Green Heart

by Alice Hoffman

  Troy and I set off together. I tell him that I’ve heard that the Rose Witch likes gifts. People say she’s vain and silly, a greedy, foolish woman. But no one can agree on a description. How she looks seems to depend on the viewer. The grocery owner’s wife, who had once delivered food to her cottage, told me that the woman who lived there was so ugly she had run away without being paid, something I had difficulty believing.

  On the other hand, Uncle Tim vows she is the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen. He was wandering through a meadow with his dogs when he spied her. He swore her long hair was the color of roses. But of course he had been far away, and the witch disappeared when she noticed him, her own dog at her heels.

  The children who play in the town square say that whenever they leave flowers beside her road, she repays them by setting out little cakes that taste like pistachio or almond. If you bring her roses, she gives out special chocolates, the kind we never see anymore, with cherry-red centers.

  The children don’t believe she is a witch at all.

  The toll-taker at the bridge stopped by one day just to give me his opinion. He was shy, and I waited for him to tell me what he thought. He saw the witch in his own way. The Rose Witch could be a hundred different women with a hundred different faces, if what everyone says is true.

  The toll-taker told me the Rose Witch was so lovely that she would entrance men on their way to the bridge. He swore he’d seen it time and again — but of course from a distance, like all the rest. Men would give up everything for her and follow her home. Only then did she reveal herself to be a monster. I noticed the toll-taker’s glasses were broken. He had to squint when he looked across the table to see my face. I wondered if he saw monsters where there were none. If everyone’s inner vision decided who the Rose Witch was.

  As for me, I believe that even a monster has a story to tell, so I bring along extra paper. I’ve used rose water so that the pages are tinged with flecks of crimson. I added a handful of red petals. For some reason this paper made me cry when I cut it into sheets. It was as though I had mixed up true love without even trying. Bees hovered over the kettle, as if there was honey inside. There hadn’t been bees in our part of the world for a long time. I took their return as a sign of good luck.

  On our journey I carry my typewriter on my back. I am bringing an armful of my most beautiful roses, some of them as big as cabbages. They are the best things I have to offer. Onion follows and Troy Jones leads the way.

  We stop to pay our respects at the stone monuments I built for my family. We stand quietly in the middle of the woods and bow our heads. I wonder if you ever miss people any less. I would trade anything to have one word from my mother, one hug from my father, one day to run through the fields with my sister.

  Onion is well behaved for once, but as soon as we leave the stacks of stones and head for the road, he races out in front, flushing rabbits from their hiding places, although he’s never quick enough to catch one.

  The bees follow along, drawn by the huge red roses I’m holding. In no time there is a stream of bees humming like mad. When we can see the bridge, I feel a lump in my throat. I still don’t think I will ever walk across it. I look at it, spanning the river, and all I can remember is that day. I remember I was the selfish girl who stayed home. I still wake up every morning though the others are gone. I still bleed. I breathe. I alone have gone on.

  There is still very little traffic in and out of the city, perhaps one traveler a day. When the toll-taker spies us, he waves from his booth. We are too far away for him to see clearly, and I don’t think he recognizes us. From this distance, how can he tell who is a monster and who is beautiful?

  I stick out my tongue to test him, but the toll-taker just keeps waving, friendly as ever. Troy and I laugh. Clearly, that man can’t see a thing.

  There is the road off to the side, one you might walk right by if you weren’t searching for something. We stop laughing. The witch’s road is lined with dead things. Brambles. Black trees. Stalks of belladonna and hazel and thorn apple. Skeletons of mice and raccoons and rabbits that were burned alive. These fields suffered from some of the worst of the fires. After all this time, the soil is still hot. I am grateful I decided to wear my boots. I put Onion into the mesh bag and carry him so he won’t burn his paws.

  I thought the bees would flee, but they follow along. Troy Jones has brought a sword. Just in case. But instead of enemies we have found brambles. Troy looks like a boy playing at war. If our world hadn’t been changed, that’s what he might be. But now he is the Finder. He puts the sword to good use. He cuts down all the dead growth. When he’s done, I lean down and put my hands into the earth. I can feel the beginning of something. As we walk on, the vines unfold behind us. The witch hazel blooms with yellow flowers. Meadowlarks crisscross the sky. We can barely hear each other over the thrumming of the bees. I can’t make out what Troy says to me. He looks worried. He points to the house at the end of the path.

  There is a woman waiting for us in her doorway.

  Maybe we should go back, Troy Jones says now.

  All this talk of witches has made him nervous. He’s a thirteen-year-old boy who’d been on his own since the day of the fire. Of course he’s mistrustful. Anyone would be. But I’m not about to turn away now. I have spied a dog on the porch, a big white greyhound, one I had rescued after the fire. I’d helped to heal her burned paws, then set her free to find her home. I’d called her Ghost because she had appeared in the woods one day, so quiet she was like mist drifting between the trees. Now she runs to us, then leaps to greet me.

  I’m so happy to see her.

  Come on, then, the woman in the doorway calls when she sees that her dog welcomes us. Unless you’re afraid.

  From this distance she might be beautiful or she might be a monster. I understand all the confusion now. Truly, it’s impossible to tell. You have to look from the inside out.

