For Jan
PROLOGUE
THERE ONCE WAS A GIRL with tangles in her hair. She liked the tangles. She dug her fingers into them, twirled and spun them with curious, searching fingers. Her name was Hulda.
Hulda had a sister whose hair was as smooth as river water. The mother brushed the sister’s hair like it was something precious. “Like spun gold,” the mother said. Hulda had never seen spun gold. But if it was anything like the sister’s hair, she thought it must be very beautiful.
Maybe, Hulda thought, spun gold was like snakeskin. Snakeskin shimmered like the sister’s hair. Hulda wondered if the sister’s hair felt like a snake’s skin, too. Cool and alive. But the sister didn’t let Hulda touch her hair. “Dirty hands,” the sister would say, and wrinkle her pretty nose. Hulda’s hands were often dirty, it was true. It was only when the sister was sleeping in the bed next to hers that Hulda could creep over and pick up a coil of the sister’s hair, spread it across her arm. The hair lay there, lifeless. Not like a snake at all. Hulda let it drop to the pillow. Wrinkled her own less pretty nose.
Every evening after that, she watched with altered eyes while the mother brushed the sister’s hair, the firelight turning each strand a different shade of sunshine-yellow. Hulda felt caught in a place between envy and disdain. It was a silly thing to fuss over something so dead. And yet she saw the pleasure the mother took in each stroke, the way the sister’s eyes half closed like a drowsy cat’s.
The mother used to brush Hulda’s hair that way. That was a long time ago. Hulda was little then, years before her first bleed. She could hardly recall the feel of the mother’s hands in her hair. The last time, the mother had threatened to cut it all off. “Child, if you can’t keep the tangles out yourself and you cry so when I brush it, what choice do I have?” But the father had insisted no. “A woman’s hair is her glory,” he said. Hulda hadn’t known what that meant at the time. Now she did. On her wedding night a woman was supposed to unwrap her hair and offer it to her husband like a gift, something only he was allowed to see and touch. This was why the sister, on her eighteenth birthday, had taken to braiding her hair and winding it around her head, a secret to be revealed to none other than the man she married.
Hulda was sixteen, and such things only played at the periphery of her vision, like a bird fluttering off before she could catch sight of what it was. But birds didn’t interest Hulda so much anymore.
When they were little, Hulda and the sister had been always together. When the mother woke them in the morning, she’d find them curled up in the same narrow bed, legs and arms and hair intertwined. After breakfast the girls fussed over the baby animals on their parents’ farm. The puffy white lambs and yellow chicks. They’d even taken to naming them. But the parents had admonished them that there was no sense naming something that they or one of their neighbors would someday be eating. The sister lost interest in the game after that, but Hulda had concluded that in the natural order of things, one didn’t eat what one named. So she took to naming the creatures that weren’t likely to be eaten by anyone in the village. The parents made this difficult, though. It seemed there were few living things in Hulda’s world that weren’t ultimately headed for someone’s dinner table. Deer. Doves. Rabbits. So she turned her attention to smaller things. Ants. Beetles. Butterflies and moths. Fireflies on summer evenings. She’d catch one in her hands, whisper a name into her palms, and then let it go. “Fly, Asmund! Enjoy a nice long life!”
Years passed that way, and while the sister pinned her hair to her head and grew into a woman, Hulda christened salamanders and snacked on wild berries until her lips turned purple. She liked to think each time she named a creature was a sort of blessing, like the pastor’s upraised hands at the end of Sunday service. An invocation of some magical, protective gift. She loved to lie in the field near home, the one that gently sank into marsh, and let the wind blow the long grasses softly over her in tickles and strokes. She’d lay perfectly still, her fingernails dug into the earth as if she too were dug in, while bees buzzed around her, flies landed but never bit. She named each one.
The first time a snake slithered over her, she held her breath. It wasn’t fright that made her still. It was delight. The feel of snake scale on skin was so delicious it sent a tremor up her spine. The snake was slender and green and its tiny black eyes regarded her with a calm that made her calm as well. She named it Grön, which seemed only fitting.
