“What does that mean?”
“I learned about it from an old Welsh woman with fair folk blood. They place high value upon the trees. Roots dig deep—they twist and writhe beneath the soil for nourishment. If you feed them, they are yours to command. Tomašis is yours now—he will do as you say. You will need him to lure Brishen to the woods.”
“And what do I do when I get him there?”
Gran pulled the knife from her bureau and slid it across the table. “Go to the southern woods, where the elms thrive. Bleed upon the ground, offering your essence to the trees and beseeching their roots. You are learning to harness your will. It is the same as the charm or the binding.” She retrieved a plain apron with a big pocket on the front from a nail on the wall and placed it on the table in front of me. She took her seat again, wincing as her knee joints popped. “You will want to wear that, and you will need the knife and your focus piece, of course. What do you plan to take from him?”
The eye was already accounted for on the ingredient list, so I could choose any of the other four senses. I pictured Brishen in my head, how I’d last seen him in camp. Squat body, wide across the shoulders and chest, with a long torso and short legs. Dark hair, light-brown skin, heavy brows over a nose with a turned-up end, freckles splashed across his cheeks, and a softness around his face that made him look younger than his sixteen years. His mouth was wide, too, with rubbery fish lips that peeled back to reveal his one true beauty—two rows of straight white teeth.
Perfect teeth.
Teeth for taste.
“A tooth,” I said, tapping my lip. “From the front.”
Gran nodded. “You will want pliers and gloves.”
Both were with our herbing tools. We used the pliers to clip reedy stems or snap stubborn branches from trees and shrubs when we gathered. They were old and the handles were rusted, but they worked. The leather of the pale-brown gloves was soft from so much wear. The fingertips were stained on both hands, and while I’d only ever seen Gran use them for our herbalism, now that I was more familiar with her magical practices, I wondered whether they had been deployed for far darker work.
Like pulling teeth, perhaps.
“Is that all I need to know? To command the roots? How do I take the tooth itself?”
“You pull it? Do not ask ridiculous questions, Bethan,” Gran said, her tone clipped. Oddly, there was comfort in her snideness. She’d been soft in the face of my troubles, but what I needed was familiarity, and Gran’s crotchetiness was as familiar to me as the ground beneath my feet.
I smiled a little, surprised I knew how to do that still, and stood to don the apron and gloves. The knife and pliers clunked together when they struck inside the front pocket. Gran handed me the black cat figurine, and I added it to the mix, the weight of my mystic goods pulling on the apron string around my neck.
“Do you have any other questions?” Gran asked. I had a slew, but by the set of her jaw I presumed she’d find most of them ridiculous as well, so I shook my head and turned toward the door. “We will burn what you bring back with Tomašis’s eye so neither pollute the vardo. The ash is all we need for Martyn,” she called out.
“Yes, Gran.”
“ ‘Yes, Gran’ what?”
“Yes, Gran, I understand.”
“And Bethan?”
“Yes?”
“Be careful.”
“As careful as I can be.”
I ducked behind a pair of vardos to get to Tomašis’s tent, avoiding as many of my people as possible. The few that spied me quickly looked away, but I was too preoccupied to care. Gran’s instructions weren’t thorough, but they were straightforward, and if the key to magic really was learning to channel will, I could piece it together on my own.
All I needed was for Tomašis to play decoy.
I rounded the corner that led to his tent. Florica was outside beating the dust from a threadbare rug with her broom. I didn’t want to startle her, so I cleared my throat to announce my presence, my hands primly folded together against my skirt. She paused and turned around, and seeing me, let the broom slip from her grasp.
“Bethan,” she warbled.
“Tomašis, please. I need him.”
She looked like she wanted to argue, like I was a child asking for her friend to come play, but when I cocked my head, she closed her mouth and ducked behind her tent flap. Furious whispering was followed by furious rustling, and finally Tomašis emerged, his eyehole covered by a wad of linen secured with a black scarf.
