Goldeline

by Jimmy Cajoleas

  I watch that knife, how it calls to me, how I got to revenge Momma and revenge Gruff, revenge myself. I feel it in my bones, my blood, the readiness that comes from fear. I am quiet and cool, coiled tight, a snake ready to pounce. I just have to wait for the perfect moment. I can wait for hours and hours. For the moon to be covered by clouds and the night to become dark, too dark for anyone to see except creatures like me, like the owls, us hunters in the dark. For Regis to take one too many nips from his flask. For his eyes to droop, for his head to nod, for it to bob like a cork in the water and then sink finally, chin to chest, until I know he is good and asleep.

  I sneak up so soft I could be a death angel’s whisper. I don’t even rustle a leaf, I leave no tracks, I’m the Ghost Girl of the Woods, the demon-possessed, the one they’ve all heard stories about.

  I snatch the knife from off the rock. It’s heavy in my hand. The power of it is wonderful, to carry all this death in my little palm. The fire-glow glints off the blade in daggers of light that slice the night clear. An owl swivels his head around to peek at me, eyes bright as stars. I creep on all fours over to the Preacher. He sleeps on his back, his mouth shut in a slit of a grin. His face is clean-shaven, eyebrows black, with a long scar from his left eye socket down his cheek, like the path of a tear, like it’s his skin that’s been crying.

  I raise the knife over him in both my hands. I say the words in my heart, like a silent prayer. This is for Gruff. This is for the Half-Moon Inn, my dreams burned down to rubble. This is for sending me out to the woods to be a bandit, to steal from good folks. Most of all, this is for my momma.

  But just before I plunge the knife, Bobba’s voice screams inside my head. Just one word, so loud it makes me deaf to everything but itself.

  Remember!

  It stops me cold, the knife over my head, the fire crackling just to my side. The moon uncovers itself and sends a white beam right onto the Preacher’s face so that it glows.

  The Preacher opens his eyes.

  The look on his face, of terror and sadness, his ghost-haunted eyes, a pain so violent I can almost hear it screaming.

  I remember. I do. I remember every single awful bit of it.

  I drop the knife and stumble backward. I crawl my way into the fog. The Preacher jerks awake, jumps to his feet, and trips over again.

  “Wake up!” he says. “She’s here! Up, you fools! The girl is here!”

  But I’m running already. Tree branches swing at me like hooks, roots rise up to trip me. Mosquitoes buzz in my ears and all the lightning bugs shut off their lights. It’s like the whole forest is against me, like I’ve stumbled into a place gone spoiled by wickedness. I have to get back to the tree. I have to warn Tommy. I have to wake him and get him out of here. He can’t die because of me. I won’t let him. The fog hides my feet, it’s like wading in a ghostly river, dead fish nipping at my toes. I was a fool to try and kill the Preacher, to lift the knife to him. Because that wasn’t my mission, that wasn’t the reason I was woken up and sent into the night, I know that now, I knew it the moment I looked into his eyes and saw what I saw. My mission wasn’t to kill the Preacher. It was to remember.

  I climb the tree and clap my hand over Tommy’s mouth. He wakes with a start and we both almost topple out. But I hold him tight, I hold us both up there together. I hold my finger to my lips and whisper, “He’s out there.” The Preacher and his men crashing around, breaking branches, scaring all the sleeping creatures awake.

  The clouds slide over the moon again, giving us back the dark. I grab my pack, and Tommy and me slip down the tree and take off in the quietest run we can. The fog is still thick, we bump into trees, branches claw at our faces, we trip and stumble. Behind us are the torches of the Preacher’s men glowing like eyes off in the night. The Preacher screaming for his men to run, to find us.

  We hit on a path. It’s small but mostly clear, without tree limbs reaching out to block us. We can move quicker here, and I let Tommy’s hand go. We run together in a full-on sprint, away from the voices, away from the Preacher and his death. Their lights get smaller and smaller with every glance backward.

  “We’re gonna make it,” I say, my voice gravelly, panting, out of breath. I look back at him and smile. “We’re gonna get away.”

  That’s when Tommy trips.

