Whiteland

by Rosie Cranie-Higgs

  Subtle staring isn’t easy, but she tries. In the flame-lit gloom, the room looks bare, and rather like a hobbit-hole. A rug, two thick piles of furs, and an earth-and-rock-hewn fireplace occupy the centre, candle-littered ledges skirting the edges. A narrow passage winds farther underground. Intrusion hits Kira like a heated sheet, cringing in her mind. In the corner with the candle sits a table, a female version of the skier, and two young, clinging girls.

  All three are silent. All three stare. All three are spectrally, undoubtedly human.

  Their undivided eyes are uncomfortable. Kira looks away. She wants to goggle; she wants to talk to Callum, in private; she wants to think. Humans—ordinary, real-world humans—live here? Among the light-winged birds, the mist, the changing land? The idea of such a place, hidden in the forest, seemed so unnatural—so supernatural—that it hadn’t occurred to her to imagine humanity. It seemed too hostile, too impossible. It’s altogether too alive.

  Igniting the fire, the skier straightens with a creak and an oomph.

  ‘They would have died,’ he says gruffly. It takes Kira a beat to realise it’s aimed at the woman. She shifts her bone-cold stare to him, but says nothing. He sighs. ‘They were lost.’ He waves his glove at Kira and Callum, setting it down in a cubby hole. ‘Did you expect me to leave them there?’

  The woman’s coldness deepens. ‘What are they doing here?’ Keeping her daughters close to her sides, she moves to the furs by the fireplace. ‘Did they bring the mist?’

  The skier regards her evenly. ‘Both good questions.’ He motions for Kira and Callum to sit. ‘You’re clearly not from the forest, and I don’t think it’s unreasonable to say that the mist wanted you.’ His eyes flash a storm-cloud blue at them. ‘Why?’

  Creakily, he lowers himself to the furs beside his wife. ‘Please.’ He indicates the second pile, empty and waiting. ‘At least until we establish whether I made a mistake, both in alerting you and bringing you here.’ He laces his fingers. ‘I would rather not have to make you leave.’

  Hesitating, Kira sits. In silence, Callum joins her. How much to say? What to say? Explaining will either soften their welcome or throw it on the fire.

  The silence ticks. Her face heats, blooming like a bruise from her cheeks. Should she make up a story, make up a name? Only relay parts that sound the least insane? Will any of it sound insane, considering where they are?

  Tick, tick, tick. Callum clears his throat. ‘Well, I’m Callum.’ He sounds supremely awkward. Gesturing toward her, he clears his throat again. ‘Ah. And this is Kira. Anything beyond that…’ He taps his jigging knee. ‘I don’t really know how—’

  ‘Outside?’ a small voice whispers. Moon-eyed and intrigued, the skier’s younger daughter ducks under her mother’s arms. ‘Have you come from outside?’

  Kira and Callum exchange a blankness. ‘Outside?’ Callum frowns.

  Thumb in mouth, the little girl nods.

  ‘She means not from here.’ Lifting his daughter onto his knee, the skier smooths her hair. The words are begrudging, a grumble. ‘Whiteland.’

  After all that’s happened, it’s the name that makes it real. Callum runs a hand across his head and nods. Slow-motion, reluctant, unsure: is it a mistake disclosing where they’ve come from? Or would it be more of a mistake if they didn’t?

  Either way, he nods again.

  ‘Yes.’ A glance at Kira, tense and looking lost. ‘We don’t know how we got here. Well, we do, but we don’t. Not really.’ He rubs his eyes. The skier is waiting, but this is so screwed. ‘Ah. We’re looking for someone.’ He rubs his eyes, his forehead, his mouth. ‘Actually, several someones. At least one of them is in some kind of trouble, and we think we followed them in here.’ He flicks another hopeful glance at Kira. ‘It’s going on the basis of a note.’

  ‘Huldra.’

  The skier’s wife spits it, vicious and loathing. Callum’s flustered head snaps round. ‘She’s a huldra.’

  The skier frowns. ‘What?’ Jaw taut, his politeness sounds stilted. ‘What do you mean, she’s a huldra?’

  The woman’s eyes fix on Kira. Her hands twist. Her eyelids tremble, as though Kira will mutate if she blinks. ‘Huldra.’ Her hands twist tighter, the knuckles glowing white. ‘The girl is half Huldra. She shouldn’t be here.’

  Beside him, Kira stiffens. Her voice is a thread pulled tight. ‘What’s a huldra?’

