by Kim Wilkins
Sig saw him, his face registering horror. He reached for the cake knife; there was a struggle, a cry, and a great deal of blood. Oma saw none of it. Suffocating her with the sack directly after was very humane, Mandy thought, as he hurried down to the river with his sack full of warm faery. It would save her the shock of coming inside and finding her great-grandson’s hand left neatly on the cutting board.
Twenty years of nightmares all in one night. Oh! Oh! Hexebart didn’t sleep well at all!
Now the morning is here and Hexebart feels a little better. Hexebart can’t quite get used to being inside and warm and comfortable. Every surface is soft and she could sleep and sleep. She won’t, because of the nightmares. She tastes Immanuel’s food and likes it, then sits down on the hard floor and listens the house some more. Hexebart can hear Jude and Christine talking, has to make a quick spell to understand the language. Then Hexebart can hear a woman in another apartment, talking to nobody. No, she’s talking on a telephone. But Hexebart can’t hear anything else and the warm is making her sleepy again. Hexebart suddenly longs for the outside, for the cool air and the fresh ground.
Careful now, quiet now. Don’t let anyone know who’s here. In the Real World it’s not allowed for old ladies to go into people’s houses and eat their food and sleep on their soft things. One step, two. Creeping past all the doors and out into the street. Hexebart spies trees and grass and birds, and heads in that direction. Here’s a place to sit and take big breaths of morning. In . . . out . . . in . . . out . . . But the Real World smell is on everything and suddenly Hexebart feels homesick.
Silly old woman. Hexebart bites her own fingers to scold herself. The Real World is full of fun and promise, and Hexebart won’t be put off by a little homesickness. She watches people walking up and down the street. Some of them look at Hexebart and smile, but Hexebart darts her eyes away and hums an absent tune. Then the door to Immanuel’s house opens and a boy steps out, and Hexebart knows immediately that this is the boy Jude.
“Hoy!” she calls. He doesn’t turn around so she stands up and calls, “Hoy, hoy!”
The boy Jude turns and cocks his head like a bird.
“Hoy!” she calls again, beckoning him.
And he comes, just like that. Hexebart follows him closely with her eyes; Hexebart is clever enough sometimes to read people, but this boy is unreadable. This boy has many layers covering his secret self. Hexebart is glad she had the magic stuffs in the pea shell, or else she would never have found out his secret.
“Come here, boy,” she says, in his language.
“What’s the matter? Can I help you?” he says, and he is wary and he should be wary because Hexebart doesn’t like such pretty boys who hide secrets.
“I’m lost,” Hexebart lies, making her bottom lip tremble. “And I have no money and I am all alone in this place.”
Jude won’t stand too close and Hexebart can see he is holding his breath away. Ha! So he thinks Hexebart smells bad, does he! Well, Hexebart thinks that his whole world smells bad. Perhaps she should tell him that!
“Could you help me?” she asks.
He reaches into his pocket and fetches money. Hexebart grasps at it and tries to touch his hand but he pulls away quickly. “Here,” he says, “it’s all I have.”
Hexebart wishes she could tell if he’s lying. She suspects he is; she knows he’s a liar. Hexebart doesn’t like liars. Hexebart doesn’t like Jude.
He turns to go.
“Wait!” she says.
“What is it?” he says. He’s trying to be patient with Hexebart. He’s trying to be patient with the crazy hag.
“I am alone,” Hexebart tells him. “Are you alone?”
He pauses, and shakes his head. “No,” he says, “I’m not alone.”
She touches the very edge of his sleeve and he flinches but doesn’t pull away. “Do you love someone? Do you have a beloved?”
Now Jude smiles, he’s decided that the crazy hag is harmless, perhaps even amusing. “Yes, I do.”
“And what is your beloved’s name?”
“Christine.”
“And does Christine know?”
“Know what?”
Hexebart’s fingers move to his warm wrist. “You know what I mean,” she says.
“Yes, Christine knows I love her,” Jude says. Hexebart is so amused by his stupidity that she laughs loudly and suddenly Jude is not so sure and is trying to pull away.
