Into the Deep Wood

Marat awoke uncharacteristically late and embarrassingly unaware. Khaleel stood over him, his eyes full of concern and understanding of a man who had long been married. Without judgment, he offered Marat some hot water with lemon and sat down on a stack of lumber, leaning forward.

“We have a light job today, my friend. Perhaps it would be wise to finish it before the sun gets too hot.” He said, but it had been the middle of winter, where no day had gotten so warm that a working man would feel its toll. “My wife, she has brought so much from the night’s celebration, our house overflows. It would be an honor to have you over for supper.”

Marat sat, fingering the mug in his hands. His face was dark, and he did not say a word. Khaleel waited.

“It is not easy, the first.” He said finally. “We had grown up with it before our eyes, but, I imagine, to a stranger, it is not easy to learn of the lifeblood of this place.”

Marat had not looked up at him still, but his eyebrows twitched a little toward a grimmer expression. Khaleel waited for anything to come of it, but nothing had.

“You are welcome to stay with us as long as you need. Whether you do or not, I will show you my home when we are done - so you can find it, even in the dark. Now come, I do not wish to fall behind. The young donkeys have shown up still drunk from the night’s events, and I do not foresee them doing much work today.”

After the tasks were done, dirty and smelling of sawdust, the two men left the shop behind. Marat had been short of words, and his demeanor was tense. But, he had not protested when Khaleel again insisted on dinner.

A part of him wanted to go back to the cottage, but the thought of opening the door and seeing Val - whatever state she was in, angry or sad, felt like too much. He could not trust that he himself would not raise his voice if she had raised hers, and he did not want to toe the line of words better not spoken.

As they approached Khaleel’s home, weary from the day’s labor, the ornate wooden door opened and Khaleel’s wife appeared, a baby on her arm. She smiled warmly, as if she had not a care in the world, and urged them inside.

The interior of the home was quaint; it was apparent that his wife had very much loved sparrows - as a sparrow had decorated nearly everything inside. Even the clay plates she set out before them had been etched with small, delicate shapes among branches.

A young boy, no older than ten, ran through the house without acknowledging their guest. He held a wooden horse, making the noises that one would make had it ridden hard into battle. He was so engrossed in this activity that he did not even notice his mother’s sharp, scorning look before he disappeared out the door.

“Wash up!” Khaleel’s wife commanded loudly, assuming that whoever was not in the room would hear.

The house stirred. the baby decided that this was the most opportune time to send bubbles of vomit onto Khaleel’s shirt, the little boy burst into the room - dirt caking off his boots, and the door on the other end of the kitchen opened gingerly - a girl stepping through.

But, she was hardly a girl. Marat only glanced her at first, but his eyes returned in recognition. This was the young lady that he had heard crying the night before as, undoubtedly, her friend was led to her watery grave. Her green eyes shone when she saw him there, first with shock, then with captivated curiosity.

As they suppered at the table, her eyes did not leave him except for when he would skip across her in conversation. She would then blush, looking down.

As the dishes were being washed, a heavy, frantic knock came at the door, and when Khaleel opened it, the midwife burst in.

“Come, quick!” She was out of breath, her plump body heaving, eyes round and wild. “Marat, come quick!”

There was something about her voice. Something perhaps at the very back of his mind, but he knew immediately why she had come.

And from the moment of that realization, it was as if he had blacked out.

The sound of a broken dish, the soles of boots sounding on cobblestone. Somewhere behind, someone yelled out something but he did not hear. He was running as fast as he had ever run.

Val.

He burst in –the door was not locked.

Her pale hand was the first thing he saw in the light of the lantern. The memory of its limp, gray form burned into his mind. At that moment, he knew his worst fears to be right, and at the very core, his world crumbled.

The blood still stained the sheets and the ground, although someone had tried to clean it up. She had been changed out of her clothes, but the new nightshirt bulged with medical cloth. The smell of strong concoctions from the apothecary in the air had not even begun to cover the metallic smell of iron and something sickly.

Her eyes were dull, and for a moment, he had thought her gone.

He fell to his knees beside the bed, his hands on her face.

“Val…” His voice trembled, it was as if he could not say a word more. His eyes were on hers, taking in every part of her face. How much cold sweat was on her brow, how heavy her eyelids, how cold and clammy her cheeks had been when he put his warm hands on her. “How…”

She just shook her head weakly, barely noticeable to those who were nearby. Nadia stood in the corner of the room, holding a carafe of water. Her face was downfallen. The rolled sleeves of her dress were bloody, as were her skirts.

The next couple of months passed like a horrible dream for Val. She had no will to leave her bed, no will to eat or drink. She had not felt sad, had not cried. She simply was. A hollow body, growing thinner, fading into the creases in the mattress slowly, and away from the blue skies and stars alike.

He’d been there, begging, weeping, angrily pacing; he even screamed. And, other days, he would pick her up and carry her outside, her head resting on his chest; he would set her in the grass and sit with her just like they had done once before at the farm.

But, inevitably, the voices came. But, they were not the Hag’s. All of them… they had been Val's.

You did not want her.

You did not love her.

You did not care.

You’d wished her away.

You sent her away.

You killed her.

And that is when the tears came. And they did not stop.

He sat by her when he could. But, he would be gone so often. He would spend days working, and often, after, he would leave to target practice in the woods.

Women came and sat with her during those times. She had never been alone. Most days it was Nadia, silent, attentive, authoritative. If she told Val to bathe, she bathed. If she told Val to eat, she would shuffle her food on the plate until, little by little, at least half of it had disappeared.

