by Jake Halpern
“Mother!” Marin called. “I’m back—I saw the ships!”
“I heard.”
Moments later, Tarae emerged from the darkness, holding a candle. Marin’s mother was tall and darkly olive-skinned, with waist-length raven-black hair that gleamed in the candlelight. Like her daughter, she had honey-colored eyes, a trait that was fairly common in the Desert Lands. Tarae was wearing a sleeveless white gown, cinched at the waist with an elaborately braided belt. Her arms, shoulders, and lower neck were covered with interconnected skin markings that depicted a tapestry of snakes, lizards, and dancing nymphs. They started just above her wrist, then twisted and turned and writhed all the way to the base of her neck. The sight was arresting, even for Marin, who had seen her mother’s body many times before. What really surprised Marin, however, was her mother’s revealing outfit. Women on the island typically wore pants, silk waistbands, and long-sleeved shirts made from simple muslin. In colder weather, closer to Nightfall, they wore long oilskin coats. No one dressed like this—not on the island.
“I met your father in this dress—he could not avert his eyes. The poor man is bewitched, they said.” Tarae’s cheeks flushed with color as she smiled at the memory. “He fell helplessly in love—and it happened just weeks after I left the Cloister.”
Marin had heard many times about her parents meeting and about Tarae’s year in the Cloister, where she pierced her eyelids with lizard bones and marked her skin with scalpels and ink.
“Are you going to the boats dressed like that?” asked Marin tentatively, thrusting her hands into the front pockets of her pants. People will gawk at you.
“Why not?” asked Tarae, sounding slightly wounded. “Would you mind?”
“Of course not,” said Marin, kicking at the floor with her boot. “I was just asking. It’s cold out there.”
“Marin,” said her mother, stepping closer to her daughter. “After fourteen years, I am headed home. I know that you love your life on this island, and I don’t expect you to share my joy. Just understand that . . .” Tarae’s voice cracked as she tried not to cry. “I recognize something of what you feel. I wasn’t much older than you when I left the desert.”
Marin swallowed hard. She had never really thought about just how scared her mother must have felt coming to Bliss. She was about to say something—what, exactly, she didn’t know—when suddenly a breeze blew in from the front door, causing the candle in Tarae’s hand to flicker and then go out. They could hear the sound of Anton hammering on the lock downstairs. Tarae muttered in annoyance and turned to get a match.
“Wait!” said Marin. “Don’t light the candle yet.”
“Why?”
“Because,” said Marin. “I want to see your arms again.”
Tarae spun around and arched her back proudly.
CHAPTER 8
It looked as if rays of green light were emanating from cracks in her mother’s skin. Marin had seen these luminescent markings before, but pitch darkness made them look different—bolder, brighter.
“What you see is on every desert woman—they are the arrows of light—and they guide us not only in the Cloister, but throughout our lives.” Tarae caressed her daughter’s cheek and placed both hands palm down on her hair, as if bestowing a blessing. “You will understand better when we arrive in our new home.”
Marin pulled away, almost recoiling. “I’m sorry . . . I have things to do.” I can’t think about this—not now. The idea of moving to the Desert Lands was not particularly appealing, especially when it meant giving up her freedom . . . and Line. Still, she realized belatedly that her voice sounded harsher than she intended.
Tarae’s arms fell, and her radiant smile faded. “Yes,” she said flatly. “You have chores to do.”
“Where’s Kana?” asked Marin.
“Working—as you should be.”
Marin pressed her lips tightly together. She was determined not to say anything to further provoke her mother. Their relationship had been tense of late, especially in regard to Line. It was better to lie low until they were on the boats.
“Hurry along now,” said Tarae. “There are scuff marks on the living room floor. Your brother is working to remove them. You will help. Remember, the houses must be without stain.”
Marin paused for a moment. A tingling ran up her spine. Those were the very words that appeared on the statue of the hag. “Why did you just say that?” she asked. “Where does it come from?”
