by Jane Yolen
“Hey that’s not nice, lady.”
“And neither are those nasty insults you threw at the girl on the second floor. I heard you.”
“That chick? Man, she’s an ice queen. All she needs is to get laid.”
“Not by you,” I snapped. “And certainly not with that,” I nodded toward a gap in the front of his short pants where his sorry sex was partially visible through the silly grin of the happy face. “I’ve seen better-looking worms on the end of an angler’s rod. I warn you: not another unkind word to her or you two are gone. Now get on with it. I want the backyard cleaned up.”
I stormed out the front door, leaving him cursing under his breath. Oh, he called me all sorts of names, but I could tell by the way he muttered them under his breath that I had given him a fright.
Good! There will be more of that anon, I promised myself.
* * *
IN A SHED NEAR THE GARDEN, I found a shovel, a rake, a trowel, and a pair of coarse leather gloves. The gloves were much too big but I put them on anyway as I knew my soft hands would soon be blistered and raw from garden work. Then I surveyed the damaged garden more closely, noting how rocks had been placed to shape the outlines of a simple maze. I worked methodically, clearing away dead plants, broken bottles, faded wrappings from foods I didn’t recognize, an old shoe that was missing laces, a sweater the birds had partially unraveled to make a winter nest, a plate that still had the encrusted remains of a meal, and most distressing, the carcass of a maggot-infested crow.
Over my shoulder I heard Alex and Nick dragging the bins out to the street, their feet sloshing around in loose shoes that slapped sullenly on the ground. They made a poor effort at re-collecting the garbage that had escaped the overflowing bins, but at least things were now a bit better. I smiled. My imitation of Baba Yaga had worked its own magic.
Once tidied up, the garden appeared more promising. Though most of the plants had long since bolted and faded, I could find remnants of them—enough to be able to imagine how the place might look in the coming year—assuming I would still be exiled. Assuming Baba Yaga let me remain here that long. There was the trinity of snow trillium leaves, the last spikes of foamflowers, and a crumpled lady’s slipper rising amid spears of brown spotted leaves. There was also shaggy-headed coltsfoot surrounding a stand of bristled goldenrod, Solomon’s seal decorated with red berries, bladderworts, fairy spuds, and beechdrops. Plus parsley, tarragon, sage, and a brittle rosemary plant half buried in the dirt. Much I could use. Even more I could bring back to life.
I did not mind working in the garden—especially one filled with so many familiar reminders of my own forest. I am sure I did not make a pretty spectacle, kneeling forward, heavy as an auld ewe, to dig in the roots. But with the sun on my back and the scent of earth and sap in my face, I was—almost—happy. Or at least content.
I leaned back to take a brief rest and as I did, I noticed a man, bare feet the color of mud, wandering through the garden’s labyrinth, whose low stone walls had become more noticeable as I cleared away the debris. He was gray-headed as the hare, bearded and unkempt, dressed in faded trousers and shirt, both covered in dust. Where have I seen him before? He bent to touch the blossoms of the fairy spuds, then straightened when he saw me. Brushing the dirt from his hands, he smiled. Those eyes were blue and smooth as robin’s eggs, but the grin, crooked to one side, made me wary all the same.
“Name’s Jack,” he said and extended his hand.
Jack. Who could ever trust a mortal with such a name? All Jacks are tricksters, giant slayers.
The hand he held out to me was big and rough-callused. Fool that I am, I gave him my hand, and he received it with surprising gentleness.
“Sophia,” I answered, and his smile widened, the eyes sparkling a little too brightly. I took my hand back.
“Pretty garden. Unusual too.” He nodded. “Thought you might like a scarecrow,” he said.
“Whatever for?” I scoffed, for there was no grain in this garden to attract them.
He pointed toward the oak and ash trees that lined the edges of the yard. There amid the green and brown leaves, I saw them, black and glossy, and too many to count. The crows were silent, except for the nervous rustle of their wings as they waited, cloaked together on the boughs. I thought of the changelings, and wondered if they were hidden amongst these birds in order to watch over me, or to spy for the Queen.
