by Zoje Stage
“Let’s get ready, before we lose the light.”
Orla held out her hand, and Eleanor Queen rolled off the chair.
In their former life, she’d never have suggested dragging either of her sensitive children on a hunt. They—in her heart, she was still the mother of two children—would have buried their horrified faces when the first blood dripped onto the snow. But even if Eleanor Queen hadn’t felt connected to the spirit, there was no way Orla would have left her behind, not when Shaw had appeared in animal form. And not when the being was continually improving on Her tricks. The spirit might claim She wouldn’t hurt her daughter, but it was too easy for Orla to imagine shooting a deer, only to have a corpse stare back at her with Eleanor Queen’s brown eyes.
They nibbled on the sweet pickle relish. Lunch. Tycho had eaten most of it—it had become a favorite side dish during their lean days—and there wasn’t much left. Eleanor Queen agreed to bring her bow so she could shoot at the occasional target. Orla had debated between the guns. The rifle remained the more logical choice for shooting large mammals. But Orla decided to go for a pheasant or a goose, even a crow. She told herself it wouldn’t be so different from preparing a Thanksgiving turkey, though the turkey came with its innards conveniently segregated in a plastic bag. The shotgun would work better for a rabbit or a squirrel too, though she guessed the local squirrels weren’t quite as domesticated as the ones she’d cooed over at city parks, fearless beggars that had almost taken food from outstretched hands.
She hated the gun and hated loading it. For her final precautionary measure, she tied one end of a rope around Eleanor Queen’s waist and the other around her own waist. So they couldn’t get separated. So there’d be no mistakes. So Eleanor Queen won’t run away. Her daughter scowled and rolled her eyes. Orla tried to convince herself it was hunger turning her sweet child surly, not the influence of a powerful and desperate entity. Her plan was to walk in a circle or a square—not unlike what Shaw had intended on his first venture away from the house—and not double back on her snow prints until it was time to return home.
While they’d been eating their meager lunch, the tree line had closed in yet again; it stood only feet away from the house. They eased through the trunks, turning as they needed so their coats wouldn’t scrape against the bark. Eleanor Queen must have felt it too, the fear of one coming to life and grabbing her if she awakened it with a touch. Orla worried that even if she could summon the energy for another round of hunting on another day, the trees might have fully imprisoned them by then. The dying spirit was unhappy; she read Her displeasure in the tight placement of the trees. Once they were past where the tree line had once stood, the land opened up a bit. Orla resumed breathing.
They headed off in a direction between the garage and the giant tree, and Orla planned to circumvent both; Eleanor Queen didn’t need to see the blue poking through the snow—the tarp that hid her father’s body.
“We’re going hunting, not leaving,” Orla called toward the giant tree. “Eleanor Queen needs to eat—You don’t want her to starve.”
In her mind it rained, and then the sun beat down. And the leaves caught the water, the light, and channeled the nutrients downward through the veins in a thick trunk, into a hidden expanse of roots. That’s what Eleanor Queen needs, so she won’t die.
“She understands hunger. She wishes She could help,” said Eleanor Queen.
“So She can read me when She wants to. How nice—”
“But you can’t understand Her.”
Well, she could when the entity looked like her husband. Maybe later she’d try summoning Her—is that what had happened the night before? If She couldn’t be convinced to take Orla instead, maybe Orla could waste more of Her energy, Her life force. Orla clearly remembered Her saying how taxing it was to speak so directly. What a victory it would be if she could get Her to talk Herself to death.
“She doesn’t have long, Mama—”
“Build your wall, Eleanor Queen.”
“It’s hard to ignore when something’s crying—”
Orla turned and sprang at her daughter, mooing like a crazed cow.
The girl shrieked, then got angry. “What are you doing?”
“Breaking your concentration.”
Eleanor Queen shot her a glare, and they resumed walking. Orla didn’t like the silence that settled between them, or the squint of concentration on the girl’s face. Was she listening to Her? Or was Eleanor Queen doing the talking now, ratting Orla out to the spirit, telling Her how her mother didn’t want them hanging out together anymore? Mama said you’re a liar. Orla couldn’t afford to lose her influence over her own child.
