The Air in My House Tastes Like Sugar

by ZZ Claybourne

“There’s a feeling. When you blow out a candle and you know something comes through the smoke? We’ve been living with that,” he said. “People are…” He almost said afraid. He corrected himself: “Speaking stupid things into being. Sicknesses and poor timing. A child disappeared in the woods, another escaped invisible voices, and a third was found retching by the river, crying that the air tasted too sweet. Within a year.”

  “You investigated?”

  “With what? The abundance of time I have? My endless energy and wealth? We’re poor here.”

  “I disagree.”

  “Poor and constantly working. This land hates our crops and often tells game to stay away from us for weeks at a time.”

  Khumalo considered the man.

  He grew uncomfortable.

  “I have not,” he confessed, “used my magicks for a long time, Mother.”

  “That changes today, Jobam-ri. I don’t intend to leave another place in my lifetime until I am ready. Do you understand?”

  He nodded.

  “Do you also understand that you have to make your village understand?”

  He saw that. He nodded.

  “I look forward to discussing pleasant things with you,” said Unina, concluding their business. “You have crops?”

  “Ride past the granary and you’ll come to a meadow, then a trail. I made the trail.”

  Khumalo nodded and grunted. She looked out the door. Amnandi ran circles, feints, and dodges around the other two, who tried valiantly to tag her but she was too fast, too watchful. They didn’t seem to mind—now that they knew they weren’t expected to be afraid—and hollered each time Amnandi eluded them.

  “I don’t watch them play very often,” said Jobam as the sun’s rays suddenly flashed between a large break, working its magick on the last of the wispy fog.

  Mother Khumalo walked out the door and sat on the grass.

  Jobam did the same.

  A few minutes later he called his children to go home.

  ~~~

  After calling Amnandi in for lunch and a thousand-breath’s silence, Khumalo had Amnandi bring Beedma and Natuun. This trip to the village was identical to the prior day’s, except they didn’t stop at the granary. People paused, looked, and muttered the moment they came into view; activities that, Khumalo was certain, continued after the two disappeared into the meadow.

  This was a prime spot. Full of unruly yet colorful weed patches, tall grasses that held the dew well, and an abundance of bees flitting from patch to patch now that the sun invited work. She would consider it an honor to speak to their respective queens. It was always good practice staying abreast of such alliances.

  Jobam’s land, apart from birds declaring sexual intentions, held a certain quietude. He and his family were likely in the village proper, toiling at this or the other. There was always toil and more toil, whereas Unina, as a witch, knew the value of seeing, tasting, touching and, above all, listening. If she’d been alone she might have ridden the entire way with eyes closed, but Amnandi and her inattentive pony still had much to learn.

  Jobam hadn’t mentioned the types of crops he grew, but judging from the increasing softness underhoof, they were likely tubers. The soil cried to be aired out. All of Eurola seemed to hold water as though it constantly cried.

  The meadow gradually became orderly, with the trail bordered by small, ragged greens in rows like teeth ready to gobble the unwary. Khumalo chided herself. She was beginning to think like an Eurolan, ever suspicious and doom-riddled. They looked, she corrected, like teeth ready to share themselves as a meal and enjoy some conversation. She dismounted.

  Ragged edges, holes, many of the plants obviously stunted underground. These plants spoke a litany of malfeasances: inadequate aeration, sun deficiency, too few nutrients. For a place that didn’t value their witches, they certainly didn’t compensate with practical knowledge. She knelt with her face as close to the ground as possible and lifted a leaf to peer under it.

  A lingering guest.

  She looked upward at Amnandi. “What do you think the surrounding trees think of this plot?”

  “I don’t think they like it very much.”

  “Would you like to know why?” She motioned Amnandi to the ground, raising the leaf until its underside was fully exposed.

  A slug wordlessly but forcefully demanded to be left alone with every fiber of its being.

  “Undereaters!” said Amnandi.

  “Undereaters.”

  Amnandi loved slugs and snails. They not only looked like ancients but moved like them.

  “We’ll ride a bit more, then prepare a cure.” Unina stood, carefully rearranging her multi-colored scarves.

