The Wild Heart

I have no memories of my father from when I was a child. He was only an ominous presence behind a locked door, a threat my mother touted when I couldn’t keep my tongue in check. He must have been there, at least, I remember silver-covered trays on the floor of his hallway, the lid sometimes askew, a bit of lettuce stark on a white plate. And there was, of course, the bell in the library which told me when to leave the room so that Father could come in.

It was never strange to me. I never thought to linger or spy, I didn’t need to know. I didn’t miss him. But my mother did. I watched his absence erode her, growing paler and smaller every evening at dinner. It was a big house. To me, a maze and an adventure. But to her, I must imagine, it was an echoing cave.

I realize now that they were both distant in their own ways. But my mother was my heart. Only now do I know what a hollow, cold heart that was. What it was missing. What it made me.

When I wasn’t wandering the halls, I remained mostly in the trophy room. A large, wood-paneled den with the taxidermied prizes of Father’s hunts. And he only ever took the rare, the mutated, or the unusual. I don’t know how he found them all, but he never returned without one. He was gone, sometimes for weeks, sometimes only hours. That mysterious space behind the door would grow quiet and stagnant. When it returned to life, a new trophy would appear. The largest was the head of an albino elk, smallest was a pale pink toad with seven eyes. The walls, the tables, even the corners of the floor were all given over to them.

Under their gazes, I stacked the volumes I had removed from the library. There I played against myself on the chessboard Aunt Irina gifted me. I’d never seen her since.

I think I gravitated to the trophy room out of defiance. The hearth-fire made the already monstrous shapes of the animals even more sinister, their glass eyes seeming to shift with the light. I don’t know when they stopped scaring me, but I knew they scared the servants, and that was all I wanted. They meant well. Looking back, I think they pitied me. But as a child, their constant, twittering presence was nothing but a nuisance. And among them I couldn’t help but feel distant. Like I didn’t belong.

It happened on a particularly dreary afternoon. Mother had shut herself in the solar, staring up at the storm clouds through the glass. I’d finished lessons and lunch, and took a book on chess from the library, planning to set myself up a few problems on the board.

Something was different when I opened the door. The scent of lilacs and honey. It might have been pleasant were it lighter, but carried on the smoke from the fireplace, it was nearly choking. Someone had invaded my space. My legion of stuffed sentinels had not stopped them. I peered around the door.

A woman sat on the edge of the sofa. She wore large glasses, her head was turned and her hair was pinned up in elaborate braids. Her dress was shockingly yellow, like the forsythia in the courtyard; the first sign of seasons’s change.

“You can come in,” She said.

I started. My legs itched to run. To get someone. If only we’d had a guard dog. The slavering kind with sharp white teeth and a growl that shook the floor. What if she was a murderer, a criminal?

But she was too ordinary for that. And there were too many doors, too many servants for her to be there if she wasn’t allowed.

“I said you can come in.”

I turned my fear into venom. “And who said you could?”

She faced me. My words had no effect. She looked perfectly pleasant.

“I’m a colleague of Jerome’s. He invited me here to speak to you.”

“Jerome?”

“Your father.”

“You saw Father?”

Then she frowned. “Of course I did.”

“What’s he like?” It just slipped out. I could tell immediately that this was the wrong question. She looked at me strangely.

“Please, come sit down.”

My traitorous feet brought me into the room. I glared at her. She was younger than mother but more severe. Everything about her person was neatly arranged. A notebook sat on the table, squared to the corner, with a pen perpendicular across it. There was a teapot, one cup in front of her, the other laid by what was clearly intended to be my seat.

I stopped halfway across the rug. I was not a dog to be commanded. “Who are you?”

“I’ve already told you that.”

“No, you told me how you relate to my Father, not who you are.”

The corner of her mouth quirked up. She picked up her pen and wrote something. Then replaced it exactly.

“Doctor Melody Aperio. Please call me Mel.” She extended a hand to shake. I knew what she was doing, but I went anyway. Mother would kill me if I wasn’t polite. Instead, I waited an additional awkward second before sitting. Just to make sure she understood.

“Why did Father bring you here?” I asked.

Mel smiled, though it didn’t meet her eyes. “If you expect me to answer your questions, the least you can do is answer some of mine.”

I nodded. That was fine. Fair. Still felt like I’d been tricked into it. I looked up at the two-headed otter on the mantle.

Melody cleared her throat, took up her pen again.

