Widdershins

by Charles de Lint

  “I know you were listening,” he says to them. “Now make yourselves useful. Find those bogans for me.”

  They rise in a noisy cloud of black wings and fly off in all directions. He turns to me and smiles.

  “I might only be the memory of that Raven of old,” he says, “but they refuse to believe it. Sometimes that can be useful.”

  “I can see how it would be,” I tell him.

  But I’m still not completely buying it myself. The way we all feel in his presence, that natural ruling charisma of his . . . there has to be more of a reason behind it than simply his being a memory of the Raven of old.

  Those dark eyes of his are studying me, then he smiles again.

  “Show me where the buffalo gather,” he says.

  Christiana

  “Okay, here’s the thing,” Christiana told the fairy court. “At tops, there are maybe fifty actual buffalo soldiers out there looking for your scalps. The rest are all ghosts. Meet them in the between or the otherworld, and they’ll cream you—that’s a given. But if you make them come to you here, in the human world, you’ll only have that fifty to deal with. The others can cross over, but so what? They’ll be wraiths in this world. Spooky, yeah, but they can’t touch you.”

  “Are you sure about this?” Tatiana asked.

  “I didn’t spend all that time in the libraries of Hinterdale just partying.”

  “I’ve no idea what that means.”

  “It means, yes. I’m sure.” She paused to give the council a once-over. “You can muster more bodies than you’ve got gathered here, right?”

  “Of course. I’m just not . . .”

  The queen’s voice trailed off and Christiana nodded.

  “You don’t trust me,” she said.

  “It’s not so much a matter of trust,” Tatiana said, “as that we are in the wrong, not the buffalo.”

  “Haven’t you already said that you didn’t have anything to do with it?”

  “Yes. But this is still my court. I rule. I am responsible for what my subjects do, even when they do it without my knowledge.”

  “Okay,” Christiana said, “but you can’t go to them. You need them to come here.”

  “You obviously don’t understand.”

  “Oh, I do. You want to take responsibility. You feel you need to tell them that even though it wasn’t you, you should still have known and stopped the deaths before they happened.”

  “Exactly.”

  “But you don’t need to be a martyr to do that,” Christiana told her. “You can tell them the same thing here in this world, where they’ll number fifty or so instead of in the thousands. The whole martyr thing is really overrated, trust me. It doesn’t work for anyone, except maybe Joan of Arc, and she still had to die.” Christiana paused a moment, head cocked as she studied the queen. “You don’t have a death wish, do you?”

  “She’s annoying as hell,” Mother Crone said before Tatiana could respond, “but she’s right.”

  Around the table, other heads were nodding in agreement. The queen took a moment longer, then gave in to their consensus.

  “So, what do you suggest we do?” she asked Christiana.

  “Let me go talk to Minisino,” Christiana replied, “and see if I can’t get him to come into this world to meet with you. What’s a common ground close to here?”

  “Fitzhenry Park,” the queen’s captain immediately said. “It’s in the city, so we have access to it, but there’s enough of the wild and the green in its borders for the green-brees to feel comfortable.”

  The queen nodded.

  “A word of advice,” Christiana said as she rose from where she was sitting on the table top. “Don’t call them ‘green-brees.’ You might think you’re being clever, but everybody knows it’s got something to do with cesspools back in your old country.”

  “I think we can manage to remember that,” the queen said with a dry tone to her voice.

  Christiana shrugged. “Whatever.”

  And then she was gone.

  Jilly

  When Del steps out of the room, all the anger I feel toward him drains out of me and leaves with him. I watch until the doorjamb blocks him from view, then my gaze turns and settles on Geordie’s remains. There wasn’t much left of him in the first place, just a mess of dirt and leaves and twigs that had once been a human being. A manlike shape on the floor.

  Until Del kicked it apart.

  I stare at the scattered pieces with a morbid fascination, but for some reason the anger doesn’t return. There’s only a deep, painful sadness, swelling up inside me once more, creeping up on me from someplace just out of sight.