  Sweat beading on her forehead, the woman begins to shudder. Warily, Callum extends an arm, shifting in front of Kira. Paling, erratic, the woman sounds like Kira’s description of Romy at the hospital…right before she attacked. ‘What’s wrong with her?’ His eyes dart to the skier. ‘Do we need to leave? Like, now?’

  Resting a hand on his wife’s leg, the skier murmurs something to his daughters. It’s too low to catch, but they scurry away. ‘I should hope not,’ he says. Then, once the girls have clattered down the passage, ‘With this amount of ignorance, I wonder that you’re alive.’ He regards Callum and Kira critically. ‘You’ve had help.’

  It isn’t a question. ‘Birds,’ Kira murmurs.

  The skier inclines his head. ‘Hyrcinians.’ He didn’t need to think. Callum’s eyebrows lift. Maybe in Whiteland they’re as common as crows. ‘Travellers’ guides. There will have been others that you haven’t been aware of, otherwise, you would be dead.’ He considers them individually. ‘The Huldra by far are not the worst of the forest.’

  Callum turns his hands palms up. ‘Then what are they?’

  The woman starts to rock. ‘Monsters.’ Her voice is guttural, almost a groan. Her short dark hair slips in front of her face, stuck to her sweating skin. ‘They’re angry.’ She picks at the skin of her fingers. ‘So angry.’

  Hell, this is unnerving. It can’t be odd, or the skier would do more, but if this is Whiteland family life…Callum shifts closer to Kira. It’s a shitshow. It’s insane. Dammit, they should have stayed home.

  ‘Iris.’ The skier sighs. He places a hand on the woman’s knee, more restraining than kind. ‘The Huldra are known for their tempers,’ he says. ‘They’re creatures trapped among the trees. In essence, they’re beautiful women, bar the tail beneath their clothes.’

  Callum wrangles his face straight. A tail? Well, Kira doesn’t have that. He’s safe.

  ‘They spend their lives enrapturing men.’ The skier zeroes in on Callum. Callum looks away. The sputtering fire, the basket of wood far more trickily crafted than his. Kira, carved from slate. ‘If a man lets a huldra get close enough—close enough to talk to him, or hold his eyes—he’s lost.’

  Iris groans. Her shoulders rock, back and forth, her dogged stare unbroken. Her grey eyes bulge. ‘Lost?’ Kira twists her fingers together. ‘How?’

  Callum keeps his arm in front of her. It aches, and this is crazy…but crazy has a bite.

  The skier fixes on Kira. ‘Lost,’ he says, ‘in that no matter how hard the man tries, he can’t escape. At the very least, he’ll be seduced. More often than not, he’ll die. He’ll die,’ he adds, his voice tightening, ‘and although he’ll be aware, he won’t be able to save himself.’

  Murderous succubae with tails. Callum wants to suppress a snort, but there isn’t one to suppress. Although it sounds crazy, it also sounds real. Far too bloody, screwed up real.

  ‘Eventually, it gains the huldra freedom.’ The skier’s rumbling eyes are hard on Callum. He tightens his grip on Iris’s knee. The groan has become a low hum, and still, the woman rocks. Kira grips her twisted fingers tight. Still the woman stares at her, as if she’s bathed in blood. This isn’t okay. They should leave.

  But they don’t.

  ‘The huldra,’ the skier continues, ‘can use its freedom to leave. Leave the forest, and Whiteland, if it chooses. It can live a human life. The tail disappears, and it’s as any other woman…unless, of course, they’re severely displeased.’ He almost laughs, dark and dour. ‘Then, they’re said to be a beast. They regain the body of the monster. Iris?’

  He turns to
his wife, leaning in, murmuring under his breath. Kira narrows her eyes. He’s lying; he must be. It’s too absurd to be truth. He’s making it up, spinning them a fairy story, laughing behind his stern, bearded mask. Either that, or it’s not real: they’ve fallen prey to another trick of the forest, a fictional future played into their minds. Maybe they’re out there, drifting through the trees, falling ever farther apart—

  A stinging slap makes her gasp and knocks her into Callum. Kira’s hand flies to her cheek. Too fast for anyone to stop her, Iris lunged.

  ‘Huldra.’ Manic and looming, she winches back her arm. ‘Don’t you ever—’

  ‘What’s the matter with you?’ The skier flings his arms around her, heaving her bodily away. ‘Look at the girl. There’s nothing wrong with her!’

