The Hollow Girl

by Hillary Monahan

  I was afraid of what he might say, afraid he’d take the picture back because I refused to hang it, but then he turned his body toward mine, leaning forward and leaning slow. His face was scant inches away from mine, his hands braced on my shoulders when he said, “I won’t let that happen again.”

  “It will, though. The birthmark draws more attention, and the gadjos already treat my people as lesser. You can’t change every mind.” I brushed my fingers over his, the touch clandestine and exciting, and also completely unacceptable. I stepped back, forcing distance between us again. Gran had told me about my mother’s folly with my father, and of dark omens on the blood moon. I would not be foolish and disregard her counsel. Not for any man.

  My eyes skipped to the drawing in my fist. “Thank you for this, though. I will keep it close. You do beautiful work.”

  Martyn looked like he had more to say, but then Mr. Woodard appeared, pushing a wheeled cart with squash rattling around inside. He nodded and greeted me with a casual, “Bet,” before motioning Martyn back into the stand. Martyn dared to skim his fingers over the scarf at my cheek before joining his father.

  Watching them set up for the day, it occurred to me that Gran had witnessed our exchange through the hawk’s eye. My face flushed beneath the scarf. I hadn’t done anything wrong, but if she wondered about my feelings for “the yellow-haired man,” she would wonder no more. There was an intimacy to the exchange that couldn’t be denied.

  I hadn’t pursued it, but I also hadn’t discouraged it.

  I slid the drawing into my basket and sat down behind my table. I watched the square come to life around me. The baker arrived, and then the linen merchant stacked her bolts in pleasing, colorful heaps at the end of her table. In no time at all, the empty shelves and vacant tables transformed into a fully stocked bazaar ready for commerce.

  I didn’t think I’d see much in the way of customers for a while, but as soon as the shopkeepers turned their signs from Closed to Open and the street vendors settled into their seats, people swarmed. It pleased me to get a buyer almost right away and without Martyn’s help—Gran’s reputation for quality curatives was spreading. I waited on the man at my table, and then the woman after him, and the man after her, and the steady stream of business didn’t seem to be ebbing. By lunchtime, my voice cracked and my feet hurt. I didn’t have much time for a break, but I managed a biscuit from the baker and a glass of water. I would have visited Martyn, too, but Mr. Woodard sent him back and forth to the farm to restock their inventory. He was too busy.

  Midafternoon became late afternoon, the sun sulking its way toward the west and its inevitable decline. I had a dozen bags left and an elderly couple shuffling my way, but I waved them off and packed my goods, promising a Monday return. I wouldn’t risk my safety for pennies. I glanced to my right. The Woodards were still inundated with customers, though their bins had been ravaged and picked over. I wanted to wave goodbye to Martyn, but I wasn’t going to displace paying customers for the privilege, so I headed toward the gate on my own. My scarf was wound tight around my nose, and this time I kept my eyes fixed on the ground so no overeager vendors would jump into my path.

  I was almost outside when the hot hand clamped down on my wrist and nearly tore me off my feet.

  I would have fallen on my face had it not been for the sea of bodies surrounding me. I slammed into an elderly man instead, my herb bags tumbling from my basket to litter the road by my feet.

  “I’m sorry! I’m—” The hand tugged again, harder, cutting my words short. There were so many people, so many passing faces, that I didn’t immediately recognize my captor—but when he jerked me back a third time, crashing my body against his, I knew.

  Brishen was Silas’s shortest friend, a squat, wide man-boy with too many freckles and a nose that resembled a pig’s snout. His rubbery fish lips stretched into an unkind smile. He moved his hand higher on my arm, toward the elbow, pulling me back in the direction I’d come from. I tried prying his fingers off me, but his grip was ironclad. People glared at me as though bumbling into them were my choice, no one seeing my struggle or caring. They were so intent on getting their shopping done before the Sabbath that they could only spare a moment’s annoyance for a floundering Romani girl.

  “Brishen, please. Gran watches,” I hissed, but that just made him pull all the harder, wrenching my arm at an unnatural angle. He paid no mind to my pained yelps, forcing his way through the market. I staggered behind him out of necessity, trying not to further injure my arm.

