by Tahereh Mafi
So she did the only thing she knew how to do:
She unhooked her whip from where it hung on her tool belt and snapped it three times through the air—the sounds like thunderclaps quaking the heavens—and that, it turned out, was enough to gather their attentions. People craned their necks to catch a glimpse of the mordeshoor suspended in a spiderweb, her long leather whip held high in one hand. Once she knew they were looking—listening, even—Laylee felt suddenly at ease. In all the recent mess and mania, she’d forgotten who she was—but of course: She was a mordeshoor.
And she was in charge here.
“Dearest dead friends,” she said, her voice ringing out into the night. “You disrupted an important sleep to stand beside me today, and you must know how grateful I am, from the bottom of my heart, for your loyalty and your kindness. But we must end the madness here tonight. There’s no need to torture these people any longer. Please,” she said, “let them go.”
“But, Mordeshoor,” said Roksana, “you said you wanted them to apologize, and they haven’t apologized yet. They haven’t promised to change their ways as you requested—”
“Is that what you want?” cried one of the shivering Town Elders. “You just want us to apologize?”
“She wants you to recognize the error of your ways!” cried Maman. “You can never again disrespect the mordeshoor. Our loyalty is—and always will be—to her and her lineage!”
“Yes! You will repent your ways!” cried a corpse from the crowd.
“You will pay her a decent wage!” shouted another.
“You will never mistreat her again!” the crowd bellowed all together.
“We’re so sorry,” said a new, nervous voice. It was the magistrate from the morning’s proceedings. “We’re so very, very sorry”—he was openly sobbing now. “We’ll never again make the mistake of denying the mordeshoor her work—”
“Please,” cried another Whichwoodian woman, “we’ll do whatever you ask—just don’t hurt us—”
“You will reinstate the mordeshoor to her former glory!” cried Baba gleefully. “You will treat her with reverence and respect—”
“We swear!” the Elders cried. “We swear on all that is dear to us!”
“And if you lie,” said Baba in a low, lethal voice Laylee had never heard before, “we will come back for you.”
The corpses roared and stomped their feet, unleashing animal-like howls into the night.
“Anything—anything you say—”
“Mordeshoor,” said Baba, peering up at her in the night sky.
“Yes, Baba?”
“Do you accept the apologies of these monsters?”
Laylee couldn’t help but smile. It was funny to see the weird wax remnant of her father refer to the perfectly normal humans as monsters. “I do, Baba joon.”
“And if you need anything, you will call upon us to help you, will you not?”
“Of course, Baba,” she said softly. “Thank you.”
“And you’re sure,” said Maman now, “that you wish us to leave?”
Laylee nodded. “Thank you—thank you for everything. I’m not sure what I would’ve done without your help.”
“You are never alone, sweet girl,” said Roksana. “A kindness is never forgotten. Not even by those of us buried underground.”
And Laylee watched the scene splinter apart from high in the sky, the spiderweb glittering behind her as a soft snowfall melted along its threads. Her dead friends and family quietly receded, tens of thousands of bodies marching peacefully through the streets, leaving the living Whichwoodians shaken in their wake.
Laylee, meanwhile, had never felt so happy or so powerful in all her life—and not because of the Elders who fell on their knees before her—but because her parents, she realized, had finally proven they loved her.
A nightingale sat upon Laylee’s shoulder just then and sang her a song of congratulations.
“Thank you,” Laylee said to the small bird. “Life is strange, isn’t it?”
The bird nodded. “Yes,” it said to her. “Things are seldom what they seem.”
I DO DEARLY LOVE A HAPPY ENDING
True to their word, the town never doubted her again.
Weeks passed, and things improved every day for our mordeshoor. Laylee was treated like royalty as she walked through town—faces no longer disgusted by the sight of her, but awed by the power they knew her to wield. The people were both terrified and impressed, and began offering her ungodly amounts of gold and silver to wash their loved ones. Talking to Laylee was soon considered a privilege—even being looked at by the mordeshoor was thought of as a gift—and Laylee, who did not care for the obsequious attentions of strangers, found great comfort in the company of her friends.
Ah, yes—her friends. They were still with her, of course.
Laylee had enough money now that she was able to hire the extra help she’d always wanted. And who better than the three people she trusted the most? Alice and Oliver and Benyamin were soon official employees of the mordeshoor, working decent hours alongside her during the day, and spending their evenings and weekends having . . . what was that word?
Fun.
Laylee tried attending public school again, but it was too difficult to be taught by teachers who were terrified of her and to sit beside students who wanted nothing but to hear her ghastly work stories. Eventually, Laylee asked Madarjoon if she wouldn’t mind hometeaching her and her friends for a few hours every day, and Madarjoon nearly burst into tears at the request. Only too happy to oblige, the five of them—Alice, Oliver, Laylee, Benyamin, and Madarjoon—soon became a cozy little family. Oliver, who’d never liked his home very much anyway, could think of nowhere else he wanted to be—but Alice, whose parents were anxiously awaiting her, would not be able to stay forever. She’d been in touch with her father to tell him all that had transpired, and he was so proud of her for making things right with Laylee that he allowed her to stay in Whichwood, working alongside the others, for a period of no longer than six months. This was the average length of time a child was away from home for a task, so Father felt it to be fair.
