Here There Are Monsters

by Amelinda Bérubé

  “Deirdre!” I cry. “Deirdre, wait!”

  The slight figure of hanging white stands still at the edge of the yard, glowing brighter in the approaching light of my phone. I stumble to a halt at the corner of the house, panting, peering out at it. Is it Deirdre? It’s definitely white cloth I’m looking at. It lifts sluggishly, soddenly, in the wind.

  “Deirdre?” I pant. “Deirdre?”

  The white shape doesn’t move. Fumbling, trying not to take my eyes off it, I bend down to pick up one of the long scraps of two-by-four Dad left lying in the grass. It’s an awkward weapon, too wide to grip properly. I wish I had my sword. It’s only wood, but I know I can do some damage with it.

  Clutching the phone, holding the two-by-four out defensively, I creep closer. Closer. “Deirdre, is that you?” It doesn’t move. Not a twitch, not a turn, not a hesitation. Is it her? It has to be her.

  “Deirdre, please,” I whimper. Please let it be her. “I’m sorry. Please, please—”

  But in the brightening circle of light from my phone, the cloth is tattered, mud-streaked, trailing on the ground. It hangs strangely, lopsided and shapeless, and what I thought was an arm is a wizened silver branch draped with a scrap of shimmering blue cloth, and a stiff claw of a hand isn’t a hand at all, it’s an antler. Pale bone.

  It’s turning to face me, with a rustle and creak like a tree bending in the wind, like something stalking through the woods.

  And its face is bone too. A long, white skull, an animal skull. Sockets emptier than the sky.

  My scream is breathless, choked, and I drop the phone to swing the two-by-four in a flailing arc. The nightmare figure collapses in pieces with a thunk and clatter, the wet cloth slaps onto the ground. And something glittering flies from the tines of its hands—antlers—hands—to land in the grass at my feet. A gleaming gold medallion, a familiar tree twining roots and branches in a knotted circle around its edge.

  I stand there panting, trying to look everywhere at once. The wind in my ears is the only sound. I snatch the necklace from the grass and run like I’ve never run before. I run for my life. I run for the safety of the house.

  When I slam the back door behind me, my legs turn to jelly, and I sink dizzily down to sit on the gritty tiles, my breath sobbing in my throat, the necklace a cold hard edge against my palm. For a minute, I’m afraid I might throw up. The bright silence of the house presses down around me. The furnace clicks on, making me jump.

  I don’t go back to my room. I don’t wake my parents. I yank the blinds closed with a rattle on all the living room windows, shutting out the night, and throw myself on the couch.

  I’ve been clutching the pendant so hard, my fingers are stiff and painful when I unfold them. The tree and its spreading roots and branches are etched in black in its gleaming gold face, forming a swirling, knotted circle.

  I bought it for her. This past Christmas, before we moved. Her mouth fell open when she lifted it from the box. I will remember the look on her face forever. The utter disbelief that it was really for her. Mom helped her with the clasp, and she ran to look in the mirror, then ran back and threw her arms around me so hard, she almost knocked us both over.

  “It’s beautiful,” she breathed. “It’s magic. You’re the best champion ever.”

  “I thought you’d like it,” I said.

  I hold it up by the chain, watching it twist back and forth. Over and over again, I see the monster in the yard turning to face me, the empty hollows of its eyes. I know the difference between awake and dreaming. It can’t have happened. Is this me losing my mind? This is what nightmares feel like—the pulsing, unreal fear you can’t shake. It’s chemical. Something pouring through your brain. You can’t trust it.

  But I can still feel the two-by-four in my hands, the reverberation of the wood at the impact, see my breath hanging in a cloud in the air. The sodden, dirty cloth that shrouded the thing. The sprigs of little flowers on it. The sky-blue fabric looped around its arms, fraying, familiar. Slinkier than anything I own.

  Was that what Deirdre was making in our room that day? With the bones in the clearing, the shreds of Mom’s sheets, of my dress? That thing?

