by J. A. White
“I am sorry to hear that,” Kara said. “It must be a difficult thing.”
“Yes, Kara. It is. You cannot imagine the pain.”
Although Grace remained smiling, her eyes burned with blue fire.
No one had ever seen Grace’s left leg; the women of De’Noran never wore skirts above the ankles, and Grace did not swim. But rumor had it that it was a gnarled, withered thing.
Grace blamed Kara for that.
“Did I miss anything in class?” she asked.
“No,” Kara said.
“When I am fen’de, my first order of business will be to send Master Blackwood to the Clearers. He tires me.”
Kara nodded politely and took a step toward the counter. “Good health, then.”
Simon blocked Kara’s path.
“Let me guess,” Grace said, eyeing the medicine in Kara’s hand. “The whelp is sick again.” As she spoke she straightened the bottles on the shelf until they were lined up in a perfect row. “When I’m in charge, things are going to be different. Whelps like him will just get their necks broken. It’s better that way. Even with those useless Clearers working nonstop, the Thickety still advances a little bit each year, and our part of the island gets that much smaller. We don’t have space to waste on the sickly.”
As always, Grace’s cruel words were disguised by the tone and cadence of general conversation. The smile never left her face. To anyone else in the store, she might have been any young girl sharing idle gossip with a friend.
Kara met her eyes. “Don’t talk about my brother like that.”
The words came out louder than Kara had intended. Tanner Stormfield peeked out from behind the front counter.
Grace put a small hand on Kara’s shoulder, as though comforting her.
“The truth hurts, Kara. You should know that better than anyone.” She paused. “This bottle costs a yellow, at least. How did a poor farm girl like you come across such an amount?”
“I’m not buying the bottle, Grace.”
Grace sighed dramatically. “You weren’t planning on stealing—”
“Of course not! Mrs. Stormfield will give Taff a spoonful for a gray. I’ll figure out the next dose tomorrow.”
“You have a gray? Excellent news. Give it to me.”
“What?”
Grace sighed, as though she were explaining something to a small child. “The trade ship returned last week. They brought a new type of candy from the World. I want one, I’ve left my purse at home, and as I said—my leg pains me today. Hence: I need your gray.”
“Right, Grace. And of course you’ll pay me back.”
“No. I won’t.” She held out one hand, close to her body so it couldn’t be seen by anyone else. “The seed, please.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Because in the end you’re going to give it to me anyway. I’m simply trying to save you some embarrassment. By the Clen, Kara—it’s like you can’t tell who your friends really are.”
Grace continued to hold out her hand. Waiting.
Kara could feel the anger spreading through her body like wildfire. It was always this way with Grace. To everyone else she was all smiles and sugar, the gift of the village. No one knew her dark heart except Kara.
Usually she could ignore Grace. But the small injustices of the day, each building on the other, had pushed Kara too far.
She slapped Grace’s hand away.
Kara immediately knew she had made a mistake, but by then it was too late. Grace was already pinwheeling backward, trying to find purchase on the shelf behind her but only succeeding in knocking a jar of preserves to the floor. Glass shattered everywhere as Grace’s crippled leg suddenly gave out. She crumpled at Kara’s feet.
Her sobs of pain were quite convincing.
“I barely touched her,” Kara said quietly.
It didn’t matter. No one was listening.
With one fluid motion, Simon lifted Grace to her feet; despite his size, he was as quick as a cat. Within moments concerned bystanders surrounded Grace, asking if she wanted her father. Grace waved their concern away with a resolute expression, which implied that the pain was actually excruciating, but she was far too unselfish to bother them about it.
After it was ascertained that Grace had not been hurt, the group turned its attention to Kara.
“Heathen,” said Bethany James, an old crone with a crescent-shaped scar on her chin. “Hasn’t this poor girl suffered enough?”
