And the Trees Crept In(63)

“Leave my babies alone!”

But he is stronger.

And he is bigger.

I watch it almost in slow-motion, wanting to stop it. Wanting to change what is coming.

He flips her off, and she crashes onto the floor with a sound louder than should be possible. Her back has shattered one of the beer bottles. Then he is on top of her, his hands around her neck, pressing, squeezing, his eyes wild and manic.

“Stupid bitch!” he growls through his teeth.

I spin and pick up Nori in her blanket again, pressing her head against my shoulder so she can’t see or hear. She is crying softly, shaking in my arms.

Mam writhes under Dad, clutching at his hands and yanking desperately, her legs kicking out uselessly from underneath him. But she is so small and weak, yet brave and strong, too. Her movements grow weaker, fainter, and then her eyes swivel sideways, and meet mine.

I am frozen—body lurching forward, then back to keep Nori safe, then forward to do—what?

I watch the grotesque changes in color. Pink, red, purple shattered with blood vessels. Her whole face is changing.

And then her lips move, and I see it. “Help.”

This woman, who had seemed too weak and small and useless to me as I grew into a young woman, was strong. She had always been strong. The only one capable of holding us together for so long.

And I do nothing.

It seems to take forever, this moment. Something passes between us—infinite and universal. It is: Help me.

I’m sorry.

I forgive you.

Save me.

Don’t forget me.

Remember.

Remember.


And now I do. I was fourteen when my father killed my mother, and I took my little sister and I ran. I remember it all.

I stood.

I saw.

And I did—nothing.

She asked me for help…

and I did nothing.

I’m so sorry.…

I’m so sorry sorry sorry sorry useless coward useless sorry weak murderer killer coward weak sorry I’m sorry so sorry weak useless failure let you die never forgive hate myself useless weak coward stood there let it happen can’t bear this I’m broken I broke you you’re gone and broken and it’s my fault because I left you there I left you there I left—

you to die.


“Are you ready?” Gowan is beside me.

My voice is a moth in a hurricane. “Ready for what?” I hug Nori tighter for comfort, but the blanket is empty in my arms. “What’s going on? Where’s Nori?”

“You already know that. You’ll need to go somewhere very dark if you want to find her again.” The corners of his mouth fall, like he is trying not to cry for me. “Something very difficult is coming.”

My mother’s words on his lips.

What could be more difficult than this?





SILLA DANIELS’S GUIDE TO THE DEMON’S LAIR



1. Try not to look around.

2. But if you must, look carefully.

3. Watch out for tall, thin, creepy tree-men.

4. Try to keep hold of your sister.

5. If you lose your sister, follow the tinkling sounds.

6. If you happen upon a cave

7. DON’T GO INSIDE.

8. Should you choose to ignore this advice, you are a very stupid person.

9. You should probably go die now. You likely will by the end, anyway.





Everything is dark. I don’t know where I am. I don’t care.


My mind is full of cause and effect.


Cause: A man beats his wife and his children.

Effect: His children want to leave him.

Cause: A mother loves her children.

Effect: She dies to free them.

Cause: A girl runs away, leaving her mother to be choked to death.

Effect: A girl will hate herself forever.

Cause: Memories are suppressed so the girl can survive.

Effect: A girl grows a granite heart.

Cause: A child summons a child demon.

Effect: The next generation is haunted.

Cause: The sins of the mother Effect: Are the sins of the daughter.



“Something very hard is coming,” he says.

The dark is so nice this time of day.





Did you know I can draw?

I could always draw, ever since I was a little kid.

It’s my one talent, I guess. I used it to escape

when Dad was bad or Mam was quiet.

I used to draw these huge colorful pictures

of gardens and flowers.

I drew what I thought La Baume looked like,

and then I would add a tiny version of me in a

window somewhere, pretending I was there.

Free.

What a joke.

Now all I use is black pen. It’s all I’ve got.

But even if it wasn’t, it’s all I’m inclined to

use. Black ink. Because even though it’s the

most depressing thing to say, and even more

depressing because it’s true—I don’t have any

colors left in me. They’ve all been turned to mud. Color is like hope, you see.

And I lost that a long time ago.





La Baume





Gowan crouches in the corner of the kitchen, counting shriveled, sprouting potatoes. He looks different somehow. Younger, maybe. Not as clean as usual. Cathy is standing nearby, her arms limp at her sides.