The Fog Maiden

by Jane Toombs

  Lucien hadn’t responded to Janella’s knock at his door. Where was he? He should be told of his wife’s collapse.

  Ruth Barnes came in with a plate of hot buttered toast. “Guess you’ll be eating alone again,” she said.

  “Where is Mr. DuBois?”

  “Went to an auction. He gets a lot of his stuff there.”

  Janella hadn’t thought about Lucien making a living. He’d said he used to be a pianist. But now…?

  “When will he be back?” she asked Ruth.

  Ruth shrugged. “You know he buys up paintings and old antiques and then sells them to other people. Chris told me about it. He gets letters from all over the country asking for things and then he goes out and finds what they want.”

  “Oh.” So she was trapped here for another day, Janella thought. She couldn’t leave her sick aunt until Lucien got back. She pushed her coffee cup away—her stomach felt tight, knotted up.

  Should a doctor be called? Better go upstairs and check on Toivi. But there was no answer to her light rapping, and when she tried the door it was locked.

  Janella stood in the upstairs hall, facing the locked door. If she banged persistently, Akki might come, but if Toivi needed rest she’d better not hammer the door down. Surely Akki would tell someone if a doctor need be notified.

  She looked across at her own door. No need to shut herself in that cheerless room. The drapes at the end of the hall were closed, and she went to open them and let the sun in. Four doors in this upper hall. Akki’s, Toivi’s, hers, and what else? Impulsively Janella tried the door to the unknown room, and the knob turned under her fingers. She hesitated, then thought no one would mind if she peeked in—after all, the room was unlocked.

  Unused, she said to herself. No one has decided what to do with this room. And yet it was not intended for a bedroom, because the walls were unbroken except for one window. There was no bathroom, no closet. The walls were ivory, completely neutral. Not the stark white of Toivi’s—that had its own shock value. No furniture at all, except for a narrow, high table in the exact center of the room. She’d learned to call this type a library table from her tour duty at Villa Montezuma. This was an old table—an antique?—of some dark wood she couldn’t identify, and carved gargoyles leered up at her from the massive curved pedestal legs. The polished top was bare and the beautifully grained wood marred by gouges and nicks—a shame, except she didn’t care for the table at all.

  There was nothing else in the room besides some bulky object, with a sheet draped over it, at the far corner near the window. Janella glanced over her shoulder and then thought, Why not? I’m doing nothing wrong. She crossed the room and pulled off the sheet.

  They were paintings—Lucien’s, she thought, noting the canvases were all turned away from the room—and she reached for the first one. The picture was large with an intricate filigreed metal frame—gold leaf, she decided, as she turned it around. She nearly dropped the painting in astonishment. Gritting her teeth together she propped it against the wall, next to the others but facing out.

  She’d seen dirty pictures in crudely printed books, and Curtis had shown her photographs of actual people copulating. She’d found them offensive, but this—this painting was beyond her, beyond words. To say pornography seemed to dismiss it as a tawdry drawing. The artwork was gorgeous. Eve stood voluptuously naked in a profusion of flowering plants, the colors glowed against the neutral wall. Adam was not in the portrait. But the snake—Janella was horribly fascinated by what Eve and the snake were doing. She could taste the bile in her throat, but her eyes stayed on the picture until she seemed to feel the snake around her own thigh and she gagged and turned away.

  Not pornography. Evil. She managed to slide the painting back with the others—nothing would make her turn the rest of the paintings around—and hastily yanked the sheet back into position. Only then did it occur to her the room was intended for a gallery, the bland ivory walls calculated to show off the pictures. An art gallery. She shuddered. Was Lucien going to display his wares here—a gallery of evil for those who chose to buy? Lucifer with a twisted version of earthly delights?

  Did Aunt Toivi know? Did she approve? Janella shook her head—she didn’t belong here. Not in this room or this house. But she had to stay here until Lucien returned. Maybe she’d better go into her bedroom and hole up there. Like a frightened bird from the snake? No, no, not a snake…

  She sat on her bed, feet drawn up under her as though the very floor were contaminated. Now she was overreacting—nothing about those paintings could harm her. Relax. Janella reached back, feeling under the spread to pull out her pillow, and froze when her hand touched metal. She jerked back as though her fingers were burned, then turned and slowly lifted the pillow. A miniature silver chest of plain design lay on her bed. The metal was dented and dulled with age, though not unpolished. She stared at the chest as though it really were a snake.

