The Will and the Wilds

by Holmberg, Charlie N.

I rush to the washbasin, but not quickly enough. Falling to my knees, I vomit onto the kitchen floor.

  I try to apply my thoughts elsewhere, but it’s of no use. I burn dinner, leaving my father to eat bread and cheese for his evening meal. I don’t eat anything. My stomach has twisted too tightly. My pulse hasn’t settled. The Telling Stone hangs useless at my wrist. At least, though Maekallus failed to seal the bargain we made, the gobler hasn’t come back. At least there is that.

  As the sun begins to set, I look out the kitchen window toward the three graves at the back of our property. Their stones are small, and oon berry and lavender cluster like weeds over them, protecting them from the worst kinds of mysting. My father has already lost his wife and his parents. I imagine him plunging his shovel into the ground a fourth time to dig a resting place for me. Me, whom he gave up so much to protect.

  I weep.

  So this is it. I’ve two options: kiss Maekallus or leave him to die. The outcome of either choice is unsure.

  Let Maekallus die, and die with him.

  Let Maekallus die, and hope I live.

  Kiss Maekallus and save him, but lose my soul.

  Kiss Maekallus and save him, and myself.

  It’s a chance, albeit one that requires me to trust that the narval being devoured in the wildwood will not devour me.

  But before I do that, I must do something else. Whether I live or die, I want one good memory to cling to. And so after I settle my father by the fire, I sneak out the kitchen door and venture toward town, my path lit orange by the sunset. It feels strange to walk this way without a basket on my arm, for I never go into town unless driven by need, and that need is always to sell and to buy. Empty handed save for a lantern, I feel awkward. I notice the people around me more, and even if they don’t glance my way, my mind tricks me into feeling their stares. My pulse echoes against my hand. I force myself forward. I will not cow from this, though I’ve never in my life been so bold about anything.

  By the time I reach the Lovess farm, I’m sweating, so I slow down and let the descending twilight cool me. I light my lantern and check my pockets for tapis root, just in case my stone chills. But the Telling Stone remains only cool, a reminder of Maekallus’s distant presence.

  My belly flutters when I reach the farmhouse, like my body is stuffed with grass clippings stirred by the wind. I keep moving onward. Reach the door and knock. If I die tonight, and if I keep my memories in the world beyond, I will regret not doing this. Tennith can turn me away, certainly. But at least I will have tried.

  Fate pities me, for it is he who answers the door. Changed out of his riding leathers into mud-stained breeches and a loose linen shirt tucked snugly at the waist. The laces of his collar are done up tightly and modestly. Light from the hearth makes his hair look the deepest shade of gold.

  He does not hide the surprise from his blue eyes, or from his voice. “Enna? It’s almost dark—has something happened?”

  “Who is it?” calls his mother. I’m grateful when he doesn’t answer.

  “Nothing is amiss,” I whisper, embarrassed to know his family is so near. “But . . . I must speak with you, if you’ll grant me a moment. Alone.”

  His brow furrows ever so slightly, but he nods, then calls back into the house to say a chicken is loose. He lies so easily. I wonder if an escaped animal is commonplace, or if he’s needed reason to leave home at night before. Perhaps his wits are simply quicker than I give him credit for.

  I don’t linger on the subject. He closes the door. “This way,” he says, and steps past me. I smell earth and lavender on his clothes as he passes. I extinguish my lantern, preferring to lose any looming humiliation to the shadows.

  He brings me past the house, around to the barn. It’s locked up for the night. I hear the shifting of cattle and a few bleating sheep within. Twilight fills the air with hues of violet and indigo. He stops by the side of the barn, and I linger near him, somehow able to feel the heat radiating from him.

  “Enna . . .” His voice is soft. “What’s happened? Your father?”

  I manage the smallest smile. “Did you not believe me when I said nothing is amiss?” It was a lie, but I cannot trust the truth of my peril to Tennith. I dare not even confide in my own father. Not where a mysting is concerned.

  He returns the smile, though the night begins to blue his features. “I thought perhaps you were sparing the family. Being private.”

  “I suppose I was.”

  His head tilts slightly as he studies me, and I’m grateful for the dark. “Did you find your rabbit? I assume it was a rabbit snare you set.”

