Whichwood

by Tahereh Mafi

  She could feel this truth without the words to articulate why, but when a spirit separated from its body, the specter seemed to sing to her. She’d never before been held away from her spirits, so the sensation was new, but she could feel them—each phantom like a phantom limb, a second heartbeat thudding against her chest. She could practically reach out and curl her fingers around the feeling, knowing without understanding that the dead were calling to her, pushing painfully against the magic that repelled their substance from her home. She hadn’t known the moment when things changed for her—when it was, exactly, that she’d begun to love her ghosts despite their meanness and mischief, but she knew herself to be their caretaker, and despite her many grumbles about her work, she’d always understood that they needed her—cared for her, even—in the short time they spent together.

  Oh, how she missed them now.

  It had been a great leniency from the Elders that had allowed Laylee to stay in her own home until the hour of the trial, and she was quietly grateful for it, as she did not think she would do well in a prison cell. And though she hated the people of Whichwood for what they’d done to her father—and for how they’d treated her—Laylee could not imagine herself as anything but a mordeshoor; she knew she had to fight for her right to be the bearer of the dead.

  But how? What would she say?

  She felt limp, hollowed out, no longer fueled by any kind of passion. She had grieved, yes—she had attempted to empty her heart of its agony—but though she still carried a great deal of pain, she was surprised to find that she felt no violent outrage over the loss of her father or the actions of her people. She felt no desperate madness that would bolster her in court tomorrow. No, Laylee was comforted now by a clarity that helped her understand that Baba never would’ve returned home to her, that perhaps on his quest for Death he’d been unwittingly searching for a reprieve from life. She knew how much happier he was to have crossed over with Maman—and knowing that Baba was at peace had made her anger a superfluous emotion. She would not begrudge her parents their happiness, so she had to let them go.

  She’d let everything go.

  She’d been stripped of family, friends, and even her livelihood—but she hadn’t expected to be stripped of her anger, too.

  A peculiar calm had come over her lately, and it felt a bit like what she’d heard of humility. At every moment she felt a steady, kneading pressure against the back of her neck reminding her that—no matter how bad things were—they could be worse. Bite your tongue, said the voice, and be grateful for what you have lest you lose that, too.

  This was all it took for her to be reminded, in a sudden moment, of Benyamin Felankasak.

  Laylee had always thought of Benyamin as simple and weak; she’d considered his kindness a sign of weakness—a symptom of an easy, untroubled life. But after getting to know him and his mother, Laylee wondered if she’d been wrong.

  The thing was, Laylee had always resented the smiles of others, their easy charity, their willingness to be kind. But she was beginning to wonder whether she’d gotten her theories confused. Maybe it was not naiveté, but suffering, that inspired kindness. Maybe, she thought, it was pain that inspired compassion.

  Just then, she heard her doorbell ring.

  Laylee took her time.

  She feared the Elders had come for her early—that they’d changed their minds about letting her stay at home—so she moved in slow motion as she tied her long, chestnut locks into a low bun at the base of her neck. She moved even more slowly when the bell rang for the second time, her nervous hands reaching for her fringed, floral scarf from its hook by the door. Carefully, she tied the scarf in an elegant knot at her throat, and calmly, very calmly, she took a deep, steadying breath, and unlocked the door.

  Shock rearranged the features on her face.

  Benyamin, Oliver, and Alice were waiting for her, and Laylee could not hide the flood of emotions that rushed through her all at once. Happiness, relief, confusion—

  Laylee could not have been more surprised.

  She’d thought her friends had left her for good. She thought they’d tired of her cold anger and churlish behavior and she couldn’t imagine their reasons for returning here, to her home where she’d treated them with nothing but thinly veiled hostility.

  “What are you doing here?” Laylee finally spoke, stunned.

  “We had to find you,” said Oliver too quickly, tripping over his words. He wondered then if she had any idea what she’d done to his brain. “We had to find a way—”

  “Find me?” she said, turning to face him fully. She could hardly dare to believe they’d come back just for her. “Why did you want to find me?”

