Hanna Who Fell from the Sky

by Christopher Meades

  “Tell Jotham he can pay me within a fortnight. Less time is better. More would be ill-advised,” he said and walked over to a large decanter in the corner. He uncorked it, took in its fumes and then poured the brown liquid into Hanna’s jug, with surprising care not to spill a drop.

  Hanna glanced out the open door at her little sister. Ahmre was sitting in front of the tree where she’d left her, pulling frosted blades of grass out of the earth and laying them flat on her palm. These past few days, Hanna had been so preoccupied with her engagement, with Daniel, with her mind working itself into a frenzy over what the future might bring, that she’d almost forgotten how young Ahmre was. How much she still needed her oldest sister. Ahmre looked up and showed Hanna the grass she’d collected. Hanna waved and then turned back to find the hermit standing an arm’s length away, his back hunched, his pupils glistening in the dim light.

  Hanna’s breath caught in her throat. She tried to step back but bumped into a damp metal cauldron.

  The hermit inched closer. “You’re Hanna, aren’t you?”

  She eyed the old recluse warily. Hanna had entered this cabin a dozen times, twice with Emily, the rest with Charliss at her side, always to purchase Jotham’s liquor. Not once did she tell the hermit her name, never before did he ask.

  “That’s correct,” she said.

  He handed Hanna the jug. “From what I hear, you’re fighting a losing battle.”

  Hanna secured the cork. She tied a string to the jug and slung it over her shoulder. “What battle?”

  “You’re getting married soon, aren’t you?”

  “In four days.”

  “But you don’t want to marry that old man, do you?”

  Hanna edged toward the door. “How do you know all this?”

  In the corner, a gush of steam shot forth from a pipe. The hermit grimaced. He climbed onto a countertop and hammered away with his mallet. When that didn’t work, he grabbed a wide roll of industrial tape and wrapped it around the leak until the copper pipe disappeared from view. He sat on the counter, his eyes bulging.

  “I hear things,” he said. “Everyone who walks through that door tells me a little something. Words out of people’s mouths are like puzzle pieces. It only takes a bit of patience to fit them together.”

  Hanna pushed her hair away from her eyes. She twirled the strands, puzzled by this strange man, whatever he was implying. “I should be going,” she said.

  She was halfway out the door, weapon and whiskey in hand, when the hermit called. “You’d be better off protecting yourself.”

  Hanna stopped. She searched the woods with her eyes—the pathway Paul the Third traipsed down, the rounded hilltops to the west, the endless trees in all directions—to make sure no one else was nearby. Stillness surrounded her, every danger, every threat secreted away, lurking behind the hazy mist. Hanna brought the shotgun closer, her thumb on the safety, prepared to dislodge it if need be. She met the old hermit’s gaze. “Are you speaking in riddles?”

  “A riddle is a mystery. Mysteries are meant to be solved, and your solution is right under your nose, child.” He pointed at Ahmre, now building a tiny fort out of sticks.

  Hanna still wasn’t sure what the old hermit meant. He was confusing her, most likely on purpose. Hanna regretted not inviting Daniel along on this excursion after all. Last night, he’d listened to her as though Hanna was someone with something to say. The more she thought about it, Daniel was the only one who hadn’t placed any expectations on her.

  The old hermit was still staring her down. Hanna turned to walk away when the hermit followed.

  “Why did you bring that little girl with you today?” he said.

  “I wanted company.”

  “Ah, but I bet you have company all day long. I bet you come from a large family. There probably isn’t time for you to sit on the toilet without some child climbing on your legs.” He cracked his neck and five vertebrae popped in succession, a nauseating sound. “You think you need someone to protect.”

  Hanna looked back at Ahmre and then at the hermit again. “Speak plainly with me.”

  “I’ve seen you with that girl, the one with the twisted back. Now I see you with this little tot, out here in the woods, calling upon a madman.” He tugged at a blackened tooth, wiggled it loose, as though to punctuate his madness. “I’ll tell you the truth, Hanna with the golden hair: you can’t protect everyone else, at least not when you should be protecting yourself.”

