The demon bends over slightly and Agatha jumps up onto his back as if they were playing leapfrog, grasping the demon tightly by his warm, protruding ears. At the very same moment, a piercing cold washes over her and her eyes fill with tears: the demon is tearing through the winter woods, the wind is pounding against Agatha’s face, and her mittenless hands start hurting terribly from the frost. Agatha endures it for as long as she can, then tugs at the demon’s ears with all her might and shouts, choking from the wind:
“Stop! Stop!”—but the demon isn’t listening or simply doesn’t hear her, he just keeps galloping on and on. Agatha can no longer make out the trees or the sky or the shining horns, she can’t feel her stiff fingers. At any moment, she might slide off the little demon’s back and tumble down into the snow, perhaps breaking her neck in the process—but now the little demon suddenly stops of his own accord, slides forward on skittering hooves, and slams into the ground, taking Agatha with him. Before Agatha has time to gather her wits, jump to her feet, and curse the little demon up and down, he shouts, piercingly and victoriously:
“Dad!!! Dad!!! Dad!!!”
And suddenly it gets very quiet in the woods.
Nothing happens. Agatha is afraid to move, afraid to shake off the snow. She can only listen with all her might, but, really, nothing happens. Agatha tries not to let the little demon (who is looking around wildly and impatiently skipping in place) out of her sight as she takes a couple of steps backward and tries to get her bearings at the same time. These woods are completely unfamiliar to her: Agatha has never been here before in her life. There’s no doubt in her mind about that, for one thing because the trunks of the trees surrounding her are glittering strangely and appear to be entirely smooth.
Agatha rubs her fingers, then carefully runs her hand along a tree trunk, which she discovers is made of glass. A delicate little branch falls to her feet with a crunch, and Agatha picks it up. The branch is completely transparent, and the acorn nestled tightly against it is transparent, too, its cap sparkling with tiny facets. At any other moment, Agatha would have gone into ecstasies over such a find, but now, for some reason, she feels very frightened. She throws the branch to the ground and it falls into the snow, which now seems to Agatha as if it were made of glass shards. At this very moment, a squirrel leaps out from behind Agatha’s back, freezes in place over the acorn for a second, and Agatha, horrified, sees the acorn through that squirrel, sees the colored spark that flares up for a moment on the most delicate little glass whisker of the squirrel’s face. The glass squirrel grabs the glass acorn and darts away. Agatha nearly shrieks in terror, but pulls herself together at the last second and starts breathing quickly-quickly, the way Mom has taught her to do when she wakes up from bad dreams in the night. She has completely forgotten about the little demon, and an unexpected noise makes her jump. It is the noise of a resounding box on the ear, a good cuffing. If you’ve ever had bad kids in your class, the kind who bully little boys who are smaller than they are, you won’t confuse that sound for anything else in the world.
The little demon starts muttering something in a pathetic voice, but whoever is standing beside him, looking at Agatha, isn’t listening at all. Agatha is looking back at this person, knowing full well who he is. The person is wearing a big, gray coat made of coarse fur that looks like Trixie the dog’s. This person is definitely not made of glass. Without taking his calm eyes off Agatha, the person says to the little demon:
“You little pig.”
“I tried my best, Dad!” the little demon shouts aggrievedly. “I didn’t give her anything! I tricked her, I brought her here, I didn’t give her the treasure. I tricked her, Dad!”
“Precisely,” the person says coldly. “Little pig. You’ve violated the agreement.”
Indignant, the little demon falls silent and starts pawing furiously at the glass snow with his little hoof. The person in the gray fur coat approaches Agatha and extends a palm to her. Agatha takes a deep breath and politely offers her hand in return.
