Soolie Beetch and the Dying Light Page 2

  “On our way back from Malswood pond, I saw a caravan camped in a field beside the Eastern Road.”

  “Not just any caravan, Ellena,” Soolie chimed in around a mouthful of soggy bread, “a carnival from the Southern Lands! They had giant carts and wagons. Huge covered cages. Can you imagine what might be under there? Maybe serpents. Or talking birds. Or hound cats!” She paused to swallow. “Ellena, this soup is the best!”

  “Soolie. Slow down and don’t speak with your mouth full.”

  “I’m sorry, I’m just so hungry. I’m starving!”

  “You’re not starving.”

  “I feel like I’m starving.”

  “For land’s sake!” Ellena cut in. “What happened at the caravan?”

  Silas didn’t want to think about what happened. He didn’t want to remember the woman lying in the back of the wagon, so grotesque and alone. There had been something about her. Something beyond her scaly scalp and swollen sickly flesh. More than a sight, more than a smell, there had been a sense he didn’t understand. All together, it had frightened him badly. Tell truth, it still frightened him.

  Soolie, on the other hand, seemed obnoxiously fine. She was perched on his work stool cramming her mouth like a squirrel moving its larder.

  “Well?” Ellena prodded.

  “I saw Hobby, Kip, and Bernad heading towards the caravan, and when I got closer, they were tormenting a sideshow performer.”

  “She was so fat, Ellena!” Soolie interjected. “She was ‘ate-all-the-elephants-and-didn’t-chew fat.’” Soolie puffed out her cheeks and crossed her eyes to illustrate.

  “Did you want to finish telling the story, Soolie?” Silas asked wearily.

  “No, that’s okay. You go ahead.”

  Silas took one calming breath in and fully out before continuing. “So. After I sent the boys home, Soolie jumped up in the wagon, even though I told her not to, and the woman grabbed her by the arm and started shaking violently. And I had to get up in the wagon to pull them apart. That was the end. That’s all that happened.”

  “It was very exciting,” Soolie added, scraping the bottom of her bowl with her spoon.

  “That sounds awful,” Ellena said. “Is she okay?”

  “She certainly seems okay,” Silas gestured. “Her appetite hasn’t suffered any.”

  “Not Soolie. The woman. You said she had spasms. Is she okay?”

  “I… don’t know,” Silas admitted.

  “You didn’t tell anyone?”

  “I was so concerned for Soolie.”

  “Silas, what if she needed help?”

  Silas sat back in the rocker slowly. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  Soolie gasped, “Should we go back?”

  “The time to have done something was when it happened,” Ellena said. “We can only hope she’s all right.”

  Silas studied the edge of the table, and Soolie slowed her voracious chewing, looking back and forth between them.

  At last, Ellena shot Silas a look to let him know this certainly wasn’t over, then winked at Soolie. “You just want to go back to try and see a monster from the Southern Lands, don’t you?”

  Soolie immediately brightened, “Man-eating goats, flying serpents, whole forests that spring up in the night and are gone by dawn!”

  “The animals from the Southern Lands aren’t monsters,” Silas objected, “they’re just animals.”

  Ellena leaned forward conspiratorially, her voice low. “I heard there is a tower in the Southern Lands where a dark mirror is kept that captures the souls of all who look upon themselves in its depths.”

  “Ooooh,” Soolie’s eyes glittered. “Please say we have time for a story tonight, Ellena, please!”

  “Well,” Ellena glanced over at Silas.

  “Maybe some other night,” he said. “When there isn’t school in the morning.”

  “I could start my education early!” Soolie clasped her hands. “I’ll wash all the dishes?”

  “We’ve had enough excitement for one day,” Silas said firmly. He knew he’d had.

  Soolie scowled. “You never like the stories.”

  “Silas,” Ellena winked playfully at Soolie, “can schoolgirls have dessert on a school night? I brought blackberry tarts.”

  Soolie leaped from her chair and threw her arms around Ellena. “Aunt Ellena’s the best!”

  . . .