After that, the snakes became her special friends. They spoke to her. Not in a way that she could hear, but in a place that she could feel. They told her their secret names, the names they held within themselves. It was a presumption, Hulda realized, to have given a name to the snake she called Grön. When she found him again, she apologized. He flicked her earlobe with his gentle forked tongue and she knew she was forgiven. His name, he told her, wasn’t Grön at all.
While the sister stayed at home collecting eggs and learning to churn butter, Hulda escaped immediately after breakfast and rarely returned before supper. This way she mostly avoided the mother’s despairing gaze. Still, she felt the mother’s eyes following her hands as she reached for bread at the table. When the mother’s lips thinned with disgust, Hulda knew what would happen. Once the dishes had been cleared, the mother would take Hulda’s hands in her own and scrape the dirt from under her fingernails. Hulda quietly endured the digging of the mother’s file in those tender places. While the mother labored, she didn’t marvel over Hulda’s hands the way she did over the sister’s hair. Instead the mother said, “Life is difficult enough without your daughter making it more so.”
One day Hulda sat at the roots of a large tree. She was still learning all the snakes’ names, concentrating hard on the task, and that was why she didn’t notice the approach of the farmer boy the sister’s age. He was more man than boy, really—broad in the shoulders and sprouting a new beard.
The snakes were gathered around Hulda, patiently whispering to her, nestled among the tree roots, and maybe that was why the boy didn’t see them until they were almost underfoot.
Hulda’s favorite snake had woven itself into her hair like a green ribbon. She and it looked up when they sensed the boy’s presence. The boy’s eyes widened. He lifted his finger and started to say something. But then he saw the snakes. All the snakes. And the snakes saw him, and they all raised their heads and turned to him. If the boy had known anything about snakes he might have been calmer, but he wasn’t that kind of boy. He was the kind of boy who stomped, and that was what he did then. He stomped those snakes, stomped them hard. Hulda screamed. She got to her feet and the sounds coming out of her weren’t girl sounds at all, the boy would swear later. The eyes that looked back at him from her face weren’t girl eyes, either. He fled.
Hulda ran her fingers over the snakes the boy had bruised with his awful boy feet. They coiled around her wrists, sought solace in the crooks of her arms. The green snake slithered more deeply into her hair.
Hours later, in the cool of dusk, she went home to the sound of crickets. She’d forgotten all about the clumsy boy. She’d learned so many names since then.
They were all there when Hulda got home. The mother and father. The sister. The boy and his mother and father. The memory of the boy’s stomping feet came back to Hulda in a rush, and she nearly opened her mouth to tell them how horrible he’d been, but the words dissolved on her tongue. They were looking at Hulda with accusing eyes. The boy’s mother said to Hulda’s mother, “You’ll do as we agreed?” Hulda’s mother nodded.
Hulda was sent to bed hungry, and downstairs she heard her family talking.
“We’ll keep her locked up. No more running wild,” the father said.
“
You can’t make me sleep in the same room with her,” the sister said.
“In the barn with her then,” the father said.
“No, not that,” the mother said. “Besides, what would the neighbors think?”
“What do the neighbors think already?” the sister said. “I wish I had no sister. She’ll ruin us all. Who will want to marry me with a creature like that for a relation?”
Hulda lay in her bed listening to all of this while hot tears stung the corners of her eyes. She remembered when the sister and she had been as woven together as a single braid. She mourned the loss in a rush that emptied her heart and left nothing in its place. She’d never felt so alone.
Just then, a delicate stroke above her left ear reminded her that she wasn’t alone, and never would be. The slender green snake slid down her cheek and throat, grazed her earlobe with its tongue, and then wove himself into her hair once again. Hulda fell asleep that way.
Hours later, Hulda woke to a dark room and the sister’s screams. “It’s crawling on me! It’s crawling on me!”
Hulda’s hands flew to her hair, searched her scalp. The slender green snake was gone.