“Well?” Jack asked again.
“Yes,” I replied, thinking a scarecrow might amuse them.
He shambled away, to a house on the other side of the yard, boldly whistling a stolen fairy tune I had not heard for many seasons. When he returned later, he was lugging something large and rattling.
“I saw this design in a dream,” he said, struggling under the awkward weight of the thing. “Feels like it should go right here.” He planted the figure just off center of the garden, balancing it, so that the small charms depending from the length of the outstretched arms jangled nicely in the wind.
Despite my apprehensions at having this Jack in my garden, I stared in wonderment. He had made it from the King’s copper, bright and green. The charms clinked together and the crows craned their heads down to stare. Lifting from their branches, they took turns settling on the arms, which swayed up and down with the shifting weight, causing the charms to sing out even more. The crows cawed joyfully and I could imagine the changelings playing on the sculpture like true children once more.
Jack gave me his crooked smile. “Well, that’s not much help, is it?” Charming and charmed. Even at my new age, I felt the blood rush to my cheeks.
“But I like the sound,” I told him. “Much better than the troll music the boys in my house play.”
He laughed at that and I laughed back. Charming I reminded myself, trying to be a bit wary even as I was being charmed.
I let him stay a while. He had a knack for the stones, lifting and turning them, finding the right face before he reset them in the soil. And from his broad hands caked in dusty soil, I recognized that Jack was the ghostly man who had come to my aid some nights back when the trolls had threatened the peace of the house.
Just as I was once again on my knees digging in the garden, thinking how inviting was the scent of turned soil and plant sap, I became aware of the prickling stench of smoke. The misery-girl appeared beside the garden path, a bag in one hand, cigarette in the other. She stared at the ground, pulling on the cigarette as if it were a breast. She looked weary, her hair no longer a vivid green but dull and black as coal.
“Sorry about the other night.”
“Not to worry,” I answered, still digging.
“I was just, you know, having a hard time with something and I thought for a moment you were someone else . . .” Her voice trailed off.
“It’s quite all right.” Suddenly I wanted very much to soothe her troubled heart.
“Here. I got you this. For the garden.” She handed me a little brown bag.
I took the bag from her and felt the hard roots rattling in the bottom. Iris, I thought. Blue Flag perhaps. But when I looked inside, I paled. Two mandrake roots, male and female, withered and intertwined. I shut the bag, trying to hide my disgust and—I’ll admit—my fear.
“How charming. Thank you.”
The girl cocked her head, her gaze keen. She frowned. “The guy at the Market said I should plant them. Said I’d like them. But you don’t like them, do you? So what’s wrong with them?”
How could I tell her that these roots bled when cut? That they inflicted suffering; that they twisted a true lover’s knot into a hangman’s noose?
“They’re wonderful,” I lied. “I should like to meet this man and see what else he has.”
“Every Wednesday and Saturday at the Farmer’s Market over by River Park. Just the other side of the university,” she answered. “I really thought they’d be, you know, something pretty.”
“Thank you for the gift,” I said, keeping the bag tightly closed. It pai
ned me so to see the disappointment on her face but I could not say more without lying, which I cannot do. I would have to think of a way to help her. But what is it human children need? I wondered.
She tossed her cigarette down, stubbed it out, and left, her shoulders hunched like a rain-soaked thrush.
I watched her go, worried by the pall that was cast about her slender frame. Strife and Woe.
But the air brightened after she left, and a breeze washed away the last of her curling smoke. Sitting back on my heels, I inhaled the rich fragrance of newly turned soil, sensing the power emerging from the exhalations of the opened earth, and from the stones, resettled to create a boundary of safety. Silently, I thanked Baba Yaga for this unexpected gift and source of strength.
I rose then, brushed off the dirt, and said good-bye to Jack, praising him for his labor. I owed him now of course, but wasn’t quite ready yet to repay him by inviting him in for tea and bread. He was still too uncertain a character for me to trust.
