Lily

by Michael Thomas Ford

  The old witch took out from a pocket the bottle she had stolen from the preacher’s tent. There was only a little of the clear liquid left in it. She upended the bottle into her mouth, feeling the white fire burn its way down her throat. It reminded her of the potato vodka she made herself, but leaner and less morose.

  She took another swig, and held it in her mouth for a moment before spitting it at the opening to the girl’s tent. She mumbled some words, made some signs with a single bony finger, and turned away. Nothing would bother the girl for the rest of the night. Perhaps it was breaking the rules, but so be it. The child was going to have a difficult enough time as it was come morning.

  S E V E N T E E N

  LILY USED THE WATER in the washbasin to wipe away the shame of the night before. Afraid to get up and light the lantern, lest she wake her mother, she had lain in her soiled cot until sheer exhaustion caused her to fall asleep. Now with dawn lightening the walls of the tent, she cleaned herself and changed into a fresh dress from her bag. She could do nothing about the cot or the blanket, and so left them as they were.

  She was combing her hair when her mother stirred, yawning and stretching her arms. Her nose wrinkled, and Lily held her breath, fearful that her failure would be revealed. But her mother only yawned again and sat up. She barely glanced at Lily as she began to ready herself for the day.

  “What are we supposed to do?” Lily asked after a moment.

  “Wait until someone comes for us, I suppose,” her mother said as she dressed. “Or go and find some coffee.”

  Lily glanced anxiously at the tent opening. Her mother, seeing the look of apprehension on her face, sighed. “You’re going to have to get used to being here,” she said. “This is our life now. No one out there is going to hurt you.”

  “This isn’t like home,” Lily said.

  Her mother laughed. “No, it isn’t, thank God. You’re lucky I was able to get you away from that place. And remember, I told you not to talk about it.”

  Lily wanted to argue with her, to say that there was nothing wrong with the village. But perhaps her mother was right. After all, hadn’t the curse come upon here there, the wild magic of the place infecting her? Hadn’t they had to leave in order to find a way to rid her of it? There, nothing could be done. At least here she had the help of Silas Everyman.

  “Come on,” her mother said, running her fingers through her hair. “Enough of this nonsense.”

  She opened the tent flap and stepped outside. Lily’s fear of following her was less than her fear of being left alone in the tent, and so she took up the bag containing the gifts from her father and went after her. Outside, the tent city was alive with activity, and once again Lily was sure that she was being watched by everyone as she walked the grassy thoroughfare. She hid her face under her hair. Her mother, ignoring the looks cast their way, walked with purpose, although Lily had no idea how she knew where they were going. To her, it all looked the same.

  Somehow they found their way to a tent where food was being served. There they went through a line and collected bowls of white mush and plates with eggs and strips of fried meat. These they took to a table, where they sat and ate without speaking. Lily was also given a mug of bitter-tasting coffee, which she sipped only to wash down the oily food that settled in her stomach like sand.

  As they were finishing, Sims appeared. “Here you are,” he said, sounding neither pleased nor bothered. “I’ve been looking for you. The Reverend wants to speak with the girl.”

  Lily’s mother wiped her hands and began to stand. “We can come right —“

  “Just the girl,” Sims interrupted.

  Lily’s mother sat. “But surely I should be with my daughter,” she said.

  “You will be,” Sims said. “After she meets with the Reverend.”

  Lily’s mother started to speak, then stopped. “All right,” she said, forcing a smile. “Lily, go with Mr. Sims. I’ll see you later.”

  Lily could tell from the tightness in her mother’s voice that she was annoyed at being left out of whatever was happening. And part of Lily wished that her mother would come with her. But she was also relieved to be away from her for a time.

  She walked with Sims out of the food tent. She wanted to speak with him, as he was the closest thing she had to a friend in this new place, but she didn’t know what to say apart from asking him what the Reverend wanted with her, and she suspected that he wouldn’t tell her. But then she thought of something.

