The critic waved the eldest daughter into a chair, drank some coffee, lit a new cigarette, and read Ima’s story, grunting now and then. When she was done, she put the sheets of paper down, frowned mightily, and said, “Next.”
Orna replaced her sister in the chair and handed over her story. Once again the critic drank coffee, lit a new cigarette, and read. A waiter came by and refilled her coffee cup, bringing also a pastry on a plate. The critic loved astringent fiction, bitter coffee, strong cigarettes, and pastries full of honey. Her taste in wine was uncritical. “One cannot judge everything,” she always said.
She finished Orna’s story, grunted loudly, and said, “Next.”
Now Plot sat down and handed over her story. By this time she was helping her father with accounting, and she had written the story on ledger paper. “There is nothing here except numbers,” the critic said.
“Turn it over,” Plot replied.
The critic did and found a short, neat narrative about a prince who needed a new accounting system and how he found a girl able to set one up.
The critic finished the story and looked at the scrivener. “Your daughters have no talent at all.” She pointed a thick finger at Ima. “This one has a flood of ideas and images set down in no order, as a confusing as a dream. And this one” – she pointed at Orna – “is simply babbling words, without any sense of what they mean or should mean within the structure of a story.
“Finally,” she frowned mightily, “your last daughter has written a story with no color, mood, atmosphere, imagery or development of character. She might as well have written rows of numbers.”
The scrivener wrung his hands. “Can nothing be done?”
The critic raised a hand, and the scrivener waited while she ate her pastry, washing it down with coffee. Then she lit another black cigarette. She was a chain smoker of the worst kind and should have died young.
Finally she said, “There is a witch in the nearby forest, living in the forest’s black heart in a hut that stands on ostrich legs. She might be able to help, if she is willing. But remember that witches – like critics – are capricious and have their own agendas.”
The scrivener thanked her for her advice, then herded his daughters home.
Remember, in considering what happened next, that the daughters loved their father and wanted to please him and also to protect him from harsh reality.
He sat them down and asked them if they would be willing to seek out the witch. The three girls looked at one another.
“Yes,” said Plot. “But only one at a time. Ima does all the shopping, and Orna cares for the house. I help you with accounting. It would be too difficult if all of us left at once.”
The scrivener agreed that this was a good idea. The three girls then drew straws, and the eldest got the short one. “I will set out tomorrow,” Ima said bravely.
On the morrow, she packed a bag with food and other necessities and set out, taking a stage coach to the forest edge. There she climbed out.
The forest lay before her, rising abruptly from farmland. Its edge was a mixture of scrub trees: aspens and birches, with a few spindly maples and oaks. Farther back it was all evergreens, rising tall and dark toward the sunlit sky. In spite of the bright sky, the forest looked ominous to Ima, and her heart quailed.
But she had promised her father, and she would not fail him. Shouldering her pack, she marched into the forest. The edge seemed harmless. Sunlight came in around the scrub trees, and they were attractive: the aspens and birches flipping yellowing leaves in a light wind, the maples showing touches of red. She followed a narrow path among ferns. Birds flew above her, and small animals – mice or ground squirrels – scurried through the ferns. Nothing seemed dangerous, except possibly a croaking raven.
As she got deeper into the forest, the shadows grew thicker. The ground was bare, except for a thick carpet of pine needles. Above her, pine branches hissed in the wind. Names do matter, and Ima had rather too much imagination. The forest began to frighten her. But she did not want to disappoint her father, so she kept on. Noon passed, then the afternoon. Evening came. The shadows darkened. Finally, when she could barely see, she came to a break in the forest. A huge pine had fallen and lay across a clearing full of ferns. Overhead was the moon, one day off full, flooding the clearing with light. It should have reassured her, but it did not. She hunched down against the fallen trunk and ate the food she’d brought: bread and cheese and sausage. For drink she had wine in a flask, a good red that went with the sausage.
