by Emily Brewes
Willow looked about to speak but held her tongue at her sister’s gesture. They bowed their way to the back of the court and there took their leave. As they stepped over the front threshold of the palace, every owl there perched leapt away into the night sky. It looked very much like a fall of snow in reverse.
For days and nights, they travelled north through the Sultan of the Moon’s realm — though for how many, it was hard to say for the sun did not show his face here. The appearance of night remained unbroken and unchanged.
At last, when she could abide no longer, Willow’s sister demanded to know why she could not be civil even to the lord over all wolf-kind.
“Did you learn nothing?” she demanded.
“Ask my mother” was the reply.
In time, they came to the orchard where the soul plums grew. The rows of plantings stretched to the horizon in all directions; they hardly knew where to begin.
“Oh, sister!” moaned Willow. “To find the finest tree in this orchard will take ten lifetimes! I have less than a year’s time to make amends to the troll’s brother and keep my betrothal. Perhaps I should give up and live out my days with the wolf pack. What do I care for some human hunter? Or the idea of sin?” She fell to the ground, unable to stop the tears that fell from her eyes.
When she was quite finished, her sister replied, “The tears you cry are reason enough. You were raised by wolves, but you are not wolf-kind. You must go your way and live among your people, for the good of yourself and our pack. Come now. Let us ask for help.”
To the nearest tree, the she-wolf bowed deeply. “Oh, noble soul plum tree! Will you tell me please where my sister shall find the greatest of your siblings that she might pay her respects? She is soon to be wed and would have a blessing of good luck.”
The soul plum tree shook its leaves proudly at being addressed with such kind words. “Why certainly, my child. Our queen, the comeliest of trees who bears the finest fruit to be had, grows at the top of yonder rise. Only follow the shaking of our branches; we will show you the way.”
This they did. As they passed by, the trees quivered and shook so that the sisters knew the path, even had their eyes been closed. And there, apart from the others at the peak of a gentle hill, stood the Queen of Soul Plums.
“Are you the tree that bears the fattest, roundest soul plums in all this orchard?” Willow asked.
“I am,” admitted the tree.
Then quickly as they might, she and her sister plucked the tree bare of fruit, packing it gently into the birch-bark bushel. Yet they weren’t fast enough, for the tree soon cried them out for thieves. In response, from a distance came a great flapping of wings. Soon, a piece of the eastern sky detached from the blackness into a massive flock of ravens. Silver light glinted off their beaks, their glossy wings, and their clever eyes.
“Hurry and climb on my back. Hold tight to the bushel so I might run with all haste back to the Sultan of the Moon’s court.”
Willow did as she was told. No sooner was she upon her sister’s mighty back than they were away, flying faster than the birds that chased them. In a trice, they could see the white-marble spires of the palace reaching above the trees. And above their heads, soaring silently, were the owls. They met the raven army head on, and there fought a bloody battle.
In the confusion, Willow and her sister were able to reach the palace in safety. Once inside, Willow stepped down from her sister’s back, clutching the birch-bark bushel as firmly as she might without crushing the fruit within. She did not notice that one of the fruits had fallen out as they flew, lost forever to the dense forests of the Sultanate of the Moon.
Together they entered the sultan’s throne room. Upon the throne sat a man of inhuman thinness. Had he not been dressed in the billowing sags of the fat man’s clothing, Willow might have taken him for an impostor. Where before he had waxed in fullness, he now waned.
To the Sultan of the Moon, Willow bowed deeply and held forth the bushel basket. “My lord, here are the fruits you had us fetch. They have come at a great cost, for we were chased the whole way back by the raven army of the orchard, who even now are beaten back by your owls.”
“I see someone has been teaching you manners” was the sultan’s replied. “The better for you. Now take the whole bushel and cast it to the floor with all the strength you can muster. I would do it myself, but I am at my weakest.”
Willow did this, and all the fruit in the basket smashed to the cold marble floor in a spray of grey pulp and red juice. From the midst of the mess sprang a handsome woman in a dress of fine-wrought silver lace. Her silver locks were held high in a snood of silver chains.
“My darling wife!” declared the sultan. “You are returned at last, delivered from that evil curse which trapped you.”
The sultana turned to her husband and went to his arms. “My loyal husband, it is so good to be myself again.” And so she was, though the little finger on her left hand was missing. This was because of the plum that had been dropped while they fled.
“Think no more on it,” said the sultan. “I would happily give my own small finger — the whole of my right hand, in fact — that my wife should be at my side once more. Tell me again what it is you seek. I will give you that, and a boon besides.”
Willow bowed deeply again. “My lord, we seek Old Mother Pine where she lives, or else the way to atone to the troll’s brother for the sin of murder.”
“Atonement takes honesty, and I know only lies and secrets. That said, you may find Old Mother Pine where the west wind blows. Of any creature on earth, surely she can tell you what you seek.”
Humbled and bereaved, Willow turned to take up her long journey once more.
“Hold! Would you decline my offer of a boon?”
“No, my lord, never. But I know not what to ask for. I have travelled half the earth and more besides in search of this answer and have learned little, save how to address kings and sultans. If you would grant me a boon, I beg you choose one you think best.”
