The Waking Forest

by Alyssa Wees

  “The anxiety may never go away, but you’ll learn how to manage it.” I put my arm around her shoulders, startled again by her unfamiliar warmth. “And it’s not too late, you know.”

  She drops her hands away from her eyes. “What do you mean?”

  “I could give you my magic. I mean, not all of it, not right away. I’ll give you a little bit every day, and that way it’ll have time to regenerate and I’ll never really lose any. My magic is different from yours, but wouldn’t it be fun to design your own dreams? The only thing is, you have to promise to always wake up.”

  “I promise,” she says, smiling a little. “But are you sure? It might hurt.”

  I smile. “I don’t mind if you don’t.”

  “I’ll think about it.” She hugs me tight. “Thank you, Rhea.”

  Raisa comes over to us then, wearing her mask, with Renata and Gabrielle at her side. Dad reappears, followed by a slew of guards and advisors, a mix of humans and maculae and chimeras.

  “Well, what do we do now?” Raisa says as we watch the fizzling embers melt what’s left of the crystal castle. “That palace was super ugly anyway.”

  The crowd has quieted, glancing around eagerly, anxiously. They look to my family gathered on the palace steps, to Dad standing, straight and proud, next to Mom. The silver tattoo on Dad’s arm glows as he steps seamlessly into the role he was destined for his whole life.

  Looking out, I spot Varon walking back toward us, skirting around the edges of the gathering, the tops of the tall, straight buildings glinting in the fresh sunlight. His hair hangs limply in his lowered eyes, and there is a ring around each of his pale wrists, red and oddly shiny. There’s one around his neck too, and I would do anything to make it disappear, to take it back.

  At least we are both alive.

  We are both awake.

  Look up, look up at me, I think, but he keeps his gaze on the ground, winding carefully through the crowd.

  “Wait,” I say, grabbing Dad’s arm as he turns to the assembly to speak. “Let me.”

  Immediately he nods and puts a gentle hand on my back, pushing me a few steps forward, as though all along, he’s been waiting for me to take hold of this moment.

  The air is over-warm and everything is bright—the towers, the sky, the eyes blinking back at me. Shay lingers nearby, and I smell wood, trees, rich and loamy. Raising my voice, my chin, my drooping, tired heart, I speak loudly and surely.

  “Listen,” I say. “I have an idea.”

  Varon looks up, right at me. He grins.

  I smile. “We can dream a new dream, together.”

  The castle, the throne, the altar, the glade where the Witch danced and where the Fox Who Is No Fox told her a most peculiar fairy story—it’s all still there, though cracked and gutted. The children too still come at night and wander the crumbled corridors with unwound walls of branches; they stare at the fractured altar and the decaying throne, every one of them wondering where their Witch has gone. They fall into nightmare despair now that it seems their wishes will never ever be granted. They are there, watching and waiting for the Witch to come home.

  The children are looking in the wrong place. That world is in ruins, and the Witch has no plans ever to return there. But that does not mean they will never see her again. They just have to look a little harder.

  From the other side of a dream, she calls out to them. The lost children turn their eyes to the blank white sky, their hollow moon-rock hearts beating very, very fast.

  She says, I’m here.

  She says, I’m waiting.

  She says, Come find me.

  * * *

  —

  “Stop fidgeting, please, or you’ll have clown lips,” Raisa snaps, leaning over me with a tube of lipstick as I sit in front of her. “Do you want clown lips, or witch lips?”

  “ ’Itch ’ips,” I say, trying to speak without moving my lips.

  “Hurry up, or she’s going to be late,” Rose says, sitting on the end of my bed across the room, her ballet-slippered feet tapping against the wood floor.

  “It’s not like she hasn’t done this a thousand times already.” Raisa carefully traces the center dip in my upper lip, her eyes shielded behind the veil she wears so that she doesn’t accidentally turn us into shadows; the veil is a thick gauze that she can see out of but that we can’t see through. I offer to keep my eyes closed while she works so that she can remove the veil, but she refuses.

  “One accidental peek, and you’re a goner!” she reminds me. “Remember how long it took to un-shadow Gabby after my veil blew off in the wind during what was supposed to be a romantic moonlit walk? Who would un-shadow you if that happened?”

  I can think of one other person who knows that kind of magic, but Raisa is still painting my lips, and I don’t dare to speak.

  “Mom could do it,” Renata chimes, skipping suddenly into the room, her wet hair dripping onto the floor. “She’s been practicing.”

  “Practicing?” Raisa snorts. “More like showing off. She uses magic for every stupid little thing when Dad’s around.”

  “Well, and can you blame her?” Rose says. “She spent her whole life up until now having to hide it. As long as Dad keeps being impressed by it, she’ll probably keep doing it.”

