Some days start out bad and only get
worse. This morning was the alarm not going off, missing the bus,
half of first period, my lunch having fallen out of my bag as I ran
to school, having no money to get something from the cafeteria. But
it’s all small things, things that don’t matter, so I’m doing
some homework I forgot to do last night when Cassie sits down across
from me without asking if the seat is free. We’re friends. Well,
sort-of friends some days. Sometimes I think high school is just a
long procession of sort-of friends. Cliques change, styles move on,
people keep up, fall behind, move into different groups. We’re all
treading water, grasping onto any lifeboat we find, swimming for
islands only to find most of them are mirages.
And all the while teachers expect us to
pay attention to lessons.
“Tisha told me you lost your lunch
and you’re just doing school work?” She pauses, her silence a
waiting thing, her eyes searching mine. “You missed the bus this
morning.”
“It does happen.” I close the
textbook. “You came over to sit with me because of that?” I ask,
pretending mock-outrage.
“I remember last September, when the
bus was late getting us to school because of a traffic accident. You
were bouncing in the seat with worry.” She pushes her glasses
harder up her nose, is trying to hide worry of her own and failing.
“Last week, Bruce made one of his rants picked up from some shitty
comedy show, making sure you’d hear him since he has six friends
around him. You told him last month if he spouted that crap again
you’d be picking his teeth out of your fist, remember? And you just
ignored him this time.” Her pause stretches, then: “Are you on
meds, Kate?”
“No.” I don’t look down at my
textbook at all now. Cassie doesn’t pry, not really. Her family has
money, not that you’d know it. She’s taller than me, solid, with
old coke-bottle-thick glasses. Her older brother is solid, but Joe’s
is all muscles and clenched fists. No one thought they had money, and
if kids in high school hide the wealth of their parents there are all
sorts of reasons. Most not them involving the wealth not being legal.
“Family trouble?” she asks, not
wanting to, concern overriding her defenses.
“Not more than usual.” I think my
voice is even, but I’m not sure. I hadn’t even noticed. Some
Other place filled with shapes in shadows tries to kill you, a
magician saves you. You can’t expect to leave that unchanged, but
I’d thought no one would notice. That I hadn’t changed that much.
“Just distracted. Things, you know,” I say with a shrug, holding
her gaze, knowing she won’t press the matter further.
She doesn’t, turning the conversation
to normal school topics. I only half-listen, thinking about the last
few minutes. About whether I’d known Cassie this well before. About
the troll I’d seen a few days ago in the park.
The magician had told me I wouldn’t
have magic, not unless I knew his name, that he’d hidden it in my
heart. But part of me is thinking that there is magic and magic. You
don’t escape weird shit unscarred, and part of that might be being
able to see the scars of others. I don’t want this. I don’t know
how to stop it.
I don’t trust anyone enough to tell
them I talked to a troll under the bridge in the park. It hurts to
know that, to have to admit it is true. I don’t have the same lies
to tell myself I used to have; all I can do is hope it doesn’t make
me think I’m more than other people. I’m seeing things other
people don’t; I have to think everyone else does the same. They
aren’t seeing trolls, haven’t been pulled from our world into a
place of false dark and things made of twisted lines hungering to be
real. I want to ask Cassie why she’s stopped wearing a cross around
her neck, want to know where her own way of knowing took her.
I don’t. I offer up a smile, thank
her for asking, for worrying, make an excuse to head out of the
cafeteria. I need space, time for breath, for sorting out, but it
isn’t given. I might have gone days without seeing her – our
school only boasts four hundred students, but it is narrow and old, a
windery of small corridors – but instead it happens today. I know
Bethany Cormier as a cheerleader, also the life of any party she goes
to, the person with so many friends it’s almost dangerous to be her
enemy.
I’ve seen trolls under bridges, but
what is inside Bethany is something else altogether. A hungering, a
Something, an Other wearing her face, walking in her body, smiling to
everyone and taking something from them as they smile back. She’s
chatting about a party, inviting select people she knows and no one
seems to realize she’s doing it in the way of someone ordering
food. I keep walking, holding myself together. I don’t know if she
knows I know what she is; I think she might if I look too long. I
think monsters know when they’ve been seen. I wonder how long this
creature has been Bethany but
I have no way of knowing that.
I know
what she is going to do in the same way I understood Cassie. People
talk in so many voices, and I’m underhearing them and don’t know
how to stop. I have one class left before the day ends, but I’m out
of the school almost without thinking about it, heading toward the
park half on auto-pilot. Part of me wants to scream; the rest is
terrified of being heard. The
magician bound my magic. He told me that, and when he tells true
things you know they are true. But I changed. You can’t have your
understanding of how the world works be ripped apart and not change.
