Before I could say a thing, though, Mr. Woodard stopped laboring and looked my way, his expression hard, his eyes pinched tight so the crow’s-feet crinkled at the edges. I braced for disdain, but instead, he said, “Martyn, I want you to walk her home. I don’t like how those boys looked at her. Stick to the main roads and make haste.” He rubbed his hand over his mouth. “Your parents should be told those boys are looking for trouble, Bet.”
I cast my eyes down and nodded. “My grandmother knows, sir. Thank you. Martyn doesn’t have to walk me home. I’ll be fine.”
Mr. Woodard shook his head. “I’m not so sure either of you would have been fine if I hadn’t come along. Four versus one, Martyn? Terrible odds.” He reached for his son’s chin, tilting his head to examine him for injury. “I didn’t raise a stupid son, but you wouldn’t know it. Have your mother look at that when you get home.”
Martyn jerked from his grasp and waved him off. “I’m fine, Da. He didn’t touch me. They were being arseholes.”
“Arseholes or not, you can’t do anything if you get kicked to death.” He shook his head and reached behind him, producing a big bag of pears in a burlap sack. “Those are for her,” he said, motioning at me. “Home early, both of you. Keep the wind to your backs.”
Martyn let himself out of the stand, the pears nestled into the crook of his arm.
“You heard the man. Shall we?”
I gathered my basket, reaching for Martyn’s sign on the post to take home to show Gran, but he gently tugged on the end of my scarf to pull me away. “Leave it. At least I can be sure you’ll come back if that’s there.”
“And if it rains and ruins it?” I asked.
“Then I have another reason to draw you.”
Considering how much I liked the first portrait, I wouldn’t object to a second, and my hand slid from the paper. “Fine. I need a lemon or a lime if there are any.”
“Wait here.” Martyn darted off into the marketplace. I tried to follow his tawny head, but it was no use, even with the dwindling crowds. He ducked down an alley and disappeared from my sight, only to reappear a minute later with a pair of lemons in hand that had seen better days—it was late for such a fruit. They were likely some of the last in the Crossing.
He dropped them into the sack with the pears. I pulled a penny from my coin purse, but he waved me off. “My treat.”
“But…”
“No buts. On me.” He motioned me ahead of him. I worked my way through the market, past pushy vendors thrusting end-of-day trinkets beneath my nose, some promising bargains, others outright pleading for business. Martyn stepped in front of me, using his superior size to carve a path. I almost lost him in the chaos twice, so when he offered me his hand so we could stay together, I took it without thinking, my fingers wrapping around his. He gave me a reassuring squeeze and ducked around the well, barging onward with me at his heels.
The moment we were past the front gate, I took a deep breath. He squeezed his fingers around mine, reminding me that we were tethered, and I gently disengaged, thankful that he didn’t try to recapture my hand. I was grateful he’d defended me, and I wouldn’t deny I found him pleasing, but that changed little about our circumstances.
“You look lost in thought,” Martyn said as we rounded the first wheat field. “Like you’re trying to figure out why the sun shines or the sky is blue.”
“There’s a tale about that,” I started to say, but my story got tangled around my tongue as I spotted a crow perched on the fence post ahead of us. Its black head tilted back and forth, its eyes shining like onyx beads. It was so calm, so curious. We were only a few feet away and it did not move. Martyn stretched his hand toward it, his finger lifting like he’d allow the thing to perch if it so desired.
“If it pecks you, it’ll hurt,” I cautioned. “Or it could be sick. Crows aren’t known for friendliness.”
That caught his attention, and he jerked his hand away. “True. I’ve never seen one so willing to get close before, is all.”
Neither had I, and it bothered me, especially in the wake of Gran’s vision. If Silas had been in the shadow of a giant, and this was the crow, that was two of her portents manifesting in a few hours. My fear and tears were only a matter of time. I shivered and stepped back, peering at the wheat field beside us. The ominous scarecrow loomed at the bend ahead.
“When’s the full moon?” I asked, more to myself than to Martyn.
“Tomorrow night. It’s the blood moon. Da says that’s what they call the first full moon after the equinox. Why do you ask?”
