Hanna Who Fell from the Sky

by Christopher Meades

  “No.”

  The young man held the headphones out to Hanna. Cautiously, she slipped them over her ears and, in a single moment, the world opened up. Hanna heard music like she’d never heard it before. It was similar to the records Katherine and Kara played at home, except this song featured a woman singing. Hanna would have imagined the banging of the drums, the clang of the strings and the singing would all battle for attention and a great convoluted noise would result. Instead, the woman’s voice rose above the music. It pulsed and soared. It sailed inside Hanna and through her and deep down into a place in her stomach where she didn’t know she could feel things. The woman uttered the word redemption softly, tenderly, like it was her own personal proverb. Hanna stood next to Daniel, transfixed by the melody, amazed by the power in the woman’s voice, how something so fragile and haunting could also be so uplifting. She could imagine herself, in altogether different circumstances, wanting to sway her hips.

  “Do you like it?” Daniel said.

  “It’s remarkable.”

  She glanced at the open doorway. Any minute now, someone would come for her. “Thank you,” Hanna said and handed the headphones back to Daniel, who was watching her closely.

  “What is it?”

  “You look down at your feet a lot,” Daniel said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You’re always looking down. Only guilty people look at their feet.”

  Hanna blinked twice. “You’ve known me for exactly three minutes. It’s quite presumptuous of you to say I always do something.”

  “Okay. Then you mostly look down at your feet.” He paused and then he said, “I bet your doppelganger would never do that.”

  The odd statement puzzled Hanna. She wasn’t sure if he was teasing her now. “How do you mean?”

  Daniel grinned. “There are people beneath us, far down through thousands of layers of mantle and crust on the opposite side of the planet. I like to think I have a doppelganger down there and maybe one day the two of us will meet and he’ll look just like me, only opposite. Do you see this scar?” He pointed to a little divot above his eye. “He’ll have one on his right side, not his left. And he’ll write with the opposite hand and have sisters instead of brothers. He’ll be free, instead of...instead of growing up in Clearhaven.”

  Hanna wanted to smile. “These are very involved thoughts for a young man to have.”

  “I took a lot of long car rides with my parents this year,” Daniel said. “Maybe I had a little too much time to think.”

  Hanna did smile this time. Then, almost too quickly, she looked down at her feet. Hanna’s cheeks flushed when she realized she was doing exactly what Daniel had accused her of doing.

  “What’s that word mean—doppelganger?” she asked.

  “It means your double. A person’s counterpart.”

  “Could you spell it for me?”

  A smile curled in the corner of his mouth. “I don’t think I can.”

  From over by the entrance, Hanna heard the church doors open and shut. “I have to go. It was nice talking to you,” she said.

  “Wait. My family just moved into the old Grierson place. Have you heard of it?”

  Of course Hanna had. It was the second largest home in Clearhaven. Gregor Grierson, a successful livestock rancher, amateur blacksmith and father to six boys, had only recently uprooted the Grierson clan and left Clearhaven after a series of scandalous rumors and scurrilous allegations.

  Hanna nodded.

  “Then you’ve heard about what happened to Mrs. Grierson.”

  “It’s terrible what happened to her,” Hanna said. Only, she couldn’t think about the Grierson woman just now. Voices by the door set her heart fluttering. At any moment, they might be discovered. She started walking backward, edging her way toward the church.

  “Well, we live in the Griersons’ old house now, the one between the mill and the lake that drains into the marsh.”

  Hanna stopped midstep. “I know of it.”

  “There’s a pier on the lake. The view from there is the best in town. You can stop by sometime if you like.”

  “It’s still winter. And cold.”

  The young man leaned against the church wall. “You only feel cold if you allow yourself to feel cold.”

  Hanna pictured herself approaching the pier on the lake. She pictured Daniel’s father—Brother Paul’s prized benefactor—discovering her and Daniel speaking alone. Francis Rossiter calling Brother Paul. Edwin learning she’d visited a young man only hours after their engagement. The furious faces of the powerful men. Hanna resumed walking. “I cannot accept your invitation.”