The person’s palm is surprisingly warm and dry, and Agatha’s fingers immediately warm up in his grasp. There is nothing scary about this person at all: he is holding Agatha’s hand and looking into her eyes with a soft, kind smile, and, little by little, the warmth from his palm reaches up into Agatha’s shoulder, chest, and stomach, and she stops shivering. The person takes Agatha’s other hand and the warmth rushes to her knees, to her sopping wet, cold-numbed feet in their damp, heavy boots. Agatha’s clothes dry immediately. She tries wiggling her toes and—it’s a miracle!—they can move again. The person in the fur coat smiles at Agatha, and Agatha smiles back at him. Then the person glances upward for a second, as if inviting Agatha to take a look up at the sky, and Agatha sees an impossibly, improbably beautiful sight: thousands of transparent branches, shining with lunar flame, form a sparkling dome over Agatha’s head, completely obscuring the sky. The person in the fur coat suddenly slaps his hands against Agatha’s palms teasingly, as if inviting her to play. Agatha laughs and slaps the person in the fur coat in return. He puts out his right palm, Agatha puts out her left, then they switch, then each of them claps their hands. Then the person in the fur coat turns his hands over so that his palms are facing up and Agatha slaps them, and then they do it again, only the other way round.
Agatha has never felt so good in her entire life, she even feels too good to laugh; she can only smile from ear to ear at this amazing person in his gray, shaggy fur coat. She feels like she could continue this game of pat-a-cake all her life. She can’t imagine how, just a minute before, she could have dreamed of going home; she can’t even imagine why she would have needed to.
Hand to hand, palm to palm—Agatha feels as if they are playing very, very slowly, because each time her palms touch the strong, warm palms of the person in the fur coat, Agatha discovers some amazing story. All of these stories are about her, Agatha, and all of them have happened to her in the past. Usually, Agatha doesn’t like remembering these stories: here she was playing a nasty prank, there she was copying off somebody in school, now she was lying to Mom, then she was tripping four-eyed Karina. These are unpleasant stories because, in general, Agatha tries very hard to be good. But now, when Agatha’s palms touch the palms of the person in the gray, shaggy fur coat, something wonderful happens: Agatha, remembering all of these stories, feels precisely that she is good. It’s just that—and now Agatha is beginning to see this very clearly—she is a smart little girl, a brave, quick-witted, very good little girl who knows how to stand up for herself, who can find an out in any situation, who can deal with any sort of trouble—she’s a good girl, Agatha. She laughs, and the slapping of large and small palms resounds among the glass branches.
The game moves faster and faster, and now Agatha is not having half as much fun because the images are flashing before her eyes faster and faster, too. They are no longer showing things that Agatha has done in the past—a year ago or a month ago—they are showing what she has only just done: she’s gone into the woods without permission, that’s what. Agatha’s hands have grown tired. She suddenly starts worrying that any second now she might make a mistake, and under no circumstances must she make a mistake because now she is seeing things that haven’t yet happened at all—but which, she realizes, must certainly come to pass. Now, right now, she needs to find out how she will get herself out of these difficult situations, how she’ll run rings around everybody, outfox them all, get away scot-free, find a loophole—she needs to remember everything! But the game with the person in the fur coat is moving faster and faster, the images are flying past in a whirlwind, Agatha can’t make anything out, her palms hurt terribly, it’s getting hard for her to breathe.
Agatha moans quietly, and a sharp pain suddenly pierces her right shoulder. Agatha grabs onto it with her left hand, and the person in the fur coat lowers his hands and laughs. Then he pats Agatha lightly on the head and she forgets everything, everything. Agatha lifts her doleful eyes to look at this ama
zing person: the only thing Agatha can remember now is how good, how amazingly good, she had felt herself to be—and now she is, once again, a completely ordinary Agatha.
The glass woods begin to frighten Agatha again. Now that the person in the gray, shaggy fur coat isn’t holding her hands, she starts to feel terribly cold again. Agatha feels like she might burst into tears at any moment. But the person in the fur coat takes her hands once more and Agatha begins to feel warmer. She looks this person in the eye and smiles, and he smiles back.
“I’ve never met a little girl who plays pat-a-cake so well,” the person in the shaggy gray fur coat says. Hearing this praise, Agatha perks up like a kitten. Then the person in the fur coat lets go of Agatha’s hands and, once again, she is overwhelmed by terrible feelings of fear and melancholy.
