by Cat Hellisen
That night Sarah dreamed of claws and horns and wings, and woke, shivering, to a still, dark castle. It took her a long time to fall back to sleep.
She wanted to dream about her family, about walking with her parents through the park to go feed the ducks on a Saturday morning, or riding their bikes all the way to where the town turned to hillsides. Those were good dreams, and she could have stayed in them and pretended they were real. Instead, she had nightmares of hunts, of cold snow that covered all their bodies like a blanket, until at last all she dreamed of was white silence.
* * *
The following day, after lunch and a few halfhearted attempts at the vegetable patch, Sarah jabbed her trowel into the earth and left it there, like a tiny headstone. She was done with gardening. The raven had been avoiding her all day, as if it knew that Sarah had been told the truth.
The raven might be avoiding her, Sarah thought, but just because her grandmothers were cowards didn’t mean she had to be like them. She got to her feet and strode purposefully past the rusting hulks of the cars. This time the scraggly hut behind the castle didn’t seem half as threatening. Water still plopped off the ragged bristles of the roof, but the drops made a sad, lonely sound as they dripped into the muddy pools. The door was just a rotten tooth in an old man’s mouth, and when Sarah pushed it open, the squeal of the unoiled hinges sounded more like a scared animal than an eerie horror-movie sound track.
“Hello?” she said into the dark. Her voice was a little rough since she’d run most of the way there. She had already faced another, younger beast in the woods, and it had scared her. But Grandfather was another story altogether.
He was old, and weak, and his paws were crumpled under his body from lack of use, and all he ever ate were kitchen scraps and bones with all the marrow boiled out.
At the sound of her voice, the lurking shape in the cage moved, and a moment later, his eyes flashed like lamplights in the dark.
“Hello,” Sarah said again, feeling a little foolish now. She pressed one hand to her side to ease out the stitch she’d gotten from running. Her face was crackly like old paper from dried tears, and she could feel long itchy scratches where the trees had slapped at her cheeks. “I’ve come to talk, if that’s okay?”
The silence gathered around the two of them, as her grandfather considered. “Talk,” he said finally. His animal mouth made his words sound furred and strange, but at least Sarah could understand him.
She picked her way closer to the cage, and stopped only a few inches from the small door. She crouched down on her haunches. “What is your name?”
The beast frowned, his eyes darkening. It took him a very long time to answer, as though he could barely remember. “Eduard,” he said, and seemed surprised at the sound of it, at his own name.
Eduard. Grandfather. He was more than just a beast, and Sarah vowed to herself that she would never forget it. She shuffled a little closer. “I spoke with someone yesterday.”
Her grandfather blinked and waited.
“He used to work for the witch who cast the curse on you. He told me the story of what happened to our family.”
“Ah,” breathed her grandfather. “Alan of the Woods.”
“You know him?” Sarah couldn’t quite keep the surprise out of her voice, though it did make sense that Grandfather would at least have heard of the witch’s servant.
“Not half as well as I would like,” he said. “He’s a tricksy thing.”
“Oh,” said Sarah, in a small voice. “How do you mean?”
“He belonged to the Within once, and that means he’s more powerful than he pretends.”
“He’s just a boy.”
“And you are just a girl,” Grandfather retorted, “but you won’t stay one forever.”
Sarah’s heart gave a frightened little skip, and she shivered. “That’s kind of what I came to talk to you about,” she said. “The curse. I need to know everything you know about it.”
“Why?” he asked sullenly. His teeth were very long.
“Because.” Sarah straightened and stood up. “Don’t you think it’s possible that there’s a way to break it?”
The beast growled and made a coughing roaring sound, so that Sarah took a few worried steps out of reach before she realized he was probably laughing. “Of course there’s a way,” he said. “It’s in the rules.”
“Well, no one’s exactly told me the rules, have they?” Sarah said. She crossed her arms. “So what’s the trick?”
