“It has served me well enough,” Evin said, and drew his shears from the bucket, setting his attention firmly back on the sculpture tree.
For a while, Evin worked to the sounds of the garden. He ran his hands across the branches, letting the subtle wills of the tree and the symbiotic glowworms guide where he pruned back, and where wire should be added or adjusted to coax the branches into the shape mutually desired. He was not trying to read their auras, but it had become part of his process.
“It is not often I enjoy my assignments away from my Lord Jerain’s court,” the hunter said softly.
Evin snipped a branch too far.
“My profession is not a pleasant one,” the hunter continued. “If I’m not bullying a noble into doing Lord Jerain’s will, then I am in the slums of our world watching our family’s second-souled, making sure they keep to their places. Sometimes I am sent to find a soul that has gone astray.”
Evin made his hands keep working, his attention so tight on the signals of the sculpture that the input was painful. It was like that day two months ago, when the branches beneath his hands had exploded into too much texture, too much color, the world into too much sound and soul. His hands trembled, and he eased his focus, the pain of the input fading.
“Those who receive a second soul are always carefully chosen. It’s a permanent process, after all. We don’t take volunteers; they are too eager for the abilities a second soul can bring, though most don’t know that we can’t kill with a glance, or read minds, or any of the other attributes the rumors give us. What we can do requires training, and we take special care the candidates do not have the discipline to achieve a competency that might pose a problem. Above all, the candidates must be miserable. Because that is how it works. A noble doesn’t gain the desired bliss by sourcing out his soul. A noble is only as happy as his second-souled is miserable.”
Evin looked up. Was she miserable?
The hunter’s lips quirked. “I do not have it so bad. Soul hunters are chosen and paired for their neutrality.”
She tilted her head. “You aren’t afraid of me.”
Evin cleared his throat, but she waved her hand.
“No, I know you fear what I am, that’s not what I mean. You all fear that, though your father disguises it well enough.”
“My father forgot you were anything but a courtier last night,” Evin said.
“And that is a mistake. You didn’t. But neither do you push me away. And you are not particularly polite.”
Evin snorted, but he felt the blood rush to his face. “If I have given offense—”
“You have not,” the hunter said, and smiled.
* * *
Evin found himself drawn into the dinner conversation that evening as the hunter burst fully into life, hands waving, anecdotes shot out with court precision. His father roared with laughter, the earl’s great voice booming throughout the hall, and Evin struggled to keep some sense of decorum as the hunter mercilessly timed her punch lines to the moment he took a sip of wine. He told one of his favorite stories of the inner-world duchess who had come to see his sculptures, asked what all the infestation of vermin was on their branches, and then had been enraged to discover that the glowworms were what produced the whole effect.
He didn’t time it completely right, but the hunter at least had to cover her mouth after taking a bite of the seasoned crab.
His father chimed in. “And do you remember when … ?”
Evin kept his eyes on the hunter. Her aura had been dancing with color throughout the meal, more color and variation than he had yet seen from her. She gave him a small smile, then turned back to his father and laughed as he built up to the conclusion of another episode of court intrigue. Her aura glowed with purples and reds, a close echo of his father’s amusement.
And then she steered the conversation into more serious matters. Evin was less interested in these, but he tracked her aura, comparing it to his father’s and what he had already learned of the colors in relation to the emotions and moods they represented. The discussion moved swiftly, turning from one aspect of a subject to another with specific responses: anger, annoyance, determination, satisfaction. He heard all these and recognized them in his father’s voice, and saw their colors steady and unnaturally clear in the hunter’s aura.
She was teaching him. This was a teaching pattern.
Evin held his fork halfway to his mouth for a long moment. His father looked at him, annoyance flaring in streaks of yellow-orange, the emotion heightened, clarified, in the hunter’s aura. But it was not what she actually felt. Now Evin could see the deep violet of her aura beneath. None of these things were actually what she felt, not fully.
Why was she doing this? He had no secret any longer, and what did hunters do to those found with a soul that had gone astray? He had grown up with the stories—people taken by the hunters and later seen as raving mad, or never heard from again. The metal of his talisman cuff clinked as he set his hand back on the table.
He made himself take another bite, and then another. He forced himself to hold the conversation, and contribute where he had anything to contribute. The hunter brought the talk back to the gardens, and then he could speak more freely. She wanted him to relax. Like the moth-spider lulling its prey before it killed?
Evin watched her cycle through her teaching pattern, then relaxed a bit more as her aura smoothed back into only violet-gray, though she carried on with outward animation. He could see the strain in the set of her shoulders, the tightness around her lips when she paused between speaking.
She knew he was watching. She knew he was seeing her as human.
* * *
Hunter Mira Tran stayed for three more days, walking the gardens with Evin at night, staying with him as he worked, this time on the tiger. He didn’t hold back any of his new senses or his ability to use them as he coaxed the front paw into its final shape. That would be pointless now. The hunter mostly sat on her stool, just watching.
