by Jane Yolen
Perhaps it was Julia’s buttermilk face that made the bargain so sweet, for Raul seemed to study her intently as she spoke. And at the end of her urging, I was allowed a post behind the herb counter as Julia’s assistant, and I was to be paid, as Julia said softly, “under the table,” which seemed a rather mysterious process.
“Thank you,” I answered, bowing my head, relieved. I was quite humbled by their decision and wondered if in the past I had ever extended such generosity to a mortal.
* * *
I SPENT THE REMAINDER OF the day following Julia around the store. Together we inventoried most of the herbs, correcting the names where necessary and throwing out those that had lain too long in jars to hold any healing worth. A few interested customers came to our counter and I made simple cures for coughs and running noses—which seem abundant among these children—and one tincture for a woman plagued with screaming megrims, though she called it “stress.”
When Julia was ready to leave, she opened her money box and handed me a fistful of paper bills. There was no table to pass these things under, and I was relieved. After she explained that my labor entitled me to a lower price for goods in the shop, she went with me to help pick out cheese, bread, a few eggs, fruit from the cooler that was fresh, and a glass jar of milk. At the last moment I remembered the requests from the hands.
“Flowers and cigarettes,” I said, “for friends. And something for a cat.”
Julia helped me select a pretty bunch of flowers and after, I was surprised when she handed me a small colorful box. I sniffed it curiously, and recognized the pungent odor of tobacco from my time with Baba Yaga. Then Julia handed me little “cans” of meat for the cat. All I had to do was pull the magic ring on top to open it.
* * *
IT WAS WELL THAT I remembered Baba Yaga’s servants. For no sooner had I arrived home than I heard a wild commotion on the balcony outside my bedroom window. The cat was there, a dove in its jaws, while the poor creature flailed its wings, crying out my Name of Finding.
Only one person besides me knows that name. I dropped my bag and ran to the window, opening it as quickly as I could. The little strip of white silk on the handle fluttered like the dove in the cat’s mouth.
“Do not harm it,” I commanded, but the cat regarded me with baleful eyes and snarled a warning from the back of its mouth. “I will feed you something else, but you must give me the bird,” I tried again, hearing the dove call my name over and over.
Slowly, the cat released the quaking dove from its jaws, but held it down under one paw, the talons digging beneath the ruffled feathers.
I reached into the bag and grabbed one of the little cans with the magical opening rings. I pulled it and the scent of meat made the cat lift its scrawny black head. I set the opened can down on the balcony and the cat released its grip on the dove. Scooping up the terrified creature, I noticed with satisfaction that Baba Yaga’s cat had buried her head in the can and was eating like a panther.
“Poor thing, poor thing,” I cooed, wrapping the dove in my blue silk scarf. I mixed some water and honey together in a glass, and then drizzled it into his opened beak from the end of a tiny silver salt spoon. There were spots of blood on his wing, and two of his tail feathers had been torn out. But though he panted, I thought his injuries not serious. Only fear could kill him now. So I sat in one of the big chairs, and held him on my lap while I sang a lulling song to infuse his body with a sense of peace and security.
Serana is alive, Serana is alive, I thought as I continued to pour out my healing song. And I willed the dove to live that he might return to her with a message from me.
* * *
IT WAS ONLY AFTER THE quarter moon had risen that I felt the dove stirring in my hands. I fed him once more, and he called me again by my Finding Name.
Sister, I cried from the sheer joy of knowing that you are in the world somewhere with me and that this, our messenger, will return to you from me.
Opening the window, I plucked a new green frond from the ancient ash, thanking it for the gift. After stripping the leaves from the stem, I tied the supple stalk into a secret knot and tucked it high on the dove’s leg as a message. I offered the dove a chance to sleep safely under my eaves, but now roused, he seemed in a hurry to complete his journey as much as to be away from the devil cat. I opened the window and watched him lift high into the sky on white wings, until he became a speck of moonlight.
It was then I remembered the other goods in my bag. I quickly opened it, fearing the state of the flowers, but was delighted to discover that Julia had thoughtfully wrapped them in wet paper and they were as fresh now as when I had left the store. I filled a glass and placed in it the small bouquet of stately blue iris for friendship and sunbursts of zinnias for goodness. I set the box of cigarettes down beside the flowers.
As I put the milk, the eggs, cheese and fruit into the cold storage, I noticed a bottle of clear spirits in the back. Thinking Baba Yaga would not mind, I pulled it out and poured out a small dram in a little crystal glass from one of the cupboards. I swallowed it quickly, in one gulp. My lips burned as I inhaled the pungent flavor, and the soothing finish warmed my throat so parched from singing to the dove.
Only then did I stumble to bed, feeling relief at knowing my sister’s messenger had searched and found me, thanks to the little flag of silk on my window.
I dreamed that night that I was flying over fields of ripening wheat and corn, across sparkling rivers and softly pleated mountain ranges, returning to Serana to tell her the news, “I am here, Sister, I am here.”
