The Hollow Girl

by Hillary Monahan

  “Someone needs to bleed to save your young man.”

  Five someones, perhaps?

  Is there any choice?

  I had no reply. I just wanted it to be over with.

  Gran lifted a hand to stroke my hair, but she must have remembered my recoil in the field, because she placed it back on my arm. The gesture made me realize that my hair had to be covered. Silas had stripped my girlhood away from me, and I was a woman. No matter the reason, I couldn’t escape the laws of propriety.

  I pulled out my brush, streaking it through my hair hard enough that my scalp tingled before gathering the rest into a bun at my nape. I tried not to think much about it, the task unpleasant but unavoidable, but when I fashioned the scarf around my head, tying it for the first time, Gran let out a pained groan.

  “Oh, Bethan. I am sorry. I am so sorry.” The granite shell protecting my heart cracked. With one selfish act, Silas had forever changed my identity—my life would never be the same. Among my people, I’d be pitied. Some might shun me for wickedness beyond my control. Touch was hard to take from Gran, so what would it be like from people less close to me? Especially men? I couldn’t stand the thought of it. I was to be drabarni with an aversion to doctoring half my people?

  It was a deep wound, an emotional wound, and I stared straight ahead, tears stinging my eyes. My knees wobbled and nausea roiled in my stomach despite a lack of food. I had to sit to keep from collapsing to the floor. Gran left her bed to stand behind me, her hands going to my shoulders and squeezing. I flinched at the contact, but reminding myself it was Gran and she meant me no harm, I calmed.

  Life is unfair.

  “I am loath to say it, but it is good for the caravan to see the fresh bruises, so they are reminded of why the boys are ours.” She fussed with the wayward strands of hair at the corners of my vision, tucking them behind my ears. I pushed away from her, heading outside without another word.

  We walked to the clearing together. Gran shuffled by my side, a quiet, steady presence, who held me up as much as I held her. As my panic rose, my heart fluttered and my tongue felt dry. I reached for my newfound emptiness, for she who looked through my eyes but did not see. For the one who walked among lively songs and laughter but did not hear. She was my curse and my sanctuary. I would let her wear my face and yet remain far away, more ghost than girl.

  Gran pressed on, surer on her feet than she’d been the night before on the road. I stayed with her up until the lip of the great fire’s clearing, my legs stopping abruptly. My fingers tightened around Gran’s. She offered a small squeeze in return, leaning in close to my ear.

  “It is much to ask, I know,” she whispered, “but I need you to be strong for me again.”

  We approached the great fire, where most of our people were having their breakfast. The chattering voices tapered to quiet, and I felt my face flush. Word had already traveled, though that wasn’t surprising. News in a caravan changed hands as quickly as money. All eyes fixed on us as Gran approached the northern benches, and then—with my help—stepped onto one so she stood taller than all the others. I stayed before her on the ground so she could use my shoulder for support if needed.

  “Last night, a great wrong was done to me and mine.” Her voice had thrice its normal volume, sounding as big and furious as it’d been when it tangled with the wind. “A great wrong was done to a diddicoy, inviting the wrath of outsiders.”

  She paused to let her words penetrate, her brown eye scanning the sea of faces. Each one looked my way, some hands clasped over hearts, others clinging to their loved ones. I looked to see if I could find any of the boys in the throng, but they were nowhere. Their relatives were, though, and would carry Gran’s words.

  “I am your drabarni, and yet that did not stop five”—she paused to splay her fingers, wiggling each of them so all bore witness—“five from harming my charge. Do you forget who I am? Do you forget what I can do?”

  Gran’s arms stretched up to the sky. The flames of the fire rose, surging to the heavens with a furious roar. I stood steady, unflinching, but those on the other side skittered back, afraid. Wind whipped her hair, and her clothes snapped around her slight body. She’d always been thin and bony, but in that moment, I would have sworn she was giant.

  Gran tilted her head back, her eyes closing as she screamed, “RETRIBUTION COMES THIS DAWN. Present, confess, know my benevolence. Deny your sin, the cost is threefold. No one harms my charge. No one.” She cast a finger over the sea of our people. “You all bear witness, you hear my demands. Now go. Send me the five today or send them to a dark fate. This is my decree. GO!”

