What Should Be Wild

by Julia Fine

  “It’s just a story,” I said.

  “A story of a sacrifice,” Rafe added, looking at me hungrily. “And a brave one, at that.”

  Matthew sighed and closed his book, swinging a leg over the bench that he was seated on to face us. He seemed about to speak, but then he shook his head slowly, as if he felt sorry for us, as if he had already attained the wisdom we were trying so desperately to reach and found it wanting. As if Rafe’s stories, which I saw as clues to help me find my father, told us nothing. He rolled his shoulders, and walked out of the room.

  AT THE END of the third day of waiting, I decided that enough was enough.

  “We aren’t so far from the second spiral that we can’t wake up early and walk there. It would take, what, two hours, to get us to the start?”

  “That’s a lot of extra walking,” said Matthew, “and then more walking once you got there. And then the walk back.”

  “I’m game for it,” said Rafe. “Why don’t we go, just the two of us, Maisie?”

  Matthew scoffed. I turned to him, smirking. “Aren’t you the one who told me I should move for moving’s sake? I would think you’d like the exercise.”

  Matthew shrugged, his mouth a lipless line, and busied himself packing up his knapsack.

  BEFORE THE SUN rose the next morning, we set out in the direction of the river, which appeared to intersect the second spiral on our map. There was a town just past the water, said Ginny, where we could stop and have lunch before heading back her way. She was fairly certain that by then she’d have the parts to fix the car.

  We followed the spiral path as closely as was possible, yet found no sign of the river.

  “You must have gotten the coordinates wrong,” said Matthew as we finished the final curve of the outer loop, the sun more than midway through its trip across the sky. “Or made a wrong turn. We should break off or go back.”

  “This is it,” said Rafe, tone clipped. “I measured it precisely. If we take a true path to the center, we should find the river soon.”

  “That logic makes absolutely no sense,” said Matthew, pushing damp hair off his neck and cracking his shoulders. “We’ve just spent hours walking in circles, with no river in sight. At this rate, we might as well just walk until we’ve reached the city.”

  “If we ignore the map,” Rafe countered, “we’re likely to get lost. Better to keep a sharp eye out and hope we find the river.”

  “Ridiculous.”

  “No, likely.”

  This seemed to me more a battle of wills than a pragmatic assessment of our problem. Matthew’s theory seemed more sensible, but I hated to choose one side over the other. I let myself fall behind, contemplating the scenery.

  The stretches of wood that had marked the first leg of our travels had grown smaller and farther between, usurped by long laps of moorland, purpled with heather and spackled with rock. It was a landscape more lonesome and majestic than any I had known. If the forest filled me with awe at the earth, the strength of the life that burst through it, this country was the saga of the sky: its infinity, the way the clouds hung low like honey as it settled into tea. Even the walking could have been heavenly, were it not for thirst and hunger, and the boys’ continued bickering about whether or not we were lost.

  Matthew was walking slowly, having decided to seek out a side road despite Rafe’s concerns. Both had resorted to mumbling their grievances under their breaths. I lapsed farther behind, now deliberately avoiding them, and so I was the one to spot the first signs of the others on our route.

  First came shadows on the crags, undulating, growing, and then I heard the sound of chanting to my left. Voices blended with the rush of the wind, which seemed stronger than it had been, and bittersweet, ruffling the heather in hefty swells. I cracked my knuckles.

  “Maisie!” Rafe called. “What are you—”

  I put a finger to my lips in an exaggerated gesture that I hoped he and Matthew would recognize, and turned to point beside me.

  A group of seven women, all dressed in rags, came in a slow procession across the road, dividing me from my companions. They wore flowers in their hair and tied as necklaces, braided into bracelets, around their heads as wreaths. Their ages ranged from around five years to mid-thirties, their shapes and colors varied, but each with equally clear eyes and determined, pursed mouths. In the bleak, cloud-filtered sunlight, they might have been specters, or ghosts. They crossed in front of me, not heeding.