  We’re here to see you. Whoever you turn out to be, I call back.

  This must be the right thing to say, because she waves us on.

  As we approach we see that she’s just a woman with red hair who had been burned in the fire. Sparks had fallen on her face and left their mark. I present the roses, which she arranges in a vase. She has beautiful hands and a sweet speaking voice.

  I explain that we are searching for Troy’s sister.

  Is there anything else you’re searching for? the red-haired woman asks me.

  There’s something about her that makes me think of true love. The truth slips out before I can stop myself.

  There’s someone named Diamond, I admit.

  She takes us through her back door. A single white rosebush grows there, surrounded by a field of black ashes.

  The woman stops me. She puts one hand on my arm.

  Before you go any farther you should know one thing: What you look for, you may find.

  I had thought there wasn’t anything to find behind her house other than a ruined field where nothing could grow. I thought true love was something I had only imagined.

  But when I look past the roses I see the island where the prisoners are kept. There are the turrets, there are the skulls. A blue flag hangs in a window, wound through the metal bars. A dozen white doves circle the tower, the same ones that nested in my garden. A trail of white rose trees frames a path that will take us to the riverbank.

  It’s growing dark. We ask if we can spend the night before we set out on the path of ashes. We still have a long way to go. While Troy sleeps on the couch in the parlor, I set up my typewriter. When I take out the paper I made, I realize it has changed. The rose petals I added have turned from red to white. The paper has become smooth as silk. It smells of rose water and sulfur, a combination that could make anyone cry.

  The red-haired woman is ready to tell me her story. The accident happened on her wedding day. She had wanted everything to be perfect, so she told her guests to go ahead into the city. All her family, her friends, the groom.
/>   Don’t take too long, her beloved had said.

  But she did. She took her time. She wanted the day to last forever. She wanted everything to be just right. She washed her hair with perfumed soap and made her own bouquet with two dozen white roses plucked from the hedge outside her door. Her dress was made of silk — she’d sewn it herself, adding the beads and pearls. She took an iron and lovingly pressed out each wrinkle.

  By the time she was ready, she was extremely late. She had to run, her dog at her side. She saw her groom on the bridge, signaling for her to hurry. There was a crowd and she couldn’t get through. All of a sudden the bridge wasn’t there anymore. There was nothing but fire. Her dress turned red. Her hair turned red. The roses in her hands turned reddest of all, consumed by the flame. Her dog ran off and barked for her to follow. But she wouldn’t leave. She wouldn’t turn away. She watched the bridge sink into the water. The tears she cried burned themselves into her face, leaving their marks in her skin.

  By the time she turned away, everything was gone.

  A single petal from the roses I’ve brought her falls onto the table. It’s turned a pure white. I think of my garden in winter. I think of Diamond.

  You wanted to know how heavy love is? she says. So light you can carry it your whole life long.

  Can you grant a heart’s desire? I ask her then.

  Oh, she says. She seems surprised. She looks at me carefully. Aren’t you Green?

  I nod. That’s me. Green, who writes down stories, who still doesn’t know the truth about love. Green, who pricks her fingers on roses yet never cries. Green, who is still searching for things she doesn’t believe she can ever find.

  The woman who had almost been a bride is sadder than ever.

  I had hoped you would do that for me, she sighs.

  That night I can’t sleep. I take Ghost and Onion for a walk. The bees are still in the meadow, still rumbling. Everywhere Troy cut down the brambles, everywhere I’d put my hands into the earth, the plants are growing so fast I can see leaves unfolding in the dark. There are apple trees and stalks of new grass.

  I am still Green, who has a talent in the garden. Green, who can make nearly anything bloom. But that doesn’t mean I can grant a heart’s desire. For me, half a heart is painful enough.

  The dogs have run off into the darkness and now I have to search for them. I whistle, but they don’t come running back. At last I find them in the campground where Uncle Tim keeps the town’s abandoned dogs. There are dozens of them, but I spot Ghost and Onion right away.

  Uncle Tim is so lonely that he’s grateful for the opportunity to walk me back to the road, his band of strays charging ahead. He tells me stories about his life in the city. He’d been a gardener. He’d found great pleasure in bringing green things to life on city streets, where there would have been only cobblestones and bricks had it not been for him.

  When we turn onto the witch’s road, Uncle Tim grins. He notices the humming in the fields. He says bees always mean a garden is beginning.

  That is a fact, he says. Gardens are stronger than buildings. They bloom when everything else is gone.

  The red-haired woman is waiting for us. From this distance she looks like a dream. She looks like a photograph taken in the past, trapped behind the meshing of her screen door. She seems uncertain about stepping out. I understand only too well. When you are the sole survivor of anything, do you have the right to be alive? Is the future a betrayal of everyone you ever loved and lost, or is it a way to praise them?

  The greyhound and Onion run to the red-haired woman. Uncle Tim’s dogs race to her as well, even though several of them are usually standoffish.

  That’s the beautiful woman I told you about, Tim whispers.

  We walk up to the house together and I introduce them. Uncle Tim bows.

  At last, he says to the woman inside, delighted to have found her.

