The Hollow Girl

by Hillary Monahan

  “I sewed a hawk feather to the chieftain’s cap. I knew he would try to save his son. We have no time. You must get Silas’s hair, his blood, his spit—anything—and when we have it, we will put it inside the chest—”

  “We already have his essence,” I interrupted. Gran looked quizzical, and I motioned at the heap of clothes from the blood moon. We’d plucked them free of straw, but it seemed they would serve yet another purpose before their fiery demise. “When he…After he…was done with me…” I took a deep breath, feeling my face flush hot at what I was about to say. “His seed is on the skirt. We have his essence.”

  Gran shredded the skirt. I tried to do it myself, but the moment my fingers grazed the wool, I started to shake. That dirty, wrinkled heap of clothing was a stark reminder of the worst day of my life. Looking at it spread across the table made my tears well a second time, but Gran laid a hand on my shoulder and gently pushed me aside. She took her shears to it, dismantling it into thin strips with brutal efficiency.

  “What is happening in the water?” she asked.

  I peered at the scrying bowl, thankful for the distraction. Across the rippling surface, I watched the chieftain pull coins from his pocket and motion at the vardo door. Silas darted around to shove his clothing into a brown sack. “The chieftain has given Silas money. Silas is getting ready to leave.”

  “Wen is sending him to the Crossing. If the dog makes it there, he will be on a boat by the afternoon. I need more time to finish this spell.”

  Anwen’s Crossing was a port town, so ships docked at all hours of the day. With full pockets, Silas could find himself a ride to anywhere before the next moonrise. There should have been consolation in knowing that he wanted to leave, but banishment was supposed to come after his punishment, not before. First I needed his nose.

  I spared a glance at Martyn’s mirror. His image had grown so faint that it was difficult to even see him in the glass anymore. “He’s fading. What happens if Silas leaves?”

  “That is not an option. He must be delayed until I finish the fetish.” She held up a piece of skirt, and I could see the dry, flaky remains of Silas’s spend on it. My teeth clenched around my tongue, and I jerked my gaze away.

  “What would you suggest I do to keep him here? Tie him to a tree?”

  “No. Silas is stronger than you, and you have been worked hard these past few days. Get Tomašis to help you. A strong boy is an asset.”

  It hadn’t occurred to me to involve him, but there was merit to the idea. He was a sheaf of skin over bones, yes, but Tomašis was still hardy with all his lean muscle. I knew firsthand what it was like to try to escape his iron grasp.

  Gran lifted the fetish to examine it, and a deep crease furrowed her brow. “Send Tomašis for Silas and then come back to me. Be clear with your instructions so Tomašis cannot wiggle out of doing his duty. I ought to have the charm finished by the time you return. I will have to attend to Mander after, but…we will persevere. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Gran. I understand.”

  “Then go, and be quick.”

  I wasted no time, the broken vardo door slamming shut behind me. I didn’t have the luxury of creeping and skittering my way to Tomašis’s tent. Instead, I brazenly strode past the great fire, my head high despite everything I’d done. At least a dozen people were gathered for breakfast, and I could feel the weight of their stares. Some murmured, while others blessed themselves as if warding off evil.

  I didn’t acknowledge any of them. Within minutes, I was bearing down on Tomašis’s tent. Through the open flap, I saw Florica bent over a pile of sewing, her needle flashing in the morning light. I called her name, and she poked her head outside, her expression darkening upon seeing me.

  “Bethan.”

  “I need Tomašis,” I said, not bothering with pleasantries. Florica didn’t hesitate like she had the last time. She climbed from her tent to meander toward the river, calling her son’s name. Tomašis appeared a moment later, looking rumpled from sleep. His hair was mussed, and the top button of his pants was undone. Bare feet, suspenders, a sleeveless white shirt, and a fresh black eye patch completed his morning presentation.

  “What do you want?” he barked in greeting.

  “You.”

  “For what?”

  “To get Silas for me. To hold him until I’m ready for him.”

  “No.” He turned on his heel like that was the end of the discussion.

  The denial surprised me. Here was the boy who’d wept and begged for his life not two days before, yet he had the nerve to openly defy me. I had to wonder if it was loyalty to his friend that made him act that way or the mistaken belief that my ire was preferable to Silas’s.