  I tried to hail them, but they gave me no acknowledgment, simply continued with their singing, which I realized was in a tongue I did not understand. It sounded slippery, susurrant, from some other unknown world.

  They moved like a gaggle of geese, their dresses rustling, their song not quite in tune. The tallest two women were gathered at the center of the group, carrying between them a small box shaped like a coffin. I positioned myself to better see it: an open casket, lined in leaves. Resting inside was the branch of what I thought to be a beech tree, with an ill-fitting green apple tied carefully with twigs onto one end.

  At the back of the procession was the smallest of the gathering, a little girl who skipped along, struggling to match pace. A large port-wine stain marred her cheek, and her eyes were thin and narrow. As she reached the far side of the road, she, alone, looked back.

  After a moment to process my surprise I hurried after the women, paying no mind to Rafe and Matthew calling after me, then hustling to follow behind. I caught up with the youngest of the mourners just as the group was slowing to a stop beside a half-hidden stream. It was small but not stagnant, shimmering deliciously, nestled between two walls of tall grass the way a bonnet’s ribbon might hide in the folds of a fat woman’s chin.

  The women seemed reverent of the water. None of them were touching it, their chanting continuing and rippling across it like skipped stones. Though tranquil when they reached it, the wind, their words, the ceremonials, were stirring, somehow stretching the stream, helping it awaken. Like a wound renting, small and pinkish at first and then pooling with blood, it seemed to widen. The tall grasses around it seemed to wane.

  Matthew appeared next to me, clutching my sleeve.

  The pallbearers lowered their child-sized coffin, and the other women moved to make way. One, tall and narrow, with a long solemn face that seemed to have paused mid-melting—the hollows under her eyes sinking low past her cheekbones, her skin inordinately pale and veined, her lips a shade of blue—knelt next to the box as if in prayer. The other six bowed their heads beside her. Their chanting stopped.

  The pale woman lifted the branch from the box and took it slowly to the water, where she plunged it, apple downward, into the stream as a sword might plunge into flesh. The moor was silent as I watched her, the wind suddenly calm. She held her effigy submerged with such force one might have thought it was a man that she was drowning. The other women gave a cheer and resumed chanting, this time louder, almost raucous. The pale one hurled the stick into the stream, which had continued to stretch and expand. Its water moved faster now, its width five times the size it had been, its movement forming rapids that frothed and spat white foam. And then there came several incomprehensible moments that even now I’d claim to be the most intriguing of my life.

  I could not say where I was or what was happening around me. I felt but could not quite perceive a strange green sky and rumbling thunder, snow and rain and sunshine all at once, bells playing distant music, bone-deep vigor, cool crisp air. I could hear, but not feel, myself laughing. And then all at once it seemed that I’d forgotten how to breathe, that my lungs had paused mid-motion, were being squeezed by some great fist. I found myself coughing, unable to reject the sudden liquid that was pooling in my chest, creeping up behind my nose, pouring out of me as though I was a conduit, a fountain. I retched, and felt a strong hand slap my back. My body was burning, my skin prickling for lack of air.

  The violent retching ceased. Matthew thumped me on the back, and I came to myself. I blinked to see the
women, and found they’d transformed with the water: they were girls now. Simple girls wearing swimming costumes, playing in the river, splashing one another and giggling. I saw no sign of the child with her port-wine stain, the woman with the sickly blue lips. Rafe was kneeling at the bank of the newly formed river, cupping his hands to take a drink. I stood back with Matthew.

  “What do you make of it?” I asked him, struggling to catch my breath.

  “Of this?” His voice was low. “We can assume the water’s safe, if they’re here swimming, though I’d recommend against jumping in to join them. It’s amazing that you heard them from the road. We would have gone right past the river if you hadn’t followed their noise.”

  “No.” I shook my head. “I mean the . . . changing . . . the colors . . . the way the water . . . When those women . . .” I stopped. He was looking at me curiously.

  “Your fit of coughing just now?”

  “Yes. No. I don’t . . .” The front of my shirt, my shoes, were all dry, as was the grass before me. There was no visible sign of my struggle, no way to explain my experience without heightening the differences between me and these girls by the river, no way to describe my body without showing him how little I truly understood it. I shook my head and moved to join Rafe at the water.

