by Kim Wilkins
She glanced at the dancers, who were whirling and stomping around each other to the music. “I don’t know the steps,” she said.
“We’ve all had our winter blessings,” the man replied. “I can enchant your feet.”
“Enchant my . . . ?” Christine turned to Eisengrimm. “Is that safe?”
“Perfectly,” he said. “Go on, Christine. Dance. It’s not difficult.”
The man was holding out his hand for her to take. She drew a deep breath and grabbed his fingers, and he pulled her onto the crowded dance floor.
“I’m having the first dance with Starlight,” he announced, though his voice was nearly drowned out by the music.
“I want to dance with Starlight too,” somebody else called.
“Me too!”
“Well, I’m first!” The man bent to the ground and touched Christine’s feet. “These are strange shoes,” he said.
Christine looked down at her shiny patent leather Mary-Janes. “Um, they’re Real World shoes.”
“Real World shoes,” he repeated, awestruck.
Then a warm tingle suffused her feet and they started moving without her. She almost shrieked, the feeling was so strange and frightening. She was no longer in control of her own feet, and resisting the movements put her off balance.
Her dance partner stood and steadied her. “You must surrender to your feet,” he said. “Otherwise you’ll fall over.”
Christine tried to do as he said, and found it wasn’t so hard. It reminded her of when she was a little girl and her father had danced with her toes balanced on his. The memory was achingly sweet and she tried to enjoy it in the split second before the other, less pleasant memories of her father came. But then, her feet started moving, and there was nothing to think about except the dance.
Soon she was whirling and stomping and kicking up her toes with the rest of them. The first time her feet took her spinning expertly to the edge of the dance floor and back she nearly doubled over laughing. Her dance partner was laughing too, and some of the others around her. The music changed to a more stately tune, and another man was bending to touch her feet, and she was performing a slow, measured dance with him. On and on the music went, now slow, now fast, now soft, now loud, and everybody wanted “to dance with Starlight”: old men, tall boys, fat women, toothless twins in hats made of thatch. Her feet were enchanted over and over again, and she laughed and surrendered to the dance, grabbing frantic sips of mead whenever someone handed her a cup. The experience was marvelously physical. She couldn’t have put her body through this for even five minutes in the Real World without her back moaning. Her very blood seemed hot and merry, and she suffered a moment’s guilt thinking of Jude back home waiting and worrying about her. She pushed the feeling aside and danced, and danced, and danced as the last of the amber sunset faded through the little diamond panes and lamps and lanterns were lit all around. Finally, though, she was exhausted. She saw Eisengrimm waiting at the edge of the dance floor and approached him.
“Could you unenchant my feet?” she asked, as they were already tapping to the music.
“Your feet haven’t been enchanted since the third dance,” he said. “They’re all having a joke on you.”
Christine realized she could stop her feet tapping if she willed it. “Oh,” she said, laughing. “You mean I’ve been dancing for real?”
“I told you it wasn’t difficult.”
Her first dance partner approached to thank her, and handed her a cup of wine before disappearing back into the crowd. The wine . . . that was why her head was starting to spin. A warm, cheerful feeling. The door to the tavern burst open and a little girl called out, “The bonfire is lit! The bonfire is lit!”
With these words, the crowd began to surge toward the door.
“What’s happening?” she asked Eisengrimm.
“The winter bonfire. It’s a custom. They all sing thanks for the harvest and ask for grace in the winter. Come, bring your wine. We’ll find a good place to sit.”
Eisengrimm led her through the crowd to the road outside. The huge bonfire had roared into life, at least six feet high with the flames peaking above it. The evening had descended, that brief window of almost darkness before the pale sun rose once again. At a safe distance around the bonfire, rugs and mats had been laid. A shiny-faced woman, whom Christine thought she might have danced with, beckoned her over.
“Here,” she said, “you and the counselor may share my mat.”
“Thank you,” Eisengrimm said, sitting down and resting his head on his paws.
Christine joined him. The dancing light of the fire, the noisy crowd, the taste of the warm alcohol; she closed her eyes for a moment and that sense of peace she had felt standing at the chamber window returned.
A hush fell over the crowd. Christine looked around. A beautiful pale-haired young woman in a white dress had taken up a position in front of the fire.
Eisengrimm leaned close. “That’s Klarlied, Hexebart’s daughter.”
“Hexebart’s daughter?” Christine whispered.
“When her mother dies, she’ll be our new witch.”
“She’s so beautiful.”
Then Klarlied opened her mouth and began to sing. Her voice was pure and bell-like, and she sang of winter and snow and ice. When she had finished, everyone applauded and she commenced another song, but this time, after the first line, people all around began to join in.
“This is the biggest campfire sing-along I’ve ever been to,” Christine laughed.
“Faery folk love music,” Eisengrimm said. “You can join in if you like.”
“I don’t know the words,” she replied. “Besides, I sing worse than I dance.” She lay back on the mat and gazed at the sky. Scattered across the dark velvety blue were a few pale stars. The fire crackled and popped, ashes and sparks rising up into the twilight air.
Eisengrimm turned and lay down next to her, his nose close to her ear.
