Where the Woods End

by Charlotte Salter

  Her mother knitted yarn between her fingers, staring into the dark, changing spaces between each pattern. Kestrel hadn’t expected this. It was so silent she could hear mice under the floorboards. She waited, feeling sick, until it was clear that she had to speak first.

  “I—I screwed up,” Kestrel said, her voice tripping.

  Silence. Kestrel squirmed.

  “I lost my temper,” she continued, moving just a little closer, her throat stoppered with the thick beating of her heart. She couldn’t help glancing at the porridge on the floor. “I ran away. But I can’t survive in the forest by myself. I want to come home.”

  The door slammed behind her, making Kestrel jump. The old woman jerked a finger and a fat candle lit itself. Kestrel knew it was bad.

  “You want forgiveness,” her mother said slowly. She drummed her fingers against her leg. “You’ve disobeyed me again and again. You’ve repeatedly lied. Then you crept in here while I was sleeping and tied up the dog that I created to protect you. And now you want . . . forgiveness?”

  Kestrel felt as though they were standing on the edge of a cliff; her mother was either going to throw her off the edge or pull her back, and neither of them knew which way it would go.

  Her mother stood up. She swept through the weave, right up to Kestrel’s face, the strings twisting away to let her through. She was so fast Kestrel didn’t have time to move.

  “Where did you run to?” her mother hissed, dropping and hooking a finger under Kestrel’s chin. Kestrel wriggled.

  “I don’t know,” she gasped, panic setting in. “I just kept going.”

  “You smell of blood.”

  “I got hurt.”

  “Why did you come back?”

  “I need you,” said Kestrel. Her mother’s expression didn’t change, but Kestrel thought she might have said the right thing.

  Kestrel and her mother stared at each other. Kestrel felt like her lie must be plastered across her face, huge and red, but somehow she kept her face still. She wondered if her mother knew that her grabber was following her. If she did, she’d never fall for this.

  “Flattery doesn’t suit you,” her mother said shortly. She withdrew her finger. “I suppose you do need me, don’t you?”

  She dropped Kestrel. “I’ve given you too much freedom,” she said. “I should have broken all your bones the first time you disobeyed me. Maybe then you wouldn’t be so arrogant.”

  “I won’t do it again,” said Kestrel shakily. She touched the bowl of porridge with her fingertips, praying her mother would notice it. It trembled with her hands.

  “Look at yourself,” her mother said, the corners of her mouth hard. “Look at the way you’re shaking. You’re as cowardly as your father.”

  Kestrel’s arm jerked with the barely contained impulse to attack her mother. The side of her hand caught the bowl, which rattled and spun on the floor.

  Her mother finally noticed the bowl, snatched it, and lifted it to her nose.

  “Where did you get this?”

  “It was outside,” Kestrel said quickly.

  Her mother slowly twirled the spoon in the bowl. Kestrel held her breath, but the bloodberry was still hidden.

  “It was left for me, you greedy pig,” her mother said. “From now on, you’ll only eat when I let you.”

  She picked up the spoon, raised it to her nose and sniffed.

  She smiled at Kestrel.

  “Delicious,” she said.

  Then she reached out, as quick as a snake striking, and grabbed Kestrel by the neck.

  “You little witch,” she said, rising, dragging Kestrel with her. She stamped on the bowl so hard it shattered. “I can smell that a mile off.”

  Her mother tightened her strong, bony hands. Kestrel tried speaking, but panic drowned her and she couldn’t get any words out.

  “Feeding poison to your own mother,” she shrieked. “I was stupid to keep you as long as I did. I am going to break you!”

  “You—need—” Kestrel gasped, struggling.

  “I need what? You?” Her mother dropped her. Kestrel landed in a pile on the floor.

  Kestrel’s mother stood over her, flexing her fingers.

  “You need your arms and legs for hunting,” she hissed. “But you don’t need a pretty face. You think the villagers hate you now? Imagine what they’ll say when you only have half a skull!”

