by Tahereh Mafi
To be clear: It was simply not true that Alice Alexis Queensmeadow had spent the forty-eight hours of their trip home weeping hysterically. Oliver, Alice assured me, had grossly exaggerated the facts. She had wept, it was true—but she had not lost control of her faculties. The very opposite, in fact.
Alice had been thinking.
Surely, those readers who remember Alice’s adventures in Furthermore would agree that she is not a girl easily cowed into submission. Certainly not. Alice had a heart of silk and a spine of steel; her tears did not render her incapable of kicking a person in the teeth if need be. And now, more upset and more determined than ever, she knew she had to find a way to set things right for Laylee. She had to get back to Whichwood—but how?
It was still only morning, but her parents had sent her directly to her room and forbade her from coming out except for mealtimes and visits to the toilet. She was to sit here, in the small room she shared with her three younger brothers (who were currently at school), and think about what she’d done.
Well, she’d already done that. And Alice was growing impatient.
Alice’s home, much like Benyamin’s, was decidedly small—so small, in fact, that she worried any unexpected sound might travel through to the adjoining room and alert her parents of her intentions to be obstinate—and so these last several minutes she’d been engaged in a herculean effort to sit uncommonly still. She counted seconds under her breath, sitting on her hands as she mouthed the numbers, holding steady just long enough to lull her mother and father into a false sense of security. Only after a suitable period of silence had passed did she then, carefully—very carefully—tiptoe to her bedroom door and place her ear against the wood, listening for her parents’ voices. Once she was sure they were far enough away, she reached into her pocket and extracted the wriggling stowaway hidden therein.
Haftpa, the seven-legged spider, perched proudly in the palm of her hand.
“Hello, friend,” she whispered, and smiled.
Haftpa waved a leg.
“Is he here yet?” she said softly.
Haftpa jumped up and down in her hand.
“Is that a yes?” said Alice. “Do you know where he is?”
Again, Haftpa jumped up and down.
“Alright then,” Alice said. “I’ll pack my bags, do a quick bit of magic, and we’ll be off. You’ll stay close, won’t you?”
The peacock spider bounced around once more, only too happy to acquiesce. He’d come to adore this pale girl in the short time he’d known her, and he’d never been so excited to play an integral role in an adventure. And so it was with a happy hurry that he scurried across Alice’s arm, around her elbow, past her shoulder and up the side of her neck, and settled comfortably behind her left ear.
Now—it should be known that Alice did not want to use her magic against her parents. She was generally a very compliant child who loved her family (and her father, in particular) with an emotional overabundance uncommon in thirteen-year-olds. But Alice felt that the situation had left her with no choice. She needed to leave Ferenwood immediately, and Father would never have allowed it. Later, she said to herself, she’d happily accept a hefty punishment for her crimes—but for now she’d had to make an executive decision, and a simple twitch of her mind was enough to do the trick.
Suddenly, everything went black.
Alice’s ability to manipulate and manifest color was impressive in a myriad of ways, but her talent was perhaps most extraordinary when she used it to diminish the pigment in the world around her. Just now she’d snuffed out all the colors in her home—and in her parents’ bodies—plunging their small world into complete blackness. Her parents would know what she’d done, of course, but it was just enough of a distraction for her to grab her rucksack, run out the door, and hear the frantic voices of her mother and father shouting for her to get back here this instant, young lady!
By the time she reversed the magic, Alice would be long gone.
I feel I should explain.
The morning she’d been forced to leave Whichwood, Alice Alexis Queensmeadow (and her trusty companion, Benyamin Felankasak) had already set into motion the clinging beginnings of a contingency plan. Benyamin’s mother had tried (tried being the operative word here) to drag her son away from that morning’s emotional scene as soon as she saw what was happening—Madarjoon thought Laylee should be allowed her privacy—but Benyamin, who’d been horrified and heartbroken by all he’d heard, could not make himself leave. Ultimately, he compromised by staying just far enough away—pacing the forest outside Laylee’s home—hoping to be useful in the case that anyone should need him. It was he who’d arranged the perfect coincidence by throwing a rock at Laylee’s window and alerting Alice to her father’s presence.
Alice had rushed to the window to discover Father and Benyamin at exactly the same time; and though an inherent wisdom warned her against acknowledging her young friend aloud, she met his eyes and pressed a finger to her lips, disappearing back inside the castle as she thought quickly of what to do. In the madness and chaos that soon followed, Alice managed to sneak outside just long enough to grab Benyamin’s arm and whisper, “You can travel to Ferenwood by water. Please come find us.”
Benyamin, understanding her meaning at once, handed over his foremost sentinel, Haftpa, without a word of explanation. It was an implicit act of trust that only she and the spider would understand.
“I’ll see you soon,” Benyamin had said.
