by Jane Yolen
“Yeah, me too. I’d better get a move on, especially as this one needs her morning’s constitutional,” Sparrow said, nudging her foot affectionately against the sleeping dog’s round belly. “Walk,” she told Lily.
The dog scrambled to her feet and performed a little dog dance, shuffling back and forth, tail wagging. “Come on, girl, let’s go and wake up the squirrels.” She stood and got down the collar and leash. Snapping it briskly onto Lily’s collar, she followed the eager dog out the front door, and down the stairs.
Outside, Sparrow paused on the bottom step and inhaled deeply, while Lily was off watering a spot beneath the bushes. The morning was crisp, and the slanting sun gilded the tops of the trees in a buttery light. For the last two weeks, this had been the only decent part of Sparrow’s day. No matter how exhausted she was from her miserable nights, every morning she was surprised by the restorative power that came with walking around the block, the dog leading the way from tree to bush, and occasionally dragging Sparrow across a yard in pursuit of a sleepy squirrel.
As they went along down the street, Sparrow found herself thinking about the elderly woman with the graying auburn hair and soft hazel eyes living upstairs. Sparrow was the only one in the house who knew the woman wasn’t Baba Yaga, the owner of the house. But she hadn’t told anyone, not even Marti, because that would have meant revealing her agreement with the witch, something even Sparrow wasn’t foolish enough to consider.
It had been late spring when Sparrow had first arrived in the city, searching for a place where she might stay just long enough to make a little money, and then maybe go north to the woods before winter. She’d been sleeping in the park for a few days when Baba Yaga awakened her with a tap on the shoulder.
“Who are you?” she’d demanded and Sparrow had bolted upright at the sight of the old woman’s blazing eyes, her iron teeth, the sound of her rasping voice. “Who are you?” she asked again.
“Sparrow,” Sparrow had answered, giving the most recent of many names she’d used over the years.
“Sparrows sleep in trees. You are more like a mouse. Trying hard not to be seen beneath the leaves.”
“Nothing wrong with that.” Sparrow was alarmed that the crone had guessed correctly.
“Depends on who is looking. Any night hunter will find you here soon enough among the trees.”
Sparrow clutched her backpack, afraid of the twisted face and the fiery eyes that studied her so carefully. “Are you a hunter?”
“Yes. And these are my woods.”
“Have you come for me?”
“Yes, but not in the way you think. Listen, child, I have a proposition.” Baba Yaga had squatted on her heels, dimmed the red flames of her eyes. Scratching at stiff hairs sprouting on her chin Baba Yaga then grinned. That smile was less comforting than her growl of a voice had been. “I have a house, nearby. You may live there. There is furniture, kitchen, everything to make you comfortable.”
“What’s the catch?” Sparrow was always wary of unexpected generosity. Such gifts always came with attachments, most of them dangerous.
“Hah!” the crone said, approvingly. “I need someone to gather rents and put them in the bank for me. I don’t like anyone to know who I am. So I will send you, little girl, to do it.”
“But I will know who you are.”
“Yes. But you are different. Like me, you have deep secrets. I can taste them. I will let you keep yours, so long as you keep mine.” She spit into her palm and extended her hand to Sparrow. “There is safety in my house, more than others.”
Sparrow flinched at the sight of the long black fingernails. She glanced up again at the old woman who grinned even more broadly, one broken tooth protruding like a fang over her lower lip. She certainly isn’t someone’s kindhearted grandmother, Sparrow thought. Still, the offer was hard to beat. The spring had been cold that year, the ground damp and her jacket thin. And if this crone could find her hidden in the bushes, others not so agreeable could, too. Besides, she needed a place to rest.
Sparrow spit into her own palm and gripped the crone’s hand as hard as she could, just to prove she wasn’t afraid.
Throwing back her head, the old woman gave a thunderous laugh. “Save your strength for others more treacherous than me.”
