Except the Queen (8 page)

“What the fuck!” he shouted as the books tumbled to the ground.

“Yes, fuck you,” Baba Yaga said gaily.

“Fuck
you
, lady,” he snapped. “What the fuck’s your problem?”

“No fucking problem, really.”

“Yeah, well fuck off then.”

“See? Many uses,” Baba Yaga said, pulling me away from the angry boy who was muttering
Stupid bitch
as he gathered up his books. “Shit is another useful word. Also very common. For example, pleasantly surprised? You say ‘No shit?’ You think someone tells you tales, you scoff, ‘You’re shitting me.’ You find something you like very much, you exclaim, ‘That’s good shit!’” She looked down at me to see if I was following the language lesson, when in truth I was appalled. Not that we didn’t have our own bawdy language, but it seemed somehow richer and more expressive. Here there was only
shit
and
fuck.
What had happened to
prick-louse
and
pig’s spawn
? Or
clay-brained apple-john
? Or
canker-blossomed coxcomb
?

“Don’t worry, you’ll get it,” Baba Yaga encouraged. “You will hear it often enough.”

As if to demonstrate the truth of her words a girl in front of us stepped off the curb and into the street. A careening conveyance, horn blaring, would have struck her had she not jumped back in time. “Fucker!” she shouted at the open window. “Shithead.”

Baba Yaga gave me a knowing nod as if to say,
I told you
.

On one street we passed a number of small shops selling trinkets and clothing all clustered around a much larger shop called “The Co-op.” The cheery blue-and-orange-painted entrance was washed in morning sunlight. On either side of the front door were little wooden benches interspersed with huge pots of flowers, some spilling their blossoms gracefully over the sides.

“In here,” Baba Yaga said, motioning with her head. “I need tobacco and papers.”

Inside, the shop was cool and scented with lavender, sandalwood, and the tart fragrance of mustard leaves, kale, and spinach. Shopkeepers busied themselves, stacking and sorting fruit, straightening rows of bottles and jars, or just sweeping debris into dustpans near huge bins of rice, wheat, and oats. But despite its name, I saw no signs of fowl anywhere being offered for sale.

“Buy your food here,” Baba Yaga said. “It’s cheap.”

“I have no human money,” I replied.

“Shit,” she grumbled. “You will need to work for paper money. What can you do?”

It was a difficult question, because I knew that no matter what I answered, it would be insufficient. I could dance, I could sing passably, I could weave spider’s silk into shawls, and I was good at pranks. All these skills might have meant more here had I been youthful and beautiful. But I noticed as we walked through the city, that as elderly women we had become almost invisible. No one met our eyes, nor nodded in greeting, though more than once I entertained a glance at a handsome face.

“Think about it, while I get a few things,” Baba Yaga advised. “Stay here, don’t move.” She hustled down an aisle, leaving me alone in the shop.

Glumly, I looked around, feeling foolish and gawky in my aged body. These children moved with purpose, slim and fresh as the produce they were arranging. I brightened, however, when I noticed a little counter lined with a collection of small potted herbs, all of which were familiar to me. Rising up behind the counter were shelves containing glass jars of dried and powdered herbs. A girl with fat rolls of fuzzy blond hair was dispensing bad advice on how to use pennyroyal tea to another pale young woman with short black hair and red lips.

“My pardon, goodwife,” I interrupted, “but if she drinks that pennyroyal as you suggest, she will spend her days shitting and pissing blood.” I was pleased that I had managed to work one of the new potent words in the conversation. She wouldn’t really have had trouble with her bowels, but she would have bled dangerously from her loins, for even without magic, I could smell the yeast of pregnancy on her skin.

The blond girl gaped at me, pushing the wheat-colored rolls of hair back from her forehead. “For real?”

“Yes, for true.” Turning to the pale girl who was now eyeing me coldly, I inquired for what condition was she seeking a cure?

“Cramps,” she said, and pursed her ruby mouth in annoyance.

