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Boon
October 2012
Table of Contents
The Blue Child’s great audience chamber was a cavern underneath the ground. Its walls and floor and ceiling were all thick with ice, and at the back an enormous hole opened into darkness: the door to the underworld, whence the Blue Child and his family had come.
Bleak as it was, the hall was stuffed with courtiers, who watched the human petitioners go by as if this were a holiday.
Perhaps it was a holiday, for them. Magda really didn’t know what they did, for they were never seen up on the ground.
Most of courtiers here were Iubar—the Shining Ones—half corpse and half angel, with gemstone eyes and odd, mechanical expressions. They were said to fly the heavens at night, too high and dark for human eyes to see, and bring the Blue Child news: the doings of his family, his enemies, and his wretched human subjects.
Some of the courtiers, though, were humans themselves—scattered through the crowd like bone fragments in a sugar bowl, perfumed and powdered to hide the odor of their living bodies. They were finely dressed, some more sumptuously than the Iubar, but their faces were pinched and watchful. They looked like starving wolves, afraid they’d be devoured if they let their attention stray for a second.
The Blue Child sat on a throne of ice in the center of the hall. He wore a short silk tunic, sandals, and a gold ring around his arm that looked like grave goods. Though his fine youthful body was tinged a hypothermic blue, he didn’t shiver, and lounged indolently across his icy throne as if perfectly comfortable.
He smiled condescendingly as Magda knelt before the throne. “Well, then, woman—have you a petition?” His sweet, treble voice rang like struck crystal.
Magda bowed. “Yes, my lord.”
“Then pray, speak—but speak quickly, for Petitioners’ Day is nearly over.”
Several of the courtiers tittered. Magda gritted her teeth, concealing her anger, and began.
“My lord, on the day when the ice melted, and the door to your mother’s kingdom was uncovered... just before you, and all your brothers and sisters, stepped out into the sunlight and raised your perfect faces to the sky—before the Winter of Winters had begun...” She swallowed, finding that her throat was full of tears. “In those days, I was newly married, and expecting my first child.”
When she looked up, the Blue Child had leaned forward, setting his elegant face on the knuckles of one thin hand. One could almost imagine that he found her story... diverting—but Magda had been watching him, and knew that he used the same face with every petitioner.
“On the last day, sir, the baby was three months along, and I was walking with my husband at the seawall. We were... happy...”
“Ah, happiness.” He made a vaguely derisive gesture, and his courtiers tittered. “So sweet; so fragile. Continue.”
“When the skies turned black,” Magda said, “and the great shriek rent the air... when the lightning flashed, and the oceans died, and the whales floated up from the depths to lie on the sea like bladder-wrack...” Her mouth kept speaking, but in her mind’s eye she saw it all again—birds falling from the sky, crops withered in the field, and Peter... “When the ninety-nine were killed, and the hundredth left to mourn... I lost my husband, and the baby, at the same time.”
She remembered how Peter’s face had looked in the moment before the seizures—how he’d reached for her, and tried to touch her cheek, before he’d lost control of his muscles and flopped on the ground like a suffocating fish. Even then, before he’d died, his groans had sounded like the bellow of a thrall—and as she’d taken his hand, the pain had begun...
“The pregnancy could not survive.” Her own voice sounded oddly clinical, as if she were listing off a litany of griefs that had afflicted a total stranger. “I miscarried. There was no one to help—we were far from the village—and I had to...” She paused, breathed, continued. “After... it was born, I went for help, but everyone in the village was dead, or screaming. So I went back and buried them myself, beside the seawall.”
The words stopped coming. Magda bowed her head.
For a moment the Blue Child was silent. Then he laughed. “Is that all? So far I’ve heard nothing from you that I hadn’t heard already from a thousand others. You should be thankful you’re still alive. Rejoice—you were spared! Chosen, in a way—granted the privilege of watching the end of the world with your own two human eyes.”
Magda closed her eyes against another rush of tears. “Sir, I thank you, but I am very lonely. I cannot conceive—since it happened I’ve been barren...” (And hadn’t she tried, in barns and back-rooms, with friends and whores and strangers, all without a single pregnancy...)
The courtiers laughed again, as if they could hear what she was thinking. Since the voices of the Iubar were never heard by mortals, Magda knew it was the humans who were mocking her.
“So you want a child?” When Magda opened her eyes, the Blue Child was studying the ranks of thralls that crowded the back of the hall. “I don’t believe we can raise the baby you were carrying—the unborn aren’t terribly useful, anyway—but I’m sure—”
“No!” Her voice came out almost as a shriek. “No, sir, I beg you—please, I don’t want a thrall.”
