The Willow Door
Be what you will to her but know she will never belong to you. For when the time of her Turning is near humanity will fall away and the coming darkness will be revealed. She is higher than all in both power and pain; her path chosen long ago. Hide her well and keep her. For in loving her you save your soul.
~Note fragment, hidden away but never forgotten.
~~~
The Madness
Laney
I stare at the moth fluttering against my window. It tinks and thunks as it bashes its life out against the glass. Just yearning for a little light. It's strange how much I feel like that. I'm beginning to think I'd do anything to be free. The only trouble is that I'm not sure what I need saving from. I just know that I've had enough of hiding in the darkness.
I turn the four locks on the inside of my window and jam the tip of a screwdriver into the base to break up the paint. It takes a few shoves and some leverage but I soon get the window open.
My fingers shake as I push the screen out. I'm actually doing it. I'm sneaking out.
Who cares if it's midnight, right? What the hell else am I supposed to do, just sit here and take it? How can I let my dad send me away to some unknown relatives? They might be even more insane then he is. A pretty frightening thought.
Sure. The old Laney would just go along with it. The Laney that lets her dad hide her away like she's a disease-ridden leper. Well, I'm sick of it. So, I'm some sort of freak. It's not as if I put up billboards or pass out fliers. Come one, come all! Watch the weird girl grow stuff. See this seed? Well, poof! Now it's a sunflower.
Jolly.
I slide out the window, my boots hitting the grass. There's a tearing sound as I yank the edge of my long skirt from where it catches on one of the rusted nails that stick out aimlessly from around the window. Another one of the many loco things my dad insisted upon after my seventh birthday, nails as a part of the trim decor. Very chic. Along with iron crosses hidden in the walls. Oh, and the rug made of rabbit fur for under my bed--yuck (I ended up burying that one in the back yard a few months later when my dad wasn't paying attention). And, least I forget, the copper pots he's always buying and setting in odd places around the yard, planting fresh garlic and mushrooms in them every year.
I kick one of the strange talismans as I walk out of the yard. It tumbles and rolls, coming to a halt at the curb with a clank. The garlic spills out with clumps of black earth. The smell of it fills the air and I plug my nose. I wonder what it's like to have a normal life. Shopping, going to school, having friends.
Well, at least I've finally got one friend. Count them: one (that didn't take long, did it?). Jen's great. Sort of a freak like me. Not in the supernatural way, but she's definitely on the odd side of the fence. I should go dump on her. She'll probably be more understanding than my cat. Sure, Melvin's great, all puffy orange fur and feline friendliness--actually he's a lot like Jen, now that I think about it, except he's not much in the way of a conversationalist. Jen definitely has a lock on that.
Thank God my dad finally let me get a job last month or I'd still have zero friends. Ten hours a week at the snack shack on the pier. It's like work furlough. He unlocks the chains Tuesdays and Thursdays so that I can go serve snow cones and chili-cheese fries to a bunch of horny L.A. co-eds. Okay, there's no chains, but there's definite horny beach action.
Boys never look at me. Of course, I wouldn't wear a bikini if you paid me a million dollars. It's sad. I'm sixteen. I live in Southern California for crying out loud. I may as well live on the moon for all the good it does my social life. I'm so pathetic. I wear black on the outside 'cause black is how I feel on the inside, as Morrissey says. And then there's my obnoxiously pasty skin. I'm sure the guys think the second I get hit with direct sunlight I'll burst into flames. That's for the best. If a guy did look at me with anything more then disgust and my dad found out, he'd probably just lock me in the attic, surrounded by effigies of the saints, bound in actual chains.
Maybe leaving town isn't such a bad idea after all.
I shiver from the cold, damp air. I should have brought my jacket. That’s the thing about L.A. in the early spring. It can't make up its mind if it's soggy cold or suck-the-moisture-out-of-you hot. Of course, in Southern California there's only two seasons. Summer and then what we generously call, "Winter"--which is really just two weeks of pouring rain sometime in early February.
I rub my arms against the chill and breathe in the salty air. Something else is mingled there, too. I smell it drifting just out of reach. Not flowers, but something sweet--like honey mixed with freshly mown grass.
A chill works its way up my spine. I've smelled that before. When I was a little girl. That night I saw the thing outside my window. I shake as the memory floods in--those eyes, like two green lights floating in midair. No face, no shape, just eyes.
I need to walk faster. Only one more block and I'll be at Jen's house.
I make it out of the alley and start to jog. I've been so wrapped up in my mental tirade I forgot that I'm walking down a dark street in the middle of the night. In Venice. Home of the loons and goons.