  After dessert, they washed the bowls and utensils. There were no leftovers. (Soolie would have licked the dishes clean if Silas had let her.) The two rocking chairs were moved back by the fireplace. The tablecloth was carefully shaken out, folded up, and placed back in Ellena’s basket with the other dinner things. Soon Ellena’s makeshift dining room had disappeared, and the little house was back to normal.

  Most of the room was devoted to Silas’ shoe making: wood and leather, dyes, paints, trays of hooks, buttons, and spools of thread. The tools of his trade hung high on the walls where he had strapped them years ago, safe out of little Soolie’s reach. Silas’ bed was tucked behind the ladder that led up to the small loft where Soolie slept. The only visible feminine touches were the patchwork bedspread, the rag rug by the fireplace, and the blue ruffled curtains Tara had fashioned from the dress she had worn on their wedding day. Anything Ellena brought when she visited, she took with her when she left.

  Soolie washed up and said goodnight. Ellena made her promise to stop by the bakery after school to tell her about her first day and take some rolls home, which Silas insisted they would pay for. When at last the excited girl had hugged them both goodnight and scurried up the ladder into her loft, Silas took the kettle off the fire and poured Ellena and himself a cup of tea. They sat across from one another gazing into the low flames, sharing a moment before Ellena headed back home to her room above the bakery.

  “I’m sorry,” Silas offered, speaking in a low voice so as not to wake Soolie in the open loft just above their heads. “I don’t know what had her tonight.”

  “She was fine,” Ellena said softly. “I’m more concerned about you.”

  Of course she was. Ever since Tara had died, Ellena had been there for the husband and daughter her adopted sister had left behind. Sometimes Silas wished Ellena would be just a little less involved, a little less opinionated. But he could see how much she cared for Soolie, and Soolie absolutely adored her Aunt Ellena. If he had to put up with a few lectures, it was worth it.

  Ellena studied him for a moment, the only sound between them the soft hiss of the logs and occasional snap pop of the fire. The tight bun that she had twisted her hair into that morning had grown frizzy and disheveled throughout the day. Now, in the evening firelight, her hair settled about her face in a soft golden halo. Silas just wished that when she lectured him she wasn’t always right.

  “How are you doing?”

  “Well,” he started deliberately, “business is decent. I’m receiving a growing number of orders from Ravus. Soolie and I are helping the Cornells build a tiered garden out behind their home. In exchange, they’re giving us use of one of the levels to grow our own vegetables. I’m looking forward to butter squash. How are you?”

  Ellena wasn’t so easily deterred. “You were frightened today. Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You ran away from a woman who was having a spasm.”

  “She grabbed Soolie. She grabbed my daughter. You didn’t see it.”

  “She might have been dying, Silas.”

  Silas looked away. “Soolie has seen enough death already.”

  Ellena closed her eyes the way she did when she was about to say something difficult. “Tara taught Soolie to face her fears. Don’t take that away from her.”

  Silas bristled. “You have no right to criticize me for how I raise my daughter.”

  “Oh, Silas, that’s not what I meant.”

  “She’s only a child.”

  “Yes,” Ellena murmured. “Which is all the more reason for her to be fearless. You do enough worrying for all of us. Just…” she searched for the right words. “She’s a strong, beautiful girl with a father who loves her very much. You don’t have to be afraid for her all the time.”

  “Hmm.” Silas took a sip of tea. He heard the words. He had heard them before. Maybe one day he’d be able to let them sink in.

  After that, they talked of little things. Ellena was helping organize the harvest festival. Silas was worried it was going to be a long winter. Rod Cornell’s wife Milin was looking very pregnant, and Mrs. Svenson had told Ellena that Mergo Pelig, the mayor’s wife, was having an affair, which both Silas and Ellena agreed was an ugly rumor and probably true. After a while, they ran out of things to say and sat in silence for some time, listening to the hiss pop of the fire and letting time roll languid. When Ellena finally stood, the fire had burned down to red black embers, and the tea at the bottom of their mugs was cold. She placed her mug on his work table, pulled on her boots, boots he had made, and laced them up. She wrapped a woolen shawl around her shoulders and hefted her basket of dinner things.