  This time Hanna heard the old hermit clearly. That feeling of falling inside herself returned. Only, it was different. Hanna was different now. She wasn’t the same person she’d been just days before. She couldn’t pinpoint exactly when the change occurred. If it was when she kissed Daniel in the belfry or when she stole away in the dead of the night with him. If it was when she refused to cower in Paul the Second’s presence or when she rose to her feet after the fall from the rooftop. But something had changed. And now this old hermit—this stranger, as odd and outlandish a soul as she’d ever met—saw that she was trying to protect Emily. Trying to protect Ahmre. That Hanna wished with all her being that she was able to protect Kara from Jotham, when, in truth, Hanna couldn’t even protect herself. She couldn’t protect herself from Edwin, from Brother Paul and his uncouth underlings. She couldn’t protect herself from becoming like everyone else. In four days’ time, Hanna would be married and she would be no different than her sister-mothers, no different than Edwin’s wives: commonplace and ordinary and subservient, trapped like an animal in a cage. If she ever came face-to-face with her brave other self on the other side of the world, what would Hanna tell her? That she didn’t have the courage to protect her family? That she wasn’t brave enough to protect herself?

  Ahmre tugged at her sleeve. She was hiding behind Hanna’s hip, out of view from the old recluse. “Hanna? Can we go home?”

  Hanna picked up the girl and turned to the hermit. “Thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “For your sage advice.”

  “Ain’t no sage advice,” he said. “Only the truth.”

  Hanna delayed a second. She eyed the hermit one last time. Underneath the white whiskers and the wide scars lining his cheeks, there was a man who, like Hanna, had faced divergent paths in his life, whose choices led to him living in the woods. A man who’d elected to walk away from the expectations of others.

  “Then thank you for the truth,” Hanna said.

  She turned and walked back the way they came. Ahmre placed her head on Hanna’s shoulder and closed her eyes. Hanna didn’t look back, even when she heard the hermit’s clanking mallet resonate through the woods.

  18

  Two hours later, Hanna approached the marketplace on Kara’s arm. She was slightly taller than Kara now, the days of reaching up to hold her mother’s hand long gone. The marketplace was full of activity, with vendors calling out their wares and customers looking to barter. A hodgepodge of aromas filled the air: fresh-baked bread and confectioner’s sugar, basil and sage, the sharp, acidic odor of leather-tanning compounds. A blend of lavender and sandalwood wafted from the salves and ointments on the apothecary’s table. Over by the police station, a toddler was feeding bread crumbs to the pigeons when a cluster of crows swept down from the trees and thieved the scant morsels. The child ran sobbing, looking for his mother, only Hanna didn’t see whether he found her.

  Hanna kept her gaze locked on the trailer where Makala worked. The very sight of it filled Hanna with unease. She couldn’t help but wonder what Makala might say if she saw Hanna today, the harsh words she might offer Kara, what the vendors who’d heard their previous exchange must have thought.

  Hanna tried her best to push these thoughts from her head. She was here on a special outing with her mother, a rare occurrence and perhaps the last time they might get to spend a few hours al
one.

  She took her mother’s hand and Kara walked Hanna to the dairy vendor. Kara chose vanilla ice cream with little flakes of toffee in a cup. Hanna chose strawberry, in a cup, as well. Together they carried their cups to the picnic tables set up by the roadway. Kara sat down in an isolated spot, loud enough to hear sounds from the marketplace—women scolding their offspring, stray dogs yelping, the occasional truck churning up gravel as it passed by—but quiet enough to keep their conversation private.

