The Midnight Circus, стр. 27
Itis days later. Weeks. Nighttime. Moon shining in my tiny window. Theycouldn’t keep me tied down forever. The law doesn’t allow it.
Iam crouched in the corner of my room, ruined tube of toothpaste in myhands. I have figured out how to tear it, unwind it, form it into arazor edge. I hold it over my arm, scars glowing white in themoonlight, blue vein pulsing, showing me where to cut.
ButI don’t. Don’t cut.
InsteadI let the pain rise within me. I know one quick slash can end the pain.Can bring relief. But I don’t move. I let the pain come and I embraceit, feel it wash over me, through me. I let it come—and then, I go away.
Iam in the forest. But I am not four-footed. I am not thick-furred. Ihave no hope of tasting blood now or smelling the sweet scent ofterrified prey.
Iam me: scrawny and battered, short tufts of ragged red hair sproutingfrom my too-large head. Green eyes big. A gap between my top frontteeth wide enough to escape through.
Istand in the middle of the road. No fork tonight: it runs straight andtrue like the surgeon’s knife. Behind me, tall trees loom. I take twotentative steps and realize I am naked. Embarrassed, I glance around. Iam alone.
Beforelong I see a white clapboard cottage ahead of me. Smoke trails from ared brick chimney. Gray paving stones lead up to the front door. Irecognize the house. It is more threatening than the dark forest withits tall trees. Grandma lives here.
Iturn to run, but behind me I hear howling—long, low, and mournful. Iknow the sound—wolves. Hunting wolves. I must hurry inside.
Thedoor pulls open silently. The first room is unlit as I step inside. Ipull the door closed behind me. Call into the darkness, “Grandma?”
“Isthat you, Red?” Her voice is lower than I remember.
“Yes,Grandma.” My voice shakes. My hands shake.
“Come into the bedroom. Ican’t hear you from here.”
“I don’t know the way, Grandma.”
Ihear her take a deep breath, thick with smoke, rattling with disease.“Follow my voice. You’ll remember how.”
Andsuddenly, I do remember. Three steps forward, nine steps left. Reachout with your right hand and push through the thin door.
“Iam here, Grandma.”
Outside,there are disappointed yips as the wolves reach the front door and theend of my trail.
“Comecloser, Red. I can’t see you from here.”
“Yes,Grandma.” I step into blackness and there she is, lying in the bed. Sheis bigger than I remember, or maybe I am smaller. The quilt puffsaround her strangely, as if she has muscles in new places. A bit ofdrool dangles from her bottom lip.
Ilook down at my empty hands. My nakedness. “I haven’t brought youanything, Grandma.”
Shesmiles, showing bright, pointed teeth. “You have brought yourself, Red.Come closer, I can’t touch you from here.”
“Yes,Grandma.” I take one step forward and stop.
Thewolf pack snuffles around the outside of the house, searching for a wayin.
Grandmasits up. Her skin hangs loosely on her, like a housedress a size toolarge. Tufts of fur poke out of her ears, rim her eyes.
“No,Grandma. You’ll hurt me.”
Sheshakes her head, and her face waggles loosely from sideto side. “I never hurt you, Red.” She scrubs at her eye with a hairyknuckle, then scoots forward, crouching on the bed, poised to spring.Her haunches are thick and powerful. “Sometimes the wolf wears my skin.It is he who hurts you.” Her nose is long now.
“No,Grandma.” I stare into her dark green eyes. “No, Grandma. It’s you.”
Sheleaps then, her Grandma skin sloughing off as she flies for my throat.I turn and run, run through the thin door, run nine steps right andthree steps back, push open the front door, hear her teeth snap behindme, severing tendons, bringing me down. I fall, collapsing onto thepaving stones.
Howlingand growling, a hundred wolves stream over and around me. Their paddedfeet are light on my body. They smell musty and wild. They take downGrandma in an instant, and I can hear her screams and the snapping ofher brittle old bones.
Ithink I will die next, bleeding into the gray stone. But leathery skingrows over my ankle wound, thick gray fur. My nose grows cold and longand I smell Grandma’s blood. Howling my rage and hunger, I leap to myfour clawed feet. Soon, I am feasting on fresh meat with my brothersand sisters.
Iwake, not surprised to be tied down again. Seven points this time,maybe more; I can’t even move my head.
“Jesus,Red, you killed him this time.” It is Alby, drifting intoview above me.
“Goaway, Alby. You aren’t even real.”
Shenods without speaking and fades away. I go to sleep, I don’t dream.
Nextmorning, they let me sit up. I ask for my journal. They don’t want togive me a pen.
“Youcould hurt yourself,” they say. “Cut yourself.”
They don’t understand.
“Thenwhy don’t you write down what I say,” I tell them.
They laughand leave me alone. Once again tied down. ButI know what I want to write. It’s all in my head.
GRANDMOTHER
Whatbig ears you have, What big teeth,
Bigas scissors,
Tocut out my heart
Pins and needles,
Needles and pins,
Where one lifeends,
Another begins
Winter’sKing
HE WAS NOT BORN a king but the child of wandering players, slipping outice-blue in the deepest part of winter, when the wind howled outsidethe little green caravan. The midwife pronounced him dead, her voicesmoothly hiding her satisfaction. She had not wanted to becalled to a birth on such a night.
Butthe father, who sang for pennies and smiles from strangers, grabbed thechild from her and plunged him into a basin of lukewarm water, all thewhile singing a strange, fierce song in a tongue he did not really know.
Slowlythe child turned pink in the water, as if breath were lent him by boththe water and the song. He coughed once and spit up a bit of rosyblood, then wailed a note that was a minor third higher than hisfather’s last surprised tone.
Withouttaking time to swaddle the child, the father laid him dripping wet andkicking next to his wife on thecaravan bed. As she lifted the babe to her breast,