“She was the one who—”
“Don’t listen to her lies,” said Wilhelm Eliot. He was a bearded man no taller than Kara. “Her mother was the same way, quick with her tongue. And we all know how that turned out.” Wilhelm examined Kara, stepping so close she could smell the fried onions on his breath. “Looks just like her. Maybe a night in the Well will teach her a lesson, before it’s too late. I’ll get a graycloak so we can register an official complaint.”
Before Wilhelm could reach the entrance of the store, however, Grace shouted, “Wait! It wasn’t Kara’s fault. She didn’t push me very hard. I just . . . it’s hard for me to keep my balance . . . because . . . because . . .”
Tears welled up in Grace’s eyes.
Mrs. James wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “You are too good, sweetie. Trying to defend this one despite what she’s done to you. Timoth Clen himself would have difficulty being so forgiving.”
Tanner cut in, all business. “What exactly were you two arguing about?”
Grace looked down at her shoes. Demure and innocent.
“You, then,” Tanner told Kara.
Kara shrugged. It was useless to say anything. They wouldn’t believe her anyway.
Tanner crossed her arms, which were as strong and capable as any man’s. “Girls,” she said, “this is my shop, and I’ll know what happened here.”
Grace mumbled something, too softly to be heard.
“What was that?” asked Tanner.
Grace spoke again, louder this time.
“She took my gray.”
Kara was aghast. Not by what Grace had said—but that she hadn’t seen it coming.
“I did not!” she exclaimed.
Even to Kara’s ears, the words sounded desperate and false.
“Quiet, you!” Wilhelm snapped at Kara. He picked Grace’s cane off the floor and handed it back, patting her hand gently. “Tell us what happened.”
Grace took a deep breath, as though the experience had been so trying that it was still painful to describe.
“I came here for some ointment for my leg. I saw Kara, so I came over, thinking we could talk about school. I couldn’t go today, on account of my infirmity, and I didn’t want to fall behind in my studies. I thought maybe Kara could tell me what I missed. But all she kept doing was asking me if I had any money. I guess there’s a new candy, and she really wanted to try—”
“Sweetrock,” said Tanner.
“Yes, that’s it. The problem was, she didn’t have any money. I offered to buy her a piece, of course. I hoped this might convince her to help me with my schoolwork, because I get worried when I miss my lessons. But the minute I took out a seed, Kara grabbed it out of my hand, and I fell. It wasn’t really that Kara pushed me. I mean, if she did, it was just an accident. She would never do anything like that on purpose. Kara is a really good person, once you get to know her.”
“That gray is mine,” said Kara. “I did some work this morning at the Lamb farm. You can ask them if you don’t believe me.”
She may as well have been talking to the wind.
“We should call one of the graycloaks,” said Wilhelm.
“Yes,” agreed Tanner. “Thievery cannot go unpunished.”
“An hour or two in the Well, wouldn’t you say?”
“At least.”
“Oh, please don’t!” Grace exclaimed, grasping Tanner’s hands. “I know Kara was only joking around. She has a strange sense of humor, and it might seem unspeakably cruel to some, playing a trick
on me the way she did—but at least it makes me feel like one of the able-bodied. I know she meant to give it back. Right, Kara? Weren’t you going to give it back?”
Everyone turned to Kara, waiting for her response.
She thought about proclaiming her innocence once again, but there seemed little point to it. Grace would simply smile or fret or cry, and any excuse Kara made would shatter into pieces.
“I was going to give it back,” she said, her voice a lifeless monotone. “It was just a bad joke.”
Grace brightened instantly. She looked at Kara with what could only be called pride, as though Kara were a dog that had just done an excellent trick.
Tanner slipped behind the front counter and retrieved a mop. “I won’t stand for this childishness in my store, girls. Someone needs to clean up this mess, too.”
Grace nodded, as though that was the most reasonable thing in the world. “Kara, it’s a bit hard for me to bend down, but if you hand me the mop, I can—”
“Nonsense!” Mrs. James exclaimed, extending a bony finger in Kara’s direction. “It’s the witch’s daughter who caused the whole fuss in the first place. She’s the one who should be punished.”