  “Whatever,” Raisa says, and rolls her eyes. I mean, I’m only assuming she rolls them, since I can’t actually see her eyes, but there’s a fairly good chance I’m right.

  Ren and Rose continue to gossip about Mom and Dad, about how yesterday Renata caught them kissing behind a tree like some giggling teenagers, and how Dad, when he’s not seeing to his kingly duties, keeps trying to out-riddle the sphinxes, making them laugh with weird dad jokes that they, for some reason, find hilarious.

  When Raisa’s done with me a few minutes later, I take a look in the mirror. I smack my lips, rubbing them together over and over. Black orchid, a deep amaranthine gloss that makes my hair and eyes appear brighter. Just the way I like them.

  “You look like a dream,” Rose says, smiling at me. It’s weird, weird and wonderful, that my magic now flows through her veins too. Some nights, we sneak away in our sleeping minds and design all kinds of fantastical dreamscapes where everything is beautiful just by being.

  With a sweep of her arm, Raisa presents me to the room. “Her Royal Highness, Princess Rhea the Dreamer, Who Messed Everything Up but Then Made Things Pretty Okay Again.”

  “Wow, such high praise,” I say, pinching her arm. “Thank you.”

  “Um, ow.”

  “Okay, that did not hurt.”

  “I’m going to tell on you!” She bolts across the room toward the door, her veil sliding to one side of her head. “This’ll give Mom a chance to practice her punishment magic!”

  “Don’t you dare!” I chase after her, my red tulle skirt swishing around my knees. My other sisters follow, all of us laughing and tumbling down the hall, past a dozen empty bedrooms that once were full. All of the orphans of the Forest Forgotten have found homes, and though I know I once promised they could live in the castle with me, I think they’re happiest right where they are now. Past the last bedroom, we descend the spiral stairs to the first floor, careful to keep our clothes from snagging on the twig walls.

  We go down the steps and through the corridors, passing the ballroom with an open ceiling showing the freckly sky and the round warts of the seven moons. Then out the doors, through the crossed-bone portcullis and across the moat, where Renata can often be found during the day, lounging in the sun. Into the trees and down the path that leads to the glade, where there are many other paths that will lead to many more homes, custom-designed by the ones who live there.

  I sprint and skip and laugh with my sisters down the path through Graiae Forest, the air warm and windy, and call hello to a startled group of sylphs as we flash by. Around an
other curve in the path, we reach the glade where Mom and Dad and Shay and most everyone in the forest has gathered, sitting on the soft grass in front of my carved molar throne. Raisa walks straight to Gabrielle, who is near the front of the endless assembly and is visible tonight in her human skin instead of her bright orange fox form. Renata smiles at a group of young men shrugging together like maybe it’s a little uncool to be here but they want to stay anyway. Rose shakes her head and pulls Renata away, but not before my youngest sister blows the boys a kiss, stunning them into silence. After midnight there will be dancing, dancing until the sun rises in the east, led by Rose, who has been giving lessons during the day to anyone who wants them.

  But first, this: it is time for me to be the Witch.

  Interspersed with the forest folk are the ones who have come from other worlds, from every world that has ever existed, in space, in time, in someone’s mind. They look at the pointed turrets poking above the treetops in the distance, gaping at the revelry of shadows leaping over the faces of the strange and marvelous creatures surrounding them.

  I give them time to stare, to take it all in, while I search the swarm for the one familiar face I haven’t spotted yet, the one who is always, always there, even on the bad days. Especially on the bad days.

  As much as I wish I could, I can’t erase the things Varon has had to go through up to this point: the year of servitude, losing his parents, being lost in Darkness. I can’t magic away the erratic quaking of his hands that occasionally overcomes him now that it’s all over; I can’t cast a curse to banish his fevered nightmares, or the unpredictable anger that spurts to the surface, or the disengaged dullness that steals over his features for hours at a time. I can only hold his hand as he shivers so violently that I fear he might shatter, or kiss his closed eyes as he struggles to sleep again after a bad dream, or sit quietly beside him in the darkest part of the woods until he comes back around to himself. Sometimes we stay there all day, deep in the forest; we’re a little bit afraid of it, the dark, but we go there anyway. Again and again and again.

  Lately, though, he’s been spending every morning working on a secret surprise project in an undisclosed location somewhere nearby. I have a hunch it might be this: a house with no attic, just big enough for two.

  Actually, it’s more than a hunch; I have fox eyes all over these woods.

  With relief I finally see him, hovering at the very back of the gathering, leaning against a tree. He watches me, his arms crossed over his chest, his black hair blown into his face by the breeze. When our eyes meet, he speaks.

  And I hear him, I do, even all the way over here. Across the glade he shouts, “The sky is stunning tonight!”

  “Do you think I can catch a star later?” I say, but only so he can hear, a voice-throwing spell. “Do you think he’ll ask me to dance?”

