Goldie
Now it is all she can think about: bringing him back. Is it really possible?
Goldie thinks of all the things she’d once thought impossible: telepathy, astral projection, bringing withered plants back to life. When she was eight years old her bastard stepfather had flushed her beloved bonsai tree down the toilet. Pulling it from the water, she’d sat on the edge of the bath, cupping the wet tree – stripped of soil and leaves – in her palms. Gradually her hands grew warm then, all at once, Goldie felt a sudden jolt, as if the tree’s throttled heartbeat had just twitched back to life. She had stroked every branch, every root; whispering encouragements to coax it back into the realm of the living. Three days later the first leaf sprouted, a bud of bright, insistent green. A small impossibility made possible.
So could Bea be right? Can she actually bring Leo back? Perhaps. Although, of course, resurrecting a bonsai tree is one thing, resurrecting a spirit quite another.
Tonight, she’d left Teddy sleeping – asleep, he returns to being the boy Goldie loves, kind and sweet and innocent again in his silence – and dreamed herself into Everwhere. Tonight she’s hoping that her sisters don’t show up; tries to banish them from her thoughts, careful not to call or inadvertently summon them. She cannot allow her sisters to interrupt when she reveals to Leo the plan. Of course, she has no idea if he’ll be able to hear her, but perhaps he might. We’ve only got a few nights to wait, my love, until I turn twenty-one, when I’ll be capable of conjuring the necessary strength to do such an incredible thing.
For the past twenty-four hours Goldie has hardly slept but instead has spent every minute investigating – ancient texts, pagan rituals, the powers of past and present Sisters Grimm. She’s been listening – to the murmurings of the Everwhere leaves, to the chatter of night creatures who speak of unknown things, to the deep wisdom and dark promises of the demons that lurk in the shadows. She’s been watching: for blackbird feathers fallen across her path, for the clock to beckon her at 3.33 a.m., for all the signs that point in unseen directions and towards unimagined possibilities.
Goldie takes her time walking the path to the glade. She steps carefully over the slick stones, letting her feet sink deep into the moss, reaching out to trace her fingertips over the knots and whorls of every tree, brushing the leaves and listening to their whispers. She glances over at the silver shadow of the moon shimmering along the still river that follows alongside her path. Goldie forces herself to idle and lag, though she wants to rush, to sprint, to leap over rocks and fallen trees, flying to her destination, ignoring everything along the way. But that is not the right way to do a thing of such importance; it must be given all due reverence and gravitas. So she will walk when she wants to run, she will pay attention to every leaf when she wants to brush them away, she will breathe deeply when she can barely – for the excitement – breathe at all.
Goldie’s patience is rewarded when she finally steps into the glade. Her senses are heightened, as if she could hear a leaf fall on the other side of Everwhere, as if she could hear an echo of Leo’s voice before it’s even quivered the air. His breath is on the mists tonight, his touch is the light of the moon. Goldie steps slowly across the glade towards her seat, passing her hand over the tree stump, with a twist of her fingers flattening out the moss, softening it. And then she changes her mind, for beside the tree stump is a flat rock that tonight feels more fitting as a seat.
Bending down, Goldie rolls the rock over the carpet of ivy and moss, pushing it up against the trunk of Leo’s tree. The gesture is perhaps a little morbid: since this bleached stone now resting on the spot where he died is effectively his gravestone. Still, Goldie doesn’t mind, she only wants to get as close to him as it’s possible to be.
She takes three long, deep breaths.
‘I’m going to save you,’ she whispers. ‘In eight days, when I’m at my strongest, I will bring you back to life.’
She waits for an echo of Leo’s voice on the breeze. She waits for a sign to show her that he’s here, that he’s listening, that, somehow, he hears her, that, somehow, he knows. But her hope is met with no friendly voice, no friendly sign – nothing. For one cruel moment, Goldie fears it’s all for naught, that she’s only fuelled by hope and imagination, that Leo really is forever gone, that she will never see him again. Then she remembers her plan and she remembers her power and she pushes aside her doubt.
‘I will resurrect you,’ Goldie says into the silence. ‘We will be together again.’