He turned to her with a very curious look on his icy face. “Did you... interrupt me?”
Magda bowed her head, knowing that he might well kill her now. “I meant no disrespect, sir. I pray you, pardon my... impropriety.”
“Sit up,” he said, tapping her head with a burning-cold finger. “Don’t be tiresome. What about your husband? Wouldn’t you rather have him, after all? Raising a man is a simple thing, and he wouldn’t be so very different. You might even get him to speak to you, once in a while.”
Magda thought of all the thralls she’d seen—poor slobbering, shuffling things, unable to remember their own names, or follow any but the simplest instructions. Some of them had been put to work, tending gardens and stacking merchandise, while others were left to act out poor facsimiles of the lives they must once have led. She’d even seen an old dead grandmother, once, rocking in a wooden chair before the fire, her slowly-thawing flesh filling the house with the smell of decay.
The thralls came bound with bright silk ribbons, which were supposed to keep them docile (though Magda suspected they were a cruel joke). You had to feed them bread, with a touch of your own blood—and if ever they tasted flesh, they’d slaughter you, and return to the Blue Child’s castle with your guts hanging from their mouths.
If they gave her Peter like that—a half-rotted corpse at the end of a ribbon—she would kill him, then kill herself.
She took a deep breath. She might as well ask. The worst the Blue Child was likely to do was kill her—and that would almost be a blessing. “My lord,” she said, “the boon I want to ask for is... a living child.”
Whispers broke out all around the hall. Behind her, the last petitioners muttered nervously, as if they feared that Magda’s brashness would get them all thrown out.
The Blue Child stared, as if she’d tried to bite him. “A... living child?”
“Yes, my lord.” She couldn’t meet his eyes, for fear she’d lose her nerve. “I don’t need a thrall—I can do my own work. I want a companion. Someone who can speak to me.”
The Blue Child was silent for some time. At last, slowly, he nodded. “Your request is... unusual, but I believe I can grant it. Not a true child,” he added, before Magda’s heart could surge too high, “for that is not where my power lies—but I believe I can give you what you need. Wait here.”
Then he clapped his hands, summoning a page—a little thrall girl with only one arm—and murmured instructions in her shriveled ear. Then, as she tottered off into the darkness, he summoned the next petitioner.
An hour later, Magda staggered home, cradling the Blue Child’s strange gift between her mittens. It was a tiny, lumpy package, wrapped in an onion skin and tied with red string. Mag
da dearly wanted to could look inside, but knew that doing so would break the spell.
All the way home, she recited the Blue Child’s instructions:
‘Plant this bulb at midnight in soil from your husband’s grave. Water it with snow, and a bit of your own blood. You must put the pot on the windowsill, in a room where it can hear you breathing, and tend it faithfully for one hundred days. If you do as I have said, the flower will grow. When it opens, you will have what you desire.’
That night, humming a forgotten song, Magda retrieved a long unused flowerpot from her dusty toolshed. She lined the bottom with rocks, and added a layer of sand from the garden path (down which Peter had carried her, drunk and giggling, on their wedding night). Then she carried the pot to Peter’s grave by the snow-covered seawall. The wind off the frozen sea was so cold it burned like acid, but Magda gritted her teeth, scraped away the snow, and dug out enough of the icy soil to fill the pot.
At home, she set the pot before the fire, and waited several hours for the earth to thaw. It gave off an odd, musty smell as it grew warmer—not bad, but unexpected. At midnight, though the soil was not quite thawed, she dug a hole in it with her fingers and buried the ‘bulb’ inside.
She’d prepared a cup of snowmelt, and a knife to open her skin. Letting her blood drain into the chilly water, she thought how strange it was to water a flower this way, and wondered if the bulb would grow at all. However, she did not dare disobey, and after quite soaking the soil, she set the pot on her bedroom windowsill and went to bed.
For ninety-nine days, nothing happened at all. Each morning Magda checked the pot first thing—and each morning she was freshly disappointed, for the earth was always damp and dark, unbroken and unchanged. Oddly, it never stank, though the smell of her blood should have brought the flies swarming. When the soil dried—as it always did, though there was never any sun to warm it—Magda watered it again with blood and melted snow, then went to bed.
News of her situation had spread, and often her neighbors paused outside the fence to peer at the empty flowerpot on her windowsill. Most of them shook their heads and clucked their tongues. “That’s what happens, dear, when you try to outwit Hel’s Children. Better to have asked for your Peter back, or even some stranger’s child. At least a thrall could have helped you do your work.” Whenever they said this, Magda would look at their own stinking thralls, and nod politely, and bid them good day.
