by Jane Yolen
You are shit. You are worthless. You’ll never be like her. It’s your fault she left. Please baby, I need you. Be her for me . . .
In the dark, Sparrow gagged on the tormenting weight of the past. There had to be a way out of its powerful grip, but she couldn’t think what. There was only the abyss and the lashing sting of the tattoo on her neck.
16
Serana’s Doves
On my return to Number 13, I was careful to avoid the chaos of before, walking round and about widdershins till I found the right number and the green door. I crossed and recrossed the streets many times for fear of someone stepping on my shadow or speaking my name aloud. I did not know if the humans in this great village had any magic—and none actually knew my name—but better to be safe than buried. This was not the Greenwood where I could touch elderflower if my nose began to drizzle or chew on a rosemary sprig if I feared my new lover might smell my morning breath and leave me for another. This was a new world of strange stone-and-iron buildings where folk spoke casual curses and did not honor the old gods. Who knew what they might do given the chance, or the push. I do not want to die here, so far from the green that nourishes me.
Yet, for all the peril of these strange streets, I did delight in finding the place the Man of Flowers sent me to, with its windows filled with pretty papers and writing tools. I stepped inside and smiled, relieved for a moment of my fears. Oh, the colors there, like a pied meadow. I finally chose papers that had names of growing things: lavender, marigold, madder, apricot, violet, straw, and a blue the shade of a robin’s egg. I also purchased a pen with no iron in it that wrote with ink the color of an otter’s wet coat.
* * *
WHEN I GOT BACK TO my nest, safe at last, the rooms seemed airier than before, and then I noticed I’d left the windows wide open. Probably not a good idea, with chaos about and me without the protection of my magic, but there was a serenity here that made me think no UnSeelie thing had gotten in.
I put the papers and pen on the table next to the bed. However, it took me longer to decide where to keep the food. The cold locker seemed right for some of the fruit and the green leaves. But as for the herbs, I spread them about the windowsills, some to find the sun, and some the shade, where their homey magicks could do the most good. Across the windowsill, closest to the dove’s tree, I spread crumbles of bread as well.
Then I moved the downy mattress into the front room and lay down on it to rest, my rosy silk patch clutched in my hand. Walking so much on the hard human roads in this aging, aching body had left me more tired than I realized.
* * *
WAKING, I FOUND THAT MY old feathered friend from the tree was the first to find my offering of bread crumbs. I got up carefully, tiptoeing to the window where I watched him eat his fill. Afterward, I put my hands around his stout body, pinning his wings, but gently. I did not want to fright him, only get his attention. Most bird brains are not made for long thinking, though some have deep, almost fey thoughts.
“I need you to find my sister,” I said to him. “I do not know if she is in the Greenwood or out in the world, if she is in this village or another. She is a fey of uncommon beauty, with eyes that are berry black and a nose that uptilts. I will tell you her secret name.” I whispered it to him; not Meteora’s true name of course, but her Name of Finding.
He cooed his acceptance, and gave me his name in return, Coo-coo-rico, which means Old Man of the Small Tree.
“Well, Coo-coo-rico, you will have many miles to go before you can rest again in your small tree.” Then I opened my hands, and he was gone.
I tried this with three more doves, two female and another male, who was smaller than the first, being no more than a yearling. They were called Fly By, Leaf By Linden, and Puff Boy. By the time I was done, the bread was all gone.
I had no idea how long the search would take them. If Meteora was safe and in the Greenwood, they would find her with ease. But what if she had to hide, having seen what the Queen had done to me? Or worse, what if she had been stripped of her own magicks and banished somewhere, too? This last did not bear thinking of. I forced myself to shut the thought away.
Doves, I told myself, think upon the doves. I knew they were strong fliers. They can always find their way home. I had their names. And they were entirely loyal. More I could not do. The only problem was that they were often prey of greater birds, and if Meteora was far from here, there might be hawks or merlins or shrikes to contend with. That’s why I sent out four of them. I did not like putting them into danger, but they were all that I had, now that magic had been taken from me. And having fed at my hands, they and their small natures were mine to command. I could only hope that at least one of them was stalwart enough to find my sister.
