Childlike

They used to pray to Oona. Chant her name by moonlight. Offer sacrifices to her image. Open veins in her honor that would flood over root and burl till blood soaked the greedy dirt.

It had been—lovely.

Oona lifted her hand. The shackle of cold iron tight against her wrist, burning like a hot brand and moved her black token to jump a red on the gameboard before her.

Time—and humanity—had unfortunately turned her into a pantomime. A parody of her once-self, trooped out only when needed. Offered just the right amount of supplication to yield the desired bounty, then tucked away; a tool with a purpose and nothing more.

That was ever the problem with humans. Once they’d boiled the mystery out of a thing—once they could quantify it, bottle it, have an expectation for it, then so too went any fear of it. And once human’s lost fear—they became a blight. But Oona had long since learned patience. Humans could be clever and crafty; what they lacked was time, and Oona had plenty of that.

“King me,” Oona said using her child voice. It wasn’t the voice she used to call the wind, to cultivate growth, to soothe the storm. It was the one she used to placate.

Mae looked down at the board in surprise.

Oona’s new minder was young, not yet having seen two decades. She was the right kind of pure, however. The stink of indiscretion and deceit absent from her personage. A curiosity, considering her age.

“Well done, Oona! I didn’t even see that one,” Mae said, and placed a black token crown-side-up atop the one Oona had just moved.

Oona had liked Mae the moment she’d seen her outside her prison. Her scent was complicated. Like overripe fruit; floral at first, with just a hint of rot beneath the surface. The woman cradled a sadness deep within that Oona could taste under her tongue. And there was always opportunity in sadness.

They were in Oona’s room, playing. The walls, floor, and ceiling made of cold concrete. A lifeless substance to be sure. But that was the point, wasn’t it? She couldn’t be trusted with anything that’d begun its life as a seed or spore. Thus, her world was grey. Even her bedding and chairs were of some false material that’d never held life of its own. It all felt constricted—like hands around her throat.

Oona grinned at Mae, remembering to clap her hands in succession at the compliment. She needed to maintain her glamour. In truth, she liked the praise, regardless that this checkers game was simple. Like watching fox and possum vie for territory amidst bole and root—albeit less bloody.

“Will we be able to go outside today?” Oona asked, still using her child voice. She’d lived ten times a human’s lifespan and found that communicating with them was often a game of expectation and perception. They saw her as a child, and so she played the part, lest they grow uneasy. It fooled most, Mae included, but not the doctor. Not Bev Carlson. They knew what she was—or, more specifically—what she wasn’t.

“Ms. Carlson didn’t give us permission for outside time today, but I can ask her about it next time,” Mae said, moving one of her own tokens across the board.

Oona sighed at the rebuttal The wind moaned in harmony beyond her window. She moved one of her pieces in kind. The tokens felt ugly on her skin when she touched them. The plastic unnatural. Pretending. Like a cuckoo brood in a neighboring nest. The game would be over soon, and it wasn’t looking to end in Mae’s favor.

Oona longed to feel the sun on her skin. To hear the clatter of leaves in the breeze. She wasn’t meant for these concrete walls with their iron bones, nor the salt upon the threshold. But she’d been an overconfident fool, and the doctor clever for a human. He’d known the old ways to bind her: salt, cold iron, and scorched earth.

Yet there was a change in the wind. It’d taken years, but she’d whispered in the right ears, sewn seeds of discord into this wayward community that’d sprung up within her grove to slowly suffocate her like strangle vine. Mae was just the most recent of those seeds. The bond they’d formed was as pleasant as it was deliberate, but she needed the girl’s trust if this was to work. Things were moving quickly now, and it was time to test those bonds.

“You’ve never mentioned who it was you lost,” Oona said, hanging the statement like a picture on the wall.

Mae’s hand halted as she reached for a token. Her eyes tightened at the corners. Oona knew it was someone close. That kind of sorrow left a unique scent.

“What makes you think I lost someone?” Mae asked. She was looking down at the game board, but Oona could tell she wasn’t seeing it anymore.

Oona shrugged. “The way you sigh. And you often look distracted—like now. And you’re sad. I lost someone a long time ago too, and it was like that for me, after.”

“A long time ago,” Mae said amused, taking in Oona’s childlike appearance.

Oona ignored her.

“The thing for me,” Oona continued, adding more presence to her voice, “was I kept expecting them to just . . . come home again. That I would wake one morning, and they’d be there.”

The amusement slid from Mae’s face, her expression grave. The silence stretched before she spoke. “It’s the reason I came here. To forget, to start again. Now, I just try to stay busy. That way I don’t have to think about it.”

Mae moved another token. It was a terrible placement, opening her up for multiple jumps.

On impulse, Oona crawled around the board and caught Mae up in a hug. It was against the rules. Oona’s minders weren’t supposed to touch her or be touched by her.

Oona felt Mae stiffen at the embrace—then slowly relax.

“Who where they?”

“My mom,” she said. Her voice thick. I—I hate that I couldn’t help her. I was right there in the house and did nothing—didn’t realize what was happening . . .”