Something rustles the tree above me and I jump back with a squeak. A black shadow screeches and flies from the branches into the night sky. A crow.
Good one, Laney. Real smooth. Do rapists hang out in trees? We already know the gang-bangers loiter at the Circle K. What the hell am I freaking out about? So I smell that smell. It could be that somebody just mowed their grass and then put some honey out for the citified raccoons. Right?
Yah, sure. It could be anything.
Jen's gate comes into view and I lurch towards it, relief filling me. No muggers or rapists will follow me into this place. It's like a mausoleum for trash. Jen's mom and dad are artists--well, you have to stretch that word a bit to use it for what they do. They just glue a bunch of tin cans and bottles together, paint them, sprinkle broken glass on them, and call it some pointless name like: "Wondering." They fit right in around Venice Beach. And actually they're kind of rich. You'd never know it by the beat-up cars they drive, though--a VW van and a '65 Bug--or the old clothes they wear. Jen's mom says they're "vintage" but that's just a nice way of saying "outdated."
All this is probably why Jen didn't freak when I told her about my secret. Yes, I told my one and only friend my secret. Isn't that what you're supposed to do? Jen merely said: "Cool. You should grow me some carrots or something." She hasn't mentioned it since. Knowing Jen, she probably forgot.
I see her window and attack it, tapping like a madwoman. That smell is way too strong now. It's totally following me.
"Jen!" I hiss and tap again. It's taking her too long. One second, two seconds. God, where is she? I need to get inside.
Two droopy eyes peek through the blinds and then a smile with a little finger wave. Nice, Jen, just sit there all night while the shimmery green eyes come at me. I point at the lock on the window and give her my best hurry-up face.
She pulls it open and moves away so that I can crawl in.
"Hey, you. Out for a midnight stroll?" She follows her greeting with a huge yawn.
I tumble into the room. "Sort of."
She tilts her head and looks at me sideways. Her springy orange hair stands at attention, the curls making her a foot taller than her normal 5'2". "Want some pizza? You look hungry."
I roll my eyes. "Jen, I'm not here to eat. It's twelve thirty."
"'Kay." She nods, frizz bouncing, and shuffles back to her bed. She huddles around her quilt. "Night."
"Come on, Jen. I need to talk."
She groans then sits back up and pats the bed, eyes half open. "Sit. Talk."
I plop down beside her and stare at a poster of a smiling cartoon bunny. You make me puke a little, it says. I sure feel like puking right now. And now that I'm here I don’t have a clue what to say. It's so lame. I shouldn't feel so betrayed. So my dad wants me to go spend spring break with my mom's family. So what?
Forget about the fact that they're perfect strangers. Or that I've never even met my mom. I don't give a shnicky about these people.
Jen closes her eyes and starts to breathe slower. She's probably falling asleep sitting up.
"I'm being sent away," I say quietly. I almost hope she didn't hear. Maybe I can just curl up beside her and sleep too.
Jen opens her eyes owl big. "What? You mean your dad's letting you out of his sight for more than three hours?" (Did I forget to mention that my dad checks on me at my lunch break? God, my life sucks.)
I snort out a laugh. "Yah, I know. I think he's finally crossed over to the dark side."
"Where?"
This is the best part. I almost can't wait to see her face. "Oh, you'll never guess."
She scrunches her nose up at me. "You're right. I'll just go back to sleep."
I give her a wounded look. "Won't you miss me?"
"Oh, come on, Laney."
"Alright. He's sending me to the bayou." Saying it out loud sounds so ridiculous, I can't help but giggle. She raises her freckled brow and I continue spilling out the lunacy. "Yes, you heard right. It's where my mom's family lives. Did you hear that? My mom's family. The back-ass of nowhere. That's where I'm going." Hysteria is beginning to sink in. "Isn't that just the riot? The woman who baked me and left on the first bus out of town has a family that wants to meet me. Never mind that my dad's never mentioned them until tonight." I turn to face her, jerking the bed. My eyes feel like they're going to pop; I'm overflowing with it all. "How many times have I asked about her and he's ignored me or told me to finish my history? Well, the beans are spilled now, aren't they? He's a complete and utter loon and I'm coming in a close second."
"Whoa," she says in a reverent voice. "Crazy."
"Yup." She looks down at my hand and I realize I'm pulling all the fuzz from her plushy blanket. "Do you have anything I can pound on?"
She hands me her pillow. "So I guess this means I won’t be able to help you find your first kiss."