  She’s been making monsters since we were kids. None of them ever came to life. But she never made them here before, in the shadow of those woods. And she’s been getting weirder and weirder ever since arrived. I think of her shoulders standing out white against the dark, bare despite the cold. What if—what if there’s something out there, in the forest? Something that took over one of her monsters, brought it to life?

  What if something took her?

  The thought crushes the air from my lungs. What if the necklace—like the sword, like the bell—is a message? A cry for help, for rescue?

  Or a dare?

  In my room, I kneel to reach under my bed, fumble across the tiles until my fingers meet wood, and drag the sword out into the light.

  I sweep through a couple of experimental slashes, a lunge. It’s so familiar in my hand. Once upon a time, it was everything. Once upon a time, I was a queen. My wrath was legendary, and nothing could stand before me. And I stood between Deirdre and anything that dared to challenge her.

  I vanquished all her enemies. At any cost.

  But it was never once upon a time. Not really. Once upon a time was a lie. In the real world, people are fragile. Even Tyler, large as he loomed, was just a person. No more than human. Breakable.

  If I go with this, if I let myself believe it’s real…if it’s real, it means there are monsters, real monsters, out there in the dark. And I’m just Skye. The new Skye, who has friends and wears expensive jeans. I’m the one who’s breakable, a thin fluttering sapling. I’ve never felt it so clearly, how defenseless I am. How useless. It screams at me in the pathetic bristling of my skin, the sweat trickling down my side, the sour taste at the back of my mouth. It was taller than me, that thing. Was it the only one? What am I going to do against reanimated sticks and bones?

  But the Queen of Swords—that’s exactly where she belongs. Waging war. Riding to the rescue.

  I’ve done my best to bury that person, to forget the roots winding down into the dark. I don’t want to follow them. I’m afraid to find out how far down they go. But they were there all along, underneath.

  If this is real, so is the Queen of Swords. Who might have a chance to save Deirdre. And if she can save Deirdre, maybe the Queen of Swords isn’t a monster. Maybe she never was. Maybe she just needed monsters to fight.

  I don’t want William to see the Queen of Swords. I don’t want any of them to know she exists. But they don’t need to. This is between me and Deirdre. All William will know, if I manage this, is that I saved her. That I found her in the woods. That’s all anybody needs to know.

  There’s no question, no debate. Not really. There’s no choice. The Queen of Swords never does have choices. Her path is straight and narrow as her blade.

  You can’t just walk away when someone needs a hero.

  * * *

  As the darkness ebbs away, the fog settles in, and the woods are ghostly, spindly shadows sinking into gradations of emptiness, thin gray lines of tree trunks fading with distance.

  Wisps of vapor swirl around my feet as I walk. My sneakers are still wet. The sword is heavy in my hand, but I keep the point outstretched as long as I can, swinging it every now and again to rest my arm. There’s nothing left where the creature fell last night, of course. Just the two-by-four lying in the grass.

  Well, this will be the test. Real or not. If nothing happens now, it was just a dream. I’ll forget all about it. I press forward until the house is a faint suggestion behind me, threatening to disappear. The air is still, clammy as cold hands against my face.

  Deirdre’s necklace dangles from my hand. If this is real, then there’s a way in. There’s a way to find her. I’m past caring if it’s ridiculous to tr
y this. It’s what Deirdre would do. And for once, that’s exactly what I need. To follow her footsteps.

  If I’m the Queen of Swords, even a kingdom that’s turned rogue, grown wild, has to answer to me.

  I stalk to the very edge of the woods, through the border where the grass gets tall, the ground uneven, riddled with hidden animal holes. You could break your ankle back here if you tried to go too fast. Dad said once that we’d have to add more dirt someday; the water doesn’t look like it’s moving, but the swamp is eating away at the dirt they used to fill it in, bit by bit, absorbing it too slowly to see.

  I edge my way onto the jutting shelf of rock that overhangs the tangled maze a few feet below. The dripping silence closes around me. The shadowy trees lean twisted branches overhead, shedding wet leaves in a slow but continuous trickle. They’re the only movement.

  I hold the necklace out and shout raggedly into the woods.

