by Jane Yolen
It seemed that, all at once, she knew what to do. Her mother’s duty had been the Word. Rachel’s was to be the Word Made Flesh.
She stopped eating.
The first month, fifteen pounds poured off her. Melted. Ran as easily as candle wax. She thought only of food. Bouillon. Lettuce. Carrots. Eggs. Her own private poem. What she missed most was chewing. In the camp they chewed on gristle and wood. It was one of her mother’s best tales.
The second month her cheekbones emerged, sharp reminders of the skull. She watched the mirror and prayed. Barukh atah adonai elohenu melekh ha-olam. She would not say the words for bread or wine. Too many calories. Too many pounds. She cut a star out of yellow posterboard and held it to her breast. The face in the mirror smiled back. She rushed to the bathroom and vomited away another few pounds. When she flushed the toilet, the sound was a hiss, as if gas were escaping into the room.
The third month she discovered laxatives, and the names on the containers became an addition to her litany: Metamucil, Agoral, Senokot. She could feel the chair impress itself on her bones. Bone on wood. If it hurt to sit, she would lie down.
She opened her eyes and saw the ceiling, spread above her like a sanitized sky. A voice pronounced her name. “Rachel, Rachel Zuckerman. Answer me.”
But no words came out. She raised her right hand, a signal; she was weaker than she thought. Her mother’s face, smiling, appeared. The room was full of cries. There was a chill in the air, damp, crowded. The smell of decay was sweet and beckoning. She closed her eyes and the familiar chant began, and Rachel added her voice to the rest. It grew stronger near the end:
ABRAHMS
BERLINER
BRODSKY
DANNENBERG
FISCHER
FRANK
GLASSHEIM
GOLDBLATT
HEGELMAN
ISAACS
KAPLAN
KOHN
LEVITZ
MAMOROWITZ
MORGENSTERN
NORENBERG
ORENSTEIN
REESE
ROSENBLUM
ROSENWASSER
SOLOMON
STEIN
TANNENBAUM
TEITLEMAN
VANNENBERG
WASSERMAN
WECHTENSTEIN
ZEISS
ZUCKERMAN
They said the final name together and then, with a little sputter, like a yahrzeit candle at the end, she went out.
Sister Light, Sister Dark
The Myth:
Then Great Alta plaited the left side of her hair, the golden side, and let it fall into the sinkhole of night. And there she drew up the queen of shadows and set her upon the earth. Next she plaited the right side of her hair, the dark side, and with it she caught the queen of light. And she set her next to the black queen.
“And you two shall be sisters,” quoth great Alta. “You shall be as images in a glass, the one reflecting the other. As I have bound you with my hair, it shall be so.”
Then she twined her living braids around and about them, and they were as one.
The Legend
It was in Altenland, in a village called Alta’s Crossing, that this story was found. It was told to Jonna Bardling by an old cooking woman known only as Mother Comfort.
“My great-aunt—that would be my mother’s mother’s sister—fought in the army as blanket companion to the last of the great mountain warrior women, the one that was called Sister Light. She was almost six foot tall, my great-aunt said, with long white braids she wore tied up on top her head. Her crown, like. She kept an extra dirk there. And she could fight like a dust demon, all grit and whirling. ’Twas known that no one could best her in battle, for she carried a great pack on her back and in it was Sister Dark, a shadow who looked just like her but twice as big. Whenever Sister Light was losing—and that weren’t often, mind—she would reach into her pack and set this shadow fighter free. It was faster than eyes could see and quiet as grass growing. But Sister Light used that shadow thing only when she was desperate. Because it ate away at her insides as it fought. Fed on her, you might say. My great-aunt never saw it, mind you. No one did. But everyone knew of it.
“Well, she died at last, in a big fight, a month long it was, with the sun refusing to shine. And the shadow could only work with the sun overhead. When after a month the sun came out, Sister Dark crept out of the pack and looked around. The land was blasted, and she looked in vain behind every shriveled tree. But she couldn’t find Sister Light. She was long buried.
