Whichwood

by Tahereh Mafi

  Laylee quickly looked away, horrified, and tried to compose herself.

  The four of them pushed and shoved their way through the throng, Benyamin’s barrow leading the group. He cut a straight line through the crowds, passersby jumping out of the way just in time to avoid being nicked by his wheel, and the three others followed close behind, sticking together lest they got lost in the shuffle.

  The station was abuzz with shouted conversations and shrieking whistles. Diaphanous clouds of smoke hung haphazardly in the air, filtering sunlight in ghostly, gauzy streaks that painted people in binary strokes: light and dark, good and evil. Coats and cloaks swished past in droves; capes and canes kicked up in the breeze; top hats and bowler hats tipped down to bid adieu. Pedestrians were bundled in fur coats and boots, ladies were swathed in colorful scarves, children kept warm with mufflers at hand, and babies were swaddled in layers of cashmere. Whichwood was a city of surprisingly stylish residents, whose lace veils and jauntily tilted caps turned the wintertide itself into a fashionable affair.

  There were only four persons present whose underwhelming appearance gave the people something to talk about—and Laylee, most of all.

  She was impossible to ignore.

  Unlike most Whichwoodians, Laylee never smiled; she never said hello, never apologized for bumping into strangers, never spoke at all except with her eyes—terrifying passersby with a single silver look, sharp and inquisitive and alien in the light. Worse: her outmoded attire was smeared in old blood, and her scarlet cloak rippled around her as she moved, whipping open in the wind to reveal the ominous, ancient tools she wore around her waist. It was a disturbing sight, all of it, but even all this might’ve been overlooked if it weren’t for the sound—goodness, the sound—that made her so conspicuous. The bones on her back clattered like a second heartbeat—cloc cloc, cloc cloc—in an eerie, unworldly echo well-known to the citizens of Whichwood. That sound meant the mordeshoor was among them—which meant death itself was among them—and the people shrank back in fear and horror and disgust. Every bone-rattling step elicited dark looks and pursed lips and hushed whispers. Children gasped and pointed; parents pushed away in a hurry; no one dared interfere with the mordeshoor or her business, but they never treated her with any measure of kindness, either. Even among her own people, Laylee was a pariah, and only her many pretensions could protect her from their cruelty.

  Lucky for her pride, Alice and Oliver were too frozen to have noticed any of this.

  Cold had penetrated everything, and now that they’d left the warmth of their glass coaches behind, the children were seized anew by the body-clenching chill of the winter day. All four were in a hurry to find shelter, and it was their single focus as they broke free of the busy station. But just as soon as they cleared the crowds and stepped onto the main street, Alice and Oliver were overcome—rooted to the ground in awe and admiration.

  In the madness of escaping the station, Alice and Oliver hadn’t noticed one very important detail: They were walking on ice, not earth. The heart of Whichwood, you see, had few proper streets; it was connected not by land, but by a series of rivers and canals. Summer in the city was navigated almost entirely by boat, and winter in Whichwood—unequivocally the most spectacular time of year—was navigated by horse-drawn sleigh, as the waters froze over so splendidly that they became one continuous, solid surface.

  The concrete water underfoot was sixteen shades of blue—waves and bubbles fossilized at their most colorful moments—and the city itself was a sensational old world of majestic domes and terrifying spires, vividly rendered in the still-falling snow. The people of Whichwood were regularly awed and humbled by the magnificence of their own architecture, and Alice and Oliver were no different. Ferenwood was an undoubtedly beautiful city, but it paled in comparison to the grandeur of Laylee’s world.

  There were more buildings here than Alice could name, more shops, more stalls, more vendors and open-air markets than she’d ever seen. Children ice-skated down the main stretch while merchants shook fists at their recklessness; horse-drawn sleighs carted families from one boutique to another while shopkeepers swept fresh snow into tidy piles. One brave shepherd wove his bleating sheep through the crowds, flurries catching in their wool, stopping only to purchase a cup of tea and candied oranges for the road.

