The Onion Girl

by Charles de Lint

  Jack’s making out like he’s in cheerful mode, but it doesn’t wash for me. Hell, he hasn’t even made a single pass at Cassie, and lord knows she’s looking good this morning.

  “Didn’t work out the way we were expecting, did it?” I say after a while.

  Bo shrugs. “I didn’t know what to expect.”

  Jack takes a final drag from his cigarette and flicks the butt into the fire.

  “It’s kind of funny,” he says. “The one time I try to do good and …” He shrugs. “Well, we didn’t manage to do much of anything except tick off some old spirit.”

  “Just making a stand makes a difference,” I say.

  “You think?”

  “I know.”

  He nods. “I suppose you would. But I guess now I know how Cody felt all those times he tried to make things right.”

  That makes Bo laugh. “You kidding us? Maybe we didn’t change anything, but we didn’t screw up the world either.”

  Everybody’s got a story about Cody’s attempts to make the world a better place, from how he’s the reason the humans are here, to his inadvertently welcoming sickness and death into the world. Most of the time his motivation is good; he just goes about it in about as wrong a way as you can. He’s the main reason canids don’t get themselves involved in issues much.

  Jack’s pack of ready-made smokes are gone by now, so he bums my tobacco pouch and rolls himself one, passes the pouch to Bo.

  “So did we learn something from this?” he asks as he lights up.

  Nobody says anything for a moment.

  “Maybe that nobody’s necessarily what we expect them to be,” Cassie says. “Everybody’s got the potential for great good and great wrong in them, but it’s the choices we make that define who we really are.”

  That gets her a blank look from Jack.

  “I mean the way Raylene hated Jilly,” she explains, “but she still took the shotgun blast for her.”

  Jack gives a slow nod. “I was thinking more along the lines of how it’s better to mind your own business, but I suppose that’ll work, too.”

  “You think the one good thing this Raylene did balances out everything else she destroyed?” Bo asks.

  “No,” Cassie tells him. “But it’s a good start.”

  I finish off my coffee. “Time we were going,” I tell Cassie. I look at the boys. “You keep out of trouble now,” I tell them.

  “We don’t even know the meaning of the word,” Jack says, grinning.

  Bo laughs. He gets to his feet.

  “Yeah, time I was going, too,” he says. “I’ve been borrowing this place of Cody’s for long enough. Maybe I’ll have me a look into getting rid of this curse of mine. It’s been too long since I’ve been able to walk on two legs outside of manidò-akì.”

  “You want some company?” Jack asks.

  “I would have thought you’d have some girl waiting for you somewhere,” Cassie teases him.

  “Naw,” he says, shaking his head. “I’m into causes these days.”

  “Lord, help us,” Cassie says.

  Instead of heading directly for home, Cassie and I take a longer route, walking for a while in those red rock canyons, appreciating the sun in our faces, the warmth that sinks right down into our bones. Sometimes I think that everybody photosynthesizes light, not just plants.

  “You’re awfully quiet,” Cassie says after a time.

  I put my arm around her shoulders.

  “I’m just thinking about Jilly,” I say. “I was hoping it’d turn out better for her.”

  “It’s hard on her,” she agrees.

  “And I guess I’m feeling a little like Jack,” I add. “Let down, I mean. I pride myself on being able to take on a problem and fix it, and that hasn’t been the case from the get-go here.”

  Cassie slips her arm around my waist.

  “Welcome to the real world,” she says.

  Jilly

  NEWFORD

  I fall asleep in the middle of talking to Cassie and Joe. When I wake up later, I’m sure I’m dreaming. I haven’t crossed back over into the dreamlands, because I’m still in my room in the rehab, and anyway, I can’t cross over anymore. But nevertheless, this doesn’t seem real.

  I hear a tap-tap on the window and see two faces pressed against the glass, looking at me.

  Crow girls.

  The windows are plate glass and they don’t open, but they do now. They swing wide and the two small dark-haired girls hoist themselves up from the lawn outside to climb into my room. They stand at the end of the bed, holding hands, their hair all spikes, their raggedy black sweaters hanging loose, almost to their knees.

  “Oh, Jillybilly,” one of them says.

  “That’s like a rockabilly,” the other explains, “only not so goatish.”

  “Or as musical.”

  “You don’t have a beard, you see.”

  “It would be all too silly if you did.”

  “And you don’t have a guitar either.”

  “Unless you have one hidden under your pillow.”

  “I don’t,” I tell them.

  They get up onto the end of the bed and sit cross-legged beside each other, looking at me.

  “Why are you here?” I ask.

  “To say we’re sorry,” the one on the left says.

  I know their names: Maida and Zia. But I can never tell them apart the way that Geordie or Joe can.

  “Veryvery sorry,” the other agrees.

  “What do you have to be sorry about?”

  “That we can’t help you.”

  The one on the right nods. “We’ve tried and we’ve tried, but it’s just no use.”

  “We’re useless girls,” the other says.

  “When they were handing out usefulness, we thought they said moosefulness.”

  “So we hid.”

  “We didn’t want to be moose.”

