Behold

by Barker, Clive

  And there had always been talk of witches in their midst—tales of pale flesh encircling fires under the light of a waning moon; cauldrons bubbling over with exotic spices, herbs and exotic animal flesh; markings on doors, and hushed spells conjured in the darkness of the local pubs, for a fee. But Jimmy didn’t believe it. Not really. Not much.

  Maybe a little. Maybe now.

  He lifted his shirt and ran his long fingers over his bony chest, slipping them gently over the edge of the hole that ran all the way through him. His hands trembled as he poked and prodded, a knot settling into his gut.

  ***

  Jimmy paused the wagon, the donkey eager to drink from the stream. He released the beast from its harness, and stepped toward the bramble of thorny bushes, his eyes darting back and forth, searching for travelers, and wandering townspeople. The bushes were off limits, and had been, for as long as James could remember.

  It was forbidden.

  The dark vines and branches were nearly black, with veins of chartreuse running through the stalks and leaves. They were ugly—and in fact, might have been mistaken for dead if it weren’t for two things—the handful of red berries that dotted the bushes, poisonous if eaten, a rash erupting on your skin from their juice; and the startling gleam of the golden fruit that rested in the center of each bush. The Gilly fruit was somewhere between an apple and a pear, not quite round, lumpy with dull orange leaves at the stem. The inside, it had been said, was a garish striping of purple and white, the core a rotten brown, its pulp juicy and sweet.

  Jimmy stared at the fruit, eager to take one. He only had two choices—keep his sleeves rolled down and possibly tear them, incurring the eventual wrath of his parents, or push them up and risk the thorns slicing at his skin.

  He rolled up his sleeves and went to work.

  Knowing he didn’t have much time—for surely another farmer would be along soon, this road well-travelled, the main artery back and forth to the market. Standing close to the prickly bush, he slowly inserted his right arm, reaching for the fruit. If only he could grab it—the flavor, the sweetness, the rumors of its healing properties, the talk of its nourishing meat. The key was to stay balanced, his left hand cocked on his hip, to offset his outstretched arm. Slowly he extended, a long thorn sliding along his wrist, nipping at the flesh, a line of blood drawn up from his skin. He kept going. Bending his arm at the elbow, he turned his head so he could lean his shoulder closer, the branches constricting around his forearm, the space and gap lessening.

  “Dammit,” he cursed.

  The donkey brayed, backing away from the water, and the spikes grazed his arm as he shifted, losing his balance, a wagon in the distance coming closer. He pulled his arm out quickly, cutting and piercing his skin in the process.

  “Damn stupid animal,” he yelled at the donkey. “I see them coming already.”

  His arm stung, blood dotting the skin, a gouge across his wrist, shimmering and wet. The wagon approached.

  Jimmy walked casually toward the donkey leading it back to the cart as it slowed and stopped.

  “Everything okay, son?” a voice asked.

  Jimmy nodded, pretending to struggle with the animal, eyes turned down.

  “Just fine, thank you. Animal needed a quick drink, but he didn’t want to come back to the wagon.”

  The man nodded, eying the boy. He was in a wagon of his own, the back empty but for a few smashed or rotten pumpkins, his overalls and shirt an echo of the boy’s father, the straw hat on top the only embellishment.

  “We’re off to the market . . . potatoes,” Jimmy said, nodding at the back of the wagon, strapping the donkey back into the harness.

  “Ayup,” the farmer said.

  When the boy looked up, the man’s gaze was on him.

  “Might want to take care of that arm,” the man said. “Won’t help your business none when you get to town.” The farmer cracked his whip, the dappled mare snorting, pulling them forward.

  The boy looked down, the blood running to his fingertips, dripping into the dirt. With a weary sigh he walked down to the creek to wash off his arm, a small supply of bandages and cloth tucked into the back of his jeans pocket.

  ***

  The market was a success—potatoes sold, all manner of coin, oil, and coal taken in return. A few jars of strawberry jam for his mother, which he knew would please her. Peaches, as well. Even a hand-rolled cigarillo for his father, which might go either way—a hand to the back of his head, or a grunt and a nod. But Jimmy didn’t care. Nobody noticed the bandages poking out from under his sleeve, or if they did, they didn’t comment. This sale was a ritual Jimmy performed several times during the harvest, and for once, it went off without a hitch.

