Wraithsong

  * * *

  “After dinner,” Layla said before we separated, “meet me in the classroom for a lesson on the physical advantage of the Huldra.” I wonder what that means, but think it might be an interesting lecture.

  I flip the Book of Huldras to page 778 as I wait for Layla to arrive.

  All Huldras have the following gift: the gift of climate adaptation. This includes, but is not limited to: resilience in extremely cold weather, resilience and immunity to extreme heat, the ability to survive under water without coming up for air for many days (though no one knows exactly how long), the ability to…

  I hear footsteps and close the book and quickly lunge into my seat as if I’ve been sitting there the entire time. Layla enters the classroom carrying something that looks like a make-up bag and she also has a black garment bag draped over her shoulder.

  “Let’s go to the second floor today. I’m going to teach you how to dress and put on make-up properly.”

  “Why?” I thought I had all that stuff down, and what’s the point of this lecture? It sounds like a complete waste of time. No, it is a complete waste of time.

  “Because Maureen told me that you desperately needed it.” Layla turns on her heels and treads out the door. I follow after her, not happy with all these lessons that don’t seem to bring me any closer to saving my mom.

  The large living room looks like a Spanish dreamland. An over-sized painting of a flamenco dancer is the centerpiece of this chamber. The woman in the painting is curvy and wears a brilliant red dress, holding a pair of black castanets above her head. Red and white striped silk drapes cascade down the tall windows. I walk over to a window, catching a glimpse of the view, thinking that Wraithsong Island looks every bit like scenes from a Norwegian documentary I saw a few years back. The island is dramatic—even majestic. I don’t notice many flat surfaces, and every hill, every mountain, every corner is covered in some type of greenery.

  Layla places the garment bag on the sofa and unzips it. “Ready to slip into the new you?”

  “Is this supposed to be a makeover?” I say, not thrilled at all.

  “I guess you can say that, but it’s so much more than an average makeover.” Layla pulls a gold sequined dress out from the garment bag. “Let me help you squeeze into this.”

  “This is actually part of a Huldra’s formal training?” I ask after Layla has helped me squeeze into a dress of minimal proportions. I feel like a walking sausage, ready to explode at my next move.

  “Of course. Powerful men want their women looking and acting a certain way. You have to attract the hornets with honey. They won’t be coming after you if you look and smell like mac and cheese. Gold, sweet and glistening—that’s where it’s at.” She proceeds to do my hair and after that, my make-up. When she’s finished with me, she places me in the center of the room.

  “Now let me have a look at you.” Layla steps back.

  “How am I supposed to move in this gown? I can barely even breathe!” I say, sucking it all in.

  “Think of it as a tutu. You can’t really breathe in a tutu, can you?” Layla says.

  I grimace. I told Layla in one of my lessons that I was a dancer, but now I’m regretting it since she’s using this information to strengthen her argument. “Well, at least I can move my legs in a tutu.”

  “Class, Sonia, that’s what’s important. That’s what you need.” She studies me carefully.

  I turn and look in the mirror. “I look like I’m…thirty—no forty years old in this dress and with this hair-do.” The gold dress has one strap, which runs over my left shoulder. The shoes are four-inch gold and rhinestone stilettos, and my hair is pulled up into a tight French twist. “My make-up is way too heavy. I look like a…bimbo!”

  “No you don’t. It’s just right,” Layla rebuffs.

  “Why do I have to learn about this to save my mom?” Layla is wasting my time.

  “Because we may have to influence a few powerful men along the way to get your mother back,” Layla says.

  I’m definitely going to find my mom tonight, even if it means I need to stay up all night to make it happen. I don’t want to talk to Layla about that, so I pursue the question that still remains unanswered. “So how did you get to be with Maureen exactly?”

  Layla scowls at me. “It’s really none of your concern, but I’ll tell you because if I don’t, you’ll never stop asking me about it.”

  I can’t tell if she’s frustrated with me or if she’s trying to be funny. I laugh nervously.

  “I’m actually Maureen’s ex-husband’s daughter,” Layla says.

  “So you’re Anthony’s half-sister?” I assume.

  Layla zips the make-up bag closed. “No. Maureen has had…several husbands. Anthony and I don’t share the same father or the same mother.”

  “So that makes you related by marriage, but not by blood…?” I ask.

  “I would never consider myself related to that imbecile,” Layla says uneasily.

  I don’t appreciate her talking about Anthony like that, but I keep my mouth closed in hopes that I can win her over.

  “I want nothing to do with Anthony or my evil Darkálfar father.”

  “And your mom?”

  “She was a Lightálfar and died in a battle against the Darkálfars. That’s why I hate them and what they did, not only to me, but also to Maureen and her family. Maureen hates Anthony because he reminds her too much of her ex-husband—Anthony’s father—since they look very similar.”

  “But that’s not Anthony’s fault.” I can’t help myself from defending him.

  “No, it isn’t, but it’s not just his looks. When Maureen was young, her father used to beat her. She swore to herself to never again surround herself with violent people, so when Anthony showed too many aggressive tendencies, Maureen, being the peaceful Huldra she is, couldn’t handle it.”

  Maureen—peaceful? Yeah, right. “When was Maureen born?” I ask.

  “Let’s just say that she has lived long enough to outlive eight husbands, all of them Huldus, except for Anthony’s father, and my father, both Darkálfars.”