“Anytime,” he answered, and flashed me his warm smile before rumbling off to his own house.
* * *
TWO NIGHTS LATER, I sat in my small kitchen made bright by a bunch of yellow black-eyed daisies, blue Canterbury bells, and flaming salvia, which I had purchased at the Farmer’s Market. I had gone there in search of the man wicked enough to sell a troubled girl mandrake roots. I had hoped he was merely ignorant, and unsuspecting. But I could not find him.
I did not stay long for a peculiar feeling stole over me, of being watched, or perhaps sought out among the throngs of people. It was like a sending, a brush against the back of my hands and neck, coaxing me to turn. And I did, if for no other reason than to rid myself of the sensation.
I looked through the crowd and spotted him at last: a Highborn Lord, dressed in mortal clothing standing beneath the dappled light of a huge ash tree. Despite his plain clothes, worn I suspected to dim the powerful allure of his nature, his long oval face was beautiful, fair-skinned, with almost delicate features. His wheaten hair was braided and tied with a leather thong. He was searching the crowd of people, his eyes lighting on the faces of young women, just long enough to catch their eyes. And they smiled back. Feeling the beckon as though it was their own idea, they strolled toward him.
I was relieved for it was clear from his choices, that it was not me he was calling forth. But I wondered what he was doing here? Dabbling with mortal women was frowned upon among the Highborn of the Seelie court. Was I not paying the price for having shamed our Queen by revealing her tryst with a human? For these Highborn lords, purity of the blood mattered more than one’s name, more than one’s status.
Did I know him? His face might have been familiar once, a long time ago. The edges of his profile shimmered and I realized that he wore a glamour, to hide his true face. I watched as he swung an arm around a young woman and smiled into her trusting eyes. He stroked her arms, and on her shoulder drew a pattern with his fingers. She laughed, and the bright flush on her cheeks revealed the touch had done its work well, arousing her with a spell.
Unsettled, I turned away and walked home where I was so preoccupied with my thoughts, I almost forgot to check the mail. Suddenly remembering, I returned to the box and cried out in joy seeing the golden envelope waiting for me. I devoured Serana’s letter right there; the story of her scare-bird, her own farsight telling her—even as mine had done today—that something indeed was brewing. I took out a piece of paper and wrote my reply.
Dearest Serana,
So much has happened since last I wrote, and your letter has coincided with my news in wondrous ways. This is what comes of being sprouted from the same pod. The Queen worked at separating us, knowing that one alone was trouble enough, but two together was an invitation to chaos. That’s why she cast us out here in this mortal place, to be weakened by age, robbed of our magic, and as far apart as possible. Indeed, she must fear us, and perhaps that is a consolation.
However, I think that the Queen wanted us gone for reasons other than my indiscretion, reasons I cannot yet put my weathered thumb upon. Except there was a child, an infant sweet as a rose there on the grass. What became of her? To whom did she belong? I never thought her the Queen’s get, for it has been too long a time since a Highborn woman brought forth such a bouncing babe. Yet, my nose itches when I think on this child, for the Queen’s rage now seems that of a lioness protecting a cub rather than merely about her sullied reputation.
The Queen might well have feared that we would spill too much about the jewel she wanted kept hidden. But out here, bereft of each other and weak with age, we present no threat. How little she understands our true gifts, those that have nothing to do with magic. We still feel danger in the lurking shadow because unlike the Queen who hoards the light for herself and thus blinds herself to the needs of others, it is our nature to push back the dark with the small flames of our beings.
There is danger here, dear sister. I can feel it brewing like a storm, threatening everyone in its path.
But what do I really know? Only a little, but it is a rough-coated seed. The changelings who tossed me into the iron-dragon have returned, shape-shifted into crows. That takes true power, which they do not possess. I have seen the UnSeelie sporting in the streets, plucking youths like unripe fruit well before their time. And I watched a Highborn lord wearing a face-hide glamour summon a woman in broad daylight for his own purpose. These are not good omens.