In fact, she was glad that she had no servant, for she found that work took her mind from waiting. There was little enough to do, at first, but when she started looking she found things she’d let slide: the cluttered toolshed, her indoor garden, the frayed hems of her clothing. She cleaned, mended, moved furniture around, and found excuses to talk and trade with her neighbors. Every night, no matter how tired or lonely or mournful she felt, she opened a new cut on her arm and fed the lifeless pot its portion of bloody snowmelt.
On the morning of the hundredth day, a shoot appeared.
When she woke up, Magda didn’t know immediately what she was looking at. Surely this was a dream—the flowerpot was empty, as it had been empty every day before this, and would be empty till the world finally ended. But when she touched the shoot, it was cool and waxy and solid, and seemed to be quite real. A neighbor, passing by, confirmed it: Magda’s boon was growing.
Word spread, and soon everyone in town had come to look. Many had thralls in tow, and the poor dead things displayed odd energy at the sight of the shoot—hooting and grunting, as if they’d encountered a kinsman. Magda let them all stay awhile, then shooed them off, afraid that too much attention would disturb this bright new magic.
But the shoot, though pale, was strong—and grew quickly. Within weeks, it had developed into a hardy green stem, surrounded by long, sleek. It looked a little like a tulip.
For a while it stayed like that—a little taller, day by day, but not changing much. Impatient now, Magda began adding more of her blood to the nightly infusion, and many days walked around so weakened that she felt like a thrall herself. It seemed to be helping, though—for at last a bud began to form.
It was a tight furl of crimson petals, half the size of her fist. She was confused, because she recognized it as an iris bud—but the plant, quite clearly, was no iris—and never in history had an iris been so red. To be safe, though, she started adding compost to the pot, and closed the shutters to keep it warm.
At last, a year to the day after she’d returned from the Blue Child’s castle, she woke to see the flower opening.
She could barely eat, barely dress—this was the day, surely, when her child would arrive. Would it come to the garden gate, as if arriving home from school, or descend from the heavens like one of the Iubar? Should she cut off the flower—offer it as a posy? Or was the flower just a harbinger of the time?
All day she paced beside the flowerpot, offering a little blood and water whenever the soil looked dry. Her nearest neighbor, as it happened, owned the county’s only surviving nanny goat. For the price of her last silver teapot (her mother’s prize possession, but never mind) he sold Magda a bucket of milk. She could only hope the child would drink it.
As night fell, the falls of the iris dropped, and its standards stretched to their full, radiant extent. It was a glorious thing—a perfect, rippling blossom the size of Magda’s hand, with velvet petals the color of fresh blood. In the center, beneath a golden crest, its style-arms clustered close together, protection the organs within.
The flower itself would have been worth a dozen silver teapots, as flowers never grew in the shadow of the Blue Child’s castle. That thought barely occurred to her, however—for she’d opened the window, and could see that no child was coming.
The flower waited. The air was still. Magda moaned, impatient, agonized. She tried to sit and wait, but her cozy house seemed suddenly stifling. At last she put on her threadbare coat and went outside.
She stood for hours in her snow-covered garden, shifting and shivering as the lights went out in all her neighbors’ houses. From time to time she could see the thrall guards passing up the street, dragging their truncheons behind them as they staggered through the snow. Would they bring the child, when it came? Or would they stop it on the street, and keep it from coming at all?
The village clock struck midnight. Magda took a last look at the street, but it was empty. Even the thralls were gone now, brought inside to rest while the next shift of corpses was polished up.
Depression settled over her like frost. There was no child. It had all been a cruel game—a punishment, perhaps, for Magda’s impudence. She should have known better than to trust one of Hel’s Children, should have—
Something rustled behind her. She spun, and saw that the iris was moving.
She ran to the window so fast that she tripped, and fell hard on the frozen ground. As she looked up, she saw the inner petals pushing outward, as if something deep inside the flower were trying to get out.
A sweet, delicate scent began to pervade the air. After a moment, she placed it: it was the perfume Peter had given her on the night when she’d told him she was pregnant. Recognizing it, she finally understood.
“Hello?” She leaned towards the flower, listening so hard she barely dared to breathe. “Are you in there?”
For a second, the petals stilled. Then, slowly, a little naked creature, barely the length of Magda’s thumb, crawled out from beneath the petals.
It was a girl—not a baby, but a little damsel fully-formed. She looked about ten—the age Magda’s own baby would have been, had it survived. Leaning closer, Magda studied the girl’s face, and gasped: the child looked exactly like Peter.