I don’t know how
to change back. I don’t know if I can. I’m not sure anyone can,
not from real changes. All you can do is hide from them or embrace
them, and I don’t know what one I am. I just know I can’t keep
this inside, and so I walk down the narrow path in the park, and
under the bridge where the troll lives.
To
normal eyes, the brickwork under the bridge is only that. One might
wonder at the lack of graffiti or how neat the walking path is, but
doubtfully for long. The
troll comes out of of the rock and is the rock, a solid flowing like
liquid for a moment, a weight of presence on the world. It’s eyes
are deep and calm and the troll merely stares down at me and waits.
“I don’t know
who to talk to. I saw – I’ve seen –.” My voice cracks, breaks
apart.
“It is always
dangerous to see what you cannot unsee,” the troll rumbles.
“Bethany isn’t
human. She looks human, but she’s not. There is a hunger, a – she
is going to kill them.” The words feel flat. I try again. “No,
something worse. Hollow them out and leave something Else behind.”
“They will die
anyway, in time. Not even magicians escape death.”
“But not like
this.”
“That is true.”
I sit, back
pressing against the stonework of the bridge, half-facing the troll.
“There is another thing. The magician I met. How does he – how do
they –?”
“I am not human,
but I have seen many humans in my time.” The troll crouches down
like boulders don’t. “One deals, gets on with life, moves.
Because that is all there is to do. You may fall apart, you may fall
down, but you get back up. Do what you must, because it is always and
ever about more than just you.”
“Do what I must?
I don’t even know how to be me!”
“You are young.
You may define yourself by what you do not want. You can see clearer
than others, but you have no wishing in you to be a magician, to be
deeper than them?”
“That, yes.” I
don’t look up.
“There is a small
house a half-block from the park, at the end of Parker Drive. The one
who lives there may be able to aid you.”
“Okay.” I
stand, not looking at the troll. People might die because of what I
don’t want to be. Because I’m scared, afraid, won’t let the
magic change my world this much. Because I’m a coward and I am
certain I will see that truth in the eyes of the troll.
“Child,” the
troll rumbles behind me as I begin to leave the bridge it lives
under. “You do not desire power. That is not a weakness but a
strength.”
It takes everything
I have not to run away from the kindness under those words.
Parker Drive isn't much of a road.
Narrow and winding, a dead end street crowded with two dozen small
homes. If there were anti-beautification awards, Parker Drive would
be in the running for them. Which makes the house at the end of the
street almost remarkable, if only because someone was brave enough to
consider it a home. The shack is small, almost devoured by
surrounding grass and trees trying to turn lumber back into part of a
forest.
A rusted mailbox lists the house as #33
Parker Drive but there is no mail in it, not even a single junk
flyer. The windows have no glass and the front door was barely
hanging onto hinges as I make my way up the path. The troll had said
someone could help me here. I remind myself that appearances are
often very deceiving. It doesn't help much.
The man who opens the door is pale
behind grime, fingernails blackened by dirt, hair an unkempt mess,
clothing that has more holes than fabric. And skinny. The kind of
painful thin that would make anorexics ask if he should eat more.
Only it took a few seconds to notice that, and somehow it didn't seem
wrong with him.
“I have a problem I was told you
might be able to help me with?” I say, trying not to stumble over
words, trying not to breathe too deep.
“Oh?” His voice is rough and
scratchy, his eyes
his eyes are a shade of brilliant green
I've never seen before, and I’ve seen colours in places humans
don’t go. They're blue as well, his eyes, a shade the sky would be
envious of. Alive. If forest green and sky blue were true, they would
be his eyes. They shift between colours and somehow it seems entirely
natural, as if everyone should have eyes like his but we don’t.
I take a deep breath. I can see more
than most people do now, but it’s not only sight. I smell dirt.
Filth. But under it loam and moss and the smell of a fresh spring
day. His fingers are as thin as twigs. “The troll sent me, the one
under the bridge?”
“How is Rocky?”
“Rocky? I didn't know it had – I
didn't even ask –.”
His chuckle is soft and low. “It's
the name I use. Trolls don't bother with names. Humans do.”
“Kate.” I don't hold out my hand
for him to shake.
“Dylan. What do you need?”
“I don't know. There is this girl at
my school. Bethany. She isn’t human anymore. I don’t know how
long she hasn’t been human, but sometimes I see –.” I gulp, try
not to think about it. “She’s going to make people into things
like her. Hollow them out.”
“And you think I could help you?”
“Rocky did.”
That wins a hint of a smile. “And if
I suggested you do not need my help, Kate?”
“I don’t – I’ve met a magician.
I don’t want to be one. Please,” I add.
