by Eliza Grace
Untouchable
-Tilda-
Mom tells me how long it has been since I became a prisoner.
And then I forget.
Everything here seems an illusion.
ARIANNA IS FLYING ABOVE my head, creating ever wider circles and giving off sparkles that light the air, so bright that they seem to drown out the sun rays filtering through the trees. It is scary in the forest, scarier than I could have imagined only a short time ago, but seeing the fairy flying was something joyful within the terror.
“Focus, Tilda.”
“How am I supposed to focus with Arianna doing cartwheels?” I huff out, stamping my foot because I’m tired of how bossy mom is being. Another thing that is making my time in the forest feel like an eternity. The funny thing is- I would have given anything to have my mom back, alive and bossing me around, not too long ago. God, I still want her back. But not here. Not now. Not like this. A ‘ghost’ who’s trying to ram magical knowledge down my throat like a prescription drug that’s necessary for me to live more than six months to a year.
“Arianna, could you please rest for a while? It seems you’re a distraction.” Mom looks up at the fairy, flitting about like a cocaine addict, and smiles softy. “Yes, you are beautiful,” she says, as if replying to something the fairy has said, but hasn’t actually said.
“Distraction, distraction, distraction.” The fairy calls in her normal, repetitious speech.
Everything is bothering me right now. Everything. And I’m not even PMSing or anything. If time is all messed up here, different than the world outside, does that mess with the way my body functions? I do the math quickly on my fingers. I was past due. There’s another silver lining. Past due and not possibly pregnant. Some of my high school acquaintances would have killed for that rather than walk around with the ever-more-noticeable bumps. I shake my head roughly.
I don’t know any girls who became pregnant in high school. I feel all fuzzy. Like fuzzy-wuzzy was a bear. I blink. Once. Twice. I twirl and twirl. Whirling about, I look at everything in the forest room, with its books and candles and sparse decorations, and I wonder why everything is oddly right and wrong at once. And I am right and wrong at once. Me, Tilda. I’m not normal and everything feels totally...
“What’s wrong, Tilda?” My mother’s eyes are concerned; I try to focus on her face, on her question.
“Just thought something that... wasn’t something I should be thinking. Wasn’t true, I mean. Not like ‘I’m mad so I’m think bad things’ more like ‘that never happened, so why am I feeling like it did’ sort of strangeness.” I peer at an object in the corner of the room, one nearly obscured by leaves. It is... like the transparent outline of a something that shouldn’t be there. I moved towards it and as I do, it shifts slightly. A little to the left, a miniscule distance, but enough that the shape of the thing is obvious for a heartbeat. It was pudgy, with two things sticking out of its sides like arms and three things sticking out beneath it like feet. A length of hair curled up to the sky and seemed wired in place, a permanent pink of orange-hued fluff.
“Tilda?” My mom questions again, following closely behind me.
“Don’t you see that?” I point at where the thing had been. It must be sitting perfectly still now, because even the faint outline has vanished.
“I don’t see anything? Are you just trying to delay studying? You’re nearly grown, Tilda. You need to act like it.”
I whirl on her, anger flaring in my chest. “I need to act like it? I’m nearly grown? Don’t you think I know that! After you guys died, I didn’t stay a naïve girl with mommy and daddy taking care of everything.” I feel the way my face is twisted in anger, and I don’t care. I direct it at her, all the poorly pent-up range that’s been swirling through my bloodstream.
Mom looks at me for a moment, quietly considering her words. When she speaks, it is not the sharp-tongued rebuttal I expect. It is a rebuttal, of course. Mothers are always rebuking the folly of their children, but there is a solemnity wrapped about Mom’s words that transcends a mere telling-off. “From what I could see, you did worse than stay naïve, Tilda. You became sullen, you didn’t want to keep living, and you didn’t want to heal.”
My eyes widen as I realize what she’s saying. “You were spying on me?” It’s a stupid thing to say. I already knew she was forcing her way out of the woods to try and protect me. Of course she might have seen some of my more bratty moments with Jen and Hoyt.