“Why don’t you try out your bow? See if you can hit that fallen tree.” Distraction, a mother’s handy backup plan whenever reasoning—or pleading—failed.
They stopped on some part of the homestead they’d never been before, and Eleanor Queen nocked an arrow onto her bow. Orla stood silently and watched her focus; she had no advice to offer, knowing nothing about archery, and trusted that Eleanor Queen, an avid reader, had done some research somewhere along the way. Her daughter’s patience was impressive. She pushed the bow away from her body and sighted her target—a rotten tree, half of it upright and supported by a living tree. When she was ready, she let the arrow loose.
It connected with a thwunk that made them both grin. “Well done—you’re a natural at this.”
Connected by their rope umbilicus, they trudged through deeper drifts to retrieve Eleanor Queen’s arrow. Orla opted to believe that as they moved farther from the great pine, her daughter’s connection to the spirit lessened and she became more herself, alternately watchful of the world around them and absorbed in her private thoughts. She huddled a few feet behind her mother whenever Orla aimed the gun, and covered her ears when she fired. Unlike Eleanor Queen, Orla never hit her intended targets, wasting precious shotgun shells. Their dinner flew away squawking. Panicked. Maybe they were treading too heavily, making too much noise. More likely she couldn’t shoot for shit. Her only triumph was not getting lost, their footprints a guiding path back to their prison.
What a failure. She needed to put supper on the table but could only hit a stationary target the size of a bear who masked a frightened man.
42
Eleanor Queen picked out a movie to watch, but Orla had a hard time sitting still. She got up often, needing to move, to do something useful. She’d never understood before how some of her slightly anorexic company-mates had the energy to dance; Orla had needed huge meals to counterbalance the calories she lost through constant physical activity. But now that she was wasting away, some internal mechanism had clicked on and she felt like a perpetual motion machine. She tidied the living room and kitchen and washed all of their bedding.
To her surprise, instead of sticking with her movie, Eleanor Queen went wherever she did and helped with every task. She was like a different child, and it unnerved Orla that her daughter was behaving more like her son. Staying close, even to do chores, where once she would have begged off after a while to do her own thing.
“You okay?” Orla asked as they fitted clean sheets on the mattress. She would have understood if her daughter needed her company or reassurance. But Eleanor Queen only smiled, her eyes full of secrets.
Orla had the uncharitable notion that Eleanor Queen wasn’t needy or trying to be conciliatory or helpful—she was keeping an eye on her. Keeping her mother within sight, as Orla was doing with her. But why?
After numerous breaks, they finally reached the end of the movie.
“Mama? Just so you know.” Eleanor Queen tucked the DVD away on its shelf.
“Hmm?” Hunger was making Orla drowsy.
“She didn’t crush the house. With an avalanche or anything.”
The words crush and avalanche startled her. She perked up, alert. “What?”
Eleanor Queen slipped onto the mattress, snuggled under a blanket. “She could have. But She doesn’t want to hurt you. See, S
he’s given you this safe house to come to, again and again. And She’s giving you as much time as She can to come to your senses.”
Within minutes her daughter was sound asleep, breathing evenly. Orla wasn’t sure what to make of Eleanor Queen’s words, which seemed less a reassurance than a warning. If she’d been hoping the day would wedge some distance between the spirit and her daughter, now it seemed more likely that She—They?—had been letting Orla’s productivity lull her into a false sense of security, even as they continued scheming. In spite of everything, Eleanor Queen had taken Her side. How would Orla bring her back around? Would the spirit be yet another soul her daughter would mourn?
Now was Orla’s chance. She ducked into Shaw’s studio, leaving the door ajar an inch so she could hear if Eleanor Queen got up. As she had the night before, she focused on a painting—one that featured the cure cottage, with the surreal imagery of the great pine behind it. It made more sense now, why a sickly girl would have wanted to go from a bleak temporary home to a more regal and permanent one. Orla let the images, the myth such as she knew it, fill her mind as she spoke aloud, hoping to repeat the actions that had summoned Her in human form.
