Whichwood

by Tahereh Mafi

  Laylee blanched.

  “What does he mean, Mordeshoor?” asked a twentysomething-year-old. He’d stopped in the middle of an attempt to push over a table. “Why did he say he would sentence you? For what?”

  “What’s going on?” said the tiny girl, who was beginning to cry. She stomped her feet along the ceiling so hard the entire room began to shake. “Why can’t we go home?”

  “YOUNG LADY,” said the magistrate. “Did you hear what I said? If you don’t stop this right now, I’ll pass through a judgment to dissolve your mordeshoor magic immediately—”

  “What—no!” cried the curly-haired woman, spinning circles around the angry judge.

  “This is an outrage!” The elderly gentleman whooshed up to Laylee’s face so fast she had to sit back in her chair. “What would we do without a mordeshoor?”

  Please, Laylee begged them again with her eyes, but her ghosts wouldn’t take the hint. The teenage spirit began shouting obscenities and rattling the remaining windows and the magistrate went so red in the face that Laylee was sure everything was about to fall apart. Desperate, she turned to her friends in a sudden panic, and in the time it took her to spin around, Oliver had already handled the situation. Not a moment later, the magistrate was sitting calmly in his seat, reading slowly from an official document. Laylee visibly exhaled.

  She would find a way to deal with the ghosts later—for now, things needed to go according to the original plan.

  The first half of the day dragged on.

  Oliver administered persuasion where necessary in dealing with outbursts from the ghosts, while the counsel representing the interests of “The People of Whichwood” put forth what seemed like an endless stream of withering arguments against Laylee and the legacy of the mordeshoor. The ghosts, who were listening closely the whole time, were only growing more hostile. Their outbursts grew more violent as the day wore on, and it was all Laylee could do to keep from flinching at their angry cries, spontaneous tears, and rage-induced epithets. It was hard enough trying to ignore her ghosts’ fuming—

  “Who do they think they are,” said the curly-haired lady, “telling our mordeshoor she can’t do her job?” She flew past a set of doors so aggressively they nearly came off their hinges.

  “Threatening to take away her magic—”

  “We can never let that happen!”

  “They propose using those vile, modern methods,” said the older-gentleman ghost, “as if there’s any replacement for a mordeshoor! Modern magic would just throw us in the ground!”

  “There’s no decency in it!”

  But it was even harder for Laylee to sit through the accusations of incompetence from the prosecution. The arguments against her were so effortlessly dismissive—

  “She’s just a child who has no idea what she’s doing!”

  “She should be playing with dolls, not dead people!”

  —that Laylee found it hard to imagine anyone would disagree. Every time one of the solicitors would shout some flippant nonsense about the obvious need to “put this infant on a playground, not a cemetery,” the jury nodded their heads in eager assent. Laylee looked away, heartbroken.

  In the end, the mordeshoor was left feeling terribly demoralized.

  The prosecution comprised seven attorneys, all angry and impassioned. On Laylee’s side, however, it was just her and a young, uninspired lawyer who’d been assigned to her that very morning. Meanwhile, the robust prosecution had presented hours of painful, genuinely thoughtful rhetoric compounded by another hour of rigorous questioning that succeeded in making Laylee feel small and inconsequential.

  From the transcript:

  “Do you go to school, young lady?”

  “No.”

  “Do you have any toys?”

  “No.”

  “Is that blood on your clothes?”

  “I—yes, but—”

  “Do you have any parents?”

  Silence.

  From the judge: “Please answer the question, Ms. Fenjoon.”

  “No,” said Laylee quietly. “I do not have any parents.”

  “So you live alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “In an old, drafty castle, where you spend your days by yourself washing the bodies of dead pe—”

  From the defense: “Objection, Your Honor—what is the point here?”

  From the judge: “Overruled. I’d like to see where this is going.”

  Back to the prosecution: “Let me put it like this: Wouldn’t you like to go to school?”

  “Yes.”

  “Wouldn’t you like to have toys and clean clothes and live with a family who loved you and took care of you so you could enjoy your childhood instead of having to work so hard?”

  Laylee hesitated, feeling her throat close up. “Well,” she said quietly. “I—I’d—”

  From the judge: “The question, Ms. Fenjoon. Answer the question. And remember that you are under oath.”

  “Yes,” Laylee whispered, feeling like she might cry, and hung her head in shame.

  “I have no further questions, Your Honor.”

  What Laylee didn’t know how to say was this: She wanted it all. She wanted to go to school and have a family and enjoy her childhood and still get to be a mordeshoor. She didn’t want to lose this part of her life.

  She just wanted more.

  I must tell you straightaway: Alice’s plan worked well. It did not, however, work as well as she had hoped.

  The second half of the day was beautifully dramatic. As soon as Laylee’s side was offered a chance to present their defense, Oliver made Laylee’s young attorney sit down, cease speaking, and focused the attentions of every person present. The stage was set for Alice.