* * *
TO EASE MY MIND, I sat down and made packets of thyme to carry in the seams of my clothes to keep me healthy and to help me make money. Though I was healthy enough for this new age, no more money had come to me while I was out, and I had only copper coins left, change from the scrip that Jamie Oldcourse had given me. I did not know when I would see her again. Or indeed, if I wanted to.
I left the other herbs in their pots or in pieces on the windowsill: basil for the peaceful home, bay leaf against jinxes, marjoram to drive off those who would harm me and mine, rosemary for protection against evil and to give me dominance in my home.
I thought about speaking again to the Man of Flowers. I would do it because of the Law of Friendship and because he had given me a gift of a strange fruit with a star at its center. I knew not how he managed to sneak it into my paper sack. But now I was beholden to him.
Also, I wanted to say to him, “If I tell fortunes, and make predictions, can I be given money for this?” I knew that the Rom, the traveling folk who have small magicks, often do such a thing. They are the nearest of human folk to the fey. Telling fortunes and making predictions was a magic that did not depend on what had been stripped from me. I could still read tea leaves, palms, the pattern in a swirl of hair, the lines of a face. All such readings are accurate to a degree as long as the reader has some small part of fey blood.
Suddenly, I remembered how Meteora and I had teased the locals who came with gifts to our faerie market, telling them outrageous lies, the exact opposite of what we read on their hands, on their faces. But if I told fortunes properly here, perhaps I could make enough until Meteora and I could figure out how to get home again without suffering the iron rain.
If the Queen would let us back in.
Always, it came down to the Queen. I knew that. Meteora did, too. But oh, how I wished it were not true.
17
Meteora and the Dove
When I woke the following morning, I was confused by the greening light spilling across the tousled sheets. It wasn’t until I rose, lips parted expectantly, that I realized I was not at home in the forest. An ancient ash tree sheltered the bedroom window and the morning sun was filtering through its lush canopy. Though comforted by its presence, I rose weary at heart to be so reminded of my loss.
Opening the window, I had my first glimpse of the back of Baba Yaga’s house. There were few signs of a garden, which should have been in full bloom at the height of summer. Instead, there was only a patch of choked wildflowers, their small blossoms almost colorless in the dry, rough soil. There was more garbage here, too: broken chairs and rain-soaked boxes that must have lain out for most of the summer. The only bright color came from winking shards of broken glass—brown and green bottles from the looks of them.
I shut the window and began to worry about my debt to Baba Yaga. Had she known the state of her garden? I had certainly never labored before, and the task now seemed daunting. Yet, I wanted to be brave. I wanted to learn how to survive here. I wanted to find my sister again. I wanted to flourish in spite of the Queen’s punishment. I wanted . . . to eat, I realized as my stomach rumbled its own wants.
Throwing on the housedress, I went into the kitchen, sat at the table, and w
aited. And waited. And waited.
“Hands?” I asked. “Are you there? Please,” I said in my most polite voice, “if you may, could I have some victuals? Tea would be nice. Bread too.”
There was no answer. And only then did I recall that Baba Yaga had said her servants could choose to help me or not. It was becoming clear that I had not yet earned the right to that help. Last night, I was a traveler, a guest of the great witch, come in from the night. But today, I was a servant like them, here at Baba Yaga’s discretion. By their silence, I understood that I was expected to perform my own tasks.
Determined, I went to the stove, noting the small rings of iron, and beneath a tiny blue flame. Fortunately, the handles were white porcelain, so I experimented, turning them this way and that. At first they hissed, and then popped into a brilliant fire. I quickly learned that turning them one way brought the flame higher, the other way dampened it to almost nothing.
At the sink, I marveled that water could travel so far from its source to arrive in my little basin. I filled the kettle, set it on its ring, and turned up the flame.