  “Alas, Tennith, I have little time, and I can’t spend it chatting about my ventures in the wildwood.” I try to make my tone light, but Tennith instantly sobers. I steel myself, but there’s no way around this. No flowery words that will give me what I want without asking for it. I’m afraid I must be blunt, and my heart pounds in the anticipation of it.

  I take a deep breath. “I was hoping you would kiss me.”

  Tennith straightens against the barn door. “What?”

  “I spoke clearly. Please don’t make me repeat myself.” My neck and face burn like I’ve fallen headfirst into embers. “And please . . . don’t ask me to explain. I’m hoping you’ll see this as, well, a simple request. You may, of course, turn it down. I will harbor no grudges toward you if you do.”

  A single soft chuckle escapes his lips, and he runs a hand back through his hair. “Huh. I just . . . I’m surprised, is all.”

  “Is it so surprising?”

  He drops his hand. Focuses on my eyes. “Perhaps not so surprising.”

  I roll my lips together. Clasp my lantern before me. Try not to fidget. Wait.

  Tennith steps away from the barn door, closing the distance between us with a single stride. His fingers come up beneath my hair, and the warmth of them shoots shivers down my shoulders and back. My clammy hands grip the lantern tighter. Thoughts without meaning or purpose sing through my mind.

  He tilts his head and presses his lips to mine. I stop breathing, savoring the feel of my first kiss. It’s warmer than I expected. His lips are a little rough, but his movements are gentle, as are his fingertips at the nape of my neck.

  It lasts a moment, then another, before he pulls away. I breathe again, filled with the scents of earth and lavender. The world looks a little darker; twilight has slipped into night, and I can barely make out his face anymore. But perhaps that’s for the better.

  “Enna—”

  “Thank you,” I say, a little breathy. He begins to speak, but I talk over him. “Please don’t ask me to explain. Not now.”

  He closes his mouth and acquiesces.

  His kiss lingering on my lips, I light my lantern and walk away. There’s nothing more to be said. I only hope that Tennith understands.

  Stars begin peeking through the shade of night as I make my way into the wildwood.

  No one ventures through the wildwood at night. I am no exception. Or, I was.

  I’ve herbs in my pockets, and after I ensure I’m not followed, I chant little spells my grandmother taught me as I pass between trees that, in the darkness, have grown into looming giants, their branches like claws and their leaves hundreds of teeth. I clutch my Telling Stone in my left hand, waiting for it to turn cold. It chills twice, once for a freblon and again for a rooter. I quicken my step. They are miles off, but I track them in the back of my mind, ever wary. I hear a sizzle, and then another, as blood from the cut on my hand seeps through the bandage and drips onto the hot glass of the lantern. From that alone, I know Maekallus is still alive, but barely.

  If he dies, will my death creep upon me as his corruption has, or will I fall to the earth suddenly, my life fizzling away like these drops of blood? Will I be denied entrance into Shava, the world of spirits, if I die by the magic of mystings?

  I would not know the way to his glade if not for the stone. I smell that putrid scent as I near. The light of the lantern spills ont
o him, a mass of tar and waste, bubbling and writhing. He looks up, hair matted to his skin, one heavy yellow eye taking me in.

  The red light binding him glows through the darkness my lantern does not reach. I turn slowly, holding my lantern high, ensuring there is no one else in this part of the wood. No one can witness what I’m about to do. I’d only give fodder to the rumors that I’m a witch, though name-calling is the least of my fears.

  When I’m certain we’re alone, I whisper, “Maekallus,” though my voice sounds loud in the forest. Even the crickets and nightfowl fear to go near him, driven away by the wrongness of his misery. He does not answer, but a heavy, struggling breath passes from him. The mound of his back and arms shifts up and down, straining for air.

  I’m strangely calm as I approach him. Perhaps my body has expended all the nervous energy it can hold, and it can spare no more. Perhaps Tennith’s kiss has calmed my soul. Perhaps, unknowingly, I’ve finally resigned myself to my fate, whatever it may be.

