And Her Smile Will Untether the Universe

by Gwendolyn Kiste

  I never asked my father why she left. I didn’t have to. Her sobs like endless lullabies sang me to sleep in the cradle, and the constellation of bruises on the soft flesh of her arms told me what he did to her. What all men who spin golden lies are capable of doing.

  Before dawn, a prince from the south arrives, wearing a black velvet cape and a string of blood-red garnets around his neck. He kisses the girl hard on the mouth, and I’m sure she’ll suffocate beneath his weight, but no, she struggles awake, her gaze fixed on the one who owns her now.

  “My bride,” he says.

  This is what they always call the girls. Not beloved or partner or lover, but bride. A word that implies something fleeting and young. How many days must be marked on a calendar for a girl to shift from bride to wife? What is the passage of time that transforms her from gleaming and new like a magpie’s treasure into old and frayed, a burden to be borne? There must be a moment in which this happens, a moment that cleaves the world in two. Does she feel the change stirring within her, a pregnant storm ready to unleash its havoc? Or does it happen without her knowledge, and she only sees it one morning in the way her prince no longer looks lovingly at the ripe features of her face?

  This girl of fifteen does not smile at the altar or wave goodbye from the golden carriage. She simply stares at her shoes, no longer threadbare, but polished and silken, the foot-wear of royalty. She should be happy. That’s what the village believes. Even her family doesn’t see the shadow that falls over her eyes like a valance of wayward curls. They let her depart for a castle—a mirage in the distance—and they celebrate when she’s gone.

  “Spring weddings are so lovely, don’t you think?” her mother says, red-faced and laughing, as she drinks the last goblet of mead from a dust-caked bottle the family kept for just this occasion.

  All the villagers are here, the chortling fools, and because the enchantment my father sells like bone china is responsible for the marriage, he’s guest of honor. That makes me guest of honor too. Every boy asks me to dance, and every boy stomps off cursing when I shake my head, folding and unfolding my ragged hem. I have special clothes, an old dress of my mother’s, I’m supposed to wear on days like these, but I cling close to my gingham apron, and when I walk home after the revelry ends, alone since my father’s too drunk to stand, the apple feels a little heavier in my pocket.

  ***

  The men who come to the orchard aren’t always princes. Some are dukes or counts or barons. The girls and their families rarely know the difference, so long as the groom has a title and a castle and land.

  But sometimes he doesn’t have any of those things. There’s nothing to stop a pauper from waltzing through the door and kissing the first ruby lips he sees. Because who’s going to check his credentials? We can’t locate whole kingdoms, let alone account for exact wealth.

  “It’s your orchard,” an angry family says to my father after the daughter is married off to an unemployed blacksmith from the village. “You shouldn’t have let that roustabout in there.”

  “No refunds,” my father says.

  Every morning, I visit the girls, their wilted bodies resting in neat rows. Not all of them are chosen. We now house a decade’s worth of would-be princesses. My father has to build a second, then a third barn to accommodate them. Arms crossed over their chests, they doze here, ageless—no laugh lines where they’ve smiled too long or stitches in their brow where they’ve frowned too deep. On their faces, there’s no roadmap of their lives, because their lives sputtered out too soon.

  I say their names as I walk by. It’s the only way I can help the world remember. My father doesn’t care. He brushes the grime from the curves on their skin and calls it a job well done.

  “It’s their own fault,” he says to me. “They had no faith a prince would appear, so none came for them. Silly girls.”

  I suddenly wish for a glass coffin, so that I might shatter it and use the jagged shards to open my father’s chest and see if he does indeed have anything beating in the cavity where a heart should be. I bet he sports a hollow chasm, and if I screamed into it, my words would echo back to me. That’s all he can offer—emptiness. There’s certainly no love between us. My devotion, from daughter to father, dried up years ago like the wells in the village that surrender only sand and sorrow. I want to tell him so, tell him how much I hate him, but it’s fear that makes me reticent. All I’ve ever known is fear. Terror of the babbling forest. Dread of what my father would do to me if he could see inside my own heart, how he’d bruise my body like he did my mother’s.

  I recite the girls’ names a little louder to steady myself.

  When the day is over and my father retires to the cottage to count and recount his money, I check on the forsaken apples. They live in a splintered crate at the far rim of the property, no more than a yard from the mouth of the forest. It’s a good hiding place. Because of his superstitions, my father never ventures that far, always sending me to pull the weeds there.

  The crate overflows with rinds and seeds and stems, and while mold should have long ago turned the pieces to dust, the apples are like the girls—decay never touches them.

  On the eve of the year’s first snowfall, another daughter arrives. Her parents pay with their last silver coins, and my father releases her into the orchard. Stealthy as a mouse, I tag along a few steps behind, but she’s not like the others. She searches for no apple. Her eyes looking north, this girl wanders past the trees, past my crate, to the boundary of the here and there.

  Faltering for a moment, she glances back at me, and I’m caught under the weight of her stare.

  “Are you the one who collects the bodies?”

  I fidget in the dirt and shake my head.

  “Then why are you here?” she asks.

  I have no reason to follow the girls. I can’t stop them, can’t help them, can’t do anything except watch like a strange voyeur as they wither and fall.

