Sourdough and Other Stories

by Angela Slatter

  ‘I made friends with the little girl. I was treated so very well in their home. The first tenderness I ever experienced came from them. I wanted nothing in life but to be loved, to belong to that family. I would lie on my bed of bracken at night and dream of four walls and a hearth, of the sounds of people who loved me sleeping nearby.’

  ‘Faideau.’ I itch to shake him, to stop him, but he ignores me. I have enough shadows of my own; I do not wish to carry those of another.

  ‘Your mother, even then, was as beautiful as a new day. Then the baby arrived and I was displaced. The mother was preoccupied and Theodora wanted only to play with the new human doll. I interested her not at all. Perhaps if I’d been older I would have known that things would return to normal if only I’d the patience to wait. That their love hadn’t gone, merely been distracted.’ He frowns as if he could tell his younger self these things and thus avoid all that had come about.

  ‘In the woods, Magdalene, there are wolves, trolls, men who turn into beasts at the first sign of the moon, women who do worse. All in all, witches are the least of your worries. Things in the forest speak, things that shouldn’t, and they know what’s in your heart. A troll-wife found me hiding, watching Theodora and her mother and new sister at the stream.’

  My heart clenches. His confession will hurt us both. ‘It—she—told me I could win their love if only I did her a favour. It was a joke she said, no one would get hurt—that sometimes we needed to use tricks to get what we really, really wanted.’

  And he told me how he stole away the true Polly lying fresh in her basket, and took her to the doors of the kingdom under the mountain. How the troll-wife gave him another child in return, a misshapen lump of flesh, a wailing thing that she touched and moulded until it took on the appearance of the infant he had brought. How he returned it to where Theodora’s mother might find it and his head was filled with thoughts of how much this family would love him. But the guilt ate at him, night and day, so any joy he might have had was bitter. He was uncomfortable and afraid that somehow he might be discovered. That the mewling changeling might somehow betray him. His fear transmitted itself to the family and so they became ill at ease in his presence. After a while he stopped going to visit.

  I could have told him, even I, that such an act will return a greater pain to the perpetrator than the victim, how selfishness is never rewarded. How, when I had screamed at my mother and wished her gone, the very next day she was. And how on the morning I found her missing I could not imagine a worse ache than that of the loss of her.

  ‘How could she not know you, Faideau? To meet you again?’

  He shrugs. ‘When she came to Lodellan as the prince’s bride, all royal and shiny, there were so many years between us and I wore another name, once, when I was small. And I was so much less than I had been. The boy had faded from her memory; the man was a drunk. And so this,’ he gestures as if a shared history is spread before us rather than the components of a meal, ‘is all my fault.’

  ‘But you were only a child,’ I say.

  He smiles coldly.

  ‘Someone else said that to me once, or something very like.’ He shakes his head.

  How do I judge this man? How dare I judge him? Had he been stronger, had he been better, Theodora may not have married my father and we would not have been as we were. My aunt would never have been stolen away; we would not have fled the city; we would not have had this vein of agony running through our lives. I would have had a different father; or I would not have existed at all. I do not find that last thought painful.

  ‘So, I ask again, Magdalene, why did your mother leave you?’

  But I do not say anything, do not give him even a scrap and he hands me a plate. ‘I think you should leave very early. I don’t want to see you again.’

  I almost open my mouth then, but he continues, reluctantly, as if he now gives me information against his will. ‘Your mother is known, Magdalene, in the forest. She travelled its ways long before she came to Lodellan. She knows its dangers. Be careful. Don’t stray from the path.’

  ***

  ‘Starving,’ Grammy had said. ‘I left her because we were starving.’

  When I’d found Theodora gone, it was Grammy who listened to me curse and cry, Grammy who dried my tears, who fed me a hearty breakfast, who quietly watched as I stuffed a satchel full and just as quietly took everything out and repacked it with things that might actually be of some use. I followed her as she stumped about the house, adding a compass and a dagger from Kitty’s room (still kept as she left it, just dusty); a loaf of bread, the last of the dried meat that Fra Benedict used to take into the woods with him, a small wheel of cheese, a bladder of water from the pantry; and the sword with which Rilka had trained me.

