Whichwood

by Tahereh Mafi

  It was a decision they would soon regret.

  For now, their ambassador in Whichwood was ambling through snowy fields—occasionally tripping, often stumbling—as she and her illegal companion searched for an outlet into town. Alice had been sent with no further instruction than to find Laylee, do what she could to help her, and return home before the snow melted on the ground. But Alice was beginning to think the Elders had cruelly withheld several critical details, as already she was at a loss. Alice had no idea how she was meant to help Laylee; she had no idea how long the snow would stay on the ground; and, more terrifying still, she had no idea how she’d find her way back to Ferenwood.

  Their arrival by elevator had been underwhelming at best: The little glass travel box had never been very reliable, but upon reaching its final destination, it gave one final heave and shattered under pressure. (It was a very, very old system.) Alice and Oliver were unceremoniously ejected into the icy seas crashing along the coast of Laylee’s castle and emerged sopping wet and scandalized, half-bitten by frost and nearly dead standing up. It was the painful finish of a long and numbing journey, and it was this, their frozen, exhausted desperation, that had prompted Oliver to break Laylee’s window in order to take refuge from the cold.

  It had been a rough week for the two friends, who’d spent the first five days traveling by wet elevator, and the last scrubbing filth from dead bodies. They were hungry, dirty, and desperate for sleep (careful readers will note that the rules for eating and sleeping were the same in Whichwood as they were in Ferenwood), and they’d seen nothing of town nor country but Laylee’s ghostly castle and its bloated corpses. It was not an ideal introduction.

  But Alice and Oliver had just remembered something important: that they were skilled, clever, able-bodied young people, and that they’d been through much worse when they were younger and dimmer and (one of them) missing an arm. (Indeed, anyone who remembers Alice and Oliver’s adventures in Furthermore could never doubt them now!) So it was then, as they staggered sideways in the snow, anxious and delirious, that they spied a distant road occasionally traveled and, heady with relief, charged blindly into possibility.

  Benyamin Felankasak was bothering no one at all—was a hindrance to no one at all—when his steady life was tipped sideways and its contents spilled into the street. He was a gentle, mild-mannered boy of exactly thirteen and three-quarters who split his time between school and the seasonal saffron harvests, and at precisely the moment his troubles truly began, he was wheeling a barrow of saffron flowers along a deserted country road. The crop had been rich this year, and though Benyamin had only a small field to work, he’d managed to harvest quite a lot more than he could carry. The soft, elegant purple flowers were striking against the snowdrift, and though he’d no shoes on his feet nor gloves on his hands, he was one of those rare creatures with a flair for gratitude, and so he smiled despite the cold, thankful for the business that would sustain his family.

  Benyamin took this route every Sunday at precisely the same hour. Come saffron or snow, he walked into the train station always after lunch, always after tucking his mother back into bed—where she would remain until Benyamin returned—and after he’d put the house to rights. He knew this road and its wanderers with perfect familiarity, which meant he always knew exactly who and what to expect—which meant he knew better than to expect any kind of stranger in the land of Whichwood. It was this strength of conviction that would cause him such distress today.

  Not moments after whispered words of gratitude left his lips were his cart and self knocked into by an unexpected stranger, and Benyamin was lifted out of himself in shock. That his head struck stone, that his spirits were clobbered—this was no matter at all to him. But that the barrow was flung sideways and upside down in the snow, crushing half his harvest in the process? Benyamin was devastated.

  He looked up—head pounding, heart pounding—into the eyes of his assailant, and found a face so extraordinarily unlike his own that Benyamin was certain he had died. He sat up slowly, his vision coming in and out of focus, and yes—that he was dead he was certain, because he was looking into the eyes of an angel.

  She was white as the snow itself. Her skin, her hair, her eyelashes—so extraordinary. An angel, he thought. Definitely an angel. And he began searching for her wings.

