Winterfolk

by Janel Kolby

  I yawn only because I’d be napping by now, and I’m running out of countries I know, and I’m so tired there’s no use wanting anything more. “Is this a passage to the Underground?”

  “If it is, I don’t know it.”

  Then King looks over his shoulder, but not at me. I look behind, too, but don’t see anything. King walks fast ahead. His hands fidget like they can’t find anyplace to rest. In and out of his pockets, pulling at his cuffs, fingers wide and tense. He winds down a twisted, narrow hall, and he’s faster.

  I run halfway to get to him, stepping into something wet and sticky through my stockings. I cough not to gag.

  He takes my hand, and we walk quick down some stairs that want to trip me, especially if I look straight down and don’t see the one ahead. He opens the door to a stairwell, and we climb down some more. This time I do trip, but he catches me in time and we keep going.

  I try to control my breath. “Are we running?”

  “We might be.”

  My stockings keep sticking to the cement. Might be time to put on my boots, but King has them. I don’t like having sticky feet, and I don’t like having to run when I’m not running to anything. Had to run once with Dad, when someone thought I wasn’t his—even when I screamed as loud as I could that I was.

  I can scream loud when I want to.

  “How did he find us?” I ask.

  “I don’t know.” King pulls me around a corner, and I hold his hand extra tight while he looks around the wall at the stairs. He drops my boots and puts that hand in his pocket where his blade is. The wall’s hard against the back of my head, and I knock my head on it a couple times to stop thinking.

  “Please don’t,” I say.

  I wish we were back in the laundry eating a MoonPie with my boots on my feet and King eating an apple with his blade.

  “Your boots,” he says.

  I step in one to put it on.

  “No.” He bends down quick and grabs the other. He hurls it. But nothing happens. He scoops the other off my foot, but doesn’t throw it. He takes my hand again, and I don’t have time to look behind me at what he did. He opens the door, and I blink at the sun on the street. We run across, and down another, and the ocean’s coming at me and getting bigger down the wooden pier. Cold and dark. My book clings to me.

  Down the pier is the edge of land and water.

  I look behind. I do and I see.

  Cook.

  Not hurt at all. Not one bit. Not that I can see.

  The sun sparks off something shiny in his hand. A knife.

  We keep running. Down a gray wooden dock like the one in my book. To the edge. Why are we running to the edge?

  I tug my hand from King, but he holds on tight and pulls, and I’ve gotta keep up not to fall. The sound of good shoes thumps the wood behind us. A sliver of wood slices my foot, and I don’t want to look. At the edge.

  At the edge.

  I close my eyes.

  King lets go of my hand. His hand goes to my pouch. But I hold it closed.

  Someone pushes me.

  I fall.

  The cold, the wet, explodes, then:

  Hushes

  And takes my book of tales.

  I open my eyes and the book floats up—the mermaid cover. I’ve read that book a zillion times and seen her swim. I take off my cap, and my hair swirls around me. I know this place. I’ve been here before. From the past. Or in one of my dreams.

  I seal my legs together and dive down. I can swim. I can. I try to breathe beneath the water and harden myself to the freeze.

  Bubbles squeeze from my mouth, and my chest presses in. I’m near the bottom. There is a bottom. Mom? Is she down here? No. But one of her rocks is.

  I can’t breathe.

  I grab for the rock. But its wish is so big it would take three people to lift.

  Did you fall from the sky?

  Were you a star?

  More bubbles from my mouth. Bigger ones.

  I can’t.

  I can’t breathe.

  The water’s hands are all around me—at my throat, lungs.

  I’m not a mermaid.

  I can’t swim.

  I look up. A shadow. A person. Swims toward me.

  I’m in King’s Underground, and there’s no more light.

  10

  KING? IT’S TOO DARK. You said we could see the stars through the grate, but I can’t. The stars smell salty. I taste them on my lips. I remember now. I kissed them to sleep, and they kissed back.

  Whispers in the dark. Whispers.

  And a pinpoint of light.

  The wind whispers across the water, and the light gets bigger—a glow larger than a flame, and larger than a grate.