Without asking any more questions, Sparrow had followed her home. When she saw the stone chicken feet, Sparrow at last realized who had invited her to stay. A lifelong reader, Sparrow had sought out libraries as a refuge, hoping to find answers in books to her own peculiar nature. She’d searched medical books, self-help books, New Age spiritualism, travelogues to exotic-sounding places, and romance novels, hoping to find someone who shared her visions and vivid dreams. Who healed as quickly as she did. Who could hide in plain sight, make herself invisible. Who held communion with certain animals and birds. None of the adult books helped. It was in the children’s section that she found an echo of her own life. The lush illustrations of fairy tales had more in common with the night terrors and fears that haunted her than anything else she’d ever seen. Hungering for more, she moved on to their adult counterparts in the myth and folklore sections of libraries and bookstores and found some of the peculiar contours of her life explained.
Standing in front of the chicken feet, Sparrow turned and started to ask, “Are you—?”
“—Shush,” Baba Yaga put a finger to her lips. “Secrets, remember? I am not staying long. I live on the top floor. You will live on the second floor. It is empty now, except for Lily, my dog. But tomorrow there will come a young woman looking to share the rooms with you. You will say yes to her and you will have the key to empty the rent box in the front hall and take my money to the bank. You understand?”
“Yes,” Sparrow had nodded. “But why me? Why did you really pick me? Everyone has secrets.”
Baba Yaga shrugged. “I am returning a favor.” And after handing Sparrow two keys, a silver one to the apartment on the second floor, and a slim gold one for the rent box, she’d turned and retreated into the shadows again.
“Come on, Lily, that’s enough squirrel chasing,” Sparrow said and gently jerked the dog back toward the sidewalk. Sparrow hurried her steps, suddenly wanting to get home.
Home. Was it her home or the old witch’s? For the last three months, she’d dutifully collected the rents, depositing them into a Bettina York’s account at the bank. She’d followed written instructions that came in the mail about the two jerks living in the lower apartment. But Baba Yaga had said nothing about the old woman now living on the third floor. Sparrow cringed, faintly remembering the elderly face at the door. She had answered the knock while still caught in the grip of a nightmare, and yelled at the woman, mistaking her for the wraiths that were taunting her in her dreams. Sparrow had yelled, sent her away, and shut the door. So, who is she? Sparrow wondered. Another one with secrets? And if so, why couldn’t she keep to herself?
* * *
UPSTAIRS, IN THE APARTMENT AGAIN, Sparrow removed Lily’s leash and stroked the dog’s ears, one white, the other a pale mahogany, smiling at the grateful creature, panting up at her. Everyone in the house complained that Lily barked too much, but Sparrow didn’t mind. Lily barked at dark things that hovered outside her window, at the creak of unknown footsteps at the door, and most often at the dickheads who lived downstairs. Lily hated Nick and Alex almost as much as Sparrow did and never missed an opportunity to nip their hands or shoes when she passed them in the hall. Sometimes, Sparrow even let the leash slip out of her grasp just to watch the boys jump back into their own apartment and slam the door when Lily lunged forward.
Taking a fast shower, Sparrow dressed in the last few clean clothes she had, and went to comb her hair. She looked at the vivid green and decided it was time to change it. Maybe she could get it done at the discount salon around the corner from the bookstore. Magenta, or dark blue. Yeah, she told herself, change is good.
* * *
AS SHE LOCKED HER APARTMENT, Sparrow overheard the ol
d woman scolding Alex down on the first floor. She was certainly acting tough, demanding he clean up the garbage, the garden, and most surprisingly, to quit harassing Sparrow.
Perhaps, she really is tough, Sparrow thought, listening to the edge in the woman’s lilting voice. But in a soft sort of way, like someone’s pissed-off mother. Again Sparrow felt guilty about being so rude when she was crazy with pain. She was also a little worried that she might have disrespected one of Baba Yaga’s friends.
You better do something nice for her, Sparrow thought, waiting for the old woman to leave before she headed down the stairs. And do it soon.
In the alley behind the house, Sparrow peered into the backyard and saw the woman—arms full of shovels and rakes—heading toward the battered remains of the garden. Sparrow watched as she kneeled in the dirt, leaning forward to inspect the ruined plants. Pinching a few leaves between her fingers, the old woman held them to her nose, inhaling their fragrance. When she untied the scarf from her head, her gray-streaked russet hair tumbled down over her shoulders. She turned halfway, as if to look down the rows.