“Please allow this fool to come home,” says the person in the fur coat.
“Who?” Agatha asks, confused. She had completely forgotten about the little demon, who has been squatting under a glass tree all this time, doodling in the snow with a glass branch and shooting them dirty looks. Agatha has absolutely no interest in him now; she feels so terrible that she is ready to just call it quits. However, at the last minute, Agatha thinks the better of it.
“Home,” she says. “Have him take me home and I’ll release him.”
The eyes of the person in the gray fur coat grow very attentive.
“I would love to play with you some more, Agatha,” he says in an unhurried voice. “I’ve never met a little girl who plays pat-a-cake as well as you do.”
Agatha might burst into tears at any moment; now she wants to go home more than anything else in the world. Suddenly, she realizes that this whole situation is absolutely awful, that here she is, standing in the middle of a dead glass forest, completely alone, and that she’s just been playing pat-a-cake with a very scary person who is maybe not even a person at all, and that she’s been smiling at him and feeling happy, and now she just wants to go home, home, home!
The person in the fur coat smiles at Agatha and says:
“Of course my son will take you home, little girl. You’ll be home very soon; you’ll be home before you know it.”
Agatha sighs with a shudder and takes a step towards the little demon, but the person in the fur coat gives the little demon a sign and he, the little demon, does not rise from his haunches.
“I’d like to thank you for this meeting, Agatha,” the person in the gray fur coat says. “I haven’t played pat-a-cake with anyone for a long time. I would like for you to accept a modest gift from me.”
Agatha quickly claps a hand over her mouth. She knows that she mustn’t, under any circumstances, enter into any deals with this person.
“This isn’t a deal, Agatha,” the person in the fur coat says patiently. “It is truly a gift: I don’t want anything from you in return. Nothing at all.”
Agatha looks around confusedly, as if seeking help, but sees only a clear glass bullfinch soaring upward from a tinkling branch. The glare from its fluttering wings momentarily blinds her, and she rubs her eyes.
The person in the fur coat extends his palm towards Agatha. On it lies a plain little wooden ring.
“Put it on,” he says.
Agatha hides her hands behind her back.
“This is a good present, Agatha,” the person in the fur coat says patiently. “With this ring, you will never feel any pain. Never, Agatha. You won’t get sick, you won’t break any arms or legs, you won’t get burns or anything more serious. No matter what you do, Agatha, no matter how you act, you will always come through any situation safe and sound. And, who knows, maybe, while other people are busy getting sick and suffering, you’ll have time to come play pat-a-cake with me.”
Agatha says nothing. On Wednesday she has to go to the dentist for the first time in her life. Agatha has heard plenty of stories about the dentist. Already the ring doesn’t seem so plain to her.
The person in the fur coat suddenly closes his palm, then opens it up again: the ring has disappeared.
“You are a very smart, serious, and responsible little girl, Agatha,” says the person in the gray fur coat. “That’s why I forgot that you are still a very little girl. It’s hard for you to appreciate this sort of gift. Let’s try something different.”
With a magician’s flourish, the person in the fur coat opens his palm up in front of Agatha once more. He is not standing very close to her, but such a strong, tender warmth is radiating from his palm that Agatha involuntarily takes a tiny step forward. The person in the fur coat is holding a simple little ring made out of simple, dingy metal in his palm.
“Love, Agatha,” says the person in the fur coat. “The love of anyone at all, anyone you might want to have love you. No matter what you do, no matter what you say, no matter how you act—if you want, any person that you want will love you, Agatha, love you more than anything in the world. You won’t have to win somebody’s heart, you won’t have to struggle with doubts, you won’t have to suffer from unrequited love. And, maybe, as a result, you’ll have time to come play pat-a-cake with me.”
Agatha wants to push his palm away, but she involuntarily thinks of the new person who, God willing, will start growing inside her mom soon—of her little brother or sister. Agatha isn’t at all opposed to having a little brother or sister, but she has her reservations. “Love,” thinks Agatha, “the love of anyone at all.” She takes another tiny step forward, though her fear of the person in the fur coat and her desire to run away are growing stronger and stronger. “Love can’t do anything bad,” thinks Agatha—and, nevertheless, she doesn’t reach out her hand. Suddenly, the dingy ring disappears from the palm of the person in the fur coat. Agatha takes a quick step backward.