  Ellena walked over to where he sat, still holding his tea mug and staring into the flickering embers. She placed one hand to his bearded cheek, gently turned his head, and kissed him softly on the forehead.

  “Good night, Silas.”

  “Good night, Ellena.”

  Then she opened the front door, stepped out onto the dark, and closed it carefully behind her.

  . . .

  In the loft, Soolie listened to Ellena leave. She lay awake, thinking about the strange woman in the carnival caravan. Wondering if it had been just a spasm, if she had imagined the invading numbness and fierce glowing eyes. Wondering, too, what it would be like to go to school in the morning, to be around other young people her own age. She lay
in the dark playing conversations in her mind. “The buttons? They’re turquoise.” “You like to embroider? I paint! We should make something together.” “Sure, let’s have a picnic. I’ll show you my favorite climbing tree by Malswood Pond.”

  When Soolie finally did drift off to sleep, a dark shadow was cast over her dreams. She dreamt of going to school, not in the little schoolhouse at Hob Glen, but to a school at a carnival in the center of Ravus full of colorful acrobats, dancing monkeys, and beautiful singing fish with wings. She dreamt her mother was there, and Ellena was there, sometimes one, sometimes the other, and sometimes it seemed they were one and the same. She dreamt she danced and her father was happy. That he lifted her over his head like when she was small and swung her around and around until they were breathless laughing. That he whispered in her ear, “There is no time. The Dead Man is rising.”

  When she awoke the next morning, the dream was gone. The shadow was all she remembered.

  three

  Soolie got up plenty early. She unwrapped the rope securing the roof hatch, pushed it up with both hands, and peered out over the shingles. Sometimes she would stand on her tiptoes and imagine she could just make out the tips of the buildings of Ravus poking up from the horizon like new grass, and sometimes in the evening, when the sun was setting splendidly, she would sneak Papa’s stool up to the loft and strain as if she might catch a glimpse of the sun being pierced by the Regent’s tower, bleeding out, drenching the sky in amethyst and coral light. But no matter how tall she stretched, the city was always just out of sight, and right now it was too dark to see much of anything.

  Of course Papa was already up, but the lantern light from downstairs barely reached into the loft. Soolie had set out her favorite dress the night before, the bright cranberry wool with turquoise buttons, and her newest pair of stockings. As she fumbled in the dimness, she noticed the skin on her right wrist where the woman had grabbed her felt strange, thin and papery like an old burn. She pinched it and felt nothing. It didn’t matter. She wasn’t going to let anything stop her today. Still, it was probably for the best that the dress had long sleeves. No sense worrying Papa.

  “Slowly,” Papa cautioned as she swung over the edge of the loft and hurried down the ladder.

  . . .

  The schoolhouse was no more than a single room shack on the other side of Hob Glen. The walls were woefully thin, but painted a fresh light blue with white trim and kept in good repair. The students sat on long narrow benches in front of long narrow tables facing Miss Felice Pont’s desk and blackboard, younger children towards the front, older children towards the back. There was a little coal stove in the corner, but once the winter chill set in, even with the stove glowing so hot the students closest found their faces flush and sensitive, the ones farthest away still shivered in the draft.

  School days were only four hours, and homework depended greatly on whether or not the child’s parents could afford books. Everyone under sixteen years in Hob Glen, whose parents could spare them, went to Miss Pont’s little school fall through spring. Everyone, that is, except Soolie, who had been removed from the school by her father when she was nine and been taught at home ever since until today.

  In the gray morning light, Soolie skipped lightly down Main Street eating the lunch Papa had packed for her, past Ellena’s Bakery, through the central square with the old oak tree, past the Pelig’s house, which was the largest in Hob Glen with two full stories and an attic, and finally out near the edge of the town. There, at the end of a side road, sat the little blue and white schoolhouse, and there, just now turning the key in the front door, was Miss Felice Pont.

  “Good morning, Miss Pont!” Soolie shouted from up the road, waving her free arm wildly.

