The Breathless

by Tara Goedjen

  The trucker looked him over. “You don’t belong here, son. I can tell. No offense.”

  “Just here,” Cage repeated, and the noise of the air brakes was loud as the truck stopped on the empty road. “Thanks for your help,” he said. He swung his door open and jumped down from the cab. The man waved and the truck jerked forward, gaining speed, its red taillights growing faint before blinking out completely.

  And then he was alone, almost. All around him, the sound of rain tapping the leaves. Maybe the unease he felt was a warning. But even if he and Ro had fought before he’d left, she’d still want to see him. He’d tell her about the crash, and she’d be glad he was okay. Ro didn’t hold grudges.

  Ahead was the driveway with the broken gate. The sign next to it had once said BLUE GATE but was mostly worn away. He’d never heard of houses having names before he met her. Her family came from old money, but they’d lost it a long time ago. Someone burnt through it out of revenge, Ro said. All they had left was this place, run-down and overgrown with weeds.

  His boots crunched over gravel as he started forward. Two long rows of oak and crepe myrtle reached out on either side of the drive. It curved enough that you couldn’t see the house, not from here. He kept his eyes straight ahead, the sky gray with drizzle. In his mind, he saw his motorcycle hitting the guardrail, remembered flipping, the sharp slide into the kudzu, all that green. He’d been alone when he’d crashed—he remembered that now. Thank Christ she hadn’t been with him.

  He sped up his stride. His heart felt lighter just thinking about her. But halfway down the drive the back of his neck went cold, as though someone was watching him. Staring between his shoulder blades.

  BLUE GATE, 1859

  GRADY’S HANDS ARE COVERED IN blood as he drags his brother out of the gate. A dark smear runs over the dirt.

  “Jacob? Jacob!”

  His little brother’s face is smashed near his left eye from the horse’s hoof and his shirt is torn. Grady puts his hand on Jacob’s chest—no heartbeat. He lurches back, his palm warm with blood.

  “No,” Grady says, his voice shaking. “No, you’re okay.” But his brother might be dead and Grady can hardly breathe. This can’t be happening. “You’ll be fine, you hear me?”

  He looks toward the house. His father isn’t home, he’s still visiting a patient and won’t be back until tomorrow. There’s no time to wait for him—he has to do something! But what? What? And then a chill shoots down his back and it comes to him. A half breath later he’s carrying his brother as he runs, Jacob’s head bobbing against his shoulder. There’s only one place to go. Grady swallows down the dread in his stomach and keeps running toward the woods.

  “Help!” he yells. “Please help us!”

  He still knows the direction of the cabin, knows it from the way his hair prickles at the nape of his neck. He charges forward, weaving around trees and dodging branches, his brother heavy in his arms. Grady runs deeper into the woods, frantically searching for the old cabin. Here the trees are closer together and the sun is blocked from sight, but he keeps going, despite his father’s warning. This is for Jacob. Anything for Jacob.

  “You’ll be okay,” Grady says, his breathing ragged. He can’t look down because he’s afraid of what he’ll see—the bruising, the wide gash across Jacob’s pale brow. Thinking about it makes adrenaline shoot through him, and he runs faster. There! There, ahead. This has to be it. He’s sure of it.

  As soon as he veers onto the overgrown path he feels sick to his stomach. He doesn’t belong here; he can feel darkness eating at him with every footstep. I have to, he thinks.

  And then the cabin is in front of him and there’s no turning back. It’s covered in shadow from the trees, and behind it the shed and well are being choked by vines. An ax is wedged into a log, but otherwise there’s no sign of life. Grady tries to ignore his terror and heads for the cabin door, still carrying Jacob. The old woman’s got to be here—he doesn’t know what he’ll do if she isn’t.

  “Help!” he shouts again. “I need help!”

  A bad feeling rushes over him and he turns. Behind him is a boy about his age, with the palest skin Grady has ever seen. He’s holding the ax and staring at him with dark eyes.

  “My…my brother,” Grady fumbles. “My brother, he’s hurt. I need the…” He won’t say witch. “Pearl,” he says instead. “Isn’t her name Pearl?”

