by Kim Liggett
“But what will happen this year? To my mom, and my . . . dad.” Just saying the word dad out loud made my heart ache in a way I hadn’t expected.
“Nina and Thomas will walk the corn—for the last time. Katia will take them to the sacred circle. As Katia’s soul enters the vessel, she’ll shed her body, like a cocoon. When that happens, Coronado will be forced out of his own body. Without a vessel of his own, his soul will be forced to wander the earth alone, always searching, always longing. The Great Spirit will deliver Alonso’s soul into the Mendoza vessel and they’ll live happily ever after.”
I couldn’t help thinking of the dead girl, the wound on the palm of her hand. “What happened to all the Larkin girls and Mendoza boys who went to the sacred circle before my mother and father?”
Lou’s fingers stiffened in my hair. A look of regret seemed to pass over her face. “People don’t speak from beyond the corn,” she said in a hushed tone.
The woman with frizzy brown curls came near and Lou’s whole demeanor changed. “The unchosen Larkin girl and the Mendoza boy leave the safety of the corn to live their lives in the outside world. But this year is special.” She leaned back, resuming her scrubbing duties. “After the ritual is complete, we’ll be one big happy family. Forever.”
I couldn’t help thinking I was missing something. Why was this such a big deal to them? What were they getting out of it?
An explosion of giggles pulled my attention to the center of the room, where girls of every age were scrambling around trying to get ready—brushing one another’s hair, doing last-minute mending. I think that’s what made it so unsettling; it was all so ordinary, like they were getting ready for a school dance, not preparing for a cult ceremony.
“What exactly do I have to do at this wreathing thing?” I asked as Lou began to work my tangles out with a wide-toothed wooden comb.
“Girls, bring the basket, please.”
Lou made room for Beth and another girl to step forward and kneel in front of the tub; they were carrying a large basket brimming with dark green leaves from the cornstalks.
“This is Lauren Mendoza, and you know our Beth.” I liked the way she said our Beth like she belonged to everyone. There was something so endearing and goofy about this girl.
Beth extended the basket to me. “Please, take a leaf.” I noticed a scar on her inner wrist—an unmistakable C branded into her delicate skin. I looked around for the same mark on the other girls, but only Beth had one.
“The girls will show you how to make the wreath,” Lou said as she dried my hair with a cloth.
The other girl, Lauren, was stunning—olive skin, long dark hair parted in the center, showing off her widow’s peak. The last bit of light streaming through the window seemed to bend to her face as if it wanted to be there. But there was no warmth in her; she gave off the acrid scent of mourning.
“Take three leaves and braid them together, one after the other,” Beth said.
I tried to do it, but my wet fingertips slipped and fumbled.
Beth was patient and encouraging, but Lauren countered that with a lot of heavy sighing and eye rolling.
“When the ceremony starts,” Beth said, “we’ll cover your eyes with a sash and I’ll lead you to the line of eligibles. The Larkin women have a heightened sense of smell. Under different circumstances you’d use your senses to recognize your soul mate.” Beth leaned in as if she were going to tell me some deep dark secret. “Katia chose for you. Number nine.”
Lauren accidentally crushed one of the leaves in her hand. Beth gave her a wide-eyed look of horror.
“I’m sorry.” Lauren whispered so quietly, I wondered who the apology was for.
I went back to work on the wreath, but it felt like the leaves were wrestling against me.
Beth kept glancing back at my brother, who was being doted on by a girl with two long coppery braids. She had taken it upon herself to clean and re-bandage Rhys’s skinned knee. He looked like he was going to pass out.
“Who’s that?” I asked as I leaned forward in the tub, trying to get a better view.
Beth turned back to me, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment. “Oh, that’s my half cousin Betsy Grimsby. She’s unintended, too.”
Clearly, Beth had a little crush on my brother. “So, tell me about number nine,” I said, trying to distract her.
