Blood Sisters

by Paula Guran

  “It’s a boy,” Ariel said, half relieved, half disappointed.

  Zenna glanced at her, said nothing. Again she let go of her cousin’s hand and hunkered down. “He’s hurt,” she said. “They left him behind.”

  “He’s a boy,” Ariel said, in a voice that sounded to her like her aunt’s. Maybe she was shattering magic, but if the boy really was hurt, fairy tales were no good for him.

  You can’t be too careful… you can …

  Ariel went to the boy and touched him. He uttered a sigh and shuddered. He reminded her of a wounded dog, but it was too dark here to look for injuries. “We should take him back,” she said.

  “Into our house?” Zenna sounded afraid, and for once Ariel felt older and more confident and capable than her cousin.

  “We can’t just leave him here. He needs to be looked at … a doctor …”

  “We shouldn’t do that. They’ll come back for him. It would be stealing …”

  “Zenna!” Ariel sighed heavily. “Stop it. I don’t know what he’s doing here, but this lad is very much flesh and blood like us. Help me get him to his feet.”

  Ariel put her arms about the boy and tried to lift him. It surprised her how light he was, almost insubstantial. “He’s half starved,” she said.

  With clear reluctance, Zenna came to help. He didn’t resist them. He uttered soft whines, like a puppy. All the other sounds of the forest had faded away. For the briefest moment, Ariel thought how they might just have dragged this boy into the mundane world. Perhaps he didn’t belong in it. But this was just a fleeting thought.

  Maeve and Darn, and the doctor who came to inspect the boy, decided he must be a traveller lad, somehow separated from his people. He did have an injury, yes. He’d been shot in the thigh.

  “No doubt caught stealing from some farm,” the doctor said as she put away her things.

  Everyone was gathered in the small spare room at the top of the house; an attic full of light that remained golden-brown even when the sun shone right through the window. The boy lay on a narrow bed. He was dark of skin and hair, slight of form, more like an elf than a boy. No wonder Ariel and Zenna had been able to carry him home as if he were no more than a handful of leaves.

  “We’ll call the police,” Darn said.

  But Maeve said, “No.” She was Zenna’s mother after all, and perhaps the sight of this fey, dark creature affected parts of her that had been asleep for many years. “There’s no need for that. Not yet. Let him speak first.”

  The doctor had cleaned the boy’s wound and stitched him up. There was no bullet. It had gone right through him. No one spoke again of official things, such as hospitals and authorities. They lived right on the edge of the forest and things were different here.

  The boy slept for two whole days, and Maeve stayed with him, sitting by the narrow bed reading a book, or else curled up on the mattress that Darn had carried to the attic room. Zenna was often there too, frowning at the boy on the bed. No one really spoke about things, not even Zenna, although Ariel guessed her cousin’s head was full of unspoken thoughts. It was as if they were all waiting for something. The weather became hotter and all around the Green House was a narcotic humid atmosphere that slowed movement, that stilled voices.

  Ariel found sleep difficult during that time. At night, she lay awake breathing quickly, listening to the soft pound of her heart, her ears straining for other sounds. In particular, her senses extended upwards, out through wood and slate, to the roof. I am too many people, she thought. She wasn’t sure what was real; the sort of world where common sense held sway or the sort where you could run so fast you could flash into another world. She sensed nothing on the roof, and in some ways that worried her more than if she’d felt the opposite.

  On the morning of the third day, the boy opened his dark eyes and for some time lay staring at the ceiling. Maeve heard him sigh and put down her book. It was as if an invisible call shuddered through the Green House and everyone who lived there was drawn to the attic so that by the time Maeve murmured softly, “Who are you?” Zenna, Ariel and Darn were in the room also.

  The boy looked at Maeve and there was no expression in his eyes that Ariel could interpret. If anything, he just looked resigned.

  “Water,” Maeve said and Darn brought a cup of it to the boy. They held his head so that he could drink, and he did so.

  Zenna flicked a glance at her cousin, and Ariel was able interpret what it meant. Maybe we shouldn’t be giving him that. But both girls remained silent. He was drinking. Perhaps he needed it after all.