“No trick.” The beast sat carefully upright, and his chains jangled and clanked, and beneath his crippled paws dry old bones snapped with crickle-cracks. “Only a secret. One that Freya won’t tell you.”
The raven. Sarah had to find a way to get the raven to tell her how to break the curse. Surely she would do it—after all, she couldn’t want to see not only her daughter cursed, but her granddaughter too. “Perhaps I can convince her,” Sarah said, confidence bounding up. That was, if she could ever track her down.
“Good luck to you,” said the beast. He sounded amused and resigned. “You’ll need it, I daresay. It’s not like we haven’t begged and threatened and wept.” He cocked his heavy, maned head and considered her. “You have something of her in your face, and it’s true she misses your mother more than she’ll ever say. Perhaps, if there’s any who could sway her, it would be you.” He sneezed, then scratched at his mangy fur, leg thumping and chains ringing. “Go on then, girl—Granddaughter—break her heart, and make her see reason.”
“I won’t need to go that far, I think,” Sarah said. She paused, then stretched one hand between the bars to stroke her grandfather’s muzzle. “My parents used to call me Sarahbear,” she said softly.
“Sarahbear.” The beast rolled it around on his tongue.
Sarah withdrew her hand and set off, determined to wrangle the truth from her raven grandmother, one way or the other. She paused at the door and looked back at the beast in his cramped, sad cage. “It’s not fair,” she whispered. “That Nanna does this to you.”
The beast shrugged. “Perhaps it’s all I deserve.”
“Do you want me to leave the door open, so you can get fresh air and a little light?” As she spoke, she was already making plans, and plans on top of those plans. Having goals was making her feel less sorry for herself. Her determination to not let this curse get the better of her was keeping her spine straight and her heart fierce. “I can come close it again before Nanna feeds you, so she won’t notice it’s been open.”
“And know that the world exists, and moves on without me?” The beast settled back down, nose to tail, his horns gleaming in the faint light. “Thank you, no.”
And Sarah, who almost understood what he meant, closed the door softly. Before she headed for the castle, she went to the half-dug vegetable patch and took one of the small pieces of chalky stone she’d turned up in her gardening. She tucked it into her back jeans pocket, and began to hum.
* * *
Typically, the raven was still nowhere to be found. She’s always hovering about when I don’t need her. Sarah skittered through the dark passages and climbed the spiraling staircase up to her room. Everything had been neatly swept and put away. Not by her hands, of course. Nanna’s magic at work. Sarah looked around the little turret room. Even though she’d spent her whole life living out of boxes and moving every few months, no room of hers had ever looked less like her own. I don’t belong here. The thought was fierce. And I won’t be forced to stay. Alan knew how to get in and out of the forest—that much was true. Next time she saw him, she’d ask him to show her how it was done.
Until then … There are a few things that need doing around here. Sarah picked up the bundle of candles that Nanna had left on her dressing table, and picked the knot apart. There was a dusty box of matches alongside them. She took one candle, and stuffed a spare and the box of matches into her pocket.
The lamps still guttered in the hallways, but it was time she found out all the s
ecrets Nanna and the raven were keeping. Nanna was currently in the kitchen—it seemed to be the place she spent most of her time, always busy carving up dead animals to feed to the beast. Sarah had seen her when she’d ventured there to grab a quick sandwich, and Nanna had growled some more instructions about having the vegetable gardens ready.
And now Sarah was ready to sneak through the places she wasn’t supposed to go.
Nanna never specifically told me not to wander about the castle. Of course, if she’d known what Sarah was going to do, she might have left more explicit instructions. Sarah ran along the passages until finally she came to the last of the glowing lamps. She lit her first candle and, with a deep breath, stepped into the dark and made a mark on the castle wall with the chalky stone she’d taken from the garden. Her small, rough arrow stood out bright against the dull stone.
The cave smell of old stone grew stronger as she walked, the candlelight bouncing and guttering like a will-o’-the-wisp before her. The single candle was just barely enough to light more than her face and a footstep or two of her path. The shadows seemed all the darker for the little bit of buttery light.
