“Promise? ”
“Okay.”
“Yeah, play the game, let them think you’re getting better.” Alby straightens up, picturing home, I figure. She’s got one to go back to. Wooden fence. Two-car garage. Mom and Dad and a bowl full of breakfast cereal. No Grandma making lemonade on a cold Sunday evening. No needles. No pins.
It’s my turn to shudder. “I don’t want to get better. They might send me home.”
Alby stares at me. She has no answer to that. I turn to the bed. Start picking at the mattress, wondering if there are still springs inside these old things. Alby faces the wall, her finger already winding a new path through the cracks. We all pass the time in our own way.
We get a new therapist the next day. We’re always getting new ones. They stay a few weeks, a few months, and then they’re gone.
This one wants us to write in journals. She gives us these beautifully bound books, cloth covers with flowers and bunnies and unicorns and things, to put our ugly secrets in.
“Mine has Rainbow Brite.” Alby is either excited or disgusted, I can’t tell which.
Joelle says, “They should be snot colored. They should be brown like . . .” She means shit. She never uses the word, though.
“I want you to start thinking beautiful thoughts, Joelle,” the therapist says. She has all our names memorized already. I think, This one will only last two weeks. Long enough for us to ruin the covers. Long enough for Joelle to rub her brown stuff on the pages.
I put my hand on my own journal. It has these pretty little flowers all over. I will write down my thoughts. But they won’t be beautiful.
CUTTER
scissors
fillet knife
a broken piece of glass
I can’t press hard enough
to do more than scratch the surface
and blood isn’t red
until it touches the air
Okay, so it doesn’t rhyme and I can’t use it as a song, but it’s still true.
“What did you write, Red?” Alby asks.
Joelle has already left for the bathroom. I don’t look forward to the smell from her book.
“Beautiful thoughts.” I cover the poem with my hand. It is beautiful, I decide. Dark and beautiful, like I am when I dream.
“Little Red.” Mr. L stands in the doorway. “Excuse me, Ms. Augustine. I need to see that one.”
He points at me. I go away.
Four-footed and thick-furred, I stalk through a shadowy forest. My prey is just ahead of me—I can hear his ragged breathing, smell his terror-sweat. Long pink tongue to one side, I leap forward, galloping now. I burst through a flowering thornbush and catch sight of him: Mr. L, naked and covered in gray hair. I can smell his terror. Then I am on him, and my sharp teeth rip into his flesh. Bones crack and I taste marrow, sweet counterpoint to his salty blood.
I wake in the infirmary, arms and legs purple with fresh bruises.
“Jesus, Red,” Alby says. “He really worked you over this time, didn’t he?”
“I guess.” I don’t remember. Seems likely, though.
“Looks like you got him one too, though.”
“Oh, yeah?” I can hardly move, though I turn my head toward the sound of her voice.
Alby grins her pixie smile. “Yeah. Got a big bandage on his neck, he does.”
I lick my lips. Imagine I can taste blood. “Probably cut himself shaving.”
Her smile fading, Alby says, “Whatever you say, Red.”
I try to roll over, turn away from her, but something holds me down: leather straps at my ankles and wrists. One across my waist.
“Five-point locked leather,” Alby says, with some reverence. “You were really going crazy when they brought you in. Foaming at the mouth, even.”
I lay my head back down on the small, hard pillow. Close my eyes. Maybe I can get back to my dream.
Mr. L visits me in the dark room with the leather straps. He has no bandage on his neck, but there are scratches there. I know why. I have his skin under my fingernails. In my teeth.
“Little Rojo,” he says, almost lovingly, “you must learn control.”
I try to laugh but all that comes out is a choking cough. He wanders slowly behind me, his fingers trailing through my red hair, my cap of blood.
“You must learn to walk the path.” In front of me again, he glances up, at the television camera, the one that always watches. Puts his back to it.
“And will you be my teacher?” I say before spitting at him.
He looks down at me. Smiles. “If you let me.” Then he pats my cheek. Before he can touch me again, I go away.
The forest is cold that night and I stand on a forked road. One is the path of needles, one the path of pins. I don’t know which is which. Both are paths of pain.
I take the left.
I don’t know how far I travel—what is distance to me? I am a night’s walk from my den, a single leap from my next meal—but I am growing weary when the trap closes on my leg.
Sharp teeth and iron, it burns as it cuts. A howl escapes my throat, and I am thrown out of myself.
I see Mr. L standing over the strapped body of a girl. I can’t see his hands. But I can feel them.
He looks up as I howl again, his face caught between pleasure and pain. I tumble through the thick walls and out into the cool night sky, into the dark forest, into my fur body.
I tear at my ankle with teeth made for the task. Seconds later, I leave my forepaw in the trap and limp back down the path.
It is days later. Weeks. Nighttime. Moon shining in my tiny window. They couldn’t keep me tied down forever. The law doesn’t allow it.
I am crouched in the corner of my room, ruined tube of toothpaste in my hands. I have figured out how to tear it, unwind it, form it into a razor edge. I hold it over my arm, scars glowing white in the moonlight, blue vein pulsing, showing me where to cut.