  He had one stop left before he went back home, the bakery for a loaf of fresh bread. He hoped that Suki was working today, her long black hair and emerald eyes as much of an attraction as the market, and the store. More so, even. He could smell the bread from here; the decadence.

  Tying the donkey to a post out front, he went inside, the handful of coins jangling in his pocket. The bell over the door rang as he stepped inside, his heart pounding in his chest. She stood behind the counter, flour dusting her hands, as she rolled out the dough. He could hardly even see the rows of muffins, donuts, rolls, pretzels, bread, and pastries behind her, she was so radiant. Her eyes raised up to him, a smile spreading across her face.

  “James, how good to see you.” She was the only one that called him that. For a moment, the ache dissipated, and he almost felt whole.

  “Hello, Suki. I’ve come for some baked goods. Do you have any loaves of French bread left?”

  Suki wiped her hands on the apron, pushing up the sleeves of her light blue blouse. Her pale skin glowed faintly in the heat of the bakery, cheeks rosy, a forehead dotted with sweat. Mimicking her motion, his own skin flushing, he pushed up his sleeves, as well. He stood watching her as she pulled a loaf out from under the counter.

  “Last one, just for you.”

  She eyed his arm and her smile lessened, and he followed her gaze, remembering now.

  “Just some scratches from gathering kindling earlier today,” he stuttered, pushing his sleeves back down. She handed him the loaf and he placed a coin in her outstretched hand.

  “Be careful,” she whispered. “It is forbidden.”

  “Ah, I don’t know what you mean, Suki. Kindling, I said . . . ”

  “Your fingertips,” she said, nodding her head in his direction.

  He looked down and they were purple, easing into black.

  “Oh my God, this never . . . ” he stopped, eyes to her.

  The bakery was suddenly too warm, and his stomach lurched.

  Suki ran to the front door, flipped the sign to closed, and glanced out the window. The streets were quiet, most everyone gone home already, the market empty. She’d stayed open late just for him.

  “Come here,” she said, taking him by his left hand, leading him into the back.

  Jimmy followed her into the dark room, the sun setting now, the last of the dying light slipping in through the open back door. The ovens were oppressive, even as they cooled down, the coals a shimmering glow.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  “Quickly, or you’ll lose your fingers, maybe your hand, or arm.”

  Jimmy quieted, as she pushed him down onto a stool.

  “Sit. Be still.”

  She went to the shelves, searching for something, pulling glass bottles and brown envelopes down, tinctures in various colors, a mortar and pestle, and a handful of wild greens out of a vase. She eyed him once, pursing her lips, as she poured powder, then a few drops of amber liquid into the bowl, adding a handful of flowers, and seeds. She crushed them all into a paste, dipped her finger into it, tasted it and then took the potion to him.

  “What’s this?” he asked.

  She didn’t speak, only lifted his hand, the fingertips now black, the thumbnail falling to the floor, where it broke into tin
y pieces.

  Jimmy stared on in horror.

  Suki took his hand in hers and rubbed the mixture over his skin, the blackness fading instantly, as her own pale flesh started to darken.

  “Your hands,” he said.

  “It will fade. I have gloves. I’m done today. It will be normal tomorrow.”

  His own hands tingled, her body close to him, perspiration on her upper lip, eyes wide, as she rubbed, and rubbed, and rubbed.

  “Leave it alone,” she said. “It’s not worth it. It’s actually kind of sour.”

  He stared at her, uncertain how to answer.

  Suki turned her right arm over, one little scar running from her elbow to her thumb. It was faint, the thin white line barely visible, even up this close.

  “I knew less then than I do now. This is a reminder to me. Some places you just don’t want to go.”

  They looked down and his hand was back to normal, minus the one nail. Her hands were ashen, the pale gone slightly gray.

  “It’ll be fine, honest,” she said. “But you should go.”