  “Tomašis, stop.” He ignored me and ducked into his tent, probably to hide behind his fretting mother.

  Before he got too far in, I lifted my hand. Gran had said a few times that magic was nothing more than the ability to turn will into action. I’d paid the blood price to bind Tomašis to me, and I had my cat fetish with me, so by all accounts, wanting to punish him for insolence should have been enough to make it happen. I curled my fingers into claws, picturing myself catching Tomašis by the neck and jerking him from the tent. Immediately, my hand throbbed with mystical heat—the spell had caught quickly.

  Tomašis bolted upright like I’d nailed a stick to his spine. He squawked as he stumbled from the tent, falling to his knees before me and gasping for air. Florica cried out behind him, but I kept my concentration fixed on her thrashing son. Tomašis’s fingers clawed at his neck to try to peel away my grip.

  “I need a nose to finish the ritual, Tomašis. You have two choices: stop Silas for me, or donate yours in his place. I know which option I prefer. It should be the one you prefer, too.” Tomašis’s face washed red as I choked the air from him, but he still managed a frantic nod. I dropped my arm and let the magic wither, giving him a moment to collect himself.

  He coughed and staggered to his feet, swaying back and forth. When he looked at me, hatred made his ugly features uglier, but how he felt didn’t matter to me. I needed him; he was mine—our relationship did not need to be friendly, just efficient.

  “How?” was all he asked. “Where is he?”

  “Heading toward Anwen’s Crossing. I don’t want you to kill him. Find a way to hold him until I can get there.”

  I looked at the clutter surrounding Florica’s tent, hoping to find something Tomašis could use as a makeshift weapon. There was a pair of buckets for laundry, a broken vardo wheel, and a small pile of lumber stacked beside a half-crafted wheelbarrow. Leaning against the pile of lumber was a board about two feet long with a nasty spray of nails sticking out from the tip. I picked it up, hoisting it in my palm to feel the weight. It was heavy, but not cripplingly so, and I offered it to Tomašis nail-side first. He eyed it and then me before taking it in hand, his expression glum.

  “Fine. I need boots.”

  “Hurry up. He’s leaving now. And when you have him, figure out a way to restrain him. You’re quite good at that, as I recall.”

  His face twitched at the reminder of the part he’d played in my attack. “Where am I bringing him?”

  I considered the question for a moment. Too near camp and Silas could call on his father’s support. Too far away, and he’d attract people going in and out of Anwen’s Crossing. The last thing I needed was to have to fend off well-intentioned gadjos for the privilege of harvesting the boy who assaulted me.

  “Take him back to the scarecrow’s posts. You remember where that is, right? Where you dragged me and Martyn to be attacked and crucified?”

  Tomašis averted his eyes, a flush creeping over his cheeks. “Fine.”

  “There’s no room for failure, Tomašis. Have him there or—”

  “I’ll get him there.” That was the last he said of it, pulling on his boots and loping toward camp, the board clutched in his fist. I wanted to follow so I could supervise, to ensure that he went after Silas as pr
omised, but I needed to get back to Gran.

  Florica prayed behind me. I couldn’t be sure if it was for her son’s soul or mine.

  I turned on my heel to hurry home, hoping Gran had completed the wax doll so I could finish my bloody ordeal. Growing up, I’d dreamed of following in Gran’s footsteps—I thought the worst I’d do was treat sick children, deliver babies, or curse someone who behaved poorly. The things Gran had taught me over the last few days proved how ignorant I’d been. I’d maimed and dissected in the name of my craft. I was bloodied to the point I barely recognized myself anymore.

  Perhaps seeing Martyn alive again would soothe my conscience. Perhaps his smile would remind me that the violence was retribution, and retribution facilitated the return of a life….

  I doubted it, though. I knew in my gut that I no longer wanted to succeed Gran. She’d said I had a talent for magic, and maybe that was true, but if the only way to nurture that talent was to leave a river of mothers’ tears in my wake, it wasn’t worth it.

  I ran all the way to the vardo, my breath coming in short pants, my cheeks burning with exertion. Gran sat at the table with her eyes closed. Her skin looked pale and more leathery than usual, and she swayed like she might collapse. I rushed to her side and knelt, reaching up to her brow to feel for fever. She started like I’d torn her from sleep.