“I don’t know—it’s just an island saying,” said her mother, who was now busy herding dust into a pile on the floor.
“But what does it mean?”
“It means you need to start working,” said her mother impatiently. “Now go.”
Marin found Kana in the living room. He was wearing black wool pants and a matching sweater. The contrast made his skin look paler than usual. At the moment, he was hunched over with his back to her, scrubbing at a stain on the wood-paneled wall.
Thick carpets that ordinarily stretched across the floor were rolled up, ready to be carried into the storage rooms downstairs. Marin was surprised to see that, beneath the rugs, the floorboards were scarred with hundreds of circular indentations—as if someone had walked around stabbing the floor with a spear.
“Have you seen what Mother’s wearing?” Marin asked. She tried to sound lighthearted, in the hopes that she and Kana might enjoy a brief truce. Kana continued working at the stain.
“Kana?”
He finally looked up and stared at her impassively, with neither fondness nor bitterness in his eyes. It was his Kana-as-a-blank-canvas look, and Marin hated it.
“You can start on the other side of the living room—there are some blotches on the wall,” said Kana. He turned back to the stain and began prodding at it in a violent, jerky motion. Marin sighed, walked to the far wall, and began to scrub. The excitement of the arriving furrier boats seemed far away; her family was putting her in a very bad mood.
Several minutes later, Marin finished and moved to the parlor, a large room furnished with several upright couches, a stone fireplace, and an old but functional player piano. Currently the piano was playing a nocturne whose forlorn melody echoed down the hallways. Marin found the music unbearably sad, but Kana was fond of it, and he played it whenever he was home. The house had six bedrooms, a parlor, a formal dining hall, and a solarium. Stonemasons like Marin’s father wouldn’t usually live in such a grand place, but the house’s location next to the woods made it less desirable.
Today there was a fire crackling in the fireplace. It was a stark contrast from Marin’s childhood, when it had been far too warm for a fire. Now they built one almost every day. The island was cold, and ocean storms appeared more frequently, peppering houses with driving hail. A burning ember cracked in the fireplace, and Marin jumped. She was more on edge than she realized.
Tarae appeared in the doorway, standing so she was in profile. Her back—with its incandescent skin markings—cast a faint glow on the wall behind her, giving her an almost ghostly appearance. “Marin,” she said with a kind of forced cheerfulness. “Please get the clock from Kana’s room. I meant to ask him, but he’s already upstairs. Put it on the mantel in the parlor and make sure it’s facing seaward.” She paused, then smiled in a way that put Marin on alert.
“I have something for you—wait here.” A minute later, Tarae appeared again in the doorway. She was holding a rectangular box, six inches long and three inches wide. It was made of highly polished copper, and the red-brown hues of the metal threw ribbons of color onto Tarae’s white dress. She approached Marin solemnly and held out the box. “Your birthright. I have been waiting for this moment . . .”
Marin took the box in her hands. The metal was cold and heavy.
“You will need this in the Desert Lands.” Tarae’s light brown eyes brimmed with tears. “Keep it safe during the journey.” She caress
ed Marin’s cheek with the palm of her hand. “Do you want to open it?”
Marin knew how much her mother wanted her to open the box, but she couldn’t. It felt unbearably awkward. She’d do it later, on the furrier boats, when the reality of her life in the Desert Lands was inescapable.
“Mother,” said Marin. She drew closer and placed a hand gently on Tarae’s arm. Marin’s voice was apologetic, sheepish, and so quiet that it was barely audible. “Can we do this on the boats? When there’s more time? I just—I feel so rushed.”
Tarae pursed her lips and nodded. “As you wish.”
Marin mumbled her thanks and headed upstairs. The second floor of the house had seven rooms, but only hers and Kana’s were occupied. After they were grown enough to move out of their parents’ bedroom, Marin and Kana had chosen these, which were right next to each other.