Sarah tiptoed faster, the shadows clinging to her shoulders like shed ghost-skins. A breeze riffled through the hallways, carrying with it the faintest scent of pine needles and forest mulch. It moaned sadly about her legs. “Hush, you,” Sarah said out loud, to prove to herself that she wasn’t the least bit frightened. The wind obediently quieted down, and soon the only sound was of Sarah’s footfalls soft in the castle dust. At every turn, she marked the wall, leaving a trail of chalky arrows behind her.
From the outside, the castle appeared to be nothing more than a single ruined turret, but like the forest, it was bound by its own strange rules. As she’d expected, it was bigger on the inside, full of twists and turns that led into deeper and darker places. Sarah smiled grimly. She was finally beginning to understand the rules of this place, and that took her one step closer to finding an answer.
Sarah found her grandmother’s room only after the first candle had sputtered out and she’d had to light the spare, fumbling in the dark. She knew as soon as she stepped in front of it that this was the one. It had a Nanna-ish air to it: imposing and regal. She raised the candle to the polished wood, and the door gleamed deep and blood-dark as fallen berries. The handle stung her palm, it was so cold, but it turned easily, and the door swung open with barely a whisper.
She took a moment before crossing the threshold. Wandering around the castle was one thing, but actually invading her grandmother’s private room was another. No excuses would work if she was caught. Sarah cupped one hand around the flame to hide her actions and stepped forward.
No bells rang. No magic spells flared into life. No bats or birds or demonic creatures leaped from the shadows to attack her. Sarah let out the breath she’d been holding. Of course nothing happened. It’s just a room.
A room far bigger and more lavishly furnished than her own. There was a vast four-poster bed in the center of it, covered in layers of thick blankets and stitched silk. The colors bloomed and gleamed in the orange light. One side of the bed was slightly sunken, but the other half was pristine. Sarah edged to the sunken side, and made for the writing desk that was pushed against the wall there. It stood on spindly curving legs and had a great many drawers. Sarah went quickly through each one and found some old yellowed paper, candle stubs, string, a collection of white feathers tied in a bundle, three pencils worn down too small to hold, a handful of coins with holes in them, and a monogrammed handkerchief with lace edges.
Sarah finally found what she’d been searching for when she pulled a small carved wooden box out from under the bed. It was patterned with blue and green vines, with tiny birds—each no bigger than a baby’s pinkie nail—hidden in the twists and coils. The paint was faded and mostly rubbed away to the bare wood, but it must have been beautiful when it was new. It had no lock, but it took Sarah only a few moments before she worked out how to open it. She had to run her fingers along the vines in a certain way, and press two birds at the same time. The box clicked in a most satisfactory way, and the lid sprang open.
Inside was a folded square of silk, water-spotted and crumbling, and on that lay a small key, carved from dark horn and no longer than her finger. It looked too small to open the cage, but it was a match to the ivory one her grandmother wore around her neck.
Sarah grinned and snatched it up.
* * *
Her grandmother caught her just as she was headed to the main castle door. Luckily Sarah had long since looped the key on the little teddy-bear chain, and now it pressed against her breastbone, digging into her skin like a sharpened claw.
She felt her grandmother’s fingers catch at the back of her neck seconds before the old woman spoke. “And where do you think you’re off to?”
“I—I still haven’t finished the vegetable garden,” Sarah said. Her heart pounded so fast in her chest she was sure it was about to bounce right through her rib cage and go hopping off into the forest like an India rubber ball. Nanna was sure to know where she’d been, and what she’d taken.
The fingers released their grip, and Sarah risked a backward glance.
Her grandmother was frowning, and wisps of her white and gray hair had come loose to frame her face, echoing the lines that bracketed her pinched mouth. “Hmph,” she said. “Well, get going, then. And don’t be late for dinner.”
