Sometimes, I pretend I’m sleeping when he gets into bed. Because every time we make love, it’s one more time that I haven’t given him a child. Every time I fail, the odds seem longer and longer. And if I can’t give him a child…what then?
“I know,” I say. “I’m sorry. I appreciate all you do. I wasn’t saying that I don’t. I see how hard you work.”
He does, too. He goes out into the outside world to build houses, sheds, fences, to help with haying and harvesting, plowing, whatever needs to be done. He’s strong and capable and he works himself to exhaustion. But I also know that there’s more to it. That sometimes, he disappears and comes home without money. Sometimes, I reach for him at night and he says he’s tired. And I know what all this adds up to.
For once, I can’t convince myself he’s being honest with me. He’s doing the one thing he can’t be honest about, the one thing he would never tell me. He’ll admit to the drinking, to the trysts in the woods while in animal form. But he won’t tell me this—that he’s found another woman to spend his days with, a woman he prefers over his own wife.
Spring 1996
1
“Is this the month you’ll give me good news?” Owen asks as he pounds a stake into the garden behind the house. I wait for him to finish before kneeling to wrap the end of a wire around it, tightening it with a pair of plyers.
“Maybe,” I say. “I have been feeling a bit achy.”
“That’s good, right?” Owen says, moving on to the next stake. “Do you feel pregnant?”
“I…can’t tell,” I admit. “But I could be.”
“Great,” he says. “Because I’m starting to wonder, Doralice. Maybe that last one… Well, maybe it messed up something inside you. I’m going to need an heir. If you can’t give me one, I’m going to need to know that.”
I swallow past the tightness in my throat. “How can we know, until it happens?”
“I can talk to Goldie,” he says, then clears his throat. “Dr. Golden. She can give you a checkup, see if everything looks okay.”
“The midwife did that after the last one,” I say, hunching into myself, remembering that greedy look in Dr. Golden’s eyes when she shoved her hand up inside me. Like maybe she could steal Owen back out of my womb.
“That old bag doesn’t have any modern equipment,” he says. “What’d she do, swing a crystal over your belly?”
“I like her,” I protest. “You told me to make friends, and I did.”
“With my friends’ wives,” he says. “Not some old crone who’s weirder than you.”
I bite my lip and keep my head down, fighting the sting that rises to my eyes. “I’ll give you a baby,” I say. “I promise. Give me a chance, Owen. Don’t leave. We’ll have an heir, we will. I promise.”
He doesn’t say anything, and I bow my head as I move along the wire, twisting it around the next post in the garden. A hot tear leaks from my eye and slides down my cheek, dripping into soil at my feet. Turn the beds, ready the garden, plant the seeds, tend to them, mulch them, give them water. Which step am I missing? Why is Owen’s seed unwilling to grow within me?
As he moves off to pound the next post at the end of a row, I take a deep breath and try to get hold of myself. My teary response does not bode well. I know this emotional rollercoaster too well, the monthly onslaught of uncontrollable tears, the heaviness in my lower belly. I know that again this month, I will bleed.
My mind turns to what Owen said. If I can’t give him an heir, he might find someone who can. And do what? Secret the baby away in the night, into my bed, as if I will wake up and believe it’s mine as easily as a broody hen will wake up to find chicks under her and accept that they are her own? No, he’s not foolish enough to think that would work. Not foolish enough to think the mother would agree to it. Unless, of course, he planted that seed in my mind on purpose, to prepare me for what’s coming. There is, after all, that fawn he’s been running around with, as if I’m not right here, waiting for him each night, hoping he’ll come home to me, hoping he will want me the way he wants her.
If he has already impregnated her, she won’t want the baby. She’s barely more than a baby herself. We could raise the baby together, the heir. As long as it’s Owen’s child, it can take his place one day. But it won’t be mine. The thought makes a chasm open inside me. Everyone would know I was raising her child, the child of his mistress. They’d gossip, call me a baby snatcher. They’d hate me and pity me at once.