But I don’t. Don’t cut.
Instead I let the pain rise within me. I know one quick slash can end the pain. Can bring relief. But I don’t move. I let the pain come and I embrace it, feel it wash over me, through me. I let it come—and then, I go away.
I am in the forest. But I am not four-footed. I am not thick-furred. I have no hope of tasting blood now or smelling the sweet scent of terrified prey.
I am me: scrawny and battered, short tufts of ragged red hair sprouting from my too-large head. Green eyes big. A gap between my top front teeth wide enough to escape through.
I stand in the middle of the road. No forks tonight, it runs straight and true like the surgeon’s knife. Behind me, tall trees loom. I take two tentative steps and realize I am naked. Embarrassed, I glance around. I am alone.
Before long I see a white clapboard cottage ahead of me. Smoke trails from a redbrick chimney. Gray paving stones lead up to the front door. I recognize the house. It is more threatening than the dark forest with its tall trees. Grandma lives here.
I turn to run, but behind me I hear howling—long, low, and mournful. I know the sound—wolves. Hunting wolves. I must hurry inside.
The door pulls open silently. The first room is unlit as I step inside. I pull the door closed behind me. Call into the darkness, “Grandma?”
“Is that you, Red?” Her voice is lower than I remember.
“Yes, Grandma.” My voice shakes. My hands shake.
“Come into the bedroom. I can’t hear you from here.”
“I don’t know the way, Grandma.”
I hear her take a deep breath, thick with smoke, rattling with disease. “Follow my voice. You’ll remember how.”
And suddenly, I do remember. Three steps forward, nine steps left. Reach out with your right hand and push through the thin door.
“I am here, Grandma.”
Outside, there are disappointed yips as the wolves reach the front door and the end of my trail.
“Come closer, Red. I can’t see you from here.”
“Yes, Grandma.” I step in
to blackness and there she is, lying in the bed. She is bigger than I remember, or maybe I am smaller. The quilt puffs around her strangely, as if she has muscles in new places. A bit of drool dangles from her bottom lip.
I look down at my empty hands. My nakedness. “I haven’t brought you anything, Grandma.”
She smiles, showing bright, pointed teeth. “You have brought yourself, Red. Come closer, I can’t touch you from here.”
“Yes, Grandma.” I take one step forward and stop.
The wolf pack snuffles around the outside of the house, searching for a way in.
Grandma sits up. Her skin hangs loosely on her, like a housedress a size too large. Tufts of fur poke out of her ears, rim her eyes.
“No, Grandma. You’ll hurt me.”
She shakes her head, and her face waggles loosely from side to side. “I never hurt you, Red.” She scrubs at her eye with a hairy knuckle, then scoots forward, crouching on the bed, poised to spring. Her haunches are thick and powerful. “Sometimes the wolf wears my skin. It is he who hurts you.” Her nose is long now.
“No, Grandma.” I stare into her dark green eyes. “No, Grandma. It’s you.”
She leaps then, her Grandma skin sloughing off as she flies for my throat. I turn and run, run through the thin door, run nine steps right and three steps back, push open the front door, hear her teeth snap behind me, severing tendons, bringing me down. I fall, collapsing onto the paving stones.
Howling and growling, a hundred wolves stream over and around me. Their padded feet are light on my body. They smell musty and wild. They take down Grandma in an instant, and I can hear her screams and the snapping of her brittle old bones.
I think I will die next, bleeding into the gray stone. But leathery skin grows over my ankle wound, thick gray fur. My nose grows cold and long and I smell Grandma’s blood. Howling my rage and hunger, I leap to my four clawed feet. Soon, I am feasting on fresh meat with my brothers and sisters.
I wake, not surprised to be tied down again. Seven points this time, maybe more; I can’t even move my head.
“Jesus, Red, you killed him this time.” It is Alby, drifting into view above me.
“Go away, Alby. You aren’t even real.”
She nods without speaking and fades away. I go to sleep. I don’t dream.
Next morning, they let me sit up. I ask for my journal. They don’t want to give me a pen.
“You could hurt yourself,” they say. “Cut yourself.”
They don’t understand.
“Then why don’t you write down what I say,” I tell them.
They laugh and leave me alone. Once again tied down. But I know what I want to write. It’s all in my head.
GRANDMOTHER
What big ears you have,
What big teeth,
Big as scissors,
To cut out my heart
Pins and needles,
Needles and pins,
Where one life ends,
Another begins.
JANE YOLEN, often called “the Hans Christian Andersen of America,” is the author of almost three hundred books, including Owl Moon, The Devil’s Arithmetic, and How Do Dinosaurs Say Goodnight? Her work ranges from rhymed picture books and baby board books; through middle-grade fiction, poetry collections, and nonfiction; and up to novels and story collections for young adults and adults. Her son, ADAM STEMPLE, is a musician as well as a writer; he currently plays with the Tim Malloys and has a solo album, 3 Solid Blows to the Head. His novels are Singer of Souls and its sequel, Steward of Song.
Jane and Adam have collaborated on two “rock ’n’ troll” novels—Pay the Piper and Troll Bridge.
