Crown of Stars

by Sophie Jaff

  By morning, my scheme has taken shape. We go to the brook again, and I show him what flowers to pick.

  “See the small white blossoms blooming in clusters?”

  He nods.

  “We need their roots, the ones streaked with purple.”

  “They are pretty,” he offers.

  “Yes,” I agree. “Only do not touch your mouth or eyes as you dig them out. Keep rinsing your hands in the brook or it shall go ill with you.”

  While we gather the plants I sense him looking at me.

  “What is it?”

  “It is nothing,” he stammers, then turns away. “Only, I think I know you. You are John Belwood’s daughter.”

  There is nothing for it except to tell him the truth. “Yes, I am she.”

  He still stares. “Only . . .”

  “Only what?” I ask him.

  “You are not a bit like what they say.”

  “And what do they say?” I can only imagine what monstrous tales he must have heard.

  He glances away. “They say you are a witch, that you have dealings with the devil,” he mutters.

  “And what do you think?”

  “It is no matter to me who you deal with. I would still rather be with you than Old Warren!”

  He is earnest, and I smile. High praise indeed. As we pick blossoms together, my heart lightens.

  I show him how to lay out the roots so they dry under the sun. Then we return to my makeshift camp to wait.

  Thomas is running just a little ahead of me when he stops, midstride.

  “What is it?”

  “Look.” He points to a dead rabbit, which lies neatly upon a log. “Who did this?” He spins around, peering high and low, scouring the trees. “Who else is here?”

  “There is no one but us in this part of the woods.” I speak easily and my tone is placid enough for I know who left me this gift.

  “It’s a trap! The men! They followed me and they know we’re here!” His voice rises in agitation.

  “Think!” I am scornful. “Why would they bother to lay a trap for us when they could have lain in wait? What purpose would it serve? Besides—” I pick up the rabbit’s limp body and show him the fatal wounds on both its neck and side. “No man killed this creature.”

  “Then how did it die?”

  I hesitate wondering how much he is capable of understanding. “Perhaps you will see, in time. Meanwhile, we will eat well tonight.”

  Thomas draws breath as if to speak, and then pauses, exhales.

  At any rate, he now has rabbit to look forward to.

  It is late at night when the growling wakes me from my sleep. Thomas half-crouches, rigid, his fingers gripping a large stone. He is mesmerized by the shape outlined against the moon.

  “Thomas.” I force myself to remain calm. “Thomas, drop the stone.”

  He does not move.

  I do not know if my words can penetrate the dense wall of his terror. “Thomas, listen to me. Our lives depend on it.”

  Thomas does not look at me. “He will tear our throats out.”

  “He is not our enemy, Thomas,” I whisper. “You must trust me.”

  The growling continues. Thomas is white. He takes a deep breath. Then, very slowly, he lowers his arm and lets the stone tumble from his fingertips.

  The woods hold their breath.

  After a long while, there is only the rustle of an animal slipping away into the undergrowth.

  “Is he the one who brought the rabbit?” He is hushed, awed.

  I nod. In the moonlight, I can see him gaping. “Why do you look at me like that?” I ask.

  “I have never known a wolf to act like a dog.” Thomas’s eyes are very round. He has not yet stirred from his spot.

  “He is not tamed as a dog would be. He comes and goes as he pleases.”

  “But why . . .” He wants me to explain but doesn’t dare outright ask.

  I say nothing. There is nothing to say.

  The rest of our night is a quiet one.

  9

  Katherine

  As they stand pressed up between the fairy princesses and the killer clowns, Katherine questions if this was a good idea. It’s difficult with a five-year-old at the best of times, but how, she wonders, do you explain all the ghosts and zombies to someone who has actually seen the dead? Who has spoken with them? She looks down at Lucas, who stands by her knee. She holds his hand. She wonders what he is thinking.

  She believes she’s come to terms with Lucas’s “abilities,” his gifts. God knows she loves him and she knows that he would never hurt her. She thinks that he is like a conduit, or even a barometer, able to communicate and forecast the unearthly conditions surrounding them. There are still moments, though, when he turns his dark and luminous eyes toward her that her breath still catches in her throat.