The cupboards were easier. I found the tea, a brown teapot and a little silver tea strainer. There were also jars of beans, sugar, bay leaves, honey, a tin of paprika, and kernels of polished rice. When the kettle sang, I spooned tea into the pot, followed by the boiling water. A second search of the cold cupboard offered up a little milk, most of a loaf of bread, a stick of butter wrapped in white paper, a few wizened carrots, half a cabbage, and two beets. Another drawer revealed sharp knives, cutlery with antler bone handles, a butter knife carved from olive wood, and serving spoons of black-and-gold lacquer. It was a treasure trove and I marveled at how cunningly everything was put away and memorized it.
I cut the bread, buttered it thickly, and poured steaming tea into a cup into which I had also poured the last of the milk and a generous amount of honey. My preparations finished, I brought my meal to the table and sat down again.
For a moment, I was pleased. This indeed was the first meal I had ever made for myself, except for picking berries or finding mushrooms in a hidden dell. But unexpectedly, as I sat in the silence of the little kitchen, steam from my cup gently drifting away, I started to cry. It was also the first time I had ever eaten a meal alone. No longer hungry, I pushed the plate away, cradled my head in my arms on the table, and wept inconsolably. What did it matter if I had survived my crossing over? What did it matter that I had found shelter and food? What did any of it matter without my sister?
“Serana, Serana, where are you?” I cried into my hands.
A tap at my shoulder made me sit up, shuddering with the effort of my sobs. A hand—the male one I am sure from the few dark hairs on the knuckles—handed me a linen hanky. The second hand—female from its pearl-colored fingernails—stroked my hair. The storm in my breast subsided, and in between hiccups, I wiped my eyes with the proffered hanky and finally, stood and washed my face at the little sink. Then I sat again and took sips of the fortifying tea. When I was done, I looked at the hands that were now waiting, palms downturned on the table.
“Thank you for your consolation,” I said and the female hand turned her palm up to accept my gratitude. “I need to go out,” I continued, “and I need your help.” An idea had come to me as I was splashing cold water over my face. “I need to work and to be in this world among people—even those not of my kind. So I must return to a shop Baba Yaga took me to. The Co-op. Do you know it?”
The hands waved excitedly—which I took to mean “yes.” It is difficult to tell with hands.
“Can you show me the way? I believe I can find work there . . . as a goodwife dispensing simples, salves, and tinctures.”
The male hand opened a drawer and produced a piece of heavy cream-colored paper, while its feminine partner found a pen. She wrote the name: “Co-op” and drew a map for me, naming the streets and placing a little star over Baba Yaga’s house.
“Thank you,” I said, folding the paper and placing it in my bag. I retired to the bedroom to wrestle myself into my matron’s attire. Exploring the chest at the end of the bed, I found a pretty blue silk scarf that I tied around my throat. I combed my graying hair and twisted it into a knot at the nape of my neck. Surprisingly, Baba Yaga had a silver comb set with seed pearls and I borrowed it to keep my hair from tumbling free.
I returned to the sitting room and snatched up the key from its hook by the kitchen door. The hands were still waiting on the table and I stopped, hearing something in their stillness.
“Is there something I can bring you?” I asked, wondering what hands could possibly need.
The female hand flew to the drawer and retrieved another piece of paper. She wrote a single word and then handed the pen to her partner and he wrote something as well. Then almost shyly, they handed it to me and I read “flowers” and “cigarettes.”
“Of course. I shall bring them back for you,” I said, grateful to have found a way to honor my debt. Though I wondered what “cigarettes” might mean. I hoped it wasn’t too large to carry.
Standing at the edge of the walkway to the house, I studied the map and tried to orient myself in the correct direction. I turned the paper around and around until I was sure I knew which way it was leading me. As I began walking, I heard a sniggering, then a shushing sound. I looked about, and then down when I heard another burst of giggles near my feet. There was only a stray clump of spindled grass rising between the cracks of the path. I bent over and patted the grass, wondering if I had found a patch of stray-away-sod on this city street.
