, and his laugh was more powerful than the moon. It drew her to him and she danced slowly before her god.
Setting: moonlit glade; 30–35 girls dancing. No Busby Berkeley kicklines, please. Try for a frenzied yet sensuous native dance. Robbins? Sharp? Ailey? Absolutely no dirndls. Light makeup. No spots. Diffused light. Music: an insistent pounding, feet on grass. Maybe a wild piping. Wide shot of entire dance, then lap dissolve to single dancer. She begins to slow down, dizzy with anticipation, dread. Her god has chosen her …
Jeansen stood up as one girl turned slowly around in front of him and held out her arms. He leaned forward and caught her up, drew her to him.
A god is different, thought Arrhiza, as she fell into his arms. They tumbled onto the fragrant grass.
He was soft where the Huntress was hard, hard where She was soft. His smell was sharp, of earth and mold; Hers was musk and air.
“Don’t leave,” he whispered, though Arrhiza had made no movement to go. “I swear I’ll kill myself if you leave.” He pulled her gently into the canvas dwelling.
She went willingly, though she knew that a god would say no such thing. Yet knowing he was but a man, she stayed and opened herself under him, drew him in, felt him shudder above her, then heavily fall. There was thunder outside the dwelling and the sound of dogs growling. Arrhiza heard it all and, hearing, did not care. The Dance outside had ended abruptly. She breathed gently in his ear, “It is done.”
He grunted his acceptance and rolled over onto his side, staring at nothing, but a hero’s smile playing across his face. Arrhiza put her hand over his mouth to silence him, and he brought up his hand to hers. He counted the fingers with his own and sighed. It was then that the lightning struck, breaking her tree, her home, her heart, her life.
She was easy, Jeansen thought. Beautiful and silent and easy, the best sort of woman. He smiled into the dark. He was still smiling when the tree fell across the tent, bringing the canvas down around them and crushing three of his ribs. A spiky branch pierced his neck, ripping the larynx. He pulled it out frantically and tried to scream, tried to breathe. A ragged hissing of air through the hole was all that came out. He reached for the girl and fainted.
Three old women in black dresses found him in the morning. They pushed the tree off the tent, off Jeansen, and half carried, half dragged him down the mountainside. They found no girl.
He would live, the doctor said through gold-and-plaster teeth, smiling proudly.
Live. Jeansen turned the word over in his mind, bitterer than any tears. In Greek or in English, the word meant little to him now. Live. His handsome face unmarred by the fallen tree seemed to crack apart with the effort to keep from crying. He shaped the word with his lips but no sound passed them. Those beautiful, melodious words would never come again. His voice had leaked out of his neck with his blood.
Camera moves in silently for a tight close-up. Only sounds are routine hospital noises; and mounting over them to an overpowering cacophony is a steady, harsh, rasping breathing, as credits roll.
Boris Chernevsky’s Hands
Boris Chernevsky, son of the famous Flying Chernevskys and nephew to the galaxy’s second greatest juggler, woke up unevenly. That is to say, his left foot and right hand lagged behind in the morning rituals.
Feet over the side of the bed, wiggling the recalcitrant left toes and moving the sluggish right shoulder, Boris thought about his previous night’s performance.
“Inept” had been Uncle Misha’s kindest criticism. In fact, most of what he had yelled was untranslatable, and Boris was glad that his own Russian was as fumbling as his fingers. It had not been a happy evening. He ran his slow hands through this thick blond hair and sighed, wondering—and not for the first time—if he had been adopted as an infant or exchanged in utero for a scholar’s clone. How else to explain his general awkwardness?
He stood slowly, balancing gingerly because his left foot was now asleep, and practiced a few passes with imaginary na clubs. He had made his way to eight in the air and was starting an over-the-shoulder pass, when the clubs slipped and clattered to the floor. Even in his imagination he was a klutz.
His uncle Misha said it was eye-and-ear coordination, that the sound of the clubs and the rhythm of their passing were what made the fine juggler. And his father said the same about flying: that one had to hear the trapeze and calculate its swing by both eye and ear. But Boris was not convinced.
“It’s in the hands,” he said disgustedly, looking down at his five-fingered disasters. They were big-knuckled and grained like wood. He flexed them and could feel the right moving just a fraction slower than the left. “It’s all in the hands. What I wouldn’t give for a better pair.”
“And what would you give, Boris Chernevsky?” The accent was Russian, or rather Georgian. Boris looked up, expecting to see his uncle.