He peered at me, and I peered right back at him. His face was red, and there was sweat on his brow despite the cold. I wondered if he was feverish, perhaps, but Gran had given Florica enough herbs to keep him in good health. If he heeded her advice, he’d recover soon enough.
“Bring Brishen to the southern woods, at the riverside. Be there in twenty minutes, no later,” I said.
“Why?”
“It’s not up to you to ask why. Bring him to the clearing at the center of the trees and keep him there until I come.”
He looked so wary, I thought he’d refuse me—I was ready for it—but before my fingers twitched, before I could utter a single word of warning, his shoulders slumped in resignation. “Fine.”
“Good.” He didn’t reply, but that was fine—obedience was more valuable to me than politeness. As long as he produced Brishen where and when I requested, there’d be no quarrel.
I made my way to the river’s edge. The area was thick with trees, the overhead canopies so dense that sunlight couldn’t pierce through to touch the ground. The shadows proved a breeding ground for thick roots that rose from the earth like gnarled serpents. When the wind stirred the branches, I was reminded of Gran’s shrieking gale in the wheat stalks in Thomson’s field.
I rejected the association and gritted my teeth, concentrating on finding steady ground amid the root tangle. I needed to be surefooted when I gave my offering. I pulled the gloves from my apron pocket and slid them over my fingers, flexing to test the leather. The big knife came next, and I rotated my arm to find a suitable spot to cut. Gran never told me how much blood I’d need, but a deepish cut that would clot quickly was my aim. I eyed the back of my forearm, some inches above my wrist, where the fat hugged the bone.
The knife glinted as I arced it down, with brutal ease. The pain was immediate, and the shock stole my breath away. I stomped my feet and swallowed a curse, an awful, steady throb racking me from wrist to elbow. I unfurled my arm, breathing deep to keep from crying out. The wound bled true and my essence painted the roots, leaves, and rocks all around me scarlet.
As the flow slowed to a drizzle, I returned the knife to my apron pocket and pulled out the cat figurine, my blood-slick glove smearing red over its golden eyes. I closed my eyes and dug deep, going to that still place where I focused my will and birthed magic. I envisioned the roots coming to life. I envisioned them rising at my command like twisting, thrashing monsters.
The ground beneath me shifted.
I dug my heels into the packed earth to be sure it was real. It stirred again—a low rumble, a tremble some feet below. I crouched to keep my balance. So close to the earth, I could see the smallest roots worming their way up through the underbrush to reach for me, their fibrous hairs waving at the heavens. There was another shift and the midsized roots churned their way to the surface, crawling and slithering toward me like dirt-crusted snakes. I smelled damp earth and decomposing leaves, and despite the cold autumn day, I was reminded of spring.
One of the roots dared to tickle the hem of my skirt, its pointed end stroking the thick fabric. I stood and stepped back, only to have another root slide across my leg. Its cold, bumpy exterior grazed my skin near the lip of my boot. I yelped and ducked behind a thick tree trunk to get away. The roots crawled over each other, tearing up the earth in an impatient frenzy.
Gran had called them the hungry roots. Like anything starving for nourishment, they yearned for their next meal.
The
tangle of roots writhed, hissing as they stretched for the sky, some slapping the ground with famished fervency.
“Hush,” I barked, afraid Brishen would hear the clamor when he approached. They stilled so absolutely, I worried they were no longer in my thrall. I pointed at a tiny tendril near the toe of my boot and willed it to move.
It waved at me. I still had control.
I slipped behind a fat trunk and waited for Tomašis to bring Brishen to the clearing. It didn’t take long for their voices to carry through the trees; the boys’ heads were together, their thumbs notched into their pockets.
“What’s the plan, then?” Tomašis asked.
“Not sure yet. Cam wants to torch the vardo with the old woman inside it, but Silas won’t go for it. He’s still pushing for the match with the half-face. She’ll need a husband after their rut, and the diddicoy is gone.” The boys paused at the edge of the roots, boot to boot, and Tomašis glanced from the river to the trees and back to Brishen. His fingers worried at the seams of his trousers, his weight bouncing from foot to foot.
Brishen eyed him. “Something wrong? It’s as if you have ants crawling on you.”
