by Tahereh Mafi
Here, we pivot, because we will leave the mordeshoor and her world for a short time.
I will not engage you in the many private details of her pain, as I feel she’s earned the right to a respite from our prying. But I find it important to note that we pick up with our Ferenwood friends at the same hour we leave Laylee behind. In fact, at precisely the moment Laylee falls to her knees and feels her chest split open, Oliver Newbanks is assaulted by a pain so sudden he jolts forward in his seat. And it is here, as he sits unsteadily, chest heaving, not comprehending why it is he feels his heart tearing at the seams, that we are reunited with him in his mind.
Oliver Newbanks could not understand what was happening to him.
He’d come along on this journey for a bit of good fun and little more—but nothing had gone according to plan. Indeed, it had been—from start to finish—an unequivocally miserable experience compounded by Oliver’s newly minted fear: that he’d managed to damage his heart in some irreparable way. The damage in question came at regular, painful, intervals, with no signs of abating. The very first pangs had arrived the moment he’d set eyes on Laylee—though back then he’d thought it a fluke. Soon he began to feel ill around her all the time, nervous and off balance; from there, the symptoms had grown only more severe. Now, even with a vast body of water between them, he felt worse than ever. Short of breath. Sick to his stomach.
Just weeks ago he hadn’t even known she existed.
The first time Alice told him about the girl she was meant to help, Alice had mispronounced Laylee’s name. Catching herself, Alice had repeated the moniker several times to get it right. Oliver found himself unconsciously mimicking the action, rolling Laylee’s name around in his mouth, enjoying the sound, the shape of it.
He had not expected her to strike pain into his heart.
And now, halfway home and ostensibly losing his mind, all Oliver could think about was getting back to Whichwood. He was anxious to arrive home if only to find a way to return to Laylee on his own this time—alone—without the weeping Alice, who, I feel I should note, had begun weeping shortly after Father had explained, not unkindly, how thoroughly she’d failed her task.
Oliver did not think he could stomach another twenty-four hours of her tears.
It was not that he was heartless; Oliver knew how devastating it was to fail a task. He could imagine the humiliation Alice would face upon arriving home. Alice had been dragged back by the Town Elders for having caused such a riotous disaster as to require a chaperoned return into town by her own father. It was beyond mortifying—it was unheard of. He felt deeply sorry for her. And Oliver would never say this aloud, of course, but he quietly wondered whether such a level of ridicule was even survivable.
But there was another part of him, a part of him that he would never acknowledge—would never credit with truth—that wondered (rather callously) whether Alice didn’t deserve such shaming. After all, it was true that Alice could have done better. That she should have been better.
Alice had done just about everything wrong.
“When you win a Surrender,” Father had explained to them earlier, “you’re awarded a five—the highest possible score—which means you’re considered the most capable of your year. Earning a five, as you did,” he said now only to Alice, “meant that your task would be far more complicated than the tasks of your peers.”
“I know,” said Alice in a hurry. “And it was, Father, it—”
Father shook his head. “Much more complicated, Alice. Washing dead bodies, restoring a supply of deteriorated magic”—he waved a hand—“these tasks are difficult, yes, but fairly uncomplicated. There’s no nuance in these actions, only repetition. You were expected to think more complexly, my dear.”
Alice blinked at him.
“You solved the obvious issue,” he said gently. “You chose the easy fix.”
“But, Father,” said Alice, “it wasn’t easy—we didn’t even know she was sick for some time—”
Again, Father shook his head.
“It was a test, darling.” He smiled, sadness pinching his eyes. “Would you choose the problem your hands could easily solve? Or would you recognize the illusion set before you for what it was: a distraction, nothing more.”
“But she was dying,” Alice said breathlessly, desperately. “I had to keep her from dying, didn’t I? Otherwise I wouldn’t have been able to help at all!”
“My sweet girl—don’t you see?” Father took her hand. “There were always two parts to her healing process.”
Alice was silent for a long time. Finally, she whispered, “No, Father. I don’t understand.”
It was only then that Oliver, who could not take it anymore, interjected (with a measure of anger) and said, “Laylee needed color, yes, but she also needed a friend, Alice. She needed real help. Not a bandage.”
Alice turned to him, eyes now brimming with tears, and said, “I thought—I th-thought I was helping her—”
Father spoke sympathetically when he said, “What you did for Laylee took only a matter of hours; in that short time, you created a temporary solution to a much larger problem. And by ignoring the larger issue, you unwittingly set into motion the collapse of Laylee’s entire life.” Father sighed as he spoke, closing his eyes in a show of deep exhaustion. “When we send our children on a task,” he explained, “we expect them to do work that will take much longer than a few hours, Alice—we expect them to be gone for many months. We hope for their work to be truly restorative; we hope they’ll bestow an everlasting kindness upon the person or place they’ve helped. Laylee would have healed—at a much slower, but more permanent rate—had you only helped ease her burden a little more every day. With you there by her side, she might have learned to slow down, to take breaks—to stand up to the townspeople who’d taken advantage of her—and, eventually, slow the effects of the illness spreading through her body.” Father hesitated. Studied his daughter. “Don’t you see, my Alice? The Town Elders recognized in you two great talents: one was your gift with colors, yes, but the other was your heart.”