Jane Yolen divides her time between western Massachusetts and Scotland; her Web site is www.janeyolen.com. Adam Stemple lives with his family in Minneapolis; his Web site is www.adamstemple.com.
AUTHORS’ NOTE
Adam wrote the really dark poem about cutting and sent it to Jane. Jane took it and wrote the next few prose lines that follow it, then sent it back to him, asking if he wanted to write a story. Now that part’s in the middle, but it was our starting point. No pun intended. We had no idea where the story was going or why, but it kept getting darker and darker. It took us to a place where neither one of us really wanted to go, which is sometimes the best way to write.
Laurel Winter
THE MYTH OF FENIX
THE BEGINNING, IN 10 EASY STEPS
1. So this boy, he heard about this great bird that got old and sick and tired of life and it set itself on fire and got reborn. That sounded good except why wait until you’re old and sick, he thought, so he got ready and kept his eyes open for a good fire and when he found one he jumped in.
2. Except he didn’t really jump in.
3. When they went through the ashes of the fire, they found a burned backpack and fragments of teeth. Dental records said it was this boy and no one cried except the foster mother who missed the money until she got a new boy.
4. It hurts to break out your own teeth.
5. So this boy, this Fenix, set off without a backpack to find his fortune. He stopped at the library to steal a book about the fenix only he found out that it was spelled different like p-h-o-e-n-i-x which was really stupid so he decided the name burned with him and was reborn clean and new. He didn’t steal that book after all.
6. It’s easy to get an infection in your mouth.
7. When he was getting more shivery and dizzy, Fenix went to this free clinic that didn’t report to the socials. They asked his name and he said Fenix and they wrote Phoenix and he made them change it to Fenix because that was the fire-burned name and then they wanted a last name and he said Greenstick because that’s the word that came out of his mouth. The medicine tasted like shit. They made him some new teeth out of plastic and they asked what color he wanted them and he said glow-in-the-dark green and they said are you sure and he said yes and paint the teeth that are left that color too.
8. Or at least that’s what they said he’d said when he woke up with no shivers and glow-in-the-dark teeth.
9. Fenix Greenstick had never lived anywhere he liked so he went to find someplace good. He learned to sleep with his hand over his mouth.
10. Sometimes his hand forgot.
THE MIDDLE, A TO F-FOR-FENIX, WITH A DREAM IN THERE SOMEWHERE
A.
Fenix Greenstick woke up when the woman with shining eyes lifted him in her arms. She said everything is going to be okay. He said you put me down right effing now and she laughed and said you’ve been lost a long time you don’t remember but I’m taking you home.
B.
She was taller than any woman had ever been and strong strong strong enough that he could tell struggling would be useless but he did it anyway because after all every struggle in his whole damn life had been useless at the start but some of them paid off sometimes somehow anyway and he could never tell which ones were which. He howled and kicked like a baby but the woman just carried him away and said it will be all right it will be okay it’s okay to be scared but you’ll see soon enough.
C.
There wasn’t much moon that night but between her eyes shining and his teeth glowing as he howled and yelled they got by just fine and covered a lot of distance in some impossible directions.
D.
Pretty soon he looked up at the sky and saw three small moons shining. One was red and two were yellow and none of them were as round as the moon he was used to. He said holy shit where are we and the woman said almost home now but not quite so you can sleep if you want to.
E.
Even though he didn’t want to Fenix Greenstick fell asleep under three moons. His hand was tired from flailing about so it didn’t even pretend it was going to cover his mouth but somehow that was okay.
THE DREAM
He dreamed that the woman was his mother even though he remembered his mother from before she died. She was short and not quite fat and her eyes didn’t shine at all and she had needle t
racks up arms that didn’t pick him up even when he was three years old so there was no way this tall woman could be his mother but this was a dream and dreams have their own rules which is a good thing.
F.
Or maybe the good thing is that the world has its own rules. Remember though that this was a different world.
THE BEGINNING OF THE END
In the beginning there was a boy and in the middle there was a different boy, although he was still really the same, except for his teeth and his name and his location, which kept changing in the most peculiar way. And in the beginning of the endthere was a boy asleep under three moons asleep in strong arms a boy carried to a place he would have wanted to be if he could have ever imagined it.
THE BEGINNING—AGAIN—BECAUSE IT MAKES MORE SENSE TO CALL IT THAT
They thought he was one of them, because of what he had made himself, because of who he had been reborn into, because he’d heard of that great bird.
Because they thought he was one of them, he became one of them, even though the atmosphere of their planet made him wheeze a little and he never did grow as tall or strong as the other children who had accidentally wandered into his world and been brought back home, children with shining teeth or eyes or hair or fingers. He was tall enough, strong enough. And happy.
Not for ever after, but for his portion of it.
That’s good enough.
LAUREL WINTER is the author of the novel Growing Wings, which was a finalist for the Mythopoeic Award; her novella “Sky Eyes” won the World Fantasy Award. She has won two Asimov’s Reader’s Poll Awards and two Rhysling Awards for her poetry.
Firebirds Soaring Page 35