"How old were you when she died?” said Sara.
"It was in twenty-one, so I was fourteen. It was terrible.” Hedvig shook her head. “She died giving birth to Nils, your youngest great uncle. It was still common back then.”
Cilla fingered the skirt. Out in daylight, the red wool was bright and luxurious, like arterial blood. “What was she like?”
Hedvig patted the purse. “Märet was… a peculiar woman,” she said eventually.
"Was she really crazy?” Cilla said.
"Crazy? I suppose she was. She certainly passed something on. The curse, like Johann says. But that’s silly. She came here to help with harvest, you know, and she fell in love with your great-grandfather. He didn’t know much about her. No one did, except that she was from somewhere northeast of here.”
"I thought she came down from the mountain,” I said.
Hedvig smiled. “Yes, she would say that when she was in the mood.”
"What about those things, anyway?” Sara said. “Are they fairies?”
"What?” Hedvig gave her a blank look.
"The vittra,” Cilla filled in helpfully. “The ones that live on the mountain.”
"Eh,” said Hedvig. “Fairies are cute little things that prance about in meadows. The vittra look like humans, but taller and more handsome. And it’s inside the mountain, not on it.” She had brightened visibly, becoming more animated as she spoke. “There were always stories about vittra living up there. Sometimes they came down to trade with the townspeople. You had to be careful with them, though. They could curse you or kill you if you crossed them. But they had the fattest cows, and the finest wool, and beautiful silver jewelry. Oh, and they liked to dress in red.” Hedvig indicated the skirt Cilla had in her lap. “And sometimes they came to dance with the local young men and women, even taking one away for marriage. And when a child turned out to have nerve problems, they said it was because someone in the family had passed on vittra blood…”
"But did you meet any?” Sara blurted.
Hedvig laughed. “Of course not. There would be some odd folk showing up to sell their things in town, but they were mostly Norwegians or from those really small villages up north where everyone’s their own uncle.”
Sara burst out giggling.
"Auntie!” Mum looked scandalized.
Hedvig waved a hand at her. “I’m eighty-seven years old. I can say whatever I like.”
"But what about Märet?” Cilla leaned forward.
"Mother, yes.” Hedvig poured a new cup of coffee, arm trembling under the weight of the thermos. “She was a bit strange, I suppose. She really was tall for a woman, and she would say strange things at the wrong time, talk to animals, things like that. People would joke about vittra blood.”
"What do you think?” said Sara.
"I think she must have had a hard life, to run away from her family and never speak of them again.” Hedvig gently took the skirt from Cilla and folded it.
"But the red…”
Hedvig shook her head and smiled. “It was an expensive color back then. Saying someone wore red meant they were rich. This probably cost Märet a lot.” She put the clothes back in the cardboard box and closed it.
Cilla stayed up until she was sure everyone else had gone to bed. It took ages. Sara wrote in her journal until one o’ clock and then took some time to fall asleep, Robert Smith still whining in her ears.
The cardboard box was sitting on the kitchen sofa, the silk paper in a pile next to it. Cilla lifted the lid, uncovering red wool that glowed in the half-dawn. The shift and the skirt were too long and very tight around the stomach. She kept the skirt unbuttoned and rolled the waistline down, hoisting it so the hem wouldn’t trip her up. She tied the apron tight around her waist to hold everything up, and clipped the purse onto the apron string. The bodice was too loose on her flat chest and wouldn’t close at the waist, so she let it hang open and tied the shawl over her shoulders.
It was quiet outside, the horizon glowing an unearthly gold, the rest of the sky shifting in blue and green. The birds were quiet. The moon was up, a tiny crescent in the middle of the sky. The air was cold and wet; the grass swished against the skirt, leaving moisture pearling on the wool. Cilla could see all the way down to the lake and up to the mountain. She took her glasses off and put them in the purse. Now she was one of the vittra, coming down from the mountain, heading for the river. She was tall and graceful, her step quiet. She danced as she went, barefoot in the grass.