“You’re still not braiding the leaves right.” Lauren glared at me through her shiny black lashes.
“Then why don’t you do it for me.” I pushed my shoddy work toward her.
“Believe me, I would if I could . . . but I can’t.” She forced it back into my hands.
I had no idea what I’d done to piss her off, but she made me anxious. And I hated being this bad at anything.
“We can’t help,” Beth patted my arm. “It has to be your own creation. It’s tradition. You’re doing really well for your first time.” She could barely say it with a straight face. “I mean . . . it’s more symbolic than anything.”
I looked down at the limp massacred leaves in my hands and laughed. “Poor number nine.”
Aside from Lauren’s sour mood, the atmosphere was jovial. Everyone seemed excited and full of life. It was contagious. I had to remind myself that these people were total freaks who wanted to steal my mother’s body.
“She’s ready,” Lou said with a flourish of her pruney fingers.
The women helped me out of the tub and began to smooth the warm, gold-flecked oil into my skin. It took everything I had to make myself stand there and let them do it. There wasn’t anything sexual about it—in fact it was just the opposite, it seemed almost reverent, but I got irritated when people even brushed up against me in the subway. The plan had been to gain their trust, but I didn’t expect the process to be this hands-on.
“You look perfect,” Lou said as she slipped a sheer white cotton sheath over my head. “Just as I imagined.”
I ran my fingertips over the delicate lace scalloping the neckline, wondering if it was the same gown my mother wore on the night of her wreathing ceremony.
Lou led me to a full-length mirror. I couldn’t help but smile. I looked like a painted tintype from another century. I knew the girl standing before me, but she looked like a better version of me. My loose waves were threaded with tiny white sweet alyssum blooms. Skin smooth as silk. The long willowy lines of my body seemed more powerful now, the downward curve of my mouth that had always felt childish had become sensuous—even my eyes appeared more striking, like deep water that had been set afire.
A drum outside began to pound slow and steady, like a dirge. As the women formed a line, I realized it was a signal that the ceremony was about to start. Beth led me to the back of the line.
Rhys joined us, looking like he’d just been through the wringer.
“Don’t be nervous.” Beth squeezed my arm like a blood-pressure cuff, which only made me more nervous.
My body battled between anxiety and excitement. I wanted answers. I wanted to remain indifferent—see what this was all about, but the community seemed perfectly harmless, as far as cults go—and, dare I say, charming.
Beth gave me some last-minute advice. “Remember, all you have to do is walk down the line, stand in front of number nine and say, ‘My body, my soul, I commit to you.’ He’ll remove your blindfold and you’ll put the wreath on his head. It’s that simple. And have fun with it. Make it suspenseful. Wait till you see him.” She leaned on me like a crutch. “He’s so hump-able.”
“‘Hump-able’?” I repeated in disbelief.
“You know,” she whispered. “Hump is when you kiss a boy you’re not intended for.”
“Oh God, Beth. That’s not wh—”
The doors opened and Beth hurriedly tied the sash over my eyes. Rhys made sure it wasn’t too tight. The gesture made me breathe a little easier.
With B
eth on one side and Rhys on the other, I clutched my sad wreath, and they led me down the stairs toward the entrance.
“You don’t have to do this,” Rhys whispered.
“It’ll be fine.” I squeezed his arm. “We need to play along for now.”
But for me, it was more than playing along. Something about being here in this moment felt right. And that scared me more than anything.
13
WREATHED
SLOWLY, BETH AND RHYS led me outside. The heat from the lit torches kissed my shoulders; I felt an overwhelming calm wash over me, a lightness in my soul.
I stepped onto the cool damp grass, feeling it between my toes. Every step I took seemed to root me deeper into the soil, like a memory being reawakened from deep within my cells. The wind found me, pressing the soft cotton sheath against my body. Even with the susurration of the crowd, I’d never felt so comfortable in my own skin.