  Someone sets me down on a dry surface. Beneath my fingers, my palms. Splintered wood.

  “Do you remember?” someone says. “Do you remember?”

  My head throbs, and I don’t want to remember. The light hurts my eyes, and I squeeze them shut. I’m too cold. Can’t move my arms. Can’t move my legs. A choke of air escapes me.

  Something is wrong.

  That string on the tent must’ve come undone and torn down the middle. Tears have rained down on me. A whole ocean of tears. My clothes are heavy with trouble pressing me down. Always pressing. A blanket covers me, but it’s not my blanket, not Dad’s.

  “I saved her.”

  Daddy didn’t save her.

  “I saved her.”

  Not King.

  “You did an okay job, squirt. Holding her leg. I was on pure automatic, man.”

  A deep voice. “You’re both heroic.”

  “I did more than hold her leg. I saved her book, see?”

  “You mean what’s left of it.”

  “It’s important. It’s a library book. Do you think they’ll make her pay for the damage?”

  Deep voice. “I’m sure something can be worked out. After all, it’s not her fault.”

  “Maybe when it dries it will be like new again. She looks like the mermaid on this cover. Do you think she is?”

  A mermaid.

  “Let me see the book.”

  “No! I’m giving it to her. I saved it.”

  “I just want to see it.”

  Deep voice again. “She’s opening her eyes.”

  Three heads—one big, one medium, one small—the three bears.

  “What’s your name?” says the baby bear.

  I try to lift my head, but it wonks back down.

  Papa Bear wears a cap. “Easy there. You’ve had a bit of an accident. Just rest a minute before trying to move.”

  Mama Bear’s not a mama. She’s a boy about my age with blond hair. Not Cook. And he’s wrapped in a brown blanket. He pushes his head in. “I saved you.”

  Baby Bear smiles shy. Also in a brown blanket. “Are you a mermaid?”

  I wiggle my toes.

  Am I?

  The older boy pokes him with his elbow. “Of course she’s not.”

  The small one holds out my book. “Look what I saved for you. Do you want it?”

  I can’t help but grab it and hold it to me.

  “See?” gloats the little one. “I told you she’d want it.”

  “Miss?” says Papa. Papa in dark blue.

  I blink the water from my eyes. He’s police.

  I scramble back, the blanket falls from me, and he grabs my upper arm. I freeze solid while the edges of me drip. Around me are more and more people.

  People can see me.

  I’m not a mermaid, and I’m not a ghost. I’m a hamster. I’m one of Hamlet’s hamsters, and they want me to dance.

  I hold to my pouch. Look around for King.

  “Hey, careful, careful,” Police says. “You’re in shock, I know, but no one’s going to hurt you. You’re safe. He’s gone.”

  Gone.

  I search around me. King?

  “Move back, boys,” says a woman’s face. If I touched her cheeks, they’d be soft.

  The older
boy rolls his eyes. “Mom, I’ve trained for this.”

  The woman smiles a close-lipped smile at me, careful not to bare teeth.

  Police puts the blanket back over me—more scratchy than the one in my tent. Must be new and never been washed. I need to get my laundry. Go get my laundry and go home. I need to get my laundry.

  Police looks in my eyes but not like King does in his smooth way when he wants answers. Police digs. “Do you know him? We’re looking right now, and got a good description from these two.”

  The older boy throws off his blanket and scoots forward. “He was black or Indian or whatever, had a black velvet blazer and a skullcap with a cross on it. He pushed you in the water and then ran off.”

  King pushed.

  Police clears his throat and signals the older boy to move back, which he does. “Yes, very helpful. Do you know him?”

  King pushed me.

  “Okay, that’s fine. That’s fine. I’m sure we’ll find him. Don’t worry. Can you tell me your name?”

  Sirens blare in the background. Behind the crowd is Police’s car with red-and-blue flashing power lights. Do they know about the baggie? I grab the front of my pouch, which crinkles.

  “Your name?” he asks again.