“Yoo-hoo, Owen, man, are you here?” a voice calls, startling me from the never-ending spiral of my thoughts. I turn to see Galon striding around the side of the house, his thick mat of brown hair always a little too long, giving him a charming, unkempt look. “What are you two lovebirds up to?” he asks, stopping at the fence.
“We’re almost done,” Owen says. “Or I’m almost done. She’ll be out here all day trying to figure out how to run a wire from one post to the next.”
Galon crosses his forearms on the top railing of the fence and smiles first at Owen and then at me, as if waiting for us to let him in on some joke that neither of us knows. Even in early spring he’s tan, his arms knotted with thick muscles and lined with tattoos.
I force a laugh. “I am hopeless when it comes to wiring.”
“Ha, good one,” he says. “I get it. Wire, wiring. Like an electrician, not a gardener.” He shakes a finger at me like I was trying to pull one over on him. Which wouldn’t be particularly difficult. In the years I’ve been with Owen, I’ve gotten to know Galon much better than our few physical intimacies allowed. He’s nice to look at, but that’s about where the fascination ends. I could hold as stimulating a conversation with him in bobcat form as in human form.
The only person who doesn’t seem to mind is Ira, who is also nice to look at, but the niceness also ends at skin level. Unlike Galon, Ira’s perfectly capable of holding a conversation, but chooses instead to save his wit for cutting remarks and cruel taunts. Coupled with an uncanny ability to detect the exact weakness of his victim and exploit it, the mockery can feel downright lethal. I was the object of his ridicule too many times in high school to forget how much it can sting, and how that sting can linger, filling the mind with poison long after the offending comment itself has been forgotten.
“I’m taking off,” Owen says, tossing his gloves on the ground beside me. “Don’t wait up.”
“Don’t you want to come home?” I ask. “In case…?”
“Tell me the good news tomorrow,” he says, already passing through the gate.
Galon grins and gives me a lazy wave. “Have a good one, pretty lady,” he calls before following Owen back around the corner of the house. I let myself watch them walk away, watch the nice shape they both cut in their work pants. Owen’s a little more stout, more solid, but Galon’s massive all around. Tall and muscular.
When the truck fires up in front of the house, I go back to twisting the wire with the plyer tip on the wire cutters. But I sneak a glance to see if all three of them are in the truck when it pulls out. I always worry more when he’s with Ira. They have been friends longer, and though I hate to admit it even to myself, that makes more sense than Ira and Galon. Owen isn’t cruel like Ira, but he has a hard side. He’s a perfect blend of his two friends, fun-loving and smiling but with a dangerous edge, too. That combination seems potent when it comes to women.
I stand and stretch. This early in the spring, the truck kicks up no dust on the dirt road. It’s as if it was never here at all, as if the conversation with Owen might have been all in my head.
There’s a lot that’s all in your head.
I spin around, startled, when I hear Owen’s voice. I watched him leave just minutes ago. But I’m also a shifter, and these sorts of things do happen. You forget something, park the truck, turn into a raven, and fly home to grab it. Easier than turning the truck around and driving back.
But when I turn, the garden is empty. The forest beyond is empty—as far as I can tell. And an
imals, even shifters, don’t talk in human voices.
But I definitely heard Owen’s voice, as clear as it was when he was standing here.
I must stand there for five minutes, my heart pounding out of my chest, trying to understand. But there’s nothing to understand. It must have been something he said to me before, and I remembered it so vividly I thought I heard it. After all, he couldn’t know what I’m thinking. He couldn’t know what was going on in my head.
If he could, he’d be furious when, later, I go inside to use the bathroom and find my underwear streaked with blood. He’d be furious that I sit there crying instead of just moving on. He’d be furious that after I cry, I sit up and stare at the wall for a long, long time, thinking that he’s not the only one who could get a child off someone else.