  Hanna dipped her spoon into her cup. The strawberries and milk had mixed into a frozen lather and the ice cream felt smooth against her tongue. Over the years, Hanna had only eaten ice cream from the marketplace a handful of times, her experience with desserts limited to homemade puddings and yogurts, each diligent preparation resulting in varying degrees of success. Perhaps the most enjoyable aspect was not having a young child standing within arm’s reach, watching her with wide, pleading eyes, hoping Hanna might share. She ignored the cold air and dug into her ice cream. Hanna had finished half her cup when she noticed her mother hadn’t taken a bite.

  Kara ran her hands over her face and when she took them away, her eyes welled up. Wrinkles flourished on her forehead, where just hours ago there’d been none. Kara brought her hands to her chest, wrung them together and then dropped them to the table. Hanna had seen her mother upset before. She’d even seen her cry. But this was different. Kara looked drained, as though all the blood had left her body.

  Deep down, Hanna wondered if this wasn’t somehow her fault. Had she said something inappropriate at Edwin’s house the other day? Something to jeopardize their union? Had her mother found out about her time with Daniel? Hanna had thought she’d been so careful. But, truthfully, she hadn’t. There were prying eyes all over Clearhaven and they could have spotted her inside Daniel’s car, outside his parents’ home, climbing in through the window of the old tower cathedral.

  “What is it?” she said.

  Kara wiped her cheeks with her sleeve. She reached inside her jacket and pulled out a plain white envelope, and then she passed it across the table.

  Hanna opened the envelope and peered inside. Her eyes grew wide.

  “Now, don’t hold it up for the world to see,” Kara said.

  “How much is it?” Hanna said.

  “It’s two hundred and eighty-six dollars. I want you to have it.”

  Hanna pulled out the money and felt it against her hand. The bills were soft and worn as though they’d passed through hundreds of hands. Quickly, she tucked them back inside. “Where did you get this?”

  Kara stammered. “The past few years, I’ve been trimming from the household expenses. I wish it were more, only Belinda watches our costs like a hawk. I should have been saving your whole life, ever since you were born.”

  Hanna peered inside the envelope again. Most of the bills were singles with a smattering of fives. No bill was larger than ten dollars. Still, it was an impressive amount, more money than Hanna had ever seen in one place.

  “But I won’t need this,” Hanna said. “Edwin has more than enough to take care of me.” She flipped the envelope facedown and looked away from it. “You should take it. You could buy a roast or a turkey. Or buy yourself something nice, like a new scarf.”

  Kara sobbed, a soft, anguished cry. She dug her fingernails into the table.

  “What’s wrong? Is it Father? Did he hit you?” Hanna asked, knowing full well what Jotham had done.

  Kara shook her head. “You don’t understand.”

  “Then help me. Help me understand.”

  Kara leaned in close. “You have to go,” she whispered.

  Hanna glanced over her shoulder, at the marketplace, at Makala’s trailer in the distance, at the gravel road curving into the woodlands.

  “Where?”

  “Anywhere!” Kara yelled, surprising them both. “Now listen to me carefully,” she said. “I want you to take this money and run away, away from Jotham, away from Edwin, away from this terrible place. You can take your father’s truck. Do you still remember when I taught you how to drive?”

  Hanna nodded.

  “You can take The Road and drive to the city. Once you get there, I want you to leave the truck at the train station and buy a ticket to another city. And not a city nearby. If you stay too close, Edwin and Jotham will find you.” Her voice sharpened. “Brother Paul will find you. They’ll hunt you down and bring you back. You have to choose a city far away and you can’t tell anyone where it is. And this is the most important part—once you leave, you can never come back.”

  Hanna heard her mother’s brittle voice. She watched the tears flow freely down Kara’s cheeks, her shaking hands. Hanna couldn’t believe this was really happening. All week, she’d dreamed of running off into the woods, of living a different life, of waking up one morning in another place; and now that Kara was telling her to go, to leave Clearhaven forever, all she could think about was the people she’d leave behind.

  “No,” she said.

  “Hanna...”

  “You want me to leave without you?”

  “I have to stay to watch over the children.”

  “Can’t Katherine do that?”

