by Tahereh Mafi
So when her companions finally returned, death in their arms and good deeds on their minds, Laylee had once again shuttered closed the doors and windows of her heart. She was no longer merely curt, but now edging on cruel, and she did not care whose heart she hurt, so long as it wasn’t hers.
It was Alice who returned first.
She was carrying a small child in her arms—a boy of seven or eight—and she was openly weeping. Forgotten was her innocence, her fear, her childish approach to their solemn business tonight. For it is one thing to behold the dead—and entirely another to hold it. In her arms this child was human, too real, and Alice could not manage her emotions. She was bordering on mild hysteria, and Laylee had no patience for it.
“Wipe your face,” she said. “And be quick about it.”
“How can you be so unmoved?” said Alice, her voice breaking. Her arms were shaking from the weight she could not carry and, very gently, she let the child’s body fall to her feet. “How?” she said again, wiping at her tears. “How can you do this without feeling—”
“It’s not your place to wonder at what I feel.” And Laylee unearthed a small whip (hung from a belt beneath her cloak) and cracked it once through the air.
Alice gasped.
But Laylee did not care. For Alice it was easy to grieve; for Laylee it was nearly impossible. The ghost of the young boy was still very much alive for her, and currently he was prancing about the tub, making crude comments about Alice’s face.
Laylee cracked the whip again and the ghost screamed, disintegrating for just a moment. The damage was never permanent, but the whip worked well enough to keep the more ghoulish in line. Laylee cracked the whip just once more—
“Oh, for Feren’s sake!” cried Alice.
—and soon the boy’s disgruntled spirit was stone-faced and brooding, shooting Laylee dirty looks as he stood by, awaiting his send-off to the Otherwhere.
“Put the body into the tub,” Laylee demanded. “Do it now.”
Alice swallowed hard, too nervous to be contrary. It took a great deal of effort, but she managed to set aside her tears just long enough to lift the child into the water.
The moment the body hit the liquid, the churning waves were put to peace, and the red water went clear once more.
Alice smiled.
Laylee, meanwhile, had begun clearing a section of snow. From under the drift, she unearthed a large metal chest and unlatched the lid, revealing an assortment of ancient tools. Laylee grabbed several hard-bristled brushes, handed two to Alice, and said, “Now scrub off the filth.”
Alice looked up at her, eyes wide with fear. “What do you mean?” she whispered.
Laylee nodded to the water. “It looks clean now,” she said. “But you’ll see what your tears were worth as soon as you’re done with him.”
The scrubbing of six bodies took just under seven hours. Hands red and raw, fingers frozen, noses numbed beyond all sensation: by the end, all three children were nearly dead themselves. One corpse had been so intensely foul that the shadows had not only clung to him, they’d congealed to form a nearly impenetrable skin, and Oliver had to peel back the darkness one excruciating layer at a time. Alice, for her part, had quickly set aside her fears, reaching instead for fortitude, drawing from an inner well of strength so deep even Laylee took notice. These two strangers were extraordinary in their resolve, uncomplaining through the night, and Laylee was finally beginning to realize that these were not ordinary children. She couldn’t help but hope they weren’t there to harm her.
The sun switched shifts with the moon.
Weak morning light filtered through a changing sky, golden violets and dandelion blues offering the first rays of heat to be felt all night. The children’s arms were nearly broken with effort—and legs nearly paralyzed by cold—but the work of the evening was still unfinished. Laylee (who, lest we forget, had washed nine bodies of her own not ten hours prior) could hardly move for fatigue, but she made one final effort. Her cold, clumsy hands unearthed a mess of clothespins, and she offered a few shaking fistfuls to both Alice and Oliver. They three worked wordlessly—moving so slowly they might’ve been wading through warm milk—and hoisted half-sopping, half-frozen bodies onto a hefty clothesline. They pinned hinges to hawser, securing only necks and knees and elbows and the like; once done, dead heads lolled onto stone chests, limp hands flapped against locked wrists, and wet clothes whipped in the brisk morning wind. Six new bodies were strung alongside the nine from the day before, and as the three living children stepped back to admire their work, they fell over sideways and promptly fell asleep in the snow.