Dylan cocks his head to the side. “An
interesting goal,” he says softly. “Very well. I will aid you if
you tell me what I am.”
“Don’t you already know?”
The hint of a smile widens. “Consider
it a test.”
I step back, stare into eyes like the
dream of the forest, then walk about him in a half-circle. “The sky
and earth, the smell of loam,” I say, the words sounding oddly
formal. “A body as thin as twigs, as sticks, a home made of wood.”
I stop, shake my head a little. “You’re part of a forest, aren’t
you?”
His eyes are blue and cold. “Clever.”
“I made a guess.”
“Sometimes not being clever can be
quite clever in itself.” His smile is a flash of teeth so yellowed
they are almost green. “It has been a long time since I left my
home, though the troll is hardly one to speak. Very well. I will aid
you, if only because your goal is both noble and doomed to fail.”
I thought he was talking about Bethany,
and not being able to do anything about her without his aid. It never
occurred to me that he could mean anything else.
The interior of Dylan’s home is even
smaller than the exterior of the shack suggested. It’s also the
inside of a tree. The walls are thick wood, the floor moss, roots
woven into a bed and chair. Sunlight streams in through the ceiling
despite the cloudy sky. It’s like something out of the Hobbit, only
more natural. I sit carefully in the chair as he sits on the bed,
trying not to jump as the doorway and windows fill with vines between
one moment and the next, nettles of every size and shape flowing out
of the walls or the air itself.
“Privacy,” he says, blue-green eyes
dancing with cool merriment, thin hands in his lap.
“Okay.” I take a deep breath,
smelling fresh spring rain. “I’m going to be really rude I think,
but Bethany is something other,
something monstrous in human skin. What can you do, in general and
against her?”
Dylan
smiles strangely.
“The troll has not offered
aid, nor told you all it can do.”
It
isn’t a question, but I nod anyway. “I don’t know much about
this. Magic, weird things I’m seeing, any of it. I guess it’s
like true names, or superheroes? You don’t tell people everything
you are or can do in case they use it against you?”
“Superheroes,” he repeats, his
voice calm, face carefully blank.
“I’m doing this all wrong, aren’t
I?”
“Oh, yes. I have been called many
things over the years. Until now, that wasn’t one of them.” His
smile is softer, almost kind. “I am a forest spirit. Some of us
remain even as the forests fade into woods and parks. Others have
passed on or become other things. This area is still my forest, even
if most of it no longer remembers what it once was.”
“So you can make vines.”
“And other things, if I have need. I
am no magician, to banish a creature such as this Bethany back
Outside the universe. If, indeed, they are from Outside, but I
imagine I can convince Bethany to depart.”
I want to ask why the town is here, how
the forests became parks, how the woods became fields and farms, but
I have no idea how I could even bring it up. Not without hurting him,
maybe even more than he must be hurting himself.
Dylan doesn’t have a car. Of course
he doesn’t. What self-respecting forest spirit would own a car? He
confesses to having a Segway, but I’m pretty sure he’s joking. I
call a cab and check Facebook on my phone to find out when the party
Bethany is hosting is going to be. I’m a little relieved Dylan
knows what Facebook is and not sure how I should feel that the
creature inside Bethany doesn’t know how to manage privacy
settings. The cab is one of the dozen in the town and if the driver
is surprised at the location or Dylan’s appearance, she hides it
well.
“What do we do?” I ask as the cab
drops us off at the end of Hemingway Street. The street is all larger
homes, part of a series of dead-end roads designed for privacy. The
homes weren’t gated but might as well have been: you didn’t own
one unless you Were Someone and that required far more than mere
money. I have no idea if that is why Bethany was picked as a host or
if that is entirely a fluke. I don’t know enough at all.
“The home is not protected,” Dylan
murmurs. “We walk in the front door and see what happens.”
“Just like that?”
“Anything else would be rather
suspicious.”
I’m not dressed for a party like this
and Dylan definitely isn’t, but I follow him down a marbled
driveway and to the open front doors of the Somerset house. Bethany’s
parents had made their money as lawyers in the city, away as often as
not and somehow trusting Bethany. We didn’t move in the same
circles, but it’s not as if the house had been trashed or burned
down before. Bethany had been a lot of things, but not foolish.
A guy I didn’t recognize was standing
outside the front door. Dylan held his gaze and did nothing I could
tell, but he didn’t offer a word of protest as we went inside. The
interior of the home was surprisingly normal. Nice without beng more
than that, feeling like a house rather than a show home. A dozen
people in the living room were clustered around a large tv getting
drunk. Watching some talent show and drinking shots. I wondered for
half a moment what Dylan would do if I joined in and just walk down
the wide hallway and into a large kitchen.