  “Or even mice.”

  “Though sometimes we like to eat mice.”

  “When they’re all sugary,” the one on the left explains.

  “Made of candy, you see.”

  “And we do like a chocolate mousse.”

  “Oh, yes, chocolate’s always good.” The one on the right digs in her pocket and comes up with a brown lump of something that has bits of lint and less identifiable matter stuck to it. “Would you like a piece?”

  “No, thanks.”

  She breaks it in two, handing half to her companion before popping the other half in her mouth.

  “I don’t think you’re useless,” I tell them as they contentedly chew on their chocolate.

  “You’re too kind,” the one on the left says.

  The other nods. “Veryvery kind. Everywhere we go, people say, that Jillybilly, she’s too very kind.”

  “They really do.”

  “But we can heal things, you know.”

  “All sorts of things. Big and small.”

  “Wide and thin.”

  “Sweet and sour.”

  “But not when the hurt’s like the one in you.”

  “It’s okay,” I say. “I know this is something that there’s no magical answer for. Sometimes that’s just the way it works out.”

  The one on the left turns to her companion. “Kind and brave.”

  The one on the right sighs. “Now we feel even worse.”

  “Lying here all on your own, being ever so veryvery brave.”

  “I’m not on my own,” I say. “I’ve got lots of friends to help me through this.”

  They lean over their respective sides of the bed, and peer underneath.

  “Where are you hiding them?” the one on the left asks when she’s sitting up again.

  “They go home at night,” I explain.

  “Of course.”

  “We knew that.”

  “We should go home, too.”

  “Thanks for visiting me,” I say.

  They nod. Then they each reach into their hair and pull out a short dark lock that turn
s into a black crow feather in their fingers. They lay the feathers down on the bedclothes that cover my legs.

  “If you ever think we can help,” the one on the right says, serious now, “hold these in your hand and call our names.”

  “You know our names, don’t you?”

  I nod. “Maida and Zia. Only I can never tell which is which.”

  That makes them giggle. They each point at the other and say, “She’s Maida.”

  “I’m glad you cleared that up for me,” I say.

  That makes them giggle more.

  “Don’t forget,” the one on the left says.

  “I couldn’t ever forget you,” I assure them.

  “And don’t you pay attention to what that old tree sister said.”

  The other nods. “Anybody can fly.”

  “Anybody can dream.”

  They’re talking about the spirit I met in the forest, the one who gifted my sister and me with the light when we were children. I feel hope rise in my chest.

  “You mean I’ll be able to go back to the dreamlands someday?” I ask.

  “Anything can happen someday,” the one on the right says.

  “Call us when you’re ready.”

  “We’re like doors.”

  “You can step through us to wherever you want to go.”

  They hop off the bed and approach me from either side. First one, then the other kisses my brow. With a wave and a grin, they run to the window and jump out. Somewhere between when their feet leave the windowsill and they should be landing on the ground, they turn into crows and fly away, trailing caws that sound like laughter.

  I stare at the window, watching the large pane of plate glass slowly close once more. Then I fall asleep—or slip out of dream sleep into a dreamless one. I’m not sure which. But in the morning there are still two black crow feathers lying on the bedclothes.

  Raylene

  MANIDÒ-AKÌ

  I never really been over here in my own body afore and it’s disconcerting. Everything feels different. It’s mostly the smells and sounds, but my eyes don’t work near so well neither, not like they done when I was a wolf. When I’m a wolf it seems my whole body’s inputting information. It’s coming through the hair covering my skin. It’s coming from some extra senses I can’t even explain.

  The wolf feels free. Runs free. Every movement’s like the flow of water. Right now, I feel like I’m wrapped in burlap and I don’t much like it. But there ain’t a whole hell of a lot I can do about it neither, so I do what I always do, and that’s carry on.

  Once I left my sister, I didn’t go far. I was going to run as far as I could and never look back, but it ended up I only went me a short ways into the woods, then circled back to where I could keep me an eye on doings down below in that little holler. Having done the clean exit like I done, it’d be somewhat of a letdown if I come walking back, but there’s no way I’m leaving my stuff behind.

  For one thing I got me this bloody T-shirt that I don’t want to be wearing Christ knows how long, so I want a change of clothing from my duffel. And then there’s the ol’ shotgun. Without a wolf’s teeth and fangs, I’m going to need me protection against the critters and whatnot they got inhabiting this place. For starters, there’s them dog-faced boys who already told me they was a-gunning for me.

  I got me some food in there, too. Granola bars. Bottled water. And then there’s Pinky’s smokes. I ain’t one for sucking on cancer-sticks, but maybe I can use ’em for trade or something.

  So I sit me down and wait and afore too long, my sister does the fadeaway and it’s just her little friend down below. He sits there for a bit—lost in his head, maybe, I don’t know—then gets up and walks over to the duffel. Show time, I think. I get up my own self and yell down at him.

  “Don’t you even be thinking ’bout poking through my stuff!”

  He gives me this one shocked look and then he’s outta there like a scared jackrabbit, he’s moving so damn fast. I don’t much care where he goes, just so’s he’s gone.