  Women who died at the hands of the Sickle Man gave him messages, left him pennies, told him secrets. He drew pictures of these visitors, naked women with rusted, crusted lines dug deep through their flesh. “The ladies,” he called them, “the ladies” who were “hurted.”

  Can he tell the difference between fake blood and real blood? What if he asks why a person would pretend to be bleeding or pretend to be killing? she worries. How do you explain it?

  But then again, how can they hide from Halloween? Especially in a city like New York? How can they ignore the giant pandas, Dorothys, and witches who ride the subway? How can they pretend not to see the pumpkins and the skeletons and fake spiderwebs in every store window?

  You don’t, Katherine decides. All his classmates are trick-or-treating, dressing up, and surely the kid is entitled to a little ordinary magic. Real magic, she isn’t so sure about, but candy, yes, he is definitely entitled to eat too much candy. It is his God-given right as an American. Still, she’s a little nervous as they stand on the sidelines of the jostling crowd, waiting for the parade to begin. She knows all too well the fierce Bacchanalian bent of the city on Halloween. It’s an “anything goes” and “everyone does” kind of night, hormones and beer and breasts and paint and feathers and rubber faces and fake blood. Which is great when you’re out for a crazy night, but not when you’re shepherding a five-year-old around. She checks her watch. It’s already 7:10. Luckily, the army of spectators in wild and wonderful costumes is a good-humored one. They laugh, and call to one another; they text, take and pose for photos.

  There is also a vigil for the Sickle Man’s victims tonight. They could have gone, but Katherine decided not to. Lucas seems to be doing well. These gatherings tend to get taken over by protesters wanting to make statements about the oppression of women, or by angry family members who will never have closure. Lucas and Katherine would be the reluctant center of attention. So she opts for the parade instead. And yet, she notices, the ripples are still spreading. She thinks she sees fewer people covered in blood this year. Twelve women viciously sliced open tends to take the fun out of the whole gore-covered-costume thing. There are plenty of other costumes to make up for it: Ghostbusters, nurses, guys in military gear, and homemade costumes involving clever puns; A man in a blood-sprayed apron and grimy chef’s hat wears a sign: vegetarian chef while the words on his apron read: i only eat people. Someone else, through the clever use of cardboard, has turned herself into a walking online profile.

  There are harlequin clowns, and ninjas, and obviously an inordinate number of sexy cats and bats, and of course the couples. A mouse and some cheese, a King and Queen of Hearts, and Frankenstein with his bride all jamming in close, and closer. Katherine is relieved to see that there are plenty of little kids here too, enough little kids that the crowd is somewhat monitoring itself. It’s almost 7:30 now, and a murmur is rising. The parents want their princesses and superheroes and little monsters home and in bed at a decent-ish hour.

  Then, with a roll and a flourish, the zombie drummers strike up their drums: BOOM, BOOM, BOOM. The drums light up purple and green and red when struck, and the excited crowd roars wi
th joy as the parade officially begins to march.

  “Can you see okay?” Katherine asks Lucas.

  It’s an unnecessary question as they’ve made it to the front, so really it’s her way of checking in. She doesn’t need to worry. Lucas can barely keep still. She thinks the kindergarten tried to monitor his sugar intake, but he’s still one candy-stuffed little Dalmatian.

  “Why a Dalmatian?” she had asked.

  “Because it’s the fireman’s dog,” Lucas had told her solemnly.

  “Why firemen?”

  “Because firemen save people.”

  “And you want to save people?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  It’s an answer that would have made his mother proud.

  As for herself, she’s used a black eyeliner pencil to draw a nose and whiskers across her face, jammed some pointy cat ears on her head, and called it a day. It’s lame, but it will have to do. They stand, a firehouse Dalmatian and a grown-up cat holding hands, while the massive skeleton puppets and their amazing puppeteers rattle over.

  “I’m so cooooold,” moans one.

  “My poooor booones,” cries another.

  The little kids shriek in glee, safe in the company of their parents.