  Miss Pont turned and raised her thin eyebrows, “Miss Beetch. Will you be joining us today? Is your father ill?”

  “Not at all!” Soolie scurried forward, clutching her books and an empty lunch satchel to her chest. “Papa is letting me attend school now that I am thirteen years.” Soolie curtsied brightly.

  “I see,” said Miss Pont. “I’m glad he has decided my teaching is good enough to allow his daughter to sit in on class.”

  “Oh, I don’t think your teaching has anything to do with it,” Soolie assured, following close on the older woman’s heels as she entered the schoolroom.

  Miss Pont turned and pursed her lips, causing Soolie to step back, bumping into the door frame. “I see you brought books, Miss Beetch.”

  “Yes!” Soolie held them up. “Papa says many books make a sound mind. I brought three: ‘The Complete History of Ravus City,’ by Mikus Orlin. ‘Horticulture of the…”

  “Put them under your seat,” the teacher said, hanging her cloak by the door. “You shouldn’t flaunt having books over the other children. You may sit in the back, Miss Beetch.”

  Soolie was disappointed. She had wanted to like Miss Pont, and it looked like she wasn’t going to like her at all. Nevertheless, Mama had taught her to embrace new experiences, and school was a new experience. Who knew what might happen? Perhaps she might even make a friend.

  The other students arrived. Some of them were siblings; a little girl and boy, possibly twins, held on to their older sister’s hands. A shapely girl with bright straw-colored curls bounced and flounced through the door, giggling ferociously and swishing thick petticoats that were the latest style from the city. Soolie recognized her as Winny Baldrick. Winny considered herself the most popular girl in school, but this was Hob Glen, and there wasn’t much competition.

  There weren’t many children older than Soolie this year. Winny and two other girls sat a couple of benches up whispering, giggling, and glancing back at her. It was nearly time for school to start, and still no one had joined Soolie in the back two rows. She was beginning to consider this might be Miss Pont’s way of punishing her for not having been around for the last four years. Just when she concluded this must indeed be the case, Hobby, Kip, and Bernad arrived and headed straight for the back. Hobby plopped himself right next to Soolie, pinched her arm hard and grinned wickedly, showing off uneven teeth. Soolie realized she had underestimated Miss Pont.

  “Now that we’re all here,” Miss Pont announced, “let us begin.”

  Today, Miss Pont was teaching letters, drawing them one by one on the blackboard and having everyone say them out loud. Soolie already knew her letters, but she understood the young children needed to learn them as well. What made the lesson truly dismal was that every time Miss Pont turned her back on the classroom to write on the blackboard, Hobby’s thick, vicious hands would dart in to torment her. He poked her ribs, pinched her arm, and pulled her hair: anything to elicit a yelp or a squeal. Soolie, however, was still and silent as stone. Hobby could poke, prod, and pinch all he wanted: she wouldn’t even flinch. Mama never flinched. Mama made peace with pain. Soolie wasn’t always good at making peace, but she was very good at not flinching.

  Then Hobby wiggled a wet slobbery finger in her ear, and Kip let out a snort.

  Miss Pont turned. “Is everything all right, Miss Beetch?”

  “Quite all right, Miss Pont,” Soolie said evenly.

  Hobby tucked his hands under the table. Kip was still choking back snorting giggles.

  “Perhaps letters are boring you, Miss Beetch. Perhaps you would rather be reading those books you brought?”

  I am quite certain now, Soolie thought, I do not like you at all.

  The fact that the boys sat in the back row was no coincidence. Neither was the empty row in front of them; this was an arrangement. Well, if Soolie was going to be punished, it was about time she did something to deserve it.

  Everyone in the classroom was turned around in their benches looking at her, waiting to hear what she would say. Soolie smiled demurely.

  “Actually, Miss Pont, you have no idea what a relief it is to have escaped my father’s attentive instruction and finally have the benefit of receiving my lessons from such a lovely blackboard.”

  Silence. The students looked back at Miss Pont, waiting to see if this had been received as an insult.

  “Since you are our guest, Miss Beetch,” said Miss Pont, “what would you prefer to be learning today?”