“No, nothing wrong. I wanted you to see what they did to me is all. Come where there’s better light.” Tomašis stepped over one of the thickest roots, bringing Brishen into my enchanted patch of ground.
“Go. Take Brishen only. Leave Tomašis alone,” I commanded. The roots exploded to life. They erupted in a frenzy of churning dirt, the thickest ones waving like the tentacles of a subterranean beast. Both Brishen and Tomašis screamed, trying to fumble their way out of the area. Tomašis was aided by the roots—two midsized ones nudged him to safety. But the largest roots caught Brishen around the waist and hauled him into the writhing mess. Thinner roots wound around his arms and legs, jerking him off the ground and dangling him like a helpless doll.
“Hold,” I commanded. They stilled, but not before squeezing Brishen hard enough that his eyes bulged.
I stepped out from behind the tree. He was three feet off the ground and tilted forward, his stomach parallel to the ground. Seeing the hem of my skirt swishing his way, he lifted his head, and on some level, it pleased me to see his face blanch.
“Let me go.”
“No.”
He shouted for help, and I pulled the big knife from my apron to flash it under his eye. His scream was a piglike squeal. It suited him—his nose, the roundness of his cheeks, and the flush of his skin. Brishen was a pig, and pigs made piggy noises.
Some feet away, Tomašis whimpered. He was in crab position, his weight supported by both feet and hands, but otherwise he looked unharmed, if not a little scared.
“Are you hurt?”
“No,” he managed. “I’m fine.”
Brishen thrashed inside the roots’ grip. “Tomašis, get help. Get my father. Get Silas or the chieftain.”
“Tomašis doesn’t go get help, Brishen. He leaves people to their fates, whether they’re diddicoy who are beaten to death or girls who are abused. Don’t you remember?” I slapped the flat of the blade against his cheek to punctuate the point.
He reared away from me, slamming his eyes closed. “You can’t have it! You can’t have my eye!” he screamed.
“I don’t want your eye.” I crouched low, so we were nose to nose, and waited. After a long, silent moment, he dared to peek at me, promptly changing tack and trying to stare me down. I never flinched, not when he snarled, not when he spat and struck my apron with his sputum. I would not break, and in the end, he was the one to look away first.
I reached up to squeeze his cheeks with my gloved fingers, grabbing his jaw and forcing him to look Tomašis’s way. “Tomašis admitted his wrongs. For it, he gets the privilege of staying among us. Not you. You’ll bleed and then you’ll leave. I’m banishing you forever. No family unless yours goes with you.”
“The chieftain,” he said, the words muffled from my hold.
“The chieftain will let me because his son has my blood on his hands.”
Brishen screamed for help again, and I smacked him atop the head with the knife flat, growing irritable when he wouldn’t quiet. “They can’t hear you. We’re too far from camp.” He didn’t stop, his voice shredding through the grove.
Tomašis groaned behind me, like he, too, was pained. For all I knew he was—from fever.
I waved in the direction of the caravan. “Go home and take care of your eye. Say nothing to anyone.”
He didn’t have to be told twice. He found his feet and ran, as fast as he’d run from the field that night. Brishen called after him, pleading for him to send help, but Tomašis never spared him a glance. He was too busy putting distance between himself and the impending horror. He was too busy saving himself once again.
“Coward!” Brishen hissed, his voice raw.
“He is a coward, Brishen. A terrible coward, but it might not be such a bad thing. It’s what saved him, after all.”
I stepped away from Brishen. Fear made him wheeze, and as he strained against the roots even harder, balling his hands into fists inside their constraints, the veins in his temples throbbed purple. The roots hadn’t loosened their grip, nor would they as long as I held them in my power.
It was satisfying to see Brishen’s big body so helpless, but I didn’t want to look at him anymore. I found him revolting. I eyed the roots near my feet. The big ones were too big for delicate work, but the small ones were strong and thin and could hold open his swine maw for me.
“Open the mouth wide. Do not pull too far or you’ll kill him.”