  The boy doesn’t answer, just shifts the ax higher in his hands. Grady’s about to yell for the old woman when someone grabs his elbow. He startles—there’s a girl by his side.

  How? He didn’t see her coming, didn’t hear her either. She’s standing next to him in a slip of a dress, a yellowish color that must have been white once, and there’s a faded red scarf wrapped around her hair and a red apron around her waist. She has to be the boy’s sister—she has that same pale, pale skin.

  “Lay him down,” the girl says, pointing toward the cabin. Somehow the door opens before Grady can touch it and he stumbles into the dark room. Baskets are dangling from the ceiling and cuts of meat are hanging at the back. He takes another step and a sour smell hits him. In the dim light he can make out a cot near the fireplace, a shape huddled under blankets.

  “Don’t mind Miss Etta,” the girl says. “Just put him on the table here.” At the sound of her voice Grady finds himself leaning over, laying Jacob’s body on the stretch of wood. His breath catches when he sees his brother’s face where the horse got him. It’s too late for a doctor, he knows that now without a doubt. He turns back toward the girl and she holds up a hand.

  “I might can help,” she says. “No promises.”

  “Now leave.” The boy’s standing in the doorway, the ax still in his hands, his dark eyes trained on Grady. He gestures with the blade. “Go. Come back in the morning.” He smiles strangely. “Or don’t.”

  Grady looks down at Jacob. His chest isn’t moving; he isn’t breathing. Should he really leave him alone here? And where is the old woman?

  “Come back at dawn,” the girl whispers, somehow at his side again when she wasn’t before. “Nothing you can do now. Nothing but wait and see.” It could be his imagination, but she seems to steal a glance at the cot before pushing him toward the door. “Go now.”

  This is what happened last time, when he came here so long ago. Last time they shut him out too. But last time it had worked. One more look at the girl—at her dark eyes with a glint of amber—and then his feet are moving.

  He lurches outside and the boy is in front of him again with the ax and nothing is making sense. The trees seem taller all of a sudden, and the wind is swirling, making the leaves rustle around him, and the ground at his feet is covered in gashes—someone has drawn lines in the dirt, deep lines that run all the way up to the door. He blinks and the girl is at his side too and his heart starts to race. He knows there’s some magic at play; it’s more than just quickness.

  “I can’t leave him,” Grady says. Something’s digging into his spine and he yanks his book from his back pocket and then notices his hands are shaking. “I’ll wait all night if I have to, but you can’t make me go.”

  “Can’t we?” the girl asks, and her brother laughs.

  Grady forces himself to ignore them. He sits down with his back against the wall of the cabin, then opens his book and starts to sketch so they can’t see how scared he is. First he draws the well, swarmed with green vines. Next, the baskets full of green cuttings hanging near the shed. And the chimney, with smoke trailing up even though it’s hot.

  “It’s getting dark,” the girl tells him. “You shouldn’t be here anymore.”

  Grady clenches the book. “I’m staying,” he says. All of a sudden it’s like his breath is smothered, and he feels her before he sees her. The witch. His head turns of its own accord and then the old woman is stepping out from the trees. Her hair is white, her eyes dark, her features delicate like the girl’s.

  “M-Miss Pearl?” he stutters. She looks just the same as before,
as if he’s only seen her yesterday and not ten years ago. “I’m—”

  “I know who you are and why you come.” The witch’s voice is low and hushed. “I remember Rose, but you’re not here for her, are you? You’re here for someone else.”

  His heart aches when he thinks of what happened. “My brother. Can you help him?”

  The witch looks to the sky like it’s speaking to her, then turns back to Grady. “Let the night take you far and the morning bring you near,” she says. “And don’t miss the morning. Never miss the morning.”

  He doesn’t want to go, but he has to do as she tells him. He remembers that from the last time he was here. Jacob, he thinks, I’m doing this for him. His little brother, who can never leave the animals alone. Grady’s heart feels bruised, like the horse kicked him too, and all he can think of is Jacob, alone on that table in the cabin.

  “You’ll heal him?” he asks Pearl.