  I set the lantern down on matted grass three paces from the mysting. I clench my fists, and blood squelches from my right. Avoiding the ashen horn, I kneel before him. His wary, pained eye watches me. It’s a morbid sight, and I hold my breath against the smell.

  I push my fists onto the ground for balance. Count to three once, then again, before leaning in and pressing my lips to the sludge smearing his. It is cold, it is vile, it is nothing until something shatters deep within me and claws upward like spiders.

  It wrenches loose, tearing free from my body, and I gasp as it escapes.

  CHAPTER 7

  Rooters are generally docile mystings. They are intelligent, enjoy solitude, and prefer dwelling in a mortal forest over anything else.

  Maekallus chokes as the soul fills him, evaporating every lesion and boil from his skin, spinning away the bloody slurry as though it had never been. Swelling vanishes, pain fades, and hunger quenches. He rasps as crisp, clean air fills his stinging lungs. Relief stronger than any his soulless body can feel on its own winds cool circles under his skin.

  The soul’s vigor—its emotions, its power, its life—dances inside him, a newly lit flame, bright and real and . . . incomplete?

  Maekallus blinks, coming to himself. Looks at the trodden but clean grass underneath his fingers. His skin, unmarked and clear. He pushes himself onto his knees, his back popping like freshly kindled firewood. He rolls his neck, flexes his fists and arms. Yes, the vigor is unmistakable, but it feels . . . different. His eyes shoot to the trembling mortal foolish enough to save him. Her blue eyes look back at him, pained and deep and very much alive. They lack the dullness and complacency of a mortal whose soul had been devoured.

  She solidifies the assessment when she croaks, “What did . . . you do to me?”

  Maekallus is up on his hooves in an instant, cloaked by the thickness of night. He presses a hand to his chest, where the soul burns—and where the gobler’s binding tugs him earthward. Still the thread holds him to this realm. The feeding—can he call it a feeding if it’s incomplete?—has not broken that.

  He curses, but his attention steals back to the girl.

  This has never happened before. Somehow . . . yes. Somehow, he only absorbed part of her soul. He stares at her, trying to figure it out, all while his limbs flood with energy, aching to stretch and leap. Her soul invigorates him, even if it’s only a piece.

  He steps back, then forward, holding her gaze, trying to decipher it. What makes her different? Was this, perhaps, why the goblers had come for her? Had they sensed she’s special?

  She pulls her gaze away first, focusing on a bloodied bandage around her hand, where the deal had been struck. She tugs off the gauze and holds her hand to the light. It reflects off a thin, smooth scar. Had the bargain been fulfilled, there would be no mark at all. But this . . . this exchange had healed it, for now. Maekallus looks at his own hand. His own matching scar.

  He licks his teeth and flicks his tail, considering. He can break the bargain, of course. Free the mortal. But then she’ll have no further reason to help him. He’ll die and descend into nothingness, but not before going mad by this cage of trees . . . gods below, he’s still bound to this cage.

  Even if he refuses to release the mortal from their deal, no consequences will come to her should he die. Yet his survival depends on this woman—this strange woman—believing otherwise.

  He breathes deeply, savoring the vitality, the feeling, inside him. “What are you?” he asks.

  Her eyes look back to him, one shadowed by night, one lit by the lantern. “What do you mean?”

  “You’re different from other mortals,” he says, crouching so he can see the rest of her soul through her eyes. Humans have such telling eyes. “What are you?”

  Her fine brows cross. “I am what you call me! What have you done to me, mysting?” Her gaze falls to the narrow web of red light projecting from his chest. “Why is it not broken?”

  Maekallus growls. “I don’t know. I don’t know how to break it, without killing the gobler. And I cannot kill the gobler because even if I could leave this forsaken glade, I wouldn’t know where to find him. Not until he resurfaces in this realm.” And close by, else Maekallus might be unable to decipher the tug of the bargain. Perhaps if he can get the blood of a mystium . . . but that is just as unlikely as finding the ga’goning bastard who’d bound him here. The only binding spells he knows are the ones that seal promises between mortals and his own kin.

  The woman clutches her breast, breathing deeply. He can almost sense her pain through the partial soul’s vigor. How strange.

  “What is your name?” he asks.

  “Perhaps if you answer my question, Maekallus, I’ll be tempted to continue answering yours.”

