The Cold Is in Her Bones

by Peternelle van Arsdale

  She leapt up from the bed and hurled herself toward the open window. She would throw herself through it, she thought. Into the cold and snow. Put out the fire. Then there would be no more burning, no voices screaming in her head. No more frightened faces staring at her from across rooms. No more sitting in chairs looking through windows at places she couldn’t go. She could dig her fingers into earth once again, if only to die there.

  But before she could leap through the window the father’s hands were on her, and the midwife’s hands were on her, and where they touched her she felt scorched, as if her flesh might pull away in their grips. She screamed in agony. To make them stop was all she wanted. But they forced her down to the floor, the father holding her arms, the midwife straddling her legs.

  So she used the only weapon they’d left her with. She sank her teeth into the father’s fleshy earlobe and didn’t let go until she tasted blood.

  Finally, she wasn’t the only one screaming.

  Later, after Hulda’s hands and feet had been tied to the bedposts, the midwife said, “I told you. It’s the demon heat.”

  “Yes, the demon heat,” the father said, cradling his ear.

  The sister fled to her aunt and uncle’s farm and promised she never would return so long as that monster was in the house.

  The mother wept. “Why us? We’ve done nothing to deserve this.”

  “We cannot know why some are stricken,” the midwife said.

  “What’s to be done about it?” the father said. “How can we purge ourselves of . . .” He gestured at Hulda.

  The midwife said that the best way to battle a demon so fiery was to douse its flame. She would freeze the demon out of Hulda. Take her away from the farm, into the woods, and leave her there for three days, long enough for the demon to pass out of her. The third day would be a Sunday, which they all agreed was fitting. After church and praying for the Lord’s mercy on her soul, they would return for the child that remained once the demon was gone.

  The mother asked if she might clothe Hulda, but the midwife refused. “No, that will only give shelter to the demon.”

  Hulda was left alone again. When the light through the window had dimmed to afternoon, Hulda felt herself surrounded. She was untied from the bed, and though she thrashed, there were too many hands and arms upon her. They wrapped ropes around her and she could no longer move, only scream.

  Her eyes cleared for a moment and she saw the mother there, hands twisted together, face drawn tight. Hulda said, “Mother?”

  The mother’s hands went to her mouth. Then to her eyes.

  Then there was no mother anymore. No father. Only the fire inside Hulda and the screaming of the snakes.

  Hulda felt the bite of the cold as she was carried out of the house and into the woods. Her wet nightshift froze to her skin.

  They laid her down. Hulda looked up at the branches of an evergreen white with snow. She shook. There was no fire inside her anymore. There were no voices in her head. There was only terror. Cold like the ground she lay upon. Colder even than the snow they piled over her.

  “Cover her head, too?” someone asked.

  The midwife bent over Hulda, considering. Hulda looked up at her, shivered, felt the meager heat of her own breath as it curled over her lips. “I hate you,” she said.

  The midwife shook her head at Hulda. “Yes. The head, too.” As the first scoop of snow dropped over Hulda’s face she heard the midwife add, “Vile creature.”

  Hulda couldn’t say how long it took for the cold to overtake her. Minutes or hours. Time had lost meaning for her, ever since the screaming started.

  At first the cold was painful to her, but then that passed, and for a brief while, she felt almost warm. Or maybe it was a memory of warmth. Of a time when she hadn’t been made of ice. When there had been warm blood in her veins, warm breath in her chest, heat in the places where her limbs met her body.

  But then the cold reached her bones. The cold was in her bones. And that was when she allowed herself one last cry for help.

  She didn’t cry for her mother or her father.

  She didn’t cry for her sister.

  She cried for no one who had abandoned her.

  She cried for the snakes.

  She called them by name.

  She called to them where they huddled in their dens, warming each other. She asked them to come stroke her cheeks, to curl around her wrists, to remind her of what it had been like when she too felt warm and free to move through the grass, to feel soil on her skin.