  “You have to take me to her,” I demand. “I’m her champion. I’m the Queen of Swords. You have to give her back!”

  My voice sinks into the swamp without an echo, but behind me there’s a rustle and the soft crunch of a footfall. I whirl to face the same monster from last night—a long, white skull perched atop a misshapen bundle of sticks and cloth, pointed antler-fingers reaching out for me. I raise the sword like I can ward it off, but it trembles in my hand. The creature stops just out of my reach, half turns, like a bird or a deer, as if to see me better from the pit of its eye.

  And—oh God—there’s another one. It lurches out of the trees on my other side as if it was waiting there. It’s shorter than the first, mantled with a bristling pelt that looks like it might be a porcupine’s, feathered with long, white spikes. Its torso is armored in strips of rough bark. Another one hobbles behind it on a tripod of long wooden legs, bound with long, fluttering strips of dirty cotton. It has one hand. Too many fingers made of thin bones—something’s ribs. Above its blunt fanged muzzle and the gaping hollow of its nose, two mismatched rotten wings fan out like the crest of a fantasy warrior’s helm.

  I stand there, wheeling from one to the next as they close around me. Was this Deirdre’s mistake? Thinking she could control them?

  “Stay back!” I make a desperate feint like I’m about to lunge at them, swiping the air with the sword. “I’m the Queen of Swords, goddammit! You have to tell me what you’ve done with her! Stay back and answer me! By wood, stone, water, and bone!”

  They jerk to a reluctant halt, just out of my reach, and stand in place, swaying, leaning toward me like hungry dogs outside a fence. They smell dank and rotten. The faintest whiff of spoiling meat is a nauseating thread through layers of cold water and decaying leaves.

  And with a creak and groan of bending wood, they all sink into a low bow, with a twitchy unison flourish like a suppressed smirk.

  I open my mouth to reiterate my demands, but all through the branches behind me there’s a rustle and a flutter of something like birds’ wings or overlapping leaves. There’s no wind to stir the fog, and the leaves still clinging to the branches hang wet and silent. The sound continues, spirals around me, trailing over my skin, and in it there are words.

  Look look look who’s here

  A papery cackling washes over me, layers of delighted voices twined together to coil around me. I heft my sword, but there’s nothing to threaten with it, just the stick-and-bone monsters, still bent over the ground.

  Who is it? Look look it’s the Queen of Swords, the Queen of Swords coming back for her kingdom, look look look

  “So what?” I demand. “I came back for my sister. Tell me where she is!”

  Or what? the voices breathe gleefully. OR WHAT? You can tell us, Queen of Swords

  “Shut up!” I smack the sword against the nearest tree, making it quiver. The voices moan like a low wind, laughing.

  Oooooh scary, so scary Queen of Swords, we’re scared now yes so scary

  “Who are you supposed to be, anyway?” I yell. Giggles make the trees clack and shiver in the breathless air, stirring the fog into ragged swirls.

  Maybe we’re the Queen of Winds. The whispers twine around me, still laughing. Maybe we’re the Queen of Bones, maybe we’re the Queen of Broken Promises—

  “That’s just a game! That was our game and you’ve stolen it! You’ve stolen my sister!”

  Your game, Queen of Swords, now it’s yours? The laughter in the air dies as suddenly as a snuffed flame. Now you want her back? You walked away, she’s gone, she’s never coming back to you, go home, she’s never coming back, you already walked away, walk away, go on

  “She’s my sister,” I say through clenched teeth. “I’m not walking away. Not without her.”

  So noble, so braaaaave, look look at the Queen of Swords trying to win her honor back, look at the Queen of Swords who fell asleep on her watch, who fell asleep and let the wolves in

  “And what do you know about that?” No response, but the laughter boils up around me again. Desperately, I brandish the necklace at the trees. “Look, you came after me, remember? Fine! Here I am! What do you want?”

  Walk away, Queen of Swords, walk away, she’s ours, you don’t love her, you never did, you walked away, walk away, walk away

  “She’s my sister!” I wail. “Of course I love her!”