  Suki leaned over and kissed Jimmy on the lips. Nothing much mattered after that.

  ***

  Or so he thought. Standing by the wagon, as the lights clicked off inside, Suki headed the other direction, no need for rumors, no need to spur on talk of their involvement. The village had a mean streak; it liked to see beauty undone. It would remain a secret for now. One of many.

  The boy stood by the wagon, staring at the donkey, the beast looking away from him, as if in shame.

  The cart was empty.

  Jimmy’s hand went to the necklace around his neck, a simple bauble that Suki had given him, to ward off evil spirits, she had said. To protect him. The leather strap ran through a rough silver coin, a hole drilled through it. On one side there was a griffin stamped into the tarnished metal, the back held an eye in the center of a pentagram.

  He hoped it worked.

  It was a long ride home, back down the dirt road, the night settling in around him, a movement in the woods that seemed alive. He was late. Stars slipped up into the sky, a harvest moon glowing red in the darkness, the sickness and rage slipping over his flesh. He knew what was coming, and he cursed the town for its petty greed.

  The money in his pocket and the loaf of bread, they might save his life.

  Or they might not.

  He pushed the cart on anyway, headed home, the smattering of glowing fruit to his left mocking him as he rode over the bridge and up the hill to the farm. The coal, the oil, the strawberry jam for his mother, the peaches, and the peace offering smoke for his father.

  All gone.

  When he stopped in front of the house, his parents were outside before he could even put the donkey away, his mother’s eyes gleaming with hope and promise, eager to see what he’d brought back. He walked to the barn and back, and by then her face had slipped into terror, worry for her only son’s safety. And something else he’s never seen before, a panic that she didn’t wear very well. He handed her the loaf of bread, and turned to his father, who boiled with rage. Jimmy poured the coins into his hand, and looked him in the eye.

  “I was robbed . . . ”

  And everything went black.

  ***

  It took two weeks to recover—broken ribs, broken nose, bruises up and down his arm. He couldn’t walk, the bandage undone in the melee, blood staining his sheets, his mother finally stepping in, crying, bawling, as he lay in the dirt twitching. He was no good to them hurt. In fact, they had to work twice as hard now to harvest what was still in the ground, the boy unable to help.

  Not one for foresight, the father.

  Jimmy couldn’t breathe until they left for the market again.

  “There might still be strawberry jam,” he told his mother. “Peaches, too,” he said, tears running down his face.

  His mother was stone cold. Not because she didn’t love him, but because he had put all of their lives at risk, nearly half of their harvest lost to his moment at the bakery. Neither of his parents blamed the thieves. It was his fault, from start to finish.

  “Mother . . . ” he began.

  She placed a hand on his. She was tired, circles under her eyes, blisters weeping on her hands, lacking the strength to guide the plow, even with the donkey. Muffled noises had continuously slipped from their bedroom in configurations he tried not to imagine.

  “I’ll look. No need for all of us to suffer this winter,” she said, a small smile creeping over her face. “I’ll start on new blankets as soon as my hands heal. And you’ll chop half the forest down before the snow settles in. We don’t die on my watch,” she said.

  She slipped out the front door, and Jimmy heard the whip crack, and they left. For the first time in a fortnight the tension was gone. He lifted his shirt to look at his ribs, and the hole in his chest glared back at him. As wide as he was, all the way through. They didn’t see it, his mother or father. They never had.

  ***

  When he opened his eyes, Suki was sitting at the end of his bed.

  “What are you doing here,” he said, sitting up, groaning in pain, and then collapsing back down, his face gone pale.

  “Shhhhhhh,” she said. “Quiet. I knew your parents would come to town today. I’m home sick. Don’t tell anyone.”

  He smiled.

  “I don’t have much time. I had to make sure you were alive. I heard what happened. The people of this town, their cruelty knows no end.”

  She placed her hand on his chest, running her thumb over the coin necklace, and then pulled her hand away.

  “What?”

  “Lift your shirt.”

  “What? No, Suki . . . what are you doing?”

  She pulled his shirt up and gasped.

  “My God, what have they done to you,” she said.

