Sometimes We Tell the Truth

by Kim Zarins

  A mere two days together was not enough time. Her fingers weren’t done with touching his face. With resting her cheek on his shoulder. Not enough time to touch him.

  And they came to his stop.

  “Come with me,” Alan pleaded, pulling her by the hand.

  And she came. With his hand on hers, she could bear the walk away from the station. She could ascend the stairs and walk into his apartment, a small two-bedroom with another young man sharing it. Miraculously, anchored by Alan’s love, she lived there for a year. She lived there and gave birth to a son.

  And then one day, when Alan was at work, a knock on the door startled Constance from nursing the baby.

  She opened the door to a handsome woman with dead eyes.

  She called herself Alan’s mother, and she came in and asked questions. Then she began hitting Constance and trying to harm the baby. The screaming woman threw books off the shelves, almost hitting little Morris. Constance gripped her baby and fled out the door. Without Alan’s help centering her in place, Constance couldn’t stay. Her curse to wander returned.

  She woke on a bus with the baby in her arms, and she sobbed. She wanted to throw herself in front of the bus. Constance had lost Sowdain, and she’d lost Alan.

  But if she died, so would little Morris.

  So she held on.

  Passengers helped the sobbing young mother with small gifts: food, mostly, and that very first day, another mother returning home gave her own diaper bag to Constance. There was a change of onesies, a pair of socks.

  The baby suckled and grew. He took his first steps down the aisle, and his first words were with passengers. Time passed. The baby became a child.

  It was only when the child was fifteen, on his birthday, that Constance had had enough with wandering. She did not know where she was, only that she had to get off. She took Morris off the bus. He looked around in surprise, the way he always did to see the world holding so very still.

  She walked and found she could resist the call to get back on board. Constance was allowed a rest from wandering.

  She soon found a job as a live-in maid and caretaker for a very old man. There was a room for her and Morris to share. The old man left her alone and did not mind if Morris read in the library. They settled in for several months. And then she was called down and asked to prepare a room for the man’s son. The guest arrived the next day.

  It was Alan. Older, with a grief-lined face and thinning hair, yet still kind, still soft-spoken and beautiful. She ached at the sight of him, but she didn’t show herself. Not yet.

  She sent Morris to see if Alan needed anything, and Alan was struck by the boy’s face. The boy was like Constance in every way, and Alan was beside himself with love for this child.

  “Who is your mother? Please tell me.”

  And Constance entered the room.

  Alan leaped forward, then froze.

  “Don’t be afraid,” Constance said, but he was.

  “You haven’t changed. You haven’t aged.”

  “I do not change,” Constance said mournfully, “but our son can.” By now Constance looked like Morris’s sister, not his mother.

  And she told him what she was and why she had wandered and might one day wander again.

  Then Alan told her his story.

  He’d gone to prison. He’d found Constance and Morris gone, and his mother railing at him, slapping his face, bragging that she’d beaten off a whore. Overcome, Alan had shoved his mother to the ground. The mother had a heart attack and died, and Alan was convicted of manslaughter. When he was free again, he spent years searching for Constance.

  Alan and Constance were reunited, and Constance and Morris moved in with Alan in his own house. For a time all was well, and Alan was a tender father. Father and son became close. But when Morris was eighteen, Constance could feel the curse to wander one more time. She said good-bye to them, but they insisted on coming with her instead. They rode the Greyhound for days, for weeks, for months.

  One night, when they were sleeping, Constance woke to find a man sitting beside her. She froze at the thought of an attacker.

  “Don’t try anything,” she warned him. She pointed at her husband and adult son, indicating that she was not alone.

  “They are worthy and beautiful,” the man said, “but I must try something.”

  At the sound of his voice, she looked at him. It was Sowdain, but dim and distant. Sowdain as a mortal might be permitted to see him.

  He smiled, and the mischief was still there, even after everything that had torn them apart.