  “Are you alright?” she was saying to him, over and over again. “Are you okay?” She shook him, looked away, looked at someone else. “Oh, Oliver, what have I done?” she cried. “Have I killed him? Have I—”

  “Where are your wings?” Benyamin heard himself say to her. His head was spinning more quickly now, but he managed to pull himself into a seated position. Death was blurrier than he thought it would be. “I thought you would have wings,” he tried again.

  Alice Alexis Queensmeadow was both relieved and confused. She had not killed this innocent boy, but she had apparently done something to his brain. Which was the worse, she did not know.

  It was Oliver who pulled Benyamin to his feet and, not a moment later, it was Oliver who let go of his arm with a startled cry, dropping Benyamin to the ground so suddenly that the poor boy knocked his head again. Luckily, the second knock seemed to cure him, and it was just as the fog cleared that Benyamin heard Oliver shout,

  “Well, what was I supposed to do? He’s covered in spiders! And—and—all kinds of insects! Crawling down his sleeves and scurrying up his legs”—Oliver dropped his face into his hands in horror—“oh, for Feren’s sake, what have we gotten ourselves into in this mad, hateful town with all these strange, disgusting people—”

  “I’m very sorry about the insects,” Benyamin said curtly, and Oliver’s mouth snapped shut. A blotchy redness spread across his cheeks, and he had at least the decency to look ashamed.

  Benyamin, meanwhile, had pulled himself up with great and solemn dignity and stood before them now, not quite as tall as Oliver, but nearly so, and fully comprehending the situation. First: one glance told him his harvest was not beyond saving. Second: that he was not yet dead. And third: Alice—though he did not know her name at the time—was not an angel, no, but a girl, and this was perhaps the more miraculous alternative. As a girl, you see, she was the most astonishing he’d ever beheld. She was quite perfect in his estimation, more exquisite than even his saffron flowers, which he loved so dearly. It was only because of Alice, who stood by silently, staring at her feet, that Oliver’s words had not injured him. He felt that her heart, quietly tripping in the cold, was a kindred one, and he could not explain the why.

  In any case, there was much to be said between these three, and Benyamin was arranging to say it; they had not only the matter of the fallen saffron to discuss, but also the business of Who are you and What are you doing here to contend with, and though everyone was ready to engage in these productive conversations, they were delayed by yet another unexpected stranger.

  A peacock spider had scuttled, unnoticed, up Alice’s skirts and across her coat and around her neck until he sat primly atop her nose, where he had the best position of inspecting her. He flapped his colorful, iridescent fan as he danced sideways across her face, taking eerily elegant steps that made his small, colorful body glitter in the sunlight. The spider was a handsome, clever little creature who’d always been proud of his vivid good looks, so he was curious about Alice and her missing colors, and, being fond of Benyamin, he was hoping to investigate the situation on the boy’s behalf.

  Meanwhile, Alice was as brave as she could manage as she stood, still and terrified, waiting for the spider to be done with her. She did not yet know how this creature was connected to Benyamin, but she felt there must be a connection between the two, and so she said nothing, unwilling to insult Benyamin any further and silently hating Oliver for having been so rude to this boy in the first place. After all, it was their fault they’d toppled into him.

  Even so—

  It was all very, very strange.
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  The residents of Whichwood, much like the residents of Ferenwood, each had a magical talent, but the differences between the two towns (of which there were many) were becoming clearer. In Ferenwood, all citizens Surrendered their talents; they openly celebrated magic and their magical abilities, seldom hiding what they were destined to be. But here in Whichwood, Alice and Oliver had unwittingly stumbled upon a second keeper of secrets in as many days. Benyamin, like Laylee, kept much of his magic to himself, for he never spoke of his relationship with the entomological world, not even to explain away his many-legged entourage. No one seemed to know why he was always covered in insects, not even his mother, and he didn’t care to clarify.

  The thing was, Benyamin thought humans were strange. He couldn’t understand why we wear skin to hide our skeletons and, consequently, he had great respect for those who wore their bones with pride. And though Benyamin identified as human, he took refuge in a small hope that he was at least not as human as the rest of us. This peculiar fantasy was perhaps a result of an incident in his childhood, when Benyamin had scratched an itch until it burst open, emancipating hundreds of newborn spiders from the soft underside of his elbow. He hadn’t known until that moment that anything had taken up residence inside of him, and it was only then that he understood what no one else had been able to explain.