Brishen looked confused—his gaze swung around, searching with red-rimmed eyes for whomever I spoke to—but he understood better when the roots pulled his limbs taut to either side of his body and tilted him forward, belly down. He answered with more screams, more futile struggle. Two thinner tendrils snaked up over his chest, crawling along his neck and jaw like hairy serpents. Brishen snapped his lips together in defiance, but the roots were finely pointed and strong. They pried his lips apart, worming inside and coiling along the roof of his mouth and on his tongue.
The roots flexed, pulling, and Brishen’s nostrils flared. But they did their work. His mouth was held open, so I could have my due.
I approached, fishing into the pocket of my apron for the pliers. I stopped a hair’s breadth from Brishen’s quivering frame, the first doubt niggling at me. Gran had taken the eye, and that had been her sin, not mine. It had been on her soul, not mine. This would be the first tithe I’d taken myself. I couldn’t give it back. I couldn’t undo it. All the rivers in the world might not be able to wash that stain away.
But what is left to salvage after Silas’s attack?
And what of Martyn?
It was the memory of Martyn’s face—not the handsome, smiling one from market, but the pulpy, bruised one from the field—that spurred me on. Without the tithe, he would not see his breath restored, and a tooth was just a tooth. It would not kill Brishen to lose one.
It would have been hypocrisy to shirk my own duty in the face of my fear.
I forced the pliers inside Brishen’s open mouth and up the top row of teeth, stopping at the center right one. The tooth was white and straight and perfect, and I guided the long nose of the pliers around it, clamping down on the enamel. As I began rocking the tooth in the socket, Brishen screamed. I kept wiggling the pliers back and forth, loosening the tooth from the pink flesh of the gums one hard pull at a time. The task was far more laborious than I’d anticipated, and I ended up using the knife to cut into his gum above the tooth to get at the root. The drool rolling down his chin went from clear to red in short order—my borrowed gloves were slick with his fluids. Brishen shrieked and whimpered, his face red and his shirt smeared with his own spit, but I continued working him over.
Finally, the tooth was loose enough for me to twist. I gave it one last hard tug, and it popped from the socket. Both my hand and my pliers were so wet they flew from my grasp to land some f
eet away. The hungry roots crawled for them, eager to consume the piece of man, but I kicked them away and swooped in for my prize, cradling it inside my palm.
The tooth was more red than white, the top portion stringy with bits of Brishen’s flesh.
It’s done.
It’s done. It’s done. It’s donedonedone….
Gran would have relished this moment, Brishen’s pathetic mewls and bloodied spit evidence of a victory, but for me, collecting the tithe had been an unpleasant necessity. My muscles were tense and my heart was racing, thanks to the adrenaline surging through my body. I braced for regret to slither its way into my belly, but it never came.
“You will go back to town. You will get tea from Gran to heal your tooth, and then you will gather your things and go. You will not return.”
Brishen’s body shifted inside the roots. It was drenched in sweat, and as he lifted his gaze my way, his eyes were full of fear and hate. It did not stir me. Nothing stirred me, not as my hand clasped around his tooth, not as I gestured at the roots.
“If you do not, I’ll feed you to them. They’re starving. They’ll rip you apart from the inside and feast on your innards.”
It didn’t matter if it was true or not. All that mattered was that he believed me, and when the roots shook him because I willed them to, he looked afraid. I wiped the blood from my blade on the apron and slid it back into the pocket along with the pliers and cat figurine.
“Release him,” I told the roots, and they dropped Brishen to the ground in a heap by my feet. He curled into a ball and looked up at me, his bottom lip trembling. His meaty fingers clasped the bottom of my skirt, wadding it up in his palms as he started to sob.
“Please,” he begged. “Mercy.”
My emotions simply weren’t there—no fear, no excitement, no satisfaction. Surely no mercy. I was a void. My stranger self had certainly made the task easier. I would continue to the next boy and hope that I didn’t lose my resolve.
“Gather your things and go. What mercy I had set with the blood moon.” I jerked my skirt from his grasp and walked away.
The Hollow Girl Page 14