  “Eight?” She must not have been nearly as selective as my mom about who she married. Suddenly I remember my mom saying that five Huldus had vanished, and I wonder if they were Maureen’s husbands. Come to think of it, my mom had also mentioned that the other Huldus died in wars. At the time, I assumed that the Huldus had died in civil wars and world wars, but now I realize they must have perished in the wars against the Darkálfars.

  “Keep this between us.” Layla approaches me and whispers, “I heard that Maureen was born in Norway during the Viking era and served an evil Empress named Eiess.” She nods.

  “Really? Wow!” It makes sense why her home is decorated in Norse designs and why she’s so ruthless. “What happened to all the Lightálfars, Huldras and Huldus? There were many more in the beginning, weren’t there?” Mani told me some about it, but I want to know more.

  “Yes, they grew to thousands, but the wars killed most of them. Though I’m not old enough to remember the most recent war twenty or so years ago, I’ve heard that so many died in that battle. Thankfully, there hasn’t been a war since.”

  “It makes me sad that I’m part of a dying race,” I say.

  “That’s why it’s vital that you marry a Huldu and procreate.”

  I squirm at the word procreate. “But there are no pure Huldus left, are there?”

  “Well, there was Olaf.” She smiles glibly.

  “I’d never have married Olaf,” I say, disgusted.

  Layla laughs. “I know what you mean. I wouldn’t wish that upon you, either.” She pauses for a moment and her eyes narrow. “I’ve heard rumors that there’s a group of your kind hidden in the northern European countries. Maybe you can find them and marry one of them?”

  “Where did you hear that?” I ask.

  “Maureen used to own ancient writings with maps of where these clans lived, but now they’
re gone. She thinks Anthony stole them from her.”

  I think about the chest he showed me.

  “But Maureen will do anything just to stay away from his aggression,” Layla says. “Even if that includes letting him have those sacred texts.”

  I feel sorry for Layla and that she actually believes the fabrications Maureen has been feeding her for so long. Layla might have been a good person if Maureen hadn’t been lying to her all these years, and if she had known the truth. “Hmm, that’s funny,” I say.

  “What?”

  “Maureen has become what she was trying to run away from.”

  “Why would you say that?” Layla snaps, her voice defensive.

  “She owns masses of weapons and lives by the creed that life is unjust and that only the fittest survive. Sounds rather aggressive to me, wouldn’t you say?” I know I’m going out on a limb here with Layla and hold my breath.

  “Maureen needs to protect herself from Anthony and her two Darkálfar ex-husbands, and all others who are out to harm Huldras. She has a right to defend her life.”

  I just nod, but I want to tell Layla that she’s been living a lie. I don’t think the information will be received well, so I go in a different direction. “How old were you when you started working with Maureen?”

  “Maureen took me in when I was twelve.” She crosses her arms.

  I notice the golden ring on her finger, an exact replica of Anthony’s golden ring. “Where did you get your ring?” I gasp.

  “It was my mother’s. Why?”

  I wonder whom Layla’s mom got it from—maybe Layla’s dad? Who might be Anthony’s dad, too? I refrain from telling her that Anthony has the exact same ring that his dad gave him, so instead, I ask, “Did you know your dad?”

  “No,” Layla says, immediately rigid.

  “Where did you live growing up?” I’m glad it has become so easy to ask her questions.

  “Kensington,” she answers.

  “Are you sure that you and Anthony don’t share the same father?” I ask and hold my breath.

  She looks at her ring for a moment, and I suspect that my hunch about her ring being from her dad is true. “Don’t be ridiculous, Sonia. I don’t want to hear talk like that. Besides, Maureen would never lie to me about such things.”

  I hesitate. “Are you sure?”

  “Of course, I’m sure. Maureen is like a mother to me, and she has always been there through thick and thin.” Layla’s pale green eyes catch the light from the setting sun coming in from the window. Her eyes flash, as if a field of pain sleeps beyond them, and I think maybe she too, like Anthony, is seeking love and acceptance from Maureen. My heart bleeds for her, knowing she’ll never find it there.

  “I’m sorry—it’s just I really think that...”

  Laylas eyes go wild and she shoves me up against the walnut closet that stands next to the bed. It rattles as my back slams against it. Her forearm presses up underneath my chin. I can’t breathe. “Stop talking right now, or I’ll tell Maureen, and you’ll regret it!”

  “Sure,” I croak, adrenaline rushing through my veins. “No more words, I promise.” Sometimes people can’t hear the truth, because they’re so afraid of losing the story they keep telling themselves—their hard-earned identity.

  Layla releases her grip slowly, her eyes softening, looking away as if she’s ashamed of her reaction. “I’m sorry. I just…Maureen is the only one who’s been there for me. I’ll protect both her reputation and her life with my own. Once you get to know her, you’ll see that she’s good, even though she’s not perfect.” She opens the door and looks absentmindedly out into the hallway. “Any questions before I dismiss you?”

  “No,” I say, still trying to recover from the blow.

  Layla leaves the room and I finally exhale. I think back to Anthony, and how much he must have suffered growing up around Maureen’s insanity. His family, the ones who should have loved and accepted him, hated and abandoned him, and fed him lie upon lie. How did he recover from that? Has he recovered from that? If he did, how did he find the strength to trust again—trust me—and risk his life for me? I know there’s so much he hasn’t told me, so much pain he must hold inside. I wonder if it will eventually all come out. I want to be there when it does. I want to be the one to catch him when he plummets into the chasm of pain that I know hides beneath his strong shell. I’ll fill him with so much love that he’ll never need another and will never remember how much pain his shattered soul endured.