“I won’t.” Relieved to have escaped so lightly, Sarah fled around to the back of the castle. She looked this way and that. No one was watching her. No one had followed.
Cautiously, Sarah approached the hut. Dusk was falling in long silvery tiger stripes, and the first of the forest owls were already swooping over the clearing, their wings like sails. A few night insects were beginning to burr and creak, and the last of the day birds was sleepily calling. Sarah shoved open the door and hurried inside. Quickly as she could, she pulled her silver necklace free and undid the clasp, and slid the horn key off the chain.
“Back again?” growled the beast.
“Shh,” Sarah replied. “Quick.” She knelt before the cage door. In her hand, the key looked disturbingly small. Too small for the lock it was meant to fit, and for a moment she wondered if she’d wasted her time today, if all this had been for nothing. But the tiny horn key trembled and grew, and before she could think twice, Sarah was unlocking the door.
She hopped back and pulled it open.
The beast stared at Sarah.
Sarah stared back. “Well?” she whispered. “What are you waiting for?”
“Where did you get that key?” he said.
“Does it matter?” Sarah felt herself flush. Even though she was doing it for a good cause, she couldn’t help feeling a little bad about stealing. It just wasn’t something in her nature. “Bring your paws closer.” He did, and Sarah unlocked the first of the manacles. The chains fell dead and heavy into the rotted straw and bone chips. “Come on, and the other. Don’t you trust me?”
“Trust you?” He laugh-roared. “I could bite your head off if I wanted.”
“But you won’t.” Sarah inserted the key and twisted. The manacle had to be forced open, it was so rusted.
The beast stretched out his paws, shaking off the last of the chains. “How can you be sure?”
“Because.” Sarah got up from her knees and waited for the beast to squeeze through the tiny door. “You’re still a human,” she said, as he wriggled first one shoulder through and then the other. “You talk, you think, you reason. You’re just beast-shaped, is all.”
“So trusting,” said the beast, when he had finally slithered free. Out of the cage, he seemed bigger, fiercer, his mane rippling and lamp-eyes flashing.
Sarah noticed that the tips of his horns were wicked sharp, and his old yellow teeth were even longer than she’d remembered. “Maybe.” She turned her back on the beast, and flung open the shack door. “And maybe that’s a good thing, you know?”
> Her grandfather fell silent as the greeny dusk light flooded in. He paused to nudge Sarah’s hand with his wet nose, as if to say thank you, and then, with a giant leap, he bounded out of the confines of his home, and streaked out toward the gloamy forest without a backward glance.
Sarah swallowed. In her hand the key began to shrink, until it was once again just a little twist of blackened horn. She held it tight and walked out, and hurled it far away, to be lost forever in the weeds and rocks.
There. It’s done. And now all that’s left is to find that stupid raven and get it to talk. A curious thrill spread out all over her body, making her scalp and fingers and toes tingle. “Raven!” she yelled. “Freya! Grandmother! Where are you?”
But it was not the white raven grandmother who came at her beckoning. Instead it was Inga, wrapped in her cloak of iron-dark fur, her hair streaming behind in a storm cloud, who thundered out from the castle. “Foolish, stupid, useless child!” Nanna screeched, as she took in the scene. “Incompetent, liar, and thief! What have you done?”
The tingle died, to be replaced by a sinking fear. “I set him free,” Sarah said. “I had to, don’t you under—”
The slap cut across her words, her grandmother’s palm striking her face so hard it sent her sprawling to the ground, her cheek on fire, fierce tears of pain already gathering in her eyes.
12
WOODS-WALKING
“GET OUT OF MY SIGHT,” Nanna hissed. Her voice stung like a winter gale.
Down on the ground, Sarah slowly lowered her hand, and tried to look up at the woman who was all she had left as human family. Her grandmother’s face was hard and cold as a knife edge. Her knitting-needle gaze seemed to stab right through Sarah, piercing to her bones. Sarah rose to her knees. “I’m sor—”
