Plain Kate

“Stivo—” Behjet pulled at his chin. “Understand, Plain Kate. He lost his wife because she was a witch. He has nearly lost his daughter. His love has turned to anger. And his suspicion—just see. The stories from your city. The sleeping death that follows you. Your shadow. And now your cat, stealing a—”

Just then Taggle’s head slid out from under the blanket. “There’s bats out,” he slurred, stumbling up. “Listen, they sing to me!” He fell over.

“So it’s true,” said Behjet.

Plain Kate looked up at him, squinting through the fog. It was almost full dark, and she could not read his face, except that the moon was round in his eyes. “Behjet, I am not a witch. And I didn’t hurt Wen.”

And now Behjet said nothing.

“Behjet, what will they do with me?”

He looked over his shoulder at the ghostly light of the tent. “I must return to the council.”

“Please tell me,” she said, but he turned and walked away.

¶

The key was nearly done. It went into the lock and Kate could feel it catch and turn, almost turn. She had to widen her eyes to owl eyes to compare the pale wood key and the black ghost of the key in the mud.

The moon was bright but the mist blurred it. Daj chanted over her husband. The drone of it went on and on. It had become something unstoppable, like the noise of a river. Kate carved on and on and wished for something to stop her ears.

Finally she put the key next to the key hollow and could see no differences. She set the key in the key hollow and it went in like hand to glove. Maybe this time. She lifted the key. She crouched up on her toes and looked around. She would only get one dash.

Plain Kate fingered her key.

There was someone moving in the fog.

Kate froze.

She could not see who it was, or even what. It came up from the river, and at first Kate thought it was a woman dressed in twists of hair and cloud. But as she moved one limb grew long and another short; when she turned, her torso twisted like linen being wrung out. Sometimes Kate could see through her, and sometimes she couldn’t. Music came with her. She was beautiful and Kate wanted to—

Taggle staggered up and gave a horrible hissing howl. “Thing!’ he spat. “Thing!” And then Kate wanted to scream.

We called into the darkness, Drina had said. We don’t know what answered. This is what had answered. The sick shadow on the wall of the bender tent, the approaching horror. The woman-thing was drifting toward the vardo and the council tent. Plain Kate tried to shout for help, but couldn’t. The foggy music wrapped her up like a spiderweb and she couldn’t even move. She watched the creature slide closer.

Then she saw Stivo, lamp in hand, going out to tend to the stamping, crying horses.

The white woman came to Stivo past the edge of the camp, where the fog swirled. He dropped the lamp and oil splashed into the grass, flaring bright. He said something, one word that Kate didn’t catch, a raw shout of—fear? joy?—and threw his arms open for the creature. When he touched her his whole body twisted like a reed in water. Kate, watching, felt the impossible, horrible twist as if it was happening to her, but still she was frozen, hardly even—

Taggle yowled and bit Kate’s hand.

Kate yelped, and found she could move again. “Stivo! Stivo!” she screamed.

The woman turned toward her voice. She retracted her hand, and Stivo crumpled at her feet. Eyes like pits locked on to Plain Kate.

In naked fear, Kate shouted. She banged at the bars, still caught eye to eye with the thing: skin pale and thin as an onion’s, her hair white and wavering like seaweed, face knife-sharp and starving. “Help me!” Kate screamed. “Help! Let me out!”

Out of the tent and down from the vardo, the Roamers were coming toward her, cautious, looking around. All at once Kate found her eyes released; the white creature was fading back toward the river. Kate gasped and leaned forward against the bars, breathing hard. “Katerina…” warned Taggle. She looked up just in time to see Behjet, running up from the horse meadow, fall full length over Stivo’s sprawled body.

Behjet pushed up to his knees, his hands on his brother, his sweet, sad face twisting in fear and grief. “Stivo!” he cried. “God! By the Black Lady, come and help us!” He lifted Stivo, pale and still in his arms. Just like Wen, Kate thought. Just like Wen.

Daj ran up to them, heavy and rolling like a bear running. She fell to her knees, and her low chant became a keening wail. “Oh, no!” she cried. “No, no!”

“Daj!” said Behjet. “What has happened?”

“God save us!” she answered. “This sleep is killing a thing. Wen is dead. My husband! My son!”

Stillness came into Behjet. He picked up Stivo’s sputtering lamp. He stood slow as the tide rising. He walked over to Plain Kate.