“Tilda, you’re being ridiculous.”
I knew she was right—both about me being ridiculous and about me having been sullen, not interested in healing. I’d been caught in grief. In some ways, I’m still caught in it- different now though. Here, in the forest, I was grieving the loss of the life that I hadn’t realized that I loved. It wasn’t my childhood house, my childhood things, my... my childhood, yet, still I’d come to love it. To admire Jen, to want to make her proud, to love living with her and watching her create beautiful things on canvas. And Hoyt. I’d come to feel for him... to love him too.
“You’re right, I didn’t want to heal. I didn’t want to keep going. I did my class work mechanically and never once really thought about trying to go off to college and being the cripple on campus. But right now, Mom, I’m being serious. There is something in here with us. Something other than Arianna.” I point at the fairy that has taken perch on a low branch and is brushing her hair with what looks like the frayed end of a tiny twig.
Mom takes a deep breath. “Okay, then. let’s see.” She moves her hand slowly through the air, muttering something under her breath, and a flame appears. It is frail at first, a dying ember, but its color builds into a miniature inferno. And then it is moving swiftly, so fast that I can’t keep track of it, through the air and towards the thing in the corner.
I step forward instinctively. Whatever it is does not deserve to be burned up by fire. Mom’s hand reaches out and grips my upper arm, holding me back. “What are you doing? Don’t hurt it!” When I say the words, I know that they are not coming from me, not actually. Something is making me feel protective, making me rush forward to stop the flame.
“Just wait, Tilda. Wait and see. I think I know who this trickster is.” Mom does not look mad, more amused. I feel, quite unexpectedly, the need to protect the thing dissolve. And, just as unexpectedly, the thing that has been invisible for most of its sneaky intrusion springs to reality in full color and shape. It is... almost like a frog, except much larger, and obviously male. If he would straighten his ‘three’ bent legs and stand tall, I feel sure he’d rise to the height of an average human two-year-old. His blunt-shaped arms bear three fingers a piece and his face looks as if he’s raced into the back of a parked car. It is squished, the nose like a compressed accordion between his eyes and his mouth shaped like a handle bar mustache.
My mother does not look angry, but he does. “Miserable witch. Miserable witch. How dare you! Do you know how uncomfortable it is to take form?” He shakes himself violently as the flame finally touches his skin. It fades away quickly, like the magic has expired simply by contacting his slimy body.
“How dare I, Master Toady? How dare you, creeping about and not making yourself known. I would not have needed to spell you had you been honest about your presence.”
“Oh, you wouldn’t have spelled me?” He snorts, his nose popping out dramatically and then back inward, like eyes bulging from a cartoon character’s face when they see something unbelievable. “You would have spelled me, Miserable witch. All yous are the same. Miserable and malicious and mean. Nasty little witch.”
“Master Toady, can we help you or have you just come to insult us?” Mom, who has continued to hold my arm in case I bolted forward again, finally drops it. As soon as her touch leaves me, I feel the urging again- to rush forward and protect the reptilian creature. Mom does not hold me back this time, but her voice sounds clear and strong, cutting against the manipulation in my mind. “Do not push into her mind, Master Toa
dy. You do not wish me to retaliate.” There is the thread of power on her words, like a needle moving in and out of a loom creating lacey snow flowers and patterns for bridal gowns and veils. It is that borrowed power that clings to her when she calls for it, yet fights the confines of her hold.
I feel free of the urge to race to the creature, but like I need a shower to fully rid myself of the frog-like thing’s touch inside my mind. “Ugh,” I groan, “what is he?”
“A goblin. And not even a proper goblin, but a pygmy goblin,” mom turns to me and smiles. “They’re light on talent, aside from a certain aptitude for persuasion. Those who have never been taught to shield their minds are the most vulnerable.”
“Secrets! Leave our secrets be!” Master Toady screeched out, jumping off of the little tree trunk he’d been sitting on and hopping towards me and Mom. “I’ll get you, miserable witch!” He moved closer, his three legs not moving him nearly as far or as fast as I would have expected.