Recently, however, Marin had begun to wish that their rooms were farther apart. On several occasions within the last few weeks, Kana had woken her with hysterical screaming. She’d run to his room and found him terrified and staring out the window, or sitting upright in bed, one arm across his face, another extended outward, as if pushing something away.
But he wouldn’t talk about it. Not to her, anyway. After one of these episodes, Marin heard him and Tarae whispering in his room. The following day, Anton bolted Kana’s window shut. When Marin asked why, they told her that Kana was suffering from “night terrors”—nightmares so terrible that they seemed real even after you awoke.
Upon reaching the top of the stairs, Marin continued down the candlelit hallway toward the open door of her brother’s bedroom. Kana was studying his reflection in the mirror while rubbing lekar into the scar along his cheek.
Lekar was a powerful remedy against infections of all kinds. It could be eaten or applied to a wound, and it worked quickly. Many villagers claimed it had saved their lives. It came from a bright yellow fungus that appeared on the underside of woodfern, a small, soft plant that grew in the deep woods. It was very difficult to find or even to buy—especially this close to Nightfall—and Kana was lucky to have it. He’d been applying a small amount to his face just once a week, and it was working, though he’d always bear a scar.
Marin knew she had intruded upon a private moment, but she couldn’t help but watch. Every once in a while she was reminded of the fact that her brother was actually quite beautiful. People in town said he looked like their father, but it was only recently that she’d begun to see the resemblance. He had grown taller, broader, and stronger from top to bottom during the past few months, and had even developed a dimple on each cheek like their father. He still wasn’t as tall as Line, or as thickly built as Anton, but he had undeniably come into his own.
The only blemish on Kana’s face was the scar. A fresh wave of guilt washed over Marin. She was about to dart away when Kana set down the jar of yellow lekar, turned his back to the doorway, and approached a large rocking chair in the corner of his room. He looked down at it and began to whisper. At first, Marin couldn’t understand him, but then the words seemed to waft through the darkness, like a chant or the faintest of prayers: It didn’t happen . . . It didn’t happen . . . It didn’t happen.
CHAPTER 9
It didn’t happen. It didn’t happen. Kana mouthed the words as he studied the leather-bound chair that had been torturing him for weeks. I’m being tormented by a piece of furniture, he thought. How tragically stupid. And yet that was the truth of it. The chair figured prominently in Kana’s recurring nightmare. In it, he was lying in his bed, and a woman would call out his name. She sat in the rocking chair, hidden beneath a cloak, and she always said the same thing: “Stay away from the woods, child—don’t let them see you.” It would have been funny, in a dark kind of way, if it didn’t seem so real. And that was the thing—it felt so lifelike that Kana wasn’t entirely certain that he was dreaming.
On one occasion, he was positive that the woman leapt from the rocking chair—with astounding speed—landed on top of him, and covered his mouth and eyes with a cold, musty rag. Kana struggled but couldn’t shake her off. He gasped for air but couldn’t breathe. She was suffocating him. As she did this, she started talking again: “It’s better this way, child—better for you.” Then, rather inexplicably, as he felt his body go slack, she let him go. He tumbled off the bed and cracked his forehead against the floor. Everything went black. When he opened his eyes, hours later, he was looking into the terrified face of his mother. She’d come to check on him and found him on the floor, his face covered in thick, drying blood. That happened a week ago. Thankfully, he hadn’t dreamed since.
Kana continued to stare at the old chair, as if it might start to rock on its own. It was an absurd thought, and yet it wouldn’t really have surprised Kana. Not at this point. His great-aunt Malony was a lunatic—everyone knew this—and, apparently, he had inherited her illness. I have Dad’s dimples and my great-aunt’s screwy brain. His aunt had died several years ago, but he could still picture her: Malony had cloudy eyes and hair so thin it revealed her scalp, which was always covered with scabs. She had lived with his father’s oldest sister, in a small bedroom in the attic. As a very little boy, he was terrified to be near her.