The sultan and his wife looked kindly down on the noble creature before them, yet hardly knew what to say.
At last, the sultana stepped forward and laid her hands on the girl’s shoulders. “This poor child of two worlds! Take with you this braid of my hair, that it might serve you well on your travels. Take also this ruby ring, which can light a fire without spark or tinder.” Then she laid a kiss on the girl’s brow with lips that burned icily. “Were you my own child, I should be so proud of you to undertake so long and perilous a quest. Go your way and find what you seek.”
The sisters bowed their way to the back of the court and took their leave of the sultan’s realm. At the border, they came upon the old west wind, who was quite out of breath.
Willow asked her sister, “Might we offer him a ride upon your back to take him where he’s going? After all, we are headed in that direction ourselves.”
The she-wolf obliged, and together they offered the elder a ride.
“Why certainly,” agreed the west wind. “How kind of you to think of one less fortunate. Whither do you go?”
“We seek Old Mother Pine, the better to learn how to wash away the stain of sin.”
The old man declared, “Why, she is my neighbour! For your kindness, I will make your introduction to her.”
When they arrived to the barren place the west wind called his home, he was as good as his word.
“Good lady,” he called to his neighbour. “Here are a pair of wolf-kin who would have your guidance. They were kind enough to help me home when I found myself quite blown of breath. Do help them as best you can, and I will be much obliged.”
Old Mother Pine nodded her boughs, and to the pair addressed herself. “Kindness and good manners are always rewarded. What would you have of me?”
Willow made a deep bow and showed the stains on her feet. “To help a man and to save my pack, I killed a wicked troll who was stealing sheep. Now I am cursed to bear the stain of sin and am doomed to pass
it on to my children, unless I make atonement to the troll’s brother. Please do tell me what way I can make him forgive me.”
Old Mother Pine shook her boughs and sighed through her needles. “One cannot make forgiveness any more than one can force joy. Go unto the troll’s brother and ask him what he would have of you. Do as he asks and do it well. Only arrange with him beforehand what tasks will satisfy your debt, or else he’ll never let you go.”
“Thank you, good mother. I’ll take your leave, for I’ve not much time and many long miles to travel.”
“Dear heart! Let me grant you this small boon. Walk beneath my right-hand boughs and you’ll find yourself at the troll brother’s doorstep.”
“Thank you again,” said Willow and stepped forward.
Her sister stayed behind, unmoving.
“Are you not coming with me?” asked Willow.
I’M WRITING OUT this story, since there’s nobody around to tell it to. The walls, the floors, the ceiling — wherever I can find blank space to scrawl on.
When I wrote that line, I felt like I’d been punched in the gut.
Olivia left.
There’s nobody to invite me to join them on an adventure, on a journey home. I’m all alone again. I’m starting to think it’s my natural state of being. Right up until my sister trudged out of sight down the slope to the road, I’d had some hope. The tiniest bright spark that she would turn around and ask, “Are you not coming with me?”
She didn’t even look back to wave. With the happy buoyancy of a ship cut free of its anchor, she was away and gone.
I look at the charcoal in my hand. That hand is stained and marked and thin. So much older than the forty years since I stood on the strand, witness to the expansive enormity of life itself. So very much older than I feel. A moving skeleton veneered in leather.
Every activity I engage in is done on autopilot. I gather food, I eat, I maintain my shelter … for what? There’s nobody left but me. And I’m not sure I’m worth saving.
I lift my eyes to look out over the backyard. Beneath a hump of growing things hides Dad’s workshop. He’s still in there. Well, his bones are.
“What are you thinking about, Food Bringer?”
“Ah! It’s nothing, buddy. Just a cramp in my hand.”
Doggo’s disembodied voice seems to come from an ancient stuffed toy. It’s from the Fall Fair that used to happen every year on a patch of ground where the borders of several small towns conjoined. The prize for some kind of game. Maybe ring toss? It’s supposed to be a dog, I guess. It has huge cartoon eyes made from glued-on felt and a big red felt tongue that doesn’t quite attach to the line of stitching meant to be its mouth. Its fur is patchy and it’s filled with tiny foam beads that crunch when you squeeze it. The poor thing looks little enough like a dog, let alone Doggo, but it’s better than when he seemed to talk directly into my head.
“What happens next? In the story?”
The toy doesn’t move, but I can almost see Doggo’s dopey little face looking up at me while he wags his tail hard enough to shake his whole body. It’s equal parts disturbing and comforting.
“Okay. Yeah, right,” I mutter. “Where was I?”
“Are you not coming with me?”
Another cold gut shot hits me, followed by the sensation of being lifted up off the ground.
“What did you say?”
Sister, what’s wrong? Come, let us go home together. I would bid you good-bye before I take myself to the troll brother’s service.”
“I will not move until you explain yourself. You say you were taught your rude manners by your mother, yet she is my mother also. I know she taught us well how to mind ourselves. So tell me how you learned differently.”
Willow crouched by her sister and embraced her well. “Oh, sister! I meant not our mother but my mother — the human woman who bore me into this world. Before ill fate befell her, she whispered that I should bow to no man by virtue of being told to do so. Therefore does my back remain straight and my knees unbent.”
