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Authors: C. S. Friedman
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combination was both fascinating and repellant, and she felt drawn to it as one might be drawn to the sight of a mysterious animal lying dead by the roadside, wondering whether it was dead or alive.
“Who are you?” she asked her, trying not to sound as uneasy as she felt.
The girl did not answer. She did not stir. Even the breeze seemed to pass by without touching her, and her flesh might have been carved from stone for all the vitality it possessed.
“Do you want some food?” Hedda offered. Wanting to make the girl speak, or move, or . . . do something. Her left hand remained on her knife as she indicated the small bundle of provisions she’d brought with her, tucked into the basket beside her son. Thank the gods, the little one was sleeping quietly right now, nestled so deeply into the layers of laundry that it was unlikely the strange girl could see him. “I have enough to share.”
The visitor did not appear to understand her words, but she watched intently as Hedda crouched down, unwrapping a square of worn linen cloth from the thick heel of bread and slab of hard cheese that it guarded. Breaking off a piece of each, she moved away from the basket and held them out to the girl.
Hunger flashed in her eyes—or so it seemed to Hedda—but still she did not move.
“It’s all right. I have enough. Please, take it.”
Again she held it out to her. Again the girl did not respond.
Slowly, warily, her hand still upon her knife, she walked a short distance toward the girl. She was close enough to detect her smell now, an odd mix of stale sweat and sweet musk. Like the rest of her, it was both fascinating and repellent. “Here.” She lowered herself carefully, never letting down her guard, and placed the bread and cheese on a flat rock nearby. “This is for you.”
She backed away.
For a moment she thought the girl was still not going to move. Then the thin limbs stirred, and she began to walk slowly toward the food, her eyes never leaving Hedda’s. Her movements were angular and ungraceful, but it seemed more a consequence of habit than of weakness; she picked her way over the rough terrain like a bird might, head jerking with each step. When she reached the food, she glanced down briefly, just long enough to pick it up, and then her eyes fixed on Hedda once more as she bit deeply into the piece of bread, tearing loose a chunk and swallowing it whole, as an animal might gulp down meat.
Heart pounding, Hedda watched her eat. That she was hungry was clear enough. That she was something other than a young girl lost in the woods—for however long—was becoming equally clear. What if this were some sort of supernatural visitation? Hedda had heard tales of spirits who took on human form to work mischief; might not one of them look just like this? Her hand closed instinctively about the hilt of her knife as she watched the girl finish off the last of the offering. Should she give her the rest of the food? Sometimes spirits would leave you alone if you were generous enough. At least that’s what her grandmother had told her. Hedda wished she’d paid more attention to the old woman when she was a child, so she might know what sort of spirit this was and how she could get it to go away.
Finally the girl was finished eating. She looked at Hedda for a moment, then started down the slope toward her.
Hedda drew in a sharp breath. There was nothing overtly threatening about her, but every instinct in her maternal heart was crying out for her to keep this strange girl away from the baby. But had the girl even seen him? If Hedda moved the basket away from her now, wouldn’t that just reveal how precious its contents were? Frozen with indecision, she settled for positioning herself over the basket, so that the stranger would have to go through her to get to her baby. Much as a mother wolf might position herself over her cub while the shadow of a hawk passed over them both.
The girl came close. Too close. Her
“Who are you?” she asked her, trying not to sound as uneasy as she felt.
The girl did not answer. She did not stir. Even the breeze seemed to pass by without touching her, and her flesh might have been carved from stone for all the vitality it possessed.
“Do you want some food?” Hedda offered. Wanting to make the girl speak, or move, or . . . do something. Her left hand remained on her knife as she indicated the small bundle of provisions she’d brought with her, tucked into the basket beside her son. Thank the gods, the little one was sleeping quietly right now, nestled so deeply into the layers of laundry that it was unlikely the strange girl could see him. “I have enough to share.”
The visitor did not appear to understand her words, but she watched intently as Hedda crouched down, unwrapping a square of worn linen cloth from the thick heel of bread and slab of hard cheese that it guarded. Breaking off a piece of each, she moved away from the basket and held them out to the girl.
Hunger flashed in her eyes—or so it seemed to Hedda—but still she did not move.
“It’s all right. I have enough. Please, take it.”
Again she held it out to her. Again the girl did not respond.
Slowly, warily, her hand still upon her knife, she walked a short distance toward the girl. She was close enough to detect her smell now, an odd mix of stale sweat and sweet musk. Like the rest of her, it was both fascinating and repellent. “Here.” She lowered herself carefully, never letting down her guard, and placed the bread and cheese on a flat rock nearby. “This is for you.”
She backed away.
For a moment she thought the girl was still not going to move. Then the thin limbs stirred, and she began to walk slowly toward the food, her eyes never leaving Hedda’s. Her movements were angular and ungraceful, but it seemed more a consequence of habit than of weakness; she picked her way over the rough terrain like a bird might, head jerking with each step. When she reached the food, she glanced down briefly, just long enough to pick it up, and then her eyes fixed on Hedda once more as she bit deeply into the piece of bread, tearing loose a chunk and swallowing it whole, as an animal might gulp down meat.
Heart pounding, Hedda watched her eat. That she was hungry was clear enough. That she was something other than a young girl lost in the woods—for however long—was becoming equally clear. What if this were some sort of supernatural visitation? Hedda had heard tales of spirits who took on human form to work mischief; might not one of them look just like this? Her hand closed instinctively about the hilt of her knife as she watched the girl finish off the last of the offering. Should she give her the rest of the food? Sometimes spirits would leave you alone if you were generous enough. At least that’s what her grandmother had told her. Hedda wished she’d paid more attention to the old woman when she was a child, so she might know what sort of spirit this was and how she could get it to go away.
Finally the girl was finished eating. She looked at Hedda for a moment, then started down the slope toward her.
Hedda drew in a sharp breath. There was nothing overtly threatening about her, but every instinct in her maternal heart was crying out for her to keep this strange girl away from the baby. But had the girl even seen him? If Hedda moved the basket away from her now, wouldn’t that just reveal how precious its contents were? Frozen with indecision, she settled for positioning herself over the basket, so that the stranger would have to go through her to get to her baby. Much as a mother wolf might position herself over her cub while the shadow of a hawk passed over them both.
The girl came close. Too close. Her
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