“It’s not your fault,” Oona said, using the voice she used to coax trees and flowers ahead of bloom. Her voice had once been a tempest but was now a gentle breeze. It would still do for this, however.

“If only I’d come out of my room sooner . . .”

Mae’s arms came up and encircled Oona, her face pressing into Oona’s shoulder, her tears wet on her neck.

Oona froze. The warmth of Mae’s flesh like fire on a frosty night, or a beam of sunlight through the cloud cover. When had Oona last been touched in any way other than by fear or hate?

Oona closed her eyes and nuzzled into her.

“After Mom died, I couldn’t sleep,” Mae continued, “and when I did, I never wanted to get out of bed. I just felt so—empty. Until I met you.”

It’d been years since Oona had seen one of her own kind. Felt the hint of their presence, their music, their voice. She understood what the girl was feeling.

“What do you remember most about her?” Oona said. They sat back at arm’s length, hands held together.

“She’d loved roses and old movies,” Mae said, wiping at her eyes. “She’d say it was cliché, but mom was a bit of a traditionalist about that stuff.”

Finally. After weeks, something Oona could use.

“Roses were always my favorite too,” Oona said. “But it’s been years since I’ve smelled one. I’m not allowed anymore. They don’t let me out of here.”

Oona saw the questions behind Mae’s eyes.

“Everyone in the Grove thinks you’re sick. That Doctor Malcom brought you here to heal, because this place was special.”

Is that the fable they were telling these days.

“Did you know wild roses grow down by the old windmill?” Oonah answered instead.

“I—I don’t think I’ve been down there. I could pick a few and bring them though. It could be our secret.”

Oona’s smile was genuine as she embraced Mae again, making sure to layer her presence into it. “That would be—”

“What is going on here?”

Oona’s shoulders hunched, a hiss building in the back of her throat. She turned toward the voice—teeth bared.

Doctor Malcom stood, eyes wide in the threshold. He swiftly reached out of sight—and a discordant series of notes spilled from the harp hung beyond Oona’s door, scattering her voice and setting Oona’s ears to ring painfully.

“Release her, Oona,” he commanded using her name.

Oona’s arms pulled away against her will.

“I think it’s time to leave, Mae.” The Doctor said.

Mae sniffed, wiping at her eyes. “Why? Is something wrong?”

“No—no. Everything is fine. I need to speak with Oona. Say goodbye, Oona.”

“Goodbye, Mae,” Oona said through her teeth.

Mae stared apprehensively between the two of them as she stood. “It was nice to talk to you Oona.” Mae said, saying her name, but not really using it. She left.

Oona and the doctor glared at one another until the iron door echoed its closing.

“This will not go unpunished,” Malcom admonished.

Oona hissed at him; rage curdling her thoughts into clotted violence.

He revealed nothing of his own emotion. Simply closed the door to her room.

Oona spun, scattering the gameboard and its pieces with a kick of her foot. She would be punished, she knew, but she’d gotten what she’d wanted. She hoped it was enough.

* * *

“The crop in the western field needs to be sped up,” Malcom said. “The Sullivan’s twins have taken ill, and several of the milk cows have stopped producing. Month blood will be provided to you, as well as ewe’s milk, as we’ve discussed in the past.” He checked something off on the parchment using his stylist. The matter settled as far as he was concerned.

“Laced with holly berries and primrose no doubt,” Oona spat.

Malcom looked up from his parchment and glanced at Bev Carlson.

Oona had managed to pluck the woman’s name from a young lover of Bev’s last year, whilst they’d whispered to one another outside the fence. She kept it now like a lucky stone in her pocket.

“I want to see Mae!” Oona insisted again. It’d been days, and Oona needed to continue, lest her glamour fade.

“You know that can’t happen,” Bev said, her lips narrowed.

“It will—if you would see your requests fulfilled!”

Without warning, Malcom slammed his iron-shod rowan staff into Oona’s side. She dropped to the floor, the burning iron on her wrists—and now too upon her neck and ankles—jingling as if pleased at her distress. Oona screamed. A tremor shook the building.

Blinded with pain, Oona lost track of how many times she was struck with the rod.

“As reward, you’ll be permitted to stay outside after exerting your presence on the Grove.”

Oona, panting on the concrete, hardly heard him.

“You know the rules. You will not see Mae again.”

Oona settled herself and glared up at Malcom. “Burn and scorch your rules! The girl—or I refuse. Use my name as you like, you know it cannot compel me in that way.”

“You would kill the girl,” Bev admonished from her space against the opposite wall.

“You would kill her.” Oona replied. “I merely seek companionship.”

Silence stretched through the room.

“The twins will likely die without aid,” Bev conceded, stepping close to Malcom.

He hesitated, then turned to Oona, knuckles white where he gripped the staff. “This girl's death will be on your conscience.”

“You’ll find me another,” Oona replied evenly. She marveled at how naturally it came for humans to blame their actions on others.

“The full moon is tomorrow,” Malcom said, turning toward Bev. “I’ll lead our people in the chant before the oak. You can bring her—” he said flicking his hand toward Oona. “—what she requires.”