  There was a frenzy of movement, families finding each other in the crowd, whispering. Some people looked Gran’s way. Others were too afraid. They dispersed back to their tents and vardos. Gran peered at me from the bench. She reached down, brushing her knuckles over my cheek.

  “I hope you are ready. This is an unpleasant journey.”

  I hoped I was, too, but there was no way to know until she told me what bringing Martyn back would entail.

  It was a silent procession home. We climbed the steps, and Gran paused to look behind her, in case anyone was coming to confess. I worried in some ways that they would. If they begged for forgiveness, must I grant leniency?

  “I will tell you all you need to know soon,” Gran said, stealing my thoughts. “They will pay for their deeds, that I vow.”

  Gran went to her bureau drawer and pulled out a thick piece of parchment and a quill with a notched tip. Sitting at the table, she began to write. I watched her hand scrawl down the page, the ends of her shawl brushing over the letters and smudging the ink at the edges.

  She brought the paper to me, her finger hovering over the words as she read them aloud. “Fingers for touch, an eye for sight, a nose to smell the air. Teeth for taste, an ear for sound. Some blood, some skin, some hair.”

  I accepted the paper from her when she offered it. “That sounds like a spell.”

  “It is an ingredients list. Far easier to remember when it rhymes.” She arched a sparse gray brow at me. “The words of a spell are only important if they help you focus your will. The Irish witches say nothing when they bless or curse. It is all hand motions. Magic is in the heart, not on the tongue.”

  “I understand, Gran.” The blocks, circles, and swirls before me were all so very meaningless. What I remembered was Gran’s last lesson, when she’d explained that magic had a cost proportionate to the end result. The ingredients list was a list of gruesome tithes.

  “I’ll have to harvest these?” I asked. “To bring him back?”

  She nodded. “One part for each sense, to wake them from sleep. The hair, skin, and blood will come from the yellow-haired man himself. Not a lot—just enough to tie him to his own ritual.”

  “And if taking my due kills the boys?”

  She eyed me slyly. “Would you care?”

  I pondered the question. Before, I would have said that I couldn’t kill, no matter the circumstance. It was a sin. It would tarnish my soul beyond reach. I would be banished for such a wicked deed. But the stranger that lived in me now said the ends justified the means. Death was not the goal, but if it happened in the course of restoring Martyn’s stolen life, so be it.

  I was no longer afraid. Fear existed beyond the stranger’s scope.

  “I won’t try for it, but if it comes, I’ll persevere.” I laid out the list on the table, my fingers smoothing the curled corners.

  If Gran was shocked by my acceptance, she didn’t indicate as much; instead, she reclaimed her list and notated in the margins. She’d run out of space and was about to flip the paper to the other side to continue writing, when a knock sounded on the door.

  My spine straightened, an animalistic urge to flee surging inside of me. Gran sensed my distress, sensed that I’d become prey before predator, and offered me her hand. I clung to it, my desire to not be touched feuding with my desire to anchor myself to her.

  Gran swep
t her thumb across my knuckles. “Their fates are yours. You can harvest them for what you need and banish them as mochadi. You can harvest them and allow them to stay. You can bind them to you to serve. You can kill them all if it pleases you. Whatever you choose, I support you.”

  I nodded but said nothing, the options swirling in my head. Another knock sounded, and the voices outside hushed. Gran patted my hand and shuffled to the door, swinging it open to see who dared approach in the wake of the fireside proclamation.

  Standing on the steps, tearstained and wrapped in a heavy brown sweater she’d belted at the waist over a long skirt, was Florica Buckland. “He’s an idiot,” she said in greeting, her voice breaking. “He’s an idiot who listened to stupid boys and it made him a stupid boy, but he’s big enough to admit he’s wrong. Have mercy on him. On me. He’s my only son.”

  Tomašis. I expected to want to lash out at him, to lust for blood, but all I could do was marvel at how unchanged he was. He was afraid, yes, but he was unfettered. He carried few weights, despite proving his cowardice twice—first when Gran plucked his hairs at the fire and again when she sent her winds to the field.

