The Hollow Girl

by Hillary Monahan

  I looked from her to the huge swaddled form on my mattress. I had no idea how to feel about her proclamation. I had no idea how it changed me, or him, or what would truly happen, so I shoved it off, retrieving my things and a fresh linen for my arm and bustling to the river.

  “One day.”

  “One day.”

  “One day.”

  As far downstream as I dared, near a large tree at the river bend, I stripped to my shift. I waded hip deep into the frigid running water. I scrubbed hard, rinsing my hair a half dozen times to ensure no dirt remained, and I felt the blood and sweat washing away with the current. I was freezing when I climbed to the banks, the long locks of my hair dripping icy water over my shoulders, but it was worth the modicum of comfort it gave me. I dressed in the last of my unbloodied clothes, covered my hair with a scarf, and bundled the ruined garments for the fire. My arm looked surprisingly good considering the violence of Silas’s stabbing, and I wound the bandage tight, thinking Gran might not need to take a needle to it after all.

  I walked back to camp, my fingers working through the mess of my hair to loosen the snags and tangles. As soon as I neared our vardo, I smelled a strange odor, and I knew Gran had reduced Silas’s nose to ash while I was gone. I walked inside right as she was using a wooden spoon to scoop chalky-looking dust from the bottom of the pot, collecting the five boys’ burned offerings into a single jar.

  Gran nodded at the blighted wardrobe and bandages and then pointed toward a wooden bucket.

  “Burn all of it. Bucket, too. Then wash your hands.”

  I practically ran to the great fire so I could cast it all away. My eyes were as hungry as the flames devouring the clothes that had seen so much unpleasantness. The bucket would linger in the depths, but the fabric was consumed within minutes, and that, as much as the river, made me feel better.

  I turned to go home, expecting the people around me to meet me with the same fear and distrust I’d seen earlier, but one of the women—an elder matron named Eldra—approached me, her hand reaching for my elbow.

  “I am sorry,” she said quietly, “for what happened to you. It sometimes takes a woman to know that particular suffering. Sit, sit.”

  She gestured to one of the benches where our meals were taken, and a moment later, I felt a comb streaking through my long hair. I spared a glance at the other women doing the cooking for breakfast. Most eyed us suspiciously, but because Eldra had dared to offer me kindness despite my deeds, one of the younger wives, Sophia, smiled my way, too.

  It would not be easy, but perhaps it wouldn’t always be terrible, either.

  Eldra wrung the excess water from my hair and adjusted my shawl around my shoulders. “There. You can fashion it at home. Give my regards to the drabarni.”

  “I will, thank you.”

  I hustled home, the cold air brutal on my wet head. It was better in the vardo, but because of our drafty door, I added a second shawl to the first. I went to the basin to wash my hands as Gran fussed with supplies she’d laid out on a mat on the table.

  “Did you bring the wax fetish home with you?” she asked.

  I nodded and pointed at the things I’d left on the bureau. Gran rooted through the small pile to retrieve the doll, clearly not caring that the blood smearing it might transfer to her hands.

  She twisted the head from its shoulders and turned it upside down to pour the contained blood into the ash. “We will reuse what we have already given,” she said. Gran shook the jar to mix it, and a revolting sludge formed inside. The tarlike consistency reminded me of spring moors.

  “Bring the mirror and your focus here,” she said, hobbling to Martyn’s side. Her joints creaked as she lowered herself to the floor.

  I held them in the bell of my skirt so I could sit beside her. As soon as she rolled the blanket away from Martyn’s bruised and broken face, my pulse pounded in my ears.

  He’s for me?

  He’s mine?

  I just…

  Gran tapped his waxy forehead with one of her talons. Satisfied with whatever she was looking for, she selected a small paintbrush from her supplies and dipped it into the ash jar to paint his forehead and cheeks with words I couldn’t read.

  It took her an hour to prepare the words. Martyn had letters over his eyes, and a letter each on his nose and mouth. There were some painted on his scalp, and others on his chest over his heart. The work was painstaking and detailed, and Gran was squinting by the time she put the finishing flourishes on him.