I didn’t want to tell him about the vision, afraid he’d think it a silly superstition from a sillier girl, so I shook my head and walked toward the caravan, my steps brisk. I wanted my grandmother’s company more than anything in the world. I wanted to tell her what had happened and what I’d seen. I wanted her to know about the blood moon. But first I had to get past the scarecrow.
“That thing is hideous.”
“Who’s hideous? Thomson?” Martyn’s grin stretched so wide that the corners of his mouth nearly touched his ears. He shoved the pear sack at me so he could hop over the fence, walking up to the scarecrow and smacking its patched slacks with obvious affection. “You’ll hurt his feelings. Thomson’s a good sort. I made him.”
“Why would you do a thing like that? He’s terrifying.”
“He’s not inviting the crows to tea, is he?” He put his hands around the scarecrow’s waist and hoisted it, repositioning the bag of nightmares on the big rusty hooks of its pole. Thomson’s head lolled to the side, stitched eyes fixed on the ground. “That’s better.”
“Better by what standard? And does this mean this is all Woodard land, then?” I motioned at the wheat fields surrounding me. We were close enough to Cotter’s Field that I could see our horses grazing in the easternmost pasture. Martyn had mentioned that his land backed up to where we were staying, but I hadn’t realized it was that close.
“Indeed. This is ours, and the barley farther down the way. The vegetables are from the gardens behind the farmhouse yonder, past the hills.” Martyn climbed back over the fence to join me on the road, careful when he reclaimed the bag of pears from my grasp.
“I can carry that, you know. It’s not far now,” I said.
“I know you can, but I like doing nice things for you.” He smiled at me. “I’m hoping my chivalry will convince your grandmother to let you take those reading lessons.”
I doubted it would matter a whit, but I held my peace. We walked along, his trousers swishing with his steps, my skirt rustling with mine. It was a companionable silence, and so peaceful that when he erupted with a startled bark, I gasped, my grip tightening on the basket handle. I jerked my head toward him, my stomach sinking when I saw the panic on his face.
“Martyn?” I cupped his elbow, squeezing it, and he shook his head back and forth, his tongue sliding over his upper lip, his shoulders tense.
“And I gave you all that sass about Thomson, too, but, well—” He pointed to the side of the road. There, stretched into a zigzag of gold across its black scales, was a smallish snake, only two or so feet long.
“A serpent slithers into the moist earth.”
I frowned.
“It’s stupid. I’m big, it’s small, but I was bitten as a boy. Adders don’t kill, but they hurt like the devil. My leg swelled up for three days.” Martyn glanced behind him, at a fence post similar to the one where the crow had roosted before. “Seems all of nature is out today, and acting ornery.”
The snake wasn’t ornery so much as lazy, the cold weather driving it closer to its winter hibernation, but I didn’t say so. Martyn was afraid, and fear skewed perception.
I tugged off my scarf and wadded it into the basket before walking on. It wasn’t long before I could hear the caravan children hollering from the fields. Dogs barked. Someone played a pipe whistle. The sun sank toward the treetops, and soon it would be dusk, the peepers singing their last before the cold winds
came.
I paused to smile at Martyn, gently pulling the pears from his grasp. “I should go. I’ll ask Gran about the reading lessons tonight, but after what happened with Silas, I’m not sure it’s a good idea.”
“He doesn’t scare me. Your gran does a bit, just from what you said, but if she says no, that’s the end of it. Doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy your company at market.”
I nodded and looked down at his dusty boots. “Thank you, again. For earlier with Silas. For the pears.”
“You’re welcome, Bet.” Before I could pull away, he lifted his hand to my face, his calloused fingers gliding over my cheek with the birthmark. The touch was tingly and warm, like holding his hand had been, and I pulled away from him, fleeing the diddicoy boy from Anwen’s Crossing who made me feel too much.
Two steps into the vardo and Gran sent me off to collect dinner. I was swollen with the need to tell her about the day, but she’d hear none of it until our bowls were full. Even then, with both of us seated at the table and spoons poised, she insisted I wait.
