I do not see the gray woodwalker, but I catch his scent. He is already beginning to decay. I wonder how long it will take. After some time, I feel the tug to return to my little box of a building and to them: the serious one, the girl, and the furry one. I don’t want to think of them by their names. I don’t want to stay here long enough for it to matter. And if they are the tithe, I don’t want to know them too well. It would be disagreeable to grow friendly and familiar if I am to kill them.
I look about, see a bird, and call it forth to me. Strange little being. Different from the ones I know. I do have an affinity for the winged ones, though. The birds and moths. Anything that flies like me. None of these creatures impress me much, except those bats I saw on the picture stone—remarkable beasts!
I am not truly sundered. No. I will give the serious one the music, share myself with the girl, then I will kill them and, in doing so, collect the tithe. I will do whatever else is tasked to me, and then I will find a way to get my name back. And with my name, they will give me another ball of lightning. Then I shall return to my world.
They walked without speaking for a while. Ben stubbed his cigarette out on a tree trunk and put the butt in his pocket, then he picked up a stick and slapped at branches with it while humming.
Shae appeared silently and abruptly, alighting on an oak branch not two yards away. Her greenish-white hair could have been sunlight on leaves. Her wings from this distance were the green and deep lavender of the wood.
“Oh, shit.” Ben started when he saw her. “Hey.”
Shae floated down to them, holding a stick in her hand like a wand.
“Did you, uh, have any luck?” Andre asked.
“It is that way.” She pointed over her shoulder. “Beyond the lake.”
“This might be a dumb question,” Andre said, “but can it fly? Like you?”
Shae gave a slight shrug. “Everything can fly if it thinks about it hard enough. But no, it cannot fly like me.” Her little feet landed lightly on the ground.
“Okay,” Andre said at this unhelpful reply.
“You could fly.” Shae looked at Andre boldly.
Ben laughed. “Um, no, I’m pretty sure we can’t—except in airplanes. It’s been proven many times.”
Shae said nothing to this. Andre noticed something then; three, four, five squirrels, noses twitching, scampered over and gathered in a loose circle around them. A little finch flew in small circles a few feet over Shae’s head. A large monarch butterfly suddenly landed on Shae’s shoulder, its wings opening and closing lazily. Another butterfly, small and creamy white, rested in her hair like a bow. Andre almost laughed and was about to make some comment about how Shae was like a Disney princess frolicking with the woodland critters—except there was something off-putting about seeing creatures that normally disdained humans gather around them.
“You’ve got . . .” Ben motioned with his hand to his shoulder, as if Shae had some piece of food on her she needed to shake off. She looked down and stroked the monarch’s wings, making a little crooning sound. “Yes. I call forth the creatures.”
Ben looked uneasily at the squirrels and then at Andre. “Why don’t we head back?” he said.
They walked towards the house, birds, butterflies, and squirrels loosely in tow. To Andre’s relief, all the critters except for the monarch butterfly stopped in the backyard, and she didn’t have to explain to Shae that having wild animals in the house probably wasn’t a good idea.
Shae took a honey jar and went back outside, into the shed, and shut the door. Ben turned the coffeepot back on and went up to his room to get ready for work. He appeared a few minutes later, wearing khakis and a black shirt he buttoned slowly, looking tired.
Andre sat in a chair and looked up at him with a faint smile. “I can’t believe you’re going to work.”
He shrugged. “Yeah, well, I’m needed at the bar. It’s Saturday. It’s going to be slammed. If I was going to call out, I should have done it hours ago.” There were faint maroon circles underneath his eyes, and his left eyelid still twitched.
He should lay off the coffee, she thought.
“Call me if anything happens, though,” he said. “If I don’t answer my cell for some reason, call the bar, and if whoever answers gives you a hard time, say it’s a family emergency or something.” He patted himself down to make sure he had the essential trifecta—keys, wallet, phone—and hesitated. He spoke, his face to the door. “I hope we’re doing the right thing, keeping her here, not telling anyone.”
After he left, Andre searched online for the next couple of hours, trying to find out anything else she could about Shae. Faeries were mischievous tricksters; they were tiny and helpful, or they were tall and regal, cunning and cruel. They dwelled in mystical forests or fancy subterranean courts, dancing for eternity. They existed in another dimension. Faerie was shadowy and fleeting. Elusive. Nothing fitted quite right. By the time she was done, it was getting dark, and she decided it was time to check on their guest.
She crossed the yard, shivering, thinking of those wings: grotesque and exquisite–the thin, membranous jeweled skin pulled tightly over a network of bones or cartilage or whatever made up Shae’s body. Andre hesitated at the door of the shed. If she was going to hurt you, she would have done so by now. And she’s a third of your size if that.
Andre knocked lightly. There was no response. After a few seconds, she opened the door. Shae lay curled up on the floor like a wet dragonfly at the side of a pool. Andre stood over her and stared at her for a long time. “Of course you’re exhausted,” she murmured. “You traveled all the way from the land of make-believe.”
Andre got another text from her mother: Hi honey, thanks for suggesting those vitamins! I already feel better. Give me a call when you get a chance. I’d love to catch up.
Poor Lydia. She was trying so hard these days. Her mother’s world was so much more stable now than it had been when Andre was growing up. Part of the twins’ early childhood had been spent in a women’s shelter after her parents had split, and Lydia’s next boyfriend had been abusive. Then they’d all lived in her bi-polar, chain-smoking, packrat grandmother’s home. They hadn’t had a shower, just an old stained bathtub that she and Amy had shared.
But the twins still probably would have continued living with Lydia if she hadn’t become utterly insufferable when she first accepted Christ as her savior at age thirty. A newly devout Lydia and a feral, pre-pubescent Amy were oil and water. It came to a head when Amy had first run away at age twelve. Moving to the west coast to live with their father had been the best thing for Amy and Andre, but Lydia had come a long way too in the intervening years. She had a good job, a nice home, a new family. And she’d mellowed out with religion.
Andre sighed. She texted her back. I’ll call you soon. Love you. It would be hard to have a normal conversation right now.
She made popcorn and watched an old black-and-white Twilight Zone episode, feeling profoundly lonely, when there was a knock on the door. She tensed. It was not often anyone dropped by this late without calling. She pulled out her phone. The battery was dead. She muted the television and crawled out from the blanket she was snuggled beneath. It could only be Ryan. Amy had a key. Still, she went through the kitchen and peeked out the curtain next to the front door. The porch light was not on, but she saw the silhouette of a large familiar figure.