Sparrow thought how suddenly youthful, even beautiful, the down-swept hair made the aged face seem. For all of her years, this old woman was spry enough, stretching her body like a cat, wrenching weeds and clutter from the soil.
Yeah, Sparrow thought, I owe her.
* * *
THE STREET HAD BECOME CONGESTED by the time Sparrow arrived at the bookstore. She loved this block, each storefront decorated with big heavy concrete planters filled with marigolds and snapdragons. There were two coffee shops, and they still had tables outside for those hardy enough to enjoy the cooler temperatures of the morning. Across the street, the purple-and-orange face of the Co-op brightened the otherwise muted brick and concrete of most of the storefronts. Students lounged or studied outside at tables with huge paper cups of coffee. A mother pushing a stroller with two small children stopped in front of the Co-op to let a third, older child walking beside her bend and stroke the ginger cat sleeping beneath a bench.
Approaching the bookstore, Sparrow reached into her pocket and fetched up a set of keys. In her mind she went through the ritual of opening up the store: counting the money in the cash register, turning on the lights, straightening books on the shelf, vacuuming the old rug, filling the tea and coffee urns with water, plugging them in, and last of all, turning the crank that released the green awnings over the front windows of the shop. Sparrow, whose life had bounced between chaos and abuse, had found this simple routine of opening the shop calming.
She stopped at the door, key in hand. Beneath the CLOSED sign was a second, smaller sign with a picture of Frank, her regular Sunday visitor and a newspaper article attached. The sign indicated that the shop was to be closed for the next two days in memory of Francis Murphy, the shop’s original owner, who had died unexpectedly last night in his sleep. The police had been called in because a bedroom window had been smashed, but they had ruled out foul play, thinking the culprit had been the wind from a storm blowing a tree branch through the glass.
As Sparrow stood there reading the articles, tears welled in her eyes. I hadn’t realized. He’d never said. No wonder the old man came every Sunday to the bookstore; in some ways, the shop was still his. She would miss him. Miss the sweet way he patted the silver comb-over on his head and stood a bit straighter when he saw her. Miss the gentle blue eyes rimmed with gray that twinkled impishly when he teased her. And she would miss his company, the two of them with their noses in a book, while the tea and coffee urns gurgled and steamed. The wake was to be tonight at a small bar about three blocks over, the funeral tomorrow.
Sparrow turned away from the door feeling hollow. She replaced the keys in her pocket and stared numbly out at the street. The bright purple and orange of the Co-op caught her eye and she sauntered over to the shop. She knew what color to dye her hair: something black and funereal in Frank’s honor.
Once in the Co-op, grim-faced and holding back the tears, Sparrow wandered aimlessly up and down the aisles until she came to the hair products, all which promised to make her hair glow with a healthy shine.
I don’t want shine, she thought angrily, I want it to be dull black.
She found a box that promised to turn her hair “ebon” and decided that would do.
At the counter, she paid for the hair dye, handing her bills to a jaunty African-American man with dark freckles and long dreadlocks.
Taped to the side of the register was a poster asking for information about a missing woman. Sparrow often wondered how anyone could be recognized from these photos. In fact, after she’d run away from her father, she’d seen her own face on the back of a milk carton but not one person in the fast-food restaurant had identified her as the missing girl. But this woman—Sparrow leaned over and stared at the photo. She was sure she knew that one, not well, but enough to be jolted by the sight of her face.
Leaving the Co-op, Sparrow realized there were posters everywhere: stapled to public bulletin boards, taped in store windows, tied around streetlights, on the sides of mailboxes. Near the entrance to a tattoo shop, Sparrow stopped, suddenly remembering where she knew the woman from. It was Jenna. Sparrow looked closely at the photo in the shop window and realized she had not recognized Jenna at first because she was wearing a summer tank top and her arms, chest, and neck were all bare of ink.