All she could think of was the danger around her. Who could say what wild animals lived in the forest? There were might be trolls as well as witches, and forest spirits of every variety, all of them cruel. In the distance, a fox barked.
All night she sat and shivered, too afraid to sleep. In the morning, she decided to go home. Her father would be disappointed, but she did not have the courage or the lack of imagination necessary to continue.
She soon discovered that she had lost her path in the darkness. All day she wandered through the forest, exhausted by lack of sleep. Late in the afternoon, she came upon a woodcutter, a tall, handsome young man. “What on earth are you doing here?” he asked. “The forest is dangerous.”
She explained she had gotten lost, but did not mention the witch. She was embarrassed to, since she no longer had any intention of seeking the woman out.
“I can guide you to the forest edge,” he said. “But not today. It’s too late. Come back to my cabin. My mother and I will shelter you for the night. In the morning, I will escort you out of the forest.”
Because of her imagination, which was good at seeing peril or at least its possibility, Ima hesitated. But she had no other choice. So she went with the woodsman to a little cabin built of logs. It was cheery looking, with smoke spiraling out of the chimney. Inside, a fire burned in the fireplace, and a stew bubbled in a pot. The woodcutter’s mother was there, an old woman with a kind face.
Ima got out the last of her food to share. All three of them sat merrily around a table, eating and drinking the last of Ima’s wine.
“Why do you live so far in the forest?” Ima asked.
“We like our privacy,” the mother replied.
“And this is where the trees are,” the woodcutter added. “I make our living by cutting them down and burning them into charcoal, which I take into the city and sell. It’s a long walk with charcoal on my back. But it gives us what money we need. For the most part, the forest provides.”
At length they showed her to a bed. Ima lay down and went right to sleep. She woke in the middle of the night, when moonlight shone in the cabin door. Why was it open? she wondered and got up to shut it.
Outside, in the clearing in front of the cabin, two wolves frolicked. One looked young. The other seemed old, but still vigorous.
Ima was too frightened to scream. Instead she crept back into the cabin’s one room. A few coals still glowed in the fireplace. By their light and the moonlight pouring through the door, she searched the cabin. The beds that should have been occupied by the woodcutter and his mother were empty, their covers flung back.
Ima knew what this meant. She was spending the night with werewolves.
The cabin had only one door, but there were several windows. Slowly, carefully, quietly, Ima opened the shutters on one of these, climbed out and fled into the forest.
She ran and walked all night, not stopping until morning. She could go no farther then, so lay down and slept.
A cough woke her. She opened her eyes, saw the woodcutter and screamed.
“Beg pardon?” he said.
“You are a werewolf! And so is your mother!”
“Yes, but we are wolves only one night a month, not by intention, but because we must. Don’t think we are monsters. When we are wolves, we do nothing to harm people. We hunt animals – mostly voles and rabbits – and enjoy the way it feels to run with wolf muscles and smell with a wolf nose. The rest of the time, I am an ordinary
woodcutter, she is an ordinary mother.
“You went in the right direction when you fled our cabin, which is good. I suspect you don’t want to spend another night in the forest. But we’ll have to start now, if we are going to reach the coach stop before nightfall.”
He held out his hand. Ima took it reluctantly, and he lifted her upright with surprising ease. A strong man. Well, he spent his day cutting down trees.
It was late afternoon when they reached the road by the forest. He waited with her till the coach came. When it was in sight, he said, “Please don’t tell people about my mother and me. We live in the forest to be safe, but I do come into the city. I don’t want to be stoned or arrested. I could have harmed you, when you were alone in the forest. I didn’t. Instead, I helped you. Remember that.”
The coach stopped. He helped her on. As it drove off, she looked back and saw him standing by the road, tall and lean and handsome, as rangy as a wolf.
When she got home, she told her father, “The forest was too frightening. I did not find the witch.” She didn’t talk about the woodcutter. The story was too strange, and she did not want to endanger the man or his mother.