“Do you know what your father does?”

“He hunts.”

“Aside from that?”

I didn’t know. There was a nasty feeling brewing in my gut. A coal. Who was she? “Something with books.” I said.

“Jerome is a scientist. Do you know what a scientist is?”

“I’m not an imbecile.” I glared at her again. Why did she seem immune? Any of the servants would have scampered away by now. Her judgement wasn’t all that good if she thought I was stupid enough not to know what a scientist was. How old did she think I was?

“His primary interest, and mine as well, is locating where the soul resides in the body.”

“That sounds like philosophy, not science.” I said.

She wrote down a single word. “You’re quite articulate,” she said.

I shrugged.

“It would be philosophy if you believe the soul is the same thing as consciousness,” She said. “We propose the soul is a physical matter, but one only observable when it reacts in the proper circumstances. Like your breath steaming on a cold day.”

“That’s two questions. Three if you want to be particular about it.”

“Fair is fair.” She said, crossing her ankles, turning her body in the chair. Even that seemed mechanical, like she was achieving a specific degree of rotation.

“Why did my father bring you here?”

“I’ve told you that already.”

“So we are being particular. Fine. Why does Father want you to speak to me?”

“Because he cannot speak with you himself.”

“Why?”

“A number of reasons; the most relevant is that he would not be impartial.”

There was another question on the tip of my tongue, but the thought of asking it made my insides itch. It was a game now, and the rules had been established. I reached instead for the tea.

Melody watched me all the way. Annoyingly, it was excellent tea. Not what was usually in the pot. Mother’s blend was all bitter, maybe over-steeped. This was sweet and wild. Tasted like spring.

“No more questions?” Melody asked.

“It’s your turn,” I said.

Again, she scribbled.

“What is your first memory?”

“I-“

I thought. It was dark and cold. I looked beyond her, to the corner of the room where a stuffed red panda clung to a fake piece of bamboo. It had an extra set of legs.

“I don’t know.”

“That’s not an answer.”

Again my insides itched. The coal flared in my gut.

“I’m in a hole, in the ground,” I said through gritted teeth. “It’s muddy and there are roots. The little ones tickle. I can taste grass in my mouth.”

“And then?”

“Someone picks me up and carries me home.”

“How old were you then?”

I frown. “Five? Six? I’m not sure.”

“And you don’t remember anything before that?”

“That’s a fourth question.” And I smiled. A little thrill shot through my body.

She leaned back.

“You said the most relevant reason was because he is my father. So are there others?”

“Astute. Yes, there are.”

I sighed. I should have known better.

“What reasons would those be?”

Finally, a clear reaction. She pursed her lips, ran her tongue across her teeth. There was tension in her shoulders. She was uncomfortable.

“I cannot answer that completely because of a standing promise and because it may interfere with my purpose here.”

I felt the growl building in the back of my throat. A distant part of myself thought it was a disproportionate reaction, but the louder part was furious. She wouldn’t play by the rules? That was bad. I didn’t like bad people.

“I will do my best to answer anyway.”

My muscles slackened. I sipped the tea, looking deep into the amber liquid, the porcelain. What just happened?

“Your father already knows too much about what I need to ask you about. It is not just that he knows you, he knows the matter at hand. He cannot be impartial; his methods would be informed by assumption, not objective fact.”

“What is it you need to ask about?”

“You.”

Unsatisfying. I gripped the armrest. Careful not to let too much show on my face. She was too observant, and it bothered me. Her pen was almost constantly moving now, even while she spoke.

“Can you remember anything before being pulled out of the hole? If so, please elaborate.”

The coal flared. Why was she entitled to know something like that? It was personal. It was none of her business. But she asked. I had to answer.

“It’s hazy. There is a lake at night, the stars. There is a tall mountain covered in snow. Sunlight through the leaves. The wind. I can’t remember more than that.”

“Do you remember anything indoors?”

Another flair. Another itch under my skin. “No,” I said. “Why do you ask?”

“It isn’t your turn.”

I dug my nails into the wood of the chair. Squeezed harder.

“How old are you?” She asked.

“I’m almost fifteen.”

“Incorrect. You’re almost twelve.”

“What do you mean, incorrect?” My voice came out much louder than I intended. And harsher.

“I meant what I said. What you said was incorrect. You are nearly twelve years old.” Almost as an after-thought, she added, “or you are much, much older than that. Two more questions.”