  Our talented friend from Ferenwood did not disappoint. She began by extinguishing all the light and color from the room, turning the entire space into a black backdrop upon which she would tell a story. Paintbrushes clutched in one hand, she nodded at Benyamin, ready to follow his lead as he narrated, step by step, the many intricate details involved in washing the dead. It was the only time during the entire day that the ghosts actually sat quietly and listened; they were heartened not only by the story, but by the pictures Alice had painted.

  Alice’s illustrations were so lifelike they startled even her; she’d only ever done this sort of thing in private, on a much smaller scale—but her ability was proving to be even more impressive than she first suspected. Her talent was such that she could easily impress infinite colors (hence: images) from her own mind onto any canvas. She could manipulate pigment in any way she wanted with the simple wish of her mind, and her brushes helped her focus the size, scope, and placement of the images. It was a long demonstration, the details of which I will not burden you with (as you, dear reader, already know exactly how Laylee washes her dead), but I will tell you this: Alice painted the story with all the skill of a seasoned artist, and Benyamin, whose narration was intentionally affecting, seemed to be hitting each emotional beat with aplomb—though no part of his presentation was more impressive than when he described the tens of thousands of eternally red roses Laylee had planted in honor of each spirit. At this part in the story, the ghosts actually burst into tears, sobbing so loudly Laylee had to strain to hear Benyamin’s voice. The six specters huddled around their mordeshoor and whispered words of encouragement, promising her that no matter what happened today, they would never abandon her. Laylee was moved despite herself, and couldn’t fight the tears that sprung to her eyes.

  Along the way, Oliver did quick and clever magic that encouraged all people present to accept this unusual show as a solid (and ordinary) defense for Laylee’s position and, by the time it was over, the room had fallen into a thoughtful, careful silence that slowly—then quickly—grew into a roar of anxious whispers. The magistrate had to bang his gavel to get the room in
order.

  Laylee looked at the jury with a nervous sort of anticipation, scanning their eyes for any indication that they may have been moved by Alice’s story. Sadly, their faces were inscrutable. Laylee felt her heart sink.

  The judge nodded at Laylee’s attorney. “Would you like to call any witnesses to the stand?”

  “No, Your Hono—”

  “Yes!” said Laylee, who stood upright with such suddenness she surprised herself.

  Laylee’s attorney blinked at her. He had the face of a field mouse.

  “Your Honor,” she said more steadily, “that is—I would like to testify.”

  Her friends had fought so hard for her today—and for their help and their stubborn affection she would be eternally grateful—but now it was time for her to fight for herself. The prosecution had made her feel weak and juvenile, two things she knew she wasn’t. They’d called her actions irresponsible and flighty—citing these characteristics as symptoms intrinsic to her youth. They’d pressed at her age like it was something to be ashamed of, using the word child as a pejorative term and impressing upon the jury the idea that she was, as a consequence of her few years on this planet, an ineffectual human being, an incompetent creature devoid of passion or intention and, ultimately, incapable of thinking for herself.

  None of this was true.

  Laylee was thirteen years old, yes, but she had lived, she had loved, she had suffered—and her age was no reason for her feelings to be so easily and carelessly diminished. She was not lesser for being younger; her hurts were no less important; her feelings no less relevant. These were the things she said that day—chin up, shoulders back—even as she felt something shattering inside of her. She was all alone in the world now, and save the kindness of her new friends, she had no one upon whom she might rely except herself.

  Surely, she said, that was enough to earn her the respect of her elders?

  (Here, her ghosts cheered, eagerly knocking lanterns off the walls.)

  Instead of taking away what was important to her, shouldn’t they stop the people from taking advantage of her? Laylee had been abused and manipulated from the moment she began her life as an independent mordeshoor. The inherent bias against her youth and her gender and her consequent inability to be taken seriously in a society that belittled her—this was what had led to the collapse of their system. It was not that she was incapable. It was that she had been overworked and undervalued. It was that she deserved more respect than she was allotted.

  And she would no longer sit idly by as they denigrated her character.

  “Are you quite finished, Ms. Fenjoon?” said the magistrate.

  Laylee hesitated.

  “Ms. Fenjoon?”

  “Tell him I never liked him,” shouted the curly-haired ghost. “My stupid cousin. I died yesterday and he didn’t even care enough to take today off.”

  Laylee’s eyebrows shot up her face. She turned to look at the curly-haired ghost.

  “Ms. Fenjoon,” the magistrate said again, “if you’re finished, please—”

  “No,” Laylee said suddenly. Her heart was racing. She could tell that she was losing this battle—Alice’s presentation hadn’t worked as well as they’d hoped, and her own words appeared to be worthless to this angry old man. She really felt she had no choice anymore.

  The magistrate sighed as he checked the time on the wall. “What else do you wish to say?”

  “I—that is”—she cleared her throat—“Your Honor, with all due respect, your cousin wishes me to tell you that—”

  “Tell him he’s a perfectly useless dingbat!”

  “—that she’s, um, unhappy you chose to come in to work today.” And then, more quickly, “Despite the fact that she died yesterday.”

  The magistrate’s hand hovered over his gavel, his face frozen between several emotions.