Too soon, they were awoken by an eager sun. The golden orb was glittering directly overhead, vibrating warmth with a cheerfulness that seemed remarkably out of place on this brisk afternoon. The snow under the necks and toes of our brave protagonists had melted in gentle waves, each cascade drifting their bodies down a modest slope back toward the castle. Slow, groggy, and drenched to the bone—they blinked open six bleary eyes into the blinding light.
The few birds still in residence had gathered for their daily conference, and Laylee saw them studying her. She groaned and turned away, rubbing her face as she did. They and she seldom spoke to one another, but she knew they pitied her, and this made her resent their airs and upturned beaks, and she could never forgive them for always looking down on her as they flew by. Only once had she climbed a tree tall enough to turn her nose up at them, but she’d only the briefest moment to revel in the glory of dim-witted pride before three doves took turns defecating on her head. Remembering this now, she cast a dark look at the birds, wiped imaginary excrement from her helmet, and—still scowling—dragged herself up out of the melted snow.
Meanwhile, Alice and Oliver remained half mired in the slushy filth, disoriented by sleep and forgetting where they were. They finally managed to help each other up, squelching to their feet and squinting in the noon light. Tired, hungry, and urgently requiring a washing, they looked to Laylee for instructions on how best to proceed. They were hoping she would invite them inside—maybe offer them a bit of breakfast or point them in the direction of a warm bath—
Instead, she said, “Come on then,” with a tired wave of her hand. “We’ve got to ship them off before they get soiled again. The bodies are very vulnerable right now.”
To say that Alice and Oliver were devastated would’ve been a gross understatement of the truth—but there was nothing to be done about their discomfort. Alice had agreed to her task, and Oliver had agreed to help Alice, and the both of them had agreed to assist Laylee. So they nodded, gritted their teeth, and staggered forward, sad and sopping in dripping clothes.
Alice and Oliver helped Laylee unclip her dead from the clothesline. The corpses had frozen solid while they slept—icicles hung from their chins and ears and shirt hems—but they’d been defrosting steadily in the sunlight, which made them a bit easier to maneuver. Once unclipped, the heavy bodies fell to the ground with a series of tremendous thuds, and Alice and Oliver, who stood stock-still and ankle-deep in dead, were ordered to wait as they were—while Laylee hurried off to retrieve the necessary items for the next steps.
She was gone for some time, rummaging around in her moldy shed of death, and in her absence Alice and Oliver had time to reflect on their horrible evening. Alice was trying to be optimistic, but Oliver was not having it. They’d been swathed in sludge up to their frozen knees, their clammy skin hugged by sodden dress; they were starved, exhausted, filthy even behind their eyeballs—and had now been ordered to keep still amidst a pile of half-melted bodies. Oliver simply refused to see the good in it.
“I can’t believe,” he was saying, “that this is what winning the Surrender got you.” He crossed his arms, head shaking. “It’s a bad deal, if you ask me. An awful deal.”
“But—”
“Maybe,” he said, his face brightening, “maybe we
could just go home.”
“Oliver!” Alice gasped. “How can you say such a thing?”
“Oh, just imagine it! Wouldn’t it be lovely to go back?”
“Well you are free to go wherever you like,” said Alice, who was now plucking a leech off her sleeve. “But I’m not going anywhere. I’ve a task to accomplish, and I’ll do it with or without you, Oliver Newbanks, no matter your whining.”
“But don’t you see? It’s a perfect plan,” he said, his eyes aglow. “Your father is a Town Elder now—I’m sure he’d make an exception for you. And you’ll just ask for a redo, that’s all. I’m sure they’ll understand.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. This is already my second go-around. I haven’t any interest in repeating my Surrender again. Besides,” Alice sniffed, “they’ve already made an exception by sending me here; Ferenwood is making a great effort to re-form its ties with other magical lands, and Father says it’s important I do well here so that we might continue in this direction. And anyway, it’s precisely because Father is a Town Elder that I need to be on my best behavior. Things have been so wonderful since he’s come home and I won’t be the one to ruin it for him. No, we’ll just need to make do with what we’ve got and—”
“Make do with what we’ve got?” Oliver cried. “What have we got, Alice? A pile of dead people and the girl who loves them. Goodness, that doesn’t seem like much.”