  “Can you remember anything?” Maeve asked the boy.

  He shook his head very slightly, still looking at her.

  Maeve smiled at her husband. At least the boy could understand them. “You were hurt,” she said. “Everything will be all right. Don’t worry. We’ll help you.”

  “What’s your name?” Darn asked.

  The boy shook his head.

  “Where are your people?” Darn continued, voice firm. “We’ll need to find them.”

  Now the boy looked cornered, eyes wider, gaze flicking from the window to the door.

  “Stop that,” Maeve said. “He’s only just woken up. Give him time, Darn.” She stroked the boy’s hair, hushed him as you would a baby. “It’s all right. Nothing to fear. I’ll bring you some soup.” She stood up. “Help me, Zenna.”

  The family left the room, leaving only Ariel behind. No one had noticed she’d stayed back or that she hadn’t been given a job to do. She wanted to tell the boy she was only a visitor too, but what was the point of speaking? She could sense it displeased him. So she sat down on the chair where Maeve had sat for the past few days and began to hum a tune. She closed her eyes and made the tune green and cool, like the forest depths.

  She heard a soft sound, like water running over stones. It was the boy’s laugh. “We can speak,” he said, hardly more than whisper, “but only when it’s needed. And we rarely answer questions.”

  Ariel opened her eyes and stared at him. “This is a question you must answer,” she said. “Will your people come for you?”

  “I’m not lost,” he replied. He would not speak again that day.

  Everyone knows that if you bring a changeling child into your home, or some creature of the otherworld, the otherness rubs off. It drifts like pollen through the still, summer rooms, and what were once just shadows take on feet and walk.

  It was inevitable that Zenna was most affected by what had happened. Ariel felt she was destined only to be a witness to whatever transpired, nor would she affect the inevitable outcome in any way. She told herself firmly not to lie awake listening for sounds on the roof, because there wouldn’t be any. She must not be infected by Zenna’s feyness. The boy himself was like the summer light of the forest, sometimes green-gold sunlight, sometimes almost invisible in shadow. They named him Jack, because he would not tell them any other name. Most of the time it was easy to believe he was just a boy, separated from his family, but then his wound healed so quickly. After only a couple more days he was back on his feet. He did the chores that Maeve asked him to do without hesitation. He whistled to the geese that strutted around the pond, and they came to him, wings held out like arms. Maeve watched him from the kitchen window, smiling.

  Jack was quiet, inhumanly so, but no trouble. He kept himself busy, and did not interact with the girls particularly, other than to nod his head in greeting should he come across them. Zenna could not keep her eyes off him. She speculated about him continually; it was naturally the topic that consumed her, and Ariel mostly played along because Jack interested her also. She just didn’t want to think he was anything but a stray, albeit an intriguing one.

  Every afternoon, they would sit by the pond and Zenna would talk about Jack. “He walks in daylight, he eats the food we eat,” she said one day, clearly perplexed. “I had thought they would be white as ghosts, like moon people, but he is dark like the trees.”

  “Maybe that’s becaus
e he isn’t a vampire,” Ariel had to say.

  Zenna tossed her an annoyed glance. “I don’t know why I bother telling you things. You just strip the magic out of everything, so the world will never be like that for you. How can you possibly think he’s just a normal boy? Look at him.”

  Jack was stacking logs he had just chopped in the shadow of a shed attached to the house. Ariel could see nothing abnormal in his behavior or movements. “He’s a gypsy boy,” she said.

  “But what does he want with us?” Zenna continued, ignoring that response. “He’s not spoken of his people or even questioned what he’s doing here. He simply is, part of our lives now, living here amongst us. I wonder if we’re foolish.”

  “He’s fed well, he’s got new clothes, and probably has a better life,” Ariel said. “If he was thieving when he got shot, he’s not going to tell us about that, is he?”

  “He could steal from us, but he hasn’t,” Zenna said. “He could take everything we own and run away and sell it. But he stays, and chops logs, and does what Ma asks him.”

  “Then it’s because that’s what he wants. Perhaps he likes it here.”