A sliver of sun peeking over the horizon broke the spell. Cilla’s feet were suddenly numb with cold. She went back into the house and took everything off again, fished her glasses out, and folded the clothes into the cardboard box. It was good wool; the dew brushed off without soaking into the skirt. When Cilla slipped into bed again, it was only a little past two. The linen was warm and smooth against the cold soles of her feet.
They returned to the family house the following day. Sara decided that wading through debris in the attic was stupid and sulked on a chair outside. Cilla spent the day writing more lists. She found more skis, some snowshoes, a cream separator, dolls, a half-finished sofa bed, and a sewing table that was in almost perfect condition.
Johann showed up in the afternoon. Martin and Otto seemed to think he was going to make a scene, because they walked out and met him far down the driveway. Eventually they returned, looking almost surprised, with Johann walking beside them, his hands clasped behind his back. When Cilla next saw him, he had sat down in a chair next to Sara. Sara had a shirtsleeve over her nose and mouth, but she was listening to him talk with rapt attention. Johann left again soon after. Sara wouldn’t tell Cilla what they’d spoken about, but her eyes were a little wider than usual, and she kept knocking things over.
When they returned to Hedvig’s house, Sara decided to try on Märet’s dress. On her, the skirt wasn’t too long or too tight; it cinched her waist just so, ending neatly at her ankle. The bodice fit like it was tailor-made for her as well, tracing the elegant tapering curve of her back from shoulder to hip. She looked like she’d just stepped out of a story. It made Cilla’s chest feel hollow.
Sara caught her gaze in the mirror and made a face. “It looks stupid.” She plucked at the skirt. “The red is way too bright. I wonder if you could dye it black? Because that would look awesome.”
Cilla looked at her own reflection, just visible beyond Sara’s red splendor. She was short and barrel-shaped, eyes tiny behind her glasses. There were food stains on her sweater. “You look stupid,” she managed.
Mum was scrubbing potatoes in the kitchen when Cilla came downstairs.
"Who’s getting the dress, Mum? Because Sara wants to dye it black.”
"Oh ho?” said Mum. “Probably not, because it’s not hers.”
"Can I have it?” Cilla shifted her weight from foot to foot. “I wouldn’t do anything to it.”
"No, love. It belongs to Hedvig.”
"But she’s old. She won’t use it.”
Mum turned and gave Cilla a long look, eyebrows low. “It belonged to her mother, Cilla. How would you feel if you found my wedding dress, and someone gave it away to some relative instead?”
"She has everything else,” Cilla said. “I don’t have anything from great-gran.”
"I’m sure we can find something from the house,” said Mum. “But not the dress. It means a lot to Hedvig. Think of someone else’s feelings for a change.”
Sara came down a little later with the same request. Mum yelled at her.
Maybe it was because of Mum’s outburst, but Sara became twitchier as the evening passed on. Finally she muttered something about going for a walk and shrugged into her jacket. Cilla hesitated a moment and then followed.
"Fuck off,” Sara muttered without turning her head when Cilla came running after her.
"No way,” said Cilla. Sara sighed and rolled her eyes. She increased her pace until Cilla had to half-jog to keep up. They said nothing until they came down to the lake�
�s shore, a stretch of rounded river stones that made satisfying billiard-ball noises under Cilla’s feet.
Sara sat down on one of the larger rocks and dug out a soft ten-pack of cigarettes. She shook one out and lit it. “Tell Mum and I’ll kill you.”
"I know.” Cilla sat down next to her. “Why are you being so weird? Ever since you talked to Johann.”
Sara took a drag on her cigarette and blew the smoke out through her nose. She shrugged. Her eyes looked wet. “He made me understand some things, is all.”
"Like what?”
"Like I’m not crazy. Like none of us are.” She looked out over the lake. “We should stay here. Maybe we’d survive.” Her eyes really were wet now. She wiped at them with her free hand.
Cilla felt cold trickle down her back. “What are you on about?”
