The Onion Girl (60 page)
Authors: Charles de Lint
MANIDÃ-AKÃ
I never really been over here
in my own body afore and it's disconcerting. Everything feels different. It's mostly the smells and sounds, but my eyes don't work near so well neither, not like they done when I was a wolf. When I'm a wolf it seems my whole body's inputting information. It's coming through the hair covering my skin. It's coming from some extra senses I can't even explain.
in my own body afore and it's disconcerting. Everything feels different. It's mostly the smells and sounds, but my eyes don't work near so well neither, not like they done when I was a wolf. When I'm a wolf it seems my whole body's inputting information. It's coming through the hair covering my skin. It's coming from some extra senses I can't even explain.
The wolf feels free. Runs free. Every movement's like the flow of water. Right now, I feel like I'm wrapped in burlap and I don't much like it. But there ain't a whole hell of a lot I can do about it neither, so I do what I always do, and that's carry on.
Once I left my sister, I didn't go far. I was going to run as far as I could and never look back, but it ended up I only went me a short ways into the woods, then circled back to where I could keep me an eye on doings down below in that little holler. Having done the clean exit like I done, it'd be somewhat of a letdown if I come walking back, but there's no way I'm leaving my stuff behind.
For one thing I got me this bloody T-shirt that I don't want to be wearing Christ knows how long, so I want a change of clothing from my duffel. And then there's the ol' shotgun. Without a wolf's teeth and fangs, I'm going to need me protection against the critters and whatnot they got inhabiting this place. For starters, there's them dog-faced boys who already told me they was a-gunning for me.
I got me some food in there, too. Granola bars. Bottled water. And then there's Pinky's smokes. I ain't one for sucking on cancer-sticks, but maybe I can use 'em for trade or something.
So I sit me down and wait and afore too long, my sister does the fadeaway and it's just her little friend down below. He sits there for a bitâlost in his head, maybe, I don't knowâthen gets up and walks over to the duffel. Show time, I think. I get up my own self and yell down at him.
“Don't you even be thinking 'bout poking through my stuff!”
He gives me this one shocked look and then he's outta there like a scared jackrabbit, he's moving so damn fast. I don't much care where he goes, just so's he's gone.
I slip and slide my way down the slope to where my duffel is and grab me a clean T-shirt, strip off the old one. I don't know if that little fella's hanging around getting him an eyeful or what, but it don't matter none to me. He can look all he wants. But he tries to grab him a handful and he'll be losing that hand, guaranteed.
I look down at my chest, still marveling that I ain't even got me scars from being shot like I was. That's the first time I notice I got me a kinda tattooâwhat looks like a twig, circled by a wreath of little leaves. I touch it with my finger and it feels warmer'n the rest of my skin.
Weird.
I put a new shirt on and it feels good against my skin.
I lay the bloody shirt on top of them stones covering Pinky, then I start to have me a look around some, afraid them dog-faced boys might've took the shotgun. I spy it lying where Pinky must've dropped it. It don't seem no worse for the wear, but I crack her open and sight down the barrels all the same, making sure they ain't got all clogged with dirt or nothing. Then I eject the spent shells and feed in a couple of fresh ones. I store the casings in my duffelâthis far from nowhere, you never know what could be useful.
I take me a last look at that pile of stones covering Pinky.
“I'm going to miss you,” I tell her, but I don't reckon she's around to hear.
Dead's gone, the way I see it. Hell, I was halfway there my own self, so I know what I'm talking about. There's no hanging 'round, waiting to say how-do to them that's left behind. You die, you got other business. Like falling up into that sweet light that got took away from me.
I get me another pang of hurt to add to all them sorry feelings rattling around inside me when I think of that light.
“Hope it took you, Pinky,” I say.
Maybe we'll see each other again on the other side of the light but I ain't holding my breath, waiting on it.
I heft my duffel in one hand, the shotgun in the other, and I set off into the woods again. I remember what my sister told me 'bout some inn, so I head off in that direction. I ain't much in the mood for socializing, but I wouldn't mind me a bed to sleep in, and maybe something hot to drink.