“Too true!” Wilhelm exclaimed, nodding so ferociously that Kara thought his teeth might pop out of his mouth. He placed a hand on the small of Grace’s back. “You aren’t picking up a thing, sweetie. Come on, let’s walk you back home.”
Tanner nudged the handle of the mop into Kara’s hand. “Aren’t you forgetting something?” she asked.
“That’s right!” Mrs. James said, and Kara remembered—with shocking clarity—the way the old woman’s face had wavered in the torchlight the night of her mother’s execution. “You soft in the head, girl?”
“The gray,” said Tanner.
Kara, her movements sluggish, dug the money from the folds of her school dress. She considered it one last moment—Just a useless seed, can’t even grow anything—before dropping it into Grace’s outstretched hand.
“I just want you to know,” Grace said, her tiny fingers closing around the prize, “that I forgive you.”
She placed a small, dry kiss on Kara’s cheek. Her lips were cold.
The Westfall land had once been a verdant paradise of apple trees, cornfields, and green, flowing pasture. Although she often tried to re-create the farm in her mind, Kara was left with only fragments. Her father: tawny and brown, working in the fields, pausing to give her a wave or rolling a pumpkin up the giant hill that bordered their farmhouse. Mother guiding Kara’s tiny hands as she planted seeds. The earthy smell of Mother, as though she had grown from the soil itself.
It seemed such a long time ago.
Walking across their land now, Kara reminded herself to be grateful for even these flashes of happier days; Taff had nothing at all. He knew only the withered trees that fell over in the slightest windstorm, the brown stalks that bore sharp pebbles of corn. Since their mother’s death, their land had become a haunted, barren place. The villagers said it was cursed, of course, but Kara knew that wasn’t the case. Any farm would fail without field hands to tend to it and an owner who spent more afternoons sleeping than working.
“We went to the Pool of Recognition today,” Taff said.
Kara tried to mask her surprise. Is he that old already? she thought.
“Did you see Timoth Clen’s image in the water?” she asked.
Taff threw up his hands. “There wasn’t nothing there! It’s not even fancy or anything. It’s just a puddle!”
“What did your teacher tell you afterward?”
“She said to go home and think about what you’ve seen. Except I don’t know how I’m supposed to do that when I didn’t see anything!”
Kara smiled, remembering how confused she had been at his age, the feeling of crashing disappointment at seeing her own face in the water and not the Clen’s. It wasn’t until years later that Kara realized the point of the lesson. If they shunned magic and lived by the rules set forth in the Path, then they would be like Timoth Clen himself. He could provide the path for them to follow, but he couldn’t appear in the water to guide them, nor would he listen to their prayers like one of the false gods in the World.
That would be magic.
Kara longed to guide Taff to this conclusion, but this was something her brother would have to figure out on his own.
“Annabeth swears she saw him in the water, holding his hammer and scythe.”
“That’s a lie,” Kara said, “and she better hope the graycloaks don’t hear her. Timoth Clen died over a thousand years ago.” It had been a dark time, the world overrun by all manner of witches and foul creatures. Timoth Clen had saved them all, leading the Gray Army across the land until every last witch had been killed. After his death at the hands of the Great Betrayer, the Clen’s chronicles and teachings had been recorded in the Path. From this the Fold had been born, and for centuries they had dutifully watched for magic’s return, even when the rest of the World had moved on and forgotten.
“I’m hungry,” Taff said.
“Is there anything in particular you’d like for dinner?”
This got a slight smile.
“A giant slab of roast beef with mashed potatoes, if you will. With gravy. Followed by a slice of coo-berry pie.”
“Would you like some hot chocolate with that as well?”
Taff nodded. “With lots and lots of whipped cream.”