  “Come. You are not to speak unless spoken to. Either of you.” Gran pulled her chair around to my side of the table so there’d be space for all inside the cramped quarters. I slid the enchanted mirror from the table and into my lap. I wanted Florica and Tomašis to see only the corpse lying on my bed beneath its death shroud. Martyn’s former liveliness in the mirror was not a comfort either were owed.

  I couldn’t bring myself to look at Tomašis. He hadn’t delivered the blows that felled Martyn, but he’d held me strong while another did. He’d allowed the murder to happen—he’d relished it happening—and when his courage abandoned him, he’d run back to camp, not once opening his mouth. Had he, the men may have come. Had he, I may not have been assaulted.

  He’d more than earned my ire.

  Florica knew it, too. She glanced between us, her tall son hiding behind her like she’d wall him off from the wicked witches ready to pass judgment on his head.

  “I’m s-sorry,” Tomašis stammered. “So sorry. I shouldn’t have…I should have…”

  Tomašis’s pained screech drew my gaze. He was doubled over, panting, his hands holding his stomach like his insides had burst. His fingers bunched up the white fabric of his shirt.

  “Do. Not. Speak. Unless. Spoken. To,” Gran snarled. She whipped her head around to glower at Florica, her eyes narrowed to slits, her lips pursed into a thin line. Florica retreated, stepping away until her backside struck the wall. “You have raised a stupid boy, Florica.”

  “Yes, very stupid. Like his father.”

  “I am not so sure it comes from the father.”

  “Perhaps not, drabarni.” Florica sighed and dropped her head until her chin touched her chest. “I am sorry for his crimes.”

  “Do not be sorry for things you have not done. It is his job to be sorry.” Gran rose from her seat and circled the table to stand beside Tomašis, who was sobbing. She grabbed a fistful of his hair in her hand like she had at the great fire and jerked. Tomašis howled as the strands came free. He dropped to the floor with a mewl, wrapping his arms around his mother’s legs, his face pressed into her hip. She didn’t offer him comfort, but she did let us see her desperation to save his life. Tears dribbled down her cheeks and dripped onto her thick-cabled sweater.

  Florica started to speak, but remembered she wasn’t allowed and clamped her mouth shut. Gran twisted Tomašis’s hairs and nodded at her. “Speak.”

  “Drabarni. He’d do anything to make amends. He wasn’t there when Silas dishonored her, and I know he should have told someone about what happened in the field, but he was afraid. He says the chieftain’s son is not always kind to his friends.”

  “He held me,” I said quietly, my hands gripping the sides of the mirror. “Tomašis held me as Mander beat a man to death and struck me with a bag of rocks. Silas wasn’t even there yet. It was his choice.”

  Gran shoved Tomašis’s hairs under his nose and he wailed again. “What I find most offensive about you, worm, is that you’ve already experienced my power. You dream the dark dreams still, and yet you risked it anyway. Of the five, you were aware, and yet…”

  She turned her attention my way. “What do you want to do with him? Ask it and it is yours.” Looking at Tomašis’s sniveling, huddled form, part of me wanted to take my due and kill or banish him, but Florica’s presence lent me pause. She’d committed no crime, and yet if I doomed Tomašis to bloody sacrifice, she’d forever mourn.

  “Tomašis must be punished,” I said carefully. “But he did come, and that holds weight. I don’t think Florica should lose a son when she’s done nothing wrong.”

  Gran snorted. “Hardly nothing. She thrust a loathsome monster from her loins. However, I may have an idea that will satisfy your honor and yet spare Florica her tears.” Gran shuffled to the door and thrust it open, letting a gust of cold wind rip through. She pointed down the rickety steps. “Take your idiot outside, Florica. I make no promises, but perhaps he will yet be spared.”

  Florica kicked Tomašis off her leg and walked outside, head high, her son slinking after her like a whipped dog. People whispered outside, at least a dozen strong, my clansmen gathered to witness Tomašis’s sentencing. I glared out at the faces.