It was not a question as to whether she had allowed him near; she hadn’t. It was as if little Val had been a porcelain doll that lay atop the mattresses, an impossible number of blankets always covering her form. He did not see her anymore, although she still lay beside him.

It had begun to feel as if her company was harder to bear than being away from her. At least then, he did not feel he was failing her.

He only truly felt his pain alleviated when he was completely and utterly alone. He dared not think of it, of what was lost.

If only he had not left that night. If only, slamming the door, he had thought better and returned. And hushed her, wiped away her tears. Made sure the little creature, hysterical and shaking, would fall asleep peacefully in his arms. If only. But that man, whoever it was, was not he. It was a better man than he, deserving, strong when he could not be.

And so, he would take the All-Father’s Reach and go far outside of the city. He would spend hours repeating the same cycle - nock the arrow, draw the bow, aim, and release. He kept his form and posture taut even after the arrow was set free.

But, this did not satisfy the craving of kill or be killed.

The girl, Khaleel’s daughter, had seemed a lovesick puppy at his heels. She began to bring lunch to the workshop and job sites in place of her mother. She made eyes at Marat, touching her hair and pouting her lips.

Sometimes, she would remain seated on heaps of lumber or cut tree stumps for hours.

Of course, he noticed this. Khaleel had told him that her name was Asha, and she had been one of the town girls suspected of being Golden. She was set to be tested on the eve of Fauna’s Night.

Superstitions, he thought. Theodora had spoken of the physical signs that would indicate a Golden. There were none, and if anyone knew, it was she.

The light western frosts of winter were melting away. With them thawed out both the vibrant spring colors and Val’s aching heart.

Her body was healed, but weight remained on her mortal soul. So many times, Marat had caught her averting her gaze from him, so many times she would pretend she did not notice his entering the room.

And yet, he still held her at night, although her back had been turned to him.

It felt as if time had been suspended for them both, indefinitely hanging in the room, the uneasiness of it poisoning the air.

“Could we walk?” Val stood at the door between the kitchen and the main room.

It was late, and Marat had been sharpening his tools, a task that he brought home as he could not stand another minute longer spent at the shop with Asha always there.

They strolled together down the hill, past homes and shops. They neared the place where he had gone to shoot and sat on a fallen log.

“I’m sorry,” Val said suddenly. She was not looking at him, but he stared at her.

“Why?”

“For all this.”

“Val…” He put a hand on hers and felt her nervousness through it.

“I did not know what to do. Or what I had done to make it...”

“It was not your fault.” He looked closely at her face, but no trace of tears was in her eyes. “She–”

“Do not call it that.” She interrupted him, her voice harsh. “There is no ‘she,’ and there never was. It was an idea, one that had never come to fruition. Just, please.”

He nodded, surprised at how much the words hurt.

“I’d never wanted to… I just never…” She seemed to contemplate what, if anything, was going to follow those words. “I never wanted any of this.”

“I understand.” He nodded. “I never thought I did, either.”

His intentional choice of words did not escape her.

“So what then…” She whispered, still not looking in his direction, only the ground straight ahead. “... do we do now?”

He took her other hand in his, forcing her to turn her body and look him in the eyes.

“Valeria.” He said, “I did not choose a woman who could be the mother of my children. I chose a woman without whom the world was dark and cruel. Without whom my soul hardened each day until it would have been beyond repair.”

Now, the lump rose in her throat rapidly, and she felt her chest warm, she could not look at him but also dared not turn her head away.

“One that my life is tied to for reasons I may never know.” He leaned forward, pulling her hands ever so slightly to him, forcing her eyes to meet his. “Do not make me say such things again, I beg you. This is humiliating.”

She found it hard to speak and let out only a mumble of understanding.

“Besides,” He grinned, a sign that he was preemptively patting himself on the back for his wit, “had I wanted a child, I could walk into the center of Tarahz and throw a stone, then take my pick. I’m bound to hit someone I’ve fathered.”

She shoved him away, laughing internally at his words and furious at them. Just like Marat, so tactless, a moment of sincerity and beautiful words ruined.

Yet, it was him. So very, very annoyingly him.

She leaned into his shoulder, feeling like she could breathe for the first time in months.

They sat silently for a while.

“Marat?”

“Hm?”

“Why have you never told me you loved me?” She asked quietly. He took his time answering, to the point where she thought it may have been the wrong thing to say.

“I do not like those words.”

“What?” She sat up slightly, turning to look at him. “What do you mean? You do not like the word ‘love’?”

“I don’t. It is a thing that people say. Young people, grandmothers to their grandchildren.” He shrugged. “Do you want me to say it to you?”

“No.” She was not sure if she was lying, but she was sure that she did not want it like this.

“If you do not know still, I can say it.”

“No.” She smiled.

Something moved in the bushes, far among the trees. They both looked, although Marat more subtly than she had.

A large bird, tangled in the brush, broke free and flew up to the sky. But just beyond it, the trees looked… wrong. Neither of them could tell why; it was as if, in theory, it should all have been normal, but the unsettling feeling of something being off about them was overwhelming.

“Look away,” Marat whispered, and she whipped forward, closing her eyes, knowing better now than to question it. His tone was stone-cold and guarded. “Stand up.”

She did.

“Walk calmly, do not run, do not look behind us.” He instructed, holding her arm and setting their casual pace. Something behind them moved, closer than Val had thought.

Although Val had seen the twisted, almost-correct but not quite trees, she had not seen the source of the movement.

However, Marat had.

And at the edge of the wood stood a bright-haired, bright-eyed little girl.