“I meant,” Hexebart hisses, “does Christine know you killed her mother and father?”
Jude twists and wrenches and jumps back and he is simply horrified. Hexebart doubles over with mirth. “Hee, hee,” she says, “I’ve got your secret.”
“Who are you?” he cries.
But she turns and scurries away from him, into the trees. He tries to follow her, but she uses a little glamour to make herself blend among the trees and he searches for her in vain before heading back to the street. Hexebart climbs onto a branch and sits there a while, thinking about Jude. Ha ha, that was fun. How many more friends does Mayfridh have here in the Real World that Hexebart can play tricks on?
Hexebart isn’t homesick now; not even a little bit.
The blackness gave way to a paler wash of gray, and consciousness rushed on Mayfridh with a gasp. She opened her eyes. More blackness. No—a little light seeped from somewhere. Firelight? Was she in her room? But the air felt dank and stagnant and her whole body ached and shuddered. She certainly wasn’t in her bed. Why did she feel so dazed and—
Mandy!
Mayfridh sat up, regretting it instantly. She put her hand to her throbbing head. She tried to focus; where was she? The darkness, the smell, the hard floor.
Of course. The dungeon.
She scrambled to her feet and grasped the door, shook it soundly and called out, “Help!”
“No, Mayfridh!” It was Eisengrimm’s voice, from nearby. “Don’t touch the door.”
She jumped back as though scalded. “Where are you? What’s happening?”
“Look through the bars. You’ll see.”
Mayfridh peered through the bars of the door and into the darkness. Opposite, she could see an amber glow like firelight.
“He’s run a rope from your door. Can you see?”
Mayfridh spotted it. A rope had been attached to the bottom of the door. It ran up to the ceiling where it slid over a rudimentary pulley made of an old cart wheel and some kitchen hooks, then back down through the window of the dungeon opposite. “Yes, I see it.”
“It’s rigged up to an iron cage and I’m inside. If you open your door, it will drop the cage. He has a drum of burning coals beneath me. I’d be roasted alive.”
Now she could make out the shape of Eisengrimm, as Crow, behind rows of bars. Behind him, his shadow moved eerily in the firelight. An overwhelming tide of dread and helplessness surged through her. “Oh, no,” she managed to gasp in the dark.
“So don’t shake the door. I don’t know how secure these knots are, and I don’t think Mandy much cares whether or not I die.”
“Eisengrimm, I’m so sorry. This is all my fault. I don’t know what’s wrong with him. I don’t know what he wants.”
“I do,” Eisengrimm said, and his voice sounded so serious that Mayfridh’s stomach flipped over. The horrible reality of the situation rushed upon her, and she slid to the floor, trying to catch her breath.
“Mayfridh? Are you all right?”
“I . . . my head hurts. He hit me.”
“I thought you were dead when he brought you in. When he spent all that time rigging up the cage I was almost glad. He wouldn’t bother securing your imprisonment so carefully if you were dead. I knew you’d wake eventually.”
“What does he want, Eisengrimm? What has he told you?”
Eisengrimm fought hard to keep impatience out of his voice. “Did you never suspect, Mayfridh? Did you overlook all clues to his true nature?”
“Eisengrimm, you’re frightening me. I thought the worst
Mandy was capable of was embarrassing me with a declaration of love.”
“Love, Mayfridh, is the last thing on his mind. He is full of hatred.”
“For me? What did I do?”
“Not just for you, for all of us. For faeries as a race. He’s a hunter of faeries, Mayfridh, and he collects their bones in the name of art.”
Her disbelief was electric. “What?”
“He’s a killer. I saw him murder Kat in the kitchen without even blinking.”
Kat. Which one was Kat? Her head was spinning and it was hard to focus on Eisengrimm’s words.
“For bones?” she said. “He murders faeries for their bones?”
“He murders faeries because he hates them. He bones them for his sculptures. He explained it all as he hung me above this fire.”