“My heart?” said Alice.
Father smiled. “Yes, my dear. Your heart. The Elders found your burgeoning, complicated friendship with Oliver—who, forgive me,” Father said, glancing at Oliver, “was once a decidedly difficult character—”
Oliver frowned.
“—to be of deep interest. You both built that relationship against the turbulent background of the twisted, complicated world of Furthermore, a world known mostly for tearing people apart. That you managed to forge something beautiful from the madness was deeply admirable. And ultimately,” Father said, “we all hoped you’d be able to do the same for Laylee. Your task was always to heal her in two ways: with your hands and with your heart. You would have earned her trust and become a friend upon whom she would one day rely, healing her from the inside out. In the end it is your gift of time—and of compassion—that’s most invaluable to a person in pain, my darling. It’s true that you left her with a healthy body,” he said finally, “but Laylee’s spirit is now more tortured than ever.”
And Alice, ashamed of herself and afraid for her future, had not ceased her weeping, not even to speak.
Alice and Oliver spent the rest of the trip home in silence. Oliver tried to drown out her keening with the roar of his own regrets—and managed nicely for a while—but it was just as he braced himself against another shuddering wave of pain that he wondered, with increasing agitation, whether he’d ever forgive himself for what they’d done.
He had to find a way to make things right.
Oliver Newbanks knew himself to be just as culpable as Alice. He knew he’d played a critical role in what transpired with Laylee, and he couldn’t shake these fears loose from his brain. It was, after all, because of them that Laylee’s spirits had gone free. If he and Alice had never shown up, Laylee would never have abandoned
her ghosts—she’d never have attended Yalda. Even so, their presence could have been more of a help to her. If only they’d stayed at the castle—if only they hadn’t been so selfish and impatient—if only they’d listened to Laylee when she’d finally mustered the courage to ask for their help—
Oh, Oliver would never forgive himself.
He could have prevented all of this from happening. The group of them could have worked tirelessly through those first few nights to dispatch Laylee’s dead. They could’ve put to bed the possibility of angry souls ever seeking revenge. They could’ve been more understanding of the difficulties of Laylee’s life.
If only, he said to himself, over and over again. If only.
It was their fault that her father had been killed. It was because of them that Laylee was about to lose everything. He and Alice had forced their way into Laylee’s life and ruined all that had ever mattered to her. Never mind the fact that he would never forgive himself—
What if Laylee never forgave him?
It was still spring in Ferenwood.
Springtime was always the season for the annual Surrender and, as Alice and Oliver had not been gone very long (careful readers will note that time passes in identical increments in Ferenwood and Whichwood, despite their different seasons), the two friends returned home to find their fresh, blooming spring weather still intact. It was a bit of a shock, really, this abrupt transition between winter and spring, and it took a bit of getting used to.
As the three of them disembarked the elevator at the edge of town, they were met by an audience of angry Town Elders whose dour facial expressions said everything Alice and Oliver needed to know. The Elders spoke loudly and angrily, gesticulating for effect as they made grave pronouncements of disappointment, and finished it all by handing both Alice and Oliver a sealed envelope containing the details of the official hearing they’d be required to attend. Apparently the two friends had broken several cross-magical ordinances and would have to be seen by a judge who would decide upon a suitable punishment. Nothing too serious, of course—as they were underage—but perhaps several weeks of community service or some such.
Alice cried and clung to her father, visibly remorseful.
Oliver couldn’t be bothered to care.
He was instructed by the Elders to head home straightaway, where they were sure his parents would dole out their own punishments. Oliver nearly laughed out loud. He had the magic of persuasion—he hadn’t been punished since he’d learned how to speak.
Alice’s mother was standing quietly by, and as Father and Alice broke free to meet her, Oliver found himself suddenly alone. No one would be coming for him. He’d long ago destroyed any hopes of having a healthy relationship with his family by too often distorting their minds with persuasion. He’d discovered his magic at too young and too immature an age, and he’d used it against his parents as frequently as he saw fit—regularly entrancing them for weeks at a time so that Oliver had been able to come and go and do as he pleased. Just last year Alice had helped him recognize the error of his ways, and Oliver finally came clean to his family, hoping to repair the damage. Sadly, his parents had been frightened by him, and theirs had been a painful conversation. Oliver knew now that it would be a long time before he would regain their trust.
Now his parents kept a polite distance from their only child; they were still getting to know him—still relearning their relationship. In many ways Oliver, at fourteen years old, was a veritable stranger to them. And this was the source of a deep and terrible regret that kept our brooding friend from using his magic as much as he used to.
Oliver sighed, shoved one hand into his pocket, and grimaced as he waved good-bye to a tearful Alice. He’d be in touch with her soon enough, he was sure, but he couldn’t help but wonder how she’d be punished for her failures. For now, it was best they went their separate ways.
And so they did.