  I slip and slide my way down the slope to where my duffel is and grab me a clean T-shirt, strip off the old one. I don’t know if that little fella’s hanging around getting him an eyeful or what, but it don’t matter none to me. He can look all he wants. But he tries to grab him a handful and he’ll be losing that hand, guaranteed.

  I look down at my chest, still marveling that I ain’t even got me scars from being shot like I was. That’s the first time I notice I got me a kinda tattoo—what looks like a twig, circled by a wreath of little leaves. I touch it with my finger and it feels warmer’n the rest of my skin.

  Weird.

  I put a new shirt on and it feels good against my skin.

  I lay the bloody shirt on top of them stones covering Pinky, then I start to have me a look around some, afraid them dog-faced boys might’ve took the shotgun. I spy it lying where Pinky must’ve dropped it. It don’t seem no worse for the wear, but I crack her open and sight down the barrels all the same, making sure they ain’t got all clogged with dirt or nothing. Then I eject the spent shells and feed in a couple of fresh ones. I store the casings in my duffel—this far from nowhere, you never know what could be useful.

  I take me a last look at that pile of stones covering Pinky.

  “I’m going to miss you,” I tell her, but I don’t reckon she’s around to hear.

  Dead’s gone, the way I see it. Hell, I was halfway there my own self, so I know what I’m talking about. There’s no hanging ’round, waiting to say how-do to them that’s left behind. You die, you got other business. Like falling up into that sweet light that got took away from me.

  I get me another pang of hurt to add to all them sorry feelings rattling around inside me when I think of that light.

  “Hope it took you, Pinky,” I say.

  Maybe we’ll see each other again on the other side of the light but I ain’t holding my breath, waiting on it.

  I heft my duffel in one hand, the shotgun in the other, and I set off into the woods again. I remember what my sister told me ’bout some inn, so I head off in that direction. I ain’t much in the mood for socializing, but I wouldn’t mind me a bed to sleep in, and maybe something hot to drink.

  I wonder what passes for money in this place?

  It’s a long trek and, time to time, I get the idea someone’s following me, but I never do catch me a glimpse of no one. Could be my sister’s little friend, I guess. Or maybe one of them dog-faced boys. Makes no never mind to me, just so long as they keep their distance and leave me alone. I don’t want to use this shotgun, but I ain’t a-feared to neither.

  I figure I walked me a couple of days, easy, getting to that inn. It’s hard to tell ’cause the light don’t change. I never really sleep, but I have me a rest from time to time. Finish off my granola bars. Drink all my water. I pass a stream or two and I reckon the water’s clean, but I ain’t too sure I trust it so I hold off until I’ve gone a few hours without a drink and I don’t care anymore. The next stream I come to, I fill them water bottles and have me a good long drink. Don’t feel much of nothing ’cept my thirst’s gone and I ain’t so hungry anymore.

  Back around the first couple of hours, I tore my other spare shirt to make me a sling for the shotgun and I took to carrying the duffel on my back, using the handles like they was back straps. I would’ve just kept the shotgun in the duffel, but not knowing the first damn thing ’bout what I might run into in these woods, it seemed a safer idea to keep it handy.

  The last stretch is a killer. The slope leading outta the woods don’t seem like much of nothing, but once you’re walking it, it feels like it’s just gonna head on up forever. But I finally get me to the big gray-stone building I seen from below. I consider stowing away the shotgun afore I step inside, but end up going in, carrying it in my hand.

  The inn’s nothing like I expected. I guess I was thinking along the lines of the Sleep Comfort Motel, up on Highway 14, north of the city, but this is fairyland an
d what I get is a thatched roof on top of fieldstone. It’s sure enough big, though. I’ll give it that.

  I walk through an archway into a cobblestoned courtyard that’s like some picture book—it’s even got itself one of them old-fashioned wells, smack there in the middle. I can smell fresh bread and some kinda spicy stew and it sets my stomach rumbling. There’s a sign ’bove a door on the left says:

  Inn of the Star-Crossed

  From the noise drifting outta the door, I figure this’ll be the café or restaurant or whatever they’re going to call it, so I head in that direction. When I step inside it’s like I’m in one of them fairy-tale books my sister used to read to me. I mean, there’s some humans sitting at that big mess of tables and benches and all I find inside, but mostly what we got here is every which kind of elf, dwarf, and animal-faced creature you can pretty much imagine. I don’t figure I’m going out on much of a limb here to say that any normal body like my own self is going to feel herself to be a little outta place.

  And soon’s I come in, it’s like I stepped into some ol’ western movie—you know, where the stranger comes walking into the saloon and the whole damn place goes quiet, everybody just a-looking at you, taking your measure. Well, I can give me as good as I get and I just go from face to face, staring ’em down until everybody’s minding their own business again and I can make my way to the bar. They start in talking soon enough, and I know they’re talking about me, but so long as all they’re giving me is sidelong glances, I don’t much care. Unlike my poor dead Pinky, I purely hate being the center of attention at the best of times, but at least this way I can pretend I’m not.