  It must have been a root, something my foot didn’t catch. His feet leave the ground and he lifts up like he’s a bird taking off into the air. But Tommy doesn’t rise. He falls hard, his face smacking the dirt, tumbling off the path, down a hill it’s too dark to see the bottom of, into some kind of ditch where he vanishes into the fog. I hear a snapping sound and the long wailing howl of pain.

  I could keep running. If I hustle, if I don’t stop for anything, I could make it, I could get away. But Tommy’s my best friend, I know that now, the only true friend I’ve ever had. Whatever happens, I love Tommy. I love him and I can’t leave him here. I take a deep breath and dive right into the fog after him.

  I slide on my knees down a hill, into some sort of a gully. I follow his moaning, groping with my hands until I find Tommy. I clap my hand over his mouth, his tears sliding hot over my fingers, and hold him as tight as I can.

  “I’m sorry, Tommy,” I tell him. “I’m so, so sorry. Shhhh. I shouldn’t have let go of your hand. Shhhh. I’m so sorry. We have to be quiet now. We have to be quiet.”

  He shakes with pain. I feel the stickiness of blood down by my feet. Tommy lets out a whimper and goes slack in my arms, like he’s dead. But I can still feel his breath on my hand. He’s not dead, he’s not. I start to let my hand off his mouth, to go down to his leg and see if I can bind up whatever is cut, whatever is hurt, whatever is broken on him, when I hear the sound of footsteps on the path, not five feet away from us, the whisper of voices.

  I hold Tommy close and burrow silently down into the leaves and pray the fog covers us like a blanket. I shut my eyes so no light catches them. I refuse to breathe, to think. I will my heart to stop beating, scared the Preacher will hear even that.

  His footsteps are so close. I can feel the heat from his torch, hear it flicker and pop.

  “Come on out, little one,” he says. “You’ve been running from me for so long. You don’t have to run anymore.”

  I can feel his eyes on me. I can hear his tired breathing. He is so close now I could reach out and touch him, I just know it. But I do not dare open my eyes. I do not dare so much as turn my head toward him. He would know it. The wickedness in him would know I was there.

  “Come to me, little one. Do not be afraid. You know me now, don’t you? You know who I am again. I saw it in your eyes. This day has been long coming, since well before your mother died and you ran from me. The Lord has been preparing us for this day. I couldn’t take you before, but you know now, and it is time. These past seven years He has raised you and me up for this very purpose. It will be decided. Surrender yourself.”

  He is so close now I can feel his breath on my cheek. I want to go. I want to stand up and give myself in.

  I could leave Tommy hidden. I could ransom myself for him, get the Preacher off his trail. I could save Tommy easy, just by giving in, by standing up right now, by letting the Preacher have me. It would be so easy.

  But then come other footsteps, loud, hollering voices.

  “You find her, boss?” says a voice. It’s Regis.

  “I wouldn’t have lost her had you been awake.”

  “I’m sorry, Preacher.”

  “You reek of intemperance,” he says. “You stink of dissipation.”

  “I’m awful sorry, Preacher. I just got scared.”

  “Shut your mouth.”

  The other men come running up, tired, panting and out of breath.

  “Look everywhere,” says the Preacher. “They can’t have gotten far.”

  But the spell is broken. The hold he had on me is gone. His voice is magic, like a river current, drawing me always to him. No wonder he hoodwinked all the Townies. The Pre
acher almost had me too. He almost got me to give in.

  The Preacher and his men head along down the path, searching for us. When they’re gone I drag Tommy out of the fog and into the tiniest sliver of moonlight. I just want to see his leg, what’s happened to it. His foot is twisted, the ankle snapped. His pants cuff is covered in blood. I lift it just a little and see bone jutting through his skin like teeth.

  I tear the hem off his momma’s dress and tie it tight around his foot. I have to get him to a doctor. I have to get him to someone who can help.

  In the long distance I see torches. It’s too dangerous to move now. I only pray Tommy can make it through the night.

  I pull him back down into the ditch, careful not to hurt his ankle any more. I’m thankful he stays passed out. I cover him with leaves until I can’t hardly even see his face. Then I burrow myself down in there with him, as hidden as we possibly can be.

