The Cold Is in Her Bones

by Peternelle van Arsdale

  Keep running.

  Branches snagged Milla’s sleeves and skirt. Leaves slapped her face and twigs scratched her cheeks. She ran on, wondering if she was still going in the right direction.

  You are.

  She came to a clearing, and on the far side of it she saw Iris crouched beneath a tree. Her white nightdress spread limply around her. Her red hair streamed over her shoulders like the still-brilliant center of a wilted flower. When Iris lifted her eyes to look at Milla, a flame burned inside them.

  Part of Milla wanted to run away, but the greater part of her pushed forward.

  “Don’t be afraid,” Iris said. “It’s me. I’m not anyone else.”

  “Oh, Iris,” Milla said. “I thought I’d lost you.”

  Iris hugged her arms around herself as if chilled, despite the full heat of midday. “I know. I thought I’d lost me, too. But it’s me. You can see that, can’t you?”

  What Milla saw seemed to be Iris, but so much brighter. Her syrup eyes flashed. Her wheat-brown skin seemed lit from within. It occurred to Milla that perhaps Iris had been growing duller ever since she’d arrived. And maybe this Iris sitting in front of her was the same girl who’d arrived on that spring day—only fresh and unharmed, her veil lifted.

  Milla should have heard Niklas approaching, but even if she had, there wouldn’t have been anywhere for her and Iris to hide. By the time the sounds of crackling branches and leaves underfoot were too loud to ignore, he was there, at the edge of the clearing, taking them in with wide, confused eyes.

  He walked toward them, wordless.

  “She’s herself, Niklas,” Milla said. She turned to Iris. “Talk to him, Iris. Show him.”

  Iris shook her head. Milla saw sadness in her eyes, and then something else. Something unrecognizable.

  “Oh, Milla,” Iris said. Then she laughed and laughed. And cried. And laughed some more. And laughed and cried at the same time, her lips hitching up over her teeth in a grimace. And Milla wanted to embrace her and run from her. Both.

  Iris ran from Milla before Milla could decide which she would do. Iris ran so fast—too fast—and Trude’s words came back to Milla. It was like something else was in her body making it go.

  Milla felt Niklas’s hand close around her forearm. “No, Niklas.” She tried to pull away from him. “We have to go after her.”

  She heard a bell ringing. And ringing. Mamma’s dinner bell.

  Niklas yanked Milla back the way they’d come. She alternated between struggling and giving in. When she struggled she despaired that there was anything she could do if she caught up to Iris. And when she gave in she loathed herself for her cowardice. And all the way home, Niklas prayed.

  Lord, protect us from demons.

  Lord, protect us from demons.

  Lord, protect us from demons.

  8

  JAKOB HAD ALREADY SAT DOWN to eat his dinner when Milla and Niklas arrived home. At the sight of their sweat-streaked faces, Mamma’s hand froze midair, halfway between her pot of stew and Pappa’s plate.

  “It’s Iris, Pappa,” Niklas said. “She’s changed. Like the other girls.”

  Gitta dropped her spoon. She shook her head at Niklas and then stared at Milla, her eyes rounding so they showed white all around.

  “I know about the girls, Mamma,” Milla said.

  “No,” Gitta said, more breath than sound.

  Jakob shoved away from the table. “Where is Iris?”

  “She’s run off,” Milla said. “You’ll never catch her. Please, Pappa, just leave her be. Let her go.”

  Jakob ignored her. “Where’s Stig?”

  “Gone after her,” Niklas said. “He’s planning to take her to The Place.”

  Gitta twisted her apron so tightly between her hands that her knuckles whitened.

  “I never should have let you convince me to bring her here, Niklas,” Jakob said.

  “I know,” Niklas said. “I’ll go with you to find her.”

  “No. You stay here. Don’t let Milla out of your sight.”

  “I’m standing right here, Pappa!” Milla moved in front of him, grasping his sleeves like she hadn’t done since she was a small child hoping to be picked up. “Why won’t you listen to me? Iris is no harm to anyone. Please leave her be.”

  Jakob removed her hands from his shirt and pushed them aside. “Gitta, get this child out of my sight or so help me she’ll never leave this house again.”