“I’d have Mae with me,” Oona reminded, sitting up and crossing her legs before her.

“So be it,” Malcom answered, then stormed out of her concrete prison.

“It’s unwise to push him so,” Bev said coming to sit before her.

“Soon, neither of us will have to worry about that,” Oona replied. “Soon, it will be up to you to lead.”

Satisfaction reeked from the woman. If she had been a cat, she’d have purred.

“Shane and the others are ready.” Bev agreed. “The transition shouldn’t be difficult, merely, tedious. And fear not. I’ll be far kinder to you than he. Soon we’ll have it like it was before.”

Oona nodded. Pleased to see her efforts coming to fruition. Hopefully.

“Bring me the girl, Bev,” Oona said, using her name. “Just before moonrise.”

Oona needed rest. Malcom had hurt her, though she’d never give him the satisfaction of how severely. No matter. It’d be her turn soon.

* * *

It was a warm night for late autumn. The voices of insects, frogs, and nightbirds raised in concert, sensing Oona’s own would join them this evening.

She could feel the townsfolk gathered around the old oak at the top of the hill, like insects upon her skin. Even now, the first sound of voices raised in unison were carried on the breeze. Her skin tingled with it.

Behind, her prison squatted like a beetle a short distance away. Garrish concrete amidst black dirt and charred timber.

Oona spat in its direction.

It’d been nearly a month since she’d been permitted outdoors. True, the wall around her dampened the view of her Grove, but simply being in the open air was glorious despite the scent of char and the dead salted earth beneath her toes. Humans scorched everything regularly within the fence to prevent growth. She felt it every time, like flame put to her own flesh.

The creak of hinges heralded an arrival at the gate. Bev and Mae glowed in the moonlight as they stepped through, the younger woman taller by several hands. Oona glimpsed other faces beyond the threshold. Bev’s new regime. Shane, Beth, and a few others. The rest would be mixed in with people around the oak.

“I’ve brought her, Oona,” Bev said. She glanced pityingly toward Mae. “We go to join the others. I’ll come for you afterward.”

They left, and it was just the two of them.

“I’m glad you’re here, Mae,” Oona said, and found it was true.

“Me too. It’s a lovely night, though it feels odd to miss the ceremony.”

“You’re not missing it. Merely seeing it from a different view.”

Oona felt it then; blood added to the roots of her oak. The offer traveling through the ground to surge upward into her. The voices chanted louder than before. Joined by others, united in purpose.

Mae paused a short distance from her. “This is all for you—isn’t it?” She said, gesturing toward the hill. “I’d wondered, but I never would have imagined . . .”

The ewe’s milk was added, and Oona gasped. The offering unpolluted, pure, and invigorating. She fell to her knees, burying her hands into the course dirt. Mae was beside her a moment later. Her hand on Oona’s back. Oona glanced over and saw true concern on the girl’s face.

“What—are you?”

Oona lifted her voice—and sang.

Her revitalized presence quested outward amidst her grove: to the struggling field, infusing its soil with nutrients: to the twin boys dangerously sick with fever—she struck it from them: to the dry cows near the barn, soothing the inflammation in their glands. She’d given her word, and by her word she was bound.

Around her, seedlings scorched and ruined flared to life for a moment—then withered and died, too poisoned or seared to retain life.

Oona came back to herself slowly—just herself.

Out in the darkness, the sound of screams shattered the night.

Fear and awe reeked from Mae; some for Oona, most for what was happening on the hill. Her hand found Oona’s, gripping it tight.

Oona felt the blood soaking the ground around the old oak—Bev had been busy. Sadly, it hadn’t been spilled in offering. She frowned at the waste. Had hoped Bev in her zeal would slip and offer it. So much for that part of her plan. She didn’t have much time.

“Listen,” she said gripping Mae by the shoulders. “I am what this Grove is. Bound for decades by Malcom, tortured and manipulated for your kind’s prosperity.”

The squeal of the gate resounded through the yard. Bev had come too soon. Likely having sensed Oona would try to flee.

From over Mae’s shoulder, Oona watched Bev—rowan staff in hand—stride toward where they knelt. Behind her fanned out a small group of people, their clothing and hands bloodied.

“Come Oona. Malcom is dead. Kneel before your new master.”

Bev had learned her name. That was unfortunate.

Oona trembled as she was forced to her feet. Mae rose with her, obstructing Oona’s view of the group. Something sharp pressed into Oona’s hands, piercing her flesh.

The scent of roses filled her nose.

“Oh—good girl,” Oona whispered, and kissed Mae on the cheek.

Oona snapped the stems and pressed them to her skin. Using her voice to cultivate, she grafted them within her flesh. Rosebuds rapidly began to flourish and bloom along her arms and shoulders—her fingers elongated, twisting to stem-like thorny protrusions to explode outward wrapping Bev Carlson in writhing, screaming agony.

Oonah knelt before her, reveling in it. Bev wouldn’t be the last to suffer tonight.

“I’m afraid my captivity is at an end, master.”