  Kara shook her head. “I might not be their mother, but I’ve known those children since the day they were born. I nursed them when they were sick. I raised them. After you leave, Jotham will be furious. Someone has to stay to convince him to act reasonably. I won’t allow the little ones to suffer.” She steadied her voice. “You have to trust me. This is for the best.”

  “You want me to leave Emily? To leave you behind so Father can hit you again?” Hanna pushed the envelope back along the table. “I won’t do it. I won’t take your money. I won’t leave.”

  “Please,” Kara said.

  A fury rose in Hanna’s chest. Where her anger came from—from Jotham or Edwin, from Brother Paul and his lecherous son, or her mother’s simple, unfathomable plan—Hanna wasn’t sure. She just knew she couldn’t sit here any longer. She couldn’t watch her mother cry anymore. Hanna stood up from the table. She walked past the deserted picnic tables, as fast as her legs would take her.

  Kara chased after her. “Wait!”

  Hanna was twenty paces away, headed toward the gravel road, with no plan for what she was going to do when she got there.

  “Wait!” Kara stopped chasing her. Hanna was almost out of earshot when Kara called out one last time. “Hanna, you fell from the sky!”

  Her words came out of nowhere, startling Hanna, shaking something deep inside her. Hanna turned around. How could Kara say this, of all things? On the street, no less, where anyone could hear.

  Hanna stormed back, the rage boiling in her veins.

  “This is no time for fairy tales, Mother.”

  Kara’s tears flowed in waves, her brave veneer washed away. “It’s true,” she said.

  “Did Charliss tell you about the rooftop?”

  “Yes,” Kara said quickly, and as Hanna turned away again, Kara grabbed her arm. “But that’s not what I’m talking about. I mean that’s not all I’m talking about. Hanna, eighteen years ago, almost to the day, the sky opened up. A baby fell from the heavens and landed unscathed. Hanna—that was you.”

  “That’s just a story.”

  “It’s not just a story!” Kara raised her voice and then quieted it right away. “I saw it with my own two eyes.”

  Hanna searched Kara’s face. She studied the lines around her eyes, the way Kara held her jaw, to find where her intentions lay.

  “You only know part of what happened,” Kara said. “I need to tell you the truth. The whole truth. And I need you to listen to me. I never wanted to tell you like this, but just remember that I love you and I will always love you...” Kara said, her voice trailing off.

  “Please just tell
me.”

  Kara swallowed hard. She pressed her hands against her temples, breathed out a long breath and then began.

  19

  “I grew up far away from here, in a city where the buildings towered in the sky and there were lights so bright you could barely believe they were real. My mother and I lived in a one-bedroom apartment on a busy street. It was so different from Clearhaven. Throngs of people bustled by at all hours of the day; men in suits, women wearing T-shirts and pants, people of all shapes, sizes and colors. We got along well, my mother and I. She worked as a receptionist at an attorney’s office and I helped out there sometimes. When I was your age, I graduated from school and then I started college, the school you go to when you’re no longer a child, with the intent of learning to take care of animals.

  “The year I turned twenty, my mother fell ill. It was bad. I hate to use the word grave, but that’s what it was. My mother’s sickness was in her lungs. It was in her stomach and her bones. For weeks on end, we were in and out of the hospital, the doctors giving her worse and worse news each time we visited.

  “Eventually my mother had enough. She told me she didn’t want to spend her last days dying in a strange bed inside a hospital room. She wanted to go back to the place where she was born, a small village one hundred miles west of Clearhaven. I drove my ailing mother to a place by the bay, a town too small to be called a town, called Baker’s Hamlet, the quietest community on Earth.

  “Baker’s Hamlet was much smaller than Clearhaven. There were just a few dozen families living by the water and a handful of boats docked nearby. My mother and I moved into a small cabin and I did everything I could to take care of her. Only, hope was fleeting. My mother was dying. Her skin turned gray almost overnight and eventually she could no longer climb out of bed. A doctor came to visit and he told me it wasn’t going to be long until she passed.