  “Well, I’ll still be there in case you change your mind.”

  “I won’t.”

  When Daniel moved to follow her back inside, Hanna flashed him a look. We cannot walk in together. Then she stepped back through the open doorway, out of the cold and into the warm air. Hanna shook her head. An invitation to the pier? That boy must not have been paying attention in church. The Creator had spoken. She was betrothed. In nine days, Hanna would be married.

  5

  An hour later, Hanna knelt down next to the cast-iron tub in the downstairs bathroom at Jotham’s house. The cold floor tiles—some chipped, others unfastened from their plaster—comprised a mishmash of patterns. Orange and brown triangles lined the room, while, in the center, paisley-red tadpoles swam on a cluster of pale blue plates.

  She reached into the tub, placed two fingers at the base of Emily’s spine and ran them upward. The girl’s first few vertebrae were perfectly aligned, normal by any stretch of the imagination. Then her spine pulled hard to the right, twisting her back and spreading her shoulders far apart. Hanna rode the little bumps and indents like waves. At the midway point, Emily’s backbone transformed into a long, thick protrusion that looked sinewy, almost unnatural, as though this part of Emily’s body belonged to someone, or something, else.

  Hanna often imagined what it would be like to place her hands on Emily’s back and twist with all her might. She imagined the sound it would make. The scream her sister would let out at first—“What are you doing?!”—and then the sharp-drawn breath of relief Emily would exhale the moment after Hanna had forced her spine back to where it was supposed to be; and Hanna with her arms wrapped around the girl, Emily’s savior, the one who could take her away from all this.

  Hanna placed a cloth into the soapy water and brought it up to Emily’s shoulder blades. The left one sat lower than the right. It jutted out like the tip of an elbow forcing its way through her skin. Hanna handed the cloth to Emily—“You have to wash your lady parts yourself”—and leaned back against the tub.

  “Are we done?” Emily said.

  “We still have to wash your hair.”

  Hanna rubbed the bar of soap until the lather was full. She placed it on her sister’s hair and worked it in as best she could. The family had no shampoo. They’d had some last summer, a blue bottle covered in numbers and unfamiliar words that Jotham had brought home from the marketplace and tossed onto the kitchen table like a prize for the women to fight over. But it was long gone now. There were only so many times the girls could drip water into the bottle and shake it, hoping remnants would transform into bubbles. Hanna used the same soap to wash Emily’s hair as she did the girl’s feet, the curve in her spine.

  “Hanna?”

  “Yes, love?”

  “I wish my hair was like yours.”

  Hanna smiled. “You mean dry?”

  “No. I mean yellow like the sun.”

  Hanna dipped a bowl into the water and poured it over her sister’s head.

  “It’s not fair,” Emily said, “that your hair is beautiful and golden while the rest of us all have muddy-brown hair that sprouts like weeds.”

 
Hanna forced a second smile. She’d heard this lament from Emily before. “Perhaps I’ll braid your hair after supper.”

  “Will you make it beautiful?”

  “It’s already beautiful,” Hanna said, massaging Emily’s scalp. Emily winced as Hanna ran her hand through her matted locks, taking care to gently slide her fingers all the way through.

  The girl was right. Her hair, especially if left untended, could be likened to a patch of sunburnt weeds. Emily had the same hair color as Jotham. She had her father’s nose. Her eyes and ears resembled those of her birth mother, Katherine. The other children looked like their parents, as well. Charliss was a small, more delicate-featured version of Belinda. Ahmre and Minnet were two years apart, and one was slightly taller than the other, but otherwise they could have been twins. They both walked like Jotham—with their arms half-raised and their palms up, resembling clay figurines perpetually set to catch a marble, were it to fall. Hanna, on the other hand, didn’t look at all like Jotham or Emily. There was nothing in her face, in her frame, in the way she moved her hands, to remind her of Kara. And Emily was right, Hanna’s hair was different and not just from the rest of her family’s. Hanna’s long, wavy blond locks were unlike anyone else’s in the entire township of Clearhaven.