  No, her mind said. Danger. Don’t touch. But she shook her head and picked up the small silver box. There was no latch but her fingers pressed here and there of their own accord and the chest flew open.

  And there was the kulta pollo, the golden owl, as she’d known beforehand. She had always known it nested in the silver chest. Janella lifted the small figure out, cupping her hand around the owl, feeling the familiar weight. Where had it come from?

  She glanced at her closed bedroom door, then back at the golden figure. The bird seemed to flutter in her hand, and she grew dizzy. Daddy was saying, “Look at the pretty owl, Janny, see the kulta pollo, how it shines in the light, all the light in the world is caught up in this one tiny bird. Watch it glow until the glow is in your mind and you don’t see the golden owl anymore. You aren’t asleep, Janny, but the owl is only in your mind now, all gone except there. When you need to, you can count and relax, you can count and make everything all right.”

  Janella’s eyes closed as she listened to her father’s quiet voice. “Yksi, koksi, kolme—come count with me, Janny.”

  Janella’s lips formed the syllables, “…nelja, viisi…” Everything spun away—her room, the figure, her father’s voice. The world inside her head was all golden, warm and safe and golden.

  Nothing would ever harm her when she flew with the golden owl. Safe. Mother was here, would always be here with her, and the part of her daddy she liked, the laughing part, was here. The daddy who sat little Janny on his lap and told her about Pakkanen, Jack Frost, who made the winter snow. And the great hero Vainomoinen who nonetheless did such silly things and had to get himself out of the most awful messes by magic—luckily he knew lots of magic. The flight of the owl made a magic place where Janny was always five years old and nothing would ever harm any of them.

  But darkness touched the edges of gold and Janny grew older and Mama was gone. But someone was there with Daddy who laughed and sometimes made him laugh, but mostly he was sad. A young woman with dark hair, not as pretty as Mama, who told Janny stories and kissed her and held her tight. But the stories were scary and Daddy got angry, and the darkness grew until the moving figures were only shadows and Janny had to listen to the voices because she couldn’t be sure.

  “Damn you, Toivi, I won’t have the child contaminated with that archaic junk.”

  “You tell her the old stories.”

  “I don’t believe them. And I tell the funny ones.”

  “You once believed. Lisa’s dead because of your belief, isn’t she? You have to pass it to Janny, you know you do. Tell her the secrets.”

  “There are no secrets.”

  “Seisota veri…”

  “Shut up. She might hear.”

  “So you still do believe.”

  “I can stop the blood—I believe that much.”

  “The Makis have always been bloodstoppers, noitas—you can’t change your heritage, Arnold. Mother to son, father to daughter. Male to female, female to male—in direct genetic line. You know you must pass the knowledge to Janny.”

  “I won’t ha
ve her corrupted.”

  Toivi’s tinkling laugh, like tiny slivers of ice hitting glass. “Then me. Tell me and you free Janny.”

  “I can’t, that’s not the way. No.”

  “Why don’t you use your knowledge now? You’re a fool, Arnold. A fool, a fool, a fool…” The voice rose higher and higher, screaming. “I should have the power, Mother should have passed it to me!”

  “She wouldn’t use a wrong way.” Daddy’s voice, shaky but determined. “If not done by the old laws, the knowledge is turned backward onto the user and good never results.”

  “I don’t care—I want to know. Oh, you’re stupid, Arnold. But come and kiss me and be friends.”

  “Don’t do such things, Toivi. You’re a grown woman, you can’t be grabbing at me like a child—it’s indecent. Stop—do you hear?” Daddy’s voice all twisted and funny. “For God’s sake, Toivi, stop what you’re doing.”