  She’s ours, we love her more than you do, ours forever, walk away

  “That’s not true! You don’t even know what that means!”

  Prove it then. The words pour over me, an icy river of contempt. Prove it. Prove it. Prove it.

  “Well—but—!” I let the point of the sword drop to the ground, bereft, bewildered, thinking frantically. “How? What do you want?” There’s a silence, and then I see where this is going. “There’s something you want me to do, isn’t there? Stop playing games and tell me what it is!”

  The branches of the trees shiver. The voices drawl.

  Oh let’s see, let’s see, let’s give the Queen of Swords some tasks for us, some trials, yes let’s see her prove it, yes prove it

  “Fine,” I snap. “Fine. And if I pass, you let us go. Both of us. And never bother us again.”

  Yes, yes, if you pass, the voices sigh, sounding bored, and then they sharpen again, like pointed bone on glass. And if you lose, if you lose, we keep you both, just for us, for always

  For a moment I can’t speak; I’ll choke on the words. This is a terrible idea. Horror-movie-level bad idea. But there’s nothing else to do. The monsters are looking up at me now, eager and horrible, flexing their bony hands. I stuff the necklace in my pocket, so I can hold my sword out with both hands, but there’s no way I could keep them at bay all at once. They took Deirdre. I bet they took Mog too.

  I’m next.

  Could I walk away, could I really walk away, knowing this was up to me? I’d prove them right.

  They’ve got me already. There’s no way out or away from this. Only through.

  And I will win. I have to. I’m the Queen of fucking Swords.

  “All right.” I’m shaking so hard, it comes out in a stutter. “Okay. I’ll do it.”

  The voices seethe in wordless triumph, like a kettle hissing.

  Yes, yes you will, oh you will, they bubble. This will be perfect, yes we will have so much FUN

  “Whatever,” I snap. “What am I supposed to do already?”

  Oh let’s think what will we ask of the Queen of Swords, she should make us a gift, yes the Queen of Swords can give us a present

  “A present?” I echo warily. “Like what?”

  Let’s start with a secret, yes, a secret, a secret, they hiss. And then they laugh like mad.

  “What do you mean?” I shout. They don’t listen to me. “That doesn’t make any sense! What secret?”

  Your secrets, Queen of Swords, your secrets of course

  “My—?”

 
; She’s so dense, she’s so dull! Queen of Swords, you’re supposed to be shhharp!

  “You want me to tell you a secret.”

  No no no not us, she already told us, we already know, we KNOW all your secrets, what good would that do? We want you to GIVE UP a secret, make a present of it, give it up, sacrifice, we want you to PAY FOR IT

  The last three words are like slaps, delivered with such venom that I reel back a few steps.

  Lay it out in the sun, they purr, the best secret, let the invaders know who they’re dealing with, Queen of Swords, make them understand, make them hate you, make them bow and scurry, spread your secret far and wide where we can see, where everyone can see. We are watching you, we are watching, we will know. Make them hate you, hate you, hate

  Invaders. That’s what Deirdre kept calling William. She hated him before she even set eyes on him. A memory flashes through my head: her crouched over a collection of bones, glancing sullenly up at me. I’ve heard all about them.

  “What’s so different about me and Deirdre?” I demand. “How come we’re not invaders too?”

  Did we say you’re no invader, Queen of Swords? We said no such thing, no, this is how you prove it, your sister proved she loved us, now you have to prove it, prove you’re no invader. Make them hate you or you’re one of them and your sister is ours forever, ours to love and keep

  “Right,” I manage. I feel sick. “Sure.”

  We’ll give you till the full moon. The words have gone faint, but they’re distinct as a breath in my ear. Prove it by the full moon, we are watching.

  The monsters cross their stick arms over their torsos and hobble back into the woods, disappearing into the fog until they’re only the faintest trace of lurching movement, until they vanish altogether. As if they were never here. I stagger backward, my heart thundering in my ears, and slowly turn toward the house. It swims up out of the gray blankness as I stumble across the lawn.