  Gitta moaned. Niklas pulled Milla away and wrapped his arms around her, half embracing her and half restraining her. “You must stop this now, Milla. Iris isn’t Iris anymore.”

  When Milla heard Iris screaming, she tore through the front door before Gitta, Trude, and Niklas could stop her. Jakob and Stig carried Iris like a long bundle—Stig’s hands hooked under her armpits, and Pappa’s arms wrapped around her calves, fighting to keep a firm hold of her. She was bound with rope in two places—waist and feet—and she twisted her hands and her torso bucked.

  “Let me GO leeeeeet me GO let me go let me go LET ME GO leeeeeet meeeeee goooooooo let me GO let me go let me go LET ME GO let me go let me go let me go.” Over and over Iris said it, sometimes wailing it low and long, sometimes barking it sharp and insistent, sometimes crying it high and plaintive.

  Niklas’s arms were around Milla again, and she turned to him. “Niklas, you mustn’t let them do this. It’s not right. You know Iris. She wouldn’t hurt anyone. And I promised her. I promised her, Niklas.”

  Iris stopped screaming. “Milla?”

  She sounded so much like herself.

  “Milla? Help me.”

  Trude buried her face in her apron. “Lord protect us from demons Lord protect us from demons Lord protect us from demons.”

  Iris wept now, her long hair forming red stripes across her forehead and cheeks, covering her eyes.

  Milla fought against Niklas, but his arms were tight around her shoulders and waist. “Iris, I’m so sorry,” she said. “Oh, Iris.”

  “Gitta,” Jakob said. “Take Milla inside. Niklas, ready the wagon.”

  “Milla?” Iris said. “Be my friend, Milla.”

  “Lord protect us from demons,” Gitta said as she pulled Milla away from Niklas. “Lord protect us from demons Lord protect us from demons.”

  Milla grasped her mother by the shoulders. “Mamma! Don’t let them do this.”

  “Help me, Trude,” Gitta said, taking one of Milla’s arms in two of her own. Trude did the same on Milla’s other side.

  “Come, Stig,” Jakob said.

  Iris let out a howl and she bucked so hard that Jakob nearly dropped her.

  Milla felt Gitta’s and Trude’s hands digging into her arms like claws as they dragged her into the house and closed and locked the door behind them.

  They couldn’t lock out the screaming.

  Milla refused her mother’s supper and sobbed herself to sleep that night. Niklas had gone with Jakob and Stig to take Iris to The Place.

  Milla would never forgive Niklas for that. It was just as Iris had said. He was a liar. He wasn’t Iris’s friend, and he couldn’t possibly love her. He’d betrayed both of them.

  The only person who understood her, who’d never lied to her, was Iris. And Iris was being taken away from her, brought to somewhere horrible that Milla couldn’t imagine. So horrible that Iris had said she’d rather die than go there.

  When Milla rose the next morning, the sun was bright and cheery, and the green leaves danced on the tree outside her window, and it was all terrible to Milla’s eyes. Each green leaf was an accusation. Milla could wake up in her soft bed and drink hot tea at her parents’ table. Iris was bound and dragged off in her nightdress and called a demon. All because . . . why? She’d called Trude a monster? Trude was a monster, Milla thought. A monster in the skin of a grandmother.

  The memory of the fire that burned in Iris’s eyes, and her laughing that became crying that became laughing, flashed across Milla’s mind. She shoved the thoughts away.r />
  She would have stayed in her room, avoiding her mother forever, but her bladder was full and painful. She didn’t bother combing her hair. There were no men in the house to try to please. Milla never wished to please another.

  She walked through the kitchen in nothing but her nightdress and bare feet, hair streaming. She felt Gitta’s eyes, but she didn’t speak to her mother, nor did Gitta speak to her. After she’d relieved herself in the outhouse, Milla came back into the kitchen, where Mamma had poured her tea and set out bread, butter, and preserves.

  Milla ate silently, hungry and disgusted with herself for being hungry. When she’d finished, Mamma reached out her hand and placed it over Milla’s. Milla felt a tremor in her chest and willed herself not to cry. Not to seek comfort from anyone who would send Iris away.

  Milla looked up at Mamma. Pretty Mamma, with her golden hair shot with silver, perfectly braided around her head. She saw the fine lines at the corners of Mamma’s eyes and crossing her forehead. She looked into Mamma’s cornflower-blue eyes and saw the same fear there that she always had. Milla looked away.