And now here she was, running through the forest, Haftpa tucked behind her ear, and Alice could only hope that she and Benyamin would find each other safely. Alice had run without thinking, knowing only that she needed to get far, far away from home, and fast—and it was only once she found herself standing in a patch of forest she hardly recognized that she finally stopped. Breathing hard, chest heaving, she leaned against a tree and said, “What now, Haftpa?”
Just then, a bird swooped down to meet her.
It was big and beautiful, with violet plumage that glittered in the sunlight. Alice had known that Haftpa could talk to other creatures, and she wondered, as the spider clicked its pincers quietly against her ear, whether he was communicating now with this bird. She didn’t have to wonder long. The bird cawed and snapped its beak in response to a silent summons and suddenly, without warning, launched upward, snatched Alice in its talons, and soared effortlessly into the sky.
Oliver Newbanks was released with no warning and fell to the ground with a resounding thump, jerking in every direction as he tried to free himself from the very strong spider silk strapped across his mouth and joints. He’d fallen flat on his stomach, his face buried in the grass, so when he felt the cold edge of a knife against his skin, he had no way of knowing whether friend or foe was upon him.
But he should have guessed.
Alice Alexis Queensmeadow cut Oliver free and helped him to his feet. Oliver was understandably shaken, and it took him a minute to find his head and figure out what was happening. It was only when he saw Benyamin standing a few feet away that he finally pieced it all together.
“Hi, Oliver.” Alice waved the pocketknife, apologizing with her eyes for all the trouble.
And as Oliver waved back—his eyes assessing her uninjured body, her calm demeanor—something occurred to him. “Hey!” Oliver shouted, turning on Benyamin. “Why didn’t you have your spiders tie her up? Why just me?”
Benyamin looked surprised. “Well,” he said. “It was a group decision, actually. And we didn’t think you’d come willingly.”
“What?” said Oliver, equally surprised. “Why not?”
“You just . . . you seemed so upset with me,” Alice said quietly, stepping forward. “You wouldn’t talk to me on the way home. You wouldn’t say a word when we got here. You didn’t even say good-bye when you left—”
“I waved.”
“And I thought—I t
hought you might hate me for what I’d done.”
“Hate you?” Oliver said. “No—Alice, I don’t . . .” He trailed off with a sigh, running a shaky hand through his silver hair. “You’re my best friend,” he said finally. “I don’t hate you.”
“But you won’t even look at me.”
Oliver swallowed hard.
“I’m so sorry,” Alice said, her voice tinny and small. “You have no idea how sorry I am. Not just for hurting Laylee—but for hurting you. I can see how much you care for her.”
Oliver looked up, then. Startled.
“Oh, you can’t possibly be surprised,” said Benyamin, rolling his eyes. “Your infatuation is obvious to everyone.”
Oliver flushed a highly unflattering, blotchy sort of red. “You don’t”—he cleared his throat—“you don’t think it’s obvious to her, though, do you?”
Benyamin looked like he might laugh. “I think she’s been a bit preoccupied.”
“Right,” said Oliver, nodding, almost exhaling the word.
“Anyhow.” Alice clapped her hands together to gather their attentions. “My point here is that we’re going to make this right for Laylee. Benyamin is here to take us back.”
“Really?” Oliver looked around, stunned. “How? Actually, wait—how did you get here?”
And Benyamin smiled.
They were standing at the edge of a tall cliff in a very remote part of town. There was nothing here but dense vegetation, canopied trees, and tall flowers touching their knees. This was an uninhabited part of Ferenwood for the simple reason that it was a dangerous area to occupy. There was no barrier against the steep fall—plans were still in the works to develop the area—and there were signs posted everywhere warning trespassers away from the edge. Here, the water lashed fast and heavy against the side of the cliff; this exit would be very different from the gentle entry they’d made just that morning. The underwater elevator they’d taken with Father had deposited them in much calmer waters right near the center of town. But this—well, Oliver wasn’t sure how they’d survive the jump. The drop was at least a thousand feet.
Most worrisome, however, was the shape of Alice’s plan.
She and Benyamin had sketched out their ideas in a few blunt sentences, but Oliver had remained wary. “I still don’t understand how you showing up to the courthouse and painting a picture is going to save her job,” he’d said to Alice. “How could that possibly be enough?”
“It’s not a picture, Oliver,” Alice said for what felt like the umpteenth time. “It’ll be a live painting.”
“But—”
“Don’t worry, I’ve brought my brushes and everything. Father has been teaching me how to focus and refine the colors as I imagine them.”
Oliver sighed. “Yes,” he said, “I know, and I’m happy you’ve made progress, but I just—well, our plan is to help Laylee remain a mordeshoor, yes?”
Alice nodded.
“So then isn’t my type of magic better suited for the situation? Couldn’t I just use my words against them? Say something to convince them?”