  Your Mother, Waiting

  Lucy returns to the clearing to find the black-eyed girl upright, seated with her legs hanging over her stone bed frame. All the feathers have been plucked from the crushed wren—It loves me, loves me not—and lie around her, scattered in a downy fairy ring. The bird’s scabby carcass has been thrown to lie beside the dead roebuck, which has already melted fully into undergrowth, the only signs of its history its yellowing ribs, its still symmetrical antlers.

  Lucy brushes away a clump of feathers and kneels before the black-eyed girl, reaching up for her hands: “For everything, I thank you.”

  The black-eyed girl is stronger, but not yet strong enough to laugh at Lucy, the pomposity of her rituals, the solemnity with which she speaks. She presses her jagged fingernails, too short to cause pain, into Lucy’s palm, and hears a quick intake of breath. She cocks her head and smiles.

  Lucy straightens her shoulders. Points to herself and says slowly, loudly, “Lucy.”

  Tedious. The black-eyed girl clears her throat and tries to speak, but is capable only of the sort of animal grunting that confirms Lucy’s surmise.

  “So much to teach you”—Lucy’s eyes gleam—“so much that we two can create.”

  16

  To no surprise of mine, Rafe made quick work of gathering information from the girls. He befriended the littlest one, eight years old at most, who wore a neon-pink two-piece bathing suit and an elaborate braid in her hair.

  “Colette says that the water’s rarely warm enough to swim in. That’s why all these ladies are out in full force today. Colette says it’s only this one spot, really, the exact center of our second spiral, that has some sort of current that keeps it from being too cold.” Rafe flicked a finger at me, sending several water droplets in a mist across my cheek. It felt wonderful, and I gave only a brief thought to the countless invisible organisms I’d no doubt disrupted.

  “Does she now?” said Matthew, coming toward us and stooping to fill a canteen. He produced a previously unseen canister of orange liquid, and squeezed in two large drops before handing it to me. “Wait sixty seconds before you take a drink.”

  Once I’d sated myself, I examined the girls who’d so mysteriously shifted shape. So much bare skin—some brown, some milky white, some sunburned red and peeling. One floated on her back, her stomach spilling from her soaking string bikini, her hair spread like seaweed behind her. Another spit water through her teeth. Several older ones, particularly pretty, flocked to young Colette when she splashed back into the river, fluttering their lashes and twirling their hair, making bovine eyes in our direction.

  “For you, I’m sure,” I said, frowning, pointing them out to Rafe. He shrugged and smiled, more pleased with himself than apologetic.

  “We should look for a topographical map when we get back to the garage,” he said. “I’m curious to see if this river connects in some way to the one near Coeurs Crossing. My guess is they share the same source, that water’s bound up in the ritual. I’d bet the last spiral turns out to be right by the major river—”

  Rafe stopped himself, acknowledging little Colette as she skipped forward, twirling the wet end of her braid, her suit dripping onto his shoes.

  “My sisters and cousins wonder if you might come back to join us for a meal,” she said. “My mother made a large dinner, and it is only fitting that you might . . .” Here she looked over her shoulder at the aforementioned sisters and cousins now emerging from the water, their heads making insistent nods as they wrapped themselves in towels. “That you might join us.”

  Before Rafe could answer, both Matthew and I responded at once.

  “Of course!” Despite the strong sense that I’d developed legitimate competition for my paramour’s affections, I was thrilled. My hunger trumped any brewing jealousy. Most exciting was the thought that I would finally participate in the sort of friendly gathering I’d only ever accessed from afar. Our quest had given me courage, and I saw myself a far cry from the frightened girl who’d hidden from the baby carriages in Matthew’s car back in Coeurs Crossing.

  But with just as much vigor, Matthew declined the invitation. “Really, thank you kindly, but we must be on our way.” He widened his eyes at me, the gesture I’d begun to see as his attempt to keep me in line.

