by Jane Toombs
But Toivi’s pupils weren’t pinpoints—they were dilated covering her iris. If the textbook were here instead of at Helen’s house, Janella could look up eye diseases. Or she could ask Toivi. But people in this house never seemed to answer questions directly. Akki was the worst, chanting her Finnish riddles. Akki was dead. Don’t think of Akki, find something to read and go to sleep.
The faces on the magazines simpered at her from the low table in the living room. She hated those faces. All posed, all being something else, wearing a bright mask—no, she couldn’t bring one of them up to her room. The bookcase was by the fireplace. An open living room, bright, no shadows massed behind the piano.
Why did Lucien want her to go with him to the Music Room at Villa Montezuma where the shadows lived in the corners? Lucien touched a person’s face gently, and what did it mean? He could put his arms around her now, right here, if only he didn’t speak, and she would close her eyes, protected, and sleep.
No—don’t think about Lucien either. Here’s the bookcase. There’s no Doré version of Paradise Lost with Lucifer on his throne-like dais in a pillared hall, hand to chin in contemplation. What does he face? The text tells of complicated monsters hissing through the hall. Is it then he thinks whatever way he flies is hell because he himself is hell? But Lucifer is Satan, the devil. Lucien is a man. Just because he looks like an illustration in a book, did you think he’d have cloven hooves?
Janella shook her head in an attempt to settle the disorder in her mind. A book. Read a few pages and be sleepy, go to sleep. Take a book, take two, any books will do if they have no pictures. She picked a couple at random from the shelf and started for the stairs. A thread of melody floated into the room and she stopped.
I don’t want to hear, she thought. No one is at the piano—I looked—but it isn’t piano music anyway. I don’t want to remember what it is. But she did, and the books slid from her hands as she stood frozen. Akki’s kantele was being played, and the ghost of the haunting Finnish melody drifted about the room. She took a deep breath. Either Toivi played the kantele, too, or Lucien had recorded Akki’s playing. There were no ghosts. She bent to pick up the books, then climbed the stairs, hurrying to reach her room.
A wave of drowsiness gripped her as she sat on her bed. She lay flat, her eyes closed, and she was floating away but she fought against the current, afraid of the darkness, afraid the direction wouldn’t lead to sleep, not real sleep. A voice rang in her ears as though someone called her name. Her eyes flew open and she struggled to sit up.
There was no one in the room. Her heart pounded in her ears so she could hear nothing else, and her eyes went over every inch of the room again. The door was still closed. The books were on the bed beside her, and the tray was on the dresser. The tray? Janella got up and lifted the cloth covering to see an empty glass, a Thermos, and a wrapped sandwich. She unscrewed the Thermos lid and poured some of the liquid into the glass. Milk. But had the tray been on the dresser when she came back into the room with the books? Surely it hadn’t been there before she went downstairs—she’d remember that, wouldn’t she?
There was no sound now. The music has stopped. Suddenly she was sorry Arnie wasn’t in her room. She’d have to think about him, take care of him if he was here. Who had left the tray? She’d eaten some eggs and toast with Lucien before coming up the first time. He wouldn’t think she needed food, would he? Had he put this here for her when he carried a tray up for Toivi? Certainly Ruth Barnes wouldn’t bring her anything out of the goodness of her heart. Maybe Toivi had too much food and had thought of her, bringing some of it to leave in her room.
Why am I making such a mystery of the tray? Janella’s throat was dry and she lifted the glass of milk she had poured, but her hand was shaking and some of the milk splashed onto the carpet. She put the glass down and unfolded the napkin from the tray to dab at the wet spot, and a piece of paper fluttered out.
The words on the paper were neatly printed in letters so tiny she had trouble reading them.
Meet me outside the front door between 8:00 and 9:00 p.m. Important.
There was no signature but the printing had been done with a red felt pen, and anyway she knew. He could spend all the time he wanted waiting for her. But she glanced at the small clock on the bedside table—3:00 p.m.