When she had spoken thus, they kissed and made apology to each other. Then the sisters walked together beneath the upraised bough of Old Mother Pine. One moment, they were at the end of the world where the west wind lay his head. The next, they were near enough their own home to see familiar fields and woods from the mountain’s far slope.
“Darling girl, I must leave you and go back to our pack. Just remember to make your deal well and serve the troll as he would. Then come and bid us farewell before fulfilling your betrothal.” They embraced one last time before the great she-wolf leapt away and was gone.
Willow stood truly alone for the first time in her life. She drank deeply of the cool mountain air. Perhaps, instead of atoning, she could simply run. Away down the mountain to a land where she was not known. There would be no troll brother, no huntsman to keep her. And if her feet were stained ever more, then so be it.
Before she could take a step, the great door in the mountainside that she’d taken for a boulder swung widely, silently open. There was a great intake of air, as though the slope itself inhaled her scent. From its candle-lit interior came a low voice, “Who comes to my door this day? Who smells of sin?”
Quite against her will, Willow began to tremble at the sound of that voice. It was not so loud or so harsh as his brother’s. In many aspects, it was a pleasant voice. Yet there was in it a tone of threat that could not be hidden.
She bowed deeply to the empty doorway. “My lord, I am your brother’s killer. I come to atone for his murder.”
There was a series of great rumbles as giant feet struck the ground. Then the troll’s brother appeared in his doorway, twice as tall and thrice as ugly. In his melodic voice that so contrasted his look, he said, “And why should I grant you such a thing as forgiveness? You, who have killed my only brother, should be killed in your turn.”
“If that is your wish, I can only honour it. But first shall we not share a meal and a draught of good wine? Killing is distasteful business, so I would sweeten its blow even a little.”
Her words and good manner convinced him to stay his hand.
“Very well. Come inside so we might sit by the fire.”
They went together inside, only to find the fire had quite burned out.
“Damn and blast!” cursed the troll.
“Allow me,” offered Willow.
She stepped forward and, using the ruby ring, quickly had a fire roaring in the hearth.
“What witchery is this?” the troll inquired.
Willow held up the ring for him to see. “It is an enchanted ring, given to me by the Sultana of the Moon. With it can be lit any fire.”
“I would like to have such a ring,” he admitted. “In the autumn of my years, it grows ever harder to spark the tinder.”
“Well, when I am dead, it can be yours,” said she. “Now let us eat and drink.”
The troll lifted her from the ground so that she could stand on top of his enormous table. There she pulled a cloth from her magic boodle and spread it out. All across it were arrayed fine dishes of succulent meats and sweet fruits. Then taking the troll’s goblet, she filled it from the never-emptied cup. From it, the troll quaffed the best vintage he’d ever drunk.
“Why, this is marvellous! Tell me how you’ve done it.”
“These trifles?” Willow ducked her head modestly. “They are but simple rewards for serving the King Sun. Upon my death, they will surely be yours.”
They ate and drank, though Willow was careful to be moderate in both. Soon enough, the old troll grew sleepy with meat and drink and, with a great crash, fell with his head upon the table. His snores were so loud that they shook the walls and floor.
With all the stealth she could muster, Willow crept ’round the sleeping troll. About his neck, she looped the hair braid also given to her by the sultana. The other end, she tied well to the stone mantelpiece that hung above the hearth.
This done, she went beside the door and sho
uted, “Foolish lout! You’ll not kill me!”
Startled from his slumber, the troll leapt to his feet. The braid around his neck caught him, pulling him sharply back so that he was laid out on the floor. At the same time, the mantle stone was yanked from its mooring above the fireplace. It fell down upon the troll’s head, killing him in an instant.
No sooner was he dead than Willow’s hands became likewise stained with red. All around her kicked up a swirling wind, from which came a voice. “A sin repeated is damnation doubled! Go your way knowing that there is no atonement that can wash you clean. Any child of yours will be marked as a demon, cursed to live its days in wicked solitude.” She knew the voice to be Old Mother Pine. In her words, Willow could hear the depth of her disappointment.
Quitting the troll’s abode, she travelled back to the land of her people. As she passed, no birds sang. She saw no squirrels, nor rabbits, either. Her only company was the sound of creatures fleeing her presence, the feeling of many pairs of eyes watching her at a wary distance.
Willow at last came to the clearing where her pack often gathered. It was empty, though she could sense her brothers and sisters watched her from nearby. Unable to bear her loneliness, she fell to her knees and wept. “I am truly forsaken and without friend in this world! Better the troll had taken my life than to live without comfort!”
In time, she dried her tears and moved away from the clearing. At her back, she could hear the wolves filing out of the trees to watch her leave. She didn’t go far but found a spot where she would wait for the huntsman. It was not long before he arrived. The moment he caught sight of Willow, he was upon her, lifting her in his arms in passionate embrace.
“Every day was like a year of its own. How long have I waited to clasp you so? But, dear heart,” he asked, “why do you cry?”
“I weep for joy, my love, for you are here and we are together at last. Let us away and be wed!”
“Would you not bid your family good-bye?”