18
Serana Receives a Message
When the doves left, I went down to the Man of Flowers’ shop and bought milk. Imagine! It comes in a cold package, not still steaming from the cow. And I bought as well honey, and two loaves of bread with the last of my coins. Once I was home, I did not go outside again for fear of missing the doves. Keeping the front window open for them, I sat by the window in the single soft chair and watched the sky.
The sky. How different it looked from the window of a house than that which peeks through the green woods. Different from the great swath of sky that hangs over the meadows. This sky seemed squeezed between tall buildings, fitted and cut down and seamed together like one of the Queen’s formal dresses. It was neither a comfortable nor comforting sky, being an unhappy human color as gray as the buildings.
* * *
BY THE THIRD DAY, I had eaten through the green leaves and the fruit and had but one cheese left, plus a full container of cold milk that I sweetened with the honey. I kept the loaves untouched, in case the birds returned.
The two females came back that night but with no news, the young male—Puff Boy—on the fifth day. He was severely dehydrated and I gave him water from my mouth, spitting it into his beak in little drips until he was able to drink on his own. At least the water from the taps was inexhaustible, though my food was not. But this dove likewise had nothing to report. I fed the three of them one of the loaves, crumbling it on the sill and they were grateful for my offering.
Old Man of the Tree had not returned in seven days, and I was at a loss. With no more money, I could buy nothing. I had maybe a single day of cheese and honey left, plus a tiny bit of milk only slightly soured. And water, of course. But seven days—I was in despair.
The local birds came and went in those seven days, hoping for bread. A small gray mouseling played around my feet. None of them had much conversation. If only Jamie Oldcourse had appeared, she would have been company of a sort, though wishing did not make it so. I had no more power with wishes than I had with the greater magicks. I even hoped that the wheat-colored flower man might come. But then, he did not know where I was staying. And besides those two, what humans did I really know in this great village?
I was about to lie down on my bed and weep, cursing this place, my condition, the Queen, when there was a fluttering at the sill. My heart fluttered in answer. Turning, I saw the old dove, and ran to h
elp him in. He had lost some tail feathers and it was this that had made him so late in returning.
“Tell me. Coo-coo-rico,” I said, in a soft voice, “have you found my sister?”
“She lives far away,” he cooed back.
Could I believe him? Seven days away from here? Well, three-and-a-half there and three-and-a-half back. Crows are notorious liars, but doves have not the imagination for it. Still . . .
“She sends you this token.” His voice was low and throbbing and he lifted his right leg.
How had I not seen it at once! On his foot, shoved up onto the leg, was a twisted stem from an ash leaf, in the knot that Meteora and I used for a code, meaning It is I; all is well.
“Oh, you lovely, lovely bird,” I whispered and held him tight.
“Can’t . . . breathe,” he said, and I let him go.
“When you have taken a day to rest, and a day to fatten up on my crumbs, I will have a note for thee to take back to her.”
He nodded in that way that doves have, bobbing his head so vigorously that his breast moved up and down. It is often amusing, and many times Meteora and I had imitated the movement, laughing. But now my laughter was pure joy. He had found her! He had found Meteora!
“Is she well? Is she safe? Is she happy?”
He shook himself all over. “She is fat,” he cooed.
For a moment, I thought he meant she was beautiful. Doves like their females plump. But even before my head told me that was not what he meant, my heart knew. Meteora had been changed even as I had.
“And old?” I whispered.
His head went up and down.
I did not weep in front of him. That would come later.
“Pray tell your sisters and brothers, too, where she lives, so that if aught happens to thee . . .”
He nodded again. Doves have little fear of death for it is always their close companion.
Then I brought him the first of the second loaf, crumbling it into tiny pieces, and soaking half in milk and honey. All the while I was thinking: Oh Meteora, dear sister, only friend, soon enough we shall be together again before I remembered the curse of the iron rain. But I would chance that, truly I would, to be with her again.
* * *
COO-COO-RICO CAME BACK TO ME refreshed the next day, and I wrapped a tiny letter to Meteora in half of the rosy silk patch, tying it to his leg with a basil knot. If I had had any magic left, I would have used a word of binding. As it was, I had to trust my fingers, no longer as agile as they once were but surely as competent as Meteora’s had been with the ash leaf. She would know the silk at once. And then she would come to me if she could. I had not told her of the iron rain. I could not think why. And then I knew: I did not have the courage to go to her, nor could I without the help of Jamie Oldcourse. Or—perhaps the Man of Flowers would give me aid if I asked. It was such a potheration. I would leave it up to Meteora. Because curses work only on those who hear them. She would be safe. I would not. But I did not care what would happen to me, only that I see my sister again.
My dearest Meteora,
The view from my city window is but of a few spindly trees sending out fervent prayers for a bountiful summer that never quite comes. The pigeons crowd my windowsill hoping for a blessing of crumbs.
My messenger tells me that you—as I—have been stripped of youth, thrown into a middle passage with its attendant agonies. Do you have any glamour or magic left? I have none. Yet in my head I’m more powerful than ever, understanding life as never before. Were we always old but living as if young? Did others laugh at us behind their hands? Magic and image have the same parent, you know. Were we fools in our own Eden? Is no one in the Greenwood still lovely and full of gaiety? Except perhaps for the Queen?