Liyana
In the flickering fluorescent light of the hospital room, Liyana tries to blink away what she’d seen but can’t. Every time she hooks a distraction for more than a moment it slips from her grasp and her eye is drawn back again: Aunt Nya slipped from the sofa onto the floor, a half-full bottle of wine on the table, the glass rolled to the carpet, the bottle of spilled pills almost hidden under her splayed arm, a bloody gash across her cheek, already swelling, where she hit the table’s edge as she fell.
Liyana sits only a few feet from the bed where Nya lies sleeping, her stomach pumped, her breathing shallow, her rich dark skin mottled and blotched under the lights, her hair fuzzy and unbrushed. Liyana can’t bear to look, not only for the sorrow the sight evokes but because she’s embarrassed, knowing the shame Nya would feel to be on display looking like this.
Years ago, as a rich wife, Nya had spent small fortunes on facials and salons, spas and gyms. She’d been a client of Dr Suha Kersh, the Paris surgeon and Botox artiste extraordinaire; she’d never let anything less than cashmere or silk clothe her and wouldn’t have been caught dead in public without a full face of Bobbi Brown.
Liyana wishes she could dress up her sleeping aunt, pull off the hideous pink NHS hospital nightie and slip on her silk pyjamas instead. How thin Nya has become, Liyana sees, her long body barely a bump beneath the covers. Of course, her aunt had always been very slim, in the way that most upper middle-class London wives were, but she’d never crossed the line into skeletal. How long has she looked like this, Liyana wonders, and how hadn’t she noticed before?
Liyana wipes her eyes. She keeps her mouth firmly closed, but guilt still seeps through her lips every time she takes a breath. The taste is bitter, as if she’s filling her lungs with burnt smoke. She wishes Kumiko was here, wishes she was gripping her hand and holding her gaze so Liyana would be more easily able to avoid looking at her aunt. Her girlfriend would provide a kindly flow of small talk to drag away Liyana’s thoughts which now string themselves together like chains to flay her. Liyana knows that if she called Koko, even at two o’clock in the morning, she would come. And it’s not because she doesn’t want to disturb her that Liyana hesitates but for some deeper, darker reason that Liyana neither understands nor wants, in this moment, to investigate. Instead, she tries to fall asleep.
Eventually, Liyana’s thoughts settle and her breath slows till a merciful sleep switches off the flickering fluorescent hospital lights, spiriting Liyana from the hospital room and into Everwhere. As she steps onto stone and moss, opening her eyes to gaze up at the friendly unwavering moon and the trees reaching towards the sky, feeling the misty air softening her parched skin, Liyana begins the search for her sisters.
When they seek each other in Everwhere they use the compass of their instincts to find the glade or clearing, the fallen tree trunk or rock upon which the other sits and waits. Tonight, Liyana follows one of the many veins of the rivers that run on and on, twisting through the trees, turning with the paths, snaking across the infinite landscape stretching to horizons never seen. As she walks, Liyana listens to the soothing rush of water, the pulse of her own blood syncing with its rhythm until her heartbeat slows and she feels a fresh sense of peace wash through her body.
It’s not long before Liyana is tugged away from the river and towards a circle of willow trees. Reluctantly, she follows her instinct and leaves the water behind as she walks towards the trees. The fog hangs low and Liyana can only make out the shape of a woman standing beside a curtain of leaves that she brushes back and forth with her fingers the way Liyana would luxuriate under a waterfall.
It must be Goldie, she thinks. But as Liyana approaches, she realizes that the woman isn’t either of her sisters, but a stranger.
When Liyana’s a few feet away the woman turns and exclaims, ‘Lili, at last!’
Liyana holds herself back from the grinning woman who, arms now outstretched, is bouncing on her toes as if about to fling herself at Liyana and never let her go. The woman is short and plump, with skin the colour of the ocean’s depths and a halo of hair the colour and texture of dandelion fluff. A memory tugs at Liyana’s skirts. She frowns, trying to remember.
‘Who are you?’
‘Oh, Lili, don’t tell me you don’t know your own aunt!’