  Katherine looks down at Lucas, who is laughing with delight. They watch as silly monsters and pumpkin-heads and men on stilts, and marching bands and gyrating bunnies and killer clowns and unicorns, pass by. The parade is a success, and her shoulders descend with relief. She finally made the right call.

  She is still smiling when there’s a tap on her shoulder. Snow White—the Disney version of Snow White, with black hair and a yellow skirt and a red ribbon—stands behind her. Her costume is eerily perfect.

  Snow White beams at Katherine and whispers something. The music is deafening; the marchers are breaking out into a flash mob dance, carefully choreographed to Michael Jackson’s “Thriller.”

  “Sorry, what?”

  Snow White leans in, and so does Katherine. The girl smells nice, like expensive perfume. Her breath is cool with peppermint chewing gum. Her eyes are warm and friendly.

  “You need to die,” Snow White says, and dimples.

  “What?”

  The world around Katherine turns sticky and slows, stops. She can’t have heard right.

  “You really need to die, as soon as possible. You should kill yourself.” Snow White’s tone is mild, almost tender.

  “What?”

  The girl is sweetly patient. “Maybe an overdose. It doesn’t have to be painful.”

  Katherine feels as if she has just been struck. Her ears buzz, and her lips feel numb.

  “What’s wrong with you? What the hell is wrong with you? Why are you saying this?”

  A momentary flicker of confusion crosses Snow White’s face.

  Oh God, Katherine realizes, she doesn’t know why she’s saying this.

  Then Snow White shakes her head, the way a horse would shake away a fly. “I just know you should.” She presses her hand to her heart. “In here.”

  Each detail of Snow White’s face crystalizes against the now-dimmed backdrop of the parade. Katherine can make out the thick mascara clinging to her eyelashes, the pores on her nose, the smudge of lipstick on her lower lip. And her eyes, her vacuous, varnished eyes.

  Like all the others. Katherine’s stomach clenches, her gorge rises. She begins to shiver, can’t stop.

  “Fuck off!” she hisses. She shouldn’t be swearing in front of Lucas, but she needs to make this woman shut up, to get away.

  “I’m just saying what all of us are thinking.” Snow White shrugs apologetically. She glances down at Lucas. “You should probably take him with you when you do it.”

  No one threatens Lucas. This is cold water. This is electricity. This is the metallic click of the barrel of the gun. “Back. Off.”

  Katherine’s voice isn’t loud, but Snow White’s eyes widen. She grimaces as though, for a second, her real self is breaking through. And then her expression glazes over and she is swallowed up again by whatever it is that wears her like a skin. “Okay. I just felt you should know. The longer you wait, the worse it’s going to get.”

  A harassed Cinderella elbows up to Snow White. “Stace, we have to go.”

  “Okay,” Snow White agrees. “I’m coming.”

  She turns back to Katherine, almost regretful. “Look, sooner or later one of us will kill you. Even if we have to die to do it.”

  “Get the fuck away from us.” Katherine’s voice is hoarse and shaky. She wonders how she’s still breathing, still upright.

  Snow White, Stace, appears puzzled, even a little hurt. “Have a good night.”

  She moves away, and a cheerful-looking clown rapidly fills the space.

  “Kat.” There’s a tug on her hand.

  “Yes, honey? What’s wrong?”

  Lucas shakes his head.

  “Want to get out of here?”

  He nods.

  They begin the slow, torturous fight out of the crowd. All the fun of the parade has darkened. Everyone is endlessly coming and going and pushing, yet somehow they manage to squeeze through.

  His pressure on her hand tightens.

  “Kat? I has to go to the bathroom.”

  Great, she thinks. Like any of the bathrooms will be available for a five-year-old kid tonight. “Oh, honey. Okay.”

  She tries to work out where they could go. The bars are bursting at the seams with costumed drunks, axe-wielding murderers, mad scientists, and fiendish ghosts. She and Lucas are heading toward a slightly less hectic side street, and maybe there’s a diner around somewhere that’s not so packed.