The scrivener looked at his two other daughters with hope. They chose straws. This time Orna got the short one.
The next day she packed a bag and caught a coach to the forest. Like Ima, she climbed out at the forest edge and found a path. She lacked her sister’s fearful imagination. Instead of possible danger, she noticed small birds in the pine branches and interesting fungi. Her path led her through clearings full of late summer grasses, faded to shades of tan and gold. Everything seemed lovely and enchanting.
She came finally to a meadow by a river. It was full of autumn flowers. Butterflies fluttered over the blossoms. A blue and orange kingfisher dove from a branch into the river and rose with a minnow in its beak.
“How beautiful!” Orna exclaimed.
“Indeed it is,” said a melodious voice behind her.
She turned and beheld the most beautiful woman she had ever seen. The maid was naked, but her long, golden hair acted as a garment, falling over her body and reaching her knees.
“Who are you?” Orna asked.
“A forest spirit,” the woman – really a girl – replied. “In countries to the south of here, I would be a dryad or naiad. To the east, I would be a rusalka, as in the famous opera by Antonín Dvořák. North of here, I might be a nixie or huldra. But here in this forest I am only a spirit.”
If you are wondering how the girl knew Dvořák’s opera Rusalka, a twentieth century work, remember that fairy tales and their creatures exist outside time.
And you may have noticed that many of the spirits mentioned – the rusalka, huldra, and nixie – are usually considered malevolent and dangerous. Orna did not know this; and the spirit she met was in fact mostly harmless, though she could enchant and distract.
Orna took out her lunch and shared it with the spirit. Then, both of them tipsy with white wine, they picked flowers and waded in the river shallows, gathering round, smooth stones.
Anther spirit appeared, naked like the first, but clothed with long, red hair. Then another came; Orna did not see from where. This one was brownskinned with wavy black hair that swirled around her like a cloak. Her eyes were like the eyes of deer, large and dark.
Orna’s food was gone. But they had apples taken from orchards gone wild and a fish – a fine, large trout – the dark maiden caught with her bare hands. That was dinner, cooked over a fire. The roasted apples were coated with honey from the combs of wild bees. The fish was flavored with wild onions and salt from Orna’s pack.
Orna had wine left. They ate and drank and got a little drunk. Orna ended in a huddle with the three dryads. Her clothes came off her. Curious fingers caressed her and soft lips kissed her face and body.
She was a modest maiden in a conservative society. She had never experienced anything like this before. Of course it overwhelmed her. She dove into it like a kingfisher into the river and brought up her first real orgasm like a struggling, silver fish.
At last, exhausted, she lay in the meadow’s grass. Overhead, the night sky was full of stars. The dryads lay around her. “Why are you here?” one asked in a drowsy voice.
“I am seeking the witch who lives at the forest’s black heart.” “No! No!” the dryads cried. “She is ugly and dangerous. Stay here with us.”
What did she owe her father? Orna wondered. Respect. Love. But not the destruction of her life. If the witch were dangerous, she would avoid her. She stayed with the dryads. By day, they wandered through the forest, sometimes gathering food and sometimes watching the life around them: green pines and yellowing ferns, birds flocking for their autumn migration. The forest shadows held numerous animals: deer, red foxes, badgers, red squirrels, weasels, tiny mice and voles. The dryads did not harm any of these. They were not hunters.
In the evening they made love in the meadow. Their nights were spent in an earthen cave, formed when a giant pine fell over. The dryads filled the cave half full with grass, and the four women kept each other warm. One morning Orna woke and found the meadow was covered in frost. She was cold, in spite of the cave and the dryads. Winter was coming. She could not continue to live like this.
“What will you do?” she asked the dryads.
“We sleep through the cold months inside the trunks of trees – except for our sister here.” The dryad who was speaking gestured toward the dark maiden. “She will sleep at the bottom of the river, safe below the ice.”
“I can’t do that,” Orna said.