  Her eyes say Maybe, maybe not. “It’s my daughter who spoke to you first,” she says. “Ask Hanna.”

  “Hanna,” he repeats, and looks at her. Grady takes in the girl’s dark amber eyes, the strands of her even darker hair that half cover them. Her pale skin, the veins showing through. She’s not much older than him, he decides, yet his brother’s life is in her hands. This girl is his only chance to save Jacob. This girl he shouldn’t be talking to, this daughter of a witch.

  “Come back in the morning,” Hanna says, “and then you’ll see.”

  Grady nods, and this is how it begins: with his desperation. Right now he has no idea what will come to pass, because the future is a door that only opens when it’s ready. At this moment Grady believes his intentions are good, yet it’s only pain that’s coming—not just here and now, but rippling years and years later—and even if he did know, even if we could warn him, it’s already too late.

  IT FELT WARM TO THE touch again, almost like it was alive. Mae lay back on her bed, the zipper of the sweatshirt cold against her neck, the book in her hands. The ache of missing Ro swelled up inside her, just like it had last night, but this time she was ready. Now her fingers tingled, and she felt a rush of adrenaline as she untied the ribbon. The thick book fell open and its earthy scent hit her like a thing long buried.

  What she noticed first was an epigraph in perfect calligraphy.

  Before me things created were none, save things

  eternal, and eternal I endure.

  It sounded old-fashioned, the wording as antiquated as the handwriting. Across from it was the inside cover, yellowed with age. Spidery black ink ran halfway to the bottom. It was a list of names, crowned by a single word: Initiates.

  Initiates of what? But she’d expected something like this, a reason for Ro’s secrecy.

  Underneath the odd heading was the name Grady Deacon Cole II, followed by a date: July 1859. Grady had been the first child born at Blue Gate; Mae remembered hearing that from Ro. She’d said terrible things about him…or maybe that was his father. Ro had liked to scare her, and she’d also liked bending the truth, so Mae didn’t know how much to believe.

  Another name was written directly beside Grady’s—something with an H? The letters had been scratched out so many times the page had torn, but the cursive on the line below was legible: Emily Rose Cole. After that was another Cole she didn’t recognize, and then her granddad’s name, Grady Deacon Cole VI. Printed neatly on the next line were three words that made her eyes water.

  ROXANNE ELIZABETH COLE

  Mae stared at her sister’s name and then at the one above. They were written in the same handwriting—her granddad’s before his stroke. Her heart skipped as she realized what it meant. Ro had lied when she said she found the book. It had belonged to their granddad first; he’d given it to her.

  Mae stared at the page for a half second longer and then shoved the book and ribbon into her bag on the way out of her room. She quickly took the back steps to the attic, switching on the light to see. Here the corners were sharp and the steps uneven, as if this second stairwell had been made in a hurry. Blue Gate had been added to piece by piece over the years, and some pieces made little sense, just like their family.

  At the top of the staircase a flickering line of gold was coming from underneath the door. A lamp was on, which meant he was here. She started to knock, but the door was already swinging open like it sometimes did.

  “Granddad?”

  He was sitting in his chair in the suit that he always wore, though no one ever came to visit. His back was to her as he stared out the window. A stack of books was beside him, his worn Bible on top.

  “Can I show you something?”

  He stayed motionless, his whole body stiff. Mae sucked in a breath, fighting the edge of panic, but then his hand moved. He was fine; the doctor had even said he was looking better and that she shouldn’t worry so much.

  She wanted to shove the green book at him, ask him all the questions that were brimming inside her. He could explain why Ro had it, why she’d only taken it out when she thought no one was looking. The more she knew about her sister’s life, the closer she’d be to figuring out what had happened.

  Her granddad still hadn’t turned, which meant he was thinking. She shut the door behind her, loud enough for him to hear, and stepped deeper into the room.