  She spots one and they walk in. Immediately, she sees the sign: bathroom only for paying customers. Shit. There’s no open table they can sit at, of course.

  She takes a deep breath, and walks up to the register with Lucas.

  “Please, he’s only a little boy, he’ll pee himself, I’m begging you. I’ll buy something to go.”

  The old guy with the hooded eyes at the register begins to shake his head; then he sees Lucas and stops. Sighs. Gestures to the back.

  “Thank you, thank you.”

  But he doesn’t turn around again.

  They walk to the back.

  “Okay, honey? I’ll be right outside the door.”

  While she waits, she tries to calm down, but can’t stop replaying what just happened in her head.

  I’m just saying what all of us are thinking.

  Jesus, what was that? Who was that freakish girl? What did she mean by “all of us”? Katherine glances toward the entrance of the diner; then she returns her focus to the bathroom door. Her forehead is clammy, and she has to clench her jaw to keep her teeth from chattering like one of those stupid gimmicky toys. A scattering of brilliant dots swims before her eyes, the first sign of a whopper migraine descending.

  Sooner or later one of us will kill you. Even if we have to die to do it.

  The toilet flushes and Lucas emerges.

  “All good?”

  “Yes. But . . .”

  “But what?”

  “I’m hungry.”

  Katherine is about to tell him they’ll get something at home when her stomach growls, and she realizes that she’s starving. Suddenly she’s craving matzo ball soup. Or chicken noodle soup. Something soup. Warm and comforting and practical. Nurturing food. Pregnancy strikes again.

  She glances around the busy diner. Fat chance of finding a table here. They’ll have to go somewhere else. As they make their way back to the front, a massive man seated with a female companion reaches out with one great arm and bars their way. Katherine steels herself. What other presents does the night have in store?

  The man, who must weigh a good 250 pounds, is dressed as a Viking, complete with a huge beard and braids. His face is one of a battered warrior, with eyes that are a startling pale blue. Nordic eyes, winter-day eyes. The woman is on the wrong side of fifty. She has a wonderfully hooked parrot
nose, which dominates her face underneath long blond hair and militant bangs. Her sleeveless leather vest reveals equally leathery skin. Katherine has no idea if she’s in costume or not. They both wear a certain dream-like expression that she has come to know and dread.

  “Miss, miss! Take our table,” the Viking offers.

  “We’re finished here anyway,” says his friend.

  Katherine looks at their half-eaten burgers, the almost untouched sides of fries. No one leaves that many fries.

  “Oh no, we couldn’t.” She means it. She glances down at Lucas, who is staring at the giant—but not, Katherine senses, in fear. Well, at least that’s something. Of course she shouldn’t be using Lucas like a canary in a coal mine.

  “Please,” urges the Viking. “You should be sitting, in your condition.”

  “It would be our honor,” the woman adds.

  It’s a bizarre thing to say but Katherine doesn’t crack a smile. Their unexpected, old-fashioned chivalry should make her feel better after the encounter with Snow White, but somehow it makes her feel worse. Some want to protect her, others kill her. It’s all wrong. Short of running out of the diner, though, there’s nothing to be done.

  “Thank you,” she says weakly.

  The man, all six feet five inches of him, rises and tries to bow; the woman follows him, strangely bobbing in a sort of curtsy. They smile, widely, vacantly and then turn to go and pay the man up front.

  She nods at Lucas and they slide into the turquoise booth. Almost everyone here is in costume. A busboy comes by, but his eyes, Katherine is thankful to see, hold no strange gleam. He clears away the couple’s abandoned food. Katherine nearly asks him to leave the fries, but she holds herself back.

  Lucas orders the mac and cheese, and Katherine has chicken soup and fries. She’s tempted to order some wings. And maybe chicken tenders too. Definitely a pregnant thing, she sighs, and then her attention is drawn to one of the main booths, where a group is laughing, being loud. They’re hot hipster types, these guys, good-looking, seemingly educated. They all wear various robes, and most have beards. They look familiar, but she can’t figure it out. Many photos are being taken. Sometimes they pose for them, and in between shots they eat.