  Her mother grabbed a piece of string above her head, the one with Kestrel’s tooth tied into it. Kestrel leaped up and drove her knee into her mother’s chest. Her mother doubled over, and Kestrel tore the string from her hands as she fell back.

  “Dad was right to leave,” Kestrel yelled, clutching the tooth in her fist. Her mother was back on her feet. The black dog advanced toward Kestrel, and she stepped back toward the door. “You tell lies to make people do things.”

  “You’re calling me a liar?”

  “I know the grabbers die after they’ve eaten!” Kestrel yelled. She hadn’t meant to say it, but her fury was burning white-hot.

  Her mother flinched, and Kestrel’s fury grew.

  “You think the villagers love you,” she said. “You’re wrong. They think you’re an evil old hag, but they’re too scared to say so. And when they see what you’d do to your own daughter, they’ll hate you even more.”

  Her mother snorted.

  “Dearest,” she said, “they’ll thank me once they’ve heard the truth. I’ll tell them that you’re the one who’s brought all the grabbers to the village.”

  “That’s a lie,” Kestrel said, but for some reason, her spine had gone cold. Her mother licked her lips.

  “It’s no lie,” she said. “After a grabber feeds, it dies. But every time you murder one, two more are born. You want to know why they’re coming so fast? It’s because you were too stupid to work out how they multiply. You’ve created a plague!”

  Kestrel almost dropped the bloodberry. She knew her mother was telling the truth. That was why she’d seen two sets of eyes in the woodchopper’s grabber. That was why they were coming faster and faster. She should have known all along, but she hadn’t even tried to work it out.

  Kestrel wanted to scream, but no sound would come out. Had she created her dad’s grabber herself? Was all of this her fault?

  “Thought that would wipe the smile off your face,” her mother said coolly. She looked at the dog. “Rip her throat out.”

  The black dog bounded toward her. Kestrel stumbled backward out the door. The villagers, who had crept close to the house, scattered like birds. The dog landed on Kestrel’s stomach, squashing all the air out of her and making her gasp. She pushed it off as hard as she could, sending it sprawling, and jumped up.

  Within a second it was back on its feet, squaring up to her, saliva dripping from its mouth.

  “Are you scared of me?” she screamed at her mother’s house. “You’d have the dog kill me instead of doing it yourself?”

  There was no answer. The dog crouched, ready to spring. Kestrel felt sick to the pit of her stomach.

  “Don’t even think about it,” she growled.

  The dog came toward her in a blur of teeth and claws. Kestrel flung herself out of the way, but its teeth caught her leg. She screamed and lashed out, knocking it to the side. She backed away, crawling through the dirt. The eyes of the whole village were on her, but nobody moved.

  The dog leaped again, aiming for her throat. She flung her arm at it and caught it on the side of the mouth, knocking it away. A piece of her sleeve ripped off, and the dog fell over with the material snagged between its teeth. Kestrel put her hand on her spoon, waiting for it to strike again.

  But the dog didn’t jump right away. It got to its feet, struggling to get its balance. The piece of Kestrel’s red-stained sleeve dropped from its mouth, and it wiped its muzzle on the ground as though tr
ying to get a bad taste off its tongue.

  Kestrel stared at the dog, her heart hammering.

  Before the dog could get its bearings again, she quickly dug the second squashed bloodberry from her pocket. She clutched it in her fist, praying that her instinct was right. The dog looked up and licked its lips. They stared at each other, waiting for the other to make the first move.

  The dog twitched, and Kestrel flung herself toward it. They met midair, teeth and fingers and black fur tangling together. Kestrel hit the ground with a rib-shaking thump. The dog was on top of her, its front paws pressed into her stomach, its colossal weight squashing her into the floor so hard she struggled to breathe. It snapped its teeth at her neck. She twisted her head out of the way just in time. With all her strength, she grabbed the dog’s muzzle with her free hand.

  The dog growled and tried to snap at her fingers. Kestrel brought her other hand, the one with the bloodberry, to its teeth. She forced the berry into its mouth a second before her grip gave way and the dog snapped its jaws down on her fingers.

