by Jeff Wheeler
“This the Longwall home?” the man asked, his voice scratchy.
“Yes sir,” said Wick.
“Your father here, boy?”
“Yes sir.”
“Fetch him, and make haste.”
Wick ran around the cottage to the woodshop to tell his pa of the traveler. Together they went back to the front yard. Wick’s ma stepped out the front door as the two men shook hands.
“Benn Longwall,” said Wick’s pa, introducing himself. “And this is my wife, Tay, and my son, Samwick.”
“Lovely family,” said the traveler. “I am Valden Whitestrand. I come looking for lodgings for an indeterminate length of time. Hopefully only a few days, although perhaps a week or even a month.”
“Then you’ve come too far, I’m afraid,” said Benn. “There’s an inn in Knuck—that’s the village in the valley. As long as you have coin, they’ll have a bed and a meal for you, though both are likely hard and moldy.”
Valden smiled. “I passed through the village and stopped by that inn you speak of, but only to inquire about quieter lodgings, something more out of the way. Inns are never quiet or out of the way, I’ve found. The innkeeper told me where you live, Mister Longwall, and said you own another small cabin farther along the road. A cabin that presently sits unoccupied.”
“Belonged to my mother. Now to me since she passed, gods rest her.”
“Rest she well,” Valden said lowly.
Benn scratched his chin. “Truly, I never thought of renting it. Nor selling. Planned to someday give it to my boy.” He tipped a hand toward Wick. “Would you like to come in out of the sun, Mister Whitestrand? We could draw you a cup of water from the well and talk this over, and my son could see your animals drink as well.”
“Both my jacks and I took drink at the inn,” said Valden. “The cabin, Mister Longwall, is all I need, thank you.”
Valden returned to his wagon, and his hand disappeared under the cloak tented over the bottle. Instead of the bottle, though, he produced a fat leather pouch. It seemed to float through the air from Valden’s hands to Benn’s. The pouch jingled when Benn caught it, and Wick could see his pa hadn’t expected it to be so heavy. Benn undid the drawstring and peered inside. Wick knew from the sound that it held coins—and from Benn’s widening eyes and open mouth, that it held lots of coins. Maybe even gold.
“That should be sufficient for a month, wouldn’t you say?” said Valden. “Even if I stay only a single day, you may keep it all. Should I decide to extend my stay beyond a month—with your permission, of course—I will pay you more.”
“Mister Whitestrand,” said Benn, “with this you could rent—No, you could buy any house in Knuck.”
“I have my reasons. I am an artist, and I travel to remote locations to create my pieces. I have been fortunate, shall we say, in my endeavors. I could crisscross the three kingdoms in a stately coach drawn by a team of mighty stallions, buying houses hither and yon. But as you can see”—he gestured to his battered wagon—“I prefer to live an artist’s life. A humble life.”
Benn stole one last glance inside the pouch, then pulled the drawstring and held it out to Tay. She eyed it as though it were full of scorpions instead of coins. Wick reached for it. Tay snatched the pouch and quickly dropped it into one of her dress’s large pockets.
“One thing more, Mister Longwall,” said Valden. “Do you know of a flower called a sirrodel, perhaps by one of its other names—godsbloom, shadow flower, dragon’s maw?”
Benn cleared his throat and brushed the sawdust from his sleeves. “Most folks around the Knuckles just call it a local legend.”
“Its legend reaches ears beyond the Knuckles, I assure you. It is known far and wide, and this is one of the few places in all the world where a sirrodel supposedly grows. The innkeeper told me travelers arrive every few months, searching for it, yet never finding it. Perhaps because they say only certain people can see it—those chosen by the gods.”
“So I’ve heard,” said Benn.
“Have you ever seen one, Mister Longwall, or know of someone who has? As an artist, it would be rather extraordinary to behold the rarest flower in all existence. To paint it, of course, nothing more.”
“I haven’t, sorry to say.”
Valden looked from Benn to Wick, who lowered his eyes.
“Then,” said Valden, “I will be off to my new lodgings.”