The person in the gray fur coat looks at Agatha intently.
“You really are an exceptionally smart and responsible little girl, Agatha,” he says—and suddenly, with a crunch, he breaks a fat bough off the nearest tree using two fingers. The glass bough lands at his feet with a tinkle. Agatha sighs with a shudder.
“Steady now,” the person in the fur coat says. “I want to offer you one last gift, Agatha. The simplest of them all. And remember, little girl, this isn’t a deal. You owe me absolutely nothing in return. Whether or not you accept my gift—hippity-hop, in just a minute you’ll be galloping home on my boy’s back. Look here, Agatha,” the person in the fur coat says.
A small glass ring, transparent and fragile, is glinting in his fingers. The person in the fur coat rotates it slowly in front of Agatha: the ring is awash with a pure, soft light; there is absolutely nothing scary about it. Agatha looks involuntarily at the ring and rubs her frozen index finger. The ring must be very warm from the hot hands of the person in the fur coat, she suddenly thinks.
“Any kind of help, Agatha,” the person in the gray fur coat says. “All you have to do is wish for it—and I’ll come do anything you ask. I’ll solve math problems, clean your room, hide a body—anything at all, Agatha. You’ll have more time and much more energy. And maybe, when the work is all finished, you’ll come play pat-a-cake with me. But only if you want to, Agatha. Only if you want to.”
Agatha only wants one thing: to forget these terrible, tinkling woods, to be home, home, home. She would never want this person’s help, she would never call on him, never—never—it’s so obvious that Agatha begins to laugh. She’ll take the ring, just to get home, of course. Agatha holds out her palm, and, smiling, the person in the gray fur coat drops the transparent ring down into it. It really is warm, like a windowpane that someone has been pressing her forehead against for a very long time.
“Giddy-up!” the person in the fur coat says curtly.
Agatha firmly grabs hold of the little demon’s warm, fat ears, squeezes her eyes shut—and even the icy wind pounding furiously against her face and chest doesn’t stop her from shouting, as they gallop along at top speed:
“Faster! Faster! Faster!”
Agatha is barreli
ng homeward.
The wind suddenly ceases. Agatha feels that she is sliding downward—first on her bottom, then on her side—and then she is falling head over heels. Agatha is lying in a snowbank, while above her, the sky is black as the blackest mud, and to her right she can see the lit-up window of her own dear kitchen. Falling and stumbling, sobbing and raking the snow with her palms, losing a boot in the process, Agatha makes her way towards the house. She runs up onto the porch—and hears tottering, uneven little footsteps on the stone steps behind her. Only then does she remember the little demon: there he is, looking out at Agatha with his pathetic eyes from underneath ice-crusted lashes.
“Go away!” Agatha says with relief, hurling the stupid glass ring after the little demon, who is already barreling off into the distance. The ring disappears into the snow.
That night, Agatha has a dream: she is playing pat-a-cake with the person in the shaggy gray fur coat. She is happy: the game is moving faster and faster, but Agatha isn’t afraid of making a mistake, she even thinks it might be fun. The palms of the person in the fur coat are white-hot, and Agatha herself is very hot, but that’s not important because, thanks to this strange, unbelievable game, amazing images are flashing before Agatha’s eyes again—just like they did in the glass woods—and Agatha likes herself so very much. She feels so free and good that she would be happy to keep playing with the person in the fur coat until the end of her days, never stopping. The only problem is that dream Agatha is very hot—and it’s only getting hotter. Sweat is pouring off of her in rivulets, and her arms have started to ache all the way up to the shoulders. Dream Agatha falters, her palm meets empty space, and the images disappear. Real Agatha wakes up in tears: her arms ache, her legs ache, her whole body aches. Mom takes Agatha’s temperature. Agatha has a fever.
Found Life Page 22