“Eisengrimm, can you see many more stars here when it’s night?”
“Of course. On a clear night in winter you can see millions.”
“Are they the same stars I see back in the Real World?”
“I don’t know,” Eisengrimm said. “Do you recognize any?”
“It’s hard to tell. They’re so pale.”
“They have been washed out by the proximity of the sun; dawn is about to break. When the sun is far away, starlight has its own brilliance.”
She turned on her side to face him. “Tell me about winter,” she said. “Is it dark the whole time?”
“Most of the time. The nights are very long and the days gray and hazy.”
“Does everyone get depressed?”
“No, people stay inside and tell stories and make music and warm themselves next to fires.” He paused a moment before saying, “Though Mayfridh sometimes becomes melancholy.”
“Really?”
“When the snow comes, she can’t go wandering in the forest.” Flickering shadows from the firelight moved over him. “But spring is never far away. Winter isn’t long or brutal.”
A new song had started, sweet and sad. “Eisengrimm,” she said, “what does it feel like to lose your memory?”
“We don’t lose all our memories. Only memories gathered in the Real World.”
“I know, but what does it feel like to lose them? And what does it feel like to move to the Winter Castle?”
Eisengrimm pondered for a minute, then said, “It isn’t a perfectly pleasant feeling, and most people suffer at least a little anxiety in the days leading up to the move. We usually know when it’s going to happen because we have someone watching the birch, but we don’t make it happen. We have to surrender ourselves to the season.”
“And when the leaf falls?”
He closed his eyes, trying to articulate the details. “It’s like being pulled downwards, somewhere dark, a loose spiral. The sensation of having nothing beneath your feet. Your thoughts seem like sounds . . . I can’t explain it bett
er than that. It’s as though the words in your head echo around you, and some thoughts—memories of the Real World—echo off into the distance and disappear. You have a sense of losing something, but not being able to comprehend what it is you’ve lost. That feeling can make people anxious, but it lasts only a few moments. Then, an eye blink of complete darkness—no light, no sound, no thoughts—followed by a shock of arrival. The new season rushes upon you, all bright and noisy. It takes a moment to readjust, and you realize it’s not bright or noisy, just a normal winter’s day and you’re in the Winter Castle.”
“I still can’t comprehend it.”
“You’d have to experience it to comprehend it.”
“What happens to those memories, though? Will Mayfridh know she’s forgotten something?”
Eisengrimm opened his eyes. They glowed yellow in the firelight. “Oh, she’ll have a faint sense of it. It will not be pressing, and within a week or so it will be gone.”
“And if she finds an object she’s brought back with her from the Real World?”
“It will seem as though she’s always owned it.”
“What if I left her a letter, reminding her of things?”
“She would not have any sense of recognition. She may read it and wonder how long she had owned it, perhaps amuse herself imagining what she might have done. But you, the deep essence of you, will be gone from her memory. There’s a small chance she’d remember you if our world aligned with where you are again.”
“Is there any chance of that?”
“There’s no predicting it, Christine. It could happen in five years or fifty years or not at all.”
Christine settled into silence. Sadness threaded through her sense of peace. She would miss Mayfridh; Mayfridh wouldn’t miss her.
“Don’t be sad,” Eisengrimm said. “One mustn’t be sad when the world is what it is.”
“I’ll miss her. I’ll miss you. I’ll miss Ewigkreis and the magic and the adventure.”
“But you have so much else to look forward to. Life with Jude, children, friends.”
“Yeah,” she said. Her eyes were growing sore from the fire. “Yeah, I suppose you’re right.”
“You look tired. Would you like to return to the castle?”
“I should go home.”
“No, stay here with us tonight. You said you had never really slept without pain. Sleep here, sleep long and deeply.”
Christine considered: this might be her last chance to enjoy Ewigkreis. “All right,” she said, “I will.”
They left the bonfire—at least a dozen people called out, “Good night, Starlight”—and made their way back to the carriage. The sky was lit with pale dawn light, the sun poised behind the horizon, as the carriage rattled back up the slope. Christine felt herself lulled by its movement, dozing in short fits. Back at the castle, Eisengrimm led her to the white chamber, where she sank among the covers.
“Good night, Christine,” Eisengrimm said, settling on the bed next to her.
“Do you sleep here too?” she asked, opening her eyes.
“I always sleep next to the queen. But if you would prefer I didn’t . . .”
“No, no, I love it that you’re here.” She put her arm around Eisengrimm’s ribs. He was very warm. “Though I don’t know what Jude would think of me sleeping with another man,” she joked.
“I am a wolf,” Eisengrimm said, “with no man’s desires. You are safe.”
“I know,” she replied, too tired to worry if she had hurt his feelings. “I know.”
She felt herself drifting off. What bliss to sleep without pain.
“Close your eyes, Christine,” he said, drawing a deep breath and settling on his paws. “Sleep peacefully.”
And she did.
—from the Memoirs of Mandy Z.
This could be my last entry for some time. I have quite an adventure to set out upon.