“I’ll ride with you,” said Benn. “Open up and air the place out.”
“No need. I will be—”
“I insist. No one’s lived there since my mother passed, but it hasn’t been empty. I’ll wager there’s mice and squirrels we’ll need to chase off, maybe even birds or snakes.”
Valden nodded. Then he added another nod to Tay and one to Wick. “Many thanks, Missis Longwall. And . . .”
“Wick,” said Wick.
Valden repeated the name slowly, tasting it.
He gathered the cloak from the seat—only Wick and Valden himself knew what was under it—and gingerly secured it under the canvas on the back with his other hidden belongings. As he did so, Wick distinctly heard him whisper, “Not much longer.” Valden stepped onto the wagon, then lent a hand to Benn.
“Can I go?” Wick asked.
Tay’s arm wrapped around him and pulled him hard against her. The lump in her pocket jingled.
“Stay here, Son,” Benn said as Valden took hold of the reins and got the donkeys to reluctantly begin moving.
Wick and Tay watched silently as the wagon followed the road over the hill and out of sight. Wick asked to see the money, wanting to dump it on the ground and make a city by stacking the coins into towers. Tay said no and went inside.
An hour later, Benn returned, his shirt darkened with sweat. Wick was still outside, although his interest had shifted from digging a hole to observing a spider cocoon a cricket in its silk. Benn passed his son and went inside. Wick left the spider and put his ear to the front door. Tay was saying she wanted to bury the pouch down by the creek and forget it had ever come to them. Benn said that was fool’s talk and started listing all the things they could do with the money.
Wick turned and ran across the yard, up the road, over the hill, and down the other side until he arrived at his grandma’s cabin. The wagon was out front, the donkeys no longer hitched to it. Gone too was the canvas, and only two large trunks sat in the back. Wick couldn’t see the tall black bottle, or even the cloak Valden had wrapped around it, but it could’ve been pushed behind one of the trunks.
He climbed into the wagon, and as he got to his feet, his eyes landed on one of the cabin’s windows. A small face, silvery white, was there looking out at him.
Valden appeared by the wagon. “What are you doing in there, boy?”
Wick hopped off and retreated several paces.
“Come to try to pilfer something, did you?” Valden eyed the trunks before shifting his gaze back to Wick. “Or were you just snooping?”
“Do you have . . . ?”
“Do I have what?”
“. . . somebody with you?” Wick finished.
Valden looked stunned. Then his eyes narrowed. “What makes you ask that, boy?”
“I saw someone. There.” Wick pointed to the window, now empty—no silvery face behind the glass.
“You saw someone, you say?”
Before Wick had time to run away, or even blink, Valden closed the distance between them and loomed over him. Valden stooped, and with his long yellow fingers held open Wick’s eyelids as he studied the irises with his own mismatched eyes—first the left, then the right. He lingered on the right, then stepped back.
“Tell me, boy,” Valden said, “have you ever seen a sirrodel?”
Wick glanced at the trees across the road, thinking of the promise he’d made to his pa a year ago.
“No sir,” he said.
Valden tapped his fingers on his chin. “I have no one with me. What you saw was one of my pieces. The likeness of a young girl I sc
ulpted from moonstone marble.”
“Can I see it?” Wick hoped Valden might also show him the bottle; it must’ve been another of his artistic creations.
“Certainly not, boy. Now be gone with you. I will be out in the forest until nightfall, and I do not want some boy snooping around my very valuable artwork with his grimy little fingers.”
Wick glanced again at the window. Still no pearly face.
“Gone!” Valden clapped his hands as though Wick were a mongrel to be frightened off.
Returning to the road, Wick imagined all the strange pieces of art Valden could have in the cabin, when a thought occurred to him. If that white face belonged to a statue, how could it have been at the window one minute and gone the next? Statues couldn’t move, unless they were magic.