  And the snakes came. They rose from their near-slumber and worked their way up to her. They wrapped themselves around her limbs and belly. They wove themselves through her fingers. They threaded themselves into her hair. They didn’t scream in her head anymore. They whispered to her, soft and sweet. We’re here, they said. And we will never leave you.

  The snakes didn’t come to her alone, however. They brought another with them.

  The morning of the third day dawned bright, clear, and cold. So cold. The mother and father met their oldest daughter at church, and the family sat together and prayed.

  After the service, the congregation spilled from the church. The children turned gleeful, the adults murmured and chatted, their eyes drifting to the family with the demon child.

  Stories of what happened next would be told many times and in many ways. The people saw what they saw and felt what they felt. And who’s to say what they did or didn’t?

  This is what really happened:

  Hulda came to church.

  She broke through the trees, a girl made of snakes. A girl with snakes for hair, and arms, and fingers. A girl with snakes for legs. A girl with fangs.

  And the people backed away from her; they fled into the church, they tried to bar the doors.

  But there was no more backing away from Hulda. With her body made more of muscle than of bone, she pushed through the church doors and blocked their retreat.

  Then she spoke.

  Or rather, she hissed. It was hundreds of hisses together, thousands. The people felt her hisses in their own heads, and they clapped their hands to their ears, but they couldn’t drown out the sound. The hissing only grew louder.

  She cursed them. She cursed them all. From the oldest to the youngest. She cursed their mothers and fathers, their sisters and brothers. She cursed the babies they had yet to dream of having.

  They would know this curse when it woke up in their homes. They would know this curse when it sat at their kitchen tables. They would know this curse when it reached out for the milk and bread.

  The curse would grow among them, and it would spread. And they would never feel peace or contentment again.

  The coldness of Hulda’s curse sank into them. Babies whimpered. Adults clutched their chests. Children shivered.

  And then Hulda left them. She went away where they couldn’t find her, even if they’d tried. But her curse remained, and it settled in. It sat on stools in warm corners of kitchens. It fed chickens and milked cows. It cuddled in laps and braided hair. It went to church on Sunday.

  The people tried to forget the curse. But the curse wouldn’t be forgotten. The curse reached up to them with soft, chubby fingers. The curse held their hands.

  PART ONE

  1

  TO PROTECT YOUR HOME FROM demons:

  1. If you see a snake, kill it. Then burn it.

  2. Pour salt where the air comes in—sills, thresholds, hearths.

  3. Stay inside after dark. Lock tight doors and windows.

  4. Pray.

  2

  MILLA POURED THE SALT IN a straight line, left to right. It was daytime, so the window was open and the breeze scattered a few grains that caught in the grooves of the wooden sill. When she was little, Milla would make drifts of the salt, like snow, then walk her fingers through. She’d furtively lick the tips when she was done.

  But she wasn’t little anymore. She was sixteen, and it had been a long time since she’d done
anything as rebellious as wasting salt.

  “Don’t dawdle so.” Milla’s mother looked over her shoulder at Milla, a pinched expression on her face. Gitta’s face was a lock, and Milla had yet to find the key to opening it.

  Gitta was already turning away, headed out to fetch some eggs for breakfast, when Milla said, “Yes, Mamma. I’m sorry.” Milla knew that she had nothing to be sorry for. She hadn’t been dawdling. But this was the way of things, and if Milla wanted to smooth even one line from her mother’s forehead, the only thing was to give in. To say: Yes, I know, I was wrong, and I’ll do better next time. Anything less than agreement would seem like disobedience—or worse, wildness. And that was what the demons wanted; that was how they got you. Run off the path, skip your chores, carelessly leave an opening in the white line of salt around the hearth, and whoosh down the chimney a demon would come and make you its own. Next thing you knew, you were waking up in the morning far less you and a lot more it.