“Silence,” Mom commanded, that thread of power more a fully-knit blanket now. A finger twitch and a string of the strange witch-language later, and Master Toady’s lips were tied together with black, coarse string. He mumbled against the mouth prison, no doubt trying to expel profanity after profanity. Little rivulets of blood were tracing down his chin from his mouth. It was horrifying. I turned to look at my mother’s face, my eyes wide. Her face, for its part, is gaunt and tired, the cheeks caving into to reveal the skeletal structure beneath. And her eyes are glowing orbs, shooting silvery light out into the air. “You really don’t understand what silence means, do you, Master Toady?” Her voice is breathy and hot, the heat of it pushes against my skin like I am holding a curling iron too close to my body and it is ready to burn me.
Burn me up.
“Why is he here?” My voice cracks as I move away from my mother and a fraction closer to the pygmy goblin. I bend down a little to get a better look at the strange creature and I speak again, hoping to break the ugliness of the magic that is warping my beautiful mother all of a sudden. I do not like it. It scares me more than anything else in this forest. “Mom, why is he here?” I stress her name, her title. I pour my heart into the word ‘mom’. And she responds, the power draining from her like water out of a tub that’s just had its plug pulled.
“He’s here because,” mom cocks her head to one side, her eyes narrowing as she observes Master toady, who is now clawing at his mouth desperately, leaving scratches all along his chin and fresh, new purple-hued blood to war with the liquid already dripping from his lips, “Ohhhh, Master Toady. Are you truly working for the witchfinder? Is that what has become of you now? Toady in truth and not only by name.”
Mom’s face is nearly normal now, nearly beautiful again, but I can still see the shadow of the wraith that lies beneath her skin, just waiting for the overwhelming power to bring her out again.
“I works for no one. No one.” Master Toady screeches, now hopping about like a mad little thing hyped on cocaine. “Yous take that back, miserable witch. Ugly witch. Terrible witch.”
“I’ve only spoken the truth.” Mom is back to herself fully now. Not nearly beautiful, but truly so. “I can hear it in your thoughts, Master Toady. It is too bad that you are so weak that you can only manipulate the minds of those whose magic is very weak and untested.”
Master Toady froze then, going completely still save for the quick flicking of his second, transparent eyelids. They were odd things, coverings for when he was under water I suppose. “I am not weak,” he said, in a voice that sounded tired, tired of the world, life, the forest maybe. “But, yes, what you have said is true. I work for him that is free now that she is here trapped.” He points at me, his mouth warping into a disturbing smile. “And he sends his regards. His regards. His regards.” He repeats, almost like Arianna’s way with words, but lacking all the sweetness of the fairy. “He gives me powers. A real witch has never offered me more than spite. Spiteful witches. Hateful witches.” Master Toady looks at me then, full in the face and full of venom. “He sends you a message, baby witch. Stops pulling your magic backs. Stops it or he will hurts the ones you love. The boy. The woman. He will hurts them.”
Before I could protest, before mom could even wave her hand in the air against the creature, he is hopping fast out of our natural room, our little home in the woods. He disappeared, leaving the threat in his wake like pollution in a river wafting across waves behind a boat.
I stand silent until mom speaks. “Hoyt and Jen will be fine, Tilda. Goblins are known for empty threats.” She is trying to soothe my mind, I know she is, but her words only leave my stomach feeling hollow and my heart feeling heavy like a cannon ball in my chest. I feel like I am untouchable here in my prison, but outside in the world where M.H. is free, Hoyt and Jen are his prey.
I won’t let him hurt them. I’ll do whatever is necessary, even if it means rotting in these woods forever.
Love Thy Enemy
-Jen-
A week after Tilda’s disappearance.
MY HAIR IS REFUSING to cooperate this morning.