  Gran closed and latched the door before hobbling back to her chair. “Ignore them. Their fear binds them from acting out against us. That is the way it should be—the way it should have been for the boys, too, the fools.”

  Gran captured one of my hands and began to stroke my fingers. She tilted her head to the side, and a bevy of difficult emotions flitted across her face before settling on resignation. “You have gleaned by now that the chieftain is bound to my service, yes?”

  When I nodded, a wan, joyless smile stretched across her lips. “I have not explained before because it is painful for me to discuss, but it is time.” She turned in her seat so she could pull out a drawer, and rifling through the contents and digging deep, far beneath the folded cloths and miscellanea, she found a framed portrait. She wiped a thick layer of dust from the glass and thrust it at me. It was no bigger than a dinner plate, and the face painted on it was crude at best, but I could make out a man with strong features and dark hair. His eyes were green, his nose was long, and a thick, dark mustache hid his upper lip.

  “Your father. His name was Joseph and he was a cobbler by trade, as his father was before him. He was from Pontypridd. I told you how he fell in love with your mother and how poorly our people treated him. What you do not know is that it was the chieftain himself who caused Joseph the most pain. Wen was young and stupid and he tormented that poor man despite your mother’s pleas.”

  The chieftain was such a gentle man that I had a hard time believing it, but Gran—seeing my doubt—waved me off. “Good men sometimes do bad things. It is the degree of bad that dictates if his goodness remains intact. In Wen’s case, he was redeemed on the eventual.” She took a deep breath, peering at the portrait for a long moment and licking her lips. “Your mother was young—a new drabarni. She threatened Joseph’s tormentors, but to no avail. She was carrying you at the time and could not tax her body with great magic. She could not lash out at those who hurt her husband.

  “Then, one day, it went too far. Joseph was walking back from town with supplies for your mother when he encountered Wen and his friends on the road. There was another beating and Joseph had to run. Wen chased him all the way to the river and Joseph slipped into the water. He could not swim and was dragged downstream.”

  Gran squeezed my hand, the strain on her face making her look older than time itself. “Wen was wise enough to run to your mother for help. Heavy with child, she searched for Joseph on the banks, finding him clinging to a rock at the river’s bend some ways away. He was full of water and fading. Your mother, she…she did what she had to do.”

  “What was that?” I asked, quietly
, gently. Curiously. Gran’s crumb of information was more than she’d said in years about my mother.

  “I was getting there,” she snapped, then flinched, realizing how she sounded and to whom. “I am sorry. This is difficult for me and I should not have barked. But, what was I—oh, yes. Your mother made a great sacrifice that day to save the man she loved. She had to be careful what she conjured with you in her belly, but she succeeded in the end. Joseph would live after a long period of rest—you were born before he woke, three weeks after his drowning. Imagine everyone’s surprise when you bore her magic upon your skin. She had not harmed you with her spellcraft, but it had marked you dark on one side and light on the other.”

  Gran’s fingertips traced along my wrist, over the wine-colored freckles. “You were a robust baby. You brought great joy, but there was sadness, too. Joseph would wake soon, and that was good, but your mother’s sacrifice had changed her. She was not who she was before she revived him. She did not want him to look upon her and be repulsed, or worse, feel guilt for what she had done to save him. She was not confident her clansmen would not continue to torture him, either, and so she had to make a decision, perhaps the hardest of her life.

  “She spared the chieftain’s son—Wen—for two reasons. The first was that Wen admitted his part in Joseph’s near drowning and pledged himself to her service for the rest of his life. The second…”

  She hesitated, lifting her eyes to me, tears welling in the corners and leaking into the deep crevices of her cheeks. “The second reason was that the chieftain vowed to tell both Joseph and the clan that Eira the drabarni had died during childbirth and that her last wishes were for Joseph to leave and let their daughter be raised by her people. To save Joseph’s life, Eira had given thirty years of her own to fuel the magic. She had gone from maiden to crone in the span of a day. She looked nothing like the woman she had been, and so she became someone new. Eira became Drina, and Wen bound himself to me.”