  The air was crisp and smelled of cinnamon-mint, and happy sounds could be heard all across the square: grown-ups laughing, children cheering, troubadours marching along with song and sitar. Eager adolescents swarmed glass tubs piled high with sugar-ice candies, raspberries and blueberries and snips of lavender frozen inside each one. Tens of dozens of food carts lined the streets, showcasing towers of steaming beets; endless piles of warm, spiced nuts; tureens of soup and intoxicating stews; hanging ropes of rose-petal nougat; gold platters of buttery halva; ears and ears of freshly grilled corn; sheets of bread larger than front doors; and wheelbarrows stacked tall and wide with hand-plucked pomegranates, quinces, and persimmons.

  There were endless sights and sounds to be disoriented by. The city had a heartbeat Alice could dance to, and she was so blown away she was afraid to blink, worried she might miss too much. Alice had been to many strange places in her short life, but even Furthermore, with its infinite towns and frightening oddities, had failed to bewitch her the way Whichwood had. She could only look on, lips parted in wonder, and breathe it all in.

  Benyamin and Laylee shared a look of amusement.

  “How do you like our city?” asked Benyamin, who made no effort to hide his pride.

  Alice, bright-eyed and rosy-cheeked, shook her head and cried, “I’ve ever seen anything so lovely in all my life!” And then, turning to Oliver, she said, “Goodness, Oliver, what should we do first?”

  Oliver laughed, linked his arm in hers, and said, “Whatever we do, can we please do it after I’ve had a bath?”

  And this, at least, they could oblige.

  Laylee led the way to the nearest hamam—the local bathhouse—where the boys and girls would go their separate ways. The many hamams in the city were another public service (which meant they were free for all people in Whichwood), and Laylee had promised Alice and Oliver that the experience would be well worth their time. The bathhouses were famous for their splendor and, stepping inside one now, Alice was able to see why.

  The moment she crossed the threshold, Alice was plunged into hot, misty golden light. Clouds of steam pulsed through the open halls, where perfumed towels were stacked on warm racks and robed attendants walked past with pitchers of ice water. Marble walls and floors were interrupted only by pools filled with tempting turquoise depths, and Alice, so frozen only moments ago, thawed instantly, and not seconds later, she was already too warm in all her layers.

  Laylee directed her to the changing room, where Alice was surprised to find perspiration beading at her brow. She quickly discarded her ruined clothes, reaching instead for the robe and slippers in the locker she was assigned and, now happily rid of the excess layers, Alice was finally able to enjoy the aroma of rosewater clinging to the air. She closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath, wondering where to start first, but when she opened her eyes to ask, she was surprised to find that Laylee was still wearing her cloak.

  “What’s wrong?” said Alice, who was already reaching for her clothes. “Do we have to leave?”

  Laylee shook her head and sighed. Slowly, she unclasped her cloak—shrugging it off in the process—and then, even more slowly, she removed her gloves.

  There was only low light in the hamam, which made it easier for all ladies present to enjoy their privacy, but even in the dimness Alice couldn’t help but gasp at the sight of Laylee’s withered hands and arms. She was silver past her elbows, and her limbs, which had been growing weaker by the moment, were now trembling beyond all control.

  Laylee, however, would no longer allow her emotions to get the better of her. She clasped her shaking hands behin
d her back and looked Alice directly in the eye and said, “I know you’re aware of this already, but I thought I should tell you myself: I’m going to die soon, and there’s nothing to be done about it.”

  Alice hurried to speak, to contradict her, but Laylee wouldn’t allow it.

  “I just wanted you to know,” Laylee said, now holding up one gray hand, “that you have nothing to be afraid of. My illness is not catching. You are in no danger from me.”

  “Laylee, please,” said Alice, rushing now, “I would nev—”

  “No,” Laylee cut her off again. “I don’t care to discuss it. I just didn’t want you to be made uncomfortable in my presence.” She hesitated. “Though I would appreciate a little privacy while I change.”