He’d voiced these worries to his mother as she was cleaning up his bloodied face, but she’d dismissed his concerns. “Kana, my love, it’s impossible.”
“Is it?” Kana had replied. “Malony threw herself down the stairs, didn’t she? And they locked her in her bedroom afterward, right?”
Tarae had shaken her head. “You’re fine,” she’d told him. “It’s the coming of the Night—it’s upsetting all of us.”
Now Kana continued to stare at the old rocking chair until he heard a wooden board creak in the hallway. He listened for a moment. “Marin—are you just going to stand there?”
There was no reply.
He turned and faced the doorway. “You’re not very good at spying,” said Kana. “If you want to come in, then do it.”
“Sorry,” she said. “Mother asked me to bring your clock downstairs.” Marin stepped out of the hallway and entered his room. “What are you doing?” she asked. Marin absentmindedly rubbed her hands together and looked around Kana’s bedroom.
“Slowly losing my mind,” said Kana. He glanced at Marin. “What’s that box you’re carrying?” Recognition dawned on his face. “Oh. That’s the box Mother’s always chattering about. I’m a little jealous—my going-away gift was a set of bolted windows.” He smiled. “Did you two have your talk? How did that go?”
Marin opened her mouth in amazement. It was uncanny how he was able to hone in on what had happened.
“The talk didn’t go that well,” she replied with a sigh. There was no point in elaborating. Kana clearly didn’t want to have an actual conversation about this. “I just came to get the clock. That’s all.”
Marin took the clock off the wall and left the room.
Alone again, Kana felt drained, as if his brief back-and-forth with Marin had been more taxing than he realized. He eased himself down on the rocking chair. It groaned predictably every time Kana pushed back. It was one of the noises he remembered most from his childhood. He listened for sounds coming from Marin’s room but heard nothing.
Marin. My twin sister, Marin. He missed her. That was the truth of it. He missed being closer with her—talking, joking, even just walking to school together. The constant bickering was tiresome. And yet he couldn’t stop himself. He was angry—deeply angry—and this emotion had a will of its own.
Kana closed his eyes and envisioned the forest. He could smell the pine, and even with the window bolted shut, he knew a gentle breeze was making the needles shudder ever so slightly. It’d be good to get out.
He stood up and was about to leave, when he heard voices from outside. Kana pressed an ear against the window. Before he knew who it was, he could hear their agitated tone. After listening fo
r several seconds, he called out to Marin.
She appeared at the doorway with a tired smile. Kana studied her face. Even in the poor light, he could see her with startling clarity. Her bronze skin seemed to glow, adding color to her eyes and lips. It was no wonder Line was so taken with her.
“What is it?” asked Marin.
“You have visitors coming,” said Kana.
“What are you talking about?” she asked. Her eyes flicked to the window next to Kana. After years of being nearly blind, Kana’s hearing was incredibly acute.
“The okrana are heading toward our house,” he said. “They’re coming from the woods and they want to talk to you.”
In addition to monitoring the coastline, the okrana were the only ones in Bliss allowed to range in the woods. And as far as Kana and Marin knew, the okrana never made house calls.
“Are you joking?” asked Marin, narrowing her eyes.
“Do I look like I’m joking?” he replied, face stoic.
Suddenly nervous, Marin stalked out of Kana’s room and headed downstairs. As she went, she heard voices in the foyer, followed by her mother calling for her. At the foot of the stairs she met Tarae, who had wrapped a long black shawl tightly around her bare shoulders.
“Oh, Marin,” said her mother. “What have you done, child?”
“I did what you told me to do,” she protested. “I put the clock away.”
“No, something else,” said her mother. “The okrana want to speak with you.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know,” said Tarae. Her anger was subsumed by a thick layer of motherly worry. Her lips and cheeks were pinched from frowning. “They wouldn’t say.”