  “No, he’s just waiting,” Zenna said firmly.

  “Then why don’t you just ask him what for?” Ariel asked, somewhat tartly, because she was feeling impatient with her cousin. She didn’t think Zenna would do any such thing because Jack had an air about him that turned questions to stones in your throat. Even if you wanted to speak to him, and imagined it vividly, actually doing so was another matter.

  Zenna gave her cousin an arch glance and jumped to her feet. The geese were startled and bustled off, honking. Ariel watched Zenna walk to the shadow of the shed. She was a girl in a fairytale about to reach out to a wolf, about to prick herself on a deadly thorn, about to change the future. Ariel also got to her feet. She didn’t want to miss what might be said.

  She was still some feet away from the shed when Zenna said to Jack, “What are you waiting for?”

  Jack didn’t pause in his work; there wasn’t the slightest hesitation.

  “Well?” Zenna persisted. “It’s not that you can’t speak, it’s that you won’t. But you’re living here in our house, eating our food, sleeping in our attic, and I demand that you answer me.”

  Still there was no response. Zenna grabbed hold of Jack’s right arm and shook him. Ariel fully expected him to retaliate then, to bare his teeth in a snarl, to show a darker nature. All he did was cease working. He let Zenna shake him and when she had finished he turned to face her. He reached out with the arm she had grabbed and touched her, very lightly, with one finger just above the heart.

  Zenna shot backwards a couple of feet as if he had punched her. She staggered a little then fell on her back.

  Ariel couldn’t help uttering a cry. Jack looked at her for a moment, then carried on stacking the logs. “Tell her she cannot come,” he said.

  “What?” Ariel had heard the words very clearly. She didn’t know why she queried them.

  He walked away, round the side of the house.

  Zenna had scrambled to her feet. She ran past Ariel in the direction Jack had taken, but presently returned. “He’s gone,” she said. “What did he say to you?”

  “Are you all right, Zenna?” Ariel felt light-headed. The day no longer seemed quite so real.

  “Never mind that. What did he say?” Zenna rubbed her chest in the place where Jack had touched her.

  “He said to tell you that you cannot come. I don’t know what he meant.”

  Zenna frowned and pulled down the neck of her dress. “Did he mark me?” she asked.

  Ariel leaned forward. “Yes,” she said. There was a small mark on Zenna’s pale skin, in the shape of a crescent moon. He must have dug his fingernail into her, and yet the touch had appeared to be so light. “It’s just a scratch, I think. Not even that. What did it feel like?”

  “I can’t remember. I simply found myself on the ground.” Zenna shook her head. She didn’t appear to be upset about the incident, just puzzled. “Tell me now you think he’s just a boy,” she said.

  That night, very late, a wind came up from the east. The moon was nearly full, but the clouds rushed past her, didn’t pause to carry her like they sometimes did, edged in silver. The Green House creaked in the arms of the wind.

  Sitting sleepless by her bedroom window, looking out, Ariel realized that everything had a voice; houses, forests, wind, even, impossibly enough, silence. The wind was singing and Ariel knew what it meant. A song of searching, for the wind never stops, always going forward, asking: Who? Where? When? There were feathers in the wind, glowing white. It had its own wings. And in that moment, Ariel realized her true nature. Stubbornly refusing to believe in something did not make it go away. The world had a secret life and some people could see it. Perhaps her mother had.

  Then she saw them. Four of them. Down in the garden, among the rhododendrons, shapes in the dark. There were no glowing eyes, no vivid flash of white teeth, just shapes. They looked like beasts, crouched and waiting. They had come for Jack. He would leave now.

  In an instant, Ariel was on her feet. She ran out of her room and down the stairs and her feet made no sound. They didn’t even touch the stairs. Sure enough, Jack was in the kitchen and no one else was there. She had to ask a question. She couldn’t help herself. “Who are they?”

  “My father and his brothers,” Jack said. He opened the door to the garden, where the wind was hurrying past. “Will you come?”

  “Yes,” Ariel said. She took the hand he offered her.