  ~~~

  They found Jobam leaving the granary with huge sacks on a shoulder apiece, which he expertly flipped onto a wagon bed.

  “Are you a drinking man?” asked Khumalo.

  He frowned and grunted. His wife came out of the granary, a single sack over a shoulder, but deposited with the same expert shrug.

  “Madam,” said Unina.

  “Madam,” said Jobam’s wife.

  “You’ve spoken?” Khumalo inquired with a nod toward Jobam.

  “We have,” said the sweaty woman.

  “Good.” To Jobam: “The fermented water, what do they call it, beer?”

  “I don’t drink it,” he said. “If I have to get used to the taste of something, I don’t want it.”

  “Where can I get beer here?” asked Khumalo.

  “Marella has barrels of it.”

  “May the children show me?”

  Jobam’s wife called out “Rebecca, Anselm!” and in clear mother magick, the children appeared from whatever they were doing which involved dirt—as evidenced by the smudges on their faces and clothing—and stood patiently as though they’d always been there. “Take madam to Marella.”

  “Would you care to ride or walk,” Unina asked the two. The girl ran to stand beside Khumalo’s horse. The boy hopped on behind Amnandi.

  “It’s not far,” said Jobam. “She stays downwind.”

  “I’ll have them back smiling and wise,” said Khumalo.

  “I’ll accept them just a bit more sane than they usually let on,” said Jobam’s wife, and returned to her tasks inside the granary.

  That night, Amnandi and Unina returned to Jobam’s plots.

  The next morning Khumalo journeyed alone, allowing her sleeping, sweet daughter to rest. She knocked on Jobam’s door. When he opened it, he drew swirls of fog inward around the majestic woman. She saw by his eyes he thought this apt.

  “Mother,” he said.

  “Walk with me a moment.”

  He stepped outside. Her horse, untied, searched the ground for edible bits. “Shouldn’t you—” Jobam started. An unhitched horse was essentially a gift for someone else.

  “No.” As they walked, Khumalo explained her findings. He nodded at the obvious as though being told great secrets. “You aren’t originally a farmer are you, Jobam?”

  “No.”

  Khumalo knelt to retrieve a bowl from beneath a large leaf. She presented it for his hesitant perusal.

  “You have a slug infestation. Were you not aware?”

  Jobam studied the small bloated bodies for movement. He shrugged. “I didn’t think they could be enough to be damaging.”

  “Everything terrible starts small, my friend.”

  He stood a bit more upright at hearing “friend” but said nothing. Even almost smiled. She sat the bowl down and repeated the presentation with another.

  “Slugs like beer,” Jobam observed.

  “Slugs like beer,” Unina confirmed. “No magick needed. What did you do back home?”

  He smiled sadly, embarrassed at the distance between Jobam-home and the Jobam who had no clue about the bugs of his small farm. “I studied the ancient mathematics, and ship design.”

  “Fish the slugs out and leave the beer for several days.”

  “What about the night life?�
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  “A drunken rabbit might not be a bad thing.” Unina brushed her hands on her hips and headed back the way she’d come. Jobam followed.

  “The plot is mainly for us,” he said. “I designed the windmills here.”

  “You build and fix,” she said.

  “Not a lot of fixing,” he said. “I build to last.”

  She stopped to scan the gray surroundings. “Something isn’t right here.”

  He nodded, waiting.

  “And you’ve never once thought to use your powers?” asked Khumalo.

  “My gifts…aren’t welcome here.”

  She raised a brow. “I’ve seen evidence of this place’s magick; your own, I feel it all over you.”

  “I remember the veils.”

  “You’ve not traveled a long time.”

  “My children are happy. That’s enough for me. Magick here is…odd. Let us say mine is not as welcome.”

  “Does that matter to you?”

  “My children matter. My wife matters.”

  “You two will grow old together.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I haven’t seen your future, silly man. I’ve seen your smiles.”