I wonder what passes for money in this place?
It's a long trek and, time to time, I get the idea someone's following me, but I never do catch me a glimpse of no one. Could be my sister's little friend, I guess. Or maybe one of them dog-faced boys. Makes no never mind to me, just so long as they keep their distance and leave me alone. I don't want to use this shotgun, but I ain't a-feared to neither.
I figure I walked me a couple of days, easy, getting to that inn. It's hard to tell 'cause the light don't change. I never really sleep, but I have me a rest from time to time. Finish off my granola bars. Drink all my water. I pass a stream or two and I reckon the water's clean, but I ain't too sure I trust it so I hold off until I've gone a few hours without a drink and I don't care anymore. The next stream I come to, I fill them water bottles and have me a good long drink. Don't feel much of nothing 'cept my thirst's gone and I ain't so hungry anymore.
Back around the first couple of hours, I tore my other spare shirt to make me a sling for the shotgun and I took to carrying the duffel on my back, using the handles like they was back straps. I would've just kept the shotgun in the duffel, but not knowing the first damn thing 'bout what I might run into in these woods, it seemed a safer idea to keep it handy.
The last stretch is a killer. The slope leading outta the woods don't
seem like much of nothing, but once you're walking it, it feels like it's just gonna head on up forever. But I finally get me to the big gray-stone building I seen from below. I consider stowing away the shotgun afore I step inside, but end up going in, carrying it in my hand.
seem like much of nothing, but once you're walking it, it feels like it's just gonna head on up forever. But I finally get me to the big gray-stone building I seen from below. I consider stowing away the shotgun afore I step inside, but end up going in, carrying it in my hand.
The inn's nothing like I expected. I guess I was thinking along the lines of the Sleep Comfort Motel, up on Highway 14, north of the city, but this is fairyland and what I get is a thatched roof on top of fieldstone. It's sure enough big, though. I'll give it that.
I walk through an archway into a cobblestoned courtyard that's like some picture bookâit's even got itself one of them old-fashioned wells, smack there in the middle. I can smell fresh bread and some kinda spicy stew and it sets my stomach rumbling. There's a sign 'bove a door on the left says:
Inn of the Star-Crossed
From the noise drifting outta the door, I figure this'll be the café or restaurant or whatever they're going to call it, so I head in that direction. When I step inside it's like I'm in one of them fairy-tale books my sister used to read to me. I mean, there's some humans sitting at that big mess of tables and benches and all I find inside, but mostly what we got here is every which kind of elf, dwarf, and animal-faced creature you can pretty much imagine. I don't figure I'm going out on much of a limb here to say that any normal body like my own self is going to feel herself to be a little outta place.
And soon's I come in, it's like I stepped into some ol' western movieâyou know, where the stranger comes walking into the saloon and the whole damn place goes quiet, everybody just a-looking at you, taking your measure. Well, I can give me as good as I get and I just go from face to face, staring 'em down until everybody's minding their own business again and I can make my way to the bar. They start in talking soon enough, and I know they're talking about me, but so long as all they're giving me is sidelong glances, I don't much care. Unlike my poor dead Pinky, I purely hate being the center of attention at the best of times, but at least this way I can pretend I'm not.
I drop my duffel on the floor when I get to the bar and lean the shotgun up against the wood afore I take me a seat on a stool. The guy behind the bar's like one of the bikers hangs out on Division Street, back home in
Tysonâwhat I liked to call loser stripâ'cept he's not practicing being tough the way they all do. He just gives me a smile and comes down to where I'm sitting.
Tysonâwhat I liked to call loser stripâ'cept he's not practicing being tough the way they all do. He just gives me a smile and comes down to where I'm sitting.
“So you're back,” he says.
“I don't think so. You must be thinking on my sister.”
He studies me a moment, then nods. “Sorry about that, but there's a close resemblance.”