Always except for the Queen.
Who knew that bitch would go on forever?
My fondest wishes (oh, that I could really grant them still).
Your old and fat but still loving sister,
Serana
PostScript: Where are you? I am at Number 13 in a large village called New York. How large, I do not yet know. I will not go back to the Greenwood without you. Write soon. Write soon. Write soon.
I PATTED THE DOVE’S HEAD and gave what blessings I could still manage. Small comfort where once I could have covered him with fairy armor against beak and talons. And claws—for he had cooed to me of his near death from Meteora’s cat. She has a house among flourishing trees and a cat! How astonishing that my little sister, who has never fended for herself in any way, has managed such a thing! Perhaps, I thought, she is more in tune with this world than I will ever be.
And then the dove was off, flying past the spindly tree, past the line of gray buildings, past the corner light now green, before banking upward into the blue sky. I watched as long as I could, but even after he had flown out of sight, I kept watching as if there were actually something to see but a trick of the light that looked—now here, now there—like the beating of wings.
19
The Queen Scratches a Name
You are in the forest that is not your own, and you know from the rough, ridged bark of the ash trees that once were smooth saplings that much time has passed here in your absence. You had not wanted to come, it is too painful to recall. But they watch you all the time, beneath the Hill and in the Greenwood, pairs of eyes gleaming with hatred and mistrust. Highborn fey whisper in angry knots at court. Even your waiting women strip the gossamer sheets of your bedchambers as though to find hidden secrets. Once you discovered a bananach’s feather teeming with lice left behind in your wardrobe. You ignore these signs, your solitary coldness mistaken for arrogance. It is all you have to make them cautious of challenging you.
You have come here on this dying day of summer to be alone, at least for a little while before they sense your absence beneath the Hill. They will not follow you here for they think it a place of no consequence, of too much sun, too close to the stink of mortal kind. They hear the sounds of the builder’s hammer and they shudder, knowing it will mean the loss of more faerie land.
You have come out of an unexpected tenderness and shame. You stand in the greening shadow of the ash trees and see the lawn of wildflowers and choking grass leading up to the wall that was not there before. You can hear the man, shouting, grunting like a gored animal, but you do not need words to understand the anguish and rage that feeds such madness. This was your doing, you remind yourself, but it could be no other way. You touch the old scar beneath your breast, the small circle of ruched skin reminding you that all three of you paid the price, though none was asked. Such is the call of power that it levels all to its demands.
The shouting has stopped and suddenly he is there, standing on the edge of the wild, forsaken lawn. He raises his head, shaggy with unkempt hair, his once fair skin mottled brown and black like old leather left to wither in the sun and rain. You are still, unmoving, though your eyes gaze keenly at the man, taking in every line of his face, the eyes black and bloodshot, the lips dry and cracked. He inhales deeply, his wolfish head swinging slowly from side to side as though scenting prey. For one moment his eyes seem to rest on you, and you see the moment of shocked surprise, before his eyes roll back into white spheres of madness again. He falls to his knees and with outstretched arms, lifts his head, howling.
And in the small triangle of skin at the base of his throat, that skin that once you warmed with your kiss, you throw your silver blade. Your aim is true as always and the point plunges deep, strangling his howls. He falls and you watch him, horror and misery mingled with the confidence of your action.
You step from the edge of the woods and enter the fallow field, wildflowers brushing your ankles as you let yourself turn back to that first moment. Blood weeps beneath your breast, the old wound torn open anew. Slowly, you approach him and he watches you, the fury in his black eyes dulling like river-washed stones abandoned on the shore. He gurgles, hiccups as the blood pools around the stem of silver. But he does not struggle, for h
e believes again. You lean down to him and your honey-colored hair brushes his face. He thinks you mean to kiss him farewell, and almost imperceptibly he lifts his chin amid the pain of dying to receive it.
But you will not kiss him, for you know too much about his madness. Instead you free your blade from his throat and watch him die, quickly now as the blood spurts furiously, washing his neck and shoulders crimson. You wipe your blade on his filthy shirt for not one drop of his blood must enter the Greenwood lest they should know of it.
Later, in a cool spring, you will purify yourself, pouring the cold, clean water over and over your flesh until all traces of his animal scent and the blood of your wound reopened and now sealed again have disappeared. But one last gesture you cannot resist. On a small bayberry leaf dangling close to the edge of the spring you have scratched your child’s true name with your fingernail in lines so small, not even a spriggan could read it between the green veins. And you wonder as you do so whether you have made a mistake after all.
20
The Dog Boy Marks His Territory
My time comes each month when the moon is up and I can find my way into the Greenwood again. The healing green. Too many days, too many nights, I must live in the gray place. My father sends me into exile there. His magic keeps me there. Except for the full moon when I must return. To the Greenwood. To his hand.
My father. I piss on his name.
This last time in the Greenwood, I came upon a field by accident, only in the green there are no accidents. There was a smudge in the air that I could see but could not see through, as if someone worked hard to disguise being there. So I waited. I am good at waiting when the moon is high. Not so good other times.