  A knock came at the door: swift and rapid and unexpected. Hanna’s heart skipped a beat. Was it Jotham? Was he angry? Had Hanna—or worse, Emily—done something to ignite his rage? Then a voice came from the other side. It was one of the toddlers pulling on the doorknob.

  “I’m giving Emily her bath,” Hanna said. “Use the bathroom upstairs.”

  A pause followed in which Hanna pictured a little one staring at the door, waiting for it to open. Then the patter of little feet sounded and the child took off running upstairs.

  “There’s no peace in this house,” Emily said.

  Hanna ran a brush through Emily’s hair. “You say that now. But wouldn’t you miss the noise if you lived somewhere else?”

  “Maybe,” Emily said. “I’m not sure.”

  A patch of tangles finally gave way and Hanna slid her fingers from end to end. There was pleasure in this, the most modest of victories. “Sometimes I imagine what we’d be like if you and I had been born on the other side of the world.”

  “Would we be princesses?”

  “Perhaps we’d be warriors.”

  “Like soldiers?” Emily said.

  “Not exactly. More like brave souls, the kind who battle monsters and beasts, who stop evildoers from committing their wicked acts.”

  “It’s too bad there aren’t any monsters in Clearhaven,” Emily said.

  “Yes...” Hanna said. She glanced at the door. The hallway was quiet, not a soul within earshot. Hanna set the brush down and whispered, “What if we weren’t in Clearhaven? What if we went beyond The Road, past the woods and past the big city?”

  “Why?” Emily said, her voice rising, sounding even younger than her eleven years.

  “To be adventurers. Or, better yet—to be heroes. To defend those who can’t defend themselves.”

  Emily met Hanna’s gaze. Up close, Hanna could see tiny specks of gold in Emily’s blue-gray eyes, her own silhouette mirrored in the girl’s pupils.

  “That’s impossible,” Emily said.

  “Nothing’s impossible. We could leave, just you and me. All we need is the courage to do it.”

  “What about Kara? What about Father? Wouldn’t they miss us?”

  Hanna placed her hand on Emily’s cold, damp shoulder. She spoke softly. “They would be proud of us. Don’t you think?”

  Emily bit the inside of her lip. A crinkle formed between her eyebrows. “But the Creator wants us here. He needs us to stay in Clearhaven. We have a duty.”

  “Those are Brother Paul’s words,” Hanna said. “Not yours.”

  Emily shifted upright in the tub. “They’re my words,” she said emphatically. “I learned them from the Creator. And he never lies.”

  Hanna placed a dry towel on Emily’s hair. She ran it gently over her shoulders. “I know. I know,” she said. This seemed to placate Emily and Hanna pressed her mouth to the girl’s ear. “We could always come back and serve the will of the Creator after our journey’s over. I think that would please him greatly. What do you say? Would you come with me on an adventure?”

  A second knock sounded on the bathroom door, this one sharp and swift. Hanna sat up straight just in time to see a tall figure open the door. Belinda stood in the door frame, staring with her dark valleys for eyes.

  “It’s time for supper,” Belinda said. She ran her fingers along the door frame, and for a moment, Hanna thought perhaps Belinda had heard her, that her whispers had seeped out under the bathroom door, navigated the empty air and drifted up into the woman’s ears. She imagined Belinda yelling out Jotham’s name, Jotham storming down the hallway and demanding to know what Hanna had said. Hanna gripped Emily’s arm. Her stomach muscles tensed.

  “Do hurry,” Belinda said finally. Then she turned and walked down the hall.

  Hanna helped Emily dry off and, together, with a towel covering Emily’s head, they joined the family in the kitchen. Kara was there, as were Belinda and Katherine. The young ones were crowded inside, as well. In descending order, the children in the house were Hanna, Charliss (age fourteen), Emily (eleven), Anastasia (nine), the twins Pratt and Violet (seven), Dawn (six), Minnet (five), Zelda (four), Decken (four), Ahmre (three), Reed (three), Zagg (two) and the infant Sayler. Hanna’s family tree looked like a weeping willow with four descending limbs, all from one central point—Jotham. He fathered the children, first with Belinda and Kara, then with Katherine and most recently with Jessamina.

