Whichwood(17)

Not moments after whispered words of gratitude left his lips were his cart and self knocked into by an unexpected stranger, and Benyamin was lifted out of himself in shock. That his head struck stone, that his spirits were clobbered—this was no matter at all to him. But that the barrow was flung sideways and upside down in the snow, crushing half his harvest in the process? Benyamin was devastated.

He looked up—head pounding, heart pounding—into the eyes of his assailant, and found a face so extraordinarily unlike his own that Benyamin was certain he had died. He sat up slowly, his vision coming in and out of focus, and yes—that he was dead he was certain, because he was looking into the eyes of an angel.

She was white as the snow itself. Her skin, her hair, her eyelashes—so extraordinary. An angel, he thought. Definitely an angel. And he began searching for her wings.

“Are you alright?” she was saying to him, over and over again. “Are you okay?” She shook him, looked away, looked at someone else. “Oh, Oliver, what have I done?” she cried. “Have I killed him? Have I—”

“Where are your wings?” Benyamin heard himself say to her. His head was spinning more quickly now, but he managed to pull himself into a seated position. Death was blurrier than he thought it would be. “I thought you would have wings,” he tried again.

Alice Alexis Queensmeadow was both relieved and confused. She had not killed this innocent boy, but she had apparently done something to his brain. Which was the worse, she did not know.

It was Oliver who pulled Benyamin to his feet and, not a moment later, it was Oliver who let go of his arm with a startled cry, dropping Benyamin to the ground so suddenly that the poor boy knocked his head again. Luckily, the second knock seemed to cure him, and it was just as the fog cleared that Benyamin heard Oliver shout,

“Well, what was I supposed to do? He’s covered in spiders! And—and—all kinds of insects! Crawling down his sleeves and scurrying up his legs”—Oliver dropped his face into his hands in horror—“oh, for Feren’s sake, what have we gotten ourselves into in this mad, hateful town with all these strange, disgusting people—”

“I’m very sorry about the insects,” Benyamin said curtly, and Oliver’s mouth snapped shut. A blotchy redness spread across his cheeks, and he had at least the decency to look ashamed.

Benyamin, meanwhile, had pulled himself up with great and solemn dignity and stood before them now, not quite as tall as Oliver, but nearly so, and fully comprehending the situation. First: one glance told him his harvest was not beyond saving. Second: that he was not yet dead. And third: Alice—though he did not know her name at the time—was not an angel, no, but a girl, and this was perhaps the more miraculous alternative. As a girl, you see, she was the most astonishing he’d ever beheld. She was quite perfect in his estimation, more exquisite than even his saffron flowers, which he loved so dearly. It was only because of Alice, who stood by silently, staring at her feet, that Oliver’s words had not injured him. He felt that her heart, quietly tripping in the cold, was a kindred one, and he could not explain the why.

In any case, there was much to be said between these three, and Benyamin was arranging to say it; they had not only the matter of the fallen saffron to discuss, but also the business of Who are you and What are you doing here to contend with, and though everyone was ready to engage in these productive conversations, they were delayed by yet another unexpected stranger.

A peacock spider had scuttled, unnoticed, up Alice’s skirts and across her coat and around her neck until he sat primly atop her nose, where he had the best position of inspecting her. He flapped his colorful, iridescent fan as he danced sideways across her face, taking eerily elegant steps that made his small, colorful body glitter in the sunlight. The spider was a handsome, clever little creature who’d always been proud of his vivid good looks, so he was curious about Alice and her missing colors, and, being fond of Benyamin, he was hoping to investigate the situation on the boy’s behalf.

Meanwhile, Alice was as brave as she could manage as she stood, still and terrified, waiting for the spider to be done with her. She did not yet know how this creature was connected to Benyamin, but she felt there must be a connection between the two, and so she said nothing, unwilling to insult Benyamin any further and silently hating Oliver for having been so rude to this boy in the first place. After all, it was their fault they’d toppled into him.

Even so—

It was all very, very strange.

The residents of Whichwood, much like the residents of Ferenwood, each had a magical talent, but the differences between the two towns (of which there were many) were becoming clearer. In Ferenwood, all citizens Surrendered their talents; they openly celebrated magic and their magical abilities, seldom hiding what they were destined to be. But here in Whichwood, Alice and Oliver had unwittingly stumbled upon a second keeper of secrets in as many days. Benyamin, like Laylee, kept much of his magic to himself, for he never spoke of his relationship with the entomological world, not even to explain away his many-legged entourage. No one seemed to know why he was always covered in insects, not even his mother, and he didn’t care to clarify.

The thing was, Benyamin thought humans were strange. He couldn’t understand why we wear skin to hide our skeletons and, consequently, he had great respect for those who wore their bones with pride. And though Benyamin identified as human, he took refuge in a small hope that he was at least not as human as the rest of us. This peculiar fantasy was perhaps a result of an incident in his childhood, when Benyamin had scratched an itch until it burst open, emancipating hundreds of newborn spiders from the soft underside of his elbow. He hadn’t known until that moment that anything had taken up residence inside of him, and it was only then that he understood what no one else had been able to explain.