The long mousey brown waves are getting a slight golden tint now. I’ve been out in the sun more than normal this past week—canvassing the neighborhood, begging the cops to do more. A silver lining? But not enough to make up for the worry and heartache. To think, I’ve wished my whole life to have prettier hair. Hair like Heather’s and Tilda’s. I always wondered who I inherited the lighter shade from. Both mom and dad had such dark hair too. And the bright green eyes.
Mine were chocolate brown. Sometimes amber when the light hit just right.
Hoyt is still asleep on the couch. I check on him more than once. I wish he would move to Tilda’s bed, where he’d be more comfortable. He doesn’t seem to rest easily— his face scrunched up in pain and sweat across his forehead. Of course, his restlessness probably has little to do with the sofa and everything to do with my missing niece. I wonder if I should wake him, see if that will calm his expression, but I know how much I hate to be woken up when I am sleeping, even when my dreams are unpleasant. Because they inspire me. Sometimes, I feel my greatest paintings come out of what my mind imagines when my eyes are closed.
I force myself to eat something and every bit of the semi-burnt toast tastes like sand in my mouth. I think about using the honey, but... I can’t. I won’t touch it, there on the counter in easy reach of Tilda’s hands.
“Morning,” Hoyt’s voice is still drowsy. When I look over, he’s tousling his hair, trying to get it into some semblance of order. It’s defying him though, sticking up in every direction. I can see what Tilda sees him. He’s handsome of course, but also good. And Tilda is good. And in this world, good should attract good, instead of what often happens- with good becoming something used and abused.
“I’m going back into town today to meet with Officer Wheaton,” I say it absentmindedly. Hoyt has been staying with me every night. He refuses to go home, except for clean clothes. I’ve told him he can do his wash here, but he doesn’t want to impose.
Doesn’t want to impose.
He’s here, making sure I’m not alone, and he’s worried about imposing. Goodness. Absolute goodness, so much so that it seems to come out of his pores sometimes. In this world, people like Hoyt are written off as fake or disingenuous. It’s like the world’s forgotten the feel of someone who gives and does not want.
“Want me to go with you?” Hoyt pulls one of the kitchen table chairs across the floor, the legs making a dull scraping sound against the tile, and he slumps down against the seat that is almost comically too small for him.
“No, it’s okay. I’d rather...” I let my voice trail off; because I know what I’m going to say will sound sad and desperate. I look over at Tilda’s wheelchair, which is sitting at its place at the table. I should move it. Having it sit there, empty like that, is haunting. Like a gravestone in the middle of my kitchen.
“In case she comes back here.” Hoyt finishes for me, no judgement in his v
oice.
“I know everyone is saying she’s run away, Hoyt. That she’ll come back when she’s ready. But that’s just not true.” I know my voice is rising with every word, becoming that frantic, caged thing that doesn’t know what to do with freedom when it nips her in the ass like a cat. “She wouldn’t have just left. She loves it here. She loves me and I love her. She wouldn’t just leave.”
“I know, Jen. I know.” Hoyt reaches across the table and places one of his large hands over my two small, folded ones. It is a comforting gesture. I pull one of my hands from beneath his and lay mine on top.
“I can’t thank you enough for being here, Hoyt. It really means the world.”
“I care about Tilda, Jen. More than I should.”
I shake my head. “No, there’s no such thing as caring too much. It keeps the shit in the world from destroying everything.” Before Hoyt can reply, I speak again. “I’ve got to get going. I can’t seem to stand still for very long nowadays.”
Grabbing the handles to my large brown bag, I slide it across the counter top until it falls off; the weight is enough to jerk my shoulder down a bit as I support it. It’s full of more flyers. Someone’s been ripping them all down every night, trashing them in nearby cans. I don’t know who would do such a thing. The police don’t either, despite the few store security cameras that are positioned towards the sidewalk.
So I hang new ones up every day. I am spending the commission from all of the paintings sold at my last show—that I didn’t end up attending—on paper and ink.
I drive faster than I should, as if my speed will hasten Tilda back to me. This is stupid.
But I would try anything to find her.