  “I want to keep them safe,” I whisper. “I want them to find true love.”

  “Love?” The girl tosses her head back and scoffs. “There’s none of that here. True love breaks the spell, remember? But look around. The spell is stronger than ever.”

  She takes a step closer to the forest.

  “Please don’t.” I drift toward her, my arm outstretched, frantic to catch her before she’s lost. “You can’t be sure what waits in there.”

  “Sometimes that’s better,” she says. “It can be freeing.”

  “It can mean death.”

  “Maybe.” She smiles. “Maybe not.”

  Like my mother before her, she marches into the trees and does not return. Breathless, I lean against the lowest bough and pray she’ll look back again. She never does. Her body dissolves like mist into the darkness.

  But she’s not gone. I hear giggling just beyond our property line, and her final words stay with me, sinking into my skin like the sweet scent of rose oil.

  For the first and only time, the family receives a refund, and I wonder if at last the wind is changing.

  ***

  On my twentieth birthday, my father buys me a new dress for my walk in the orchard.

  Though the apples have made us the richest family in the province, he’s a stingy man, and it’s the first gift he’s ever given me. While I’m not grateful, not really, it seems rude to disregard the gesture, so I thank him and don the billows of pink chiffon.

  “Good luck,” he says before retiring to bed. “No doubt your prince will come soon.”

  My prince. The man who will assume my father’s duties once my father is too old to tend the apples himself.

  Evening settles softly on the orchard like black tar dripping from the sky, and I take my father’s candle to guide me. In the playful shadows, I choose my apple—an Empire, sharp and sweet. I thread it between my fingers, turning it over and over, as though I’ll be able to decipher its secrets if only I can see it from the proper angle. Yet there are no secrets here, none worth learning
, so I tell myself it’s time. My lips move toward the skin. One bite would be enough to sleep deep and cold, like an infant dipped and drowning in black water. My eyes would close, and I could rest.

  But it wouldn’t last. For once, I believe my father. I’m not the same as the girls left behind. I’ve seen how the village boys watch me, ravenous wolves sniffing for blood. There is only this orchard, and I am the one to inherit it. I’m already a princess here. And all the boys, licking the sharp points of their glistening teeth, are desperate to become my prince.

  The apple sags in my grasp, and doubt, as old as childhood, creeps inside me like a scarab beetle burrowed beneath the flesh. This isn’t the only way. This can’t be the only way.

  The bordering forest calls to me in a voice I recognize, the voice of my mother. My fear melts away, ice in a boiling pot, and the candle as my chaperone, I walk to the edge, a circus performer on a tightrope.

  The apple crate lingers still at the border of the forest. With a careful hand, I lower the wick, and the remains of fortunes lost catch in an instant. Though the fire sears my flesh, I clasp the bitten apples and pitch them, one by one, into the treetops of the orchard. These trees are healthy and shouldn’t burn, but on this evening, that makes no difference. Every branch is aglow, burning my nose with an acrid scent, the smell of make-believe hope turning to ash.

  All around me, my mother’s laughing, and the gentle lilt in her voice makes me laugh too, makes me scream out with joy, until my muscles quiver and knees buckle beneath me.

  The flames graze the indigo sky, and the light must reach to the heavens, or at least to the village, because I can hear the boys, the greedy ones who were waiting for me to crumble, call out to their families and announce the orchard is burning. I can hear my father too. From the cottage door, he shrieks my name, the only name he remembers, and time slips away from me like grains of sand in an open palm. I must finish now, or I won’t finish at all.

  This magic is strange. It wasn’t wrought by witches, not the kind with cauldrons and capes anyhow. This magic was ours. We longed to escape the colorless land, and the girls bore the weight of that longing. It was easy to shuck it off on them. Girls are always expected to carry an impossible burden in life, like a thousand bushels of apples strapped upon a single back.

  In this way, those entombed in straw are my kin. Though not by blood, they are my sisters, and I love them. From the first to the last, I’ve always loved them. I might be the only one, but one is all it takes to break the spell.

  I kiss my fingertips and hold my hand to the sky. The wind carries my love to them, their lips pursed like pale hourglasses. They rouse from heavy dreams, not just the girls here, but those from faraway and forgotten kingdoms too, the princesses and baronesses and countesses who no longer look down in silence and shame. They gaze now to the north, to the unknown, to the trees that cast shadows that aren’t so grim anymore.

  My mother whispers my name, and smiling, I turn to the waiting forest.

  One bite, and the darkness swallows me whole.

  THE MAN IN THE AMBRY

  Dear Man in the Ambry:

  I know you’re there. I see your shape in the shadows every morning when I pick out my shoes. Nobody else believes me, but that’s okay. In my sixteen years, I’ve found the best things are the ones you keep to yourself. The little truths about the world that everyone else thinks are crazy. Like when I told my aunt I could taste stars, and she made my parents take me to a doctor. I didn’t tell anybody about the stars again, but that didn’t make them any less real.

  Can you read? I’ll slip this letter under your door to find out. You can write back too if you want. I hope you do. I’m bored and could use a friend.