  The little one inches up with his blanket and puts his hand on his chest. “My name is Doryn.” He holds his hand to me. “Your name is . . .”

  “Doryn,” I repeat.

  “No,” he says with patience. “Doryn is my name. Your name is . . .”

  “She’s in shock,” the older one says. “Lifeguard training.”

  “I thought she might not speak English.”

  The older one purses his lips and squints at me. “Me llamo Carter. ¿Cómo te llamas?” He looks back at Doryn. “See? Nada. She’s in shock.”

  “We need to get ahold of her parents,” Police says. “Did you say that’s a library book?”

  Doryn nods. “The stamp says Beacon Hill.”

  “Then she’s probably not a tourist. She’s local. The library should have a record of who she is along with an address. You stay here with her. I’ll go make a call.”

  The moment he lets go of my arm, I’m up and running through the biggest gaps. Tips of fingers try to grasp, but that’s all they are. Tips because I’m so fast, and I try to remember how to be a ghost again.

  “Wait!” Police calls with his black shoes running after me.

  “Mermaid!” shouts Doryn.

  King pushed me.

  Run. Keep running. Doesn’t matter where. My body will take me. My wet stockinged feet slap the cement and leave a trail. I run on my toes to make the marks as small as a cat’s. I’ve got to take my stockings off to not leave a trail, but I don’t have time. I’ve got to run. I can’t hear anything but my feet. I can’t see anything but the spaces in front of me. My side cramps, and I use my book to hold it in and keep running.

  Drum music. Tinny radio drums.

  I look up. Red-ribboned ankles atop a big blue V.

  My feet led me here, and now they’re on fire and my legs are going to melt. I can feel it. They’re gonna. They’re starting. I stumble to the blanket mound still against the wall—and sink. My legs burn and melt, and I hide behind the mound to watch for Police. Try to keep still.

  I curl in a ball and shrink closer to the mound. I stick my toes beneath the blanket. Scoot in half a foot. A whole foot.

  The blanket lifts. And covers me.

  11

  “YOU’RE DELICIOUSLY WET.”

  This is not a girl. A boy with a fairy tale face and white mohawk hair.

  “Don’t worry, I’m not a perv,” he says.

  “A what?”

  “I won’t molest you. I just want to . . .” He scoots closer. He’s slightly bigger than me, but just as thin.

  I grip the blanket, ready to escape if I need to.

  He lowers his long-lashed eyes and bows his head. He rests his brow on my wet shoulder. “Ah, that feels good. It’s so hot in here. Calm down. You’re making me queasy.” He turns his head to get at his cheek.

  I glance at his red-white-blue plaid. “Are you wearing a skirt?”

  “It’s a kilt. Why are you so wet?”

  Then I remember. “The trail.”

  He hums prettily.

  “I think I left a wet trail from my feet. Someone’s chasing. Police.”

  He pops up from my shoulder and peers out the blanket. “I don’t see anything.”

  “No trail?”

  “No.”

  I feel the sore bottoms of my feet. The tops are wet, but the bottoms are dry from all my running. My finger bumps against a splinter. “Ow.” I prop up my foot to get a better look and manage to pull it out.

  “Oh.” He shuts the blanket back up. “Cop car.”

  I hug in my knees.

  “Chill. They won’t see us. What did you do? Steal pennies from a fountain? Don’t think I haven’t thought of it.”

  I start counting to thirty in my head to relax. The hot air stifles. I drape my wet sleeve on my face and the coolness releases me.

  “I could use some of that quenching,” he says, “if you want to stay under here.”

  I hand him my wet hair, and he holds it to his face.

  My cap. I don’t have my cap to hide my hair. Oh, well. Something tells me even a cap couldn’t hide who I am.

  “You smell like the ocean.” He runs my hair over his rosy, chapped lips. “It is the ocean.”

  My cap must be in the ocean. Where King pushed me. “I fell.”

  “You’re sure? You don’t sound sure. Where’s your fine friend?”

  My hair slips from his fingers as I turn to him. “You saw us? From before? You watched us the whole time, didn’t you? And you stole my boots.” Rubber bands hold the toes of his shoes together, but it’s no excuse.

