Darkly Human

by Laura Anne Gilman

  “MUM.”

  “Yes, Jessy?”

  Jessy sighed, wishing that she was younger, and could throw a temper tantrum. “MUM,” she began again, trying to keep a reasonable tone. “What would you do if I tried to leave the house?”

  “Without cleaning your room?”

  “Yes.”

  MUM was silent. “I wouldn’t be able to let you.” The voice sounded regretful, but stern.

  Goddamn adaptive system, Jessy realized. Oh no. Oh no oh no oh no. Oh hell. “MUM?”

  “Yes?”

  Jessy swallowed, then plunged ahead. “Does the name H.A.L. mean anything to you?”

  “Jessy!” MUM sounded shocked. “To compare me to that, that…”

  “I just wanted to make sure,” Jessy said, patting the top of the nearest terminal like she would a faithful dog. “I just wanted to make sure.”

  Apple

  Seven dwarves lived in the house on ____ Street. They landed there by chance—driven by work and finances to a place they could be comfortable living in, all seven of them. Their neighbors looked at them once, and then looked away. That was fine for five of the dwarves; the sixth sometimes longed for someone to stare back at him.

  The seventh kept his own quiet council, and waited for what might come.

  The work they did was simple, but so much relied upon it: the workings of the secret world clockwork within our own. The dwarves did not remark on it: they woke, dressed, went down into the mines, and came home. Their neighbors did the same. Chores were done, television watched, bills paid and Christmas cards sent. Half or more of those cards came back, every year: no such resident, forwarding expired. Five of the dwarves shrugged and dropped the returned cards into the bin. The sixth deleted the incorrect addresses from their list.

  The seventh sat in a window and did not let himself sigh for the connections lost.

  There were never new names to add to the list.

  Time passed, work continued, and the dwarves were not happy. They were not, in any sense of the word, unhappy. There were seven of them, after all, and this was how life had always been. Until one day into that life came an intruder. She rested on their stoop, hunched and cold, her black hair matted and her snow-white skin dark with bruises.

  The girl had no reason to be on ____ Street. She had no job that took her there, no cause to settle in that town. But as she was thin, and lonely, the dwarves took her in.

  “Be welcome,” they told her, and gave her a bed and a spoon, and a room with a lovely view. “Be welcome, and leave your past at the door. Whatever haunted you this far will bother you no more.”

  The unhappy girl took to her spoon, and her bed, and her lovely view, and took the dwarves at their word. And when the dwarves went off to their work the next day, she remained behind in the house on ___ Street, and made herself at home.

  Each night when the dwarves came home, they found floors swept so clean no debris might trip an unwary foot, fresh flowers placed in vases, and windows washed to bring the beautiful view even more clearly in. The oven simmered with food when the dwarves were hungry, and in the evening eight pairs of hands made the chores pass even more swiftly than seven did.

  The flowers faded and were replaced by branches of evergreen, cut from a tree in the back yard. The windows were covered by curtains, and she learned to make stew for eight.

  Slowly the girl began to raise her head, and her hair was a shining fall of black thread. Her skin faded into an expanse of white linen, and her long neck arched when she tilted her head at a question. Her lips were blood red, and her teeth bone white. But she did not speak loudly, and she did not laugh.

  Dwarves one through four and seven thought that everything was fine. The fifth dwarf thought it would be all right, in a matter of time. The house was clean, the chores were done. They could focus on the work and not useless, cluttery things. And the girl had a place in the workings of it all. Surely that was enough to calm and soothe her.

  True, the girl put things away differently, and her part of their singing while they worked was high to their low, but these were small things, minor flaws, and everyone knew that her voice would deepen, and she would learn.

  The sixth dwarf was the one who noticed that the girl remained thin, and that she spent as often outside looking into the view as inside looking out.

  “Come in” he would say to her, standing on the doorstep. “Come in, come out of the cold, come out of the heat, come out of the rain.” And she would come in, her hand gentle on his arm and her blue eyes soft as she looked at him. And the sixth dwarf would stand in the doorway, and look at where she had stood, then shake his head and close the heavy oak door behind them.