  “The Reverend says that people can change what I see,” she said, remembering her conversation with Everyman from the day before. “With the help of his god. Perhaps he can rid you of the cancer.”

  Sims looked down at her. “Do you believe that?” he asked.

  “The Reverend says it’s so,” Lily replied.

  “Yes,” Sims agreed. “He does.”

  He said nothing else, and so they walked in silence until they came once more to the tent where the Reverend was. This time, several men in suits were standing around in front of it. One of them was smoking a cigarette. When Lily and Sims approached, he nodded his head at her. “This the girl?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Sims answered. “Are they ready?”

  “Just a minute,” the man said. He stepped into the tent, and Lily heard a mumbled exchange. Then the man stepped outside and said, “She can go in. But not you. Just her.”

  Lily looked to Sims for reassurance. He nodded, but did not smile. Lily, suddenly afraid, hesitated.

  “You don’t want to keep him waiting,” the man with the cigarette said, and the others laughed.

  Lily entered the tent. Reverend Everyman was there, standing and talking to a man Lily had not seen before. He was tall and strongly-built, dressed in a suit similar to those worn by the men outside, although somehow he looked more imposing than they did, as if the coat and tie were holding something in. His black hair was greased back, and when he turned to look at Lily, his eyes were just as dark.

  “Ah,” said the Reverend. “Here she is. Lily, I want you to meet Mr. Scratch.”

  “Hello,” Lily said.

  The man regarded her with an unreadable expression, then one corner of his mouth lifted in what could have been a smile. “I hear interesting things about you,” he said.

  “Lily, Mr. Scratch has come for a demonstration of your abilities,” the Reverend said. “Once he sees for himself what you can do, he’s going to aid us in our mission.”

  “That remains to be seen,” said Mr. Scratch.

  Everyman indicated the table, at which two chairs were placed on opposite sides. “Please, Lily. Have a seat.”

  Lily sat. She supposed that she was to tell Mr. Scratch his future, but he remained standing. He watched her for a long moment, which made her uncomfortable, as if he was waiting for her to recite some verse or sing a song. Then, to her relief, he turned and went to the opening of the tent. He said something to the men outside, then returned.

  “Leave us,” he said.

  Lily, thinking he meant her, started to stand. But Mr. Scratch held up a hand. “Not you,” he said. “The good Reverend.”

  Lily looked at Everyman, who seemed taken aback.

  “I want to ensure that there’s no interference of any kind,” Mr. Scratch said, his eyes still on Lily. “The girl will be perfectly safe.”

  Without a word, the preacher left the tent. Mr. Scratch then said, “In a moment, a man is going to come in. You are going to take his hand and, if what I’m told is correct, see his death. But you are not to say anything. If what you see is disturbing to you in any way, make no indication of it. He knows nothing about why he is here. When you have seen all there is to see, indicate this by releasing his hand. The man will then leave. Only then will you tell me what you’ve seen. Do you understand?”

  Lily nodded.

  “Good. Then we will begin.”

  He returned to the tent flap and opened it. A man entered. Like the other men and Mr. Scratch, he too wore a suit.
But where theirs were clean and new and well-fitted, his was threadbare and disheveled, as if it had been washed and mended one too many times. It occurred to Lily that his face looked older than it ought to, with worry lines on the forehead and around the eyes, which were pale blue.

  “Mr. Blithe, kindly take a seat across from the girl,” Mr. Scratch said. “But please do not speak.”

  The man did as instructed. He looked at Lily, but did not smile.

  “Now give her your hand,” Mr. Scratch said.

  Mr. Blithe extended his left hand. A thin gold band circled one finger. The nails were painfully short, as if he had been biting them. The skin on his pointer and middle fingers was yellowed.

  Lily looked at Mr. Scratch, who nodded. She took a breath, reminded herself not to react to what she might see, and reached for Mr. Blithe’s hand.

  She was in a clearing in a wood. On the ground were three bodies: a woman in a flowered dress, a boy in dungarees and a blue-and-white checked shirt, and a girl in a pink pinafore. All three had crimson lines of blood across their throats. The girl’s eyes were open, and in one hand she clutched a small stuffed rabbit.