Sara rubbed her forehead. “You have to promise not to tell anyone, because if you tell anyone bad stuff will happen, okay? Shit is going to happen just because I’m telling you. But I’ll tell you because you’re my little sis.” She slapped a quick rhythm on her thigh. “Okay. So it’s like this—the world is going to end soon. It’s going to end in ninety-six.”
Cilla blinked. “How would you know?”
"It’s in the newspapers, if you look. The Gulf War, yeah? That’s when it started. Saddam Hussein is going to take revenge and send nukes, and then the U.S. will nuke back, and then Russia jumps in. And then there’ll be nukes everywhere, and we’re dead. Or we’ll die in the nuclear winter, ’cause they might not nuke Sweden, but there’ll be nothing left for us.” Sara’s eyes were a little too wide.
"Okay,” Cilla said, slowly. “But how do you know all this is going to happen?”
"I can see the signs. In the papers. And I just… know. Like someone told me. The twenty-third of February in ninety-six, that’s when the world ends. I mean, haven’t you noticed that something’s really really wrong?”
Cilla dug her toe into the stones. “It’s the opposite.”
"What?” There was no question mark to Sara’s tone.
"Something wonderful,” Cilla said. Her cheeks were hot. She focused her eyes on her toe.
"You’re a fucking idiot.” Sara turned her back, demonstratively, and lit a new cigarette.
Cilla never could wait her out. She walked back home alone.
On midsummer’s eve, they had a small feast. There was pickled herring and new potatoes, smoked salmon, fresh strawberries and cream, spiced schnapps for Mum and Hedvig. It was past ten when Cilla pulled on Sara’s sleeve.
"We have to go pick seven kinds of flowers,” she said.
Sara rolled her eyes. “That’s kid stuff. I have a headache,” she said, standing up. “I’m going to bed.”
Cilla remained at the table with her mother and great-aunt, biting her lip.
Mum slipped an arm around her shoulder. “Picking seven flowers is an old, old tradition,” she said. “There’s nothing silly about it.”
"I don’t feel like it anymore,” Cilla mumbled.
Mum chuckled gently. “Well, if you change your mind, tonight is when you can stay up for as long as you like.”
"Just be careful,” said Hedvig. “The vittra might be out and about.” She winked conspiratorially at Cilla.
At Hedvig’s dry joke, Cilla suddenly knew with absolute certainty what she had been pining for, that wonderful something waiting out there. She remained at the table, barely able to contain her impatience until Mum and Hedvig jointly decided to go to bed.
Mum kissed Cilla’s forehead. “Have a nice little midsummer’s eve, love. I’ll leave the cookies out.”
Cilla made herself smile at her mother’s patronizing remark, and waited for the house to go to sleep.
She had put the dress on right this time, as well as she could, and clutched seven kinds of flowers in her left hand—buttercup, clover, geranium, catchfly, bluebells, chickweed, and daisies. She stood at the back of the house, on the slope facing the mountain. It was just past midnight, the sky a rich blue tinged with green and gold. The air had a sharp and herbal scent. It was very quiet.
Cilla raised her arms. “I’m ready,” she whispered. In the silence that followed, she thought she could hear snatches of music. She closed her eyes and waited. When she opened them again, the vittra had arrived.
They came out from between the pine trees, walking in pairs, all dressed in red and white: the women wore red skirts and shawls and the men long red coats. Two of them were playing the fiddle, a slow and eerie melody in a minor key.
A tall man walked at the head of the train, dressed entirely in white. His hair was long and dark and very fine. There was something familiar about the shape of his face and the translucent blue of his eyes. For a moment, those eyes stared straight into Cilla’s. It was like receiving an electric shock; it reverberated down into her stomach. Then he shifted his gaze and looked beyond her to where Sara was standing wide-eyed by the corner of the house in her oversized sleeping t-shirt. He walked past Cilla without sparing her another glance.
The beautiful man from the mountain approached Sara where she stood clutching the edge of the rain barrel. He put a hand on her arm and said something to her that Cilla couldn’t hear. Whatever it was, it made Sara’s face flood with relief. She took his hand, and they walked past Cilla to the rest of the group. The fiddle players started up their slow wedding march, and the procession returned to the mountain. Sara never looked back.