  “You abandoned the poor things.” He takes my hair again and squeezes water to his palm. Cautious. “Where are your boots? They looked too big for you.”

  “If you’re so hot, why do you stay under here?”

  He pats the water on his neck. “I was trying to sleep. Day’s the only time to do it, you know, and I can’t sleep when people can watch me. Not that they would. But they could. There’s always the occasional jerk.”

  “Why can you only sleep in the day?”

  His green eyes sparkle like my soon-to-be cat’s. “You don’t know? Where do you live?”

  I swallow. “That’s a personally question.”

  “A personally question.” He tickles his chin with the ends of my hair. “Personally, I live here. Now you.”

  “Personally. I, uh . . .”

  “Do you live with your friend? What are you—thirteen, fourteen?”

  “Fifteen.”

  He raises a doubting eyebrow. “And you live with him?”

  “Not all the way together.”

  He crooks his head. “But, near each other.”

  I swallow again.

  “Sweet Mary, you live in the Jungle!”

  I grab my hair from him and try to laugh. “I do not.”

  His eyes weigh me. “You do. I know your friend. Well, I don’t know him, but I know of him, and one of the things I know is he lives in the Jungle. He is the Jungle. No one in their queerest of minds would live there unless you have protection. That, or you have one boner of a death wish.” He chews at his chapped bottom lip. “Where is he? Will he come here looking for you?”

  I hug my book and bite at my longest fingernail, which has turned to a salty fish scale. “I dunno. We were supposed to meet . . . somewhere if anything bad happened, but I can’t go there anymore. Not yet. And I dunno if he still wants me.”

  He raises both eyebrows. “Wants you?”

  “Never mind. I need to get home. I need to get my laundry and go home. Can you show me how to get back there?”

  “Hell, no. I want to live.”

  “No one will care if you’re with me. They know me. My dad will be waiting, and I don’t kno
w what he’ll be thinking. And I don’t know what’s happened to King. He might need help. I need to go.”

  “You live with your dad? He lets you live there?”

  “I . . . we have a nice place. We’ve had it for a long time. It has a rock garden. And we have neighbors.”

  Hamlet.

  “Hamlet can take me back home! He’s at the market. I can get him.” I stick my legs out of the blanket.

  “I thought the police were after you. Or your friend. Or whatever.”

  I tuck my legs back in. “Please help me. I don’t care about the laundry no more. I just need to get home.”

  He chews at his lip again. “What does Hamlet look like?”

  “Grayish. He plays a drum at the market. His hamsters dance.”

  “Oh, that guy. The one who puts a vibrator under the bucket. Creative use, I must say.”

  “A what?”

  He sighs. “Suppose I look for your Hamlet. And you stay here with my blanket. How do I know you won’t take it?”

  “I don’t take stuff.”

  “But I don’t know you. What can you give me to make sure you don’t take my things?”

  “Your things? You mean your blanket?”

  “Yes, my blanket. It’s been with me a long time. What can you give me, and don’t say your book. I don’t want your soggy book.” His eyes move to the gold beaded chain at my neck.

  “How about my name?”

  He leans forward, his face a thumb’s length away. “Your real one.”

  I stare back. The way I’ve seen King do. “Rain.”

  He laughs and takes my hair in his fists. The water trickles to the ground. “Of course. What else could it be?”

  I don’t know if he believes, so I keep staring.

  “All right, Rain. I’ll be back.” Like that he’s disappeared.

  Then he pokes in his head. “I’m Jessiebel.”

  “Jessiebel.”

  He nods. “Jessiebel, the conniving slut.”

  Then he’s really disappeared.

  I suck on my hair at all my never thoughts. Never thought the ocean would be salty as tears. Never thought I couldn’t swim. Never thought King would hurt me.

  Maybe it’s the fish that are doing all the crying, or the mammals that live there—giant whales with giant tears. I pet the mermaid on the cover of my book and turn to the last page, where she’s turned into air. The tears could be hers. Who could wait so long in silence?