For a long time, they watched each other without speaking. Then, very carefully, Magda set her hand palm-up beside the flower. “Come, darling,” she whispered, afraid the full force of her voice would shatter the child. “Come, darling, let’s get warm.”
The girl stepped daintily onto Magda’s palm. Though the flower was only
cold—chilled by its exposure to the winter night—the girl’s tiny feet burned like chips of dry ice. Wincing, Magda cupped her hand around the child to make a windbreak, and carried her into the house.
The girl’s eyes were the color of pomegranate seeds. Her skin looked like dirty snow. Her lank hair—the same mouse-brown as Peter’s—fell like petals around her face.
“You must be cold,” said Magda, although the girl had not shivered once. “Let’s get you dressed.”
“It’s all right, Mother.” The sweet piccolo voice made every word sound like a song. “I’m quite content.”
Hearing the word ‘Mother’ from this precious child’s lips, Magda wanted to dance. Restraining herself, she merely said, “I’m pleased to hear that, darling—but wouldn’t you like something to wear, just the same?”
The girl cocked her head, as if considering a serious proposition. “If you wish it, Mother, I’d be pleased.”
Magda carried her to the sewing table, and picked up the little white smock she’d found in a dusty box underneath her bed. Of course, it was a thousand times too large for this small maiden, but with only a little pang she cut a slice from the garment’s sleeve, and made a sort of shift. Between them, they fastened it about the child’s waist, tying it with a bit of ribbon. Then Magda opened one of her ancient compacts so the child could admire herself.
The girl studied her reflection, then nodded. “I like it, Mother.” She made a pretty curtsey. “You’re very skilled.”
Magda began to smile—then noticed how thin the girl was. Her skin almost matched the white fabric of her shift—she looked as if she might faint at any second. “But aren’t you hungry, my love?”
For the first time, the little girl shivered. “Yes, Mother. I’m very hungry.”
Quickly, Magda took a thimble to the pot by the fire, and dipped up a bit of soup. It was weak, and the vegetables were sparse, but broth was hot and she thought it might be good for a young stomach. Gently, she offered it to the girl, who took it in two hands as if it were a bucket.
The girl sniffed the broth, then frowned. “I’m sorry, Mother,” she said, shaking her head, “but I cannot drink this soup.”
“Why not?” Magda was immediately worried. “Is it too hot?”
“Oh, no—but I need something richer.”
Then Magda remembered the goat’s milk, and blessed herself for having thought of it. She emptied the thimble, ran to the kitchen, and filled it up with milk.
This time the girl took a sip, and swallowed thoughtfully. Almost immediately, though, she handed the milk back, looking quite ill. “I’m very sorry, but I cannot drink this, either.”
Her voice was much weaker than it had been, and Magda felt a chill. If she couldn’t find anything the child could eat, then the girl would die—and if the girl died, Magda knew she’d die, herself.
She knelt beside the table, and raised her hands as if in prayer. “My angel, you must tell me quickly: what do you need to eat?”
The girl hesitated for so long Magda thought she wouldn’t answer. At last, in a voice that shook like onion skin, she whispered, “If you love me, Mother, please... give me your hand.”
Then Magda remembered the scars on her arms, and all the long months she fed the flower with snow and blood. Feeling suddenly much older, she offered her hand, palm-up.
The girl walked onto the ball of her thumb, then gripped the digit with surprising strength. As she opened her mouth, displaying teeth like white needles, Magda turned her face away.
She bowed her head, trying not to move, as the child began to eat. She could ignore the pain—pain, she’d experienced, and the bites weren’t very big—but the sound of that dainty mouth chewing was difficult to ignore. She told herself, as the blood ran down her hand, that this was the only way.
At last, when her new daughter had stripped all the skin from her thumb, the tearing stopped. Magda raised her trembling hand as the girl chewed her last bite, and let her step back onto the table. Forcing herself to smile, she picked up the old white smock to stem the bleeding.
“Are you all right now?” she said, pressing the cloth against her wounds. “Is that enough?”
“Yes, Mother. Thank you.” The girl wiped her face with an arm that looked much rosier than before. Her cheeks were flushed, and her red eyes gleamed like rubies. “I’ve eaten well, for now.”
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About the Author
Table of Contents
Katherine Traylor is a fantasy writer based in Durham, North Carolina. She read too many fairy tales as a child, too many fantasy novels as an adolescent, and far too much Harry Potter fanfiction in university. The only hope for her now is to let some of the accumulated magic escape into stories of her own. Her upcoming novel, THE WOODS AND THE CASTLE, is a YA paranormal drama about a shy teenage girl with an evil invisible friend. She thanks you sincerely for reading, and hopes you've enjoyed these stories. Best wishes to you!
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