Cilla told them that Sara must have taken the dress, that she herself had gone to bed not long after the others. She told them of Sara’s doomsday vision and her belief that she could tell the future by decoding secret messages in the newspaper. When the search was finally abandoned, the general opinion was that Sara had had a bout of psychotic depression and gone into the wild, where she had either fallen into a body of water or died of exposure somewhere she couldn’t be found. Up there, you can die of hypothermia even in summer. Cilla said nothing of the procession, or of the plastic bag in her suitcase where Märet’s dress lay cut into tiny strips.
She kept the bag for a long time.
Domestic Magic
Steve Rasnic Tem and Melanie Tem
Steve Rasnic Tem and Melanie Tem’s [www.m-s-tem.com] collaborations include the multi-genre story collection In Concert and the award-winning novella and novel The Man on the Ceiling. They are past winners of the Bram Stoker, British Fantasy, and World Fantasy awards. Melanie Tem is also a published poet, an oral storyteller, and several of her plays have been produced. Steve Rasnic Tem’s latest books include the novel Deadfall Hotel, and the collections Ugly Behavior and Onion Songs
Felix didn’t hate his mother, but got so mad at her so often she probably thought he did. Sometimes his anger scared him, that she might be right when she said thoughts could make things happen.
That was what made him so mad—that she said and believed ridiculous stuff and she almost got him believing it, too. And she didn’t take care of Margaret right. Why’d they have to get a mother like her?
He’d skipped school again today to run errands with her. She’d never ask him to miss school, she was worried he’d get behind like she had when she was a kid. But she just let him do it. What kind of mother let her son skip school? Wasn’t that against the law? What kind of mother made her son worry about her so much he didn’t want her leaving the house without him? At his age you were supposed to be thinking about friends and music and video games and sex, not whether your mother was capable of crossing the street by herself or taking care of your little sister. He was almost grown now; it was too late for him. But Margaret was little.
He couldn’t remember his mom ever saying no. He was the good kid, which was kind of sickening but it was easier than doing stuff that made his mother cry and chant and cook weird stuff in the Crock-pot that stank up whatever crappy apartment or homeless shelter they were living in at the moment.
Margaret was not a good kid. Felix tried to tell her what to do because somebody had to, but
she just ignored him or laughed or threw a fit. When she was a baby she’d cried all the time because her world wasn’t perfect, and Mom had fussed and worried and chanted and rubbed goop on her chest and the soles of her feet.
When Margaret had started crawling and toddling she got into everything, Mom’s stuff and Felix’s stuff, dangerous stuff and stuff you didn’t want ruined. One time because of a hunch he looked into the dirty playroom of the shelter and she was coloring in his school books, copying one of Mom’s so-called secret designs over and over again in the margins, crossing out words and underlining other ones, and he had to pay for the books. Another time when they lived in a studio apartment he had a feeling and found her on a chair reaching into a cabinet and dipping into Mom’s jars of herbs and tinctures and sticking her fingers into her mouth, and he grabbed her and yelled at her and she threw up all over everything.
Mom would explain why she shouldn’t do whatever she’d just done, and Margaret listened and then did the same thing again or worse because now she had more information. Felix yelled at her but it didn’t make any difference. The minute she’d started talking she’d been whining, sassing, lying, chanting, telling you her dreams whether you wanted to hear about them or not, which he didn’t.
So he had a crazy mother and a bratty sister who was probably crazy, too. It was like living with aliens. Everywhere else Felix felt like the alien, but he was the most normal one in this family, which was scary.
Mom patted his shoulder and said in order for powers to be most efficacious we have to meet people where they are and not wish they were somebody else. What about somebody meeting him where he was for a change? The only thing Felix ever got from his mother’s advice was knowing what words like “efficacious” meant in case they showed up on some standardized test.
The Best Science Fiction and Fantasy of the Year, Volume 7 Page 66