Sparrow clapped a hand against the blue-black knot on her own neck. The woman in the photo was happy, relaxed, almost as if she were about to reach out a loving hand to the photographer. But when Sparrow had met her, Jenna’s eyes had burned feverishly and she couldn’t sit in her chair without stroking the tattoos on her arm as if to cool the skin.
If I had known her like this first, Sparrow thought, and then met her again with the tattoos, I would have known something was wrong. Might never have followed her into Hawk’s parlor and allowed myself to be marked by that monster.
It reminded Sparrow of something she had learned as a child: of how easy it was to become prey—alone in the world. How hard it was to survive without a tribe, a pack, or friends. Marti wasn’t really a friend. The witch, who’d given her some help, had left. Lily was loyal, but Lily was just a dog.
Sparrow felt a sense of urgency and, deciding quickly, headed toward the Farmer’s Market close to her house. She’d buy something for the old woman upstairs and get back to the house’s promise of safety. If Baba Yaga had trusted the old woman, perhaps Sparrow could as well.
But what can I give her? What gift might open the door to a friendship like the one she’d shared with Frank? It didn’t have to be much; just enough to begin a conversation. Even if that conversation excluded things about her father and his hard hand, and all the rest.
Sparrow thought and thought—a scarf, something for the apartment, a small vial of perfume. And then she had a sudden revelation: plants for the garden, some bulbs, maybe tulips or iris. Something that would bloom with showy blossoms in the spring and they would both comment on how after a long, cold winter, such beauty was a welcome sight.
She smiled and her step quickened. The old woman would welcome a gift for the witch’s garden and then they could be friends.
34
Meteora in the Garden, Meets a Jack
One morning I realized that three mornings a week at the Co-op and waiting for mail were not enough to keep me occupied. And as soon as I acknowledged I was bored, I felt the wash of guilt that I had done nothing about Baba Yaga’s garden.
It’s time, I told myself. So I rose quickly, washed my face, selected a sturdy dress from the chest, and tied a scarf around my head. On the way downstairs, I stopped at the door of the crying girl. I hadn’t heard her crying as much since our unfortunate encounter. But I still wondered about her. Worried, really, for her sorrow seemed too large for a child to handle alone.
I passed by the trolls’ door, frowning. Alex and Nick had some noisy contraption playing, as if even in sleep, they could not bear the quiet. Mus
ic of a particularly unmusical kind always leaked beneath the door; sometimes loud talking; sometimes the sounds of fighting. But yesterday, I heard them haranguing the misery-girl. They called her all manner of brutish names, insulting her pleasure parts. I could imagine their words struck like bitter spells. I would have to do something about them, and standing before their door, I made the old signs that once might have forced painful transformations on those louts—especially on their pleasure parts.
Worthless, futile gestures. I steamed and kicked their door instead, which though it hurt, was remarkably satisfying. Then, squaring my shoulders, I prepared to greet the day with newfound defiance.
I marched over to the garden—but what a sight! The soil had not been turned in at least two seasons; coarse, hardscrabble plants had invaded the narrow borders. There was trash strewn around, all of which came from overflowing bins.
Furious, I returned to the boys’ front door and banged on it with my fist.
“What the fu . . . ?” shouted Alex as he yanked the door open. He stopped when he saw me, his dull piggy eyes turning hard, but his mouth shutting on the words. He was barely clad in short pants and his naked pimply skin reeked of a sweetish smoke and stale beer.
I drew myself up as tall as I could manage, chanting “Iron teeth, iron claws,” in my head as I gave him an order. “Remove all your garbage from the back of the house to the street.”
“Garbage day’s not till tomorrow.”
“Remove all the garbage now!” I commanded. “And when you are done with that, you and Nick may come in the backyard to clean all the rest of the garbage you trolls have tossed out your windows.”
“I’m not a troll.”
“You are right,” I said, my voice still sharp. “Trolls have better sense than to defecate where they nest. Get out there and clean up the mess you have made. And put on some pants, you look like a whore’s whelp in those things.” I pointed to his short pants that were falling around his fleshy hips. The dingy fabric had yellow smiling faces on them, including one huge smiling face across the front where his pleasure parts no doubt were hiding from shame.