There was no one in the trailer.
Boris turned around twice and looked under his bed. Sometimes the circus little people played tricks, hiding in closets and making sounds like old clothes singing. Their
minds moved in strange ways, and Boris was one of their favorite gulls. He was so easily fooled.
“Would you, for example, give your soul?” The voice was less Georgian, more Siberian now. A touch of Tartar, but low and musical.
“What’s a soul?” Boris asked, thinking that adopted children or clones probably weren’t allowed any anyway.
“Two centuries ago,” the voice said, and sighed with what sounded like a Muscovite gurgle, “everyone had a soul and no one wanted to sell. Today everyone is willing to sell, only no one seems to have one.”
By this time, Boris had walked completely around the inside of the trailer, examining the underside of chairs, lifting the samovar lid. He was convinced he was beginning to go crazy. “From dropping so many imaginary na clubs on my head,” he told himself out loud. He sat down on one of the chairs and breathed heavily, his chin resting on his left hand. He didn’t yet completely trust his right. After all, he had only been awake and moving for ten minutes.
Something materialized across the table from him. It was a tall, gaunt old woman whose hair looked as if birds might be nesting in it. Nasty birds. With razored talons and beaks permanently stained with blood. He thought he spotted guano in her bushy eyebrows.
“So,” the apparition said to him, “hands are the topic of our discussion.” Her voice, now that she was visible, was no longer melodic but grating, on the edge of a scold.
“Aren’t you a bit old for such tricks, Baba?” asked Boris, trying to be both polite and steady at once. His grandmother, may she rest in pieces on the meteorite that had broken up her circus flight to a rim world, had taught him to address old women with respect. “After all, a grandmother should be …”
“Home tending the fire and the children, I suppose.” The old woman spat into the corner, raising dust devils. “The centuries roll on and on, but the Russian remains the same. The Soviets did wonders to free women as long as they were young. Old women, we still have the fire and the grandchildren.” Her voice began to get louder and higher. Peh, she spat again. “Well, I for one, have solved the grandchildren problem.”
Boris hastened to reach out and soothe her. All he needed now, on top of last evening’s disastrous performance, was to have a screaming battle with some crazy old lady when Uncle Misha and his parents, the Famous Flying, were asleep in the small rooms on either side of the trailer. “Shh, shh,” he cautioned.
She grabbed at his reaching right hand and held it in an incredibly strong grip. Vised between her two claws, his hand could not move at all. “This, then,” she asked rhetorically, “is the offending member?”
He pulled back with all his strength, embarrassment lending him muscles, and managed to snag the hand back. He held it under the table and tried to knead feeling back into the fingers. When he looked up at her, she was smiling at him. It was not a pretty smile.
“Yes,” he admitted.
She scraped at a wen on her chin with a long, dirty fingernail. “It seems an ordinary-enough hand,” she said. “Large knuckles. Strong veins. I’ve known peasants and czars that would have envied you that hand.”
“Ordinary,” Boris began in a hoarse whisper and stopped. Then, forcing himself to speak, he began again. “Ordinary is the trouble. A juggler has to have extraordinary hands. A juggler’s hands must be spider-web strong, bird’s-wing quick.” He smiled at his metaphors. Perhaps he was a poet-clone.
The old woman leaned back in her chair and stared at a spot somewhat over Boris’s head. Her watery blue eyes never wavered. She mumbled something under her breath, then sat forward again. “Come,” she said. “I have a closetful. All you have to do is choose.”
“Choose what?” asked Boris.
“Hands!” screeched the old woman. “Hands, you idiot. Isn’t that what you want?”
“Boris,” came his uncle’s familiar voice through the thin walls. “Boris, I need my sleep.”
“I’ll come. I’ll come,” whispered Boris, just to get rid of the hag. He shooed her out the door with a movement of his hands. As usual, the right was a beat behind the left, even after half a morning.
He hadn’t actually meant to go anywhere with her, just maneuver her out of the trailer, but when she leaped down the steps with surprising speed and climbed into a vehicle that looked like a mug with a large china steering rudder sticking out of the middle, his feet stepped forward of their own accord.
He fell down the stairs.
“Perhaps you could use a new pair of feet, too,” said the old woman.
Boris stood up and automatically brushed off his clothes, a gesture his hands knew without prompting.
The old woman touched the rudder, and the mug moved closer to Boris.
He looked on both sides and under the mug for evidence of its motor. It moved away from his as soundlessly as a hovercraft, but when he stuck his foot under it cautiously, he could feel no telltale movement of the air.