For now, however, Alice would not think about leaving; there was simply too much to enjoy.
Alice and Oliver were living in Laylee’s castle now, and each night was a chance for games and good food and long conversations over piping-hot cups of tea. There was always a roaring fire in the hearth and beautiful lanterns lit across the house. Madarjoon taught them how to cook rich stews and colorful rice; Benyamin showed Alice how to properly eat a frosted rose; and Oliver—well, Oliver began to change. He could feel himself settling into place for the first time in his life, and the steadiness—the safety—of simply belonging began to slough off his thorny, sardonic edges. He became a gentle soul—and would grow up to be a deeply thoughtful young man—and he came to love the infamous mordeshoor even more every day.
For now, however, they were the best of friends.
And tonight the living room was warm and bright and festooned with winter flowers. The snow fell softly outside the frosted windows of the old castle, and Laylee closed her eyes, humming along to a song she half remembered. Madarjoon was reminding Oliver how to set a table, while Benyamin and Alice carried steaming dishes into the dining room in preparation for their dinner. The air was thick with the aroma of saffron and fresh turmeric, cinnamon and salted olive oil; fresh bread was cooling on the kitchen counter beside large plates of fluffy rice, sautéed raisins, heaps of barberries, and sliced almonds. Feta cheese was stacked beside a small mountain of fresh walnuts—still soft and damp—and handfuls of basil, mint, scallions, and radishes. There were spiced green beans, ears of grilled corn, dense soups, bowls of olives, and tricolored salads. There was so much food, in fact, I simply cannot describe it all. But dinners like these were fast becoming tradition for the mordeshoor and her adopted family, and
they would spend the evenings eating until their teeth grew tired of chewing, happily collapsing into sleepy heaps on the living room floor. There, they would finish out the night laughing and talking—and though they could not have known what the future would bring, they did know this:
In one another they’d found spaces to call home, and they would never be apart again.
Until next time, dear reader.
THE END
* A note: This was a strange departure from the fearless, indefatigable protagonists I knew and loved in Furthermore**, and I can’t say I wasn’t surprised when I heard what happened. But we must remember that Oliver had little to gain at the onset of this adventure, and Alice, whose father was now safely home (this will make more sense once you’ve read Furthermore), was eager to get back to her new, happy life. Indeed, neither Alice nor Oliver felt great inclination to put themselves in (excessive) danger for a stranger, and when their discomfort had grown to be too much, they were ready to set sail for home. It was sad, yes—but you see now that Laylee wasn’t wrong to have doubted them. The truth was that while their intentions were good, they weren’t pure; no, Alice’s and Oliver’s concern for Laylee was motivated by the promise of glory and a bit of good fun, respectively. And it was precisely this kind of selfish motive that Alice and Oliver would have to learn to shed. Help, after all, is at its best when offered unconditionally—with no expectations of payment in return.
**Apologies: Furthermore is an altogether different story, one that takes place before this one, wherein Alice and Oliver are the sole protagonists. It’s quite good, I think.
* To be clear: That Maman was unkind to Laylee was not actually her fault. Maman was entirely unaware of her bad temper and sharp tongue. She was simply made of a different kind of stardust now, the kind that made her, by default, a dark, pessimistic, biting sort of creature. Still, she loved her daughter to a fault.
* Maman, you will note, was protected from this unfortunate condition on account of her blood relation to her daughter, a living mordeshoor. Mordeshoors always straddled the line between the living and the dead, and they were welcome in either world, in any form, at any time.
* You might be wondering how Benyamin came to be so suddenly an expert on all things Laylee. But you must remember that he was in the unique position of knowing more about mordeshoors than most people, on account of his being their only neighboring family. No one else in Whichwood knew as much about Laylee’s life or her grief, and though Benyamin had guilted himself a great deal for not being more of a friend to her, his blame was poorly placed. Young Benyamin himself had such a long list of worries that it was all he could do to make ends meet and keep his own family alive. (After all, it wasn’t choice, but necessity, that dictated he lived next door to the dead.) It was not his fault that Laylee fell ill—no matter his protests to the contrary—and I hope that Benyamin—if he’s reading this now—will heed these words and, more important, believe them.
* You will remember my mentioning earlier that Furthermore is the name of another neighboring magical land explored in a previous novel, one that introduces us to Alice and Oliver and the rather tumultuous start to their friendship.
* I’ve recounted this part of the story to Laylee several times now, and she never tires of hearing it. If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear she was secretly proud of having inspired such sulkiness in Oliver’s otherwise upbeat character. She denies this, of course.
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