“Why Oliver Newbanks,” said Alice, raising an eyebrow. “What a strange thing to say.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m just surprised to hear you speak ill of our hostess.” Alice smiled. “I thought you seemed quite taken with her.”
At this, Oliver blushed a furious pink.
He fumbled for at least an eighth of a minute and when he finally spoke he said, “Such—such nonsense, Alice. I haven’t any idea what you’re talking about.”
And at precisely that moment, Laylee came into view.
She was a truly striking girl, even caked in grime, and Oliver Newbanks—who doth protest too much if I do say so myself—could not help but notice. Laylee’s eyes were a sensationally bizarre color, and they caught the light like liquid pewter lit by flame. She’d shucked off her helmet only to tuck it under her arm, and the business of doing so had left her a bit disheveled; stray locks of hair had escaped her carefully wrapped headscarf, and the loose tendrils, tipped in silver, lent a softness to her features that was entirely deceptive. She was feeling far from soft as she dragged along a long, flat cart, her face furrowing from the physical effort required to pull its heavy load. She stopped only a moment to wipe at her perspiring brow and, noticing her unkempt hair, quickly tucked the half-silver strands back underneath her scarf. It was only when Alice and Oliver—who’d just remembered their manners—ran forward to help that they saw the wares she’d been hauling: Stacked flat and vertical and packed high to the sky were dozens of simple wooden coffins.
Alice’s heart gave a little leap.
Oliver’s stomach heaved.
Even so—even so—he decided to be chivalrous. Now, it was true that Oliver Newbanks thought Laylee was a beautiful girl. But you must remember: Beauty is easily forgotten in the face of death, decrepitude, and general unpleasantness. So, while, yes, Oliver thought Laylee was very pretty (when he had the luxury of thinking such things), that wasn’t what moved him now. No, there was something about Laylee—something about her Oliver couldn’t quite place—that drew him to her, and though at the time he couldn’t understand what it was, the explanation was actually quite simple.
Reader, he admired her.
Because somehow, even with the encumbrance of such an unfortunate and isolating occupation, she walked through darkness with elegance, navigating the corridors of life and death with a confidence he’d always secretly longed for. She appeared so self-assured, so steady—so untroubled by the opinions of others—it inspired in him something he’d never experienced before. He was made nervous at the sight of her. He was suddenly eager to understand her. Most of all, he wished she were his friend.
“Please,” he said, looking her in the eye. He placed a warm hand atop her tired one as he took the burden over. “Let me do this.”
Laylee snatched away her hand and scowled, launching a feeble protest in the process (she didn’t really want to keep lugging the cart, but her pride would not let her relinquish the load without a struggle), but Oliver would not be moved. Laylee, who had not anticipated any part of this conversation, was so surprised by his insistence that she was rendered, for a moment, speechless. Any help at all was more than she’d ever had, but this was more than she’d expected even from her guests. It was a small gesture, yes—but Laylee was so unused to kindness that even the thinnest acts of consideration soothed the tired heart inside her.
Finally, gratefully, she surrendered.
She and Alice stood together silently as Oliver dragged the heavy cart through the muck, and Laylee looked on in quiet contemplation as his figure shrank into the distance.
“Alice,” Laylee said suddenly.
Alice was so stunned to be spoken to that she nearly jumped in place. “Y-yes?” she said.
“What’s he worth?”
“Who?” said Alice quickly. “Oliver?”
“Yes. This boy.” Laylee nodded toward Oliver’s retreating form. “Is he trustworthy?”
“Trustworthy?” This, Alice had to think about. “Well,” she said carefully. “Yes, I think so.”
“You think so?”