  Her fingers ran through him as if he were made of mist. She tried once more and still could not touch him.

  “Soon,” he said softly. “When you shed this curse, you’ll shed your mortal limitations. But our superiors are allowing me to talk to you first. It’s time to stop wandering, my dear. I’m here to take you home.”

  She shook her head. There were too many questions that needed answering. “Where have you been all this time?”

  “For a time, I was in a place of the dead. But then I was offered an assignment: you.”

  Her eyebrows crept up her forehead. “As my demon?” Had he deceived her? No, that could not be.

  He looked embarrassed. “Not precisely. A different assignment—or rather, I had two mutually conflicting assignments, and had to choose between them. I’ve been with you a long time. I moved the hearts of others to give you sustenance and compassion. I gave you things to think about to make the hours less lonely. I begged you not to give up. I made sure Alan ran late so your paths would cross that second time.”

  “You were my angel!”

  “And I gave every single one of your would-be rapists blistering cases of genital warts.” He shrugged and looked more pleased with himself over that than any of his angelic contributions.

  “Sowdain.” She tried to touch him again.

  “Constance, your stop has come. Are you ready?”

  She kissed Alan and Morris. “I love you,” she told them both. They shifted in their dreams, sweet dreams by the looks on their faces, but they did not wake. She hesitated before their sleeping bodies. She didn’t want them to be cursed with her wandering, but she didn’t want them to worry.

  “You’ll visit their dreams and tell them what’s become of you,” Sowdain said. “And we will help protect them. This is not the last time you will look on their faces.”

  She gave them one last look and nodded fiercely.

  “I’m ready.”

  Before she took off in flight, even before she felt the wings spring from her back, she felt his presence again, and then his hand. And she flew.

  We sit there stunned, and then we can’t clap fast enough.

  “That was beautiful!” Briony fans her face. “I’ve never heard a story with a love triangle quite like this one. That was really great. Alan was pretty cute, but Sowdain!”

  Mouse passionately agrees.

  “You rocked it,” Alison adds. “Here’s a story where the heroine gets to have both men and no one calls her a slut. She’s just being herself. Being constant.”

  My gaze drifts to Pard. He’s looking at Sophie, at Alison, at anyone but me.

  I get out my phone and text. I still know his number.

  I’m sorry. I’m terrible.

  “Jeff?!”

  I send the text and look up. Mari stares daggers at me. It looks like I zoned out on her best friend’s story, which is pretty much going to land me a death sentence. “Do you want to deign to comment?”

  Why do they keep doing this, when I’m not nearly the best storyteller here?

  “This was one of my favorites—great twists and turns. Nice romance plot and resolution. And the bus is very meta.”

  “Me-ta!” chants Rooster, and he and Franklin argue over which of them gets to be Sowdain, which gives me a chance to look at my phone.

  Nothing.

  He didn’t look at me either, just stared out the window while I answer
ed Mari’s question.

  I don’t know what I want anymore. A weekend with Cannon sounds pretty good, but I’m not fun company for Nikki or anyone else right now.

  But riding this bus is starting to feel like a Constance-style curse.

  MOUSE’S TALE

  A city rises before us, but even as the choruses of We’re here! begin, Mr. Bailey hollers, “It’s Baltimore! Good grief. This shouldn’t be a civics class. We should be studying geography.”

  “Hey now,” Alison counters. “It’s one thing to fill in blanks on a map, and it’s a whole different thing to see the world with your own eyes. Cut us some slack!”

  He looks a little sheepish, conceding her point. “Okay, okay. We’re down to the wire . . . D.C. is next, and we have three stories to go.” He reaches into his hat.

  When Mr. Bailey calls out Mouse’s name, she squees then slaps a hand over her mouth. Briony leans across her seatback and gives her an air kiss and one of those drapey-armed hugs.