Occasionally, Evin would glance over to see her leaning against a tree, face tilted upward to catch the patches of sun that filtered through the branches. Sometimes it was Evin who would talk, explaining an arc he had put into a group of branches and how it would form a stronger growth. He did not need to explain how he knew this, for she would see the same auras of the plant and leaves and glowworms once he had shown her what he was doing. She ran light fingers over the ends of the branches, and then drew back as if she had just touched someone else’s lover.
She led him through teaching patterns at dinner every night until he began to know not only the boldest colors, but how to read variations in color patterns and frequencies of vibrations. He could read his father with a precision that felt intrusive. Subtle patterns in the plants that he had not seen before became clearer, and he honed further.
And then came the day when Mira had to leave.
“It was an unexpected pleasure,” Evin’s father said, bowing as he took her hands in a grip he reserved for friends. “Please feel free to visit again if you are ever on our world. You would be most welcome—indeed, I would insist.”
Mira smiled. “I would insist as well.” She glanced at Evin. “And now I must be going.”
“I will walk you to the car,” Evin said, with his own stiff bow. He didn’t offer his hand, and she didn’t offer hers.
Evin led the way down the marble entry steps and to the path that led to the mews where he could hear the soft whine of her waiting car. But he stopped when the hedge hid them from the house, and he pulled Mira out of sight of the driver. He stared at her, and she at him.
“What will you do?” Evin asked. He felt his throat tighten around the next words. “I have one of your family’s—”
Green fear flickered around the edges of her aura. “Sometimes a soul truly does get lost. I am the only one who can find my Lord Jerain’s soul; I will board my ship and continue my search.”
Evin coughed. He had wondered just whose soul he had be
en given. What did she risk to do this for him?
Mira reached for his left hand and gripped the talisman cuff. “Don’t take it off,” she said. “I know it glares. Don’t ever take it off.”
She couldn’t do this. Evin opened his mouth.
“I am valuable,” she said. “So are you. Live, Evin Arduay. Make your waterfalls and your tigers; be happy.” Her aura wavered. “Give us a voice.”
Evin’s hand twitched toward her, but then the whine of the car engine shifted pitch. The driver had seen them coming and was readying to go.
Evin cleared his throat. “May you travel safe, Ms. Tran.”
She hesitated only a moment before nodding. Then she turned and strode for the waiting car.
Evin went to the clearing with the tiger, but he could not work. He paced, his boots tearing ruts in the grass.
Damn them all. Damn the nobles and their outsourced souls. And damn Lord Jerain most of all—
Pain clenched Evin’s chest, and he gasped, leaning over. He couldn’t damn that soul. It was inside him.
He looked up at his tiger and felt the aura of the trees and the glowworms, the honing and the calling to hone more. This was what he was. He hadn’t wanted another’s soul, but it was his now. He would not give it up if he could.
Evin grabbed his shears, pressed his hands to the leaves on the ends of the branches, and closed his eyes. He let the tiger’s aura seep into his fingertips and into his souls.
He heard the tiger’s voice and lent his own.
He let her roar.
Sabbath Wine
Barbara Krasnoff
“My name’s Malka Hirsch,” the girl said. “I’m nine.”
“I’m David Richards,” the boy said. “I’m almost thirteen.”
The two kids were sitting on the bottom step of a run-down brownstone at the edge of the Brooklyn neighborhood of Brownsville. It was late on a hot summer afternoon, and people were just starting to drift home from work, lingering on stoops and fire escapes to catch any hint of a breeze before going up to their stifling flats.
Malka and David had been sitting there companionably for a while, listening to a chorus of gospel singers practicing in the first floor front apartment at the top of the stairs. Occasionally, the music paused as a male voice offered instructions and encouragement; it was during one of those pauses that the kids introduced themselves to each other.
Malka looked up at her new friend doubtfully. “You don’t mind talking to me?” she asked. “Most big boys don’t like talking to girls my age. My cousin Shlomo, he only wanted to talk to the older girl who lived down the street and who wore short skirts and a scarf around her neck.”
“I don’t mind,” said David. “I like kids. And anyway, I’m dead, so I guess that makes a difference.”
Above them, the enthusiastic chorus started again. As a soprano wailed a high lament, she shivered in delight. “I wish I could sing like that.”
“It’s called ‘Ride Up in the Chariot,’” said David. “When I was little, my mama used to sing it when she washed the white folks’ laundry. She told me my great-grandma sang it when she stole away from slavery.”
“It’s nice,” Malka said. She had short, dark brown hair that just reached her shoulders and straight bangs that touched her eyebrows. She had pulled her rather dirty knees up and was resting her chin on them, her arms wrapped around her legs. “I’ve heard that one before, but I didn’t know what it was called. They practice every Thursday, and I come here to listen.”
“Why don’t you go in?” asked David. He was just at that stage of adolescence where the body seemed to be growing too fast; his long legs stretched out in front of him while he leaned back on his elbows. He had a thin, cheerful face set off by bright, intelligent eyes and hair cropped so close to his skull that it looked almost painted on. “I’m sure they wouldn’t mind, and you could hear better.”