  “Well, we came to help you, of course,” said a smiling Alice, who was reminded, in a moment of wistfulness, of an identical exchange they’d shared not several nights ago.

  But this time, the mordeshoor returned her kindness.

  Laylee’s face thawed and broke open, the parted lines of her mouth blossoming into a smile that touched her wide, amber eyes. Oliver had never seen Laylee’s teeth before—she’d never shown so much emotion—and he spent far too long admiring her mouth in those first moments of their reunion. Laylee didn’t seem to mind.

  “Actually,” said Benyamin quietly, speaking for the first time, “we were wondering if we could come inside for a cup of tea.”

  I feel I should mention something.

  This was not the first time Alice, Oliver, and Benyamin had seen Laylee that day. No—they’d arrived in Whichwood right around noon—and it was now many hours later. The sun was sideways in the sky and the clouds were quickly purpling and the group of them had just returned from a brief gathering at Benyamin’s house, where they’d assembled after stumbling upon the mordeshoor during a very private moment. Collectively, they’d decided to leave and never breathe a word about it, but one day Oliver’s romantic intentions would encourage him to make the mistake of sharing this story with Laylee. He’d describe what he’d seen and what this moment (and many other moments) had done to him—in hopes of illustrating how he’d come to care for her. Unfortunately, Laylee was horrified to hear it. Which was, of course, how I’d come to hear of it.

  This was how they’d discovered her:

  It’s midday. The sun is directly overhead, happily oblivious to the heavy, ceaseless snowfall blanketing the immense acreage of the mordeshoor’s land in a thick, fresh layer of powder. There’s a single porcelain tub half submerged in the snow, its depths full to the hilt with scarlet liquid. Within the tub lies our heroine. She is fully clothed, one leg flung over the side of the tub, her head held back, face up to the sky, long brown hair grazing the frost. Her gown is bunched up over one knee and dragging along the edge of the tub, where the sopping lengths of silk drip red water in terrifying patterns over the infant snow. She holds a long bristled brush in one hand and scrubs it roughly against her heavily embellished shoulder; diamonds burst free from their embroidered seams only to land, glittering, in the drift. She appears to be bathing in a pool of her own blood, errant rose petals caught in her hair, crimson tears frozen on her cheeks, and she smiles at something the reader cannot see—a memory?—as she sings softly to the afternoon wind. She sings in a language we cannot understand—something old and beautiful that vibrates on the tongue. It sounds like poetry, like melancholy and sadness. It’s Rumi again, her old friend, reminding her of something that soothes her heart.

  Here is a translation of the part she sang most clearly:

  Don’t turn your head

  Don’t look away from the pain

  The wound is the place

  Where the light enters you

  Mordeshoors were required to be rid of any hypocrisies while washing the dead—which meant they themselves had to be clean in order to properly cleanse. It was a ceremonial washing of the spirit, not the skin, that mattered most, of course, and Laylee
had performed these rituals of the mordeshoor with regularity. But on this, the day that might’ve been her last as a mordeshoor, she was feeling rather emotional about it—and Rumi’s words were the only ones that felt quite right for the moment.

  And so these were the words they heard when they first saw her, when Oliver and Alice and Benyamin came upon the mordeshoor without meaning to. They’d rung the doorbell several times to no avail, and finally, worried, they’d decided to sneak into the backyard. It was there that they’d discovered this unusual sight; indeed, it was a moment so simultaneously beautiful and disturbing they scarcely knew what to do. (Strange, these were the same two adjectives Alice would one day use to describe her dearest friend to me.) Alice, you see, was in awe; Benyamin was intrigued; but Oliver Newbanks had gone weak in the knees. He reached out without meaning to, grabbing hold of Benyamin’s shoulder at first sight of her. Everything about Laylee was unusual and extraordinary—and yet she seemed uninterested in being remarkable in any way. Oliver, who had worked hard his whole life to stand out—to make a mark memorable enough to distinguish him from his peers—could not make sense of this girl, this mordeshoor who did not seem to know or even care whether she terrified or enchanted the world.