The darkness was broken by lamplight and the mother and father in the doorway. “What’s happened, child? What’s crawling on you?”
Hulda held her breath, but the mother and father found nothing. The sister was untouched, despite her wailing to the contrary. She pointed at Hulda. “It was a snake crawling on me. She did it.” The parents looked at Hulda.
“I was asleep,” Hulda said. “I woke up to her screaming, same as you. I did nothing.”
The sister’s eyes narrowed at Hulda and then at the parents. “You believe her and not me?”
“No, child, it’s not like that,” the mother said.
“What’s it like, then? You heard what happened. She’s a monster. You’ll know it when she’s killed me in my bed.”
“All right, child. There, there.” The mother placed soothing hands on the sister’s brow. Stroked her rivers of golden hair. “Nothing evil can befall you here. It was a dream, that’s all.”
The father said nothing, but looked at Hulda with cold eyes. Hulda lay her head down on her pillow.
The door closed and the room darkened to black again.
Minutes passed and Hulda felt the cool stroke of scales on her cheek, and the green snake nestled himself in her hair once again. Hulda let go of the breath she’d been holding in her chest since the sister first screamed.
Then the sister spoke to her soft and low from across the room. “I hate you, Hulda.”
“I hate you, too,” Hulda said.
It didn’t happen every night. Days might go by when Hulda woke to the dawn and the snake was nestled in her hair, right where he belonged. But just often enough, the sister woke up in the night screaming, and the slender green snake was nowhere to be found. The mother always insisted these were nothing but nightmares. The trouble would pass, she said. Dreams always did. And the father always looked at Hulda with cold eyes.
In the meantime the mother kept Hulda locked inside. When Hulda wasn’t helping the mother in the kitchen, or mending socks with uneven stitches, she stared longingly through the window, craving the dirt under her fingernails, the snakes whispering their names in her ears. The slender green snake was a comfort, but Hulda sensed he was ailing. Hulda felt herself sickening as well. As fall sank into winter, leaves browning and drifting, Hulda also withered and drifted. She wasn’t really the girl sitting in the chair by the window, the green snake coiled in her hair. Her body was there. But the other part of her, the better part, was gone.
She longed for the voices of the snakes in her ears. They’d been silent to her for so long. The green snake spoke to her still, but his whisper was so faint she had to strain to hear it. Call to them, the green snake said, tell them we’re dying.
In her bones, Hulda knew this to be true. If she didn’t get out, she would die here in this chair by the window. She and the green snake.
She begged the mother to let her out for even an hour. “I could help you,” Hulda said. “I could fetch father for dinner. I could sell eggs in the village for you.”
But the mother always said, “You stay here.”
Then one Sunday morning, Hulda woke up and the snake voices were loud and there were so many of them, all talking at once. The words hissed over each other, but Hulda felt their meaning.
Get out, they said. Get out. He’s coming.
It was the boy the snakes were warning her about. The boy who’d stomped them.
The mother and father had invited him to dinner after church. The sister had made cake.
Sunday mornings were the only time the mother and father let Hulda place a foot on the ground outside their farmhouse, and to breathe air that wasn’t still and stale. This wasn’t a mercy, Hulda knew. It was because they feared what she might do if they left her alone.
Hulda carried herself like any other girl attending service with her family. Mostly. She sat with folded hands. She bowed her head. And when all the rest of the congregation whispered their prayers, Hulda whispered to the snakes, ever so quietly and under her breath. She felt them far beneath her, in their deep winter dens where they burrowed and warmed each other in the cold. The soles of her feet tickled.
In the back of the wagon on the way home from church, the sister pinched Hulda hard in the fleshy part of her arm. “Behave,” she said. “They’ll send you away if you don’t.”
“Good,” Hulda said, and smiled in a way that caused the sister to shrink from her.
“There’s something very wrong with you,” the sister said.
Hulda didn’t talk to the snakes while the boy was there that afternoon, but the snakes talked to her. Get out, they said. Get out. He’s here.