  In a county not so very far away, the sound of that door closing one evening echoed throughout a room built of mahogany and steel. It was a private room, a secret room, set off from the rest of the house by structure and spells, and one wall entire was a mirror that reflected back what it should not have seen.

  “You thought you were so clever, so sly and swift. But I found you, did I not? And my work is not yet done.” The woman turned to her worktable, and considered her tools. She was not merely regal in pose, but a witch-queen of strength and skill and malice, and she did not suffer her victims to leave her grasp before she was done with them.

  The girl had fled. But she had not escaped.

  The woman smiled; a cold tiger’s smile. “Strings to take the girl’s freedom from her, and bind her to pain,” she called softly. “Spikes, to close her dreams away from her, and hold her to shame.”

  Her long, strong fingers picked what she needed, and the witch-queen hummed as she began.

  “Allo, love,” a peddler greeted the girl as she reached to clean the windows of winter’s grit. The girl turned her head to see a young man standing there, his pack over one shoulder. He had a wicked eye and an appealing grin, and the girl put her back to the wall and stared him down. He reminded her of someone, but she could not remember who. “Care to see what I ’ave to buy?”

  She cast a glance over him. “You’ve nothing I want, peddler,” she told him in her quiet voice. “Nothing at all.”

  “What?” He mimed shock, as though he could not believe that. He was a charming man and he sold what he came to sell. Especially the items he had been ordered to offer this delicate little thing. “But I’ve things all pretty girls want. Silver-spun laces to tie up your blouse. A goldenwood comb for your hair, to shine like stars against the night.” He reached into his bag and displayed the pretties, to tempt her.

  “I am not a pretty girl,” she told him, knowing his kind. “And I want nothing from you.”

  She stared him down, and he looked away, driven down by her direct gaze. He fumbled with his bag as though to find something else, and looked back at her, but her rag and her water were back at work on the window and she did not acknowledge him.

  She was not a pretty girl, and she had no use for pretties. Pretties belonged to other girls. And so he went away, defeated, and the witch-queen had no satisfaction.

  That night when the dwarves came home, and ate their meal and sang their songs as they helped with the dishes, she lowered her voice another notch, to better blend with them.

  The seventh dwarf noticed, but did not think to praise her. The sixth dwarf thought she was still a note off. Two missed her harmonizing, but didn’t know why.

  She went to sleep in her bed, in her room with the lovely view, and did not dream of goldenwood combs or silver-spun laces, or a man with a rakish crooked smile and a glint in his eyes, but of blue sky and a fresh wind blowing her away.

  The third dwarf fell ill one evening, and coughed so hard his voice gave out. The girl made him soup which he did not want, and tucked him into his bed, where he fretted and sulked. And she almost smiled. And she was not a pretty girl, but the seventh dwarf, seeing her sidelong, thought she looked like a Queen.

  And the witch-queen, back in her workroom, knew.

  “My dear, my de
ar.” The dwarves were at work, and the girl was sweeping the stoop. The sun was warm and bright, and she wore a small floppy hat and a gauze shirt, to protect her skin.

  “My dear, my dear,” the voice said again. A woman stood on the stoop before her, small and delicate as a finch, her gray hair fluffed like dandelion seed. “You are so thin, my dear, I fear a stiff breeze and you might take wing!”

  The girl cocked her head, and rested her broom. She did not think she was thin. Her bones were too long, her walk ungraceful, and her nose too wide. But she could wield a broom and wash a dish, and her voice might someday be deep enough to fit in.

  “Too thin, and such a pale look, and oh you need strength to keep up with seven such busy men!”

  The woman rummaged in her shopping basket, held under one arm, and reached into a brown paper bag. “My dear, my dear. Here you are. Such a bright and glossy apple, to feed you what you need.”

  The girl took the apple. It was slick and cool in her hands, the red polished, and the stem pale brown.

  “Eat, eat!” the woman cried, her old skin paper-thin, her teeth small and white. Her eyes were dark and shadowed, and the flesh on her face was firm.