“Too much time with your mouth open, evil thoughts will sneak in.” It was an old decree of hers. Talking while eating invited trouble, so most of our meals slanted quiet. I struggled with it that day, squirming, shifting in my seat, toying with the stew with my spoon more than putting it into my mouth.
“Sit still. You are not a child. We will talk of your day shortly.”
“Yes, Gran.” I gobbled it down to get it over with, quiet as I took my bowl to the basin and rinsed it. Gran whacked her dish on my hip a short time later, letting me know that she was finished, too. I took both bowls to the river for washing. When I returned some minutes later, Gran had her yarn and knitting needles on the table and was busy making loops.
“Tell me,” she said as soon as the door was closed. “If I have a bad stomach later, it is because you rushed me through my meal.”
“I’m sorry.” I slid into the chair across from her, my eyes lowering as I tried to figure out where to start my story. I’d been so eager to expel words, I’d never considered the best delivery. “I’ve made a friend at market. I mentioned him yesterday.”
“The yellow-haired man.”
“Yes, Martyn. He defended me from Silas today.” She arched a brow at that, and the words flowed thereafter, from the sign Martyn drew of me to our lunch date, Silas’s arrival, and the fight in the field. She never said a word, not when I told her about Silas in the giant’s shadow, not when I told her about the too-brazen crow and the adder. I’d thought those matters were direly important, but her silence suggested otherwise.
“The scarecrow’s name is Thomson,” I said in closing, because hearing my own voice was better than hearing nothing at all. “Martyn made him.”
Gran pushed the knitting aside and stood, heading to the corner of the vardo with her witching goods. She searched the top drawer, choosing jar after jar and peering at the contents before banishing them back with their brethren. Eventually, she found what she was looking for—a jar of feathers. She set it on the table and added a spool of thread and needle to the pile before she sat back down across from me, sectioning off two feet from the spool and threading it through the needle.
“You will wear this through the blood moon,” she said, her long fingernail fishing around inside the jar to capture a feather. She pulled it out and wrapped a thread around the shaft. “Over your clothes like a necklace.”
“What is it?” I accepted it, and was about to tie it off behind my neck, but she stopped me with a squeeze to my wrist.
“Not yet. It is a hawk’s-eye charm, and we have to enchant it before you can wear it.” She returned to her chest of supplies to retrieve a silver knife with an etched wooden handle from the drawer. She slid it across the table at me, hilt first.
I slapped my hand down on it to stop it from skittering off the side.
“The single most important thing to know about magic is that there is always a price. Making the impossible possible is difficult, as it should be, so I must weigh results against what I am willing to pay. It is never a gratuitous thing. This makes some people—people like Silas—disbelievers. They see my unwillingness to perform on command as a sign that the magic is untrue. Let them drown in their ignorance. When it is time for them to know my wrath, they will know it—and there will be no mistaking it.”
She moved behind me and rested her hands on my shoulders, digging her fingernails in like cats’ claws. “With the right tools, we can accomplish anything, but anything is also expensive. Do you understand?”
“I think so.” I picked up the knife and turned it over, weighing the heavy, cold metal against my palm. The silver blade gleamed like new, but the wear on the carved grip suggested it was very, very old. “So what’s the currency?”
“Many things, but the most common is the sanguine coin.” She leaned over my shoulder to stroke my wrist, her nails tracing along the spidery blue veins beneath my skin. “Your blood on one side of the eye, mine on the other. It will let me watch you.”
“But touching blood is generally forbidden.” Her clutch on my shoulder tightened, and I winced, tripping over myself to explain. “I am not arguing, Gran, but I am confused. How is this allowed for something that’s not healing?”
“I am drabarni. You will be drabarni. When our people cut themselves, we stitch them. When the babies come, we pull them from their mothers’ wombs. Blood is a necessity of our trade. It is why we keep our vardo separate.”
“Oh.”
She hadn’t quite answered my question.
“Mmmm. Now, the things you saw today—your crow and adder—I do not know if they relate to my vision or not, but we must be vigilant until the blood moon is past. The charm will allow me to see you from afar, and to help you if you need it. You are an annoying girl who does not know when to shut her mouth, but you are my annoying girl, and I will care for you to the best of my ability.”