Liyana thinks of Nya, her only known aunt, unconscious in the hospital bed. The one who, like everyone else, calls her ‘Ana’. No one calls her ‘Lili’.
‘My aunt?’
‘Your other aunt.’ The stranger doesn’t stop smiling. ‘Your secret aunt.’
Liyana’s frown deepens. ‘My secret aunt?’
The woman nods, dropping her arms to her rounded sides. ‘The one your mother never told you about, the one she feared would corrupt you, the one she pretended was dead.’
Liyana feels herself flailing in a current of confusion. ‘Dead?’
The woman waves her hand dismissively. ‘Oh, all that’s water under the bridge now, my little water nymph. She forbade me to contact you, meet you here, till you turned twenty-one.’ She winks. ‘But what’s a few days between family?’
Liyana stares at her secret aunt. ‘I don’t understand . . . How did you . . . ?’
‘Oh, the whys are neither here nor there.’ The aunt waves a hand to dismiss such questions. ‘You know how your mother was, no doubt suspected I’d corrupt you with my wicked ways.’ She giggles. ‘But the how is easy enough, because I’m like you.’
Liyana frowns. ‘You’re a Grimm?’
The woman claps, as if Liyana has just performed a magic trick. ‘Indeed I am, my little mermaid, indeed I am. Now, come and give your Aunt Sisi a hug!’
Liyana hangs back; then, when the woman widens her arms again, takes a tentative step forward. This is enough for her secret aunt, who rushes forward with a speed that belies her size and sweeps Liyana into a long, deep hug. At first, Liyana is stiff, her own arms at her sides, then she softens and lets out a small sigh. Now, she remembers this. A hug from Aunt Sisi is the softest, most spirit-lifting, soul-warming of hugs ever given by a human being. Liyana sinks in and holds on, bending her knees, shrinking herself to better snuggle into her aunt’s cosy bosom. Now she’s five years old again and the magical properties of the hug are seeping slowly into her body, into her blood and bones, until she is well.
‘It’s sweet as sugar to see you, Lili,’ Aunt Sisi whispers. ‘I’ve been waiting a long time for this moment.’
Liyana opens her mouth to speak but she’s so overwhelmed with emotion that instead she kisses her aunt’s neck. Her aunt giggles again, sounding, Liyana thinks, like a freshwater spring gurgling up from the ground. At last, Aunt Sisi lets Liyana go and steps back to survey her, a head-to-toe appraisal.
‘Lord, how skinny you are.’ Sisi exhales. ‘Who’s been feeding you?’
‘I’m fed just fine, Dagã.’ Liyana smiles. ‘I just swim a lot – I can’t eat enough to get fat.’
Sisi regards her niece as if she’s never heard of such a thing. ‘If you ate my food you’d get meat on your bones. Remember how I fed you waakye rice on Sundays after church? That’d sort you out soon enough, give that pretty girlfriend of yours a chunk or two more of you to hold on to.’
Liyana stares at her aunt.
‘Oh, please,’ – Sisi waves her hand again – ‘I know who you are. I know everything about you.’ She walks to a fallen tree trunk and sits, exhaling at the relief from standing, then pats the space beside her. ‘You think I’ve not been watching you all these years? Truth be told, I probably know you better than you know yourself. Now, sit.’
Liyana steps over moss and stone to sit beside her aunt on the trunk. Sisi shuffles about, rearranging a bottom that’s as large and soft as her bosom, making herself comfortable; then pulls a flask from a bag at her hip that Liyana hadn’t noticed before. Her aunt unscrews the flask’s cup lid then pours a few glugs of liquid into it and holds the cup out to her niece.
Liyana eyes the drink. ‘What is it?’
‘You think I’m trying to poison you?’ Aunt Sisi laughs. ‘Don’t worry, it won’t make you smaller. Go on, drink.’
Liyana takes a tentative sip, then another, before swallowing the rest in a single gulp. She holds out the empty cup. ‘That’s delicious, what’s in it?’
Aunt Sisi rolls her eyes. ‘You’ve forgotten sobolo?’
Liyana gives an apologetic shrug.