My Bone Wife, ever unfinished, can dance. It’s true, although there’s only half of her. I was experimenting with her—lift, step, lift, step, fall—when I became so frustrated with her that I went up and put my hands on her hips and tried to guide her forward. As I stepped back, she stepped forward, matching the distance exactly. Intrigued, I took a step forward, and she stepped back. I stepped to the side, she likewise, and so on, until I had her waltzing unevenly for nearly two minutes. Then she clattered to the floor as she always does, and I had to repair her knee which had become chipped. I have never laughed so much in my life, but then I’m in a fine, merry mood today.
When I’ve finished her—and I know it won’t be long now—I have a new fantasy to fulfill. I always imagined that I would top the Bone Wife off with a face sculpted to look like my mother’s. But now, I’m imagining her quite differently.
Now I know I want Mayfridh’s head.
I will use her gleaming skull, and fill it with plaster and smooth over its surface and repaint her features lovingly. I will use her hair, her real hair. How it drives me mad, that hair, because its color is so bright I can almost see it. I shall dance with her every day.
For now, the Bone Wife has been moved upstairs to the boning room, under lock and key. I will be away for an uncertain amount of time, and I want her to be safe until I return.
You see, I saw Christine Starlight in the Tiergarten. I followed her there. I have been following her for days. I saw Mayfridh turn up at the store where she works, I saw Christine bid her friend farewell on Friedrichstrasse, and I saw her find a dark hollow where she thought she wasn’t seen. I saw her pull out a ball of golden twine and unravel it in front of her, and then I saw her disappear.
The twine is the passage.
I came back here to work and to write. I had thought I would simply go into Jude and Christine’s flat one evening when they are both out and steal the twine, but I’m too impatient. She hasn’t returned. I visited Jude Honeychurch—dazed and seedy—in his apartment this morning and he said Christine had gone away for a short while, but he expected her back very soon. I’m going to the Tiergarten to wait. I don’t care if I have to wait for hours. I don’t care if it rains on me (today is very overcast and cold). I’m going to faeryland. Who knows how long I’ll be there, with so many raw materials to gather?
Farewell. (I’m laughing as I write this.) I go to a better place.
Christine found she was clamping her jaw against the expected rush of embodiedness as she left Eisengrimm behind and wound out the twine in front of her.
“Good-bye, Christine,” he said, “I hope to see you again before winter.”
“I hope so too,” she said, picking up the thread.
She stepped into the pressure on her back, and traffic sounds and the smell of the city enveloped her. She gathered the twine, stood up straight and—
“Mandy?” Where had he appeared from? He stood in front of her, grinning. Her skin prickled.
“Christine,” he replied, as though there were nothing at all unusual about him standing in the Tiergarten two feet from a woman who had just appeared out of nowhere.
She moved to tuck the twine away in her coat, but he stopped her hand and forced it toward him. Her blood sizzled with fear. Was he going to rape her? Kill her? She fought to regain control of her arm.
“What are you doing?”
He turned his head away from her forearm as though disgusted. “Ugh, you smell just like one of them.”
“One of what? What are you doing?” She struggled with him but he overpowered her, wrenched the twine from her fingers and rolled it in front of him.
“No! No, Mandy, don’t,” she cried, frantic now. “You don’t know what you’re—”
One moment he was there. The next, he was gone.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Christine slammed into the apartment and dropped her keys with a clunk on the table. “Where’s Mayfridh?” she asked Jude.
“What? Why?” He rose from his seat with a nervous jerk of his shoulders.
“I need to find her. Is she with G
erda?” Christine was halfway back to the door.
“I think she’s at her mother’s. Why? What’s wrong?”
Christine ignored him, picked up the phone, and started scrabbling through the mess of papers in the bookcase drawer. Diana’s number was in there somewhere.
“What’s wrong, Christine?” Jude asked again, his hand on the small of her back. “Did something happen in faeryland? Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” she said, her fingers closing over the phone number, “but Mandy’s not.”
“Mandy?”
“As I came back through the passage, he was there waiting for me. He stole the twine and now he’s gone through.”
“To faeryland?”
“Yes, to faeryland.” She dialed the number. “I have no idea what he intends, or if he knows what he’s doing. But I have to tell Mayfridh.” At the other end the phone rang once, twice.
“What the hell was he thinking?” Jude asked. “He didn’t know about Mayfridh, did he?”
“No, last time we spoke he still called her Miranda. Hang on.”
Diana picked up the phone. “Hello?”
“Hi, Diana. It’s Christine Starlight. I need to speak to May urgently.”
“Of course. May!”
Christine waited, tapping her foot. By now Mandy would have found the autumn forest. Would Eisengrimm still be there? What would Mandy do? She wished she could trust him, but he had always seemed so very sinister to her.
“Hello?” Mayfridh’s voice.
“Mayfridh, something terrible has happened. Mandy stole my magic twine and he’s gone to Ewigkreis.”
“What?” It was almost a shriek.
“I don’t know what he intends, I don’t know if he knew about the passage—”
“He couldn’t have, could he? None of us told him.”
“But it was an open secret among us. Maybe he overheard something. Maybe Gerda said something, I don’t know. She can be such a gossip. I’m worried, Mayfridh. He’s had that weird crush on you—”
“And he doesn’t know I’m here. He’s gone looking for me.”