  Jobam looked away.

  “It’s a good man who’s unaware how much he shows his love,” she said. “Never be ashamed of that.”

  “You’re welcome to stay on my property if you’d like.”

  Khumalo touched a hand to her forehead then released the hand to the air. “Should there be an unpleasant cause to leave this place, there will certainly be no peace anywhere else here.”

  Jobam grunted. “I understood your threat from before.”

  “Ah, no threat. Warning this time. There’s clearly something wrong here. Magick feeds harmful stories.” She made a dour face. “I may have to find the reason for that.”

  “You sound like you don’t want to.”

  “Be assured, I have better things to do.”

  When he wasn’t looking at his feet he snuck glances at her. High cheekbones, sharp chin, laugh lines around her eyes. Her height, from head to toe, was covered in multi-colored, constantly undulating scarves and wraps. Her eyes saw more than they needed to. No surprise that he preferred not to meet them. Eyes that considered the world her home, and by “home” he was sure she would mean the universe.

  But this was not Afrela.

  The instant he said “Tread carefully” he regretted it. There were things never to be said to a person of her station. “By which I mean—”

  “You mean to explain?” A single incredulous brow arced above the two frown lines between her eyes.

  “Apologies.”

  “Accepted.”

  They strolled back to the house.

  She patted the strong neck of her mare. With a quick bustle of swirls she was astride the horse. “Your children may visit. There will be no magick.”

  Jobam nodded.

  Khumalo rode off.

  ~~~

  During the third week, in the middle of the night, after the loudest crack of thunder Amnandi had ever heard, followed by torrential rain, Unina Khumalo issued a sharp gasp in her sleep.

  Amnandi sat bolt upright.

  Unina was still unconscious and breathing quickly. Not wildly, Amnandi noted immediately, but quick and controlled.

  Lightning flared through the lattices of the home. Amnandi barely noticed.

  Her mother groaned.

  Amnandi scrabbled over. The elder Khumalo was rigid, composed, but clearly engaged in battle.

  Rain leaked through several spots. Amnandi ignored it.

  She was afraid. She sat vigil over her mother until, having decided both her and her mother’s jitters were the results of wind, rain, and unnecessary upheavals, her chin met her chest.

  ~~~

  “There are three children ill at the same time,” said Jobam. He had ventured to Mother Khumalo’s home again. Alone.

  “Children share illnesses.”

  Jobam shook his head emphatically. “Not this.”

  “Save your horse the exertion of delivering such news to me.”

  He hung his head, speaking from his toes. “This is the village’s mind.”

  “Do you think I’m tied to this foolishness?”

  “No.”

  “Good day, Jobam. Tend to your children.” She looked over his shoulder at Amnandi drawing circles in the grass with a stick. “I’ll tend to mine.”

  ~~~

  A fog crept upon the sickest child, waiting days until the child fell so ill there was no defense against it. No spark whatsoever to fight against the claiming of light. Just hunger.

  The next morning, wailing.

  Everyone knew that wailing, and steeled themselves to face the bereaved.

  This suffering traveled all the way to Khumalo, who spoke to the hawks and fawns to keep watch. Lessons, to Amnandi’s dismay yet delight, doubled for two days.

  On the third day a plume of funereal smoke snaked its way above the treetops. Throughout the day that smoke became the clouds that got fat, dark, and mean, goading the winds to flagellate themselves. By nightfall it rained so hard Amnandi did an encouraging spell to expand the wood to seal leaks and keep the shack holding strong. She returned to her mother’s side, who again neither awakened nor stopped groaning in her sleep. She vowed then and there to watch over her mother forever.

  When Khumalo awoke in the morning to soft rumbles in the sky and the heavy feeling of another gray dawn, her daughter snored beside her.

  As Khumalo rolled off the mat to prepare the morning meal, Amnandi stirred but didn’t wake. Khumalo noted with pride that where she went, Amnandi’s body shifted on the mat to follow.

  With the fire under the pot snapping and the dampness chased from the immediate air, she kissed Amnandi awake inside the youngster’s dreaming forehead.

  The little one rolled out, rubbed her eyes, and shuffled to gather bowls and bread. She handed the bowls to her mother, who ladled hot, spicy soup.

  Both gathered their robes between their legs and sat, preferring the floor to the chairs, to eat.

  “Unina…are you dying?”

  Khumalo smiled into her steaming bowl. “What makes you ask such?”

  “The dreaming has been difficult for you for several nights.”

  “Really?”

  “See, you don’t remember.”

  “How many nights?”

  “Two.”

  “One following the other?”

  “No. And you didn’t feel the rain last night. I had to cast a spell.”

  “Really?” Unina said again. “I don’t feel the spell.” She set her bowl in the space between her crossed legs. She looked at Amnandi, whose face was full of expectancy and concern. “Thank you. No, sweet. There are many things to account for a sleepless night, even from me.”

  “I wanted to get the worst of them out of my way.”

  “Wisdom.”

  “Should I watch over you while in the breaths?”

  Khumalo returned to her soup. “That would be wise and appreciated.”