  “I know you don’t understand,” Gitta said.

  “I don’t understand because no one will explain anything to me. All I know is that Pappa and Niklas dragged Iris away like they didn’t even know her. Like she was a monster. Would you do that to me, Mamma?”

  Gitta didn’t take her hand away from Milla’s, but Milla could see her recoil, the muscles in her face shrinking. “You mustn’t talk like that, Milla.”

  Milla pulled her hand away. “I mustn’t talk like that. I mustn’t act like that. I mustn’t think like that. Is there anything I may do, other than wash, and cook, and clean? I’m not you, Mamma. I’m not pretty. I’m not good.”

  “You’re just fine, Milla. Don’t carry on so. You’ll forget about this soon enough.” Gitta stood up and cleared the table, not meeting Milla’s eyes now. “You don’t know how lucky you are.”

  “Niklas says the same.”

  “Niklas is a good boy. You should listen to him. He knows we’re safe here.”

  “But you don’t know that, Mamma. Do you? That’s why you’re always so afraid when you look at me, isn’t it?”

  Gitta busied her hands while Milla spoke, then glanced at Milla as if she’d been too distracted to hear her questions. “Look at you, your hair all undone. What will Pappa think when he gets home?”

  “I don’t care.”

  “Nonsense,” Gitta said. “A woman’s hair is her glory, that’s what my father always said. Let me brush it for you. Would you like that?”

  Milla felt the tremor in her chest, the one that threatened to fill her eyes and make them spill over. She couldn’t speak.

  “I’ll just get my comb,” Gitta said.

  Milla sat at the table, willing herself to move, to resist her mother’s attention. But she couldn’t move, and the thought of her mother’s hands in her hair, of that little bit of comfort, kept her in her chair, tracing the wood grains on the table with one short fingernail. It was weak to want such comfort, but she couldn’t help herself. It had been so long.

  Gitta returned with her comb and stood behind Milla’s chair, pulling it through Milla’s dense, nearly black coils of hair. Milla closed her eyes, lulled by the light pressure of Mamma’s fingertips holding her head in place while the comb gently tugged on the roots of her hair, then traveled down, sometimes pausing on a tangle. Mamma worked each tangle, ever so gently. Milla struggled against the desire to rest her head back on her mother’s stomach.

  Then Gitta stopped. “What is . . .”

  Milla felt Gitta’s fingertips searching her scalp just above her left ear. Then a sharp—a very sharp—pinch. “Ouch, Mamma!” Milla clapped her hand to the spot where it felt that Mamma had pulled her hair out by the roots.

  Gitta sucked in her breath. “Lord protect us from demons Lord protect us from demons Lord protect us from demons.”

  Milla turned around in her chair. Gitta held something that squirmed between her two fingers. A tiny, emerald green snake, the length of her pinky, with a brilliant dot of crimson blood on its tail end. Milla said, “That was in my hair?”

  Gitta shook her head. “No. No. Lord protect us from demons Lord protect us from demons Lord protect us from demons.” Gitta dropped the snake to the floor and crushed it beneath her heel. “It was growing from your head. It was . . . Lord protect us from demons Lord protect us from demons Lord protect us from demons.” Gitta backed away from the snake, still shaking her head.

  “Mamma?” Milla said. She looked at the bloody pulp on the floor that was once a tiny, brilliant green snake growing from her head. Her own head. That wasn’t possible. “Mamma?” Milla began to cry. She didn’t want to be taken over by a demon. She didn’t want to laugh and cry and laugh and cry like Iris. She didn’t.

  Gitta grasped Milla by both shoulders. “Listen to me, Milla. You must not speak a word of this. You must not. Not to Pappa. Not even to Niklas.” Milla felt her mother’s nails carving crescents into her skin. “You must behave. Be a good girl. A very good girl. It’s the only way to keep you safe. To keep you here. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes, Mamma. I understand.”

  Milla awakened the next morning just as night was paling into dawn. She touched the spot on her head, just above her left ear, where Mamma had ripped out the snake. She remembered the way the tail end of the snake had dripped blood. Was it hers or the snake’s? Or did their blood flow together—was it one and the same?