  Mouse beams at everyone, and that enthusiasm even carries to the front of the bus. “Okay, I’ve been thinking of ideas all day, and here’s the one I want to try out on you. But I only have half the story.”

  In the great city of Tashbaan, in Calormen, it was the birthday of the Tisroc.

  “Oooo, a Narnia story,” Mari says, beaming.

  Mouse nods. “Guess my favorite character.”

  Voices call out: “Lucy!” “Susan!” “Aslan!”

  Sophie is on this one. “Reepicheep!”

  Mouse laughs. “He was my first crush!”

  Heralds strolled the streets of Tashbaan, crying the good news. “Today is the nativity feast of the Tisroc, may he live forever!”

  Streets both fine and squalid were lined with people thronging there for the parades, the jugglers, and the food. Even the most ragged boy had bread that day. A pack of children gnawed on second helpings when they heard another proclamation.

  “Make way! Make way for the ambassador!”

  The man was dark haired, black eyed, and magnificently dressed, with a jeweled scimitar and a most magnificent horse made of metal yet as graceful as a living animal. The rider turned the bend and rose up and up to the heart of the city, where the great feast was being held.

  Meanwhile, the Tisroc sat on his dais in his palace next to the temple. Tarkaans and Tarkheenas feasted on peacocks and swans, ices shaped like animals, cakes of dates and honey and almonds, and wines both strong and sweet. In a place of honor among the women sat the Tisroc’s daughter, Canacee, who had just yawned under her veil and tried to make it look like she wasn’t yawning. She wasn’t sleeping well. For the past two nights a falcon outside her window lamented her sorrows all night long. The mournful sounds made her feel both enchanted but also sad and powerless to help the unhappy bird.

  Everyone turned and marveled at the ambassador as he dismounted from his strange horse, and Canacee was no different. His dark eyes met hers for one strange moment, and then the rider dismounted and bowed before the Tisroc, offering him birthday gifts that, he claimed, were from another world, where he, too, was from.

  The Tisroc frowned. “There is a White Witch also from another world. She rules the small kingdom of Narnia. She covers the land with ice and snow, and only the desert walls her from my domain. It does not please me to know more travelers have entered our world and even my own country.”

  “Ah, but our intentions are friendship and peace. In token of which, I give to you this horse, a metal engine to carry you over land and across the air, far abroad and above arrows.”

  The Tisroc considered the amazing gift. “I accept.”

  “In further token of our wish for peace, my master also bade me to give you this.” He brandished the scimitar glinting in the light. “The blade will cut through any armor, no matter how thick. Riding this horse and fighting with this scimitar, you will be a most dangerous foe. You have already united the provinces and brought a golden age to Calormen, but these tools will help you keep your reign in peace and prosperity—and arm yourself against magic at your borders.”

  No sooner had the Tisroc thanked the ambassador, when the man continued, “I have two final gifts for one of your household. The first is a mirror that reveals friends and foes—a man can see whether armies rise against him . . . or a woman using it could see whether her lover is faithful or faithless. The final gift is this ring.” He took off a ring with a large stone. “The ring imparts the ability to understand the speech of birds, and it can also lead its bearer to find healing herbs to cure any wound, no matter how great. And the mirror and the ring are for your only daughter, beautiful, unparalleled Canacee.”

  The girl froze, unsure what to do, while a murmur of shock rushed through the large dining chamber as the assembled Tarkaans and Tarkheenas craned their necks.

  “This is most unusual,” the Tisroc said. “She is just a girl. You have overlooked my sons, meanwhile, and should not the mirror protect the safety of the realm rather than inform my daughter of lovers’ hearts?”

  But her eldest brother laughed. “Perhaps it is fitting she have the mirror. She is more besieged by suitors than we are by armies.”

  The ambassador did not laugh at this jest. “Canacee’s goodness and beauty are known across the world, and beyond it. I would give her these gifts and all within my power.”

  She blushed.