“They say Sister Dark can still be seen, sometimes, at night under the full, high moon. Looking for her mate. Or perhaps for someone else to carry her, someone else she can eat away at. You have to be careful out there on the high moors. Especially when the moon is full. That’s where the saying ‘Never mate a shadow’ comes from. They’ll eat away at you, if they can.”
The Story:
Under the eye of the leprous moon, two shadows pulled themselves along a castle wall. The ascent had been laborious: a single step, a single rock gained.
One of the figures was tall, muscular, and sturdy, yet seemed exhausted by the effort. The other, nearly a twin of the first in dress, was thin and wraithlike, almost insubstantial, yet was not winded at all. They clung, dispatched a foot, then a leg, seemed to wait for gathered strength, then stepped together. They worked synchronically across the rock face. The soft leather of their boots was scraped. Their leggings each had a hole in the right knee. Still they climbed.
The moon’s sores were suddenly hidden by a shred of cloud, and the thin figure disappeared—one moment clinging to the wall, the next gone.
The sturdy twin, so intent on the rock underhand, never noticed.
A minute later, and three more slow foot-and-hand holds farther on, the moon came out again. With it, the thin twin appeared on the rock, clinging with effortless ease.
“You breathe hard, sister,” said the thin woman with a laugh. The laugh was soft, like a south wind, suddenly hot and then gone.
“If I could appear and disappear under the light as you do, Skada,” groused her companion, “I wouldn’t need to breathe at all.
“I breathe,” Skada answered dispassionately.
“In my ear,” came the reply. “You do it to annoy. And I wish to Alta you would stop.”
“Sister, as you know, your wish is my …” but the moon disappeared behind another rip of cloud and cut off Skada’s retort. And when the moon pushed through again, the two were silent with one another, a silence born of long companionship. They had been reflectors, image sisters, and blanket companions since Jenna’s thirteenth year. It took many knots on a string to count their time together.
The wall, shadow-scarred and crumbling, fooled the eye and hand. What seeemed a chink was often solid. What appeared solid, a handful of dust. The mistakes cost them precious minutes, took them equally by surprise. Their goal was a small, lighted tower window. They knew they would have to be into it before dawn.
The sturdy climber stopped a moment, cursed, put her left palm to her mouth. She licked a small, bloody shred there. Her wraithlike companion did the same, seeming to mock her. Neither of them smiled.
They climbed on.
Inches were gained. The wall did not fight them, but it did resist. Their own bodies became their worst enemies, for there is only so much stretch in the ligaments, so much give in the muscles, so much strength in arm and thigh.
At last the sturdier woman felt the top of the wall under her fingers.
“We’re here, Skada,” she whispered down to her companion. But the moon was again behind a cloud and there was no longer anyone there to whisper to.
“Alta’s hairs!” she muttered, and pulled herself up and over the top. Even with the heavy brocade panels as protection, she felt the scrapes on her breasts. She rolled to her knees and found herself staring at a large pair of boots.
“Look up slowly,” came the voice. “I would like to see the s
urprise on your face before I strike you down. Look up, dead man.”
From her knees, Jenna looked up slowly and never stopped praying for a sliver of light. When she finally stared at the guard, his face was suddenly lit by a full and shining moon.
Jenna smiled.
“By the god Alto, you are no man,” said the soldier, relaxing for a fraction of a second and starting to smile back.
Jenna looked down coyly, a maneuver she had learned in a minor court. She held out her hand.
The soldier automatically reached out to her.
“Now!” Jenna shouted.
Startled by her cry, the guard stepped back. But he was even more startled when, from behind him and below his knees, he was struck by another kneeling form. He tumbled over and was dead before the blade came sliding easily out of his heart.
Jenna hoisted the guard’s body on her shoulder and heaved it over the wall. She did not wait to hear it land.
“You took your time, Skada. I hate to flutter at a man. But I knew no other way to stall.”
“You know it is not my time to take or to give, Jenna.”