‘I see that sister of mine not only lost her senses – we’ll discuss how to sort her out later – but also went and forgot where she came from.’ Sisi sighs. ‘No wonder you’re so skinny, Lili. She’s taught you nothing.’
‘That’s not true,’ Liyana protests, thinking of poor Nya in the hospital bed. ‘She took good care of me, she just . . . she’s . . . Could I have some more?’ She nods to the flask. ‘It’s delicious.’
Aunt Sisi gives her niece a look to say she’s no fool, but isn’t averse to a little flattery either. ‘It’s hibiscus leaves,’ she says, ‘infused with ginger and pineapple juices. I add a little lime to mine, but don’t be telling everyone that.’ She pours out another glug of juice, filling the cup again.
Liyana gulps it down, then wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. ‘Your secret’s safe with me, Dagã.’
Laughing, Sisi hands over the flask. ‘Go on, have it all, knock yourself out.’ She shifts on the tree trunk, then glances up at the sky. A raven caws overhead. ‘But enough chit-chat for now. I’ve got much to teach you and we don’t have a lot of time.’
Liyana takes another sip of the sobolo. ‘Time for what?’
Aunt Sisi frowns, seemingly surprised at the question. ‘Why, to stop your sister, of course.’
Liyana mirrors her aunt’s frown. ‘Which sister?’
‘The one who brings things back to life, the one who’s got her mind set on resurrection.’ Sisi reaches for Liyana’s free hand and squeezes it tight. The clouds drift over the moon and eclipse its light. Liyana feels herself shiver. ‘There’s a storm coming, child, and you’re the only one who can contain it.’
Scarlet
‘Goldie!’ Scarlet hurries across the glade towards her sister. ‘I hoped I’d find you here tonight.’
Goldie’s eyes open, her smile gone.
‘Hey, Sis,’ Scarlet says. ‘I’ve been trying to track you down, I didn’t . . . I couldn’t sense if you were here or not. My radar’s been all off lately. I—’ she stops. ‘Am I interrupting something?’
Goldie swallows her irritation and shakes her head. ‘No.’ She slides off the rock. ‘I was just startled, that’s all.’
Scarlet smiles, her face so bright with delight it almost eclipses the glimmer of doubt beneath. ‘What are you up to?’
‘Nothing,’ Goldie says, glancing at the ground.
Scarlet lets this go, then smiles again. This time it’s full shining joy, untainted by anything. Goldie stares. For a second, she’s speechless.
‘You’re p-pregnant.’
Scarlet grins, she doesn’t need to ask how her sister knows.
‘B-bloody hell,’ Goldie stutters. ‘Th-that’s . . .’
‘Isn’t it?’ Scarlet’s still grinning. ‘I still can’t quite believe it myself.’
‘Did you p—?’
‘No.’ Scarlet presses her hands to her belly. ‘A happy accident.’
It seems, for a moment, that the moon shines brighter then, making a halo of her hair, the curls full and fluffy, the dark red almost sunset-orange in the light. Lit from within, Goldie thinks, which, she supposes, Scarlet is.
‘Bloody hell.’ Goldie sighs. ‘Bloody hell. I don’t know what to – well, I mean, congratulations.’
A slightly awkward pause follows as Goldie wonders if she should hug her sister, then the moment passes.
‘Hey, girls.’
Goldie and Scarlet turn to see Liyana striding towards them, arms swinging at her sides, almost marching, as if she’s a soldier striding into battle.
‘Ana!’ Scarlet exclaims. ‘You’re here!’
‘I am.’ Liyana looks from Goldie to Scarlet, as if she’s just disturbed a furtive little gathering. ‘What’s up?’
‘Scarlet’s—’
‘Fuck!’ Liyana exclaims, interrupting. ‘You’re pregnant! How the . . .’
Scarlet smiles. ‘You didn’t see this in your cards, did you?’
‘No.’ Liyana frowns. ‘I didn’t. So . . . is this a good or a bad thing?’
Scarlet mirrors her sister’s frown. ‘A good thing, of course.’
‘Ah, well, great. Mazel tov and all that,’ Liyana says. ‘But, it’s hardly “of course”, is it? I mean, you’re practically a teenager, you’ve not done – is this what you want to be more than anything, a mother?’