“Then why hasn’t he murdered me?”
“I don’t know,” Eisengrimm said quietly.
“Perhaps he won’t,” she said, fear boiling icy in her stomach. “Perhaps he is in love with me and—”
“It won’t be long before someone notices we’re missing and comes for us,” Eisengrimm said quickly. “You must be brave and you must be cool.”
Cool! Mayfridh would have laughed, only her throat was too constricted with terror. Her ears rang and her head throbbed, and a wall of gray descended on her.
“Mayfridh!”
Eisengrimm was calling. What was happening? She shook her head clear, realized she had lapsed into unconsciousness. “Yes, yes, I can hear you,” she said. “The blow to my head is still affecting me.”
“Are you bleeding?”
She touched the wound. Her hair was matted with dried blood. “No. I’m fine. Are you injured?”
“No, though this fire is very warm.”
“How did he capture you?”
“Mayfridh, he has the speed and reflexes of a beast. It’s uncanny and horrible to watch. He caught me in his bare hands in the forest and stuffed me in a sack. I didn’t know what he intended, and assumed he didn’t know who I was, so I lay very still to wait for a chance to fly away. If I’d had any idea what kind of man he was, I’d have transformed to Wolf and torn him to pieces immediately.”
“And now? You can’t change?”
“The cage is iron. It may crush me.”
Mayfridh felt keenly her body’s own vulnerability; so easily ruined, the life within so easily extinguished. Eisengrimm, her protector, couldn’t help her. Who else could help her? She had royal guards somewhere in this village, for all they were untrained and chosen for their good looks. Where were they? Or had Mandy killed them already? She remembered the filthy clattering sack he’d had with him in the bedroom. Kat’s bones?
“Don’t despair, Mayfridh,” Eisengrimm said, reading her silence perfectly. “He’s spared you so far, he may yet. Someone may notice us missing and come searching for us.”
“Or Christine,” Mayfridh said, cheering suddenly. “Christine will worry when I’m not back and—”
“No, Mayfridh. Christine has no way of getting to us now. Mandy took her twine.”
Her heart sagged again. She leaned her head against the door and forced herself to breathe naturally. Why was this happening? A primitive suspicion that her infidelity with Jude was being punished by a vengeful god overpowered her. She groaned.
“Mayfridh?”
She couldn’t bear the terror in his voice. “I’m fine,” she snapped.
“I can’t see you,” Eisengrimm said. “I’ve been waiting here for hours for you to return to consciousness. You must forgive me for my concern.”
Her guilt intensified a thousandfold. “Of course, Eisengrimm. I’m sorry. I’m well, I’m whole, I’m conscious.” A sob threatened to erupt through her sentence, and she hitched her shoulders to hold it in. “But I’ve done an awful, awful thing, Eisengrimm. You will hate me for it.”
His voice became tender. “How could I hate you? You’re my Little May.”
“I did something hateful. In the Real World.”
There was a long silence in the dark and Mayfridh felt the tears dry in salty tracks on her face. She palmed them, sniffed loudly. “Do you not want to know what it is I did?” she asked him.
“I think I can guess.”
“Can you? Do you think so little of me that it’s the first conclusion you draw?”
“Your voice and your words give away much, and you’ve been in love with Jude for a long time.” His voice was resigned, sad.
“Are you very disappointed in me?”
“It’s not for me to show disappointment or approval to my queen.”
His words, his detached tone, froze her. “No, no. I’m not your queen. I’m your friend. Your very dearest friend. Please, speak to me freely.”
“Mayfridh,” he said softly, “I can never approve of what you have done. And yet, I can understand that love is a mighty engine that drives men and women to foolishness and ruin.”
“Are you glad, then, that you are a wolf and not a man?”
“I am glad to be what I am,” Eisengrimm replied quietly, “as anyone should be, no matter what their form or circumstance.”
Mayfridh buried her head in her hands, her curls tumbling forward. “How can you still be so wise and composed, even at a time like this? I feel I shall go mad.”
“You must take heart, Little May. At any moment, someone may come to find us.”