  It was Grammy who explained how a woman might leave a child behind.

  ‘We’d grown so thin, Fenric and I, that you could almost see the sunlight through us. I gave up whatever I could for the baby, to keep her healthy, but it was winter and harsh. I could find milk only so often. Sometimes I fed her on blood from the animals Fenric was able to hunt up. I was barely more than a child myself. We were cold and hungry and I’d promised I would see the child safe and protected, but I was doing a worse job of it than even I thought possible.’ She lowered herself heavily at the bottom of the steps, wiggling the satchel about so its contents sat just right.

  ‘In the forest, there was less snow—the trees were so thick most of it didn’t make it through and while it wasn’t warm, for a time it was better than it had been. I wanted so badly to lie down and give up and sleep forever. But I kept going; Fenric would nip at me and growl if I stopped, if I napped. And Olwen, Olwen would wail. In my memory it was constant, but perhaps not. I remember her being heavy, too, but I know that’s not right—she was so light, so underfed. We kept going.’ Fenric, at her feet, watched her devotedly as he always did. She ruffled his fur and smiled.

  ‘Just before nightfall, we found a man and a woman weeping over a small mound, a child’s grave. I no longer recall their faces, but I thought they looked kind. I thought they looked in need. Their cottage was small and neat, with bright flowers that lit up the garden as surely as fire does night. The door was ajar and I went inside while they were distracted. At first I thought only to steal some food. Then I saw the cradle, empty, but fitted with a fine layette made with such care. Olwen was asleep. I placed her in the cradle. She looked as though she belonged there, tiny scrap that she was. She sighed in her sleep and I thought “This is better. This is best.”

  ‘I slipped away like a shadow. I thought I might die out in the winter, but she at least would live. I knew I would not return for her. She was no longer my burden.’

  ‘Why tell me this?’ I demanded.

  ‘Because you need to realise that sometimes mothers have to leave children behind. Even if they don’t want to, sometimes they must,’ she said gently.

  ‘She did not need to leave me! She did not need to choose her sister over me,’ I howled. ‘Did I make her so miserable?’

  But I knew the answer.

  Could I have alleviated some of Faideau’s agony if I had said to him, We had been fighting, Theodora and I, constantly it seemed and equally constantly it seemed about nothing. A glance, a sigh, a word, a breath out of place could birth a conflagration as surely as a spark onto a pile of tinder. Whenever my words were particularly hurtful I would catch something in her expression as we glared at each other, something that said, I pulled you from the jaws of a troll-wife and look how you turned out!

  If I had admitted to him that my own mother seemed to fear and distrust me, would that have helped either one of us? But I did not share any of this and the time has passed for a confession to have any gentling effect. I have neglected that chance. So I leave, as instructed, without saying goodbye.

  The sky has barely warmed, still streaked with the cold grey of dawn. I’ve wrapped my cloak tightly about me and am thankful for the gloves Grammy gave me, leather li
ned with fur. I rest my hand on the hilt of the sword. There are few folk out at this hour, mainly merchants preparing for market trade. I feel eyes on me, pricking holes in the back of my neck, but no one speaks to me. No one yells, Tell her father she has returned. No one knows me, no one cares. I do not belong here; I am passing through.

  I ride out under the city gates and follow the road until it is eaten by the forest.

  The trees are thick and it’s dark underneath their canopy. I rely on my mount’s sturdy hooves to keep us on the path. There is a peculiar silence all around, no birds sing, nothing scampers or pads, flits or slithers. Above me the air is thick with spider webs, silver and disturbingly sturdy-looking, but empty of all but the remains of morning dew. When we come to a clearing the light is shocking.

  I take the chance to consult my map, hastily scribbled on a parchment as I prepared to go after Theodora. All I can think of is how much I want to rage at her, scream and cry and give vent to a disappointment I never thought I could name. To tell her she has made me ashamed by running away, by denying me. For the first time in weeks I give in to tears, to the weakness that her departure left me, to the wailing child I’ve kept bottled up inside.