  “Broken ribs, I’ll be okay.”

  “No, the other thing. This,” she said, placing her hands gently on his stomach, “the hole. This can’t stand.”

  Suki leapt up and went to a bag she had placed at the foot of the bed. She looked at him, paused for a moment, and then carried it back over.

  She pulled out a ball of yarn, as large as a watermelon. How it fit into her tiny bag, Jimmy didn’t know. She began to unwind it, laying out the different colors. She tied them together, whispering into the strands.

  “Red is for love, for passion and fire, the flesh of your body, the children you’ll sire. Blue is for water, the substance of life, for tears shed in laughter, for husband and wife. Green is prosperity, growth for your soul, let flower and fauna help make you whole. Yellow is sunlight, may it shine down in glory, golden ripe harvest, a fairy tale story.”

  She continued, tying one piece of yarn to another, every color in her bag. When she was done, she raised up his t-shirt and placed the ball in the hole, where it fit snugly, a wince rippling through his face.

  Suki leaned over and kissed him, her hands on his shoulders, as the hole started to shrink, her skin a heady perfume of butter, cinnamon, and a hint of vanilla, her tongue in his mouth sparking emotions for which he had no name.

  ***

  Their secret would remain that way, his trips to the village hard to come by, but he was a creative boy. He put quite the dent in the forest, clearing trees, and fallen branches, piling up wood as high as the house. When his father finally told him to stop, Jimmy asked if he might keep going—sell some of the lumber to help offset their loss. The old man rubbed his grizzled jaw, and nodded his head in a reluctant acceptance.

  In time, Jimmy would take the timber to the village, again and again, selling it cheap to those with no woodland of their own, but hearths still in need of warmth. Winter was looming, and the coal was long gone, the oil a distant memory, the oak and hawthorn a welcome gleam of hope.

  He would visit Suki when the wagon was empty, sneaking off to the very woods that helped provide his newfound sustenance. They would couple in the darkness, the very blanket his mother made him underneath
them, her scent a heady wonder Jimmy would cling to in the long empty nights back at home.

  One night as he was leaving, he found a jar of strawberry jam on the end of the wagon. Two jars of peaches sat next to it.

  Suki was not without her own imperfections—her hands on his waist as she wrapped her legs around his back, their bare skin glimmering in the moonlight. Her fingers slipped to the edge of the hole, caressing the scarred flesh, as he grew larger inside her, a glossy friction between them, his damage something she was drawn to, in measured doses.

  In the afterglow, as the stars danced around them, she penned lines of poetry, one strip of paper at a time, conjuring images of gods and goddesses, whispering incantations and ancient fables. The paper was gently slipped into her watering mouth, wadded together into a sticky ball, and then placed gently in the shrinking void, not much larger than her fist.

  Soon, the trips to the bakery were on foot, no more chores to be done, the biting cold of the season around them never enough to keep him away, his parents unwilling to support his infatuation, no time for such intimacies in their home. As the world grew dark around them, the glow of fire filled the windows of the village, logs burning gently in stove and fireplace alike. Jimmy stood in front of the bakery and stared for a moment at Suki, her belly swollen, her face alight as she hummed under her breath, the baked goods around her a golden wonder.

  Jimmy went inside.

  ***

  At the edge of the sprawling city a young man sat on the edge of his mattress, running a thumb over the scars on his left wrist, the itch inside his rib cage convincing him that the quickest path to a solution was not outside, or above, but within. The healing of his flesh held such sweet promise, the release of his own sabotage a heady relief. In his lap, a black cat purred, her emerald gaze quieted, the soft fur under his hand a calming presence. She had not moved in hours. Outside, the golden orb shone through the open blinds, the translucent drapes pulled back to reveal cars, buses, and children walking home from school, laughter spilling from their lips. There was a chill in the air, winter looming, a sharpness and bite to the wind. On the oak dresser a vanilla candle had melted down to a puddle of solidifying wax, no longer needed, surrendered to the night. James fingered the coin that rested on his chest, his heart stammering, the leather strap running around his neck, a hint of cinnamon in the air.