  “It will be just this once,” Jack said. “Do you understand that?”

  “Yes.”

  Walking across the wind was difficult because it wanted them to go the way it was going. It seemed to take a long time to reach the other side of the garden. Jack’s hand was hot and dry. He was speaking in a language Ariel did not know, a constant sibilant murmur: “Ah kaya, hala, hala, mah kah nay.”

  Jack’s kin came out from the foliage, huge and sinuous. They were cats and yet not. They had golden hoops in their tufted ears, and manes that were plaited with feathers and beads. They stretched and groaned and rubbed around Jack. One of them looked at Ariel, and breathed upon her. Its breath was hot and moist. Ariel reached out and laid a hand upon the enormous dark head. It smelled of the earth. The animal raised a paw and then, with a swift and unexpected movement, slashed Ariel with its claws across the chest, above the heart, tearing right through her shirt. Ariel did not stagger back, nor felt any pain, but saw she was bleeding. Her blood looked black. She looked at the beast and let the questions fall from her eyes: Why? Had she not trusted? Had she not believed and so allowed the true sight to come to her?

  The cat reared up and then it was a man standing before her, dark and wild, a creature of the hidden places. “You can’t be too careful,” he said.

  Jack put a hand upon her shoulder. “It’s all right,” he said. “Let me, not him. His tongue is too rough.”

  So Ariel let him lick up her blood, which he did neatly, as a cat would savor a saucer of cream. These things were really happening to her, there might be no future, but she didn’t care. She was dreaming on her feet. Jack’s voice brought her out of her reverie.

  “You see, you’re fine. Now we can run.” He took her hand again.

  “Where?”

  “With the wind.”

  When she awoke in her bed, Ariel knew she was supposed to believe it had been all a dream. Then she would get out of bed and her feet would have soil between the toes, her legs would be scratched from brambles, there would be a wound above her heart from where a vampire had supped her blood. She lay in bed, breathing quickly. Above her, the ceiling was covered in sparkling motes that did not disappear when she blinked. She heard Maeve call her name. So she slipped from between the white sheets and looked down at her feet. They were clean. Perhaps he had licked them clean after he’d carried her to her bed, exhausted. It hadn’t been a dream. There were her cloth
es, thrown over a chair, and the shirt was torn and bloody. Ariel picked the shirt up and stuffed it into the back of the wardrobe, among dozens of pairs of old shoes that perhaps Maeve had worn, many years before. Ariel looked at her wounds; they were nearly healed. She hoped the scars would not vanish.

  The first words Maeve said to her downstairs were: “Have you seen Jack?”

  This was ridiculous. How could she? She’d been in bed. Ariel shook her head.

  Zenna came in from outside. She looked like someone lost. “He’s gone,” she said. “I know. They came for him.”

  Ariel could not look at her cousin. She was thinking of fast paws, galloping along the wind, of hot moist breath, of the time when true sight came to her and made it so that she could never be the same again.

  “You must be glad,” Zenna said to her. “Everything can be all normal again now.”

  “Stop it,” Maeve said. “He might be taking a walk.” But the tone in her voice showed she didn’t really believe that.

  How can you love someone who is so beyond all that is real it is impossible even to give them a name? If a person stands up in his real skin and shows you his real self, and you see it is not human, but something more beautiful and wondrous, even though it is potentially deadly, is that enough to change a life forever? But it is a fairy-tale, just words in the dark. How can you feel grief when that is taken from you?

  The women of the Green House were struck down by grief. Even the geese by the pond lay down and stretched out their necks, spread out their white wings in the grass.

  For a week Ariel was not entirely in the real world. The east wind had brought rain, dark and heavy, so that every day felt as if it was weeping. Ariel didn’t think about whether Jack and his people might come back for her or not. It was impossible to think about anything. She lived in memory alone, like walking through a gallery of pictures, studying each one, experiencing it, but without having any opinion. Her memories brought her great pleasure; her secrets. No one knew. No one suspected. Ariel was the sensible one. It was Zenna who would have strange things happen to her; be taken under the hill by the faery folk, and be allowed home for only six months of the year.