This time, it was Benyamin who shook his head. “The effect of your magic is temporary. You’d have to re-convince every member of the jury on a daily basis for the rest of your life. No, no, we need a real, permanent solution.” Benyamin began pacing. “Alice painting a living picture of what it is, exactly, that Laylee does could be what changes everything. The people of Whichwood, you see, have no idea what Laylee does for the dead. There are some rumors, of course; a few old wives’ tales; but our people haven’t the faintest clue how complex, tender, or taxing her work is—or how many steps are involved.”
“How is that possible?” said Oliver, stunned. “She’s a key member of your society. Her work is invaluable to the revolving door of existence.”
“Well, it’s quite simple, really: They’re not supposed to know.” Benyamin shrugged. “Laylee’s magic is performed exclusively for the dead, and her home is protected by ancient mordeshoor magic that insulates her from the world. Unless there to help her work, a civilian cannot remain for the duration. Of course, volunteers are certainly welcome in the home of a mordeshoor, but as you well know, they’re hard to find. So the people are happily ignorant of her suffering.”
“Right,” said Alice. She took a deep breath. “So. Our plan is to make a case for Laylee’s job by showing the people of Whichwood exactly what she does. We want them to know how much she cares—that she has lovingly transported the bodies of their loved ones to the Otherwhere and that no cold, modern magic would honor the deceased the way a mordeshoor does.”
“Exactly,” said Benyamin, who was beaming at Alice. “If we cannot appeal to their minds, we must appeal to their hearts.”
Alice smiled at him as she tugged three large paintbrushes out of her backpack and said, “So I will paint them a beautiful story. Benyamin will narrate.”
“And what am I supposed to do?” said Oliver, who’d crossed his arms.
“You,” said Alice, “will have to persuade them to sit through it.”
Now the insect boy was looking them both up and down. “Ready to get going?”
“Wait,” said Oliver, turning to Alice. “Does your father know you’re gone?”
Alice shook her head, looking nervous for the first time. “I snuck out. But as long as I can fix this, I know he’ll forgive me when I come home.”
Oliver could read the determination in her eyes. He knew Alice well enough to know that she would not be dissuaded. “Alright,” he said.
Alice nodded. “Let’s go.”
Benyamin gave her a short bow. When he next lifted his head, he placed two fingers in his mouth and whistled, loud and long. Not moments later, the birds were back.
Cawing as they came, three large purple birds grabbed Alice, Oliver, and Benyamin by the scruffs of their necks, scraping them up into the sky like they might be midnight snacks. The birds circled the open water for only a few seconds before the seas were punctured open by a sudden, violent exhalation of air, followed closely by a glossy body so large the children could only imagine its size.
Oliver heard Alice gasp as the whale yawned open its enormous mouth and, one by one, the birds tossed them inside.
It should be noted here that whales are not generally fast creatures. They are not slow, no, but they are much slower than, say, any kind of train or underwater elevator, to be sure. And in any other scenario, having a very large, rather slow whale as a main source of transportation (whilst in a hurry) might not have seemed like such a coup. But it had taken Benyamin only two hours to get to Ferenwood by whale (let us remember that even the newer, faster underwater contraption had taken two days), and here is why:
The magical members of the underwater community (about whom our brave protagonists would one day learn) had used their gifts to build faster paths and tunnels to various parts of the world. These paths were accessible to all native sea dwellers—including animals, magical and non-magical alike. Our age and perspective allows us the privilege of knowing this information now, but it was without understanding how, exactly, this magic worked that Benyamin had learned from his mother that he’d be able to bring his friends back to Whichwood in a timely manner.
In any case, I’m afraid this explanation is interesting only to us; Alice and Oliver were far too pleased and/or distracted to ask any follow-up questions about the commute—they were only happy to be given a second chance to set things right.
NOW, WHERE WERE WE?
Laylee wandered the empty, echoing castle halls in a daze.
Dust danced, suspended in strokes of light as she paced up and down carpeted corridors, scenes from the day blurring through ancient, stained-glass windows pockmarking the walls. She could hear the gurgles of a newborn river, fresh snow melting steadily in the afternoon sun, and she paused to listen, her heart racing as she realized ho
w very alone she was. Funny, she had felt lonely for so long now, but she had never been truly alone until now. She looked down at her hands, healthy and brown; touched her cheeks, supple and warm; and counted on six fingers how much she’d lost in her quest to live:
Two parents—
Three friends—
One job—
Laylee no longer knew what to do.
She would go on trial in exactly nineteen hours and had been placed under house arrest until the hour she was required. At precisely nine o’clock tomorrow morning, she would be met at home, shackled, and escorted to the courthouse. Until then, she was physically bound by strict magical reinforcements that imprisoned her within her own walls. Worse still, she wouldn’t even be allowed to work. The Elders had forbade any citizen from sending their dead her way; instead, the town would be holding any recently deceased in a secure chamber until her fate was decided; only then (in the event that she should be found guilty) would they enact new measures to deal with the corpses. It seemed a logical enough plan for managing the particulars of her unique situation, but Laylee had already begun to worry.
In the last three days alone, six people had died, and Laylee somehow knew this to be true.