  His voice comes back, softly, as he uses my same spell. I see his lips move, and then, right in my ear: “I do.”

  I blush. I don’t know much, but I do know this: I am an inhale. And he—he is an exhale. And we will always be together, each of us right behind the other, linked, until the very last breath.

  Blushing still, I look out at the children, and the adults too—because adults and almost-adults, I’ve decided, need wishes just as much as children do. They’ll all get their wishes, soon enough. But before they eat of the rose in my heart, I have something else I’ve begun to do. Something to tell them.

  I am the Witch of Wishes, but I am also the Witch of Words. Of stories.

  Well—one story in particular.

  I say, “Would you like to hear a fairy story?”

  I use my narrator voice, which is a little deeper, a little wiser-sounding than my regular voice. It’s my Witch voice, my moon voice, a voice to entice even the stars clear across the universe to twitch, to itch, to tiptoe close. So close that suddenly the night looks almost identical to the day, overbright.

  I say, “All right. I’ll tell you. But be warned: fairy story is a misnomer. There aren’t any fairies in it, you see. But there is a princess, and a curse, and a king, and a prince, and a future queen, and a gray gorgon, and a nymph, and a bright girl with bright magic. There are foxes and sphinxes and manticores. There is darkness and sleeping and magic and light, lots of light. There’s an attic and a castle and screams that put together what has been torn apart. There’s foolishness and laughter and love. Speaking of love—there’s also a boy, a great necromancer. He has many names, some of which are long forgotten, and others that no one will ever dare to forget. Oh—and there’s a witch. Still want to hear my tale, a fairy story that is no fairy story at all?”

  I smile: at the eager children, at the boy across the way, at the listening stars, at my sisters and my parents and my friends gathering around the glade to hear my tale, a tale about all of them. And about me too.

  I say, “Let’s start with the Witch in the Woods.”

  Acknowledgments

  If a book is a wish, it takes more than one witch to make it come true! My deepest gratitude to all who had a part in granting it.

  In particular, I want to thank my agent, Penelope Burns, for championing me and my work from the beginning and guiding me through the writing and publishing processes. I would be truly lost without you! My editor, Monica Jean, for taking my vision for this book and making it the best it could possibly be. I’m forever grateful for the chance you’ve given me to put Rhea and her strange dreams out into the world. And everyone at Delacorte Press and Random House, for all the hard work behind the magic that made this book a reality, including but not limited to Barbara Marcus, Beverly Horowitz, Felicia Frazier, Becky Green, Kimberly Langus, Richard Vallejo, Tim Mooney, Carol Monteiro, Ray Shappell, Leo Nickolls, Jaclyn Whalen, Colleen Fellingham, Alison Kolani, Tamar Schwartz, Tracy Heydweiller, Elena Meuse, Dominique Cimina, John Adamo, Elizabeth Ward, Lisa Nadel, Adrienne Waintraub, and Shaughnessy Miller.

  Thank you to the many teachers and professors who have inspired and encouraged me over the years. And especially to my Columbia College cohort, for sharing your stories and pushing me to be a better writer. I’m so fortunate to be part of such an awesome, talented group.

  To my coworkers and friends at the Barrington Area Library, for your endless enthusiasm for books in general and this book in particular, and for making every day at work so much fun.

  To my best friends: Jessica, for book meetings and being the coolest witch I know. Erika, for telling it like it is. Amanda, for always being there for me. Kirsten, for a Magical Place Where It Never Rains. Vanessa, for our many weird and wonderful adventures that could fill an entire book.

  To Granny and Papa, for opening so many doors for me. To Gram, for never letting me go hungry (I miss you). To Connie and Jerry, for welcoming me into your family. All my aunts, uncles, cousins, nephews, niece, sisters- and brothers-in-law—you’re the best. Also the loudest (Cullottas, you know who you are). I’m truly blessed to have such a kind and supportive family.

  To J.D., my favorite brother and the funniest person I know, for always eating ice cream with me. To my sister and best friend, Kara, for laughing at the same things I do, for Disney movie marathons and sing-alongs in the car. I’m so grateful to have you both in my life.

  Thank you to Dad, for all those eight-hour drives back and forth to college and letting me listen to “thumpa bumpa” music on the radio, and for being someone I can always count on no matter what. And to Mama, for inspiring in me a love of reading and always encouraging me to use my voice, for calming me down and pumping me up, for being my best friend and the best mom. For everything you both have done for me. I love you!

  And finally to Frank, my sky and greatest wish come true. I love you and I like you.

  About the Author

  Alyssa Wees’s debut novel is The Waking Forest. She lives and writes in Chicago with her husband and two cats. To learn more about
Alyssa and her writing, visit her website, alyssawees.com, and follow @AlyssaWees on Twitter.

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