“Then go home to humanity, but return in the spring.”
Orna kissed the dryads goodbye and went home. When she arrived, ragged and dirty, her father embraced her and said, “We thought you had died in the forest.”
“No,” Orna replied. “But I did not find the witch. The forest distracted me. I wandered a long time, not knowing where I was.”
This was misleading, but not a direct lie. She didn’t want to talk about the dryads. The city’s conservative society did not approve of magical creatures or sex between women.
Her father wisely did not ask more questions, but told his other daughters to fill a tub with hot water and find new clothes for Orna. They did this gladly, happy that Orna was home.
Once she was clean and neatly dressed and eating a good dinner, the scrivener said to her, “Don’t think we failed to search for you, dear child. I went to the forest edge and talked to the farmers there. No one had seen you, though they do not go far into the forest, as they told me. They advised me to ask the hunters and charcoal burners, who went farther in. We found them here in the city, selling their goods in the market. A rough lot, but not bad hearted. They hadn’t seen you, either. We offered a reward, and everyone – farmers, hunters and charcoal burners – said they would keep an eye out. It was all to no avail. You had vanished.”
Orna felt guilty, but she couldn’t think of a way to apologize or explain.
That left the youngest daughter, Plot. The next day she packed her bag and caught a coach to the forest. Unlike her sister Ima, she was not troubled by imagination; and unlike her sister Orna, she was not easily distracted. She marched firmly into the forest. After three days, she came to the home of the witch, which was a hut made of logs. It stood in a clearing, surrounded by towering pines. In its own way it towered, resting atop long ostrich legs. Plot looked up, wondering how she could reach the door. Then she heard a noise in back of her and ducked behind a pine.
A large, fat, solid woman came out of the forest. She was dressed entirely in black. Even the boots on her large feet were as black as night. She called out: “Hut mine, obey my summons.
Bend thy legs and let me in.”
The ostrich legs folded, and the hut was lowered to the ground. The witch entered. A moment later, before the hut could raise itself, Plot ran through the door.
“What?” cried the witch, who had a wide, arrogant face and a beaklike nose.
“How dare you sneak in here?”
“My father sent me,” Plot replied. “I love and respect him, and I came because he asked me to. He wants me to be an author. But the great critic in the city says I have no ability.”
“My sister,” the witch replied. “The way she smokes, she would die of a lung disease, except that I send her magic potions which protect her respiratory system.
“Writing is a terrible way to make a living, almost as bad as criticism. I send my sister charms, which enchant editors, so they publish her essays and reviews. That has given her a great reputation, though not much money. Fortunately, she wants fame more than money.”
“I can also do accounting,” Plot said.
“That’s better. A woman can make a living at accounting,” the witch said. She waved in a mystical manner, and the hut stood up. “Since you’re here, you might as well make yourself useful. Make dinner.”
Plot found root vegetables in the witch’s storeroom, along with a fresh, plucked chicken. She made a broth and then a soup, full of vegetables and pieces of chicken. It took all day, while the witch grumbled. “Can’t you be quicker?”
“A soup takes the time it takes,” Plot replied.
They finally sat down to dinner. The witch tasted the soup and grimaced. “Can’t you do better?”
“I can only do as well as I can,” Plot replied.
Though the witch was grouchy, the soup was actually quite good, thick and nourishing, an excellent meal for a cold autumn evening. There was bread and cheese and beer, as well.
When they finished, the witch said, “There is a stream at the edge of my clearing. You can take the dishes there and wash them tomorrow.”
“Can you make me an author?” Plot asked.
“We will see.”
So began Plot’s time with the witch, who was demanding and evasive, but also interesting. As mentioned before, Plot was not easily frightened, nor easily distracted. She had promised her father to give this enterprise a good effort, and she would. In addition, she had never met a witch before. She wanted to learn how a magic-worker did her work.
The Best Science Fiction and Fantasy of the Year: Volume Nine Page 65