“Did you lose something?” someone behind me asked.
I glanced up and saw two stripling girls, hair pulled up on the top of their head into swinging tails like ponies. From their pink cheeks, I was certain they were biting their lips in an effort not to laugh. It only then occurred to me, that in bending over, perhaps I displayed too much of what was underneath my dress. Apparently, there was no shrift for aged flesh here at all.
“Ah no, not really, I thought I saw something . . .” I let my words fade away as the pair was anxious to get past me before breaking out into more stifled laughter.
And this is what I learned that first day: that unless one makes a spectacle of oneself—such as muttering aloud useless spells of finding when one has gone astray despite a map—women of a certain age do not exist. No one saluted me, and I quickly learned not to offer such a gesture, for it was met with a stony stare, or even worse a subtle movement away from me as though I were no more than a moonstruck fool. Much later, when my feet had grown tired from wandering in circles on streets named for trees that were no longer there, I finally saw the blue and orange walls of the Co-op. Only then did I wonder: What can I say to make them “see” me first, in order for them to then want me?
Before crossing the street, I kneeled down in a patch of clover-rich grass growing by the road and plucked a small handful of the bright leaves and shaggy-headed purple blossoms. This too was another one of those spectacle moments. I heard as I gathered my posy the snide comments of youngsters on their way to their own follies. I no longer cared. I chose to cling to any hint of magic, any hope of charms still available to me that might secure my fortunes here. Tucking the little posy in the folds between my breasts, I hurried to the door of the Co-op.
* * *
“HEY, HI! HEY HERB-LADY, REMEMBER me?” a voice called out.
Turning to the benches, I saw Julia, the sweet, gormless maid from the day before. She had gathered the thick rolls of her wheaten hair into a bright turquoise scarf that intensified the blue of her eyes.
“Good day, Miss Julia,” I answered, nodding to show that I had remembered her. In fact, I had been hoping to find her here. “I have come to offer my help, if you will have it.”
“Cool,” she said, folding up a book and tucking it into her purse. “Come on back and I’ll introduce you to the boss, Raul. We might have to talk him into it a little, but I think he’ll dig it. Oh, and what’s your name
?” she said with a little laugh. “Might help when I introduce you.”
I winced remembering how easily these children gave away their power with their names. I stuttered for a moment, to hide my unease with such a request and then thought of one.
“Sophia,” I answered, invoking one of the goddesses of wisdom to help me now. What other questions had I not thought about?
“I love that name,” she smiled. “So . . . um, where are you from?”
“Russia,” I answered, thinking of Baba Yaga.
“Oh, that explains your accent. I was wondering about that yesterday.”
Accent? How was I to know my speech was anything but common enough?
“Have you been here long?”
Questions, more questions . . . must these children know everything about one? “I have arrived recently,” I added, for that was true enough.
“Wow, your English is like really good!” she said, impressed at what appeared to be yet another skill of mine. Of course I didn’t tell her my Russian was terrible. I knew the word babushka and that was all.
I followed Julia into the store, noting the way her freckles splashed across her narrow shoulders, like a fawn. She was slim as a reed, the thin fabric of her shirt clinging to her body. I was like that once, I thought with a stab of envy. Once! I was like that only days ago.
Despite my situation, I will say that I was born beneath the luck star, for it didn’t take Julia long to convince Raul that I was a worthy addition to the Co-op. Julia explained how I had been helpful the day before. She invented a few tales about me, embellishing the extent of my skills. I did not interrupt her because mostly what she said about me and herbs was true. Every sprite and fey, every Seelie and UnSeelie, knows these things. We learned them in the same moment we learned to walk, to fly, to swim, to speak spells. Not one day of my long life had passed without reaching for succor from Nature’s prodigious larder. Yet, I was touched that Julia had such blind confidence in a stranger that she was willing to stand up for me.