  ‘Holy shit.’ Standing in a scuffle, Callum heaves Kira up, dragging them both from the furs. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘She’s half Huldra!’ Iris screeches. Kira’s legs feel disconnected. The hobbit-hole is suddenly too small, too warm. It warps, it blurs, it turns her to a dreamer. The woman slapped her scratches, and now her cheek burns. ‘How can you not see? That boy can’t take his eyes off her. He can’t stop protecting her. Just look!’ She jerks her head in Callum’s direction. ‘I’m surprised you’re not fawning over her, Erik. Get off!’

  She bares her teeth, but Erik locks his arms. Backs flat like spies, the girls peer around the passage. Kira starts to back away. ‘We need to get her out!’ Iris bawls. ‘Why won’t you listen?’

  ‘Because,’ Erik growls, ‘she’s not a huldra.’ Tendons strain in his neck. Iris continues to wrench at his arms. ‘Do you really think she killed a man? She’s from the outside, and she’s tailless.’ He staggers back, away from them. ‘She’s far too young to have set herself free.’

  He looks to Kira, almost at the curtain. ‘Ignore her.’ The words are as strained as his neck. Iris emits a full, wronged cry. ‘Years ago, she identified a witch. She thinks she can do the same for anything inhuman, but thankfully, she’s not often right.’

  Thankfully. Slowly, Kira retreats. If they should be thankful for this, she’s been living her whole life wrong.

  ‘So there are witches.’ Callum plants himself like a bodyguard, firm and broad and glaring. ‘Excellent. Murderous succubae with tails and witches. I can see why we’d be dead without help.’ He takes a step back toward Kira and the curtains. ‘Why does she think Kira’s Huldra?’

  The woman spits in his face. He flinches. ‘Anneliese!’ she shouts, her voice splitting. ‘She’s Anneliese’s daughter!’

  Anneliese.

  Time stops, or slows, and Kira slows with it, caught in a Perspex bubble. The name Romy whispered before she passed out. The name her mother denied all knowledge of.

  Her mother. Anneliese.

  ‘Out!’

  Time crashes back in a chorus of noise.

  ‘She’ll kill us if we don’t get her out!’ Iris screeches. ‘Out. Get her out!’

  It’s the crack that shatters the glass. Kira’s back brushes the curtained door. Wheeling around, she shoves through.

  Away.

  The cold is another stinging slap, piercing through her skin. Tendrils of mist traverse the clearing. The star-crossed snowflakes eddy into a blizzard. Kira whips her head around, left, right. Her mind isn’t working. She was attacked. Attacked in a foreign place, a foreign land, a foreign world. People mill about—tending the bonfire, talking in handfuls, chopping wood on the far, far side—but she ignores them. Her eyes land on the nearest snow bank. Her throat closes up. Kira runs.

  She’s halfway out of the clearing when a shriek spins her around.

  ‘Anneliese!’ Iris bawls. She’s broken from her husband, forced her way past Callum, and now, raucous in the trampled snow, kicks at Kira’s footsteps. ‘She’s Anneliese’s daughter! She’s Huldra!’

  A rasping, gasping, maddened pause. Iris’s eyes travel up the snow bank. ‘Somebody catch her!’

  The world rushes in like a panic attack. The men beside the fire, the men chopping wood, people doing anything at all. They turn. ‘Oh, God.’ Kira staggers back. Other shouts join Iris’s, and her words morph into a whimper. If she thought she was afraid before, she was wrong. This is fear. This is terror. ‘Oh, God.’

  Their first steps toward her are more than enough. Kira whirls. She scrambles. At the top of the bank, she blunders into a sprint. Shouts echo from the village, but she doesn’t turn. There’s nowhere to go, probably nowhere to hide, but running is better than waiting to die.

  Running is better than waiting to die.

  Light flashes in the corner of her eye. Dodging a grasping, hunchbacked tree, Kira veers away. Her fingers scrape resinous bark. Fire. Men and women giving chase. Thudding feet on snow. They have fire.

  A sob gurgles up in her throat. She’s been attacked, she’s being chased, and the trees got what they wanted. Knees jarring, Kira pushes faster. Her feet are ablaze. They were throbbing already from running from the mist, but she can’t stop. Her pursuers holler, drawing closer, Iris screeching in the distance. She can’t stop. The trees got what they wanted.

  They will not find each other. They will be forced apart.

  Huldra.