The following pulse of unease unbalanced me completely. This was wrong, wasn’t it? She was just asking questions. Why couldn’t I calm down? I tried to breathe deep. Looked around the room. Triple-jointed wings, angular bone structures, off-colorings. My friends. They looked different now. Dead. Stuffed as they always had been. What changed?

“What is the subject of your interest in me?” I asked.

“I want to know about who you are.”

“You didn’t answer the spirit of the question,” I said. “You’re hiding something.” My pulse quickened. The instinct to surge was thrashing inside me like a boar against the bars of a cage. She wanted that. She wanted me out of control. But why?

“That is an un-stipulated technicality. I thought you were good at this. Maybe I was wrong.”

“Why do you need to know who I am?”

“Because it’s my job.”

“Unfair!” I shouted. I wanted to jump up. To shred the sofa with my nails. To smash the teapot on her head. “That is not an answer!” I didn’t sound like myself.

She was unfazed. Damn her. Placid and calm. Writing in her stupid notebook. She knew things she wasn’t supposed to know, but I was. But I didn’t know them. Why didn’t I know them? Who was she? What did she want?

“Do you remember a boy named Milo?”

“NO.”

“What is your name?”

“I-“

Name. What was my name? My fingernails ached. All my muscles were straining, sore. I had a name. I was called something.

“Do you remember dying, Milo?”

I did.

***

Water up to my neck, rising. My body cold and buzzing. There was ice on the river. It was swift. Someone was shouting at me on the bank. I couldn’t move. I was so cold. My clothes were bindings, weights dragging me down. The water seeped into my ears. I stretched my neck, sputtered at the ice brushing my lips.

“Dad!” I shouted.

“Help me!”

“Help-”

He was shouting too. I couldn’t hear him anymore.

The water poured down my throat.

I sank.

Then—

I was warm. Swaddled. In the ground. I could hear voices above me. Rounded, softened by the dirt.

“Don’t go through with this. It won’t be him, Jerome.” A voice said. It was smoky, rough, and urgent. It was familiar to me in a distant way. I couldn’t name it. “You don’t understand what they’re like. It took me eight years to bargain my way out. You make this deal, you’ll regret it.”

“It’s already done. Maybe you just aren’t the type to handle them,” Father said. He sounded different. Sadder. “I’ve crossed in and out of their territory time and time again for years. They have never stopped me. Never even acknowledged me. If I hadn’t met that friend of yours, I would say the Fae didn’t even exist. Just their valley and it’s twisted menagerie.”

“They’ve left you alone because you’ve been little more than pest control for them. Killing what came through the gaps. You have something to bargain with now. And they’ll take you for far more than you give them. They’ll take it all and they’ll call you greedy.”

“Then they can have it all!” He shouted. There was breathing. Heavy. When he spoke again, it was softer. I had never listened to anything closer. “It’s killed Mara, too. She’s like a ghost, lingering in the house. She doesn’t speak. She hardly eats. I think she- I don’t think she wants to live anymore. She’s never asked me for anything. But I can do this. I know how to do this. I can help them. Help myself. And their price. . . I can give it to them. It isn’t too much.”

“What did they ask for, Jerome?”

He didn’t answer.

“It was some part of you, I know it was. Something vague so you’ll think it won’t be so bad. But you’ll regret it. It will change you. Maybe you’ll wind up disfigured. Maybe you won’t be able to feel anything. Maybe- a thousand things. This is an avalanche. It only gets worse. I’ve seen what their prices do. Eight years, Jerome!”

Still, Father didn’t answer.

Feet moved above. The quakes of their steps traveled through the roots. The other man spoke again. “So they help you put his soul back in his body. And what else?”

“They just told me they would return him to me. That I would find him here, in the roots.”

“But they didn’t say in what state you’d find him, did they?”

“I don’t care,” Father said. “I don’t care.”

***

The fire cracked into a log and sucked out the marrow. Sparks shushed against stone. I found myself lifting the cup of tea to my lips and sipping. All my energy has dissipated. I was weak, almost limp. But fire raged in my belly, fanned hotter and hotter. I swept my eyes around the room. These animals. Grotesque but beautiful. Prizes. I set the tea down, the porcelain clicked against my nails. They were quite long weren’t they? I couldn’t remember ever cutting them.

Melody waited, face unmoved. Her pen had stopped.

“Do you know what a Changeling is?” She asked.

“That’s four questions.”