  Mr. Blithe knelt on the ground beside the woman, his hands tied behind his back. One of the men Lily had glimpsed standing outside the tent — the one with the cigarette — was behind him. One hand was on Mr. Blithe’s shoulder. The other held a short, sharp-bladed knife.

  As Lily watched, the man brought the knife to Mr. Blithe’s throat and, with one quick motion, opened the skin. Blood flowered, spilling onto the face of the woman and spattering the front of Mr. Blithe’s suit. His blue eyes looked into Lily’s as he struggled for breath and, finding none, slumped forward onto the ground.

  Lily fought to keep her emotions hidden as her breakfast rose in her throat and she swallowed hard. She released Mr. Blithe’s hand, and the vision faded. She returned her own hand to her lap and concentrated on her breathing until her heart stilled.

  “Thank you, Mr. Blithe,” said Mr. Scratch. “I believe we’re finished here. You may go. Mr. Fortune is waiting outside to return you to your home. Please give my regards to your family.”

  Mr. Blithe stood up and left. When he was gone, Mr. Scratch said to Lily, “Tell me what you saw.”

  Lily described the scene in the clearing. She watched Mr. Scratch’s face as she spoke, to see how he reacted to her words, but he continued to look back at her with the same steady gaze. When she was finished, she waited.

  “And when do you see this occurring?” Mr. Scratch asked.

  “Soon,” Lily answered. “It was summer in the wood, and he was wearing the suit he had on now.”

  “Was it difficult to keep your reaction from him?” said Mr. Scratch.

  Lily nodded.

  “And could you tell why he received the death he did?”

  Lily shook her head. “I only see how it happens,” she answered.

  “So determining the level of guilt or innocence will be up to the good preacher,” said Mr. Scratch. “How convenient. Now let me ask you this. Reverend Everyman believes that the deaths you see are changeable. Do you believe this as well?”

  Lily considered the question. If she had warned her father, would he have stayed home instead of venturing out on the sea? Part of her wanted to believe she could have stopped him. Another — the part of her that still felt guilt over not having tried to warn him — wanted to believe that what she saw was inevitable, and that speaking of it would have changed nothing. But the Reverend’s plan for her salvation required that her visions be only one possible version of what might happen, and that the future could be rewritten.

  “I do,” she told Mr. Scratch.

  Mr. Scratch held her gaze. She grew uncomfortable. Had she answered incorrectly? She was aware that much hung in the balance regarding the accuracy of what she’d seen, and she had no reason to believe that she was mistaken in her prediction of how Mr. Blithe would meet his end. Did it also matter to Mr. Scratch whether or not she believed her visions to be only one of many possible outcomes?

  “It must be terribly sad for you,” Mr. Scratch said. “The people you want to touch, you can’t, because either they or you are afraid of what you’ll see. And the ones who will want you to touch them are also afraid, and so you will fear them in return.”

  He continued to look at Lily, apparently waiting for her to reply. His words chilled her, both because they were true and because she sensed that he enjoyed speaking them to her. There was no sympathy in them. If anything, his black eyes shone more brightly as he beheld her discomfort.

  “Would you like to see what death waits for me?” he asked. He stepped towards her and held out a hand.

  Lily looked at the well-manicured fingers, the thick wrist heavily furred with dark hair. Part of her wanted to take Mr. Scratch’s hand, if only for the satisfaction of seeing that his end was an unpleasant one. She realized, with some surprise, that she hoped that he suffered. And yet, she found that she could not lift her own hand to meet his.

  Mr. Scratch grinned, showing his teeth. “You’re not yet angry enough at the world to want to see it destroyed,” he said. “Perhaps you never will be. Time will tell.”

  He turned from her and walked to the entrance of the tent, passing through without another word. Lily sat alone, still unsure whether she had passed or failed the test.

  A few minutes later, Silas Everyman entered, accompanied by Lily’s mother. The Reverend beamed at Lily. “You did well!” he said, clearly elated.