  Sincerely,

  Molly Jane Richards

  ***

  Dear Man in the Ambry:

  This morning, I checked the letter I left you. It was crumpled in the corner, so you must have read it. Or maybe you thought it was a piece of trash and you were trying to dispose of it.

  I searched the whole ambry but couldn’t find a letter back to me. Oh well. Maybe you don’t think you’re much of a Shakespeare and would rather not write back. That’s okay. I’ll keep leaving these letters so long as you notice them.

  Molly Jane

  P. S. While in the ambry, I did come across something small and white near the letter. It reminds me of a thin pillar of salt, but pointy too, like a kid’s pocketknife. Does it belong to you? I could leave it with my next letter if you want. Or you could come retrieve it yourself. It’s in my jewelry box.

  ***

  Dear Man in the Ambry:

  I bet you’re wondering what an ambry is. That’s what my mom calls the place you live. “Molly Jane, stop hanging out all day in that ambry!” she’ll say. But an ambry’s just a fancy word for a cabinet or closet.

  Do you ever leave there? Nobody’s ever seen you in the rest of the house, and I’ve only caught you in the shadows or when the door’s ajar. Are you shy?

  I’m sure glad I chose the room next to yours for my bedroom. Otherwise, I don’t know how I’d spend my time.

  Curiously,

  Molly Jane

  ***

  Dear Man in the Ambry:

  How many years have you lived in this house? We’ve been here a month, and it’s already long enough. Our old place was better. Bigger and with neater windows (stained glass, the whole deal). But according to Mom and Dad, this one’s in a better area. A historic neighborhood or something like that.

  I’d hoped since it was so old, the house might be haunted, but no such luck. Unless you count. Are you a ghost? I don’t think so. Not one chain has rattled in the ambry since we moved in.

  Earlier this week, my parents did say they heard something between my bedroom and theirs. Was that you? And in lieu of chains, do you have an accessory you prefer?

  More Curiously,

  Molly Jane

  P.S. I still have your little white trinket in my jewelry box. I’ll give it back if you want. No member of the Richards family has ever been called a thief, and I won’t start such an unscrupulous tradition now.

  ***

  Dear Man in the Ambry:

  Last night, my parents stayed up and listened to some distant scratching. They say it’s coming from inside the walls. I didn’t hear anything, but my cat Snappy sure did. She’s been pawing at the ambry door ever since. And her hearing’s not even very good (she’s almost 25!), so you must have been pretty busy overnight.

  We should play a game. That’s what friends do, right? I don’t really know for sure. My only friends have been my cousins, and none of them are very nice. They’re like default friends, the ones you end up with by accident, not by choice.

  But you’re my friend by choice. You and Snappy.

  I’m not sure what games you play there in the ambry. Checkers maybe?

  Your Devoted Compatriot,

  Molly Jane

  ***

  Dear Man in the Ambry:

  Sorry I made you scurry off last night! But you can’t roll a soccer ball against my bed at half past two and not expect me to sneak a quick look at where it came from!

  I always wanted to see your face. And now I have. Well, half your face anyhow. At least I know you’re not a ghost.

  And in case you were wondering, I never made the soccer team (thankfully). I only have that ball in there because my parents thought organized sports might be good for me. And what does that mean, organized sports? As opposed to disorganized free-for-all sports?

  Anyway, I think it’s a good idea for a game. I’ll crack the ambry door tonight and wait against the wall. From there, I can send the ball back to you. No peeking. I promise.

  Your Athletically Challenged Teammate,

  Molly Jane

  ***

  Dear Man in the Ambry:

  My parents are now convinced the house is haunted. “We hear strange rolling noises all night,” they say.

  Let’s please continue o
ur game.

  Your Devious One,

  Molly Jane

  ***

  Dear Man in the Ambry:

  I should give you a name. How about George? No, that’s silly. That reminds me of Lenny and George in Of Mice and Men. We read that last year in English class, and I liked the part with the dead mouse. It made me laugh (and think of how Snappy never means to kill mice either), but the scene bothered the other kids. The dead girl was awful though. And everyone just called her “Curley’s Wife” like she wasn’t worth anything except her husband.

  So George is out. Here are some other names I like. Let me know which one you prefer.

  Luke James Andrew Christopher

  Your Friend in More than Name,

  Molly Jane

  ***

  Dear Andrew:

  I found the last letter I wrote you, and Andrew was scratched out. The rest of the names were left alone, so I’m guessing you like Andrew best. Or maybe you like it least, and you were trying to tell me to name you anything other than Andrew. If that’s the case, give me some kind of sign. Like rip this letter in half or something.

  Eager to Hear from You,

  Molly Jane

  ***

  Dear Andrew:

  Last night’s letter was in pristine condition, so Andrew it is! I like that name best, too. So distinguished.

  This morning, my mom came into my room to discuss school—more about my friends (or lack thereof) than arithmetic homework or anything—and she noticed your white souvenir in my jewelry box. She turned it over and over again in her hand and demanded to know what it was. I said I didn’t know. She got all angry and quiet. Then she told my dad. He marched up to my room and tossed your bauble in the trash. I don’t know what harm it was doing just sitting in an old box.