The kitchen turns out to be Martha
Stewart modern, filled with gleaming appliances that look as though
they are seldom used. Two fridges, two stoves and microwaves, island
and small breakfast nook. Bethany is in it making snacks for people.
She is even wearing an apron. I remind myself that people wear
aprons. The thing inside her is a rolling mass of thick grey the
colour of mucus, like a fog crossed with some sea slug found on an
ocean bed.
“Kate.” She doesn’t sound
surprised at seeing me. “And you brought a friend.”
I’m trying to decide on a lie when I
hear footsteps behind us. The hallway is blocked by two quiet, tall
girls with fogs inside them. The exit from the kitchen leading
outside is blocked as well. Bethany is smiling tightly as she walks
toward me and Dylan.
“I thought you had seen Me,” she
murmurs. “I do so enjoy being right.”
“What? Is this some initiation no one
ever told me about; I’ve never crashed a party before and –.”
“And you really should have at least
had a plan. No matter.” Fog writhes about her fingers, visible in
the air.
“I would ask what you are doing and
why,” Dylan says quietly, not moving.
“You are nothing. A forest spirit
with no wood. This is not your forest,” Bethany says flatly.
“Even so. You may consider this a
polite request.” Dylan didn’t move, a thin presence beside me,
but something about him causes Bethany to step back a pace, the
swirling inside her shifting colours to paler hues.
And then Bethany smiles, and the smile
looks so human and ugly that I almost think the real Bethany is still
there inside her own mind, as if there was a mind inside her body at
all. “You have brought us the child. For that we shall let you
live.”
“What do you intend?” Dylan asks,
his voice cool and empty. I can’t look over. I have to hope that’s
not true.
“She has a small gift; we will
harvest her and it will never grow.”
“I begin to understand. Small towns,
small places. You expand slowly, picking hosts that are visible in
the community. Find those who might be magicians and murder then so
that there is no one to stop you.” And Dylan’s laugh is soft and
fey, coldly amused. “You honestly think that is going to work? The
fae will dispose of you even worse than the wandering magician might.
He has been so many places. There are those who can summon him by
name.” His voice drops, harsh and ugly as winter. “I will give
you one chance to leave. Just the one to end this and return Outside
the universe.”
The people behind us don’t move.
There is no flash of light, the temperature doesn’t alter, but
something causes me to spin about. One of the two people that was
guarding the hallway has fallen, the skin lying on the ground like a
discarded costume, the mist of it all green suckers covered in ugly
barbs hurling toward Dylan.
The thing in the air twists abruptly;
the human skin on the ground is green, being consumed by moss that is
somehow inside the creature, eating it from the inside out.
“They have walked in my wood,”
Dylan says calmly, as though he was chatting about the weather. “They
have breathed my air. How does it feel, little parasite, to have one
inside you in turn?”
I turn away as the air twists about
Bethany, the world rippling unpleasant – I almost think I hear
tearing, like the skin of the world being peeled back, and between
one moment and the next the bodies strike the ground, empty of ogans
and bones, sacks of skin tinted green.
“Bring them,” Dylan says, not
looking at me as he walks out the back door.
I gather up sacks that were bodies,
picking up skin and trying as hard as I can not to think about them
as people as I walk into the back yard and set them down.
Dylan reaches down, running his fingers
over each, whispering words in a language I don’t know. The words
are green. I know that without knowing how I know it, but each body
fills up as roots wriggle into them, replacing bones, making them
seem human again. It takes the longest ten minutes I’ve ever known,
hoping no one comes out the back door and sees me with the bodies.
They look normal as he stands up,
movements slow and stiff. He looks somehow even thinner than before,
and there are lines on his face I could swear weren’t there
earlier. “The simulacra will last long enough. You will need to go
to the morgue, speak to whoever does the autopsies.”
“And tell them what?”
“I do not know.” He lets out a
heavy sigh. “I have done what I can here.”
“I know, I –.” I move in close,
and snag his hands. They feel far too thin as I squeeze them, and he
winces as I let go. “Thank you. I don’t know what I would have
done, could have done, had to do – thank you,” I get out.
He smiles weakly at that. “They were
an infection; you were right in that, Kate.”
“What now?”
“You’d best go before they find the
bodies.”
“But –.”
“There will be an explosion,” he
says. “I woke power that remembers what it used to; it needs an
outlet for old hatred.”
This is too deep for me. Too deep by
far, but even so I hesitate, searching his face. “What you said,
Dylan. Could you have done it?”
“To all of them, that quickly? No.”
I wonder what he would have done
instead, think about lost forests and ancient anger. I ask nothing
else, manage a nod and walk away.
I make it half a block before I start
crying, and I’m certain I don’t know even half of why I am.