  “I had thought one day that I would teach you all I knew,” she said after a time. “This language is an old one, dead before my mother’s mother and her mother’s mother before her, but there is power to it still. But that is no longer your path, is it, Bethan?”

  I hadn’t expected her to broach the subject with me, especially not with Martyn on the floor ready for his ritual, but if this was when she wanted to discuss it, so be it.

  “No, but I’d like to learn to read—Welsh first, and then maybe English.”

  Gran capped the ash jar and pushed it aside. “I think that is a good idea. Some of our people claim our language loses power when it is trapped upon the page, but I am not so convinced. Reading has proven useful to me as a healer over the years.”

  My eyes cascaded over Martyn’s face, and I thought of his offer to teach me to read. Perhaps, after some time, when I was more comfortable with being in a man’s presence, I could ask him to help me.

  “You will heal. He will help you,” Gran said quietly, likely reading my thoughts.

  I nodded and sighed, my head dipping low. “I will. I’m sorry that I don’t want to do magic. I’m not as strong as you.”

  “I disagree,” she said forcefully. “Strength comes in many guises, Bethan. Knowing yourself, your limitations—knowing what you will and will not do, following your heart—that is strength. Enduring what you endured and still being merciful and hopeful? Also strength. I will teach you what you would like to know of herbcraft. You can still be drabarni if you choose, without magic or just without dark magic, but your happiness will be elsewhere, I think. Clarity will come with time.” She took my hand in her own, and I felt the coin she used as her focus pressed between us. She gave my fingers a squeeze, and I lifted my chin to look at her. “I am proud of you no matter your choices. All I would ask is that you weigh your happiness and the happiness of those you love before embarking on any path. Think not only of yourself, but of them, too. It was my failing long ago. Learn from my mistakes.”

  Her acceptance was a mercy. For years, I’d nagged her to teach me her trade. Only three days into my lessons, I was telling her I couldn’t handle it, but instead of casting me out, she treated me with respect. It made my chest go tight and my eyes sting.

  Gran tsked at me and gave my fingers another squeeze, much harder than the last time. Sometimes, when she wanted to make a point, her hands felt like hawks’ claws. “You don’t have to be a witch. But daughters of witches do not weep over foolish things. I will not have a soggy girl in my company. Now. Help me summon the young man. Put the mirror over his face, glass side down, so his breath can slide back in.”

  It was just like Gran to ruin a soft moment with scathing criticism, but I smiled in spite of it.

  Balancing the mirror against Martyn’s forehead and nose, I tapped my fingers along the frame to make sure it wouldn’t fall. When it was as secure as it could get, I put the cat fetish in my palm and locked my hand to Gran’s. She dipped her head and murmured spell words to herself. She didn’t have to tell me what she wanted of me; after three days of intense ritual and spellcraft, I knew what I had to do to help Martyn—I had to want him back.

  No, I had to want him back enough.

  The slow burn of magic danced across my fingertips as I thought about Martyn behind his vegetable counter smoking, joking, and flirting. I thought about how he had stood up for me against Garth and Silas and the others. I thought about his drawings and how he’d taken the time to make
me a sign for my table. I thought about the shade of his blue, blue eyes, and the richness of his laughter.

  Come back to me.

  Please, come back.

  A warm, intense wind careened through the vardo. I opened my eyes to welcome the magic Gran and I had created. White light flickered around our joined fingers, escaping through the gaps to make starbursts on the wall. The words written on Martyn twinkled like stars before sinking into his skin and disappearing, illuminating his body from the inside.

  Gran pulled our joined hands to the back of the mirror and pressed down. “Live. Live, boy,” she commanded. Our power flooded the mirror, swirling from the frame to the front of the glass, honey-colored sparkles raining down on Martyn’s face. It was not the cold, sludgy last breath I’d pulled from him on the poles, but an inviting sliver of sunlight that cast him in gold.