  This can’t be right.

  How can Geordie just be gone?

  But I saw it with my own two eyes. I watched, trapped in this child’s body, while the sick freak that is my brother waved his hand and Geordie was gone. Transformed like fairy gold into forest debris.

  Once upon a time . . .

  If this were a fairy tale, I could get him back. I would have befriended a sparrow, a spoon, an old woman by now, and one of them would help me sew a sweater from nettles, or climb down into the underworld to bring him back.

  But it’s not a fairy tale. It’s just this sick place inside my head, where women are changed into little girls, and little girls have their mouths erased. Where the true love you didn’t appreciate you had is forever stolen away from you by a monster that has no right to be back in your life.

  I get up from the floor where I’ve been crouching and go out the door into the familiar hall beyond. I know this house so well. Too well. It’s been decades since I’ve set foot in it, but I know its every inch. I can detail every horror that happened to me in it and where it took place.

  I see Del at the head of the stairs with that shotgun in his hands.

  I see a little red-headed girl . . . Lizzie, I realize, putting the name of the adult woman I knew to those child-sized features. Lizzie at the bottom of the stairs, a blank expanse where her mouth should be.

  Between them, I see a yellow dog. Some kind of bull dog—no, pit bull. Charging up the stairs toward Del.

  Del aiming the shotgun.

  I have a flash of recognition when I see the dog. No, it’s more like I know I know that dog, but I can’t remember where.

  It doesn’t matter.

  Right now, all that matters is that I wasn’t lying to Del. I really don’t care anymore. I’m not scared of him because there is no worse he can do now that he’s taken Geordie away from me. Poor, sweet Geordie, always there, my best friend, my soul mate through thick and thin, my should-have-been true love except we were both too stupid—maybe just too scared—to recognize it.

  I’m right behind Del. I know he’s about to shoot the dog. I know he can turn around and work his ugly mojo on me with a wave of his hand, with a word, with a look in his eye, and I’ll be changed into dust, or deformed like Lizzie, or simply killed like Geordie was.

  I don’t care.

  I’m not scared.

  I give Del a push, just as he fires. His shot goes wild, spraying a blast of buckshot into the walls. There’s no time for a second one. He doesn’t turn on me to work the mojo. He doesn’t turn the dog into a newspaper, or mushrooms, or a pile of dirt.

  My ears are deafened by the blast of the shotgun in this confined space.

  In an eerie silence, filled with the ringing of bells, I watch the dog tear out his throat. Blood sprays everywhere. The two fall on the stairs, man and dog. The shotgun goes clattering down the risers. Del’s body follows, blood fountaining from his throat, splattering on the walls, the dog, the risers, Del’s clothes.

  The dog stumbles, but catches its balance.

  Together we watch Lizzie scramble out of the way as first the shotgun, then Del land at the bottom of the stairs where she was standing. The dog turns to me, its muzzle and honey-coloured fur splattered red with my brother’s blood, and I remember where I’ve seen it before. Not it—her. It was in the d
ense acres of brush and forest that grow along the edges of the Greatwood. She was there to save my life once before, from another human with a gun, except that time it had been Pinky Miller, my little sister’s best friend.

  There hadn’t been any blood then. Just the sick wet sound of Pinky’s head cracking on a rock when she fell, knocked down by the dog.

  I wouldn’t be able to hear that now. My ears are still ringing from the blast of the shotgun.

  “Did Joe send you?” I ask.

  I can’t hear my voice, so I doubt she can either. But I guess I’m thinking the words as I say them, and she seems to be able to talk and listen without the need for sounds, because she answers me all the same.

  He asked me to bring him to you, she says inside my head, but we got separated.

  I sit down on the top riser. When she comes near, I do the thing Joe said I should never do with her because she’s not a dog, a pet, she’s a person, just wearing a different shape. But I lay my hand on her head all the same and brush her fur with my fingers, trying to get the blood off, but getting comfort from touching her, knowing that she’s real and here to help me, not hurt me.