  I catch the scent of sulfur and burning sugar in the air. I think about the red snap peas I planted in my garden that will taste like kisses.

  The red-haired woman opens her door, but she hesitates.

  Are you sure you want to come inside? she asks Tim. Some people say there’s a monster in my house.

  He gazes inside. There are the roses in a vase on the table. The Finder is curled up on the couch. Asleep, he seems even younger than his age. A boy who in another world might have been a student, played at war, had a family to watch over him.

  Tim laughs. That’s only Troy Jones, he jokes. I know him. He’s a good boy, not a monster.

  Look at me, the red-haired woman demands. Her voice sounds like heartbreak. Look carefully.

  With pleasure, Uncle Tim replies. He is younger than I’d first thought. He’s so kindhearted no dog has ever barked at him. No child has ever cried in front of him. No bee has ever tried to sting him.

  I sit on the floor with the dogs while Tim and the red-haired woman have tea. It’s a mixture of rose hips, rose petals, and rose leaves. It must be delicious because they share cup after cup. I don’t think they remember that I’m there.

  I realize I’m watching the way love begins.

  Would you like me to tell your future? the red-haired woman asks Tim.

  She sounds uneasy. Perhaps it’s a trick question, a way to find out if Uncle Tim thinks the future is a far-off, unreachable country. One in which she doesn’t belong.

  Why don’t you tell me tomorrow when you come to visit me? Tim says before he sets out for home with his dogs. Come early, so our future together can begin.

  After he leaves, the red-haired woman and I sit out on the porch. We can hear Uncle Tim whistling. We’re both thinking about love but we don’t discuss it. We just want to think about it in the darkness of the night. Even when we can’t hear Tim whistling anymore, we can still hear the bees in the field.

  I never thought a map could be made out of roses. I never thought the sound of bees could be so beautiful. In the dark, the marks on the red-haired woman’s face look more like white stars than like teardrops or burns.

  In the morning when I wake, she’s already gone. She’s taken her dog with her, the big white greyhound I’d once set free to find a true home. But she’s left an envelope for me on the table.

  Inside is a single rose petal.

  It’s the only map I need.

  River Witch

  This is who I searched for

  Someone once told me that love is an act of will.

  I was certain I’d heard wrong.

  I thought that love was a river, endless and deep. I thought it merely happened, washing over you like water. It was nothing to search for, nothing to force. I didn’t understand that even when we can’t control our fate, we alone have the last say in matters of the heart. We can give it freely, even in the worst of times, even when it isn’t returned.

  The frightened walk away when love is difficult. I know that now. You have to be willing to give everything away. You have to be willing to end up with nothing.

  Only then will your heart be whole.

  The Finder and I go down to the muddy banks of the river, trekking through the marshes. We pass by toads, snakes, and a strange breed of walking fish that had been forever changed on the day of the accident. But the river is much clearer now. Minnows dart through the shallows. Water lilies appear in our wake, pale green pads with trailing vines and moon-colored flowers. They make me think of my sister, Aurora. I can’t help but wonder if it might be true that for every step you take, everyone you’ve ever loved walks with you.

  Two sparrows fly above us. They don’t seem the least bit afraid of us. I believe they might be fledglings I rescued after the fire. Sure enough, when I hold out my arm, they light in the palm of my hand. They are so full of life I can feel their hearts beating. Even after they dart off, they circle back to make sure we’re still following. They skirt the brambles artfully, utterly comfortable in the air.

  I’m so happy to see them.

  The sparrows lead us to the edge of
the river where there is a cottage made out of an old boat. Troy Jones loves old broken things. He announces that he thinks it’s the most beautiful house in the world. Maybe he’s right. It certainly is one of a kind. Instead of windows, there are portholes. Instead of a roof, there’s a white sail. Every time the wind rises, the house pulls toward the river, as if it yearns to be sailing, as if a house could have its own heart’s desire.

  A dock trails out into the water. An old woman is there, a lantern beside her. She looks at least a hundred years old. She is the River Witch. Once she had been a fisherman’s wife. Now she wears a black shawl.

  If she has gills like a fish, the way people whisper she does, we can’t see them. If her skin is made of scales, as the fearful insist, we can’t tell. To us she merely looks like a fisherman’s wife who has become a widow.

  When I ask the River Witch if I can write down her story, she nods. I have added blue fish scales and water lilies to her paper. It shimmers like water, iridescent in the sunlight. But the back of the paper is brown and murky, like the river when it is flooding, when no one can control the way it flows.

  Once, the fisherman’s wife had only been aware of all she did not have — she wanted a big house, a child, a life in which her husband did not leave her alone for weeks while he sailed down the river to the sea. When the fisherman made his boat into a house so she could travel with him, she had been disappointed. When he brought her bracelets and rings from far-off lands, she was never satisfied. The fisherman was so kindly he could not pass by someone’s despair without trying to lend a hand. The fisherman’s wife told him that he did too little for her and too much for others. He was always the first to help a stranger, rescue a drowning man, and that is what he did on the day the city burned down. He went out in a rowboat time after time, fishing out those who were swimming away from the fires to save their lives. The last time he went out, he didn’t return.