The tray. Impossible for Red’s note to be on this tray. Who would carry a note to her from Red? No one. Except—Ruth, Ruth who wished her ill.
Cold in here—was it still raining outside? She’d drawn the drapes and the blue bedroom seemed hazy, so she switched on both bedside lamps. Then she took an extra blanket from the closet shelf and huddled on the bed, wrapped in the blanket, one of the books in her hand.
To her disappointment, the writing was in Finn. Janella could understand the spoken language quite well, Daddy and Toivi had seen to that. But reading was another matter. She’d never been taught to read in Finnish, had no idea how the words were spelled. Staring at the first page, she could make out one or two. Suomi—Finland. Tahti—star. When she felt good, when everything was settled, was normal, it might be fun to try to decipher the words. But would the people in this house ever be normal, was she, would she ever be?
The other book had an odd title, Bloodstoppers and Bearwalkers, by a man named Dorson. Bloodstopper, she thought. She knew about that, could remember. Why? There was a chant, an invocation in which the blood was told to stop flowing from the wound. “Seisota veri—stop you, blood.” Daddy could do it. But why did she remember?
She turned the pages, searching. Those old Finns in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan hadn’t told Mr. Dorson very much, but something drove her to read every word she could find about the bloodstoppers and the noitas, too. Some of the childhood stories Daddy told her were here in outline—they formed part of the Finnish mythology. Toivi had told her some, too, but Daddy was the best.
She was small enough to sit on his lap in the big chair, and he would look very solemn and say to her, “Puhutteko suomea?” Do you speak Finnish? And she would try not to giggle as she answered, “Kylla, vahan.” Yes, a little. Then he would begin the story in Finn, stopping now and then to ask her what a word meant, and she always knew because Daddy played fair and told her the new words before he used them and then she remembered what they were.
Dorson’s book dropped from her hands onto the bed, and she didn’t reach for it. Yes, Daddy told the stories better than Aunt Toivi. If she closed her eyes she could almost see him telling about Kalami of Varpus, a trickster, a noita, hear his deep voice fall into the rhythm of the Finnish runo, the singer of tales. “Count with me, mielikki, count with me, darling. Yksi, koksi, kolme…”
As the darkness gathered, Janella had a flash of realization. Self-hypnosis, she thought, but the shadows were all around her and she was so tired. I’ll remember. Whatever happens, I’ll remember, she told herself before the reality of Janella faded, leaving only little Janny alone in the gloom. And the words she wasn’t supposed to hear circled around her in the dark like bats, swooping close so she had to listen:
“Do not flow thus, blood
Restrain yourself from this river you make
Dam yourself so you do not run
You have a home
A soft red home shielded by ribs
Shaded by lungs
It is more fitting to ripple in the veins
Gliding to your home in the heart
No longer can you drop onto dust
Spurt into air
Move to your place in the heart
Into the four chambers without delay
Lest Ukko set his fat thumb against you
Lest you anger the Sky God
Seisota veri! Stop you, blood!”
The shadows stayed close about her, listening too. A noita charm, a spell for the stopping of blood. Little girls weren’t to hear these, and Daddy’s face began to form in the darkness.
“I won’t forget,” she shrieked at him. “I want to remember. Don’t curse m
e, Daddy.” And she tried to hide among the shadows, but they fled to the corners, leaving her exposed.
“I’ll run where you can’t find me,” she threatened. “I’ll let Terhen Neiti, the Fog Maiden, take me to Hornan Kallio, to Goblin’s Crag, and you can’t follow. I will, Daddy.”
But Janny was frightened. No one came back from Goblin’s Crag with a mind because Kivi Kimmo, the Dread Rock Spirit who lived there, kept all the things you knew, all your memories, and only Ukko, the High Creator, could ever get it back for you. Aunt Toivi had told her, and surely she knew. But Daddy’s face grew and grew in front of her like an ogre, and she squeezed her eyes shut and began the invocation for Terhen Neiti, the Fog Maiden:
“You who drift in grayness
Maid of Mist, who has no home…”
“Janny!” Daddy’s voice was loud and angry. But she kept on.