  This part of the attic had a slanted ceiling, a single bed, a desk, and rows of bookcases on every wall except a newer plywood one that led to a storage space. It was cool enough up here, since it was insulated, and the fans and old air-conditioning unit made it livable. Near the bed, her granddad had spread out his picture collection on a narrow table—they were the first eyes he saw in the morning and the last he saw at night. Antique frames trapped the faces of every Cole who’d lived in the house. Sonny didn’t want his picture added to them, said it looked too much like a memorial and he wasn’t dead yet. But Mae loved old things; she liked visiting cemeteries, and she liked these black-and-whites too.

  A nearby frame smacked flat on the table—she must have grazed it with her bag. It was lying next to a daguerreotype of the first Grady Deacon Cole, with his ash-colored hair and pale eyes. Beside him was Rose Louisa Cole, dark-haired and thin, the one the doctors tried bloodletting on when she got sick.

  Mae picked up the fallen picture and righted it. It was an image of their firstborn child, Grady Deacon Cole II. Mae had always thought he was good-looking from his portrait in the hallway, with his blond hair and blue eyes. But this picture was muted and dark, his eyes full of secrets. It reminded her of Ro—all those hushed whispers about the things the Coles used to do. Right now Grady’s gaze was on her, like he knew what she’d found.

  “Granddad?”

  He still hadn’t faced her, so he was either deep in thought or deep in sleep. Mae walked over to the window. Her granddad insisted on keeping his bedroom up here; he liked looking out the highest windows of the house. They were four stories high, if you counted the raised basement to protect against flooding. From here she could see the stretch of trees and a glimpse of Mobile Bay. Her fists clenched when she thought of the beach, and she looked down at her hands, willing them to relax. Her fingertips were dark with something—dirt? soot? When she brushed it off on her shorts, her granddad finally turned to her.

  The afternoon light from the window fell on his face, and his skin seemed to glow. He looked almost ghostly, with his white hair and pale blue eyes. He smiled at her and squeezed her hand, and then she knew he was ready to talk.

  “I found this last night.” Mae pulled the green book from the canvas bag at her hip. “It belonged to you once, right? Then to Ro.”

  She wanted to ask more questions, but the look on his face made her stop. He started breathing funny—a gasping noise was coming from his throat like he was choking. His sweaty hand batted at her wrist. His writing pad. He wanted his writing pad.

  “It’s here on the desk,” she said, her voice coming out too high-pitched. He fumbled with the pen and then clamped his arthritic fingers a
round it and bore down on the paper. He held out the notepad with his shaky scrawl.

  DID YOU USE IT?

  Her cheeks started to warm. She’d read the beginning of the book, but used it? What did that mean, anyway? His eyes searched her face, and her granddad looked more and more frantic the longer she took to answer.

  “I didn’t do anything with it.” That was the truth.

  He bent his head to scribble some more and then stared at the green book again. There was a loud thud as the pen dropped from his fingers and rolled across the wooden floor. His mouth was opening and closing and he was straining to speak.

  “Granddad, look at me,” Mae said, hiding her panic. “Now smile.” It was a test the doctor had given her. Smiling on command meant he wasn’t having another stroke.

  But he was shaking his head, and his lips were moving, only nothing was coming out. Mae threw the book down and grabbed his hands, pressing them tight so he’d listen. “Please,” she said.

  At last he seemed to hear her. Slowly, slowly, the edges of his mouth lifted in a smile that didn’t meet his eyes.

  He was okay, he was just upset. It wasn’t a stroke, except now her own heart felt pinched. Her granddad was rarely like this—he was usually easygoing, trying to cheer everyone up with his little notes.

  She let go of his hands, and his gaze flicked to the book beside her.

  “I know it’s meant to be a secret,” she said. He tapped at his writing pad again, but she just wanted him to stop thinking about it. “Let’s forget it. I’ll put it away. I won’t bring it up again.”

  His eyes darted between her and the book, and after a moment he nodded. She watched him for a minute, waiting for his breath to steady, and then made a point of finding a good spot. Standing on her tiptoes, she slid the book onto the highest shelf, where he couldn’t see it.

  When Mae turned back, he was sitting on his bed. His face wasn’t so pale, and his eyes were dry now. She leaned against the bedpost. “Ready for dinner?” Her question sounded hollow to her own ears, the lightness forced. She wasn’t surprised when he shook his head.