“Of course,” I nodded, hearing the lie in her voice. “Try the peppermint or chamomile teas. Add a tincture of anise to calm the nerves. And maybe . . .” I looked at the shelves and began to pull down glass jars, mixing a brew for her right there in a little clear bag. Glancing again at the shelf of herbs I added “mother’s ease,” and “bone-strong” to the mix for her unborn child too in the hopes that she might reconsider her first option. “Maybe this will help.”

The girl glared at me, but took the bag of tea and abruptly left without a word of thanks.

The guileless goodwife touched my arm and smiled. She was pretty in a simple way, a dusting of freckles across her creamy skin, and wide hazel eyes.

“Hey, thanks a lot,” she said breathlessly. “I don’t really know what the hell I’m doing. I just give them what they ask for most of the time. You know, they read about it on the Internet and then come here to try it out.”

Internet
, a word I squirreled away for later. “She asked for the pennyroyal?”

“Yeah, to regulate her periods, she said.”

“It is to abort her child. But it would have made her deathly sick and done nothing to shift the child in her womb.”

“Jeez,” she said, grimacing. “I’m glad I didn’t give it to her. That’s nothing I would’ve wanted on me.”

Baba Yaga reappeared at my side and tugged my sleeve. “We go now,” she ordered.

“Bye,” the girl called with a little wave of her hand. “Come back sometime okay? I could really use the help. My name’s Julia. I work on Mondays, Tuesdays, and Wednesdays.”

“As you wish,” I replied with a quick nod of my head as I hurried to catch up with the Great Witch.

Once outside on the sidewalk again, Baba Yaga reached into her bag and handed me a peach. It was ripe and juicy, and I ate it slowly as we walked, savoring the
velvety skin and the slick, sweet flesh. I thought about the Coop-without-chickens, and wondered if Julia might offer paper money in exchange for my knowledge of herbs. It was such simple lore to me, so simple I had not thought it a skill, but rather like breathing, which is effortless. Or
was
before I had been turned into this fat, old thing. I imagined I could do as well as any mortal goodwife, providing relief from grippes and nausea, headaches and healing bones, menses that came too often or too rare, maybe even to help the lovesick and forlorn. That little hen Julia was sweet and well intentioned, but she had no knowledge of plants. Perhaps I
could
be of use . . . and find a way to fill my empty pocket as well. I licked the juice from my fingers and felt a spark of encouragement.

It was short-lived, however, drowned in the deluge of Baba Yaga’s instructions. “Do this,” she would say, “don’t do that.” “Go here. Stay away from there.” My head throbbed with so many rules, so many obligations and prohibitions, so many new expectations. How was I to remember all of this? Tears burned behind my eyes, but I blinked them away, not wanting to show any weakness that might cause Baba Yaga to withdraw her help.

I
t was dusk when Baba Yaga finally stopped in the middle of a block of houses. I was exhausted, my feet throbbing in the new shoes, blisters bubbling at my heels and toes. We had eaten a noon repast, an entire cooked chicken for Baba Yaga and a wedge of soft cheese and brown bread for me, purchased at a different grocery shop—this one brightly lit and humming with music from its walls. But now my stomach rumbled and gurgled.

“There is my home,” Baba Yaga said, pointing a gnarled finger across the street to a squat, three-story house half hidden behind a pair of tall pines. Partway down the walkway, the flickering leaves of a silver birch shimmered, luminescent in the dimming light. The house walls were a deep red brick with gray shutters bordering every window. I shivered for it reminded me of a baker’s oven.

“Where are the chicken legs?” I asked. I had heard enough tales about her traveling house to be curious.

“They are there, at the bottom of the stairs, though most would not think to look for them.”

A light turned on in a small dormer window jutting out below the eaves of the roof. It was then I noticed the gutters; they ended in downspouts shaped like chicken heads, the open beaks ready to disgorge excess rain.

