If I Told You Once. Judy Budnitz
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mass of braids, or a knotted bun. Her gray hair was only the outer covering of a hard bony knob—an outgrowth of the skull itself. It was some sort of malignancy, some evil tumor, and most likely the blow had broken some membrane, freed the evil juices to seep through her head. Already her face was unrecognizable.
I watched the body settle and shrink, the skin drawing more tightly over the bones. Her body became a dry, light, tidy thing, almost childlike. She looked quite peaceful. Except for the violently discolored face.
I took the key from her pocket and went to Anya’s room. I told her Baba was gone and we made plans to leave.
But the men were back, circling the house like wild dogs.
Night fell. We heard them, they were running, circling, howling at the moon. We saw their eyes glowing green as they raised their heads, flaring their nostrils, scenting the wind.
They can smell you, I told Anya.
Don’t let them in, she said.
They circled, scratching at the walls, pounding at the door, wailing and chewing their lips.
Maybe if they could just come in and see you, they’d go home satisfied, I said.
No they wouldn’t, she said.
They waited all through the next day. They pressed their faces against the window, their eyes red and wild, their beards matted and sticky. They licked the glass.
Soon they would begin tearing the walls down.
I thought of my mother, felt my eyes darting and jumping like hers.
I went to Anya and said: I have a plan.
I helped her dress. Then I put my arms around her and tried to lift her from the bed. She was not much taller than me. But her body was impossibly heavy and limp. Her flesh was so soft in my arms, like a down mattress; I thought that if I slit her white skin, she’d spill out feathers. My knees buckled; I saw sparks, and I collapsed on the floor with her warm, flaccid, bedridden body on top of me.
Your hair, I panted.
Her abundant hair accounted for at least part of the weight. It was many meters long, and tangled and twined around the sheets, the bed frame, the oceans of lace that surrounded her like a cocoon.
I tried to free her hair, to gather it up like an armful of wheat. She lay uselessly on the floor as I tried to bind it up. Massy and bright, it slid from my fingers. I tripped over it, it was caught in my teeth.
It has to go, I said.
She screamed in protest as I went looking for scissors. She thrashed on the floor like a beached mermaid. Her hair resisted me; soon the scissors were blunted. The cries of the men outside made me frantic.
It has to be done, I said.
I fetched the ax from the shed and stood above her, her hair pinned beneath my feet; I raised the ax above my head, and as she cursed and her sideways face contorted in anger I let it fall. Again and again I chopped through the lush growth, severing it from its roots.
I caught my breath and smiled. Anya continued to heap her curses on me, even as she ran her fingers through her cropped hair savoring the new weightless freedom of her head and neck.
I lifted Anya, propped her outside the back door. Then I went to Baba’s bed, wrapped her brittle body in a sheet, and carried it into Anya’s room. I covered it in lace, arranged the armfuls of Anya’s red-gold hair around the head as if it grew there.
I blew out the candles. Moonlight from the one narrow window fell across Baba’s face.
The men had gathered again at the front door; they smashed their fists against it. The whole house shook. Their voices rose in unison.
I opened the door. The faces, thirty or more, filled the doorway, a single creature with many heads and countless hands. They reeked of musk and sweat and foul saliva held too long in the mouth.
Do you want to see her? I said.
They closed their mouths and nodded; I held the door open and they tramped past me. Heedlessly they stumbled into Anya’s room, pressing around the bed, all of them packing in at once.
I locked the bedroom door behind them.
Then I went outside, hoisted Anya across my back, and staggered out into the snow.
Soon we heard the screams, the blows, the breaking of glass, the splintering of wood. I tried to hasten my steps.
I had nearly reached the trees when I heard the crash of the door being broken down. Men were pouring from the house. Anya gripped my ear. I longed to fling her down in the snow and run, but she was so heavy I was rooted to the spot.
But the men did not come after us, though my tracks were clearly visible in the snow.
They were brawling with each other, hurling accusations, trampling the snow, staining the clearing with blood, beating each other with their fists. Each was accusing the other of touching the fairy-girl, as they had been warned not to do. Each blamed the others for turning their dream-woman into a rotting bag of bones and dust.
All of them held skeins of red-gold hair wrapped around their fists, or balled in their mouths.
I set out again, with Anya bouncing on my back like a sack of grain. Far away, down in the village, I saw a line of lights steadily approaching. It was the women of the village, who had finally decided to take matters into their own hands. They came carrying torches and kitchen knives, some with babies bound to their breasts. They were coming to burn out the witch, break her enchantments and end her filthy practices, and bring their husbands home.
I could hear them singing.
I walked for hours in the dark.
Near dawn I let Anya slide from my shoulder. Her skin was blotchy from the cold, her lips blue, her patchy hair disheveled. Looking at her flabby face, her piggish black nostrils, I remembered the strange desire I had once felt for her and wondered when exactly I had left it behind.
She rubbed her hands, glared at me.
I cleared a space in the snow, gathered dry sticks, lit a match. We huddled together, our breaths making clouds.
I heard a footstep and my heart froze.
A huge shape darted from among the trees, paused in the early-morning light, and squatted before our fire.
Anya gasped.
I smiled.
Ari picked at his teeth and watched us warily, crouching on his heels. He had grown a great deal in the months since I had seen him. He was broad shouldered, bulky, shaggy as a bear. His beard had begun, though he was still a child. Some clumsy past attempts at shaving had left scabs on his face. But his eyes were the same, and the curve of his spine graceful as a horse’s neck.
Oh Ari, I said. I went to him and cradled his head in my arms, stroking the stiff hair. He looked up at me, sighed, and curled his lip in the grimace that was as close as he came to a smile.
My brother, I told Anya. He can carry you, I said.
Ari’s lips were chapped and bleeding, and he licked at them hungrily. Did you escape? I asked him. Although it was obvious, from the coarse uniform he wore. The cheap army-issue boots were falling to pieces.
I tried to hold his hands. He shook me away as he always did. Then I noticed the leg iron, rusted with dried blood, on his left ankle.
Anya was watching us, fascination and disgust on her face.
I knew the soldiers would be looking for him. I had to bring him to a safe place. I knew we should have started walking right then. Ari could have taken Anya off my back. We might have gone a good distance before night.
But I fell asleep, my head pillowed on my arms.
Sometime later I struggled out of sleep to see Ari and Anya staring at each other across the fire. Ari