  Milla went to the next window and poured another fresh line of salt. She’d never received a good answer for why salt kept demons away. She’d learned not to ask questions about such things. It was another sign of disobedience to ask a question that shouldn’t be asked, had no answer, or that had an answer you should already know. “A question that shouldn’t be asked doesn’t deserve an answer.” That was what her father, Jakob, said whenever she asked why they’d always done things a certain way, why they couldn’t do things a different way. Milla had long ago learned that for Pappa there was simply one right way of doing things, and no argument to be made for the wrong way.

  Her brother, Niklas, seemed less bothered by the rules than she was. Maybe that was because it wasn’t such an effort for him to follow them. He was naturally so pleasant, so good-natured. He was the one person who had the key to their mother’s face. When Niklas walked in the room, the lines on her forehead relaxed and she looked years younger, and so pretty. Pretty in a way that Milla could never hope to be. “Pretty is as pretty does,” Gitta had always said to Milla. But Milla knew that couldn’t be right. Milla had never done anything but behave, and still she wasn’t pretty the way her mother was. If she were, she’d know it. She’d see proof of her prettiness in her mother’s eyes, or her father’s. Instead what she saw there was disappointment. Perhaps it wasn’t true that pretty is as pretty does. Maybe, Milla worried, it was pretty is as pretty thinks. And if that was the case, then Milla was doomed. Because she could control her behavior, but she couldn’t control her mind. Her mind would have its way.

  It wasn’t quite true that Milla had always behaved. There was one time Milla had disobeyed so horribly that it made her never want to misbehave again. This was back when she and Niklas were very young. All one summer afternoon, they’d fought together in the woods, with knobby sticks as their swords. They screamed battle cries that shook the earth and the leaves and sent the birds circling up and up, and terrified their imaginary troll enemies. Just as the sky turned a deeper blue, they walked toward home with dirt under their nails and leaves in their hair and mud smeared across their cheeks.

  From the corner of her eye, Milla regarded Niklas—happy Niklas whom their mother loved. He looked so jolly. So confident that he’d be embraced upon his return, no matter how dirty he was, or how torn his clothing. Something came over Milla then, and she wanted to frighten him. Niklas was two years older then Milla, but never as brave. He was fine when the enemy was something big and oafish like a troll, but Milla’s imagination traveled to darker places than his. “Oh, Niklas,” Milla whispered, “I smell blood. Fresh boy blood. It must be a forest witch. There she is, see her? The blood from her last kill is dripping from her teeth. But she’s still hungry. And now she’s coming for you. You’d better run.”

  Niklas paled. “That’s not funny, Milla. You shouldn’t say such things. I’ll tell Mamma.”

  Now it was Milla’s turn to pale. “I’m sorry.” Niklas’s face was hard and scared at the same time. Then she made the mistake of trying to tease him out of his upset. “Silly. You know I was making it up.”

  Niklas turned on her, hands on hips. “I’m not silly, and you’re a bad girl.”

  Milla felt his words like a slap. “I’m not. I’m a good girl.”

  “No. You’re not. Mamma and Pappa both say so.” His eyes traveled to her hair. “You’re a mess. You’ll never brush out all those tangles before Mamma sees you. Remember what happened the last time you went home like that.”

  Milla did remember. She’d cried and cried as her mother ripped the tangles from her hair with her comb, all the while berating Milla for being so rough and wild. Now Milla forgot all about forest witches, and she wanted only to be good and smooth for Mamma. “Oh, Niklas,” she said. Her eyes welled with tears and some spilled over.

  Niklas seemed to soften. “There, there, Milla,” he said, patting her shoulder. “You can cut them out before we get home. Mamma will never know.” Niklas pulled his sharp knife from his pack, the one their father had given him when he turned eight. “Here, you can use this.”

  “Oh no,” Milla said. “I don’t think I can.” Milla was only six, and while she had the heart of a bear about most things, she knew her limits. “You do it, Niklas. Please?”

  So, one by one, Niklas sawed the tangled clumps from her hair. He stood back now and then to survey his work. Then he sawed off some more, and some more. Milla looked down at her feet, and it seemed like an awful lot of hair was collecting there. Finally he stopped. She looked at him. “How is it now? Better?”