“Yeah, people tell me that all the time.”
“William Kemper,” he says, offering me his hand.
I give him a shake. “Raylene,” I tell him.
“So what can I do for you?”
“Well, I'm hungry, and I'm thirsty, and I wouldn't mind me a room for the night.”
“I can provide you with all of that.”
“Being an inn and all,” I say.
“That's our business.”
“Trouble is, I'm not exactly carrying what you might think of as money.”
He smiles. “So what do you have?”
I've been worrying on that the whole last hour or so I been coming up the slope to get to this place, and finally decided that first off, I'd try offering up some of Pinky's smokes. That don't work, I'll offer to wash dishes or something. Only other thing I got of value is the shotgun and I figure I'll be needing me that.
So I get off the stool and dig a pack of smokes outta the duffel and set 'em down on the bar between us. That earns me a look I can't put no name to.
“We don't consider tobacco currency here,” he says.
“Yeah, I kinda figured they wouldn't be worth much, but a gal's got to try.”
He shakes his head and pushes the pack toward me. “It's not that. Tobacco is sacred. It's one of the ways we talk with the older spirits.”
I give him a considering look and then slide that pack on back again to his side of the bar.
“Well, you take this here as a gift,” I say, “Like I'm giving you an AT&T card, gets you a few minutes of spirit talk, no charge.”
“A gift,” he says. His voice is kind a quiet, like we got some big deal going on here.
“Well, sure,” I tell him. “Why not? It ain't like I'm going to smoke 'em.” I dig in my pocket and drop some bills and coins on the bar. “You consider any of this currency?”
He ignores the money, but he picks up the cigarette pack and puts it in his pocket.
“Tell me what you want,” he says. “Food, beer, a roomâit's on the house.”
“You're shitting me.”
He shakes his head. “The gift of your tobacco lays a heavy debt on me.”
“No way,” I tell him. “I just gave it to you, no strings attached. I'm willing to pay my way, just so long's I got something here's got any worth to you. Otherwise, I'd be willing to work it off.”
But he's still shaking his head.
“It's because the gift was freely given that I'm indebted,” he says.
I give him a long look, waiting for some punch line, but I see he's serious.
“Okay,” I say. “Much obliged. I'll have me a drink and something to eat, and a bed for later.”
“Beer?” he asks.
“You got anything nonalcoholic?”
“Tea, coffee, soda, water.”
“Coffee'd be real fine.”
“Coming right up,” he says.
I end up staying me a time at the inn. That first night I drink my coffee, eat the stew and bread William brings me, and then go up to the room he says I can use and I'm out like a light. I no sooner lay down then I'm gone. No dreams, nothing. Just a long stretch of I ain't there no more till I wake up in the morning.
When I come downstairs there's only a handful ofâhell, I don't know what you call it when you got this mix of people and things that sure ain't people. Beings, I guess. There's a pair sitting by the window, kinda slippery-looking, dark-skinned and wet, dripping with weeds, water pooling under their feet. At another table in the center is some guy could've been a stockbroker or banker, 'cept he's wearing sandals and a dress made of leather, belted at the waist with some kinda little bag hanging
from it. Then there's the woman with the head of a goat and a couple of giggling little something or others, four feet short of a yard, sitting right on the table they're so damn. small. Like little girls with wings, only they got them eyes so old.
from it. Then there's the woman with the head of a goat and a couple of giggling little something or others, four feet short of a yard, sitting right on the table they're so damn. small. Like little girls with wings, only they got them eyes so old.
I don't even get me much more'n a passing glance from any of them.
Anywise, when I walk over to the bar, William brings me a coffee and a serious breakfastâsausages and eggs, potatoes, corn, some kinda mash, and pretty much a loaf of bread, toasted up just right and slathered with butter. After I eat I try to see how I can make myself useful, you know, washing up or sweeping or something, but William he won't have none of that. I try to explain how I don't like to be beholden to nobody, but he just tells me how it's kinda late for that now, ain't it.
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