  I’m afraid. Because I know why the Preacher hates me, why he hated my momma so bad he had to kill her. I know why he came back for us. I know what Bobba drugged me for, what she wanted so bad for me to remember. What Momma tried so hard to make me always forget.

  See, I remembered. I remember everything.

  SIXTEEN

  That night at the window, the strange man in all black, the wild white hair, his back to me. I see it all now. The memory loops itself in my head like a bad path that doubles back and leaves you in a circle. I see it brighter and clearer every time.

  I’m at the window of Momma’s house and I’m five or four years old and I’m peeking in like I’m not supposed to, it isn’t time yet. There he is, the stranger, the man in black clothes with the white hair. But this time I can hear him. This time I know him, just from the music of his voice. It’s the Preacher.

  He isn’t saying awful stuff to Momma though. He isn’t spitting at her or screaming at her either like he did when he took her away.

  “I love you,” he says. “I love you with all my heart and guts, with my mind and bones. The blood in me loves you.”

  The Preacher falls to his knees. His body slumps, his coat drags in the dust, his eyes are soft and blue. He takes her hand and rubs it on his cheek. He kisses her fingers.

  “Please love me,” he says. “If it be my undoing, please love me. If it be my ruin, please love me. If I lose my seat at the Banquet at the World’s End when the sky has turned to fire and the earth closed in on itself, if I’m condemned forever in the Great Reckoning, cast into the darkness always, please love me.”

  On his knees in Momma’s tiny little cabin, the Preacher weeps. Big animal tears, sobs like hacking coughs.

  He kisses the hem of her dress, wipes his tears on it. He clutches at her feet and buries his face in them. He kisses them. He calls her his beautiful, his precious, his only.

  “No one has to know who you are, what you’ve been,” says the Preacher. “We can start all over.”

  Momma’s eyes flash, and a sad smile crawls over her face.

  Momma steps back away from the Preacher. He’s on the ground now, flat on his face. Momma’s got her fake-angry voice on, like when she used to play games, like when she used to tease me. She crouches down and her white dress covers her like angels’ wings. She lifts his face with her finger and looks him in the eyes.

  “What kind of man of God are you, Cyrus? To be out here in the middle of the night, proposing to someone like me?”

  “We could leave here together,” he says. “Take Goldeline with us. We could have us a good life, where no one knew us. We could start over. It could be the three of us. A family.”

  A family, he said.

  I remembered the Preacher coming now. Mr. Cyrus was what I was supposed to call him, Mr. Cyrus Cantor. How he sat me on his lap and read me storybooks. That’s how I know the Book so well. He used to bring it home from the reliquary and read it to me himself. All the best stories, about the strong man and the sad wife, the flooding and the endless night, the idol and the dragon, the she-bears and the bald man. He played with me. He was like my daddy. Before Gruff, before anybody. He would come at night when no one knew. Mr. Cyrus was good to me.

  “I can’t, Cyrus. I’m a witch, and you know it,” she said. “We aren’t bound to anyone except our own kind. More than that, I don’t want to get married. I don’t want to be anybody’s wife.”

  “But how could you want things to be wrong?” he says. “I can’t be with you any other way except married. That’s the only way you and me can be good. That’s the only way it’ll be right. Don’t you understand?”

  “I think I’m starting to, Cyrus,” she says, “and I don’t like it.”

  “If it’s the only good thing you ever do,” he says, “please marry me. Be my wife. Make things right, with me and with yourself and with God. Let’s start a life together, a daylight life, one out in the open for anyone to see.”

  My momma, face flushed red, gold-flecked fire in her eyes, hair soft white billowing out about her like some crazy wind rushed through the house, so beautiful I almost have to shut my eyes against it. Momma looks the Preacher dead in the eyes.

  “You’re a good man, Cyrus. You’ve been so good to me, and to Goldeline. But you can’t go marrying me. Not with you being a preacher, not with me being what I am. You put a chain on me and I’d turn to ash in your hands. I’d rather be dead than married. It’s just the truth. I’m a witch, Cyrus, and I don’t belong to anyone except myself.”