The women spun me around fast, at least a dozen times, and then set me loose. They giggled as I stumbled around the field like a drunk. I steadied myself and took a deep breath, shutting out the rest of the world and letting my senses take over.
A breeze blew in over the corn. The stalks rustled like endless layers of a stiff taffeta dress. I knew the choice had already been made for me, but there was a part of me that still wanted to know how I would’ve felt, who I would’ve picked had the choice been mine.
I stretched out my hands in front of me, my fingertips grazing the chest of the first eligible in line. A flutter of excited whispers swept through the gathering. I walked down the line, skimming my fingers across their chests, counting as I went. Each and every one of them smelled pleasant and harmonious. Earthy, mellow tones. Nothing like the boys I was accustomed to.
Number five smelled especially good, notes of cardamom and freshly oiled saddle leather. Intriguing.
I reached number nine, the one I was supposed to choose. This was the most appetizing yet—oak and honey—a scent that could envelop me like a thick wool blanket on a chilly night.
This was it. The moment had come.
I opened my mouth to say the words when the wind shifted. Something gripped me. My blood seemed to throb in my veins. At first, I thought I was going to fall into another conduit memory, but it was deeper than that. An inexplicable urge swept through me like a fever.
Locked into something nameless, I moved away from the line, weaving through the sea of people. Everything in me seemed to reach toward the scent—my blood, my skin, my bones, my spirit.
I brushed my fingers against a man’s chest—he flinched. Every part of me felt like a frayed wire just waiting for a spark—aching for it.
I whispered to him.
“Wii cuu’at ukuk huka aciksta
Takaarahak karitki hukaawikii’ac kictiirahk
Cuu’at hurii kituu’u’ huka
Paatu a ka’it.”
As soon as the words came out, I clamped my hand over my mouth. Caddo—I had just spoken Caddo fluently.
The crowd erupted into panicked murmurs.
I couldn’t stand not being able to see. I pulled down the sash that covered my eyes.
My heart leapt into my throat. It was him. My junkyard crush. For a moment I forgot about our bitter parting. His hair was pulled back. I could have gotten lost in the lines of his face, but his eyes held none of the warmth from earlier. He was like a stone wall. Impenetrable and cold, as if we’d never met.
Beth rushed to my side. “You can’t choose Dane,” she said as she tried to ease the sash back over my eyes. “He’s ineligible.”
“Dane.” I repeated his name. That was so much better than Goober.
“He’s a Mixed,” she whispered.
“What does that mean, Mixed?”
“Anyone with traces of Coronado’s blood is considered a Mixed,” she whispered as she tried to steer me back to the line. “A Larkin with a Mixed is forbidden.”
“Is that why you ran off earlier?” I asked, searching his face for answers, but he only gritted his teeth.
“She’s ruining the ceremony,” a woman hissed behind me.
I glanced over my shoulder, scanning the stunned crowd, my eyes settling on a line of very anxious-looking boys.
“You’ve met?” A girl’s voice startled me as she sidled next to Dane. Lauren. She snaked her arm under his, hanging on to his bicep.
“Yeah, I met him today at the junkyard and—”
“She’s a conduit,” Dane interrupted me. “She doesn’t even know what she’s saying. She’s confused.”
The way he said the word conduit felt like an insult, like another word for crazy.
I wanted to argue, but there was something in his eyes, a pleading look that made me hold my tongue. I could see it was important to him that our meeting stayed secret. But why?
“He’s right,” I said, tightening my grip on the wreath. “I am confused.”
A look of relief washed over him, briefly softening his features.
“Poor girl,” Lauren said loud enough for everyone to hear. “You shouldn’t have to go through with this in your condition.”
“Leave her alone,” Dane murmured.
I tore my eyes away from Dane, but when I looked down and saw his hand, all I could think of was his thumb dragging across my hip bone.
A flush swept my cheeks.