“Don’t preach at me.” Jenna wiped her blade on her leggings, then shoved it back in the loop of braids on top of her head. “It is about time we got up that tower wall. In case there are other guards. Once daylight comes, you are of no practical use anyway.”
Skada smiled.
“And protect my back! If I die …”
Skada nodded. “You do not have to remind me. Every Shadow Sister knows the rules of living and of light. I am called from your substance at the whim of the moon. I live as you live, die as you die, and so forth. Live long, Jenna, and prosper. Only get up that wall. I can’t start without you, you know.”
Jenna moved to the wall and stared up. The bricks were newer than along the Great Wall, but the ravages of the northern winds had pulped part of the facade. Bits of every brick crumbled underhand.
As the two began their ascent, whispered curses volleyed between them, though none so loud that they would awaken any guards. The curses were only variations on old standbys, as meaningless as love taps, but the antiphonal play between the two voices made the swearing sound fierce and full of raw anger.
Jenna reached the tower window first, but only fractionally. Below one of her torn fingernails blood seeped like a devil’s spot. She paid it no mind. All of her effort was concentrated on the sill. Under her dark tunic, muscles bunched as, with a final pull, she hoisted herself up to the sill and over. She landed heavily on her stomach, her legs tangling with her companion’s head.
“Out of the way, Skada,” she huffed.
“It is your legs that are at fault. My head is only movable in a limited direction,” Skada said breathily, pushing herself up. They slipped off the sill together and fell ungracefully onto the floor of the room. It was much farther down than they expected. As they landed, the lights suddenly flickered and went out.
“My lord,” Jenna began hopefully, “it is Jo-an-enna, your white goddess. I have come to rescue you and …”
“Have you indeed?” came a mocking voice from one of the dark corners. “Well, I fear you have come to the wrong room, my friend.”
Jenna felt her arms seized. She was pushed to her knees and the sword belt slashed from her waist.
The torches were lit again, slowly.
There was a sudden scrambling from the corner, and the mocking voice cried out, “There’s a second one, fools! Bring the torches. Over there!”
Two men—one with a torch and one with a drawn blade—ran to the corner, but the strong light dispelled all shadows. Only along the far wall, dark patterns, unfocused but tempting, danced. A shadow leg, a quick arm.
“There is no one here, Lord Kalas.”
“It was just a trick of the light,” said Jenna quickly. No one but the mountain women knew how to call up the shadow side. It was a secret they kept well hidden. She shrugged extravagantly. “I came alone. I always come alone. It is, if you will, my one conceit.” She looked up at Lord Kalas. She had heard many things about him, and none of them good. But could this faded coxcomb, with his dyed red hair and dyed red beard that emphasized the pouching under his eyes, be the infamous Lord K? “Do not tell me that Lord Kalas of the Northern Holdings is afraid of shadows?”
“Ah, I know you now. You are Longbow’s white goddess. I recognize you by your mouth. He said it opened as quickly as your legs.”
“Carum would never …”
“A man on the rack says many things, my dear.”
“Few of them true,” Jenna added.
Lord Kalas walked over to her. He put his hand lightly on her head as if to stroke her. Then, without warning, he grabbed a handful of her thick white hair. The hidden dirk clattered to the floor.
“Women playing at warriors bore me,” Kalas said, pulling a smile over his discolored teeth. It was piji nut, not age, that had yellowed them. Piji addiction was a slow rotting. “And you, pretty girl, do it badly. We moved your Carum Longbow to the dungeon ten days and nine would-be rescuers ago. So all your climbing has been for naught save to strengthen your long, pretty legs.” He tapped her right knee with the flat of his blade.
“By Alta’s hairs …” she began.
“Alta’s hairs are gray and too short to keep her warm,” said the smooth, mocking voice. “And that is what we have you by—Alta’s short hairs.” He laughed at his own crudity. “But if you insist on playing a man’s game, we will treat you like a man. Instead of warming my bed, you will freeze with the others in my dungeon.”