  She doesn’t seem to mind. She doesn’t move away. Instead, she leans in closer to me and then I start to cry. I burrow my face against her bloody fur, sobbing.

  I don’t notice Lizzie until I feel a small hand on my shoulder. I look up, then away from the smooth expanse of skin where her mouth should be.

  Like everything else that’s gone wrong, what happened to her is my fault. It doesn’t hurt me like the black hole in my chest where the pain over Geordie’s death is lodged, but it’s there all the same. Another ache of sorrow. Of anger at myself that I let all of this happen.

  But I’m done crying now. I’m not done with the pain—I don’t think I ever will be—but the tears have stopped.

  I sit up straighter, wipe my eyes with my sleeve, then blow my nose on the piece of cloth that Lizzie hands me. I’m not sure what it is. A piece of some old T-shirt. A rag. It doesn’t matter. It does the job.

  It’s okay, the dog says. It’s over. You’re safe—at least for now.

  “Safe?” I say. “What does it matter? Geordie’s dead and look at Lizzie. Nothing’s ever going to be okay again.”

  Geordie’s . . . dead . . . ? Lizzie says.

  I can feel the weight of sorrow swelling inside me again and can only manage to give a slow nod. But then something occurs to me.

  “Unless . . . “ I say. “This is all happening somewhere in my head, right?”

  The dog nods. So it appears.

  “So maybe it’s not real. Maybe we’ll just wake up and Geordie will be fine and Lizzie gets her mouth back and we’ll be free of Del . . .”

  My voice trails off as she shakes her head.

  It’s not that easy, she says. Not as long as you leave the memory of your brother sitting in some dark, hidden place of your mind.

  “But what am I supposed to do? How can I stop that?”

  My hearing’s coming back because my words are now louder than that weird sound like bells ringing in my cars.

  I don’t know.

  I make myself look at Lizzie.

  “I’m so sorry,” I tell her.

  She shakes her head. You didn’t bring me here.

  I suppose I should be surprised that she’s got the talking-in-your-head thing down, too, but I don’t think anything can really surprise me anymore. But the fact that she can still communicate, even without a mouth, makes me feel a little hopeful until I realize that she still can’t eat. What’s she going to do if we ever manage to get back? Spend the rest of her life on an IV just to get nourishment?

  This is the bogans’ fault, she says. If it wasn’t for you and Honey, who knows what that monster would be doing to me now.

  So that’s the dog’s name. Honey.

  My arm is still around her and she stays close to me, making no sign that she wants me to remove it.

  I look down the stairs to where Del still lies in a pool of blood.

  “I keep expecting him to get up again,” I say.

  He probably will, Honey says. Unless . . .

  Her voice trails off, and I think of all the well-meaning advice about forgiveness, usually delivered by someone who’s never had my kind of life, who only sees the world through rose-coloured glasses.

  “Unless what?” I ask. “This isn’t going to turn into some bullshit after school special, is it? You know, where I’m just supposed to forgive him and everything’ll be fine.”

  No, she replies. You’re supposed to forgive yourself for thinking you were to blame for what he did to you. For thinking you deserved it.

  “Oh, man. You don’t think I feel like that, do you?”

  The dog turns her head so that she’s looking right at me.

  I don’t know, she says. What do you feel?

  Lost. Hurt. Broken. Brokenhearted. Scared, but not of Del or anyone like him. I’m scared of having to face the rest of my life without Geordie in it.

  But I don’t want to talk about that. I don’t think I can talk about it. But I feel I need to talk about something or the black hole of Geordie’s loss is going to rise up again and swallow me whole. So I change the subject.

  “How come Del didn’t have any power over you?” I ask the dog.

  I will not let anyone have power over me, she replies. Not ever again. I refuse to believe it.

  “So it’s a matter of willpower.”

  Belief certainly plays a part.

  “I have willpower. Ask my friends and they’ll describe me as willful.”