The spring break kiss! God, my life totally sucks. I clap my hands over my face and fall back onto the bed beside Jen. "It's hopeless. I'll never get kissed now. Unless it's by some backwoods loon with missing teeth and suspenders. And even then I'd probably have to bribe him."
Jen declared after our first conversation that it's her duty to help me have a real teenage experience before I'm eighteen. Remedying the dilemma of my untouched lips is phase one of the mission. Followed by some unorthodox piercing and hair coloring, I'm sure. Apparently Operation Laney is being put off.
"You'll be back," she says, sounding like she's trying to convince herself, too. "Maybe spring love wasn't the ticket. We gotta work on your dad. Getting him off this home-school kick and softening him to the halls of Lincoln High for when you get back. Romantic meals in the caf. Sharing homework. Ditching. Much more conducive to love." She gives me a crooked smile. "Maybe now that your dad's talking about your mom, he'll start letting go of other stuff. Maybe he's growing."
I humph. "And maybe I'll be homecoming queen."
"This is so totally unfair." She's got her picketing face on now. "He can't just do this."
"Yes, he can, Jen. He thinks it's his duty, or something."
"But all our plans! And now instead--" She smacks her forehead. "Oh, God almighty. Instead I'll be listening to my parents go on and on about war and famine 'flowering' in the image of some piece of plastic--ugh! Like purgatory. I don't know if I can take it that long on my own with them. I may end up leaping off the pier."
I half laugh, half cry. "I know."
It's quiet for a few seconds, then she askes, "When are you leaving?"
I glance back at the bunny poster. "Tomorrow."
"What?! You're kidding. Didn't he just tell you? Oh, this is just too much!" The bed jerks and I turn to see her getting up and going to her closet. She's mumbling something about men and their insensitivity as she reaches for a box on the top shelf. She brings it to me and sets it in my lap, a determined set to her jaw. "You'll need this. I made it for you a while ago."
I sit up and look at the package. I'm not sure I want to open it. I don’t think I can take many more surprises. "What is it?" I rub my thumb over the confettied surface. It's orange and pink, trimmed in red and blue jewels. A little girl's art box.
"It's just stupid. Something to make you smile. You can open it later. When you're really sad, or something."
So, like, now.
But I can't open it. That lump in my throat is a huge warning. If I start crying I might never stop. "Thanks, Jen." I give her a little smile and set the box at my feet.
Jen attacks me with a hug, squeezing me so hard I'm pretty sure my ribs are going to be bruised. "Just try not to think of it as exile. It's more like a vacation to a tropical climate."
I can't help the bark of laughter that comes out. "Can I stay here a while? You can sleep, I'll just slip out in a bit. I can't go home yet." I don't want to go home ever. But I have no idea what else to do.
"Of course, you big fat abandoner. As long as you promise to email or text every day."
"I'll promise to try. No guarantee that Gatorville gets service."
She nods and lies back down. "Night, Laney. I'm sorry." She wraps her quilt around her again and nestles into the pillow, closing her eyes. Maybe she can’t face it either.
I get up and turn off the light. "I'm sorry, too." In so many ways.
As darkness falls in the room I catch a flash in the window. I squint through the glass, trying to see. Something's moving in the oak tree outside.
My heart lurches into a frantic rhythm. The feeling of being watched rings through my bones, making me feel like a cornered rabbit. I search the branches but the street lamps cast awkward shadows. Nothing seems out of the ordinary except for my thundering pulse. But this isn't my imagination, it can't be. I know that thing I saw as a girl wasn't a dream like my dad said. Dreams don't leave breath-mist on a windowpane.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
What people are saying about The Willow Door:
"A fresh voice in the fantasy genre, Rachel A. Marks opens for us, The Willow Door. A unique, contemporary fantasy tale that, like her young protagonist Laney, draws us in before we know we're snared. From the first page, Ms. Marks' tale drops a trail of breadcrumbs for us to follow, leading us down dark alleys, behind carefully-crafted facades, and through the shrouds of Spanish Moss in the bayous of Louisiana. Enchanting twists, mystery, and wonderfully dry humor fill every page. Rachel A. Marks is an author to watch."--Wayne Thomas Batson, The Door Within Trilogy and Isle of Swords
"I absolutely love this story! With a fast-paced plot and unique characters, I've stayed up past my bedtime several times reading further ahead. I can't wait to see what happens next!"--Mallory Daniels (15)
* You can see some sketches I did of Laney, and a few other characters from The Willow Door in my art.
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