“Good.” Baba Yaga nodded. “They are waiting,” she said to the lit windows. Then she grinned at me and I drew back, uncertain as firelight bloomed in her eyes. “Listen,” she commanded, “I am not done traveling, but you may stay here and mind my house while I am gone. You will live up there, on the top floor, where there is light in the window. Below you, children—students—rent the rooms.”

“You are too generous, Mother of the Forest,” I murmured, relieved that I might have shelter, even if for a little while.

“Nonsense,” she scoffed. “You will work. Keep the children from breaking things. And see to my garden.”

“Of course,” I answered, wondering how difficult could that be?

Baba Yaga guffawed. “I read your thoughts, you know. Not so hard with a poppet like you. I tell you, these children are your trial. They do things that bring police—nosy, snoopy people who ask too many questions and want to see your papers—”

“Papers?”

“You don’t have any. So you must be sharp as the axe and not let them succeed in throwing you in the oven.”

“Agreed,” I said, thinking how much easier it would be if only I could spell them into toads or dogs, anything small and manageable.

“And one thing more . . .”

I waited, worry and hunger gnawing at my rumbling stomach.

“You will have help. There is a girl on the second floor. She collects the rents. And my personal servants will assist you, but only when they wish to, so remember your manners.”

“Yes, Gracious Mother,” I said humbly.

“Here is the key to the top floor. It is silver, so you may safely hold it. But do not lose.”

“Gracious Mother, I am forever in your debt,” I said meekly.

She clapped a heavy hand on my shoulder, her nails
digging a warning into my flesh. “Yes, you are. Remember—take care of my house and don’t fuck up.”

*   *   *

I
CROSSED THE STREET ALONE
, but only after Baba Yaga snapped at me to remember to look both ways, or else “be splattered.” Although I was grateful for her help, I was still very afraid of her, and even more afraid of her house. It loomed dark and forbidding in the early twilight. Walking down the little stone path to the stairs, I tensed at the sight of a skull’s head embedded in the dirt near the steps.
A cannibal’s home
, I reminded myself. The bottom step rested on a pair of carved chicken feet and I could imagine that the back of the house had another door and steps resting on chicken feet just like it.

At the top of the stairs I paused, surveying the huge porch that had been hidden by the pines. Light from a first-floor bay window illuminated a collection of lumpy, stained furniture along with a few spindled chairs. Empty bottles, cups, and soiled paper plates cluttered the porch wall. A small brazier held the remains of charred meat and burned corncobs. I wrinkled my nose at the pungent odor of stale beer and rotting food.

Moving toward the main door, I was searching for the lock when the door was thrown open from inside, revealing a tall scantily clad girl, all arms and legs, standing in a dimly lit hallway. She was looking over her shoulder, shrieking at someone in the house. I stepped quickly out of her way and saw her tearstained face, red and white with rage. Music howled behind her in the hallway and I covered my ears at the sound.

“Fuck you, I’m leaving. I’m tired of cleaning up your shit, you stupid prick!” She turned, and bolted from the door without a look in my direction.

“Babe, wait, don’t be like that.” A young man followed, trying unsuccessfully to grab her by the arm.

She twisted away and continued down the porch steps, her long white legs scissoring into the night.

“Fuck,” the man said despondently, and I added a new shade of meaning to the word.

“Aw, let her go, dude. She’s a bitch,” called another male voice from a doorway down the hall. “Fergit her. Come on, Nick, it’s party time, man.”

Nick leaned hard against the doorway, seeing me now for the first time. His boyish features hardened as he frowned. Barefooted, wearing only short pants, his soft pudgy body was like a little child’s. His hair was clipped close to his head, and he ran his hand through the bristles until they stood up, slick and damp. He swayed unsteadily, his sweat reeking of hard spirits. He looked me up and down and sneered as the harsh music railed around us.

“Suppose you gonna call the police,” he snapped at me.

I took my hands from my ears. “Not if you remember your manners,” I said, wondering if I sounded anything like Baba Yaga, and then guessing I didn’t because he kept on sneering.