  Kira hits the next rise running. Snow in her boots, her jeans, her sleeves, and she breathes in heaving, short-term gulps. Her soles slip. She clutches at ice. Hot with sweat and frosted cold, she scrambles to the top…and sees the village from the opposite side.

  Games. Kira’s throbbing heart shudders. The last of her pursuers vanish over the snow bank after her. Ten people, twenty. This place is playing games.

  Callum flies from the skier’s cave. Shaking his wrist, he looks around wildly, notices her, and runs. Beside the fire, a boy sees, too. Pointing up, he starts to scream.

  Another sob blubbers up. Kira turns back on herself, forcing a faltering run and hoping to God the troupe hasn’t found her. Woodsmoke. Shouting. Endless crusts of crunching snow, sodden on her toes. Running, running, always running. Another rise rears between the trees.

  No.

  Tripping to the top, Kira lets out a moan. The clearing swims back to life. She screws up her hands in her hair. How can she escape? How can she try?

  ‘Callum?’ she yells. Her voice cracks in despair, but he’s nowhere in sight; there’s nothing but snow, nothing but trees and black butterflies that batter at her eyes.

  She could let herself fall. She could curl up in a ball and hope it’s a dream, the fiction she drew up in the cave. She could surrender to the swollen panic, the thunder in her head, to the butterfly forest closing in.

  The fires flare into view, innocently bobbing. Orange through the bushes. Scarlet through the willow. She can’t collapse. She won’t.

  Running is better than waiting to die.

  Blinking against the butterflies, Kira stumbles left. The smoky smell is strong. A man shouts. A woman crows. The snow thuds with the wrath of thirty feet. They just need pitchforks, Kira thinks, and they’d be a medieval—

  A ghost of a woman appears in the snow. Waif-like, wraith-like, smiling: hello.

  The forest floor crumples. With a scream, Kira falls.

  The only sign of life is one wool-clad woman. Hunched over. Shaking. Forlorn. Masked by a straggling, frosted bush, Lena crouches low.

  ‘You have to find the girl.’ The weaselly woman is pleading, shuffling between the silent caves. ‘Please go back after her. She’s a huldra. She’s dangerous.’

  She steeples her fingers, the prayer so tight that her bones echo and crack. ‘Please.’ With a heavy, world-weary sigh, she shuffles to the next hostile home. ‘Please. You have to find the girl.’

  Lena crouches lower. A man has emerged from a cave across the clearing. Striding past the rowdy fire, crackling in the centre, he takes the woman’s arm, leads her away, and leaves the snowy village deserted.

  Foreboding blossoms, dark and viscous. Lena extricates herself from the bush. This could mean anything: W
ere they searching for Kira? Romy? Is it linked to Anna, or completely unrelated? The Whispers could help, if it suited them. She’s tried to get through, two or three times, but other than ensuring she doesn’t go astray, the Whispers are as quiet as their long-dead forms.

  Of course they are. Lena casts the village a last grim look, retreating into the trees. Hitching up her satchel, she closes her eyes, letting the tug lead her on. They have far better games to play.

  Faint light, far above. It looks like sun through a part-closed skylight. That was their compromise, she and Romy, in their homely hotel room. Kira shuts her eyes. She’s drifting. If she’s back at the hotel…

  Something tells her that she’s not. Each knob of her spine is uncomfortable, as though she’s beached on a rock. Her hips are twisted. Her pelvis throbs. Her boots squelch, soaking her toes. Kira’s mind swirls out of sleep.

  And the memories swoop back. The ghost in the snow. The chasing fire. The crazed, accusing woman. Crooked in the dark, a chill seeps through her. It’s guilt and shame and fear. It’s nausea. It’s dread.

  It’s a film reel flicking into focus. Like a drill to her mind, she’s awake.

  Anneliese is her first thought. Huldra is her second. Kira opens her eyes. The faint light dances, blurry in her bleariness. Huldra. Anneliese. Who is she, what is she, why would being her daughter be such a scarlet letter? Why was she called her daughter at all? Kira presses her knuckles into her eyes. It’s ludicrous; she’s not a monster with a tail, and if she is, the tail is a damn fine master of disguise.

  And yet…a thought that struck her in the cave snakes back. Anna. Anneliese.

  Kira kicks this away. They visited Lavey-les-Bains four, five days ago, and neither her mother nor Romy had a tail. Anna certainly doesn’t; she was the only one to brave the Turkish baths, and hell did not break loose. Erik said that freedom hides the tail, but still.