  It felt like her hand had been put into a mincer. Kestrel screamed and pulled it away. She pushed the dog off her, expecting it to lunge for her throat again.

  The dog growled, but its paws slipped from her stomach, and it staggered to the side. It swung its muzzle toward her again, but now Kestrel was on her feet. She flung all her weight at the dog from above, pushing it to the ground. She held it down with all her strength as it bucked and twisted.

  Finally, the dog’s struggle began to fade. It snarled, kicking its legs. Another minute and it was completely still.

  Hardly daring to believe it, Kestrel lifted her hands. She touched the dog’s side. The bloodberry had killed it.

  Kestrel rose to her feet, her eyes fixed nervously on the house.

  The door didn’t open. It was silent. The whole village watched, shocked that the dog was dead, knowing that there would be some kind of retribution. Then something began to move inside.

  Maybe it was the glimpse of her mother’s long, pale fingers wrapped around the edge of the door. Maybe it was the whiff of something sickly sweet. Maybe it was because the answer had been staring her in the face for days. Whatever it was, Kestrel knew exactly what was going to step out of the house. It made her whole body go cold with dread.

  She slowly climbed to her feet and walked toward the door.

  She thought about all the teeth her mother had trapped in the weave. She thought of the way her mother bossed Kestrel and the whole village around, getting them to bring her food while she sat and lapped it all up. The lies she’d told, and the memories Kestrel had lost. The bones hidden in the cellar.

  I could wear his face all day long if I wanted, the face painter had said about her dad. All I need is a body part, and I’d have his looks forever. You’re lucky I only borrowed his coat. Bones are much better.

  Kestrel watched as the face painter stepped out of the house, dressed in her dead mother’s clothes.

  MOTHER

  The face painter staggered to the door, leaning to one side as though the ground was tilting beneath her feet. Her head was bowed. She caught hold of the wall for support, wheezing, her hands damp with sweat.

  Kestrel backed away as the creature—her mother—put a foot on the doorstep. Then another. Her body was shaking from the effort. She let go of the door frame, head still bowed to the floor, and staggered into Kestrel, trailing the weave behind her in great clumps attached to her arms and legs.

  Kestrel caught her instinctively and she sagged into her arms. Then her mother looked up and Kestrel screamed.

  “You clever little witch,” her mother said, and fell to the floor. Her dusty hair drifted away from her scalp and formed in a ring around her. Her eyes were white all the way through, and her skin was sallow. All her facial features were trying to get away from one another, sliding around like eggs in a frying pan.

  She stared at the villagers behind Kestrel. Then she snorted with weak laughter, kicking her thin, milky-white legs like a newborn child. Kestrel heard someone slump to the ground behind her.

  “You’re . . . not my mother,” Kestrel said, as though saying it would make the truth smaller and easier to swallow.

  “That’s only a technicality,” her mother said. She had the same unthinkable, unseeable features as the face painter in the forest, but her mother’s creaky voice. “I made you strong. I took care of you.”

  Kestrel stared at her. She didn’t know what to feel. Then she thought of all the times her mother had hurt her, bending her arm, grabbing her by the throat, pushing her around, lying to her.

  “How long have you been in my house?” Kestrel asked, finding her anger. She grabbed her mother by the collar and held her up. “Tell me, or I’ll throw you into the forest!”

  “You won’t,” her mother said. “You’re too scared.”

  Kestrel tightened her grip. The creature in her hands was small and frail, and Kestrel knew that it would be like throwing an egg to the ground.

  “Don’t try me,” she said angrily, ashamed of her weakness.

  “I didn’t bring you up to be rude,” her mother said, as though they were doing nothing more than drinking tea.

  Kestrel dropped her, disgusted. Her mother started to get up, but her legs were as thin and weak as blades of grass, and Kestrel held her down with her foot. She knew that the things she’d been remembering were true. And her mother—this face painter—had kept them from her.