She jerked the sleeve of my blouse up to my elbow, revealing my left forearm. She tapped the thickest part of my palm, below my thumb where my birthmark went from solid wine to a smattering of wine-colored freckles. “Cut here. It does not need to be big, just enough to saturate the thread. To fuel magic, your own essence is always preferable to someone else’s, but sometimes we cannot give our rituals what they require without doing irreparable harm to ourselves, and so we harvest from other resources.”
I had questions I didn’t dare to voice. A small enchantment cost small blood—that I understood. It stood to reason, then, that bigger enchantments cost bigger blood. Gran had claimed some impressive feats of magic in the years before I was born, which suggested impressive amounts of blood had been spilled.
Was it Romani blood? Or gadjo blood?
And who would volunteer for such a thing?
I must have mulled a little too long for Gran’s taste, because she tore the knife from my grip. A heartbeat later, there was fire in my hand. She’d sliced me from thumb to lifeline, the flesh opening and seeping crimson into the grooves of my palm, a coil winding around my wrist. I yelped, as much in surprise as in pain, my eyes wetting as I hunched over, instinctively cradling my injury to my stomach to protect it from hurt.
“Gran!”
“I am sorry. It is unpleasant, but if you wish to do magic, you will know much worse in your lifetime. This is the ugly part of our craft.” She peeled my hand away from my midsection, and when I refused to unclench my fist, she jabbed my shoulder with the butt of the knife. “I am not going to kill you. I am getting your blood on this thread. Would you waste your sacrifice? Was it for nothing?”
“I…No.” I relinquished my throbbing hand to her untender mercies. Gran wasted little time dipping both the hawk’s feather and the thread into my pooling blood, and when the cut’s flow dwindled, she squeezed the wound to reopen it, like I’d become her personal inkwell. I swallowed my whimper, afraid she’d decide I was too craven to follow in her footsteps after all.
“We join your lifebl
ood to mine. Like this.” She stabbed herself in the fleshiest part of her middle finger, unflinching as the skin split and a dome of blood rose, only to drizzle over the hills and valleys of her liver-spotted hand. She was ambivalent to the pain, like years of ritual bleeding had hardened her to the discomfort. “Paint the other half, Bethan, to complete the charm,” she said, offering herself to me.
It took me longer to saturate my side than it had taken her to do hers, but I wanted to be thorough. Rushing could ruin it, and I didn’t want a first-time failure looming over my head forever.
When the thread was damp and rust-colored, I handed her the charm for inspection, hoping she’d find no fault with my work. She twisted it this way and that, eventually nodding with approval. “Blow on it to dry it,” she instructed, and I did, thinking how simple it all seemed. Was a drabarni working with blood no different from a baker working with flour? Was the blood a commonplace tool used to glue more important components together?
“Lift your chin,” Gran said.
She fit me with the foul necklace, tying the thread off behind my neck with two tight knots. I cringed when the feather brushed the soft skin of my throat. If she noticed, she said nothing, instead patting the charm and making her way to the basin in the corner. She worked at the blood staining her hand with lye and a scrub brush. “You must keep it on through the blood moon. There are no exceptions.”
I fingered the heavy thread. Two days was a long time to wear a bloody bird feather, especially when I was expected at market and I’d already had problems with the locals. “May I tuck it beneath my scarf?”
“No. It will block my view. Wear a dark blouse so it is harder to see,” she said, toweling off her hands. “The yellow-haired diddicoy will not let anyone bother you much, yes?”
“I suppose.” I got up to approach the mirror on the wall. It was smaller than my head, oval-shaped, and framed by oxidized copper. It was extravagant, something finely made and valuable, and I doubted anyone else in the caravan owned such a prize. The surface was smooth and clear save for the bottom, where a cluster of lumps distorted the glass. I stooped so I could peer into it, to see how awful the necklace looked around my neck. It wasn’t as obvious as I’d feared, though I did pull my hair over my shoulders to hide the thread. “Do we need magic words to make it work?”
The Hollow Girl Page 7