‘Motherhood doesn’t mean I can’t do other things,’ Scarlet says, frostily. ‘This isn’t the nineteen-fifties.’
‘Really?’ Liyana raises an eyebrow. ‘I didn’t realize you knew that, living like the little hausfrau—’
‘Shut up,’ Scarlet snaps. ‘You’re jealous because I’ve got a boyfriend – a fiancé – who loves me and wants us to raise a family together – something you can’t do without some willing sperm and a turkey baster.’
‘And thank God for that,’ Liyana says. ‘Thank God that I don’t need to pump myself full of pills, or mess about with my sacred parts to ensure I don’t fall foul of that particular catastrophe.’
Sparks flare at Scarlet’s fingertips. ‘Well, it’s not a disaster for me. Quite the opposite, in fact, so—’
Liyana raises an eyebrow. ‘You don’t think you’re being a little cavalier about procreating, given the state of the world; don’t you think it’s more than a little selfish? Having kids is just about the worst thing you can do for the environment, you know.’
Arcs of electricity snap and crackle through the air, encircling Scarlet’s hands.
‘Look,’ Goldie says, stepping between them. ‘Why don’t we change the subject?’
Liyana eyes Goldie. ‘To what?’
Goldie shrugs. ‘I don’t know. Something less contentious.’
‘So you think it’s fine, do you?’ Liyana cracks her knuckles; high above the air shudders with a crack of thunder. ‘That she’s pretending to be just like everyone else, that she’s still ignoring her powers and potential. Is that how you’re going to raise your daughter, eh, Scar? To be nobody, to give everything up for a man, to—’
‘I met Bea,’ Goldie says, more loudly than she’d intended.
Liyana and Scarlet turn to her.
The thunder calms and the clouds clear. ‘What?’
The electricity fizzes out. ‘How?’
‘I was here the other night,’ Goldie says. ‘And she spoke to me.’
‘Really?’ Liyana folds her arms and narrows her eyes, as if suggesting that Goldie might be making it up. ‘What did she say?’
‘Um . . .’ Goldie bends to pick up a small round stone at her feet and, standing again, rubs it between finger and thumb. ‘Well . . . she told me she’s okay, at peace, and . . .’
‘What else?’ Liyana says. ‘What else did she say?’
‘What about Leo?’ Scarlet says. ‘I mean, if they’re both here,’ – she looks up at the inky sky and the unwavering moon – ‘can she contact him?’
‘No.’ Goldie shakes her head, her voice heavy. ‘No, and he can’t contact me. It’s only the dead Grimms whose spirits live on here who can do that.’
‘Oh,’ Scarlet says. ‘That’s . . . I’m sorry.’
Goldie gives a sad little nod. But, Liyana notices, doesn’t meet her sister’s eye.
‘Is she here now?’ Scarlet asks, turning this way and that as if Bea’s ghost might be sitting behind her in the bough of a tree.
‘I don’t know,’ Goldie says. ‘I suppose she must be. But I don’t think we can summon her, I expect she’ll only come when she wants to.’
‘Death hasn’t made her any less stubborn then,’ Liyana says. ‘No surprise there.’
‘No.’ Goldie rubs her stone thoughtfully. ‘I suppose not. But she is different. She’s kinder, softer, more . . .’
Scarlet sits forward. ‘How?’
And so Goldie tells them everything she can about their lost sister, omitting anything incriminating, scattering a few little lies into the tale for extra flavour. And, with that, everything else is forgotten.
Everwhere
The raven settles on a branch in the great oak tree, ruffles its feathers then cocks its head, turning a beady eye on the three women below. Bea hadn’t anticipated the rising emotions and clashing opinions between them; she might need to intervene, to bind the cracks before they become crevasses. For if the three sisters aren’t united on the night they turn twenty-one, when Goldie attempts the resurrection, the effects could be catastrophic. Bea can see probable futures snaking out like the rivers twisting through the land below; too many turn into rapids and torrents and ending in tempests and tsunamis.
It’s just as Sisi had said: a storm is coming and cannot be stopped, but it might be contained.