Oliver ducked his head as he walked, shoulders tense and rounded, and failed to notice the beautiful land he lived in. The tall grass danced against his legs as he moved and he shuddered at the touch, jerking away; butterflies fluttered against his fingers and he flicked them off, grumbling; the sun was high and jolly and warm and Oliver, irritated, muttered an ungentlemanly word under his breath. He’d never missed the cold so much.
Spring weather did not suit his state of mind.
Oliver was soon annoyed by everything—the soothing sounds of nearby rivers, the cheerful flowers that flanked him, the bright leaves of faraway trees swaying carelessly in the wind. He found himself snapping at a large bird that had landed on his shoulder, shouting at the poor creature so suddenly that it took flight in a hurry, its talons catching and tearing at his shirt. It was unlike him to be so uncharitable to the world. It was unlike him to be seen without a smile.
But Whichwood had bewitched him, and now that Oliver was home again he wanted, once more, to run away.
Ferenwood had never felt quite right to him. It had always been a size too small for his spirit—not so uncomfortable that he could not bear it, but just uncomfortable enough to be constantly on his mind. Oliver strained against the safe idyll of Ferenwood. It was a lovely town, yes—predictably so—but Oliver tired of the pleasant people and their unbounded kindness. He’d been hounded for years by an incessant whisper that begged him to explore extraordinary places, to look for complexity in people and spaces—and it was for precisely this reason that he’d enjoyed Furthermore so much.* Oliver wanted to get lost on purpose. He wanted to have baffling conversations with strangers; he wanted to learn new languages and eat food he’d never heard of and—well, the simple truth was that he didn’t feel about Ferenwood the way that Alice did. Alice loved it there with every bit of her soul. She was a Ferenwood girl from foot to forehead, and she would be happy there, in that colorful land, for the rest of her life.
But Oliver wanted more.
He missed Whichwood—and one young lady in particular—with a painful kind of longing, and Oliver Newbanks, who had not the faintest idea how to get back to it or her (the underwater elevator being accessible only by Town Elders), had never, not in his whole life, ever been in such a foul temper.*
Home was such a funny word.
Oliver’s had never felt like much, but there it was, waiting for him in the distance. He trudged on with a sigh. Not moments after entering the quiet abode and waving hello to the parents who sat calmly in the kitchen, sipping raspberry teas and reading the local newspaper—
The headline read LOCAL COW TRAPPED IN OWN MANURE
—Oliver locked himself in his bedroom, flung himself onto his bed, and pressed the heels of his shaking hands against his eyes.
He felt angry and ill; he felt strange all over. He felt—he felt—what was it? This sensation?
He had never been so upset, so frustrated, so powerless in all his life. He hated the limitations of his young body, of his dependence upon his parents and the system designed to hold him. He felt like he might explode out of his own skin, like he contained galaxies no one would ever see, like he’d been made privy to one of life’s greatest secrets and he would keep that secret, carry it inside of him forever. What was this, this tenderness in his bones? This earthquake breaking open his chest to make room for his newer, larger heart? Oliver did not know that what he felt now was the beginning of something greater than himself. All he knew, with sudden, piercing clarity, was that he would never be the same.
What was happening to him?
Oliver had no way of knowing this then—if he had, I wonder whether he would consider a revision—but the poor boy would ask himself this exact question no fewer than a thousand times over the course of the next four years. This is how long it would take him to get Laylee Layla Fenjoon to take a single, serious step in his direction. It would be four years before she looked at him like he wanted her to, four years before she smiled and said, without speaking, that she
loved him.
He would wait four years for a moment that lasted no longer than five seconds; a moment that would change the course of his entire life.
But for now, he was only fourteen years old.
And right now, there was a bird knocking at his window.
It was the same large bird that had tried to sit on his shoulder—the one who’d ripped Oliver’s shirt on his walk home. He recognized its iridescent purple feathers and long white beak, but just because he recognized the bird did not mean he wasn’t wary of it. He had no idea why a bird would be knocking at his window—as far as Oliver was aware, this wasn’t a common practice of Ferenwoodian birds—but his curiosity got the better of him.
Reluctantly, he inched his way toward the single large window in his bedroom, and pressed his hands against the glass.
“What do you want?” he said.
The bird would only knock.
“What is it?” he shout-whispered.
Again, the bird pecked at the glass.
Frustrated, Oliver shoved open his window, ready to shoo it away by hand, when he was accosted, all at once, by a swarm of spiders. What happens next will go down in history as one of the single most terrifying experiences of Oliver’s life—and this he does not deny. In the time it took Oliver to prepare to scream (“I wasn’t going to scream,” he said to me), a hundred spiders had already spun a series of webs around his head, gagging his mouth shut. Oliver thought he might die of fright. He tried to call for help, all to no avail. He flung his arms around to try and knock the spiders off, but there were too many to fight. And now that he’d been safely rendered speechless, the rest of the arachnids felt free to work on binding his arms and legs. Only once his limbs had been thoroughly secured did the spiders then lift Oliver’s body onto their backs and shuttle him out the window, where the violet-feathered bird snatched him up in her talons and set off to sea.