  Alice jumped up at once. “Of course,” she said quickly. “Absolutely.” And scurried out of sight.

  Alice collapsed against a marble pillar and clasped one hand to her chest, wondering how best to handle this difficult situation. The truth was, she’d been ill prepared for meeting Laylee; Alice was deeply intimidated by the beautiful and terrifying mordeshoor, and she had no idea what to say to the girl to gain her confidence. Alice, who had more in common with Laylee than either of them realized, had spent much of her own childhood far-flung from her people and cast off for her paleness. She’d had only one real friend in recent years, and of all people far and wide, hers had turned out to be a boy.

  But Alice had desperately longed for female friendship, and though she found much to admire in Laylee, she wasn’t sure the feeling was mutual. She worried that Laylee deeply disliked her, and having failed to gain a good rapport with the girl early on, Alice was now terrified she’d set in motion what would become the inevitable disaster of her single task. Even Oliver (who, let us remember, was not technically allowed to be here) had befriended Laylee—Alice had seen their camaraderie, and she envied it—and it made her feel like more of a failure in every moment. But Alice and Laylee were like two halves of the same day, light and dark converging and diverging, only occasionally existing in the same moment.

  Alice would have to wait for an eclipse.

  The hamam was a big enough, dim enough space that Alice and Laylee did not see each other again until their baths were done. And though Laylee was secretly relieved, Alice was now more worried than ever. She needed to find new time alone with Laylee—and fast. She hadn’t realized Laylee’s sickness had progressed so much in such a short period, and she worried what would happen if something wasn’t done about it soon.

  Baths complete, the four children reunited at the entrance, where Alice and Oliver were feeling brand-new—though slightly uncomfortable—in their still-filthy clothes. The only other necessary thing left to do was to purchase sartorial replacements, and Benyamin took this as his cue to say a brief good-bye, promising to return as soon as he sold off his saffron flowers. No one, not even Alice, noticed as he tucked one of the purple blooms in her pocket, and they all agreed to rendezvous just before sundown in order to enjoy the festivities together.

  Laylee, who’d been struggling valiantly against the steady, drumming anxiety that said she had no business having fun when there were bodies to be scrubbed, soldiered on, determined to allow herself these few hours of relaxation before she succumbed to the bleakness that was her whole life. She led Alice and Oliver expertly through the crowds—her subconscious always scanning for Baba’s face among the many—and delivered them to a string of her favorite shops on the main road. Laylee, who’d never purchased a single piece of new clothing in all the thirteen years she’d been alive, had always admired these many shops from afar. And she never would have returned to the proprietors whose beautiful wares broke her heart if not for the sake of her new friends. They were truly filthy—embarrassingly so—and helping Alice and Oliver was a gift not only to them, but to all people of Whichwood.

  Laylee stood off to the side as they perused the many racks of furs and cloaks, offering opinions only when she was appealed to, and allowed Alice and Oliver to indulge themselves in the finery. She’d no way of knowing that the two of them were using this time to form a plan. They huddled over racks of clothes as Laylee towered over the scene silently and, after Alice had described to Oliver the graying decay of Laylee’s limbs in great detail, the two of them whispered in quick, nervous breaths about how best to help her. Ultimately, Alice and Oliver decided the best thing for Laylee would be to keep her away from home for as long as possible. They thought distancing her from her work would be the most efficient therapy—and the best way to begin healing her. It was well-intentioned logic: If Laylee didn’t use her magic to wash the dead, she couldn’t get any sicker. An interesting theory.

  Laylee, meanwhile, thought it was nice to spend time with people who could think of things other than death, but she felt it was impractical, too. She could only fool herself for so long, after all; she felt too acutely that she was wasting time in town, affecting the composure of a carefree character when she knew all too well that the demands of her occupation would never leave her. And the longer she was left alone with her own thoughts, the harder it became to think of anything else—even with the many pleasures of Yalda to delight and distract.

  The minutes soon multiplied.