  He grins. Fiery, for a mortal. “Part of your soul lives within me.”

  Her head snaps up, eyes brighter than the lantern. “What? But you said—”

  “I said I wasn’t sure what would happen.” He stands to his full height. A lie. A partial one, at least. He hadn’t known this would happen, but he can steal the soul of any mortal with a willing kiss, whether or not he wants it—though he always does. To feel the way humans do, with their cluster of ever-changing emotions and vitality, even for the few hours it lasts . . . yes, he always wants it.

  Humans attribute their emotions and their ability to experience them to their hearts, but hearts are simple flesh, just like all the body’s organs. It’s the soul that hosts those sensations, and the soul alone.

  She takes several deep breaths before speaking again. “But you are healed . . . and so am I.” She grabs the lantern and struggles to stand. The light from the tiny flame swings through the glade, making the trees’ shadows lean and bend.

  “For now.” He studies the binding, passing his hand through its red shimmer. “For now.”

  CHAPTER 8

  The best song for keeping away mystings is “The Widow’s Lullaby”: Bai sharam, sharam, on whi. Bai sharam on whi, repeated over and over. I theorize that it is not the words that stave off evil, but the rhythm in which they’re said.

  “My name is Enna.”

  The words hurt as they come up my throat. I feel as though the narval reached his hand down it, up to his elbow, and grabbed something from deep inside me. I’m raw and sore and so very tired. I struggle to keep my eyes open, despite the revelation that Maekallus hosts a piece of my soul.

  A piece of my soul. What does it mean? I squeeze the Telling Stone for comfort and focus on keeping the lantern steady.

  “Enna.”

  I look up at him, at his yellow eyes and calculating stare. The moment I kissed him, all the tar, all the rot vanished as though it had never been. The way he looks, the way he stands, is entirely predator, as though I’m an injured boar and he doesn’t know if I’ll fall or summon the strength to strike one last time. He seems almost as surprised at our predicament as I am. At least there is some tiny comfort in that.

  He snorts. “Mortals have such s
imple names.”

  “Then you can start calling me by my simple name and stop calling me ‘mortal.’ Or ‘girl,’ or ‘woman.’” I falter, and the light of the lantern swings. “I feel . . . ill.” And Papa must have discovered my absence, unless he fell asleep in his chair. I pray that he has. I should not leave him for so long, besides. “I must go.”

  “The binding still holds.”

  “I know. I’ll come back tomorrow.” I can’t think like this. I don’t even know if I can walk all the way home, but I know better than to sleep in the wildwood. “You’ll have to suffer until I’m back.”

  He steps forward, his body tense, tail twitching. “I cannot stay here.” He looks at the surrounding wood as though it’s ready to come alive. What does a mysting have to fear from the wildwood?

  “You’ll have to.” I eye him, the shadows hugging his shirtless body, masked by the night. He’ll last at least a few days. He did before, he can do it again. And maybe . . . maybe the piece of myself that lives within him will make him last a little longer.

  I can feel it, somehow. My heart aches for its return.

  I don’t offer him any more goodbye than that. I press my hand against a tree, then another, picking my way out of the wildwood. Trying to listen to the forest beyond my own labored breathing. I think I fall asleep on my feet a few times as I trek toward home under the light of the moon, praying and chanting verse to keep evils away.

  I don’t even remember arriving home, but when I awake, that is where I am.

  The hurt is less in the morning, as is the fatigue, but they’re both present, as though it’s the end of the day and not the start of it. So is the nagging sensation that something is missing, like I’ve forgotten something, yet I can’t pinpoint what it could be.

  The Telling Stone is cool where it touches my wrist, reminding me that Maekallus is near, while promising that other mystings are not.

  I wash my face, comb my hair, and change into my favorite dress. Sage green with a high neck and long sleeves trimmed with homemade lace. I trace the mark the gobler left before wrapping it with more salt and tusk nettle. I help my father with breakfast, chatting with him as though I hadn’t kissed a mysting in the wildwood last night, giving up part of my soul. As if I hadn’t offered myself to Tennith Lovess just before. I wonder what Tennith thinks of me, then realize it doesn’t matter.