  “Don’t be an idiot,” I told him. To Colette: “We’d love to join you. In fact, Rafe here is a scholar interested in the area. He studies under my father, a renowned anthropologist. Perhaps you’ve heard of him?” I commandeered our guide and started toward the crowd of her cousins and sisters. “In any case, I’m sure that Rafe is eager to interview you for their research. And, as it turns out, we have been looking for a place to stop for food.”

  “Wonderful,” said Colette, her voice loud enough that the rest of the girls could hear and dissolve into simpering fools, clutching each other and giggling. The most composed of the group took a steadying breath, smiled, and offered me her hand in introduction. In the instant that I hesitated, Matthew intervened.

  “Please excuse my own poor sister”—he placed himself in front of me and took the offered palm in both of his—“but she is unwell. Unfortunately”—and here he lowered his voice to a whisper, as if in my imagined affliction I had suddenly gone deaf—“the disease that has hold of her organs has progressed into her brain, so she often forgets her sad state of health. You can imagine the shock that it has given our poor mother.” Matthew had taken the girl’s goose-pimpled arm and was steering her away from me, over to Rafe, who looked on, amused. “If it’s not too much to ask of you, perhaps we could send Rafe to bring a small selection back. I’d hate to fully decline your invitation. At the moment we’re en route to find a doctor who might cure my poor sister, but to bring her to your family now would likely be unwise. We would not want to thank you for your kindness by infecting you with her . . . germs.”

  Colette, looking alarmed, increased the distance between us, shielding herself with a large yellow towel. I was lost for words.

  “I assure you that Rafe, here, is fully vaccinated.” Matthew offered him the girl on his arm. “And truly a most charming visitor. He’ll go with you, won’t you, Rafe?”

  And thus, ever so simply, I’d been strong-armed by Matthew, who returned to my side, feigning concern for my health as Rafe was ushered off by the swarm of scantily clad girls.

  “Now don’t you worry,” Rafe whispered as he passed me. “They’re none of them as interesting as you.” He winked before disappearing into his flock of admirers.

  When they were gone, I pulled myself away from Matthew.

  “Your sister?” I hissed at him. “Your poor, sick sister, of questionable mental skill?”

  “I had to thin
k quickly. I really think we managed pretty well, given the circumstances.”

  “We? I’m hungry now. And I am perfectly capable of managing myself. Is this another attempt to keep me hidden? Keep me from causing harm?”

  “You’re not the only one who can cause harm,” Matthew reasoned with frustrating composure, as always making me feel silly for my own impassioned response.

  “But you apparently don’t trust me not to hurt them. You think I can’t control myself. You made that very clear from the beginning, but I’d think you could admit that I might do things on my own. I don’t need you here to help me. I don’t want you here. I’m not a child. I’m not your toy.”

  “Maisie, I—”

  “And,” I continued, voice rising, both in anger and in an attempt to rid myself of the memory of my recent fits of coughing and delusion, the fear that his words might be true, “to tell that girl that I’m the sick one? When just the other night you were frothing at the mouth? Of course you haven’t thanked me, of course it isn’t possible that I might have helped you. Because I’m just a—”

  “Maisie.” Matthew took both of my shirtsleeves in his hands, holding me still amid my ranting. I tried to pull away, but he was stronger than expected. He looked directly into my eyes, his expression serious, perhaps even sad. It was sobering.

  I could hear the water rushing with intensity beside us, like a river of children running barefoot. The wind had picked up, ruffling Matthew’s hair, pressing my own against my cheek. I smelled clover, and salt, and subtle hints of him, of rosemary.

  Matthew’s face was very close to mine, his breath a breeze against me, his lips pillowed and pursed.

  I did not know what to do. I hit him.

  My elbow, encased in my shirtsleeve, jutted back and then jerked upward, making contact squarely with his jaw. His hands flew up to check the damage. His eyes grew wide with shock. I turned away from him, tripping over myself as I ran back toward the main road, and when I reached it, I kept running, back, I thought, to before our confrontation, before my vision, back to the garage, where I hoped Rafe would soon return.