“I can’t stand not knowing. What do you think he’s doing out there? Is he killing everybody?”
“I don’t know, I don’t understand him or his intentions,” Eisengrimm said, “but I expect we will find out soon enough.”
Christine’s work send-off was ruined by Mayfridh’s continued silence. While her boss toasted her with cheap sparkling wine and she munched her way through a German pastry, her mind kept reaching for explanations as to why her friend hadn’t been in touch. Diana hadn’t seen her (it was a mistake to call her, because she had grown extremely anxious and upset); Gerda hadn’t seen her; she hadn’t sent Eisengrimm to say she was fine. Christine knew that she would have to ask Mandy what had happened. Loathsome Mandy. Maybe she could convince Jude to go.
She arrived home to an apartment in chaos.
“What’s going on?” she asked, stepping over a bag of rubbish tied up near the door. Jude was in a cleaning frenzy.
“Can you believe we’ve only been here five months and already we’ve collected so much junk?” Jude said. He crouched in front of the bookcase, pulling out papers and sorting them into piles.
“Are you cleaning?”
“I’m packing.”
“Packing?”
“We’re leaving, remember? We’re leaving as soon as we can.”
Christine slung her purse on the sofa and joined Jude at the bookcase. From here she could see into the spare room. The suitcases were open, starting to fill up with clothes and books. “Wow, you’re seriously packing.”
He looked up. A lock of hair fell over his eyes. “Is there a problem with that?”
“No, no. I just assumed we’d pack together. In a week or so when we’ve organized the flight home.”
“I’ve organized it,” he said. He rose to his feet and dusted his hands on his jeans. “Kind of.”
“Kind of?”
“We can fly out on Sunday but—”
“Sunday? Today’s Friday. That’s very close.”
“I thought you wanted to leave soon.”
“I do, but . . . Why the sudden urgency?”
“I booked the tickets.”
Christine ran a hand through her hair. If she asked Mandy about Mayfridh tonight, if they had a send-off tomorrow night, yes, they could make a flight home on Sunday. “Okay, we’ll go Sunday.”
“I haven’t paid for them,” he said.
“Sorry?”
“They cost a lot because they’re such short notice. The airline wouldn’t refund our original tickets. We bought them on a special cheap fare.” He handed her an old pizza menu with his
handwriting in the corner.
She blanched when she saw the figure. “That much?”
“Our other option is to wait a week, and I know you don’t want to wait. I would have put them on my credit card, only it’s maxed out. I hoped you could pay for them. I mean, seeing as how we’re going to access your parents’ money when we get home anyway.”
Christine looked closely at Jude. For the first time she suspected that he was nervous. His eyes darted here and there, his words were quick and rambling. “Jude? Is there something you’re not telling me?”
“No. What? What do you mean?”
She pulled him gently to the sofa and sat him down, sitting on the coffee table in front of him. “This morning you were still reluctant to leave at all. This afternoon, you want to spend thousands of dollars rushing home before we’ve had a chance to say good-bye to our friends. Before we’ve seen if Mayfridh is all right.”
“I thought you wanted to go.”
“I do,” she said. The profound and undeniable truth. The idea of going home on Sunday, though only new to her, was dazzlingly appealing. Her own home, her own city, her own life; leaving all this confusion and wondering behind. “I want to know why you do. Tonight. When you didn’t this morning.”
His gaze fixed on hers a few moments, and she couldn’t read his expression. Then, to her surprise, he began to cry. She had never seen him cry before.
“Jude?”
He buried his head in her lap and sobbed. She reached for him, smoothed his hair with her hands, both bewildered and afraid.
“Jude, for God’s sake, you’re frightening me. What’s wrong?”
“I want to go home,” he said, his voice rumbling against her stomach. “I’ve had enough of this. I just want to go home.”
“I don’t understand. You’ve had enough of what?”
“Of faeries and other worlds and magic. I’m overwhelmed by it. I can’t stand to think of it. It feels like I’m going crazy.”