Malka grinned and pointed to the sign just above the front-door bell that read Cornerstone Baptist Church. “My papa would mind,” she said. “He’d mind plenty. He’d think I was going to get converted or something.”
“No wonder I never seen you before,” said the boy. “I usually just come on Sundays. Other days, I …” He paused. “Well, I usually just come on Sundays.”
The music continued against a background of voices from the people around them. A couple of floors above, a baby cried, and two man argued in sharp, dangerous tones; down on the ground, a gang of boys ran past, laughing, ignoring the two kids sitting outside the brownstone. A man sat on a cart laden with what looked like a family’s possessions. Obviously in no hurry, he let the horse take its time as it proceeded down the cobblestone street.
The song ended, and a sudden clatter of chairs and conversation indicated that the rehearsal was over. The two kids stood and moved to a nearby streetlamp so they wouldn’t get in the way of the congregation leaving the brownstone in twos and threes.
Malka looked at David. “Wait a minute,” she said. “Did you say you were dead?”
“Uh-huh,” he said. “Well, at least, that’s what my daddy told me.”
She frowned. “You ain’t,” she said and then, when he didn’t say anything, “Really?”
He nodded affably. She reached out and poked him in the arm. “You ain’t,” she repeated. “If you were a ghost or something, I couldn’t touch you.”
He shrugged and stared down at the street. Unwilling to lose her new friend, Malka quickly added, “It don’t matter. If you wanna be dead, that’s okay with me.”
“I don’t want to be dead,” said David. “I don’t even know if I really am. It’s just what Daddy told me.”
“Okay,” Malka said.
She swung slowly around the pole, holding on with one hand, while David stood patiently, his hands in the pockets of his worn pants.
Something caught his attention and he grinned. “Bet I know what he’s got under his coat,” he said, and pointed at a tall man hurrying down the street, his jacket carefully covering a package.
“It’s a bottle!” said Malka scornfully. “That’s obvious.”
“It’s moonshine,” said David, laughing.
“How do you know?” asked Malka, peering at the man.
“My daddy sells the stuff,” said David. “Out of a candy store over on Dumont Street.”
Malka was impressed. “Is he a gangster? I saw a movie about a gangster once.”
David grinned again. “Naw,” he said. “Just a low-rent bootlegger. If my mama ever heard about it, she’d come back here and make him stop in a hurry, you bet.”
“My mama’s dead,” Malka said. “Where is yours?”
David shrugged. “Don’t know,” he said. “She left one day and never came back.” He paused, then asked curiously, “You all don’t go to church, right?”
“Nope.”
“Well, what do you do?”
Malka smiled and tossed her hair back. “I’ll show you,” she said. “Would you like to come to a Sabbath dinner?”
* * *
Malka and her father lived in the top floor of a modern five-story apartment building about six blocks from the brownstone church. Somewhere between there and home, David had gone his own way, Malka didn’t quite remember when. It didn’t matter much, she decided. She had a plan, and she could tell David about it later.
She stood in the main room that acted as parlor, dining room, and kitchen. It was sparsely but comfortably furnished: besides a small wooden table that sat by the open window, there was a coal oven, a sink with cold running water, a cupboard over against one wall, and an overloaded bookcase against another. A faded flower-print rug covered the floor; it had obviously seen several tenants come and go.
Malka’s father sat at the table reading a newspaper by the slowly waning light, his elbow on the windowsill, his head leaning on his hand. A small plate with the remains of his supper sat nearby. He hadn’t shaved for a while; a short, dark beard covered his face.
“Papa,”
said Malka.
Her father winced as though something hurt him, but he didn’t take his eyes from the book. “Yes, Malka?” he asked.
“Papa, today is Thursday, isn’t it?”
He raised his head and looked at her. Perhaps it was the beard, or because he worked so hard at the furrier’s where he spent his days curing animal pelts, but his face seemed more worn and sad than ever.
“Yes, daughter,” he said quietly. “Today is Thursday.”
She sat opposite him and folded her hands neatly in front of her. “Which means that tomorrow is Friday. And tomorrow night is the Sabbath.”
He smiled. “Now, Malka, when was the last time you saw your papa in a synagogue, rocking and mumbling useless prayers with the old men? This isn’t how I brought you up. You know I won’t participate in any—”
“—bourgeois religious ceremonies,” she finished with him. “Yes, I know. But I was thinking, Papa, that I would like to have a real Sabbath. The kind that you used to have with Mama. Just once. As …” Her face brightened. “As an educational experience.”
Her father sighed and closed his book. “An educational experience, hah?” he asked. “I see. How about this: If you want, on Saturday, we can go to Prospect Park. We’ll sit by the lake and feed the swans. Would you like that?”
“That would be nice,” said Malka. “But it’s not the same thing, is it?”
He shrugged. “No, Malka. You’re right. It isn’t.”
Across the alley, a clothesline squeaked as somebody pulled on it, an infant cried, and somebody cursed in a loud combination of Russian and Yiddish.
“And what brought on this sudden religious fervor?” her father asked. “You’re not going to start demanding I grow my beard to my knees and read nothing but holy books, are you?”
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