  The only empty seats at the table were directly across from Jessamina, and Hanna braced herself, expecting another hostile glare for being late. As Hanna and Emily sat down, Jessamina’s baby started fussing. She picked up Sayler, secured him to her hip and walked out of the room.

  Charliss handed them each a plateful of barley and string beans. At fourteen, Charliss was the oldest boy and closest in age to Hanna. Charliss had an impish spirit. For years, he was infamous for eating absolutely anything, provided another child dared him to. Two summers ago, Charliss had, in a single day, ingested three worms, a slug, two snails—whole, including the shell—and something blue that Emily had found on the side of the road. Only recently, as Hanna prepared to leave Jotham’s house, had Charliss begun to exhibit subtle signs of maturity. Charliss had started tucking his brothers into bed and had recently asked to help Emily with her morning stretches. Hanna still wasn’t sure how Charliss would turn out as a young man, but his mood lately, the way he carried himself, was encouraging.

  “Barley again?” Emily said.

  Hanna looked up to see if Belinda or—heaven forbid—Jotham had heard Emily complain. Fortunately, Jotham was in the hallway rummaging through a stack of papers and Belinda was too preoccupied with scrubbing a cooking pot to hear. Only Kara, sitting a few seats away, took note.

  “Be grateful for the food in front of you,” Kara said and bit into a string bean. “Things could be worse.”

  Hanna looked down at her plate. The barley formed a thin porridge, perhaps of some meager nutritional value but not appetizing in the least. Full meals in Jotham’s house had been scarce since midwinter, and though Kara and Katherine did their best—mixing powdered milk and diluted chicken stock into the barley to give it some semblance of flavor—the family’s suppers this past month had had the aroma and consistency of pale brown gruel. Hanna dug her spoon in anyway.

  She ate her string beans and was just finishing her barley when the children started to giggle. Katherine had stood up from the table and was preparing something on the counter just out of Hanna’s view. From the toddlers gathered at her feet and the smell of candle wax, Hanna knew what was coming. She’d
been expecting some kind of celebration, but, since this year her birthday would also be her wedding day, she hadn’t known when.

  The children started singing “Happy Birthday,” their youthful voices filling the room. Katherine set the cake on the table as the children handed Hanna a present wrapped in colored paper. It was—without a doubt—a dress, the one she’d seen her mother sewing last week. Hanna knew how it must look: long, covered in a subtle floral pattern, with sleeves that stretched all the way to her wrists and a collar adhering to Brother Paul’s strict edict of modesty.

  The cake wasn’t really a cake. There was no butter or flour, no whole milk or eggs baked inside. The brownish-orange sides suggested thawed pumpkin bread or perhaps date loaf. Still, the multicolored frosting on top was an extravagance. Katherine had sketched a large, silver bird in icing sugar, its wings spread, beak tilted upward, dwarfing the sugar-glazed trees and frosted mountaintops as it soared through the air.

  Emily, unable to contain her expression of pure glee, stuck her finger in the icing, only to have Belinda slap it away.

  “Do you like it?” Katherine said.

  The entire family waited for Hanna to respond. All day, Hanna had felt like people were waiting for her to speak, for her to punctuate the moment with deep and reflective words. She’d felt Jotham’s expectations. Brother Paul’s presumptions. Edwin’s shameless aspirations. A great weight hung upon Hanna’s shoulders and even a single shift of her feet, an erroneous word, something as simple as an inadvertent glance, could cause it to tumble down. Now, even the children’s eyes were on her.

  “I love it,” Hanna said.

  Katherine clasped her hands together and smiled wide. She handed Hanna a paper crown the toddlers had constructed. The A’s were crooked and one of the N’s was sideways, but Hanna’s name was written on one side next to a pastel rainbow. Hanna could see fresh globs of paste where the crown had been repaired earlier that day, while one of the little ones had gotten creative and painted a purple frog on the back.

  “Now, blow out your candles,” Katherine said.