  ‘Please, miss, will you help?’

  One is whey-faced with blonde hair not unlike my own; the other has very dark straight hair. The one who speaks is of medium height, wiry; a bit older than me. His smile is nervous. His hands, clasped pitifully in front of his chest, are shaking. The dark one is younger, smaller and keeps his eyes lowered, as if too afraid to look at me.

  ‘Help with what?’ I ask gruffly, embarrassed to be caught with tears on my cheeks and making such a childish racket.

  ‘There’s a woman over there.’ He points vaguely into the depths of the undergrowth. ‘We found her—my brother and me—I think she’s hurt.’

  I wonder if it’s Theodora and because I wish for this to be at an end, and because some part of me does want my mother lying injured somewhere, I dismount.

  Immediately the younger one raises his eyes and they are filled with rat cunning. He gives a grin punctuated by black gaps of missing teeth. He grabs for the bridle and my horse rears. I stumble out of the way. Only now do I notice how well the dirty shades of their jerkins and breeches help them to blend in. Brigands.

  I draw my sword and the boy who’s trying to steal my mount charges at me. I run him through and the sword parts his flesh like butter. I’ve never killed anyone or anything before. Never felt how the steel moves through meat. Never understood what Rilka was trying to teach me when she trained me all those long hours.

  He makes a terrible noise. I did not expect that either and surprise loosens my grip. He staggers away from me and pulls the weapon from my hand. I watch him drop and die.

  The older one comes at me then, his arm sweeps up in an arc and he slaps me with such force that I am knocked off my feet. He is hard upon me, tearing at my belt, pulling at my doe-skin britches, laughing out loud at my stupidity. He digs his fingers into the softness of me and I know that if I think myself helpless then so I will be. I fumble for the dagger and find it gone.

  He keeps talking, puffing hard as he tries to manœuvre. ‘Got some other mates who are gonna love you, dimwit. But I want first taste and now I don’t hafta share with him.’

  I reach up and grab his neck. They feel powerful, these white, girl’s hands. I squeeze. His eyes pop as much from shock at the power he senses constricting his breath as at the loss of air. He ceases trying to poke me with his white worm of a cock, starts trying to break my hold, clawing at my face, but his strength fades rapidly. He bats at me like a kitten with a ball of wool until at last he is still.

  I roll his limp form off me, lay there for a moment, feeling the fallen leaves and pine needles littering the ground, the rocks, the twigs, all the detritus of the woods beneath me like a carpet. Above me is green, some patches of blue and white. In my ears ring the words ‘Don’t stray from the path’ and I curse the tears that heat my eyes.

  Lying here, I feel a recurrence of the illness that’s troubled me for months. The ache in the joints, the crunch of bones, the pressure behind my eyes, feeling as if I’m not in the right shape—feeling as if I’ve got growing pains after all these years. I stay there for a while until I feel stronger.

  ***

  The horse is gone and I could not find it, damned thing. The long walk has given me blisters and I can feel them swell and pop inside my boots, the fluid oozing out with each step. I regret this journey with every pace, every mile, every breath.

  I come at last to where the doors should be, the spot where Murcianus’ Magical Places told Theodora she might find the kingdom of the trolls. Where her stolen sister might still draw breath.

  I can see nothing, no crack in the cliff-face, no place where one might apply pressure or insert a key. There is, however, a well with a faded red roof. A bucket is suspended on the crossbeam, waiting to be lowered and fulfil its function. When I look more closely, I notice there is a curve of steps cut into the interior of the well so that one may take the dark path downwards. At the bottom I can see water with the reflection of flames dancing in it. I move over the lip of the well and carefully take the steps. They are slippery with moss and I find holds for my fingers in the walls to keep myself steady.

  At the bottom, I tread in three inches of water, thick as treacle. It soaks through my boots and it tickles my feet, soothing the burn of the blisters. I feel an itch at the bottom of my spine, the ache at the base of my neck, each follicle on my scalp stings. My skin seems to be trying to crawl off my flesh. I ignore the discomfort.