“Shaw? I think…you knew more than you realized. The more I know, the more I see how you were painting Her legacy, Her desire. How do I make you—Her—understand, and agree, that I am the home She needs? Please, let’s keep discussing this.”
Wind rattled the windowpane. But Shaw didn’t come.
Her attention wandered to another painting, the one where the bones protruded from the trunks as if something had mowed down the forest. Could this be a message directly from Shaw, not from his muse? Is this what he’d really wanted to do to the trees before they’d identified the source of the problem?
What else had he kept from her? Were they things he hesitated to analyze himself, or was he simply too afraid to share, to vocalize, lest she write him off as deranged? In a frenzy, she started going through his stuff. His sketches, his notes, his books. What research had he done, cooped up alone in his room, to try and understand what was happening? She scanned his reference books. He’d collected various types over the years—art history, how to write/draw/knit/sculpt, encyclopedias of his various interests…of course!
She should have thought of it sooner. Shaw hadn’t seen the close-up of the pentagram, but this was where Orla should have looked first. She seized his book on signs and symbolism and sat on the floor, flipped to the index at the back: Pentagram, page 127. Quickly, she found the section, complete with a bold drawing of a star in a circle.
“The five elements,” said a voice.
Orla screamed. Earlier she might have been expecting someone, but not now, and not this one. It was her daughter. In the doorway. A sleepwalker. A ghost.
“What do you know about this?” And how had Eleanor Queen known what she was looking at?
“Earth. Air. Fire. Water. Aether. I looked it up in Papa’s book, after we saw the necklace under the microscope.” She nodded her head, a response to some faraway communication. “She’s remembering things.”
“Stop listening!”
“With one point up, it means ‘spirit ascending above matter.’ It’s a beautiful thing. And it worked! She ascended above matter!”
She checked the book; Eleanor Queen had quoted it exactly right. Orla scrabbled to her feet, leapt over the blood droplets from the night before, and clutched Eleanor Queen’s shoulders. Shook her a little—to wake her, or separate her from the entity, or rattle her back into the shape of her beloved daughter. “Eleanor Queen! Please stop, please.”
The girl blinked, as if waking up. “Are you coming to bed, Mama?”
“Yes, yes, right now.”
Eleanor Queen, looking a little perplexed by Orla’s distress, took her hand and led her back to the living room.
It was God-knows-o’clock before Orla fell asleep. The answers were falling into place, but she still didn’t have the Get Out of Jail Free card. Spirit ascending above matter. A nameless girl used her arcane beliefs to evade death, to project herself into a sturdier body. Had she mastered the five elements? Was that the source of her power, and of whatever she had since become? Orla kept her arm around her daughter. Keep her close. Keep her safe. She would have reattached them both to the rope if they could have slept comfortably that way. The girl squirmed in her sleep and turned over so their spines were pressed together. A good enough connection.
Orla dreamed of ballet. A younger version of herself who partnered with an older version of her son. He was strong and magnificent. Ten effortless pirouettes. The thin arms of a boy not quite a man. It gladdened her to see him in a future she hadn’t ever envisioned. Her growling stomach awakened her early. The wan light of an overcast day filled the windows, but she wished they could sleep, sleep…sleep until the blasted entity died or moved on.
She doesn’t have long; that’s exactly what Eleanor Queen had said.
But Orla needed to hunt, to keep searching for food. Sitting back and waiting wasn’t a viable option—how long was “not long” to a creature who had devised her own immortal evolution? In another few days Orla might be too wasted to traipse through the snow. Or, if the trees lost patience, she might not be able to squeeze her way past the porch. She thought it might be common practice to clean a gun after every use, but Orla didn’t intend to try. The likelihood of blowing her own head off seemed too high. Maybe she’d take the clean rifle instead; the trees would probably appreciate not having their limbs splintered and pocked with buckshot every time a bird she was aiming at took flight.