  “Are you going to be all right?” I asked, turning her wrist to look at her injuries.

  She pulled away with a scowl. “I will be fine. I have to be, as the men are almost here with Mander and he must be doctored. I’m afraid you are on your own with Silas, Bethan.”

  “But your arm…”

  “If it still bleeds true when you have taken the last tithe, perhaps I will have you stitch me, but for now you must go.”

  “But, Gran, I think—”

  “I do not care what you think, annoying girl. Go now, before my sacrifice is for nothing.” She reached into the pocket of her apron to withdraw the new fetish. She’d sealed the form’s chest closed while I was gone, but the wax was translucent enough that I could see through it. There was a piece of my skirt bundled at the center, but Gran had bled on it so much that the gray fabric had turned a muddy brown. The twig skeleton was also much darker than it had been before I’d left, because she’d filled all the hollow space inside the doll with her blood.

  “Gran, you shouldn’t have. This is too much.”

  She tutted and lifted her good hand to cup my chin in her palm. Her skin was a little too cold, and her fingers trembled with strain. I’d never seen her so weak.

  It scared me, but looking into her face provided some comfort. The cold, calculating gleam in her eyes was as ferocious as ever. Her body quaked like the last autumn leaf on the branch, but I knew the strength inside her would sustain her through the trauma. Gran was simply too hard-willed to die on me yet.

  “Want it enough, Bethan,” was all she said to me, but I knew the weight behind her words. If I wanted it more than anything, Martyn would live again because I willed it.

  It was time.

  I ran all the way to the Woodards’ field, the knife in one hand, the blood-filled wax doll in the other. I’d rolled the cat figurine and leather gloves into the waistband of my skirt. Between Mander’s living dream and the mad race to catch Silas before he could escape, I’d run more that day than I had in years.

  By the time I reached the fence outside Thomson’s posts, I was breathing so heavily I almost didn’t hear the nearby voices. There was a groan, an angry grunt, and a roar from behind the wheat stalks. I scaled the top of the fence to investigate. The moment my feet touched Woodard land, my muscles furled, tension flowing through my body like a river.

  “Whoreson!” Silas’s voice echoed from the field.

  Hearing his voice in this place—the place where it had happened—made fear shred my insides. But I was determined to finish what I’d started.

  Silas is last. Silas is the hardest yet.

  I must persevere.

  I pressed on, passing Thomson’s deserted posts, tromping through bits of discarded, muddied hay. Wheat rose tall in every direction, but I pushed it aside, forcing it to bend before me.

  To my left, I heard the thud and rustle of a struggle. I raised my knife toward it, approaching slowly—I didn’t want to leap into anything sight unseen. I was not so naïve that I didn’t put it past Tomašis and Silas to hatch an elaborate scheme in my absence—they’d done it before. Tomašis was in my thrall, but the chieftain was indebted to Gran, and he’d betrayed her. It wasn’t so far-fetched to think Tomašis would turn on me as well, given the opportunity.

  I spotted the spatters of blood first—ruby speckles shining on the wheat like a gruesome trail of breadcrumbs for me to follow. The ground around me was littered with snapped stalks. If it was a setup, it was an elaborate one, and I sincerely doubted either of them could come up with something so clever.

  I’d never attributed Silas or Tomašis with much in the way of brains.

  I followed the carnage another twenty feet to discover Silas’s brown sack abandoned on the ground, his sundries tossed about like rubbish. Tomašis’s board was there, too, the nails at the end smeared with blood. The wood was also splattered, so I had to assume Tomašis had managed to hit Silas.

  I heard heavy breathing and pushed a cluster of stalks aside, peeking through to see Silas sitting astride Tomašis and glaring down at him. Silas had gouges in his cheek like he’d been raked by a bear. His gray shirt had a plate-sized circle of blood near his shoulder, the tears in the fabric showing the ravaged spot on his upper back where he’d been struck.

  Tomašis had wounds of his own. There was a long gouge across his cheek, bisecting the one I’d made to mark his face. A flap of skin dangled from his jawline like he’d been peeled below his ear. He was sticky and red from neck to arms, his suspenders torn off, and a slash in his shirt revealed a series of nasty cuts across his ribs and stomach. The eye patch was gone, too, exposing the angry, swollen gap where his eye used to be.

