فصل 31

31.

In Which a Madwoman Finds a Tree House

Flying on the backs of a flock of paper birds is less comfortable than you might imagine. And while the madwoman was accustomed to a bit of discomfort, the movement of the paper wings was having an effect on her skin. They cut her until she bled.

“Just a little bit farther,” she said. She could see the place in her mind. A swamp. A series of craters. A very large tree with a door in it. A small observatory through which one might see the stars.

She is here, she is here, she is here. For all these years, her heart had painted the picture for her. Her child—not a figment of her imagination, but her child in the world. The picture that her heart painted was real. She knew it now.

Before the madwoman was born, her mother had sacrificed a baby to the Witch. A boy. Or so she was told. But she knew her mother had visions of the boy growing up. She did until she died. And the madwoman, too, could see her own dear baby—a big girl now. Black hair and black eyes and skin the color of polished amber. A jewel. Clever fingers. A skeptical gaze. The Sisters told her this was just her madness talking. And yet, she could draw a map. A map that led her to her daughter. She could feel its rightness in the thrum and heat of her bones.

“There,” the madwoman breathed, pointing down.

A swamp. Just as she had seen in her mind. It was real.

Seven craters, marking the border. Just as she had seen in her mind. They were also real.

A workshop made of stones, with an observatory. Also real.

And there, next to a small garden plot and a stable and two wooden chairs seated in a flowering arbor—an enormous tree. With a door. And windows.

The madwoman felt her heart give a great leap.

She is here, she is here, she is here.

The birds surged upward before slowly drifting down to the ground, carrying the madwoman with them, laying her down as gently as a mother lays a baby in a bed.

She is here.

The madwoman scrambled to her feet. Opened her mouth. Felt her heart seize in her chest. Surely she had given her child a name. She must have.

What child? the Sisters used to whisper to her. No one knows what you are talking about.

No one took your baby, they told her. You lost your baby. You put her in the woods and you lost her. Silly girl.

Your baby died. Don’t you remember?

The things you invent. Your madness is getting worse.

Your baby was dangerous.

You are dangerous.

You never had a baby.

The life you remember is just a fancy of your fevered mind.

You have been mad forever.

Only your sorrow is real. Sorrow and sorrow and sorrow.

She knew the baby was real. And the house she lived in and the husband who loved her. Who now had a new wife and a new family. A different baby.

There never was a baby.

No one knows who you are.

No one remembers you.

No one misses you.

You don’t exist.

The Sisters were all venom and slither and hiss. Their voices crawled up her spine and wound around her neck. Their lies pulled in tight. But they were only doing as they were told. There was only one liar in the Tower, and the madwoman knew who it was.

The madwoman shook her head. “Lies,” she said out loud. “She told me lies.” She was a girl in love once. And a clever wife. And an expectant mother. An angry mother. A grieving mother. And her grief made her mad, yes. Of course it did. But it made her see the truth, too.

“How long has it been?” she whispered. Her spine curled and she wrapped her arms around her belly, as though holding her sorrow inside. An ineffective trick, alas. It took her years to learn better ways to thwart the Sorrow Eater.

The paper birds hovered over her head—a quiet, rustly flapping. They were awaiting orders. They would wait all day. She knew they would. She didn’t know how she knew.

“Is—” Her voice cracked. It was rusty and creaky from lack of use. She cleared her throat again. “Is anyone here?”

No one answered.

She tried again.

“I do not remember my name.” This was true. The truth, she decided, was the only thing she had. “But I had a name. Once. I am looking for my child. I do not remember her name, either. But she exists. My name exists, too. I lived with my daughter and my husband before everything went wrong. She was taken. She was taken by bad men. And bad women. And maybe also a witch. I am not certain about the Witch.”

Still no one answered.

The madwoman looked around. The only sounds were the bubbling swamp and the rustle of paper wings. The door in the belly of the enormous tree was slightly ajar. She walked across the yard. Her feet hurt. They were bare and uncalloused. When was the last time they had touched the earth? She could hardly remember. Her cell was small. The stone was smooth. She could go from one side to the other in six short steps. When she was a little girl she ran barefoot whenever she could. But that was a thousand lifetimes ago. Perhaps it happened to someone else.

A goat began to bleat. And another. One was the color of toasted bread and the other was the color of coal. They stared at the madwoman with their large, damp eyes. They were hungry. And their udders were swollen. They needed to be milked.

She had milked a goat, she realized with a start. Long ago.

The chickens clucked in their enclosure, pressing their beaks to the willow walls, keeping them inside. They gave their wings a desperate flap.

They were also hungry.

“Who takes care of you?” the madwoman asked. “And where are they now?”

She ignored the animals’ piteous cries and went through the door.

Inside was a home—neat and tidy and pleasant. Rugs on the floor. Quilts on the chairs. There were two beds pulled up to the ceiling through a clever construction of ropes and pulleys. There were dresses on hangers, and cloaks on hooks. One bed had a collection of staffs leaning against the wall just under it. There were jams and bundles of herbs and dried meats studded with spices and cracked salt. A round of cheese curing on the table. Pictures on the wall—handmade pictures on wood or paper or unrolled bark. A dragon sitting on the head of an old woman. A strange-­looking monster. A mountain with a moon hovering over it, like a pendant off a neck. A tower with a black-­haired woman leaning out, reaching her hand to a bird. “She is here,” it said on the bottom.

Each picture was signed with a childlike script. “Luna,” they said.

“Luna,” whispered the madwoman. “Luna, Luna, Luna.”

And each time she said it, she felt something inside her clicking into place. She felt her heart beat. And beat. And beat. She gasped.

“My daughter is named Luna,” she whispered. She knew in her heart it was true.

The beds were cold. The hearth was cold. No shoes sat on the rug by the door. No one was here. Which meant that Luna and whoever else lived in this house were not here. They were in the woods. And there was a witch in the woods.