  She expected to find a sore spot there. A break in the skin. A tender place. Instead, she sensed movement that wasn’t her own, and something smooth and cool and dry wrapped itself around her finger.

  The snake had grown back.

  9

  THE FOLLOWING AFTERNOON, WAGON WHEELS announced the men’s return from The Place. Gitta went out to meet them, but Milla didn’t follow. She had nothing to say to any of them, least of all Niklas. The traitor.

  She lay on her bed, staring through the window at the tree that grew so large and wide its branches brushed the house. Its green leaves were the exact shade of emerald green of the snake that grew from her head. She stroked it with her finger, felt the gentle hiss of its exhalation on the outer whorl of her ear.

  She’d been terrified when she first discovered it had grown back. Even now, her heart beat faster than it should, and she felt a tension in her belly, a sense that she should be doing something but she didn’t know what. She wouldn’t tell her mother about the snake. Couldn’t. Her mother would only pinch it off again. And the fear in her eyes would grow.

  But that wasn’t the real reason she wouldn’t tell Mamma. The real reason was that something was happening to Milla. She was growing accustomed to the feel of that small snake wrapped around her finger. It belonged there.

  The sound of Gitta sobbing roused Milla, and she sat up in bed. She felt the snake tuck itself close to her scalp, hidden in her hair. Then she ran downstairs and out into the hot, bright afternoon.

  She squinted at first, unsure of the meaning of what she was seeing. Mamma knelt in the dirt in front of Pappa, sobbing into her apron. “No, no, no, no, no. Not my boy.”

  Stig shook his head, turned, and headed down the path that led to his cottage, where Trude waited for him.

  Milla felt a stab of pain in her chest and side, and her bladder threatened to release. Niklas wasn’t there. “Pappa, where’s Niklas?”

  Jakob pulled Gitta to standing, gripping her by the shoulders. “Calm down,” he said. “Calm down, do you hear me?”

  Now Gitta sobbed into Jakob’s big chest, clawed his shirt. “You left him there. You left my boy.”

  “Pappa?” Milla said. “You left Niklas?”

  “He wouldn’t come, do you hear me, Gitta? He wouldn’t leave Iris. He insisted upon staying and looking after her.”

  “Nooooooooo.” Mamma’s crying had become a long wail.

  Jakob freed his shirt from her grip and took both of
her hands in one of his. “Milla, take her. There’s nothing more I can do with her and I have work to do. These horses need water and feed.”

  Gitta’s knees buckled and Milla rushed forward to catch her before she fell. “Milla. My boy. He’s left my boy.” Milla wrapped her arms around Gitta’s back, and the feel of her mother’s flesh under her hands was startling and unfamiliar. Sweat and tears mingled on Gitta’s face where she pressed into Milla’s neck and shoulder, and Milla felt the snake squirm on her scalp, as if it were discomfited by the invasion.

  Pappa was already leading the horses away, straightening his back as if he’d been unburdened of a heavy load.

  Milla led Gitta inside. “Come, Mamma. Come.”

  For an hour or more, Gitta could only weep, her words barely comprehensible between sobs. When she was spent and lay on her bed silently staring at the ceiling, Milla went down to the kitchen to make tea.

  Milla tried to conjure more pity for Gitta than she felt. It wasn’t that she was jealous of her mother’s anguish over Niklas. Milla felt it, too. There was a gaping, awful emptiness, a worse loneliness than she’d ever felt, at the thought that Niklas wouldn’t be home for supper, wouldn’t be there at the breakfast table tomorrow morning. That he wouldn’t be there to smile at her and call her silly Milla.

  While she heated the kettle she thought about Niklas and what he’d done. She couldn’t make sense of it. He’d thought Iris was demon-possessed, had even helped their father and Stig take her to The Place. But then he’d stayed with her like he loved her.

  For the first time since she’d learned that Niklas hadn’t come home, she allowed herself to imagine him inside The Place. A place so wretched that Iris spoke of it like a waking nightmare. A place so dreadful that Iris would sooner die than be sent there. Milla gripped the table edge. The room tilted around her. She scrambled to the door and vomited her empty stomach, hot and acid, into the dirt just outside. Her sweet, smiling brother. What had he done?