And then I realized, it wasn’t just my name . . . or my eyes that made him turn away from me at the junkyard. He belonged to someone else. I felt completely gutted.
“Ash, he’s not meant for you,” Beth whispered as she placed the sash back over my eyes. I let her do it this time. I didn’t want anyone to see how hurt I was. How could someone I’d just met wound me so deeply?
“No harm done,” Beth called out to the crowd in a strained singsong voice as she led me back toward the line of eligibles. “Trust me. Number nine is perfect for you,” she said under her breath. “I’ll lead you right to him.”
Suddenly, I forgot how to move my legs. Beth had to half carry me down the line.
“I didn’t know you spoke Caddo,” she said as an aside.
“Neither did I,” I exhaled. I knew bits and pieces from my mother, but the language had just . . . come to me.
Beth nudged me in the ribs and we came to a stop.
“My body, my soul, I commit to you,” I said in monotone. Even though it was just for show, it felt strange saying the words aloud, like I was betraying myself in some way.
Oak and honey eased the sash from my eyes.
I was stunned. Blond, towering, and broadly built, with dark gray eyes. He looked like a Nordic prince. He bent his head forward and I placed the wreath there. When he straightened, one of the leaves flopped down in his face.
“Sorry about that.” I sighed as I reached up to tuck it back in. “Apparently, I suck at wreath making.”
“It’s an overrated skill,” he said. “I’m Brennon Mendoza.” His smile seemed to beam from every pore. “I know this must be very strange for you,” he confided. “But we don’t have to walk the corn. All you have to do is smile every once in a while, dance with me. Make the old folks happy.”
“I can manage that.” I smiled up at him . . . and I meant it.
Brennon took my hand, and we were flooded with good wishes and congratulations.
I stole a glance at Dane, but his eyes stayed focused on Lauren.
I knew he couldn’t be mine, but when I touched him, every cell in my body reached out to him like I’d known him for a thousand years. Like I’d finally come home.
Then I thought of my mother’s words. Maybe this was what she meant by blood and salt.
Salt in the wound.
14
PUNCH DRUNK
FOLLOWING THE CEREMONY, we moved into the meeting house, to an elegant ballroom on the third floor th
at dripped with garlands of wisteria and honeysuckle. Candlelight flickered off the wood-paneled walls, casting long shadows across the coffered ceiling.
Banquet tables full of mystery meats and pickled everything stretched in front of us. There were giant bowls of punch so high in alcohol content that the liquid burned my eyes before even reaching my mouth. A lady with a mountain of wild curls was scolding some little kids who were hiding under the table trying to sneak punch. A band made up of gutbuckets, mandolins, washboards, fiddles, and spoons played folk music—a raucous marriage of English and Spanish styles. It was like going back in time. This could’ve easily been the 1800s.
I spotted Rhys dancing with Beth. Well, not dancing really, just kind of bouncing around like a pogo stick. But he seemed to be enjoying himself, that is, until Betsy Grimsby, Beth’s half cousin, glommed on to him again and pulled him away, parading him around like a trophy.
The room buzzed. So what if they believed in some weird shit? I could picture my mother here so easily. Maybe coming here was the right thing for all of us.
As Brennon led me through the gathering everyone patted him on the back, shook his hand. I was surprised no one was asking him to kiss their baby. He seemed to be the golden boy of Quivira.
“First dance . . . first dance.” A woman pushed forward, dragging a tall, weary-looking man with her. “I’m Patricia Mendoza and this is Gerald.” She eyed me up and down, appraising me, her expression frozen in place. Her smile was a little frightening, like a cross between a beauty queen and a jack-o’-lantern. “We’re Brennon’s parents.”
“Oh, it’s nice to meet y—”
Before I could even finish my sentence Mrs. Mendoza took my hand and pulled me onto the dance floor.
“Okay . . .” I laughed.
“Sorry.” Brennon shook his head in mock embarrassment as he followed close behind.