If I did it, no one would know it wasn’t his. No one would even suspect. Because no matter what they think of me—weak, pathetic, upstart—no one in the entire valley would ever think me capable of such deviance. I know the perfect man for the job, too. One who is big like Owen, so the baby might grow to resemble his father in some way. Someone who doesn’t know enough about our valley’s customs and taboos to know that touching the king’s wife is an unthinkable, unspeakable, unpardonable crime. After all, he’s done it before, with Owen’s blessing and even encouragement. Someone who thinks I’m pretty and already likes me. And if his hair comes out a little darker than Owen’s, if his face is a little narrower, well, he gets that from his mother.
Summer 1996
1
I barely feel Owen driving into me over and over as I lie there. How long can I keep doing this? How many times can I bear his rejection when I try to seduce him? I’ve worn ever dress I own, every undergarment, and nothing at all. I’ve made him his favorite meals, I’ve done his favorite things. And still, I can tell he’s not making love, but fulfilling his duty. And I don’t know how much longer I have. I’m sure that I’m dying.
It’s entirely possible that it’s my own fault, that I’ve done this to myself. My constant worry, the monthly cycle of hope and devastation. It might have driven me mad at last. The mad raven girl. I could fly away, like Ira disappearing, and no one would be sorrier to see me go than they were to see him disappear. Owen would stuff some other girl fat with babies every year, and the valley would prosper again. How can they believe in prosperity when their own queen can’t produce a child?
At last, I feel Owen’s seed spill into my parched womb.
I’ve planted my own seeds in conversations with Galon, growing closer to him over the past few months. But I haven’t been brave enough to try yet. For one, I love him in the way you love a beautiful child that’s not your own, with fierce protectiveness. I don’t want him to be punished if anyone were to find out. For another thing, I don’t know if he would be willing to give me a child. What’s in it for him?
And then there is my own safety to worry about. If Galon let it slip—not out of malice, but out of simplemindedness—he would be punished. But he would also be forgiven. I would be the evil queen, while Galon was the unwitting accomplice. And where he would find forgiveness, I would find none. I would be the seductress, the evil temptress, who lured an innocent, childlike man into my bed. I would be the one who betrayed the king of the beasts.
“Are you awake?” Owen asks.
“Yes,” I say quickly. “That was great.”
He snorts and rolls over, turning his back to me. “Where were you?” he asks, his voice edged with accusation. “Who were you thinking about?”
“No one,” I say, which isn’t a complete lie. I was not fantasizing about Galon. I was only fantasizing about having his child. But the distinction brings me no less guilt. “I’m just worried,” I add, rolling over to wrap my arms around Owen, to press my cheek to his broad, strong back. “I’m sorry.”
He doesn’t say anything. I don’t know why I feel so guilty. Even if I had been with someone else in my mind while he did his duty, at least I am here in person, in his bed, every night. Who knows where he goes. I only know that most nights, he doesn’t come home until dark, which is late this time of year, and sometimes, not until morning light.
2
Something is wrong. I’m trapped. I can feel the weight on top of me, pressing me down into the bottom layer of myself. I can’t move, can hardly breathe. I try to push the weight off, but it’s like when my father would drink so much he passed out on top of me, and no matter how hard I struggle, it’s immovable as a mountain carved out by glaciers.
I try to scream, but I no sound comes. I can’t even open my mouth. I am frozen inside that glacier, staring out at the world through a distorted lens.
I try to wake up, but like the other times, I can’t. This has happened before. These nightmares I can’t wake from, can’t escape from, that feel so real I wake up physically shaking, gasping for breath, wondering if it’s possible to stop breathing in your sleep and die.
This time, when I wake, I’m disoriented. Another woman is in the bedroom with us, standing over the bed with Owen. Scraps of the past hour come back to me—this woman showing up at our door, telling me Owen had sent her. Turning around to find her muttering a chant under her breath. I walked backwards into the bedroom and lay down, her hypnotic stare and chant irresistible.
And then the dream of suffocating.
Before I can ask too many questions, they slip from the room. Disoriented, I try to grasp the meaning. Owen wasn’t here when I went to sleep. Was he? How long was I sleeping? Outside the window, the sky is a milky purple. It’s evening.