  But Laylee Layla Fenjoon was in possession of a rare gift she’d yet to understand:

  She did not allow the opinions of others to dictate who she was.

  This was not a quality she’d been born with. It was not a skill she’d intended to acquire. No, this was an ability forged exclusively from hardship; it was a lesson unearthed from the ashes of betrayal and loss. Pain had hardened her skin while suffering had softened her heart. She was emotion and armor all at once, empathy and resilience combining to create the most intimidating opponent of all.

  Still, she wondered then whether she even knew what she was fighting for.

  Reader, I share this anecdote of Laylee’s bath because I think her time spent therein was transformative. Laylee was assaulted by a barrage of thoughts and feelings as she sat in her porcelain tub that day, and she wondered, with increasing anxiety, what on earth she’d say to a jury to convince them of her worthiness. Most of all, she hated that she had to care what anyone thought of her. She didn’t want to change who she was—she didn’t want to have to apologize for things she didn’t regret—and she worried that Whichwood would want her to alter the composition of her character in order to accommodate their narrow opinions of what was right.

  Much later, towel-dried and furnished with a fresh set of clothes, Laylee would hear the doorbell ring for the first time. She would descend the wheezing staircase of her ancient home with a tightening apprehension, feeling desperately alone and outnumbered. She had no expectations—no certainty of anything but disappointment—and yet, as she reached into her pocket to curl a loose fist around her father’s twenty-six remaining teeth, she dared to hope for a miracle.

  Clever reader, I wonder—is the end of our story coming into focus for you?

  Do you require the many details of the next twenty-four hours to know whether our mordeshoor’s tale ends in triumph or heartbreak? It is my dearest wish to skip ahead and simply tell you what happened, but I fear you might require more than a mere summary. Where should we begin?

  Would it be of interest to you to know what the children discussed that evening? To know that they gathered round Laylee’s humble fire with cups of hot tea while Alice excitedly shared her plan to save Laylee’s career?

  Or perhaps you’d like to hear more about how Laylee laughed until she cried, falling backward onto a dusty chair as Benyamin and Oliver bickered over the details of who, exactly, would be playing a more critical role in saving the day tomorrow?

  Alice and Benyamin and Oliver were all so certain of their imminent success that Laylee couldn’t bring herself to poke holes in their happiness. Besides, she was tired of being cynical; tonight Laylee would keep her worries to herself and, for the first time in a long time, allow herself to act her age. The three friends had been carrying an unwieldy stack of presents when they’d appeared at her door, and Laylee now sat in front of the fire, smiled a brilliant smile at her friends, and began to open the brightly wrapped cadeaux. The gifts were the handiwork of Benyamin’s mother, who believed with every bit of her heart that a few home-cooked treats could heal even the harshest wounds.

  Reader, Benyamin’s mother was rarely wrong.

  These last few days Laylee had been subsisting on eggplant soup and a few overripe beets, and so it was with a pure, childlike glee that she ripped open her presents, gasping aloud as she unearthed tins of buttery pistachio brittle; slim strips of chewy, rose-petal nougat; and clear mason jars packed with pomegranate seeds. She nearly cried over the diamonds of cardamom pudding and their daintily slivered almonds; she jumped to her feet as she uncovered the dishes of warm, creamy halva with their flourishes of cinnamon; she very nearly lost her mind over the boxes of cakes, fresh cream puffs, and Persian baklava. She’d already been fighting back tears when Benyamin pointed out that she’d yet to see the bowls of slippery glass noodles (sweetened with rosewater) and the large tubs of saffron ice cream.

  Laylee had been rendered speechless.

  It was a veritable feast unlike any she’d ever enjoyed, and she was so overwhelmed by the gesture—so very overcome by the company—that she couldn’t help stumbling as she tried to say thank you.

  Laylee, Alice, Benyamin, and Oliver camped out in her living room that night. They needn’t worry about any wayward spirits now that Laylee’s home had been magically sterilized for ghosts, and they stayed up until dawn drinking tea, telling stories, and discussing the many details of nothing and everything. Their conversations were interrupted only by pauses to stuff their mouths with buttery candies and creamy ice cream, and finally, after the clocks themselves grew tired of ticking, Laylee fell into a deep, heavenly sleep and dreamed of a world where she would always have her friends by her side.