Hulda was quiet while the father talked to the boy, asking him polite questions about his family’s farm, their yield and horses. The sister smiled and served the boy her cake. The mother smiled and cleared the table while the boy and the sister pulled chairs up to the fire.
Hulda darned socks and rocked with the voices in her head.
She felt the boy’s eyes on her, and she wondered why he was looking at her. She touched her hand to her hair, making sure the green snake was where he belonged. He moved against her index finger. She stroked him and then pulled her hand away.
The sister’s eyes were bright, lit by the fire and her desire for the boy’s attention. “Why, I daresay Hulda’s fixing her hair for you,” she said to the boy.
The boy laughed and Hulda felt her cheeks burn. “I wasn’t,” she said.
The father laughed now, too. “There are worse things than fixing your hair for a boy, Hulda. You’re old enough for braiding now.” He looked over at the mother where she sat with her own mending.
The mother caught Hulda’s eye and what Hulda saw when she looked back was fear. Not fear of Hulda, but rather fear for Hulda. “There’s time for that,” the mother said. “But not yet.”
Hulda’s heart filled and opened toward the mother, suddenly and painfully. It had been so long since she’d felt cared for. Her eyes widened and she almost smiled. Maybe this was why Hulda didn’t notice how the sister’s excitement had grown, and how the sister’s hand reached for her, picking up a tangled hank of Hulda’s hair.
Hulda’s gasp of surprise was drowned by the sister’s shriek. The green snake had reared its head and hissed at the moment the sister’s hand invaded his home.
The sister fell backward. The father shot to his feet, sending his cup of tea spilling and rolling across the floor. The mother whitened and froze, her needle held midair.
The boy was more decisive. He leapt toward Hulda, grasped the green snake with his fist, and threw him into the fire.
Hulda heard the green snake screaming in her head, and she matched his screams with her own. Then the green snake screamed no more, but Hulda couldn’t stop.
Hulda felt herself being held and she couldn’t have said who i
t was that held her. She thrashed and bucked. The scent of burnt flesh was in her nostrils, and she felt burnt herself, heated up outside and in. Too hot. Too hot. When she could scream words they were words of burning. “I’m on fire,” she howled. “On fire.”
The snakes in her head were all screaming at once and she could no longer make out what they were saying. Were they burning, too? Were they all burning?
Hulda felt something cold and wet on her forehead and she looked up at the mother leaning over her, resting a cloth there. Hulda was in her bed; she and the mother were alone. “Child,” the mother said. “You must calm yourself. This screaming and carrying on, it’ll do you no good. Nor any of us.”
Hulda looked up at the mother’s face, written with concern. This time the mother’s concern was for herself, not for Hulda.
“Mother,” she said. “If I could. If only I could.” And then the snakes in her head screamed and so did Hulda. “I’m on fire,” she howled. “On fire.”
For three days and nights Hulda writhed, twisted, and sweat through her bed linens.
On the fourth day, a woman appeared in the doorway to Hulda’s bedroom. Hulda recognized her: the midwife.
The midwife said, “She looks well enough.”
“Well enough?” the mother said. “She’s burning up! You can feel it yourself. She’ll burn away to ash before long.”
“You mistake me,” the midwife said. “She looks well, but she isn’t well. I believe her . . . suffering . . . is spiritual in nature.”
The mother narrowed her eyes at the midwife. “How so?”
“If it were a fever she’d be weak and pliable. But look at her strength! Look how she twists and screams. And that heat. That’s not fever heat. No. This is something . . . else.”
The midwife stepped gingerly toward Hulda. The nearer she came, the more Hulda thrashed. She felt the midwife closing in, sensed her looming body. She tried to shrink from the midwife; she pressed down into the pillow and bed linens. In her head the snakes were still talking over each other, a jumble of voices that sounded like pain felt. Her skin burned hotter. She couldn’t bear it, the heat, the fire, the terrible heat.
The Cold Is in Her Bones Page 1
