The Kings and Queens of Roam: A Novel (2 page)

“I ask Mother,” she said. “A lot.”

“And what does Mother say?”

“She says, ‘You shouldn’t concern yourself with it,’ ” Rachel said. “She says it doesn’t matter what the outside parts look like.”

Helen absentmindedly finished the stroke, and smiled. Smiles were so rare to her face she’d almost forgotten how to make them. “You really want to know, Rachel?” Helen said. “That’s what you want?”

Rachel nodded, and in her smallest voice asked, “What am I? Pretty, or—something else?”

“Keep still,” Helen said. “I can’t brush your hair when you’re fidgeting.”

Rachel sat up straight.

“I just,” Helen started, “I don’t know what to say.” But she did know; she knew exactly what she wanted to say. This was how it began, all of it, as just a bit of fun—a made-up story.

“I’m not pretty,” Rachel said. “If I were pretty, that’s what you would say.”

“No.” And Helen made herself sound so sad that Rachel took her hand. “No. I’m afraid you’re not.”

“That’s okay,” Rachel said quickly, though there was water welling in her eyes.

“Good then,” Helen said. She gave her sister’s lovely hair one more stroke. “Then you’re not sad?”

She sighed. “Some. A little.” A tear fell.

“It’s okay to be sad,” Helen said. “It
is
sad.”

“But you’re pretty?”

“Yes,” Helen said. “I am. I’m blessed. Blessed as much as you are cursed.” Oh, this felt good! She almost believed it herself—even though the truth was that they were both cursed, each in their own way. “I’m as pretty as the first day of spring, people say. I wouldn’t say that about myself, of course. But people say that. I’ve heard them.”

Rachel gently touched her sister’s face. “So this is what pretty is,” she said, and Helen nodded. Then Rachel touched her own face. “And this is not.”

“Oh, my sweet dear Rachel,” Helen said, taking her sister’s little hand in her own. “Why would you even want to know this? Can’t you think of your blindness as a good thing?”

“How?”

“I mean because you don’t have to
look
at yourself, sweetheart.”

Rachel was waiting. “So . . .”

“All right,” Helen said. “But know that when I tell you this I’m
not
being mean. I’m only—”

“I know,” Rachel said.

Helen took a deep breath and picked up the silver-stemmed hand mirror on the bed beside them. She looked—not at Rachel—but at herself. “Well, it’s kind of hard to describe.” She brought the mirror
closer. “But I would say that your face is just a bit . . .
not right.
It looks like a face made of little pieces, a face stitched together from the discarded odds and ends of other people’s faces.”

“Oh. That’s not good.”

“No, it’s not. At the place where they make faces? The face factory? These are the pieces they didn’t use, and they gave them all to you.”

“The face factory is God, isn’t it?” Rachel said. “God made my face.”

“That’s right. God did this to you. No one else.”

“Maybe that’s why He took my eyes away. So I wouldn’t have to look, like you said. It’s a gift.”

“You’re such a strong little girl.”

Rachel, though she was still crying a little, said, “Keep going.”

Stop
, Helen heard a voice telling her. But she didn’t. “Does your face feel pretty? When you touch it?”

“I knew you would ask me that,” Rachel said. “I don’t want to say it but—yes. A little. I thought—”

“That’s because you don’t really know what
pretty
is. Because you went blind before you figured that out. Your face is soft but—honestly, Rachel—people turn away when they see you.”

“Turn away?”

“Because they’re afraid of you. They’re afraid of your—”

“That’s enough!” Rachel said. She grasped her sister’s hand, because she was shivering like a struck bell. “I don’t think I like you very much now.”

“You asked,” Helen said.

“I know. I know I asked. I still don’t feel like I like you.”

But Helen wasn’t through. “People will tell you that you’re pretty, Rachel,” whispering now. “I’m sure you’ll hear that all the time.
Oh, you’re so pretty, Rachel. Aren’t you the pretty one? I’ve never seen a face
more lovely in my entire life!
But they’re just saying it to make you feel better about yourself. People do that: they lie to make other people feel better.”