“Reach your arms of fog to me
Take me up into the realm of chill cloud…”
The air around Janny felt damp and she knew Terhen Neiti was listening. She shivered, opening her mouth to continue. But other words were there ahead of hers. Daddy’s words:
“Be gone, strange maiden—go
Take flight, there is no place for you here
No one wishes to view your cold face
To feel your gray embrace…”
Janny opened her eyes and only Daddy was there, not the Fog Maiden at all.
“Where have you learned such an evil?” he asked her. His face was not mad but frightened and his voice shook.
“Aunt Toivi taught me to call Terhen Neiti. And she was going to come, the Fog Maiden heard me calling her.” Janny could hardly get the words out for excitement. “Daddy, the spell worked—I felt her.”
He stooped and lifted her up in his arms. “You’re all cold and your hair is wet.” She saw the tears in his eyes.
“I wouldn’t really leave you, Daddy. Don’t cry. I won’t go away like Mama.”
“Janny, you have to count with me, you have to forget this nonsense.”
“No, no, I won’t do it anymore. I don’t like to forget. I’m afraid. There’s nothing in my mind after I forget—the pictures are all gone. You’re like Kivi Kimmo. I don’t want to forget.” She began to cry.
“You must count with me, mielikki. There is safety in forgetting.”
“But I’ll lose Mama,” she sobbed. “She’s almost gone now, all the pictures of her in my mind. I’ll lose her and never get her back. Please don’t make me, Daddy.”
“You have to.” Tears rolled down his cheeks.
“No.”
“Then I’ll get the golden owl.”
She threw herself from her father’s arms, falling, falling, unable to call out because her voice wouldn’t obey her, falling through blackness, forever falling. The shadows streamed beside her in the dark. One touched her arm—they weren’t supposed to touch her, had never touched her—and she tried to pull away but couldn’t because they fell together. The shadow clung, trying to become part of her, and she knew dimly that this was the shadow from another time. She was more frightened than she had ever been. Somewhere in her head was a way out, and she fought against not remembering until a name burst from her mouth.
“Janella,” she shouted, and the darkness was gone and she was lying on her bed in the blue bedroom of Lucien’s house. She recalled everything that had happened. Her mind was clear, but a touch of grayness remained fluttering within her as though part of the shadow had come back with her after all.
What does it mean? she wondered. Why did my father want me to forget what can only be folklore, like Mr. Dorson says in his book? Why did it matter so much to him? There are no wizards, no noitas—not really. Only in Toivi’s stories. Toivi, she thought. Aunt Toivi would know about my father.
There was no answer to her knock but she tried the door and the knob turned. Janella stepped inside Toivi’s room as quietly as she could, tiptoeing over to the white bed. No lights were on in the room, and the dusk of late afternoon and the rain made it murky. Aunt Toivi was lying on the bed. She must be asleep, don’t wake her. Look, she has Arnie there with her. He won’t fall off, the bed is so big and he can’t move anyway.
She stared down at the two of them. Arnie’s eyes were open and he seemed to be looking right at her, focusing his eyes—but he couldn’t see, of course. Still the sensation of being watched by Arnie was unnerving, eerie. Toivi’s eyes were closed, weren’t they? No, open halfway. She looked dead rather than asleep, but her chest rose and fell. Don’t disturb her.
Janella turned to leave, but she felt the grayness inside her cry out in a whimper almost like the sound Arnie made, and she put her hands up to her face as though to feel for a clinging shadow.
Arnie. She leaned over the bed to listen and saw his mouth open.
“Get out,” he said, the words blurred but understandable. “Leave me alone.”