  I knew from my days in town that the crowds thinned near the back gates, especially late in the day. If he pulled me through an open space, I could kick out at him—maybe distract him long enough to clamor for my freedom—but as we passed the well, another set of hands wrapped around my free arm, and Cam fell into step beside me.

  “Cam, no. Please. I want to go home.” I repeated his name, hoping to get through to him, but all he did was peer at me like he couldn’t fathom my upset. Gran always said not to trust wolves, as wolves didn’t understand anything but other wolves. Looking into Cam’s pale eyes, noting his impassive expression, and feeling his fingers dig into the flesh beneath my shawl, I saw her words rang true. Cam had all the warmth of a northern blizzard.

  The crowds were densest near the front gates, where the market touched the town square. I searched for Silas in the swarming shoppers, but the faces blended with the chaos. I knew he was there, though; he was the plan maker, the one at the root of my problems. Sure enough, I spotted him lingering near Martyn’s stand, behind the biggest cluster of people, where he wouldn’t easily be spotted. I looked for Mander and Tomašis. If three of the boys were present, the other two couldn’t be far, but I didn’t see them. Perhaps they were searching for me in the market still, or waiting outside. They weren’t smart enough to stay away. Tomašis maybe, because of the nightmare curse, but I didn’t count on it.

  Silas beckoned the boys close, his hands grabbing for me before I was even within arm’s reach. Brishen and Cam flung me at him like I was a ball to be tossed from player to player. Silas held me as close as he could without our bodies fusing, his face pressing into the side of my neck so I could feel his breath. For the first time, I was glad for the scarf wound around my head—it kept me from feeling his lips against my skin.

  “Silas, no. Stop,” I rasped, wriggling in his clutches. “Why me?”

  He nuzzled at my hairline, so close I could feel the smile stretching his mouth. “Because you’re fiery and beautiful. Because I like that you run. Because you are drabarni and I’m the chieftain’s son and together we’d be royalty. So many reasons, Bethan.”

  “Except I don’t want it! Gran talked to your father. She knows what you’re doing. She sees all now. Whatever stupid thing you plan to do, don’t do it.”

  “Shut your mouth.” The words were at odds with the smile on his face. He looked so pleased with himself, so very sure, that I knew something insidious was afoot. I wasn’t given long to worry about it.

  He put two fingers in his mouth to whistle and then dragged me behind him. He shoved past customers, snarling and spitting when people wouldn’t get out of his way. One man shoved back and shouted in anger, but Brishen stepped in front, leaving Silas a clear path. I dug my heels into the ground to try to slow Silas down. There were no people to block him. My heels got no grip in the yielding earth. I kicked at the back of his knee to offset his balance. He stumbled forward, losing his grip on me, and I yanked my arm free. I turned to run, but the crowd was too thick for me to get far, and Cam was right there to close in, his arm looping around my waist and hauling me back.

  Silas picked himself up from the ground and brushed off his knees, his curses colorful. I swung my head around, trying to get my bearings. We were almost back at my table. I spotted the back gate ten yards away, which meant Martyn’s stand was close. The crowd parted enough that I could see him behind his counter, empty vegetable crates stacked behind him, a sack of potatoes in his h
ands. Martyn spied me at about the same time and, seeing me wriggling like a worm on Cam’s hook, his face turned red. He threw the potatoes aside and vaulted the counter.

  “Don’t. There are too many.” I’d have said more, but Silas lunged at me. His fist struck my face so hard, my head rocked back on my neck. My vision splintered into white shards. The pain was extraordinary, and I slumped in Cam’s arms, forcing him to hold my weight. The world spun around me, a blur of shattered rainbows. There was no noise except for an odd buzzing between my ears, like I had bees in my skull instead of a brain.

  Spittle struck my scarf, droplets spraying my forehead and eyes as Silas screamed in my face, but I couldn’t understand him over the buzz. I couldn’t seem to speak yet, either. My tongue felt like a fat lump of meat in my mouth. When my head had finally cleared enough to make out Silas’s words, of course they were filled with venom.

  “You will never put a hand or foot on me again. My father is chieftain. You will respect me.”

  People had started to notice the spectacle, and bodies closed around us in a ring, with me, Cam, Silas, and Brishen at the center. The gadjos yelled angry things at Silas, but most were racial epithets and didn’t spare me, either. One man told Silas to “collect his gypsy whore and go home.” I wanted to call that man to task for disgracing my honor, but I felt too dazed, too terrified to find my anger.