  “I know you stole my memories,” Kestrel snarled. “You didn’t think I’d meet another face painter. It reversed some of your magic.”

  But something was still stuck in the back of her head like an itch. “Unblock the rest of them,” Kestrel said angrily. “Tell me what you’ve been hiding.”

  “Oh, sweetie,” her mother said, shaking her head as though she were saddened by Kestrel’s delusions.

  “Do it!” Kestrel screamed, so loud it was like a blow. Her mother twitched, but she didn’t respond.

  “You wanted people to die,” Kestrel choked. “You wanted the grabbers to keep picking everyone off, so we’d always be scared. So we’d keep looking after you. You sent me out to hunt, knowing I was making it worse. You turned us all into your slaves.”

  Kestrel could feel the anger of the village broiling behind her. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end, as though a storm was coming overhead. She wondered who would find their voice first. She stared at the red string tied around her mother’s wrist, trailing back into the house, and had a horrible idea. Her mother saw her and protectively grabbed the string, winding it around her hands.

  “You should be flattered that I picked you,” her mother said. “I watched your family from the forest. I knew you could be a great hunter, with those eyes. I wanted to keep your grandma, too, but she was too difficult to work with. She wouldn’t forget things.”

  Kestrel heard twigs snap and turned around. Ike was slowly backing away. Rascly Badger had put his hand on his knife, but he hadn’t drawn it. Runo and Briar were standing with Hannah, and for the first time, they looked unsure of themselves.

  “They’re too scared,” her mother said lightly. “What are you going to do now, sweetie?”

  Kestrel couldn’t stand it any longer. This woman—this monster—was a murderer. She’d done something with her real mother, and Kestrel was never getting her back.

  Her mother suddenly grabbed her ankle, but Kestrel kicked her away with a terrible snarl that made the face painter flinch. The second Kestrel’s foot connected with her mother’s hand, everyone moved, as though someone had poured courage down their throat.

  “You made me burn my watch!” Ike shouted, with a half-terrified, half-furious cry of rage. Mardy and Walt elbowed past each other to get to her mother. Rascly Badger thrust Runo aside to join in.

  Kestrel balked as the village came toward her mo
ther with a hundred hands. Before she could work out what to do, she was elbowed in the back of the head and pushed to the ground in the chaos. The villagers swarmed over them, burning with a horrible, bloodcurdling excitement.

  “Stop!” her mother screamed at them. “Stop, or you’ll all die!”

  Kestrel twisted away, throwing herself at her mother through the melee. She wanted answers, and the only person who could make it happen was the face painter. Her mother was kicking the villagers with her legs, snarling and biting, but she was weakening quickly.

  Kestrel crawled along the ground until she was level with her mother’s wavering face.

  “There’s nothing left for us here,” her mother hissed. “Come with me into the forest. We’ll rule it all. I love you, Kestrel. I love you more than any mother.”

  Kestrel choked. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Pippit dash through the jumble of legs and hands. As someone grabbed her hair, she saw him pick up the piece of red string that trailed from her mother’s wrist to the house.

  And Kestrel understood.

  Kestrel reached out and grabbed the string from Pippit’s mouth. She hesitated for half a second, her heart aching.

  Then she tore through the wool with her teeth.

  Her mother shrieked and stiffened. Her body jerked twice, and her legs curled inward so they looked like a broken umbrella. Then she lay completely and utterly still.

  Kestrel stared at the face painter, a lump in her throat. She tried hard to remind herself that it was a murderer, and not her real mother at all. Ike shoved everyone away and held his arms out. The villagers backed away until they were behind Ike, staring with horror at the broken creature on the floor.

  The face painter was stuck with half her mother’s face on one side, and its own blank, featureless face on the other.

  And it was dead.

  Kestrel closed her eyes and shuddered with grief, trying to remember her real mother. The one who used to make beautiful dresses without beetles on them, who smiled and gave Kestrel her first story. But she could barely remember anything. For years, her real mother had been a pile of bones in the cellar.