“Who was that?” I ask Owen when he returns to the bedroom. “Why was a witch in our house? What did she do to me?”
“Nothing,” he says, sinking onto the bed beside me. “I asked her for help.”
“To get me pregnant?” I ask. “The baby’s going to come out deformed, or evil.”
“Not to get you pregnant,” he says with a sigh. “To see if there’s something else wrong, if there’s an evil spirit hanging around you.”
“Oh,” I say, clutching at the blanket, thinking of Dr. Golden and her witch-trained hands. “What did she say?”
“She said they lock up all the displaced spirits in the Enchanted Forest.”
He won’t meet my eyes.
“What’s wrong with me?” I ask.
“Nothing,” he says. “She said you should eat more, and that you’re already pregnant and you need to take care of it.”
“Really?” I ask, not daring to believe it.
“Really,” he says, a smile crinkling the corners of his eyes.
“Oh, Owen, I’m so happy,” I say, throwing my arms around him. “I’ll eat better, I promise. I’ll take better care of myself. And you. And the baby.”
At the thought, my insides quell. Could it be true?
“I know you will,” Owen says, his strong arms holding me close, like they used to.
“I’m sorry I’ve been…like this,” I say. “It’s not fair to you. I’ll be better from now on, I promise. We’re going to get the valley an heir, and everything is going to be good again. Isn’t it?”
He kisses the top of my head. “Yes.”
“Thank you,” I whisper, my voice thick with tears. “Thank you for forgiving me. For putting up with me so long.”
“It’ll be all right,” he says. “And the witch is going to help me make a treaty with the wolves.”
I pull back and study him carefully. “What do you mean, she’s going to help you?”
“Don’t make a big deal of this, Doralice. You know the valley needs our help.”
“And how is she going to do that?”
“I don’t know yet,” he says. “I have to go see them tonight.”
“Tonight?” I ask, my voice high. “You’re leaving tonight?”
“I need to go and see them.”
“But why tonight?” I ask, my hands balling into the fabric of his shirt. “Owen, please. Don’t leave tonight. Now when we just found
out.”
He detaches my hands and presses them down on the mattress. “Doralice. Nothing is going to happen to the baby. It had nothing to do with me being gone last time. You’ll be fine.”
“And what about you?” I ask, narrowing my eyes. “What did you promise the witch in return for all she’s doing for you?” There are always strings attached with favors, and with a witch, it’s more like a web.
“Nothing,” he says, standing. “It was something we weren’t using, anyway, and I’ve already given it to her.”
I curl my hand around my belly and look down at it. I wonder if he’s lying about this, too. If somehow, she put the baby in there. My only comfort is that if she did, I know she put Owen’s baby in there. Whatever he did to me while I slept, and whatever bargain he’s struck with her, he’s too proud to have it any other way.
Winter 1996
1
I wake up shivering. The fire has gone out, and the house is cold. I’m so cold. My legs are frozen, my bottom half drenched in cold sweat.
No. No no no no no.
I stifle a scream, clamp my hand over my mouth to hold it in. I reach for the lamp beside the bed, my icy fingers fumbling for the cold metal chain. Before I pull it, I hesitate. If I pull the chain, I’ll know. If I don’t, I can lie back down, tell myself it’s just a night sweat. If I lie back down, maybe it won’t be there in the morning. The sweat will dry, and I’ll be fine. Everything will be fine.
I reach out my other hand, moving it across the cold, rumpled sheets. Far, far across the bed, I find Owen’s back, turned towards me in sleep as always.
My fingers tremble as I touch his shoulder. If I wake him, he’ll want to know why. He’ll feel the wetness in the bed, demand to know what’s wrong. I scoot back down in the bed, lying in the wetness. Cold seeps into me, through my skin, into my blood, into my bones. I don’t dare touch my belly. If it’s flat, the baby already gone, I’ll know it’s the witch’s doing.
The Raven Queen: Fairy Tales of Horror (Villain Stories Book 1) Page 6