  While the rest of the crowd jeered, it was Martyn who thrust through the circle and jumped on Silas’s back, one of his arms wrapping around his throat. Silas bucked like a horse, trying to shake him off, but Martyn was far heavier, and his grip was too strong. Brishen rushed at him, punching Martyn’s head, and Martyn huddled close to Silas’s back to avoid getting struck in the face. I could hear the hard whoomps as Brishen’s knuckles smashed against skin and bone in rapid succession.

  I screamed, thrashing away from Cam. He let me go, but only so he could jump into the fray. Still off balance from Silas’s punch, I tumbled to the ground. I realized I’d lost my basket and Martyn’s pretty picture somewhere as I struggled to my feet. Cam tried to peel Martyn off Silas’s back, his feet kicking out at the backs of Martyn’s legs, but Martyn clung despite the abuse. He was in pain, and I could tell by the sweat on his brow that he couldn’t keep it up much longer, but he fought valiantly, three against one and holding his own. Silas let out an angry shriek, collapsing onto the ground and dragging Martyn with him. Cam grabbed one of Martyn’s feet and wrenched back, and Martyn cried out.

  “Stop! Stop it, all of you!” I shouted, rushing in. I shoved at Brishen’s shoulder and stomped on Silas’s fingers when his hand encircled my ankle. Silas screamed, and I wanted to give him another kick, but I was afraid of striking Martyn. Instead, I rushed at Brishen, who was still pummeling Martyn’s face. My first swipe was a miss as Brishen turned his head, but then my sharp nails found their target and left a long gouge along his cheek, opening the meat and drawing blood. He hollered and spun around, smacking at the cuts as if he could swat the pain away.

  “Motherless bitch,” he swore, swinging one of his beefy arms at me. I managed to duck, my head swimming with the motion. I stumbled into some of the people behind us. One stranger’s hands pulled me in as if to protect me, while another’s thrust me away as if to send me back at Brishen.

  “Bet. BET!” I heard my name, at first thinking it was Martyn calling me, but when I raised my head I saw it was Mr. Woodard who’d pushed his way through. His weathered face looked strained, the grooves next to his eyes and mouth more pronounced than I’d ever seen them. I looked at him, he looked at me, and he motioned toward the gates behind us. “Run home. Go. Get somewhere safe.”

  I hesitated, not wanting to leave Martyn to Silas’s cruelties, but then Mr. Woodard hoisted Cam like a bale of hay and threw him off his son. Mr. Woodard was a big man—a huge man by our people’s standards. The boys were half his weight and size, and it was clear he wasn’t going to allow any more nonsense. I took my opening to leave, surprised that people stepped aside to let me pass.

  I knew I couldn’t run—I wasn’t yet steady enough on my feet for that. But I managed to get outside and onto the road. The skies had turned a murky charcoal with approaching dusk, but there was no moon yet.

  Perhaps that meant I’d get home safe after all.

  I walked far slower than I wanted to. It wasn’t so much from the pain in my head—though that was far from pleasant—as it was from the dizziness. Too many steps too fast and the world spun like a child’s top. I walked alongside the fence, the wood touching my hip, my hands gripping the topmost rail for support. Gran must’ve known what had happened to me, but I’d broken free, so there was no need for her to come. When I got home, she’d know what to do. She’d never let such blatant disrespect go unpunished.

  By the time I turned the corner of Cotter’s Field, the sun was gone and a cold wind crooned its nighttime song. It shook the wheat to either side of me, some of the taller blades snapping beneath the onslaught. I pulled Gran’s shawl tight around my shoulders and walked on. Soon Thomson’s dark, saggy outline loomed against the sky, his burlap head cocked as he stared at the ground.

  Another burst of wind whipped the leaves and dirt at my feet into a frenzy. I put up my hand to shield my eyes from the debris. It was hard to see, but I could smell the caravan fire’s smoke wafting on the air. I was close. I hiked up my skirt to run for it when I heard someone call my name from the field behind me. It sounded like Martyn, so I paused and listened. If it was Silas, not only would I run away, I’d scream loud enough to wake the dead in their graves.

  “Bet? Bet, wait. Are you all right?”