  “But you’re not like other witches I’ve heard about,” he says. “All the stories of evil and wickedness folks tell. You help people. You heal them, you don’t curse them.”

  Momma hooks an eyebrow at Mr. Cyrus, and a look comes over her that I’ve never seen before. Something dark and mysterious in her eyes, and for a moment she doesn’t look at all like the Momma I know.

  “Are you sure I haven’t cursed anybody, Cyrus?” she says. “Maybe I never hurt anyone in Templeton, but what about long ago, before I got here? How do you know I haven’t sent rot over a neighbor’s cornfield just because he was mean to me, or made some old lecher’s face blister with boils? How do you know I haven’t cursed a liar mute, or turned a cruel man’s cup of wine to blood? You have no idea what I’ve done, Cyrus. You don’t know where I’ve been, what I had to do to survive. You don’t know what I’ve done just for the sheer pleasure of it.”

  Mr. Cyrus puts his face in his hands and cries. I never seen a grown person cry like that, shake and moan. I can’t help but feel bad for him, how he has to love Momma in his own way, how he can’t love her in her way. It’s no good to make Momma marry. Even I know that. She’s not that kind, never could be, never would want to be. But I never heard of Momma cursing anyone before. Her magic was always good. I never knew she could do a thing like that.

  “You don’t know what it’s like,” he says. “You don’t know what it feels like to ache and burn like this, to want something so bad it kills you.”

  “You think I don’t know what it’s like to want things?” says Momma. “You think I don’t want a better life for my girl than this? Out here in the woods, away from everything, barely eating every week?”

  “Then come with me,” says Mr. Cyrus. He’s on his knees, pleading. “Marry me. Be with me forever.”

  “I can’t do that, Cyrus. You know that.”

  “But I need you,” he says. “And Goldeline needs a father.” Mr. Cyrus looks at Momma, his eyes flinting in the firelight. “I’ve seen her, you know. I’ve seen what happens when Goldeline sings that song you taught her, the way it speaks pictures into my mind. I’ve seen her conjure, even if she didn’t know she was doing it. I’ve seen her call a wind to snuff out candles while she’s sleeping. I’ve seen a doe kneel down to her in the woods while she let her pet it. I know Goldeline’s every bit the witch you are, and I can prove it.”

  “What are you saying, Cyrus?”

  “I’m saying folks will be mighty interested to know what kind of daughter you’re raising. What kind of danger you
’re putting their kids in, letting her hang around them. I’ll tell them everything. Unless you marry me. Unless you come and live with me in town, be my wife.”

  Momma’s mad now. I can see a fire start in her, right down at her toes, and rise slowly up. She balls her fists, all her power and pride and anger sliding up into her face, sparking her eyes.

  “No, Cyrus,” she says. “My answer is no. Get out of my house, and don’t you dare ever come back.”

  The Preacher screams something awful. He pounds his fists on our floor, the veins bright purple on his face, bulging. He screams again. Momma puts her hand to her cheek, like she’s scared, like she knows maybe she went too far this time.

  “Cyrus?” she says.

  She reaches out and lightly touches his head.

  The Preacher slaps her hand away. He crawls toward her and grabs her dress. Momma tries to run but he yanks her down. She claws at Mr. Cyrus’s eye, her fingernails ripping a gash down his cheek.

  It’s like something breaks inside of me, like whatever ghost had clapped its hand over my mouth is gone.

  I scream, loud and hard as I can. I scream with every bit of strength I got.

  The Preacher turns to the window, eyes red-lined, face fierce and ugly as a demon.

  When he sees me his scowl softens, his eyes go blue again, they stare straight into me, a look of awful sadness I’ll never forget, the very same look that brought these memories back to me again. Great big tears stream down his cheeks. He looks down at his hands and moans, a horrible leg-broke-dog howl.

  “Goldeline?” says Momma, her voice gone ragged.

  I’m scared the Preacher’s coming for me, but he doesn’t. He runs to his horse and he climbs onto it and he rides away from us, away from Templeton, into the woods. And we wouldn’t see him again for years and years, and even then I wouldn’t remember.