For the millionth time, she tried not to think of how different things would be if she had the internet. Beyond being able to summon help, she’d have so much more info, so many more choices, with the armament of technology. Maybe she could’ve learned a spell as effective as the TB girl’s had been, one that would trap her or silence her or put her to “sleep,” as Orla’s father had done to so many elderly animals.
When she rolled over, the bed beside her was empty. Eleanor Queen had likely slipped upstairs to use the bathroom, but Orla had had too many frightening mornings to rest easily on that thought.
Upstairs, the bedroom doors were closed; they’d agreed it was too upsetting to see so many reminders of their once-normal life and the people they’d shared it with. The bathroom door stood open, but it was empty. Orla backtracked to her daughter’s room.
“Love?”
Maybe the girl had crept up to her room at some point in the night, tired of postapocalyptic indoor camping. (But in her mind she knew.) Orla hoped to see her burrowed under her comforter, angelic in sleep and unaware of their troubles, but when she opened the door, the bed was untouched. She checked Tycho’s room—maybe her daughter missed her old bunk. (But in her mind she knew.) The abandoned state of the room was doubly unnerving. She checked her own room, though it was no longer a comfortable place for sleeping.
It was coming. Again. The madness. The terror. She hurried into layers of clothes.
“Eleanor Queen?” Back downstairs, she darted into Shaw’s studio, then the kitchen. But in her heart she knew.
Maybe the entity hadn’t let Eleanor Queen sleep at all. Maybe they’d made an arrangement that excluded Orla, a secret rendezvous. Her head throbbed against her tight skull at the possibility that her sweet girl had agreed to some plan long before they started watching movies and cleaning. Had her daughter been humoring her? Waiting for her to succumb to exhaustion? Pretending to be helpful and agreeable—and then asleep—only because she’d mastered the entity’s silent language and was planning to slip out the door?
Was it too late?
The ax was in Shaw’s closet, brought up from the basement when they’d feared the kitchen roof might collapse.
The ax was the weapon she needed, not the rifle.
She grabbed it.
Got into her gear.
Headed out for the final battle.
43
Eleanor Queen wa
s sitting on the ground by the ancient pine, her legs folded beneath her, her eyes closed. She didn’t react as Orla strode toward her, and Orla didn’t ask what she was doing. She went to the other side of the tree and drew back the ax. Struck it with all her might. Drew back and struck again. The solidity of it reverberated in her hands, up her arms. It was like striking a rock. She might break herself trying to destroy it, but she considered it worth the risk.
Mow it down. Even if it bleeds.
“Stop!” Her daughter’s voice, shrill and panicked.
Orla didn’t stop. In the outskirts of her vision, Eleanor Queen jumped to her feet, her face a haggard mask of terror. But the girl’s despair was fully human, which brought a relief that drove Orla even harder.
Thwack!
Thwack!
Her arms tingled all the way to the shoulders. Chunks of bark crumbled away, but the ax barely made an indentation in the trunk itself.
“Mama!”
Thwack. “Step back, Eleanor Queen.”
“Stop it!”
“You let my daughter go now! You’ve lived Your life, You greedy fucking—” Thwack.
Eleanor Queen collapsed to her knees, howling in pain. Her body convulsed, throwing her backward, but she fought to right herself, arms flailing as she grasped for the tree.
Orla had almost expected some physical sign of her severing the entity from her child’s mind. But Eleanor Queen’s screams were too much to ignore. She dropped the ax and flung herself at Eleanor Queen, afraid her daughter’s spasms were going to break her slender bones. A war waged inside the girl and Orla had barely the strength to hold her on her lap.
For a terrible moment she feared she’d succumbed to another illusion—had she taken the ax to her daughter, not the tree? Why was Eleanor Queen writhing in so much pain?
“Eleanor Queen!” Orla ran her hands over her, fumbled open her coat, searching for blood. But whatever the pain’s source was, there were no external wounds.