  “My cousin?” he said finally, blinking fast.

  “Yes,” Laylee said nervously. “She’s about medium height, curly red hair—”

  Cheerfully, the ghost said, “My name is Zari.”

  “And—and her name is Zari,” Laylee finished rather lamely. She’d never done this before—this communicating between the living and the dead—and she realized she was very bad at it.

  “How—how do you know this—”

  “She’s standing right in front of me,” Laylee said. “Your cousin’s ghost has been bouncing around the courthouse all day today. It was she who knocked the wig off your head earlier.”

  A juror stood up at once, visibly shaking. “You can see them?” she said. “You can see the dead? You can communicate with them?”

  “Yes,” said Laylee. “It’s an inherent part of my magic as a mordeshoor. I can exist in both worlds.”

  A sudden, series of gasps inhaled the room.

  And then—

  Chaos.

  “Why has she never mentioned this before?”

  “What if she’s lying?”

  “Impossible, though, really, impossible—”

  “She could’ve learned about your cousin from anyone!”

  “She’s manipulating your emotions, Your Honor!”

  “What are the odds—”

  “How dare you lie about something like this, young lady—”

  “—but to overturn a magic like this? Communicating with the unseen world?”

  “The consequences could be grave—”

  “I still say she’s too young!”

  “It’s too dangerous to meddle—”

  “What else does she know?”

  “How cruel to keep such a secret!”

  “And a child, really—only a child—”

  “SILENCE!”

  The magistrate stood and slammed his gavel, bellowing the command several times before the room settled into a tense, electric sort of quiet.

  Laylee’s heart would not cease its kicking. She felt her hands shaking in her lap and she curled them into fists. She had no idea what she’d unleashed—what kind of consequences she would suffer for her admission—and she felt something like fear catch in her throat.

  The magistrate fixed her with an unflinching look for a measure of time that Laylee would later estimate to have lasted about ten minutes. Oliver would clarify that it was only a matter of seconds.

  Finally, the judge spoke. “You are a terrible little liar, Ms. Fenjoon. And your deceitfulness will cost you—”

  “No, Your Honor, I swear I’m not lying—”

  “QUIET!”

  Laylee flinched, suddenly so terrified she felt frozen in her seat. This was not how she thought things would turn out.

  “You dare to come into my courtroom and lie to me under oath?” the magistrate demanded. “You dare to use the occasion of my cousin’s death to manipulate me? To taunt me?” He was shouting now, going purple in the face. “You think I am so easily bullied?” He slammed his gavel down hard.

  “N-no, Your Honor—I never—”

  “Interrupt me one more time, young lady, and I will have you held in contempt!” The magistrate narrowed his eyes. “Our overdependence on superstition,” he said quietly, “has crippled our city. Our weakness of mind has kept us shackled to outmoded, useless institutions. Yours,” he said viciously, “in particular. Why do we fear the mordeshoor so much?” He turned to the jury now. “Why do we fear the dead? We are terrified to even visit the graves of our loved ones—why? Because superstition dictates that visiting our dead will only encourage their corpses to come back into our lives. Nonsense!” he cried. “We are governed by nonsense. And I will stand for it no longer.”

  Laylee felt her heart seize.

  “Laylee Layla Fenjoon—I find you guilty of all charges. You will be sentenced to six months in prison and stripped of your magic forthwith—”

  “But, Your Honor!” cried her
useless attorney. “The jury!”

  The magistrate hesitated for half a second before turning to the jury. “Respected members of the jury,” he said, “all those in favor of sentencing this witch, say aye.”

  “Aye!” they chorused.

  “All those opposed?”

  Silence.

  “No!” Alice screamed. The pale girl ran forward and Benyamin caught her around the waist, hauling her backward. “Please,” she cried, “Your Honor—this is a mistake—”

  But the judge had only looked at her with disgust, tossed his gavel to the floor, and walked out.

  The courtroom exploded into chaos.

  People were shouting all at once and all over each other, spreading the news (and their unsolicited opinions) like a virus. Laylee, meanwhile, had gone numb. She couldn’t see or hear properly anymore. There was a deafening rush of sound reverberating in her eardrums that made it impossible to distinguish voices. She couldn’t believe this was happening. Was this really happening? Had she really thought she’d be found guilty? Like this?

  She hardly noticed when someone grabbed her roughly by the arm and marched her out of the courtroom, so it was only as she had one foot out the door that she remembered to look back.

  Alice was still screaming, kicking furiously as Benyamin, who was white as milk, fought to hold her back from doing something dangerous. Madarjoon looked stricken.

  And Oliver Newbanks stood tall and said nothing, silent tears streaming down his face.

  It was then that Laylee was struck by a sudden, terrifying idea, the likes of which I must assure you she would never, ever have considered under any other circumstances. But reader, she was desperate. Her ghosts were still hanging about the room, staring at her in shock and dismay, too stunned even to speak, and it was in this moment, overcome by a delirious panic, that she cried out to these creatures, the spirits only she could see, and said, “Tell them I’ve asked for their return!”