  Niklas smiled. “Much.”

  As they walked home, Milla gingerly touched her head. It felt so much lighter. And there was so much air on her neck. That didn’t seem like a good thing at all, but it felt kind of nice. She told herself that it must be all right, because Niklas had said so.

  When they got home, Milla expected to see her mother’s usual locked face, the one that opened the moment she turned to Niklas. Perhaps a part of Milla expected a little worse than that. But she wasn’t expecting her mother to drop a bowl and shriek at the sight of her.

  “What have you done, Milla? What in all of creation have you done?”

  Milla looked at her brother, and for an instant, one corner of his mouth turned up with satisfaction. Milla knew in that moment that he’d gotten her back for having frightened him and then laughed at him. At the sight of their mother’s shattered bowl, though, his half smile vanished as quickly as it had appeared.

  Milla’s mouth opened and closed, and her hands went to her head, searching, hoping to find more hair than she now knew there was. For the first time she allowed herself to realize that it was all gone. Her hair was back there in the woods, in a pile. Where she’d once had bark-brown ringlets that grazed the middle of her back, she was left with uneven clumps no longer than her little finger.

  Gitta gripped her by the shoulders. “Why did you do that? You stupid, stupid girl.”

  “Mamma,” Niklas said. “It’s not her fault. We were playing and her hair got all tangled, and I suggested she cut it. And she wouldn’t use my knife to do it, even though I said she should. I did it, Mamma, I’m the one who did it.”

  “Oh, Niklas,” Gitta said. She shook her head at him the way she did when he spilled milk at the breakfast table. Then she looked back at Milla, her face closed again. “Why must you always be so wild? If you hadn’t made such a mess of yourself, your brother wouldn’t have had to try to fix you.” Gitta released Milla’s shoulders and turned toward the kitchen. “Pappa won’t like this. Not one bit. Now go and get clean and then I’ll see what sense I can make of your hair. I suppose the way you look is punishment enough, but your father may think different.”

  In the kitchen yard, Niklas pumped water into two pitchers and handed one to Milla. “Is my hair so very bad?” she asked him.

  Niklas laughed. “Oh, Milla. It’s horrible.”

  Milla burst into tears.

  “There, there.” He patted her shoulder the way he had bac
k in the woods, only this time she sensed he meant it. “It’s all right. I’ll handle Mamma and Pappa.” Then he took the pitcher back from her, and he had Milla hold out her hands while he helped her wash with a fresh bar of soap. When he finished rinsing her hair he said, “Well, that was quick. Maybe you should keep it this way, right?”

  Then she finally stopped crying, because it was impossible to keep feeling awful with Niklas standing there smiling at her.

  That was a long time ago.

  Once she had laid the salt down in perfect lines along every window and doorway and arching in a perfect semicircle around the hearth, Milla went out to help Niklas finish loading the wagon. She should have stayed behind to help Mamma with breakfast. But she’d go back inside in a moment—after she’d spoken to Niklas.

  In the end, she didn’t say anything to him at all. He’d finished loading the wagon with strong, confident arms just as she arrived to help him. Then he looked at her and said, “I’m hungry.” So they went back inside.

  Don’t leave me, she had wanted to say to him. But if she’d said it, her brother would only have laughed at her, the way he always did. It would be a laugh that wasn’t meant to make her feel stupid, and yet it would have that effect all the same. His face would break into a smile like sunshine, if sunshine were made of teeth.

  She’d said it to him many times before when he and father would go off to the market in the village, leaving her and Mamma behind. And each time he’d respond the same way. “Silly Milla.” She was silly Milla, just a girl. Silly Milla, just a lonely girl. Silly Milla, just a lonely girl who must stay at home on the farm while her brother went off and had adventures.

  “I’m not having adventures,” Niklas always said. “I’m working with Pappa. Standing ankle-deep in manure while he haggles with the other farmers. You’re lucky you don’t have to go. You get to stay here where it’s clean, and Mamma takes care of you, and all you have to do is sew and feed the chickens.”