Jenna bit her lip.
“I see you have heard of it. What is it they call it?” He yanked her head back once again and brought his face close to hers, as if for a kiss. Jenna could smell the sickly sweet odor of piji.
“They call it Lord Kalas’ hole,” she said.
“Enjoy it,” Kalas said and pushed her to her knees. He turned from her quickly, and his lizard-skin cape sang like a whip around his ankles. Then he was gone.
The guards pushed Jenna down the stairs. They descended it quickly—much more quickly, Jenna mused, than her laborious climb up. Her hands were so tightly bound behind her, she had lost the feeling in her fingers by the second level. Her one consolation was that the man with the torch went ahead, and so the shadows of their moving bodies were ranged behind them. If he had been at the end of the line, there would have been a second bound woman on the stairs, with braids down her back and a brocade tunic and leggings with a hole in the knee. And a head that still ached.
Jenna promised herself that she would do nothing to make any of the guards look back, for she knew that Skada was following. Whether in dark or in light, Skada was never far away. They were pledged by ties deeper than blood, bound by magic older than either of them could guess. From the first blood of womanhood to the last blood flowing in Jenna’s veins, Skada would be with her. But only where shadows could be counted.
They came suddenly to the stairs’ end where a heavy wooden door barred the way. It took three keys to unbolt the door, and when it was finally opened, Jenna was thrown in without ceremony.
The dungeon deserved its name. Lord Kalas’ hole was dark, dank, wet, and smelled like the hind end of a diarrhetic ox. Jenna had marched behind sick cattle in the Retreat of Long Acre and she knew that smell well. She kept herself from gagging by flinging a curse at the departing guards.
“May you be hanged in Alta’s hairs,” she began when the wooden door slammed shut. So she finished the swear at a splinter of light that poked through the barred window. “And may She thread your guts through Her braids, and use your skull …”
“It’s not that I mind women cursing,” came a low, cracked voice made almost unfamiliar with fatigue. “But you should try …”
“… to be more original,” Jenna finished for him. “Carum! You’re here.” She spun around and tried to find him in the dark. As she peered into the blackness, she began to distinguish some shadows, though she could not tell
which one was Longbow and which the nine other half-starved men who had preceded her. Of Skada there was no sign at all, but with only the patch of window light, Jenna had hardly expected to see her dark sister.
She felt fingers working slowly at her bonds and heard a muttering.
“Besides, haven’t I told you before, you have the legend wrong. It’s by Alta’s heirs—the sons and daughters She bore—not the long braids you copy.”
Jenna rolled her eyes up and sighed. Even in the dark, Longbow lectured. He loved to talk and plot, lecture and argue, while she was always the doer of the two. His “bloody right hand,” he called her.
“What good,” Longbow continued, “is my bloody right hand if she’s tied?”
“What good am I at all,” said Jenna angrily, “if I’m caught? By Alta’s … no, by my sword, which I have unfortunately lost, and my dirk, which is also gone, and my temper, which is fast going, I can’t think in the dark.”
“You can’t think with your hands tied. You do very well in the dark,” Longbow said.
There was a slight murmur from the floor, as of cold water over stones. Jenna realized that the other men in the dungeon were laughing. It might have been their first laugh in days, and it stumbled a bit in their mouths. She knew from long experience that men in dangerous situations needed laughter to combat defeatism. So she added a line to Longbow’s. “You do fairly well in the dark yourself.” But then she spoke rapidly, as if to herself. “But why so dark? Why is there no light here?”
One of the men stood up. First Jenna heard the movement, then made it out.
“Lord Kalas’ jest, lady. He says one’s enemies are best kept in the dark.”
Jenna was trying out variations on the bad joke in her head, but none had reached her lips when Longbow announced, “There, you are free.”
Jenna rubbed first one wrist, then the other. “And when do they feed us?”
“Once a day,” Longbow said. “In the morning, I think. Though, as you can imagine, day and night have little meaning here.”