  All darkness. Crying. Her father crying. And little Janny someway inside his head saying not to be sad, she was there, and the terrible shriek Daddy gave, so she fled back into herself and then he was sick. Toivi taking care of Janny, but she was wary of Toivi now so she never went inside anyone’s head. Just learned the Finnish and listened to the stories and waited for Daddy to get better.

  Only sometimes Janny would be trapped in the dark place without remembering how to leave and the shadows weren’t ones she knew and if they came close she might be able to tell what they were and that mustn’t happen—terrible, frightful things would happen to Janny if she saw what hid within the shadows.

  Janella felt a heaviness in her head. Her eyes were weighted shut but if she opened them she would only see the large black bat flapping in her face, so much better to keep them closed, to try to find her way back to where the golden owl flew, to the safety of five years old.

  But the words were urgent and flew in her face like the bat, nipping and shredding away her unwillingness to listen. “Awake,” the voice called to her in Finn:

  “Awake from the sleep of the little death

  You cannot be here until the floors rot

  The wall studding overgrows with mold

  The ceiling collapses from above

  You do not belong in the rotting house

  In the moldy rooms

  In the darkness of evil

  Arise and seek your own fate

  Not the black destiny of others

  Awaken!”

  Janella’s eyes opened at the last command and she found Akki standing over her. She had a moment of terror while she tried to orient herself to time and place.

  She sat up and looked about. Her hands were empty—where was the chest, the owl? Had she dreamed them? No, not dreamed, she hadn’t been asleep—but did the owl belong in her mind? Had it been real?

  She stared at Akki but the old woman had turned away and was scuttling toward the door. “Wait, Akki, please…”

  But Akki fled.

  Janella got up and searched the bed. No chest. No golden owl. She went into the bathroom and splashed her face with water in an effort to diminish the confusion in her mind. What had happened?

  Akki. She’d been in the room, had roused Janella. What did she know?

  Janella crossed the hall and knocked on Toivi’s door, tried the knob. Still locked. No one responded to her rapping. She walked down to the other door, Akki’s, and saw the bolt was shot back, the door unlocked—at least from this side. Her hand went out to try the knob but she drew it back. Akki was strange—what would happen if Janella invaded her room uninvited? She knocked. No answer.

  No use to try the door anyway—Akki had probably locked it from the inside. Better go back…

  Suddenly Janella could stand it no longer—she wanted to scream, to pound on the unyielding doors with her fists, kick at them. She grabbed the knob of Akki’s door in her hand, and when it turned she pushed at the door savagely, the thrust carrying her partway into the room.

  Akki’s room. A stringed instrument lay on the bed and Janella’s mind supplied the name—kantele. Something like a zither, she remembered her father saying, and the old ones played while the teller of tales weaved his story. The memory brought a warmth of feeling, and she took a deep breath, letting her anger out in a sigh. No use to blame the old woman for her confusion and fear—Akki seemed as frightened as she was.

  The room was small, smaller than hers, and sparsely furnished. The bed. No chair. A dresser, a small table, and a three-legged stool.

  Where was Akki? Janella’s eyes searched the dim room, for the dark drapes at the window were drawn closed, the connecting door to Toivi’s room shut.

  Was that her, crouched on the floor? Janella crossed the room to where Akki knelt before a metal box. There were chips scattered in the box—this is where they had gone. Not really a box but a cage, and even as she realized this she saw the movement as the snake lifted his head and looked at her, forked tongue flickering.

  Chapter Eleven

  “The snake and the lots.” Old Akki spoke in Finn. “You must help.”

  Janella stood frozen, hand to her mouth, eyes fixed on the snake. Akki turned to look at her.

  “Don’t be a silly goose. The snake is not the poison kind.” She made an impatient gesture.

  Janella looked at the old woman in confusion.

  “I play the kantele,” Akki said. “The snake heeds the music, knows the command of the music. You must put your hands, palms down, on the top of the box so he feels your power.”

  Janella shook her head, but Akki moved toward her determinedly. “She is sick, my Toivi, and cannot help. You must.”

  Janella gathered herself together. Why had she come to Akki’s room? She’d forgotten the reason. The snake seemed to slither in and out of her thoughts and keep them confused. Should she please Akki and do as she asked? What harm could it do?