Wick stopped, wanting to race back to the cabin window to see if Valden did indeed have a marble statue of a girl, or if it was something else entirely. Then a figure came over the hill on the road ahead. His pa. Wick considered darting into the woods. If he could see his pa, though, his pa could almost certainly see him. More than likely Benn was coming for him, so running away now would only make worse whatever punishment he had in store. Wick walked gravely forward, head hanging and feet dragging. He might be going to meet his pa’s belt, but he didn’t have to go quickly.
Wick didn’t get the belt, although Benn did swat him open-handed on the back of the head. At home, he perched Wick on a stool facing a corner for the rest of the morning. Even worse, Wick had to listen to his parents bicker about Mister Whitestrand and what Tay kept calling his money.
“Our money,” Benn would say whenever she said this.
They stopped long enough to eat a lunch of leathery venison and pasty, tasteless beans. As they stared at the pouch on the table, Benn suggested they go to town for a huge feast, as much food and wine as they wanted. Tay said she would have no food or wine bought with his money. After that, they ate in silence. Wick picked over his food and daydreamed of marble statues and tall black bottles.
When he finished his meal, Benn said he was taking the pouch to the counting house in Knuck for safekeeping—before it ended up in a hole in the ground—and he would be back after dark.
“Going to flaunt that to everyone in the Knuckles?” Tay asked. “I’d tell you to try not to get robbed, but that might be a blessing.”
Benn grumbled something as he left.
Wick helped his ma clean up, then asked if he could go too.
Tay narrowed her eyes. “What for?”
Wick looked down at his feet. “So he can buy me something.”
Tay crossed her arms. “Well, you tagging along might keep him out of too much trouble, and you can make sure to get him back before sundown. Hurry along. And put on shoes.”
Wick got his boots and was out the door. His ma would be watching him through the window, like the marble statue had, so he marched downhill in the direction of town. At the base of the hill, he left the road and headed through the woods until he reached the creek. He followed the creek bed, trekked up the wooded slope, and came out behind his grandma’s cabin. The donkeys, eyes barely open, lay tethered to a nearby shade tree. They made no noise as Wick crept by, offering him only the occasional ear or tail twitch.
The curtains inside the back windows had been drawn, as were the front windows’. Wick checked the back of the wagon to make sure the old man wasn’t hiding there. Empty. Then, making himself tall by standing on his tiptoes, he pressed his ear to one of the front windows. Hearing nothing, he went to the other—the one where the face had been—and listened. Nothing.
Hadn’t Valden said he’d be gone until nightfall? If Wick was careful not to touch anything, Valden would never know he’d been there. Just to be safe, he knocked first. If the old man answered the door, Wick could say his pa sent him to ask how Valden liked the cabin or if he needed anything.
Valden didn’t come to the door, so Wick pushed it slightly open and slipped inside. He had been there many times, though not since his grandma passed. Something about knowing she died there made his belly feel full of squiggling tadpoles. He felt them now as he took a few steps forward. All the curtains had been pulled to and no candles or lamps were lit, so the sunlight coming in through the cracked door cut a bright wedge into the dim main room. Wick saw nothing that hadn’t belonged to his grandma. His parents had already removed the few items of much value, leaving only the dusty furniture and shelves his pa had made. The sole piece of art Valden had left in the open sat on the long wooden table: a browning apple core on a plate.
Then Wick saw the girl to his left and nearly cried out. She was a bit taller and older than Wick, but not much. Her straight hair fell past her shoulders, and she wore a simple long-sleeved dress, almost a nightgown, that went down to her ankles. Her left arm was at her side, her right hand behind her back. Her feet were bare. Except for one thing, one very strange thing, she appeared a normal girl. All of her—hair, eyes, skin, clothes—was the lustrous silvery white of a full moon. Wick had never seen any statues, not unless scarecrows counted, but he thought this had to be the most realistic one ever sculpted.
Then she blinked.
“Are y-you real?” Wick stammered.
The girl looked a little surprised. “You can see me?” she said.
Wick nodded, confused. “Yeah.” His voice sounded weak, so he cleared his throat before continuing. “I saw you this morning, at the window. Mister Whitestrand said you were a statue. Are you some kind of . . . magic?”