  An hour had elapsed, and Laylee—who’d done nothing more than lean against a door frame and occasionally shrug a response—was only dimly aware of Alice asking her what she thought of a hat or coat, or of Oliver frowning in her direction, wondering where she’d gone to in her mind. But Laylee could no longer feign interest in their concerns. She’d now spent a total of three and a half hours (let’s not forget that the train ride alone took ninety minutes) doing absolutely nothing productive, the last two hours of which she’d spent taking a second (redundant) bath, followed by this—this—uselessness. Every lost minute seemed to injure her, every dip of the sun fortified her anxiety, and the more anxious she became, the more convinced she was of one simple fact:

  She was making a huge mistake playing tour guide to these strangers.

  The people of Whichwood had friendly relationships with the creatures they lived among, and their town legislature oversaw not only human concerns, but those of the animals, too. This included business regulations that allowed Whichwoodians to trade goods and services in exchange for a steady supply of fox, mink, rabbit, and wolf sheddings for use in winter clothes. It was a great coup for the people of Whichwood, and now it was for Alice and Oliver, too, who were fully redecorated for the season.

  Their choices had been practical and fashionable all at once, and the final composition of colors and fabrics suited them nicely. Oliver was wearing a traditional fur hat—with flaps to warm his ears, a bright red cashmere scarf, fur-lined gloves, a knee-length overcoat of heavy black wool, thick slate-gray trousers, and shiny black riding boots. He cut an incredibly handsome figure in his new clothes—so much so that passing persons, young and old, slowed to stare as he walked by.

  Alice, too, was aglow. Her snow-white hair was wrapped in a shawl of bright, paisley-print wool; the mix of blues, greens, and reds presented a sharp, flattering contrast to her pale features, making her appear more ethereal than ever. She wore a tall fur cap to secure the scarf in place and fastened a heavy violet cape over a gown of gold silk lined in cashmere. Her ankle boots were artfully made but still sensible, and the saffron flower she’d found in her ruined coat was now tucked safely inside her skirt pocket. She and Oliver made a dashing couple despite their best efforts to blend in, and though Laylee stood sentinel beside them—her red hood hiding her face from view—she said nothing of their new attire. She merely looked them up and down and, understanding they were finally finished shopping, turned on her heel and walked out.

  Laylee Layla Fenjoon was no longer present.

  At long last she’d detached from the hinge in her head that kept her anchored to the world around her, and now she floated along, apathetic and unhurried, impervious to the a
ttempts of her companions to reengage her emotions.

  She was, in a word, dying.

  She was really and truly expiring now, and she could feel the transformation happening within her. She could practically hear the illness rampaging her fleshy corridors, snapping nerves and crushing organs underfoot. Her hands shook with impunity; her legs threatened to buckle beneath her. Her motor controls were quickly deteriorating, and though she saw the faces of her companions and heard the sounds of their voices, she’d lost the strength needed to push her words in their direction, and so she’d left her body on autopilot, trusting something else to steer.

  Laylee had stood up inside of her skin and crawled into a quiet corner of her mind, taking refuge in the steady thrum of some distant, unknowable hum as she waited, with bated breath, for everything to be over. The pains of death came in intervals: sometimes in crashing waves, other times in gentle whispers. Ancient instinct alone moved Laylee’s feet, one in front of the other, as they walked along the icy streets; something somewhere inside of her was remembering to be human despite her best efforts to forget.

  She’d thought she had more time than this.

  She knew the illness was spreading quickly, but she’d figured she had a few days before it dissolved her completely. Something had happened in the last hour to aggravate her condition, and she wasn’t sure what it was. Mental exhaustion? Inescapable frustration? The overwhelming anxiety that inhaled her last reserves of strength? Laylee didn’t know the answer, but I do, and I will tell you now: Yes, it was all of those things, but it was something greater than that, too. Laylee was sick in more ways than one; she was undergoing a combined physical and emotional demolition, the consequences of which were simply too much for her young body.