  For years Benyamin had suffered from a faint, incessant internal itching, and though he oft spoke of it, his torment was never taken seriously. No doctor alive (magical or otherwise) had suspected the invisible itching was the consequence of many little legs scurrying through the veins that bored through him. He was eight years old when his skin first split open, and as he listened to the many tearful good-byes—orphan children leaving home for the first time—Benyamin felt a curious sense of responsibility over these alien creatures. From then on, whenever a new family burst forth from his flesh, he sent them off into the world with all the tenderness of a loving father.

  At thirteen and three-quarters years old, Benyamin was the strangest boy Alice would ever know, and this first meeting was the beginning of everything. Benyamin, who was highly aware of his oddness, had never known anyone who might match him in his strangeness, and meeting Alice was, for him, an act of fate. That anyone should surprise him was entirely refreshing, and it was for this reason alone that he didn’t call away his eager spider friend. He was curious to see Alice’s reaction, and her studied calm, her stubborn dignity, and above all, her gentle heart—in the face of what was so obviously a fear—left an indelible impression on him; though he had little interest in Oliver—whom he saw only as her rude companion—Benyamin had now more questions than ever. Who was she, this prismatic girl? Why was she here? Would she stay forever? But he could not bring himself to be so bold. For now, he could only steal glances.

  Alice had plucked the spider off her nose (she’d finally grown tired of being stared at) and set him on the ground, and the spider was so tremendously excited by the experience that Benyamin was forced to laugh against his will. Oliver, eager to erase the earlier ugliness, took advantage of the moment and stepped forward earnestly—apologizing all at once—and, though altogether ineloquent, his intentions were understood. Benyamin smiled more certainly this time, and though he did not say a word, he shook his head as if to say, That’s perfectly alright. You look like a bit of an idiot anyway.

  And Oliver was grateful.

  It was the start of a very valuable friendship.

  Now let us return to our mordeshoor.

  Laylee, you will remember, was still locked in the toilet. She was lying on her back, floating fully dressed in the claw-foot tub, her sodden clothes splayed like molted wings. She’d so overfilled the tub that water sloshed down its porcelain skin with her every move, flooding the small bathroom that was her only refuge.

  But Laylee was too preoccupied to notice.

  She stared only at the ceiling, counting moths to keep from weeping, and inhaled in short, sharp breaths as her heart creaked in her chest. With shaking hands, she felt for her damaged bones and let out a soft cry; her small shoulders had dented under the weight of too much responsibility, and she could feel the disfiguration through her clothes. With fumbling, trembling fingers, she unlatched her golden cuffs, anklets, and chest plate, and heaved the lot of them out of the water and onto the cracked, patinated marble floor, where they landed with a tremendous clatter. Laylee flinched at the sound but could not be moved to care more.

  These ancient ornaments—what good were they now? They were from a time long, long ago, when mordeshoor blood was so royal it bled blue in the snow. No, this drafty castle, these faded clothes—she picked at the chipped sapphires sewn onto her gown—were from a lost century. There was no longer any pride in being a mordeshoor. No pomp, no circumstance, no decadence in dying. And now, as she traced the blue veins snaking under her skin, Laylee laughed at how much life she’d sacrificed for death.

  She closed her eyes and laughed harder as she dropped below the surface, the water garbling the happy sounds into something strange and terrifying, her eerie gales echoing across the arched ceilings. Laylee shivered uncontrollably, even as the hot water scalded her skin, and suddenly she froze—eyes wide with terror—and sat up in one swift, jerky movement, throat choking, bent over coughing, and gripped the tub with silver hands.

  The long and terrible evening had taken its toll.