  After much ceremony Canacee stepped forward to take the ring and the mirror, and some magic must have been in the air, for it seemed she and the ambassador could speak to each other without the court overhearing.

  “I hope you will use the gifts,” he said softly. “I made them for you. Little marvels from another world.”

  He was a wizard, then. She shivered just a little, but bowed her head and thanked him. “There are marvels outside my own window that I do not understand—I do not pretend to have the wisdom to understand things beyond my own world. And yet I wish to know more.”

  “And I wish I could know you more, but there is no time, and my world is too perilous.” And he sighed, and she knew he was in love with her, and it filled her with all the restlessness that the falcon’s lament had done.

  But they did not speak again—he vanished soon after, and no man saw him leave.

  No one spoke of anything else but the strange ambassador and the four gifts: two for the Tisroc on his birthday, and two for the girl, for no apparent reason.

  Only Canacee knew this generosity came from love. At first, that made them marvelous enough, and that day she made no attempt to use the gifts. Luckily, her father let her keep them. He had the more valuable treasures, the ones that would serve in war. The other two seemed like women’s treasures because they looked into minds and hearts.

  But to her they seemed the most valuable treasures of all.

  Late in the night she looked into the mirror. There he was, the wizard—did this mean he was her lover? But there was a gash on his forehead, and his clothes were torn and bloodied. He was in a dark prison. With bound hands he tried to cast a spell, but clearly could not do so. She ached at the sad sight. How could this happen? How could she help him?

  Suddenly, she heard a woman crying outside her window, which opened to treetops from its lofty height.

  “I’m lost and abandoned,” the lady cried.

  Canacee threw open the door to her balcony, and there she saw what she least expected: a most beautiful falcon, who gave her a curious look, and then, seeing no danger from the girl, cried out, “I will never recover from this heartbreak!”

  Canacee gasped. “You—you can speak like a daughter of men.”

  Now the falcon stared with sharp yellow eyes. “I have heard the birds of Narnia are understood by the flightless beasts, but you are the first human I have ever spoken with.”

  Canacee clasped her hands, felt the ring on her finger, and instantly understood. “I forgot that this ring allows me to understand your speech. But what heartbreak do you mean?”

  The bird’s s
orrow instantly returned. “My lover has left me. He promised we would build a nest together. Nothing came of it in the end.”

  “That is so sad!”

  The falcon ruffled her feathers. “My heart was his prey. I must forswear love and protect myself against its snares.”

  And the falcon saw the mirror in Canacee’s chamber and gave a sharp cry—“There he is, the tercel falcon!” She rammed the mirror with her beak and shattered it. Then Canacee wept at the hurt to the bird and the destruction of her mirror. She told the falcon of the mirror’s power to show lovers faithful and unfaithful, and she told her of the man who came to her father bearing the four gifts. He was now in prison, though she knew not the cause, nor where he lay.

  The falcon looked at her with a solemn eye. “And you have not attempted a rescue?”

  Canacee felt a thrill in her heart. “Do you think I could rescue him? I’m not allowed to leave my father’s house, let alone this city. I’m not sure I could escape.”

  The falcon ruffled her feathers again. “Then I must help you find your way in return for your friendship to me. For starters, we need that horse!”

  To steal something of such value was a crime punishable by death. Canacee’s eyes wandered to the broken mirror, and she saw against all hope that one shard of the mirror held her wizard’s image. He was still bound and suffering. She wrapped the shard in silk to take with her.

  Canacee said, “We’ll need the scimitar as well.”

  And so they planned far into the night.

  “Phew, I think that’s all I can manage, guys!”

  Everyone says, “No, keep going!”

  “I would if I could!” Mouse frowns. “I thought of the ambassador as a sort of wizard from another world who made the gifts for a cruel king but gave them to Canacee and her father instead. And Canacee would somehow save him, but I have no idea how, or how all the gifts will get used. I have to think about it. I’d like to finish the story someday.”