  “I don’t understand how he’s going to help us,” Lily said. She couldn’t imagine the man helping anyone.

  Everyman chuckled. “Mr. Scratch is very well-connected,” he said. “If he’s pleased, he’ll tell people about you, and they will come to us — to you — to see for themselves what it is you do. His word carries weight in many different circles.”

  “How do you know him?” Lily asked.

  “He’s a very old friend,” the preacher answered, although he seemed displeased by her question.

  “I don’t like him,” Lily said.

  “Don’t be rude,” her mother scolded.

  The Reverend smiled. “You don’t have to like him,” he said. “The important thing is that he likes you. Now, I have some business to attend to before the first meeting of the day. Sims will help the two of you get settled in your new accommodations, and then I hope you’ll join me for the revival. We’ll give Lily another day to rest before we begin her sessions with our visitors.”

  Everyman departed, leaving Lily alone with her mother.

  “You shouldn’t say such things as you did,” her mother said.

  “You weren’t here with him,” Lily told her. “You didn’t see the way he looked at me.”

  “A great many more people are going to look at you in the days to come,” said her mother. “Not all of them kindly. I told you before, you’d best get used to it.”

  Lily wanted to tell her mother about Mr. Blithe, and what she’d seen. But she had promised not to talk of it. Besides, her mother wouldn’t care. It hurt her to admit this, but it was true. Her mother had never been warm, but now there was a coldness to her that seemed impenetrable, like the fog that sometimes obscured the forest on winter mornings. Lily supposed it was her own fault, but it stung nonetheless.

  At least she’s trying to help save my soul, Lily thought. She brought me here. That’s something.

  Perhaps once she had attained salvation, things would change. Perhaps then her mother would look at her differently. Perhaps then she could touch her without fear. Perhaps then they could have a home of their own. Perhaps.

  She wondered what would happen next. How many hands would she have to hold, how many deaths would she have to see, before she had done enough for Everyman’s god to lift the curse from her? She feared she might not be able to bear the weight of them. Each one seemed to drain a little more from her. What would happen if her strength waned before she’d completed her penance?

  Sh
e closed her eyes, and immediately saw the dead face of Mr. Blithe. His eyes, still beautiful, held no life. Whatever spark it was that animated a person’s body was gone from them.

  Who, Lily wondered, would wrap the red cord around his chest?

  E I G H T E E N

  BABA YAGA STOOD looking down at the bodies of the Blithe family.

  “I’ll give you this, you’re very thorough,” she said to Mr. Scratch. “What did he do?”

  “Unpaid debt,” Mr. Scratch replied. “The usual thing.”

  Baba Yaga poked the body of the boy with her toe. “Seems a waste of good food,” she remarked.

  Mr. Scratch bent and plucked the stuffed rabbit from the little girl’s hand. He slipped it into his pocket. “You’re a long way from home,” he said to Baba Yaga.

  Baba Yaga grunted. “It’s the girl,” she said. “She intrigues me.” She looked at her old acquaintance out of the side of her eye. “As I think she does you.”

  Mr. Scratch shrugged, which told Baba Yaga that she was right. He’ll never admit finding someone else interesting, she thought to herself. He’s too much of a narcissist.

  “Tell me about this God,” she said, emphasizing the capital in an attempt to provoke him.

  Another shrug. “Someone they invented,” he said.

  “Then he’s not real?”

  “Who’s to say?” said Mr. Scratch. “By now he might be. They’ve been talking about him for a long time, perhaps long enough to make him real. I don’t know. I’ve never met him.”

  Baba Yaga glanced at the bodies again. “They seem to credit you with rather a lot of things I suspect you haven’t done,” she remarked.

  Mr. Scratch laughed. “I think blame would be a more accurate word,” he said. “But it’s been this way for centuries. I’m used to it.” He winked. “Besides, I’ve done enough. I’m really not terribly nice, you know.”

  “An affectation,” Baba Yaga said. “I’ve always found you delightful company.”