“That is—I’m fairly certain. It’s just that he used to be the most horrible liar.” Alice laughed. “He has the magic of persuasion, you know. Complicates things a bit.”
Laylee turned to look at her now, alarmed. “Persuasion?”
Alice nodded. “He can make people think and do anything he wants. And goodness knows”—she laughed again—“he used to be awful about it.” But then, noticing the look of horror on Laylee’s face, she said quickly, “Oh, but I wouldn’t worry about it, really! He’s much better now!”
Too late.
Laylee had gone cold. Her eyes went dark; her lips went still. She looked away. She seemed suddenly and inexplicably angry and, taking a deep breath, she clasped her gloved hands together too tightly.
Alice—who’d said exactly the wrong thing—felt Laylee’s unexpected moment of friendship slipping away and began to flounder. She knew she had to take advantage of any opportunities to make progress with Laylee; after all, Alice still had no real idea what she was supposed to be doing here, and she was growing desperate. Unfortunately, desperation made her reckless.
“Laylee,” she said quickly. “If you would only trust me—if you would only tell me what’s wrong—”
Laylee stiffened. “Why do you keep insisting that something is wrong with me?”
“No! No—not, not wrong with you,” said Alice hastily, “just that there might be something bothering you.” She hesitated, crossed her fingers, and said, “Is there something bothering you? Something you’d like to talk about?”
Laylee looked incredulously at Alice (Laylee was beginning to think Alice was a bit soft in the head) before gesturing across the endless field of dirty, melting snow, its dead bodies and empty caskets, and said, “Something bothering me? What do you think is bothering me? Do you think I enjoy this line of work? Do you think I’m thrilled to be the sole mordeshoor for a land of eighty thousand people?”
“N-no,” said Alice, who was already feeling terrified. “But I just thought, perhaps there’s something else—some other reason why I was sent here. You see, I have a very particular kind of magic,” she rushed on, “and mine isn’t much good for washing dead bodies, so I was wondering—”
“Let me be clear,” said Laylee, whose expression had gone so cold Alice had to resist the impulse to shudder. “I did not ask you to be here. I did not ask for your help. I
f you don’t want to work—if washing dead bodies is beyond your particular kind of magic—you are free to go. In fact,” Laylee said carefully, her voice sharp and forbidding, “it might be best if you left right now.”
And with that, she charged off into the distance, toward Oliver and her many wooden coffins, and left Alice all alone and heartbroken in the slush.
For Alice Alexis Queensmeadow, things weren’t going at all according to plan.
Laylee couldn’t be bothered to care.
She was too sensitive to Alice’s repeated insinuations that there might be something wrong with her, and it made her cruel and defensive. Laylee threw up new walls, feeling more vulnerable by the moment, and struggled to ignore the sudden, unprecedented tremor in her hands. Still, she marched forward through the sludge, taking in rapid lungfuls of the crisp fresh air, and clenched her fists to keep them steady. Oliver was just up ahead, waiting patiently beside a tall stack of coffins. He caught her eye and smiled, his violet eyes crinkling in delight, and Laylee was so startled by the sight of it she felt something stumble inside of her. It was such a strange, unexpected sensation that for a moment—a very brief moment—Laylee thought she might cry. She wouldn’t, of course, but she did solemnly wish she could afford to fall apart every once in a while.
In any case, Laylee did not return Oliver’s smile.
She had no interest in untrustworthy, manipulative liars, no matter their claims of reformation. No, there was no chance of her befriending this duplicitous boy or the daft, silly girl. So she flipped open her red cloak—for the first time, Oliver glimpsed the ancient, heavily brocaded silk gown she wore underneath—unhooked an old, nicked, elaborately carved silver crowbar from the tool belt she wore around her waist, and set to work. (On her belt she also carried an old brass mallet; her leather ghost whip; the silky, quilted pouch full of Quicks; a pair of rusty pliers; a copper box full of nails; a branding iron; and a little holder for her business cards.) Silently, she climbed atop the transport and began prying off the wooden lids.