“How do you do that?” he asked.
“Do what?”
“The mug,” he said.
“Magic.” She made a strange gesture with her hands. “After all, I am Baba Yaga.”
The name did not seem to impress Boris, who was now on his hands and knees peering under the vehicle.
“Baba Yaga,” the old woman repeated as if the name itself were a charm.
“How do you do,” Boris murmured, more to the ground than to her.
“You know … the witch … Russia … magic …” Her voice trailed off. When Boris made no response, she made another motion with her hands, but this time it was an Italian gesture, and not at all nice.
Boris saw the gesture and stood up. After all, the circus was his life. He knew that magic was not real, only a matter of quick hands. “Sure,” he said, imitating her last gesture. His right hand clipped his left bicep. He winced.
“Get in!” the old woman shouted.
Boris shrugged. But his politeness was complicated by curiosity. He wanted to see the inside anyway. There had to be an engine somewhere. He hoped she would let him look at it. He was good with circuitry and microchips. In a free world, he could have chosen his occupation. Perhaps he might even have been a computer programmer. But as he was a member of the Famous Flying Chernevsky family, he had no choice. He climbed over the lip of the mug and, to his chagrin, got stuck. The old woman had to pull him the rest of the way.
“You really are a klutz,” she said. “Are you sure all you want is hands?”
But Boris was not listening. He was searching the inside of the giant mug. He had just made his third trip around when it took off into the air. In less than a minute, the circus and its ring of bright trailers were only a squiggle on the horizon.
They passed quickly over the metroplexes that jigsawed across the continent and hovered over one of the twenty forest preserves. Baba Yaga pulled on the china rudder, and the mug dropped straight down. Boris fell sideways and clung desperately to the mug’s rim. Only a foot above the treetops the mug slowed, wove its way through a complicated pattern of branches, and finally landed in a small clearing.
The old woman hopped nimbly from the flier. Boris followed more slowly.
A large presence loomed to one side of the forest clearing. It seemed to be moving toward them. An enormous bird, Boris thought. He had the impression of talons. Then he looked again. It was not a bird, but a hut, and it was walking.
Boris pointed at it. “Magic?” he asked, his mouth barely shaping the syllables.
“Feet,” she answered.
“Feet?” He looked down at his feet, properly encased in Naugahyde. He looked at hers, in pointed lizard leather. Then he looked again at the house. It was lumbering toward him on two scaly legs that ended in claws. They looked like giant replicas of the chicken feet that always floated nails-up in his mother’s chicken soup. When she wasn’t practicing being a Famous Flying, she made her great-great-grandmother’s recipes. He preferred her in the air. “Feet,” Boris said again, this time feeling slightly sick.
; “But the subject is hands,” Baba Yaga said. Then she turned from him and strolled over to the hut. They met halfway across the clearing. She greeted it, and it gave a half-bob, as if curtseying, then squatted down. The old woman opened the door and went in.
Boris followed. One part of him was impressed with the special effects, the slow part of him. The fast part was already convinced it was magic.
The house inside was even more unusual than the house outside. It was one big cupboard. Doors and shelves lined every inch of wall space. And each door and cupboard carried a hand-lettered sign. The calligraphy differed from door to door, drawer to drawer, and it took a few minutes before Boris could make out the pattern. But he recognized the lettering from the days when he had helped his uncle Misha script broadsides for their act. There was irony in the fact that he had always had a good calligraphic hand.
In Roman Bold were Newt, eye of; Adder, tongue of; and similar biological ingredients. Then there were botanical drawers in Carolingian Italic: Thornapple juice, Amanita, and the like. Along one wall, however, in basic Foundational Bold were five large cupboards labeled simply: HEADS, HANDS, FEET, EARS, EYES.
The old woman walked up to that wall and threw open the door marked HANDS.
“There,” she said.
Inside, on small wooden stands, were hundreds of pairs of hands. When the light fell on them, they waved dead-white fingers as supple and mindless as worms.
“Which pair do you want to try?” Baba Yaga asked.
Boris stared. “But …” he managed at last, “they’re miniatures.”
“One size fits all,” Baba Yaga said. “That’s something I learned in the twentieth century.” She dragged a pair out of the closet on the tiny stand. Plucking the hands from the stand, she held them in her palm. The hands began to stretch and grow, inching their way to normal size. They remained the color of custard scum.
Boris read the script on the stand to himself. LOVER’S HANDS. He hesitated.