“That sounds splendid!” Kara said. “I’ll start dinner right away. Only . . . we did have beef just the other day, but I served it to a traveling prince. And since he was a prince . . . of course I had to serve it with gravy.”
“That makes sense,” said Taff.
“And I just baked a coo-berry pie, but it was stolen from the windowsill, I think by a gang of fairies. You know how they can be. And the hot chocolate . . .”
“You fed it to that passing dragon,” Taff said. “The one with the broken wing.”
Kara smacked her head, as though remembering.
“That’s right. Poor thing. But I do have some good news. I have . . . potatoes!”
Taff gasped with mock excitement. “Wow!”
“How about I’ll boil them in water, and we’ll eat that for dinner?”
“That sounds great, Kara. Much better than that first stupid dinner.”
Kara usually loved playing these story games with Taff. It was like a secret language they shared with Mother, who had told Kara many forbidden stories about trolls and wereskins, foul kings and fair queens. Today, however, joking about dinner only made her sad. If Jacob Lamb had paid Kara what he’d promised, they could have afforded a special dinner like the one Taff imagined.
“The back gate’s not closing right again,” Taff said. “I’m going to see if I can fix it.”
Kara had no doubt that he would; Taff had a special knack for such projects, and at seven was already handier than Father had ever been. She watched Taff run across the cracked, useless soil that used to be a wheat field, the bottoms of his shoes slapping against the dirt, and made a mental note to mend the soles again tonight.
Her eyes drifted past the far border of their dying land to the Thickety.
It was no more than an hour’s walk, with trees that made the tallest spruces and sycamores of De’Noran look like children’s toys in comparison. The stories about this forbidden place were many and varied. Ancient trees scratch their names on you while you sleep. Almost-humans sprout from the earth. Steaming rivers boil the very goodness from your soul. Kara didn’t believe all the stories, but she was certain that Sordyr, the ruler of the Thickety, was no tall tale.
Oh yes, Mother had told her. The Forest Demon is as real as you or I, though he cannot cross the borders of his kingdom, thank goodness. But be wary nonetheless. Never journey past the Fringe, for though the Thickety is closed to most, I fear he may make a special exception for you.
Suddenly a gust of wind caught the branches of the trees, black leaves shuddering mad
ly like the rush of a waterfall and something else, some other sound she was sure she recognized. . . .
“No,” Kara said, stepping back. “No. It was just the wind.”
She walked faster, trying not to think about it. Surely it must have been her imagination.
For just a moment, she’d thought the trees had whispered her name.
Kara found Father sitting on the front porch. He was hunched over, writing in his notebook again.
The previous night their front door had been smeared with a mixture of dung and what smelled like sheep’s blood, a new touch. Kara hadn’t had time to clean it that morning, and her father had allowed it to bake in the sun all day long. She wasn’t surprised. Before Kara’s mother had died, Father would have not only cleaned the door but found those responsible for the vandalism and beat them soundly. Now she wondered if he even noticed. She sat next to him on the swing. Her parents had spent many long evenings here, holding hands, talking quietly, while Kara was supposed to be asleep but instead lay close to the window, drinking in their secret giggles.
“Greetings, Father,” Kara said.
He continued to write. Kara felt no curiosity, no desire to look down at the page. She knew what it said.
Her father’s blond hair hung in tangled curls over his forehead and ears. His beard was uneven on one side, as though he had started to shave one morning and then given up. Streaks of gray shot through it like weeds.
He stank.
Kara remembered him as he was: handsome and strong, balancing her on his shoulders as they walked through De’Noran. The other villagers smiling in their direction, waving.
Before. All before.
She slipped a hand into his own, trying not to notice the dirt crusted beneath his fingernails. Smears of slick, reddish manure from their doorknob.
“Did your day treat you well?” she asked.
He turned his head in her direction. His eyes were barely open, as though he had just woken up.
“Kara,” he said. “When did you get home?”
“Just now.”
“How was school?”
“Fine. Everything is fine.”