  Gran dropped my hand so she could lift the glass from Martyn’s face. The differences between what he’d looked like minutes ago and what he looked like now were breathtaking. The ashen quality to his skin was gone, and the bumps and bruises he’d suffered during the beating had all but disappeared. Martyn Woodard had returned to himself. Gran hovered her fingers over his mouth to feel for breath.

  “Breathe, diddicoy,” she barked, her brow wrinkled in consternation.

  I licked my lips. “Is he…What’s…”

  “Be still,” she said, moving in close to stare in Martyn’s face. Her hair dropped down to form a stringy gray veil around his cheeks, and she touched the tip of her nose to his. Her fingertips dug into the sides of his jaw as she tilted his head back and forth to better gauge his progress. Unfortunately, that was precisely the moment Martyn decided to wake from his three-day sojourn. His eyes flew open, and as soon as he found himself face to face with a white-eyed, grizzled old hag, he screamed at the top of his lungs and bucked up from my bed.

  It was not how I’d envisioned our reunion. Martyn hollered into Gran’s face, Gran hollered back, and I bellowed at the top of my lungs in an effort to silence them both.

  “Martyn, stop. Martyn…it’s fine. I’m here. It’s Bet.” He jerked his panicked eyes my way, and I reached for his tattered sleeve, giving it a hard pull. “Stop. I’m here. It’s fine. Please.”

  His shouts diminished to mewls, and he slammed his eyes closed to take a long, deep breath. Gran muttered an unladylike oath and held her hands out to me for help. I braced under her elbows and lifted her to her feet.

  “If this is the thanks I get for helping your diddicoy, Bethan, I am not sure I will leap to do it again.” She reached for her cane, her hands clenching the top knob as she loomed over Martyn. “Silly boy.”

  “I’m sorry.” Martyn’s voice was raspy from disuse, and he turned his head away from us to cough. “I’m sorry. Where am I? Bet, hello. Hi.”

  “In my house. My vardo,” I explained.

  He nodded and forced a smile, his hands going to either side of his body so he could sit up. It took him a minute to get his bearings, but after a few good head tosses and a rub of his eyes, he looked steadier. Calmer.

  “Who’s she?” he asked, nodding at Gran. The motion seemed to upset his equilibrium; his hands swept up to his temples and he wobbled back and forth like he might fall back onto the mattress. “Feel like I got kicked in the head by a horse. What happened?”

  I was about to answer, about to explain everything, but Gran stopped me with a poke to my side. I craned my neck to peer at her, and she shook her head, letting me know without words that I ought to hold my tongue. I didn’t like the idea of lying by omission, but I could see the merit in keeping my peace. Maybe one day, when I was sure he wouldn’t forswear me for the foul things I’d done, I could share the whole of it.

  Not yet, though.

  “Silas and his boys beat you,” I said. “We brought you here from the field to treat you. Gran…” My voice trailed off as Martyn pushed himself to stand, ducking his head so he wouldn’t smack it against the ceiling beams. He reached for the thickest beam at the center and used it to right himself as he tested his legs. When I was sure he wouldn’t tumble over, I continued. “This woman is my mother, but I call her Gran. She saved you.”

  “Oh. Oh, no. I was rude to yell. I’m so sorry.” He turned to Gran and lowered his eyes, offering her a respectful bow of his head. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I didn’t mean to be so thankless. You startled me, is all. You’re so…so…”

  “Ugly,” Gran said, finishing the sentence for him.

  “No! That’s not what I meant!” Martyn’s eyes darted my way, and he looked horribly embarrassed, but Gran snickered and jabbed at his foot with her cane.

  “I am an ancient, diddicoy. But there are certain privileges that come with age. One is that we can be ugly and everyone else must suffer it.”

  She turned on her heel toward the vardo door, then thrust it open to let in the cold air. Her hand braced against the frame as she took the first step down, going slow to ensure she didn’t misstep. Before I could rush over to help her, Martyn was there, lending her an arm and getting her steadily to the ground.

  Gran patted him like he was a puppy who’d pleased her. “Good boy,” she said, adding salt to the wound. I winced, hoping Martyn didn’t take exception to the condescension.