Chapter Nineteen
Janella stared at her half brother in the gathering dusk of the room. His lips turned up at the corners until he was smiling at her, a dreadful smile of malice. She straightened and backed away.
“Toivi,” she said aloud. “Wake up, Toivi.”
But her aunt’s thin figure didn’t move. She took a step toward the bed and shook Toivi’s shoulder, making her head bobble. Still no response. Janella ran her fingers down to her aunt’s wrist, checking the pulse, which beat slow and steady. All the while she knew Arnie was watching her with the same malevolent smile. At the same time, something within her whimpered and fluttered in distress. She stood back from the bed at last, clutching at her throat with both hands while panic rose in her like nausea.
“You will be a part of me, too,” Arnie’s tiny voice said. “But not yet. Go away.” He spoke almost like a ventriloquist’s dummy, though she knew the sound was coming from Arnie. Slowly he raised his left arm, and the fingers of the left hand curled stiffly inward as far as they would go. “Get out,” he repeated.
Janella fled past her own room and down the stairs. “Lucien,” she screamed. “Lucien, where are you?” There was no answer. She tried the door to his room, but it was locked. Ruth Barnes wasn’t in the kitchen. The house seemed to be empty except for Janella, Toivi, and Arnie.
“That’s not really Arnie,” she said aloud in a half whisper. But then who was it? She began to whimper, crouching in the back hall against Lucien’s door. By the time he found her there she had slid to the floor and lay curled in a protective ball.
Janella was dimly aware of Lucien lifting her, carrying her, and she tried to protest. Not upstairs, she couldn’t go upstairs. She felt the softness of a bed underneath her, and when a light went on her eyes searched frantically to see where she was. Gold, yellow and gold. Lucien’s colors. His room. Safe.
“Can you talk, Janella?” Hands stroking her hair back from her face, gentle hands.
Her eyes were open but she didn’t seem able to move her head to look at Lucien. She was lying on her back on his bed and she couldn’t move. Struggling to move an arm, a finger, anything, she became frightened anew and began to whimper.
“No, no,” said the caressing voice that belonged to Lucien. “You mustn’t make those sounds. I’m here—you can talk to me. Whatever has made you so afraid isn’t here in this room. You’re safe with me.” She could feel his touch, knew he was raising her hand, holding it in both of his.
She tried to say his name but only the whimper came out, no words, although they circled in her head, anxious to be heard.
“You don’t appear hurt.” He put her hand down, got up from the bed.
No, she begged silently, don’t leave me, please don’t leave me.
“I’ll get you some coffee. Maybe a stimulant…” His words trailed off as he moved out of her hearing. She couldn’t turn her head to watch him go but she listened desperately, and was somewhat reassured to hear sounds from the kitchen. He was still nearby.
This was how Arnie would feel if he had intelligence, she tho
ught. She shut the creature who pretended to be Arnie from her mind. That thing upstairs wasn’t her brother. But if Arnie could think, he would hate to know he was trapped in a body that wouldn’t move, had no voice to speak. It was horrible—what was going to happen to her, why was she paralyzed?
Lucien discovered her inability to move when he tried to raise her head so she could drink the coffee and realized she was a dead weight. “Turn your head, Janella,” he ordered. Then, “Move your leg—either one. Can you move your hand?”
She felt the bed sink beneath her and knew he had seated himself on it again. His face came into her line of vision as he leaned over to look in her eyes. “Can you move your eyes?” he asked.
She rolled them from side to side.
His breath went out in a sigh. “So you’re in there. You’re there, not like Chris, couldn’t bear Chris all over again…”
Her eyes widened in surprise and confusion. What was he talking about?
He brushed her hair back, gently, from her forehead. “Don’t worry, Janella. If you understand what I say, we can communicate. Now listen. You must blink once if you want to answer yes; don’t blink at all for no. Did you hear me?”
She blinked once.
He sighed again. “Good girl. First, do you know why you can’t move or speak?”