  It was only after she’d abandoned Alice and Oliver that Laylee discovered her hands had gone fully silver; indeed, she’d been so distraught by the revelation that she’d tipped sideways into the still-filling tub and had remained supine ever since. She lifted her arms now, horrified and fascinated, to watch as the thin gray tongues crept up her wrists, claiming her one lick at a time.

  Laylee had always thought she was ready for death. She, a mordeshoor by blood, had thought she’d overcome the fears of nonexistence. But Laylee was only now beginning to understand: It was not death she feared as much as she feared dying; it was this, her powerlessness in the face of mortality that unscrewed her courage from its sticking place.

  Still, it was unusual—

  The longer Laylee stared at the creeping sickness, the calmer she became. The moment of death felt now more imminent than ever, and Laylee was reassured by one simple certainty: that the pain, the suffering, and the unceasing loneliness would at least be over soon enough. The illness, you see, appeared to be consuming her at an exponential rate. Laylee would be dead by the end of the week, and there was nothing she could do to slow it down.

  Sadly, it was only this—the horrible promise of relief—that could soothe her shaking limbs, and soon Laylee was able to thaw and exhale, to continue existing just long enough to shed this last skin of humanity.

  Her unwelcome helpers had arrived just a touch too late.

  Laylee heaved herself up, sopping wet and weighted down, and began to peel off wet layers of clothing. Everything she owned in the world was inherited from someone already dead. Her gowns and cloaks and boots and scarves were sourced from Maman and Grandmaman—they were pieces from another era, fashionable long before Laylee was born. Everything she owned—from doorknobs to dinner plates—was little more than a token of a lost world. She let each piece of wet clothing fall into the tub with a terrific splash, pulled the cork from the drain, wrapped herself in the bath mat, tiptoed into her room, and—

  Oh.

  Laylee had nearly forgotten.

  Oliver, good friend that he was, had broken her bedroom window.

  In all the hours Laylee had been gone, the wind and snow had thrashed about her private quarters with a desperate savageness. Icicles had been born along her shattered windowpanes; fingers of frost curled into delicate fists around objects tall and wide. Flurries collected in haphazard piles, half-melted flakes snaking water across her floors in skeletal patterns. She raked her nails through a layer of ice coating her single mirror and shuddered. It was unmercifu
lly cold in these drafty quarters, and Laylee shivered on tiptoe, her muscles seizing. With shaking hands, she yanked a set of clean, moth-eaten clothes out of a warped, wheezing armoire, and tugged on infinite layers of ancient fabric.

  Thick, shimmering silver stockings irreparably torn at both knees and poorly mended at the toes. A layered set of angora turtlenecks tucked into a pair of faded, fleece-lined turquoise pants. A heavy, ruby-encrusted, floor-length gown to be worn atop it all—its carefully embroidered sleeves torn at the elbows, old blood smeared across the bodice, six diamond buttons missing down the back—and a stained feather vest cinched at the waist with a string of old pearls. Finally, Laylee locked her soggy tool belt around her hips and stepped into a pair of purple work boots, dirt and blood baked into their delicate silk flesh.

  Laylee had tried to sell her family heirlooms countless times, but no one in this superstitious town would buy the belongings of a mordeshoor, no matter their gold stitches or sapphires. And so she starved quietly, died slowly, and cried when no one was looking—this girl who could not help but wear diamonds as she buried her dead.

  Laylee took a steadying breath.

  She secured a fresh scarf over her head, fastened her red cloak over her shoulders, and made a decision.

  She’d drowned her pride in the tub and left it there to die—and good riddance, too—because she was about to do something her pride never would’ve allowed.

  She was going to ask for help.

  Her strangers were too late to help her, of this she was sure, but they might not be too late to help the town. If Laylee could only convince Alice and Oliver to come back, they could perhaps dispatch the rest of the dead before it was too late. Laylee’s death, you see, would cause more devastation in Whichwood than anyone had bothered to realize. The foolish denizens of her town had left her to fend for herself—she was young and female and all alone, and she’d become an easy target for the stingy and the sexist and the cruel among her people—and they’d cheated her out of honest earnings, knowing full well that her blood made it so she had no choice but to take on the work.