  ~~~

  Khumalo felt the presence of another during the thousand-breaths, shocked that she hadn’t felt it before. Something lost, something malignant. A terrible thing. A nightmare without purpose. It was never in one place, never one specific thing, never whole. Made of gaps, and the only time she was fully aware of it was when she tripped into its holes.

  By the time she roused she knew why she’d slept fitfully. The thing cried loudly.

  She accepted a cup from Amnandi. She sipped and allowed the lukewarm water to return sensation to her body. “No chores or exercises this morning,” she said. “Bring the horses. You ride with me.”

  They rode in their night robes, each hoof beat a mud splash, such that by the time they reached Jobam’s, dried, gray blotches dotted their faces, hands, and clothing. Jobam and his wife labored outside their cottage, Jobam at the base with a bucket of tar, Ingrid on the roof with same. Ingrid
came down the ladder at their gallop.

  Khumalo reined to a trot and allowed the horse to circle the home once. “Your children?” she asked. Coldly, concisely, powerfully.

  “Mud stomping,” said Ingrid. She flicked her head over her shoulder. “That way.”

  Khumalo told Amnandi to join the children.

  Amnandi rode off but not happily. Nor quickly. She strained her hearing to catch bits of the conversation she was being sent away from but quickly gave up. Her mother would tell her when she needed to be told. Her pony had learned to mind its way much better, so finding the kids on this uneven, wet ground proved easy. Rebecca and Anselm looked like bogs with legs.

  They ceased stomping when she drew up. “Aren’t you too old for this?” Amnandi said from her mount.

  Anselm was tempted to fling mud. He saw the look on Amnandi’s face. He thought better.

  “Aren’t there chores? Unina would be appalled at your indolence.”

  “What?” said Rebecca.

  “Hm? Unina? Unina means mother,” said Amnandi.

  “Oh.”

  “How many languages do you speak?”

  “This one,” said Rebecca.

  “Oh.” Amnandi changed tact. “Did the rain scare you?” She knew they would know exactly what she meant.

  “A little,” said Anselm.

  “Does that happen a lot?”

  “Sometimes,” said Anselm.

  “Only this year,” said Rebecca, the elder and font of knowledge.

  Amnandi dismounted. Mud squicked her leather footwear a half inch into the saturated ground. She grit her teeth and ignored it. It was bad enough that she looked almost as messy as them minus any boon of foolishness. She gazed intently at each child. Squinting, she asked, “What’s happened here that you were afraid of my mother?”

  “We weren’t afraid of—” said Anselm.

  “You’re old enough to not be afraid of rumors and stories,” said Amnandi. “But you were. You hurt my feelings. Which means you owe me.”

  “Kids die here,” said Rebecca.

  “That usually means an elder,” said Amnandi.

  Rebecca shook her head. “Not this.”

  “So you’re afraid of witches.”

  “It’s a witch doing it,” said Rebecca.