  The two of them wrestled for the dominating stance. Tomašis’s hands wrapped around Silas’s wrists, the muscles of his arms straining as he squeezed. It took seeing Silas’s pocketknife flashing in the sunlight for me to piece the scene together. Tomašis had struck Silas with the board, and Silas had whirled on him with the knife. Tomašis should have had the upper hand, but somehow Silas managed to turn it around on him. Silas wasn’t as strong, but he was fast and wily.

  “I’ll take your other eye for this. You serve a woman now? Is that it?” Silas shouted, lunging down at the boy beneath him. Tomašis groaned and shoved back, but Silas had the advantage—his knee was wedged between Tomašis’s legs, pressing hard. The pain of it had turned Tomašis’s face purple. Sweat beaded on his temple, and his lips pursed together so tightly that they looked like pasty white worms above his chin.

  Silas was so consumed with toppling his opponent that he didn’t see me standing there with my wax doll. I fumbled with the knife, putting it in my waistband so I could retrieve the cat fetish. Gran hadn’t told me how the doll worked, but I was learning. I needed to call my magic first, to make will into reality, and so I pressed the cat to the wax, imploring both to lend me their power. I pictured Silas’s face on the little molded head, and imagined myself controlling his body using the doll.

  I expected my hands to go hot as they had with every other spell, but that time there was nothing. It wasn’t working. Gran had bled for it and it wasn’t working.

  I peered down at the artifacts in desperation. I wanted sovereignty over Silas—Gran’s one instruction had been to “want it enough,” and I certainly wanted him to suffer for hurting me. I shook my hands as if I could force the familiar burn to come, but there was no trace of the heat I associated with calling power.

  My flailing attracted attention. Both boys jerked their gazes to me. Tomašis looked relieved to see me, but Silas was furious. He rolled off Tomašis with another one of his doglike snarls, his
lip curling up to reveal his teeth. He jerked the switchblade out to his side as he advanced on me. I nearly tripped over my own feet to get away from him, still trying to keep my eyes fixed on the doll in my hands.

  Work! Work!

  Had Gran forgotten something important? I shook it and pictured Silas’s face on it again, but it remained dormant, unwilling to bequeath to me its gifts.

  Silas stalked my way. He swooped down to grab Tomašis’s bloody nail board as he passed it, swinging it back and forth threateningly. I gave the doll another squeeze, but it slept.

  Why, why? I asked it, but there was no glimmer of magic.

  Silas was too near for comfort, and without my tricks, I wasn’t strong enough to fight him off. Physically, I was no match. Before he got close enough to strike me, I fled into the field, my heart slamming against my ribs. This time, the wheat snagged the hem of my skirt like clutching fingers, and some of the tallest stalks were so strong on their roots that they snapped back at me when I pushed against them.

  This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. I wasn’t supposed to be at Silas’s mercy again. Tomašis was supposed to have him ready and waiting for me. The magic was supposed to grant me an easy harvest. The only thing that had gone right was that Tomašis had managed to get Silas into the field in the first place. The rest was disastrous.

  “Bethan! Come back here. Perhaps we can work something out. Bethan, my love!” He singsonged the endearment, so close by.

  I hated that he managed to sound like he wanted to kill me and kiss me at the same time. It made my skin crawl, and I swallowed a sob. Focusing only on getting away from Silas, I hadn’t kept track of my path. I plunged past one row of wheat only to stumble into another, and now I was lost in a maze, unsure which direction was which. I spun around, my head cocked as I listened for the sound of Silas’s footsteps and the rustling of crops to indicate his position, but the wheat formed walls that hid him from my sight.

  The wind let out a scream, making the plants around me quiver, and I wanted to hush it. I couldn’t hear Silas coming with the rustling, and he’d stopped calling my name. Not knowing his location unnerved me. I pulled the knife from my waistband and tried to sneak along one of the alleys, but each of my steps was echoed by a faint crackling as fallen leaves snapped beneath. The summer was over, the cold had come, and that meant growing things were dying. There was no place I could go where I wouldn’t make some kind of noise.