  She sat tailor-fashion and placed her hands on top of the cage. There was no need to look at the snake. She watched Akki.

  The old woman nodded, satisfied, then picked the kantele off the bed and sat on the low stool, fingering the strings. The weird, haunting melody Janella had heard yesterday trickled in rivulets of sound through the room. Janella kept her eyes averted from the cage.

  Akki began a low chant, weaving the words in and out of the melody:

  “Small messenger from Tuonela

  Hell crawler

  Find the true lie of the lot

  Bring a true report

  Tell of the future

  Do not speak what we wish to hear

  But only of truth

  Else you shall burn

  Your ashes lie in tomorrow’s fire.”

  Janella closed her eyes, listening. She remembered a story about divining the future from alder chips. Had it been the hero Vainomoinen? She felt movement transmitted to her fingers as the metal of the cage vibrated. Was the snake crawling? But he couldn’t get out, wasn’t dangerous. So Akki said…

  Her eyes flew open and she looked, twisting her neck to see into the cage. The reptile seemed to be dancing, writhing in and among the chips, the upper part of his body elevated. At last the music stopped and Akki put away the kantele.

  “Remove your hands.”

  Janella got up and stepped away from the cage, standing by the narrow bed. “What were you doing?” she asked. “Was it casting the lots like Vaino did in the old tales?”

  “The oak is not as good as alder,” Akki answered obliquely.

  “What do the chips tell you?”

  Akki had the cage door open and the little snake was in her hand. “I watch how he arranges the chips.” She studied them now. “Unclear,” she said sadly. “Still death and sadness, but the future remains clouded.” She looked at Janella. “I feared you in the beginning, and I was right, but I know now what doom you bring is not of your own wish.”

  Janella spread her hands. “I don’t mean to hurt anyone. Why would I?”

  “Because you are a noita. Every day a bit more is rev
ealed to you, until one day you will look into yourself and all the knowledge will be there to use. Then what will you do? Will you be wise?” The old woman shook her head. “Youth is seldom wise.”

  “But you—you can read the lots, Akki.”

  “I am no witch.” She shook her head. “Only a seer. A perceiver of truth.”

  Janella felt her hold on reality was gone altogether here in this darkened room with the old Finnish woman in her black robes, snake in hand, prophesying despair, calling her a witch…

  “Toivi,” Janella said. “Aunt Toivi…”

  Akki put the snake back into the cage. “She is not well.”

  “I know she isn’t. But is she seriously ill? What does the doctor think is wrong? Who is her doctor?”

  Akki shifted her eyes. “No doctor. She has her own medicines.”

  “That’s dangerous. What do you think is the matter with her?”

  But Akki would say no more. She opened the door into Toivi’s room and Janella followed her. Toivi lay on the white bed unmoving, but her color seemed to be better.

  “I am going down to get food for her,” Akki said. “You wait.”

  Left alone with her aunt, Janella was uneasy. Was Toivi sleeping? Janella’s eyes fell on the bottles near the bed. She picked each one up to examine the labels, but there were none. How could her aunt know what drug she took with no labels? Then Janella noticed each bottle was a different color—green, amber, blue, clear glass.

  Suddenly she felt Toivi was watching her. She turned, but the dark eyes were still closed. The feeling remained, stronger than ever—though she seemed asleep, though her eyes were shut, Toivi saw what she did. Janella’s skin prickled.

  When Akki returned with a tray of food, Janella hurried out of the room and downstairs. There was a place set for her at the dining-room table, but the food had started to cool. She ate supper alone, wondering what Ruth Barnes thought of this odd household.

  Janella brought her used dishes into the kitchen when she finished, but though the lights were on and evidences of food preparation still about, the kitchen was empty. Janella was disappointed. Ruth, at least, seemed normal, and she felt a desperate need to talk to someone who was. When she listened to Akki she found herself believing what the old woman said, admitting to the reality of seeing the future. And Aunt Toivi brought her back to a forgotten childhood, one that frightened her with her glimpses of it. Even Lucien spoke of the shadows as though they were real, and Janella fought against accepting the existence of the shadows, of what hid within the shadows…