The girl smiled sadly and shook her head.
“Then why do you look like that?” he said.
“You shouldn’t be here,” she said.
“This is my house. Well, it’s my parents’ house. It used to be my grandma’s but it’s theirs now and it’s going to be mine someday and I can be here whenever I want.”
“My father will be back soon. He’ll be mad if he finds you here.”
“Your father?” said Wick. “Mister Whitestrand? He can’t be your father. He’s too old. You must be his granddaughter or—”
“I’m his daughter.”
“He must’ve been older than my pa when you were born, then. How old are you?”
“What does it matter?” The girl lowered her head, then looked back up. “How old are you?”
“I’m eight. Almost nine.”
“I’m eleven, I suppose.”
“You suppose?”
The girl said nothing.
“What’s your name?” Wick asked. “And if you’re not some kind of magic statue, why are you that color?”
The girl said nothing.
“If you don’t tell me,” said Wick, “then I’m going to go tell my ma and pa that Mister Whitestrand has a girl with him who’s made of magic marble.”
“They won’t believe you,” said the girl.
“They will too. And if they don’t, I’ll scream until they come here to see for themselves.”
“They won’t be able to see me.”
“Why not?”
The girl said nothing.
“Well, if they can’t,” said Wick, “then I’ll go tell everyone in Knuck, and they’ll all come here, and if I can see you, then I bet some of them will too.”
The girl began to look worried. “My name is Parin. I look this way because . . . because I’ve been eleven for a long time.”
“That can’t be. Nobody can be—”
“I died,” she said. Her left hand went to her neck, stroked the silvery skin, and dropped back to her side. “That was many years ago. I was eleven, and I’ve been eleven ever since.”
The tadpoles in his stomach returned, a whole wriggling swarm of them. “You died? Then how are you here? How are you alive?”
“I’m not alive. Not like you are, like I used to be. My earthbody, the flesh body, is buried. Has been for almost thirty years.”
“That’s not . . . You’re not . . . You’re . . .”
“What’s your name?” Parin said.
“I told you mine.”
He cleared his throat again. “Samwick Longwall. My parents call me Wick.”
“Wick, I’m going to show you I’m not like you. Don’t be afraid.”
She walked toward him. As Wick turned, intending to flee, one of his feet caught on the other. He didn’t fall, but his back struck the door and slammed it shut. Before he could whirl around and escape, Parin reached out her left hand—her right still behind her—and her silvery fingers went into his chest, like smoke passing through a sheet. Her hand disappeared into him all the way to her wrist. Before Wick could scream, warmth spread throughout his body, from his chest out to his fingertips and down to his toes and up to the crown of his head. The aroma of cooking blackberries and honey filled his nose, and their syrupy tartness danced on his tongue.
When Parin withdrew her hand and stepped back, Wick no longer wanted to run away. The berries and honey were gone, as well as the warmth, but so were the tadpoles.
“How’d you do that?” he said.
“It happens when I try to touch someone. I could smell that too, and taste it. Was that blueberries?”
“Blackberries,” Wick said. “What’s it like being . . . not alive?” He didn’t want to say dead.
Parin shrugged. “I’ve been this way a lot longer than I was alive. I’ve almost forgotten what it was like.”
“So if you were buried, how are you here?”
“Have you ever heard of moonbodies?”
Wick shook his head.
“Everyone has two bodies,” she said. “The earthbody is made of flesh and bone and blood, like you are now. But inside you, there’s a moonbody. That’s what people called it a long time ago, because they thought it was made of moonbeams.” She held out her left hand and wiggled her silvery fingers. “I do look that way, don’t I?”
Wick nodded.
“They believed when your earthbody died,” said Parin, “your moonbody floated away to the moon and lived forever.”
“So you’re made of moonlight?”
“No more than you are. I’m not made of flesh and blood, either. Whatever it is, it does live forever, just not on the moon. Father calls it the Far Kingdom. It’s a real place, but it’s much farther away than the moon, and only your moonbody can reach it.”