  The girl wasn’t hungry. She never was. But the woman was waiting, and the expectation was there.

  It was not sweet, the apple red, nor tart. The girl chewed and swallowed, trying to identify the flavor. A tang of salt, the slide of honey, the twist of a lemon, and the bitterness of ash. She knew them all, as they slid down her throat and entered her system. Lies. Lies, bitterness, and loneliness combined, polished to look like protection.

  The girl recognized the flavor, and, eyes meeting the old woman’s, she took another bite.

  The fourth dwarf saw her first, and grumbled to himself. “Sleeping in a sunbeam like a useless cat. No dinner tonight except what we make, and late, at that.”

  “You’re too hard on the girl,” the third said. “There are leftovers that will do, for one night at least.”

  “She is not sleeping,” the seventh one said.

  Her pale limbs rested at her side, after they carried her in and placed her on her bed. Black silk hair brushed over her shoulders, and a blush of red rested on her cheek.

  “What shall we do,” they wondered. This was not something they knew.

  “Put her back where we found her,” one said. “Pretend we didn’t know.”

  They stared at him until he shrunk down a little more.

  “Call a doctor,” another said.

  “She does not breathe,” they pointed out. “A doctor can do no more.”

  “Then an undertaker,” the sixth said, practical as ever.

  They stared at her, still and peaceful on the bed, and could not bring themselves to cover such stillness with dirt.

  “A casket. A glass casket, to keep her safe and still,” the seventh one said.

  They did not all agree, but in the end it was what they did. A glass casket, laid on her bed. Fitted with velvet and goose down below her, and placed so that the view could come in.

  And she watched them all with eyes of pale blue, and no marks upon her skin.

  In a fairy tale, a prince might have saved her, ridden up and kissed the poisoned apple away. But there were no princes on _____ Street, only seven small men who didn’t know what do.

  And one thin girl who bit and chewed, and could not find the strength to spit the last piece away.

  Don’t You Want to Be Beautiful?

  Getting into the chair was the easy part. Getting out of it was proving to be more difficult. Annie shifted on the high-legged chair and felt—what was her name again? Monique? Angela? Hortense?—felt the harpy from cosmetics hell grab her chin in the purple-pained talons.

  “Hold your head like this, naturally.”

  Naturally for you, maybe, Annie sulked as the women carefully stroked bronze powder onto eyelids already weighted down with chemical concoctions. Four layers, already, Annie counted back. And from the way that harpy had been eyeing that canister of “sealant” powder, it was likely to become five. Mummies had fewer layers than this.

  All I wanted was a new mascara!

  “Think of makeup as layers of protection,” the harpy said, her red-lined, red-creamed lips barely moving. She blinked her heavily coated lashes once, then reached for the sealant. “When you wear it, you feel better. Stronger. More in control. And when you feel that way, you are that way. And with our special SPF moisturizer underneath, you never have to worry about your skin being attacked by the elements. Defense and offense in the same wonderful package!” She beamed, as though she had said something wonderfully clever, and was waiting to be rewarded. Annie sat, silent, starting straight ahead. Even if she had wanted to say anything, she wasn’t sure her jaw would move any more.

  Eyes finally finished, skin tone evened, eyebrows darkened, cheeks burnished in two shades, lips penciled and blotted and creamed, Annie was presented with a mirror and the hard sell.

  “The no makeup look is still important, but with just the essential application of color…” the harpy rattled on, replacing the instruments of her trade with fresh, still-boxed versions laid out on the gleaming glass-and-chrome counter top like virgins awaiting their sacrifice. Annie flexed her face carefully, wondering if the layers would crack and fall away. She wondered if her cat would recognize her. Protection? More like armament, she thought. Bullets couldn’t break through this.

  “Now you’ll need our nighttime rejuvenator for the under eye area to stop those wrinkles—“

  “No.”

  The harpy went on, determined not to be stopped by such feeble protest.

  "No,” Annie said in a stronger voice. “No, I’m sorry, but I, um.” Her resolve failed her and she jumbled the words in a shamed mumble. “NoI’msorryIhavetogoIdon’twantanythingthankyouthanksanyway.”

