temple.
In a matter of hours the bruise had deepened and spread over her entire face, as if her head were a rotten melon. In the dark hour before dawn her breathing stopped.
I wiped her mouth, pressed her lids shut. I held her head, touched the dense loaf of hair. I realized with a shock that it was not a mass of braids, or a knotted bun. Her gray hair was only the outer covering of a hard bony knob—an outgrowth of the skull itself. It was some sort of malignancy, some evil tumor, and most likely the blow had broken some membrane, freed the evil juices to seep through her head. Already her face was unrecognizable.
I watched the body settle and shrink, the skin drawing more tightly over the bones. Her body became a dry, light, tidy thing, almost childlike. She looked quite peaceful. Except for the violently discolored face.
I took the key from her pocket and went to Anya’s room. I told her Baba was gone and we made plans to leave.
But the men were back, circling the house like wild dogs.
Night fell. We heard them, they were running, circling, howling at the moon. We saw their eyes glowing green as they raised their heads, flaring their nostrils, scenting the wind.
They can smell you, I told Anya.
Don’t let them in, she said.
They circled, scratching at the walls, pounding at the door, wailing and chewing their lips.
Maybe if they could just come in and see you, they’d go home satisfied, I said.
No they wouldn’t, she said.
They waited all through the next day. They pressed their faces against the window, their eyes red and wild, their beards matted and sticky. They licked the glass.
Soon they would begin tearing the walls down.
I thought of my mother, felt my eyes darting and jumping like hers.
I went to Anya and said: I have a plan.
I helped her dress. Then I put my arms around her and tried to lift her from the bed. She was not much taller than me. But her body was impossibly heavy and limp. Her flesh was so soft in my arms, like a down mattress; I thought that if I slit her white skin, she’d spill out feathers. My knees buckled; I saw sparks, and I collapsed on the floor with her warm, flaccid, bedridden body on top of me.
Your hair, I panted.
Her abundant hair accounted for at least part of the weight. It was many meters long, and tangled and twined around the sheets, the bed frame, the oceans of lace that surrounded her like a cocoon.
I tried to free her hair, to gather it up like an armful of wheat. She lay uselessly on the floor as I tried to bind it up. Massy and bright, it slid from my fingers. I tripped over it, it was caught in my teeth.
It has to go, I said.
She screamed in protest as I went looking for scissors. She thrashed on the floor like a beached mermaid. Her hair resisted me; soon the scissors were blunted. The cries of the men outside made me frantic.
It has to be done, I said.
I fetched the ax from the shed and stood above her, her hair pinned beneath my feet; I raised the ax above my head, and as she cursed and her sideways face contorted in anger I let it fall. Again and again I chopped through the lush growth, severing it from its roots.
I caught my breath and smiled. Anya continued to heap her curses on me, even as she ran her fingers through her cropped hair savoring the new weightless freedom of her head and neck.
I lifted Anya, propped her outside the back door. Then I went to Baba’s bed, wrapped her brittle body in a sheet, and carried it into Anya’s room. I covered it in lace, arranged the armfuls of Anya’s red-gold hair around the head as if it grew there.
I blew out the candles. Moonlight from the one narrow window fell across Baba’s face.
The men had gathered again at the front door; they smashed their fists against it. The whole house shook. Their voices rose in unison.
I opened the door. The faces, thirty or more, filled the doorway, a single creature with many heads and countless hands. They reeked of musk and sweat and foul saliva held too long
In a matter of hours the bruise had deepened and spread over her entire face, as if her head were a rotten melon. In the dark hour before dawn her breathing stopped.
I wiped her mouth, pressed her lids shut. I held her head, touched the dense loaf of hair. I realized with a shock that it was not a mass of braids, or a knotted bun. Her gray hair was only the outer covering of a hard bony knob—an outgrowth of the skull itself. It was some sort of malignancy, some evil tumor, and most likely the blow had broken some membrane, freed the evil juices to seep through her head. Already her face was unrecognizable.
I watched the body settle and shrink, the skin drawing more tightly over the bones. Her body became a dry, light, tidy thing, almost childlike. She looked quite peaceful. Except for the violently discolored face.
I took the key from her pocket and went to Anya’s room. I told her Baba was gone and we made plans to leave.
But the men were back, circling the house like wild dogs.
Night fell. We heard them, they were running, circling, howling at the moon. We saw their eyes glowing green as they raised their heads, flaring their nostrils, scenting the wind.
They can smell you, I told Anya.
Don’t let them in, she said.
They circled, scratching at the walls, pounding at the door, wailing and chewing their lips.
Maybe if they could just come in and see you, they’d go home satisfied, I said.
No they wouldn’t, she said.
They waited all through the next day. They pressed their faces against the window, their eyes red and wild, their beards matted and sticky. They licked the glass.
Soon they would begin tearing the walls down.
I thought of my mother, felt my eyes darting and jumping like hers.
I went to Anya and said: I have a plan.
I helped her dress. Then I put my arms around her and tried to lift her from the bed. She was not much taller than me. But her body was impossibly heavy and limp. Her flesh was so soft in my arms, like a down mattress; I thought that if I slit her white skin, she’d spill out feathers. My knees buckled; I saw sparks, and I collapsed on the floor with her warm, flaccid, bedridden body on top of me.
Your hair, I panted.
Her abundant hair accounted for at least part of the weight. It was many meters long, and tangled and twined around the sheets, the bed frame, the oceans of lace that surrounded her like a cocoon.
I tried to free her hair, to gather it up like an armful of wheat. She lay uselessly on the floor as I tried to bind it up. Massy and bright, it slid from my fingers. I tripped over it, it was caught in my teeth.
It has to go, I said.
She screamed in protest as I went looking for scissors. She thrashed on the floor like a beached mermaid. Her hair resisted me; soon the scissors were blunted. The cries of the men outside made me frantic.
It has to be done, I said.
I fetched the ax from the shed and stood above her, her hair pinned beneath my feet; I raised the ax above my head, and as she cursed and her sideways face contorted in anger I let it fall. Again and again I chopped through the lush growth, severing it from its roots.
I caught my breath and smiled. Anya continued to heap her curses on me, even as she ran her fingers through her cropped hair savoring the new weightless freedom of her head and neck.
I lifted Anya, propped her outside the back door. Then I went to Baba’s bed, wrapped her brittle body in a sheet, and carried it into Anya’s room. I covered it in lace, arranged the armfuls of Anya’s red-gold hair around the head as if it grew there.
I blew out the candles. Moonlight from the one narrow window fell across Baba’s face.
The men had gathered again at the front door; they smashed their fists against it. The whole house shook. Their voices rose in unison.
I opened the door. The faces, thirty or more, filled the doorway, a single creature with many heads and countless hands. They reeked of musk and sweat and foul saliva held too long
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