  I feel a smile in my mind that comes from her.

  “So why didn’t it work for me?” I ask.

  She looks away. I wait, but she doesn’t answer. I guess she’s already told me once and sees no reason to repeat it.

  It’s because I think I deserve it.

  “Then what about Lizzie?” I ask. “And . . . “ It’s so hard to say his name. “And Geordie?”

  They believe this place is true.

  That can’t be true, Lizzie says. I don’t believe. I didn’t believe in any of this.

  This what? Honey asks.

  All this weird stuff that’s been happening to me. Not at first. Not even when I got here inside . . . inside Jilly’s head.

  “It’s totally weird to me, too,” I assure her.

  Lizzie looks back down at the bottom of the stairs to where Del is lying. Her hand reaches up to touch the smooth expanse of skin between her chin and nose.

  But then . . . , she says. Then, when he turned us into kids and did this to me . . .

  It’s difficult, Honey agrees. And confusing. I can feel the wooden stairs under me. I can smell the world around me. The dust, your bodies, the blood. And if Jilly hadn’t thrown off his aim, I would have felt the impact of that shotgun blast. I would have been hurt. I’d probably be dead.

  “So it’s only you yourself that he couldn’t touch,” I say. “He couldn’t manipulate you the way he did us.”

  Honey gives me a slow nod.

  “This is all so sick and weird. I can’t believe it’s coming from inside me.” It’s not coming from you, Honey tells me. It comes from the piece of your brother that’s still inside you.

  I give a slow nod. “But I don’t know how to get rid of it. I know it’s not my fault, what he did to me, but still . . . I don’t know. All my memories of that time are so messed up and confusing . . .”

  I look at Honey, look into her eyes, and see a clarity that I wish I could have. I know she had it just as bad as I did—Joe told me about it, how it made a connection between us. Two Children of the Secret. It was what let her find me the last time, when no one else could. But she’s dealt with it.

  We should go, she says. She gives Del’s body a meaningful look. Before he comes back.

  I know she’s right. Del will come back. He’ll get up and be just the same as he was. Or maybe he’ll come back all bloody, his head dangling from a br
oken neck like some zombie in a horror flick.

  “Go where?” I ask.

  This world was closed until he . . . died. It’s open now. I don’t know how long it will last, but right now, we can leave.

  “And then what? Nothing will have changed.”

  I don’t know. Maybe Joe will be able to figure something out. But we need to leave.

  “I can’t,” I say, even as I’m nodding in agreement.

  I know she’s right. But I can’t leave the pieces of what had once been Geordie scattered across the room where he’d died.

  “Not without Geordie,” I add.

  You want to bring his body? Lizzie asks.

  “I can’t leave it here. If we—” No, that’s not right. I amend it to: “When we find a way to put everything back to normal, we’ll need it.”

  Because that’s the little thread of hope that I’m hanging on to. Without it, I’ve got nothing. Without it, Geordie’s dead and gone forever. But there’s magic in the world.

  Once upon a time . . .

  We just need help.

  If we can find someone to give Lizzie back her mouth and return us both to our proper ages, then they’ll be able to bring Geordie back, too.

  It has to work that way.

  Once upon a time . . .

  Is he a little kid, too? Lizzie asks.

  I shake my head. “Not exactly.”

  I take hold of the banister and pull myself to my feet. I give Del’s body a last glance—still dead—and lead the way into the bedroom. Lizzie and Honey follow me, Honey’s nails clicking on the wooden floor.

  I know what they see when we step inside. An empty room except for the old bed with the mattress on it. And the mess of dirt and leaves and twigs that is all that’s left of Geordie.

  Where . . . where is he? Lizzie asks.

  I point to the debris.

  But . . .

  “Del turned him into this thing made of leaves and dirt and then kicked him apart.”

  Lizzie just stands in the doorway, staring. Honey pads slowly into the room, her gaze taking in the mess that Del left on the floor.