  The thing that no one had been expecting, of course, was that the ghosts would get loose again.

  There were only six of them this time, but, as I mentioned some pages ago, it had been a very long time since anyone had respected mordeshoors, so even the Elders had underestimated the power of Laylee’s magic. The moment she was hauled by her handcuffs through the doors of the city courthouse, the spirits could no longer be contained. Laylee was now closer than she’d ever been to these fresh phantoms, and sensing her nearness, they were bolstered by a connection far more powerful than the simple magical bind the Elders had used to subdue them.

  And so it was amid a sudden, disturbing rush of noise, exclamation, riot, and chaos, that Whichwood’s town magistrate attempted to call their day into order. The problem was, no one could understand what was happening. Luckily, the ghosts were still too fresh to be interested in stealing skins just yet, but their newness to the world meant that they were only interested in making trouble. Young ghosts (no matter their human age) were preoccupied only by the need to make a fuss when they first arrive. It’s a fairly intolerable period—one that Laylee never cared for—but now, as she sat in her seat and watched the spirits wreak havoc upon the composures of the most esteemed members of her community, she had to fight back a smile. Ghosts rushed by, upending stacks of paperwork, blowing out all the lanterns, and knocking over ladies’ hats. They spun around Laylee’s head, shouting any number of things at her—

  “Mordeshoor! Mordeshoor!” This, from a tiny little girl. “Can we please go home now?”

  “I don’t like it here at all,” said a curly-haired woman who’d just knocked over a samovar.

  “Neither do I,” said an elderly gentleman who was trying and failing to pull down people’s trousers. “Why are we here? Why don’t we leave, Mordeshoor?”

  Laylee sent them pleading looks and pressed a single finger to her lips, hoping they would calm down.

  “Ooooooh,” said a pimply teenage boy, “I thi
nk she’s in trouble.”

  “What do you mean, in trouble?” said the tiny girl. She flew up to the ceiling and sat upside down. “How can a mordeshoor be in trouble?”

  Just then, one of the older ghosts rattled a window so hard it shattered; splintered glass rained into the room, eliciting startled cries and screams from the jury. No one seemed able to make sense of the nonsense, and Laylee was surprised by their ignorance. But Laylee knew she’d be found out eventually, and she figured she’d better get these ghosts in line before they ruined her chances today. She could’ve easily said something to them. She felt her fingers twitch as they reached for the whip that hung from the tool belt she wore around her waist.

  Still, she hesitated.

  For so long, this had been Laylee’s greatest secret: that she could see and speak with the ghosts. She’d always worried that outing herself as a direct liaison between human and spirit would only make her job more burdensome; she worried the people would pester her for communications from the dead, for last words from their loved ones—and she’d wanted nothing to do with it. But now she wondered whether it was still a secret worth keeping. Wouldn’t it lend credibility to her profession if her people knew she could actually see the spirit emerge as the body failed? Could this not help her, somehow?

  She hadn’t finished thinking it all through before the silence was interrupted again. Alice, Benyamin, Oliver, and Madarjoon had pushed through the front doors of the courtroom with great fanfare, making no effort to hide their presence. Her friends had needed to take a separate train into town to catch the proceedings but, after elbowing their way through the mass of people crowding the exterior doors, Oliver had easily persuaded their way into the main hall and secured their seats up front. In fact, they were just settling into said seats when one of Laylee’s ghosts blew a gust of wind so strong it knocked the wig off the magistrate’s head. Furious, he slammed his gavel down several times, shouting for someone to fetch his hair from the floor and then, impossibly angrier, he pointed one sausage-y finger at Laylee and demanded she explain herself. She was somehow causing all this commotion, he said, and he didn’t know why or how, but he simply knew it to be true, and if she didn’t stop this nonsense right this instant, he would throw the entire case out and sentence her himself.