  The passage is mercifully short, lit by torches and it terminates in a low-ceilinged room. A table and chairs wait at the far end. The water deepens to my knees. At the table sits a thing in the shape of a child, made of dried earth; its feet are held well above the flood. It blinks and dust floats from its eyelashes. It smells of baking earth and death. On the table in front of it is a goblet of blue and gold glass; muddy fingerprints mar its sides. The hands have been partially eaten away, the fingers mostly gone, their stumps are wet as if the fluid has melted them.

  ‘Girl,’ it says, all cracked and crumbled. Particles puff out of its mouth. ‘Help, girl.’

  ‘How? Will you drink?’

  ‘Water is death to me.’

  ‘Then what?’

  It smiles, eyes on my wrists attentive as a lover.

  ‘Key,’ it says. For a moment I don’t understand, then it dawns on me. All things have a price.

  The dagger Grammy gave me, rescued from the forest floor, is sharp. I cross to where the thing sits, careful to not splash lest it lose any further form. I draw the blade across the fleshy part of my hand, and the blood wells willingly. I put the bleeding breech to the dry mouth and the thing slurps happy as a babe at the teat.

  I let it suckle until I feel faint. I say, ‘Enough’ and it relinquishes me.

  I sit on one of the other chairs and examine the creature. It is now brown and moist-looking, skin with an almost oily sheen.

  Her smile is bright.

  ‘It’s thirsty work waiting for guests. Not too many come down here.’

  ‘How do I get inside the mountain?’

  ‘Hasty, hasty,’ she shakes her head, a gesture older than she seems.

  ‘I need to find my mother.’

  ‘Mayhap you will. Mayhap you won’t.’

  ‘Where’s the key?’ I ask, irritated enough to grab her arm—my fingers sink into the stuff of it, finding it sticky and warm. I pull away; some of the substance adheres to my palm and digits. I wash it off in the water as the thing watches me with a vague distaste. I wonder if it was given it this shape to make people sorry for it? Gods know, I would feel a twinge of sympathy for any child left behind.

  ‘Never fear, the door will open for you.’

  ‘That’s it?’ I feel robbed, betrayed. Surely there should be more, something concrete. I’ll not relish going down this well again s
hould this thing be lying to me.

  ‘What more do you want?’ It asks with a strange kind of exasperation. ‘Magic?’

  I want to reply, Yes, that’s exactly what I want, but I don’t. I trudge back along the passage, through the thick water. The darkness swirls around me, touches me, wraps itself like a cloak over my heart and I cannot shift it.

  Back in the light, I feel dizzy. My temperature seems to rise with every step; my head aches, as do my teeth. My eyes are dry in their sockets and my ears ring with a noise like that of hammers beneath the earth.

  The doors are visible to the eye now, their price paid in blood. They are stone and wood and old as time; huge. Meant to be moved by giants. I put my hands out, my tiny hands, and give a despairing push. There is a creak and a groan. Blackness spills upwards and out, staining the day around me. It disperses like smoke or steam and I look down into a sloping tunnel. There are weakly flaming torches clinging to the walls.

  Behind me is sunshine; it feels too bright and makes my eyes water. I step into the darkness. My skin burns.

  ***

  Under the mountain, deep inside its heart, beneath layers of earth and rock and other old things, I find my mother.

  What did I expect? Theodora wrapped tightly around a skeleton, her hands buried in the emptiness of the ribcage? Theodora broken open, the marrow sucked out of her bones? Yet here she is, serving at the great fossilised tables of the trolls, her hair turned almost all white since last I saw her. Her face is painted with contempt and scorn for these things that live in the dimness, that steal away children, that feast on tender morsels and leave their own offspring as cuckoos in the homes of humans.

  How can these creatures see what is written so plainly and let her live? How is my mother so completely without fear? Another woman shuffles along behind her, carrying an enormous platter with difficulty. Her hair is all white and she looks decades older than Theodora, but I can see in the slant of the eyes, the tilt of her chin, an echo of my mother’s face. Polly. Her leg drags; an old injury? She is emaciated.