  “Where are you going? Do you need help?” I ran after her, but her snort stopped me in my tracks.

  “I have unfinished business with Wen, and I thought you might wish to walk the yellow-haired man home before the screaming begins. You may begin your reading lessons with him whenever you are so inclined, so long as they are done here—with my supervision, during daylight hours.” The fanged grin she flashed over her shoulder was more for Martyn’s benefit than mine. He smiled back, likely assuming she was jesting about the screaming, but I knew better. The chieftain had broken her trust, and for it he would suffer. There was no mercy for those who betrayed her, not even for grieving fathers.

  I watched Gran amble toward the great fire, ready to bolt after her at the slightest sign that she needed me, but she turned the corner with no issue.

  I ducked back inside to retrieve my comb, ripping it through my hair to rid myself of any remaining snarls. Martyn watched, saying nothing, but as soon as I reached for the first hairpin, he gasped. He knew what it meant. The tradition of virgin girls being the only ones allowed to wear their hair down must have carried over to his family, too.

  “How badly did he hurt you?” he croaked.

  “Badly.” I wanted to act like I was all right, like I was strong and resilient and nothing Silas did to me in that field could break my spirit, but the truth was, I was fragile. Martyn had proved himself a good man, and yet a part of me was too keenly aware of his presence. I noted how he looked at me, how close he was to me, where he was in relation to the door. His maleness made me view him as a threat when I knew, logically, that he deserved so much better.

  I must have worn my consternation, because he retreated to put the vardo wall to his back, providing ample distance between us. The action suggested that he understood—that he cared.

  “He will be yours one day,” Gran had said.

  Maybe.

  “Thank you,” I said quietly.

  “No. No, I’m sorry. I wish I could have stopped it for your sake. If he comes near you again…”

  “Don’t, Martyn.” The bite in my voice was softened by the strained smile on my face. He couldn’t know, but unless he was interested in wrestling a ghost, there was nothing for him to defend me against anymore. “There was nothing you could do. He likely ruined me for a good marriage, but I’ll be quite content helping Gran with her herbs for the rest of her years.”

  Martyn tossed his head, reminding me of an angry horse pulling against its reins. “Any man who wouldn’t have you because of that is an idiot. It’s not your fault, and damn him for hurting you.”

  “Oh, he is damned. Of that I have no doubt.”

  I finished putting up my hair, pinning the last fat lock into p
lace near my crown. I reached for yet another fresh scarf to put over my hair, adjusting it before stepping outside. It was midday, with plenty of sunlight left, and though the wind held winter’s nasty nip, the sky was blue and clear.

  Together we circled the fence of Cotter’s Field to find the road. Martyn fell into step beside me, keeping a respectful distance so I wouldn’t know unnecessary fear. His hands explored the rips and bloodstains marring his clothes in wonderment. His shirt was so tattered that it was in danger of falling off his body, and the hooks had left gouges along the inner thighs of his pants. I wished I’d had some kind of clothing to offer him, but he was large like his father, and many of our men were short and slight. Many of us also didn’t have clothing to spare, even for a good cause.

  “How long have I been here? It must have been bad if I look like this. Is this blood?” he asked.

  “Three days.”

  I stopped in the middle of the road to peer at him, my eyes traveling over his face. He paused with me, his brows lifted as he waited for me to speak. It took me a moment to collect my thoughts. I didn’t want to admit that we’d lied to Mr. Woodard, but I hoped that, given the circumstances, Martyn would understand.

  “My people were responsible for your injuries, and Gran was the only one who could save your life in the aftermath. She knows healing. We took you to our home, but we knew your father would be looking for you, so our chieftain told him you and I had run away to get married. He said it to buy us a few days, but I assume your father has been looking for you since. He knew we’d had trouble in Anwen’s Crossing. You can tell him whatever you’d like now, but I thought you should know what was said.”

  Martyn reached for my unbandaged wrist, but stopped himself from making actual contact. He swept his fingers through the sides of his hair instead, taming only a few of the wheat-colored locks. “There’s a problem,” he said quietly.