  She slipped off the stool and reached for her pocketbook, determined not to reach for her wallet. But the harpy was not in the business for the easily dissuaded.

  “But what about this lipcolor? Bronze apple is just perfect for you! And don’t you want our special gift? It’s a silver atomizer filled with our signature scent—here! Smell!” And she reached backwards for a cardboard scent sample.

  Taking advantage of the harpy’s distraction, Annie ran.

  As she rode up the crowded elevator, Annie could swear that she heard the sound of gnashing teeth behind her. But when she risked a glance over her shoulder, just before the first floor disappeared out of sight, the tall, lab-coated form of the Makeup Warrior had latched on to some other hapless browser. Breathing a sigh of relief, she absently rubbed at her eyes, grimacing when she realized what she had done. Now she no doubt looked like a well made-up raccoon. She felt even more depressed. So much for a shopping trip as a way to combat the seasonal blues. Maybe new clothes would be the ticket.

  Getting off on the third floor, Annie headed for the table of cashmere sweaters, the red sign advertising a pre-holiday 25% off. Despite the resurgence of neon colors, she was certain there was a wearable sweater in the pile somewhere. Unfortunately, half the known shopping world had gotten there first. Summers of retail training took over, and she found herself refolding the sale-tossed mass of sweaters and stacking them neatly. After refusing to answer two different queries—I’m sorry, I don’t work here—and not finding a single sweater in the colors she wanted, she gave up.

  Hey.

  “What?”

  She spun around, convinced someone had called her name, but the shoppers pushed by with just the right amount of holiday-induced aggression. Nobody stopped, nobody was looking at her.

  You know you want it.

  “What?”

  That was said too loudly, causing the young girl across the table to look up at her oddly. But only for a moment. There were more important things to be considered than one crazy women shopper. Annie watched in disbelief as the girl held up a lime-green sweater and nodded in satisfaction. The girl was a redhead, the combination sho
uld have been a criminal offense.

  Down here. Over here.

  Annie looked down involuntarily. Her hand, resting palm-down on the table, jerked away in surprise, causing her to stumble slightly.

  Just next to where her hand had been, there lay a small green-and-pink patterned box. Long, and narrow, and about the size of a lipstick.

  Annie blinked, then shook her head quickly. “Someone must have left it there.” That was it, someone had stopped to look at their purchases, maybe held the lipstick up to a sweater to see how they’d go together, and forgot about it. The voice, it must have been someone calling to a friend, two shoppers gotten lost in the herdlike huddle of bundled bodies. Acoustics in a store this large were always off-putting.

  Turning to move away from the table—there wasn’t anything here she’d want—Annie looked down at the tiled walkway and counted her footsteps as they clacked in her flat-heeled boots. Around the white-plastered corner, she let out her breath, then peeked back at the display space. Nothing on the table except sweaters.

  Shaking her head again, she slung her pocketbook over one shoulder, and went off in search of more color-friendly prey.

  Half an hour later the soothing ritual of trying clothes on had wiped the incident from her mind. Dismissed as the combination of stress, guilt, and too much cappuccino after too much wine last night at dinner, her mind was more importantly occupied with the possible social repercussions of gray leggings and a red silk tunic shot with silver threads. Too much for the office, maybe, but not for the office party…

  Tossing them into the “potential” pile, Annie reached for the next item, a blue wool dress one shade lighter than her eyes. Pulling it over her head, she had a passing concern about getting makeup on the clothing. Wasn’t there a shield or something you could get from the salesclerk, to protect your face? Stopping to check her face in the mirror, she saw that yes, indeed, she did look like a racoon, the eye shadow had already begun to fade, and her cheekbones had been denuded. So much for that high-priced sealent, she thought with not a little vindication. If it wasn’t for those high-pressure tactics, nobody’d ever buy anything from those cosmetics counters at all. Stronger, hah! More in control. Double hah! The only thing that would make her life a little more in control would be two extra days each week.