“That’s nice,” Rachel said. “If you’re going to tell a lie, I mean, better a good lie than a bad lie, right?” She smiled.

“And when they do say that, just say
Thank you very much
. It’s not polite to tell them they’re wrong. They
know
they’re wrong.”

Rachel and Helen sat together for a long time, quietly, their legs hanging off the side of the bed. A moth banged against the window screen; another flew in and out of the lampshade, unable to rest. Helen could have told her then that it was all just a story, that really it was Rachel who was the beautiful one, and Helen who was not. But she didn’t. She liked this story, and she liked that there was someone who believed it was true. She wanted the world to be like this, just for a little while longer.

“Don’t tell anybody,” Rachel said, almost too softly to hear. “But if I had to choose between getting my eyes back and being pretty, I’d choose pretty.”

Helen kissed her sister on the forehead. “Wouldn’t we all,” she said.

This is how Helen changed everything, sowing the seeds of the rest of their lives together, and, eventually, their lives apart.

T
he next day passed, and the next, and Helen still didn’t tell Rachel the truth. She knew she should, but what was the harm in it, really? Rachel didn’t know any better and she never had to. Helen
never
had to tell her the truth. It was a ruse that never had to die, so long as she kept Rachel close. And as one day passed, and then another, she wondered: how much further could she take it? What other stories could she tell, just for fun? That’s how older sisters can be sometimes. It was almost in the job description.

Three days later, their mother asked them to go to town for some flour. Helen didn’t want to: she never liked going to town. And she resented having to cart her sister around with her everywhere she went.

But not today. She had an idea today.

Helen and her family lived in the biggest house there was in Roam. At one time it had belonged to Elijah McCallister, the man who built the house and the town around it. But that was almost a hundred years ago, and since then a lot had changed; everybody said so. Helen didn’t know or care anything about that; she only knew what she saw with her own eyes, which was a town that was not much of anything now. A few shops, a grocer, a bar, the shadow of the old mill blocking out the sun. A car came by now and again, but really, the town wasn’t big enough to drive in: there was no reason to. Helen figured she could throw a rock from one end of it to the other, if you didn’t count the old mill houses littering the outskirts; there were a hundred of those at least, most of them abandoned, empty, and dark. Helen would have been surprised if there were a drearier place than Roam on Earth.

“I hate people,” Helen said as they turned a corner and walked into the main square. In the middle of it was a stone statue of Elijah McCallister, who looked like he was about to fall off his pedestal, leaning dangerously to the left. Three of the fingers on his right hand were gone, broken when a tree fell on it years before. “I hate the way they look at you, like your face is the worst thing they’ve ever seen! That’s why you need me, Rachel. To protect you, to tell you the truth.”

“Protect me from what?”

“From this town,” Helen said. “This town and the things in it.” Old Mrs. Branscombe passed them without so much as a nod, as if they were beggars.
Look at my face,
Helen thought.
Could it be that bad?
But it was. She knew it was.

“What things?” she asked again. “Tell me.”

“Are you sure you want to know?”

Rachel nodded. Helen was buying time, trying to think something up. Rachel was thinking, too. When Rachel was lost in thought her eyes shivered and pinged in their sockets. Normally they didn’t move much at all, and when her pupils were steady they could be piercing, and it made Helen wonder whether Rachel could see a great deal more than she let on. Just to be sure Helen would test her sometimes: she’d put the salt in the pepper shaker, or move a chair into her walking path. How many times must she see her sister trip over a chair leg before she could be assured Rachel was totally blind? There was no certain number.

A dog wandered past them, rubbing against Rachel’s leg: dogs loved Rachel. Helen shooed it away.

“Okay then,” she said. “I’ll tell you.”

They came to the old Yott House first, and the stories began to flow. Ghost stories. Helen didn’t know where they came from. It was as if the stories were already out there somewhere and she was capturing them, like a butterfly in a net, so real that as she told them they felt true even to her. The Yott House, Helen told Rachel, they called . . . the Yott House of Death. Everyone knows what happened there, she said, though no one likes to speak of it. Helen could only say in a whisper:
Caleb Yott built a lovely sandstone home on the corner. It used to be a grand house (which, in truth, it still is)—grand enough, he thought, to get him a wife. He needed something more than what he brought to the table himself, what with a drinking problem, a bad temper, and a clubfoot. He found a wife, a Chinese woman named Bao, and they were married and had children—a boy and a girl, Franklin and Anita.