And then there is the Great Witch, Baba Yaga who happened along in good time and in whose house and garden I have found a refuge. Thinking myself safe here, I was surprised today by a Jack. He is charming, as are they all, and I swear to you, sister, I could not stop from giving him my hand.
And finally, my sorrow-filled girl appeared to me with an apology. She gave me a gift, which she knew nothing about, but thought would please me: mandrake roots. Mandrake roots, sister! She read my face and knew at once the roots were dangerous, even as she knows the tattoo on her neck is the cause of her grief for I see her rubbing her palm against it as though to wear the ink away.
But who inflicts such deceitful spells on a woman’s skin? And who sells mandrake roots to a woman so obviously in trouble? I have gone to the Market, but could not find the one responsible for such an odious gift nor the skin pricker.
And what of your unhappy young man? Who dreams such dark thoughts without first having been poisoned by a malicious power?
Glowworms, yes! We must be the light for these two who are all but lost in the shadows and we must do it because they have sought us out, drawn to our light. We are their sanctuary, but they may be ours as well. There are no coincidences in this world or in the Greenwood. Someone is planning violence, someone is poisoning children for a reason. Keep your wits about you, my fierce sister.
Always yours,
Meteora
35
The Dog Boy’s Plaint
The moon having left the sky, my brain was soon turned to boiled oats, my stomach filled up with bile. Heat and cold ran alternately through my veins, making me shiver as if being shaken by some large beast. I could not wake yet could not sleep. Still, I managed to sniff out my new dam and sit on her stoop, talking to her of wishes and longings. Or else I spoke in my dreams to someone else. When the moon is away, I cannot tell what is dream and what is not.
I have not reported to my father nor will I. I have sworn to guard. And yet with oats for brains, I am a weak guard indeed.
Father waits out the moon in the Greenwood, kenneled in his Dark Lord’s house, more dog than I. He licks the hand that beats him. He eats his own vomit. Neither bark nor bite belong to him yet still he thinks he is the alpha male.
Another day, two at the most, and the moon will begin its newest climb. And then I will howl. Oh, how I will howl. I will mark the street where my dam hides in her pretty house, talking to the doves whose little necks I can snap with one hand. If I want.
When I want.
But to sleep again. To dream of a
soft hand on my brow. To rise in man’s form, not a dog’s. To guard whom I want. To love whom I want. That will not happen as long as my father lives, with his Dark Lord holding the leash that binds us both. But I can dream.
And do.
36
Serana Sees Portents, Signs
I read my sister’s latest letter with growing horror. A Jack? She invited a Jack into her life? Had her brain, now encased in old bone, turned to mush? All Jacks are tricksters and guisers; they are breakers not makers.
Sitting in my room, I worried over this bit of information. A Jack! Might as well have tea with Red Cap! If she thought her green-haired girl a problem . . .
I grabbed up a piece of paper, leaf green like the girl’s hair had been, and began to write so quickly, it was almost impossible to decipher my scrawl.
Listen, my fern, I wrote, you have begun something you cannot stop. It will be a story that devours you even as it unravels. It will . . .
There was a noise outside. I put down the pen, as much to gain control of my roiling emotions as to see what was going on. I looked out of the window, and down onto the stoop. There was my scare-bird, back after a few days away. I had worried that the poor boy had died, been run over, run out, run off by who knew what kind of demons, his own or those I had dogging my footsteps. Or the ones, like the Jack, dogging Meteora.
Yet there he was, the stray, like a beaten dog, waiting for me on the stairs.
I flung open my front door and raced down the stairs. My cheeks flamed. My breath came in short gasps. I felt my stomach contract, both delightful and awful in one motion. It was as if I were young again, going to meet a new lover. But this was a young man, scarcely old enough for a beard, and I an old woman. What I felt was sorrow and anxiety and relief all intermixed. Like a mother with her mite. Poor little straw man. Poor lost waif.