  I walked toward Martyn’s voice. The crops swayed as a form pushed through, and then he was there, a head above the wheat, working his way to Thomson. It was dark, but there was enough light for me to see the cuts and bruises on his face and his torn shirt. Mr. Woodard had gotten him free of Silas, but not before Silas had taken his pound of flesh.

  “I’m so, so sorry,” I whispered. I walked to him, and thus straight into the fence, and I looked down stupidly at the slats. I was addled, my mind slow thanks to the punch, and it took me far too long to remember that I had to climb over if I wanted to get to him. I did so carefully, less for propriety’s sake and more because I didn’t want my nausea to return with the jostling.

  Martyn neared and reached for my hand. I let him have it, and then he pulled me toward him into a hug so fierce, I thought he might crush my bones. I didn’t mind, though. There was a comfort to him that was different from Gran’s comfort. Hers was the strength of stone—cold and aloof but ever present and steady. His was a hot cup of tea on a cold night, warming you from the inside out.

  “My father sent them scurrying and said if he saw them in the Crossing again, he’d have them put in lockup. It’s safe there now, Bet. You won’t have to stay away. Please don’t. We’ll make it work.”

  I didn’t want to think about the future. I wanted to cleave to the illusion of safety in his arms in this moment. Like all illusions, though, it had to end sooner or later.

  For us it shattered when a sack came swinging out of the field to bash Martyn in the back of the head.

  I should have known it was a trap when they dragged me to Martyn’s stand. Of course he’d rush to defend me. Of course he’d follow me from Anwen’s Crossing to see me home safe. Of course Mander and Tomašis would be waiting for him with a burlap sack and ill intent.

  It was Mander who struck the blow. It hit the base of Martyn’s skull with a sickening, wet thud. Martyn cried out and stumbled into me, slouching, and I tried to hold him up, but he was heavy and I was not. He fell to his knees before me as Tomašis stepped forward and punched him in the side of the head, in the soft spot above his ear. He raised the sack of stones, thrashing Martyn’s side with it over and over, raining strikes against Martyn’s ribs and back. Martyn slumped into my middle, as limp as a dishrag. Something was wrong. Something was terribly wrong, and though I couldn’t claim Gra
n’s healing knowledge, I knew enough to say they’d done great harm to Martyn Woodard.

  I pulled him to me, pressing him into my chest to huddle over him so I could protect him from the blows. “Stop! STOP!” I screamed, but it did no good. Mander’s heavy bag swung at my shoulder once, twice, thrice. There were sharp things inside—pebbles and pieces of glass and metal—and they bit into tender flesh with every blow. My back felt like it was being flayed open, and rivers of tears streamed down my cheeks. Warmth seeped along my sides like hot kettle water, and I knew without looking that what I felt was blood.

  Breathing heavily, Mander dropped the bag at last. His crazed expression reminded me of a horse facing fire. Dark splotches sullied his cheeks, his throat, and his white shirt. It was everywhere, from his hands to his trousers and the toes of his boots, yet not a single drop spilled from his veins.

  I crumpled, my body still shielding Martyn’s as Tomašis ripped the scarf from my head and the thread from my neck. The hawk’s eye fell to the ground, and I stretched for it, but Tomašis stomped his boot down, crushing two of my fingers and Gran’s charm in one go.

  “We’re too close to camp. Move them,” Mander said. The wheat near Thomson was chest high, but farther in, it grew taller—at least six or seven feet. Tomašis pulled me up by my hair, off Martyn and away from the fence, and I thrashed in his grip, digging my fingernails into his wrist. He responded with a series of hard, fast slaps to my cheeks.

  “Silas won’t want broken goods,” Mander cautioned. Hearing his name, I screamed as loud as I could, hoping my voice would carry on the wind, but Tomašis clapped a hand over my mouth to quiet me, still dragging me away through the crops. Mander hauled Martyn’s limp body behind us, Martyn’s head lolling forward.

  We stopped in the middle of the dark wheat field. Tomašis held me against him while Mander dropped Martyn’s battered body in a heap. Martyn’s chest was rising and falling, so I knew he was still alive, but the labored rattle spoke to severe injury, and I could see the ugly stains soaking the thin fabric of his shirt. Daylight was gone, and with it all colors. There was no red to see, only dark splotches. Yet I could smell the blood—like the inside of an abattoir.