But it wasn’t a happy marriage. Caleb had that temper, and as the years passed, he drank more and more. The story goes that one night Caleb came home drunk and began to argue with Bao, and one thing led to another and he hit her in the head with a brass candlestick. He cracked her head wide open; worse, the children were watching the whole thing transpire
from the top of the stairwell, and when Bao was hit Anita screamed and fell down the flight of stairs, and by the time she got to the bottom her neck had broken and she was dead, too.

But it turned out Bao wasn’t dead—yet. She had enough life left in her to run her husband through with the fireplace poker. But then she died, and the little boy Franklin was alone, his family’s bodies scattered across the living room floor like firewood.

“What happened to Franklin?” Rachel asked, spellbound.

“Franklin ran out into the street for help—and was run over by a horse and buggy. Crushed beneath the hooves.”

“That’s terrible,” Rachel said.

“It is. But it gets worse. After their bodies were cleared away and the blood was cleaned up and the brains shoveled off the living room floor, another family moved in. Husband, wife, son, daughter. And
they
all died as well, in a fashion too grisly to even describe.” Helen held her sister’s arm tight and pulled her closer, so her lips were touching the side of Rachel’s ear.
“And ever since then, every family who has moved into the Yott House has died—by their own hands or by somebody else’s, or by the hand of God Himself.”

“But why would people do that? Move to a place where they know something like that’s going to happen?”

“Because people always think it could never happen to them,” Helen said. “Then it always does.”

They kept walking.

Beyond the Yott House was the Hanging Tree. “Ah! Here we are,” Helen said. “The Hanging Tree. From this tree—from this beautiful chestnut—over a hundred people had been hanged, and they’d been left hanging there until the meat fell off their bones. A hundred people: one every year for a hundred years!”

Rachel stiffened, but her curiosity always got the better of her. “Hanged?” she asked. “Why?”

“Who really knows anymore?” Helen said. “At first, they were actual criminals. People who did terrible things. In the early years, before Elijah McCallister civilized them, someone would always do something bad enough to be hanged for. But over time people became better. They followed the rules. But hanging had become something of a tradition, and so every year the town voted, and someone was hanged. Usually it was someone people didn’t like, or . . .”

“What? Or what?”

Helen paused. “People with some sort of . . . problem. Some sort of physical problem.”

“Physical problem?”

“Something wrong with them. Something that made them . . . different.”

“Oh.”

They stood there for a long time.

“But they’ve stopped doing that?” Rachel said, hopefully. “I mean,
we’ve
stopped doing that. Right?”

“Of course,” Helen said, laughing. “Of course we have. I can’t remember the last time someone was hanged from this tree.”

They kept walking.

They walked past the Poison Fields, where nothing had ever grown, not even dirt, and then to the Boneyard where—and again, this was
a long time ago,
Helen told her—the dead weren’t even buried. Their bodies were simply discarded there and left to rot. The people of the town were so busy making silk they didn’t have time to bury the dead! The poor, the unknown, the evil, and then those unlikeable people they hanged from the tree—they all were left here. The bones are still there.

And after the Boneyard, Helen took Rachel to the most dangerous and deadly place in Roam there was.

The Forest of the Flesh-Eating Birds.

“Where these birds came from, nobody knew. Maybe they weren’t even birds at all; maybe they were the last of the flying dinosaurs, with long sharp beaks and teeth like ice picks. They had a magic that allowed them to blend in with the trees. And they were so quiet, so quiet that even if you had eyes you wouldn’t be able to see them.
But they can see you.
They can see everything. They’re part of the darkness all around them, and if you come too close or linger too long—even here, where we’re standing right now!—they’ll fly out in a great flock and before you have a chance to turn away they’ll be upon you, and all that will be left of you is
nothing,
not even a bone to clatter against the sidewalk. Very few people have walked through the Forest and lived.”