Page 37 of The Salt-Black Tree
The moon didn’t move as Baby purred over gentle curves, dropping into shallow valleys. A dirt road with slim ribbons of gravel at its edges held no washboard rattle or pop-pinging stones; the ride was as smooth as the hills looked. The stars were dry fires in a velvety sky innocent of any city stain, and the good sweet smell of a warm evening after winter had loosened but before summer’s sweating grasp was everywhere. The cropped, tender grass was all silvered green under the full moon’s beneficent gaze, and the key Nat had taken from the cedar’s trunk was safely stowed in her backpack, vibrating slightly in the Cup’s warm embrace.
Perhaps she’d dreamed of these rolling hills, this road, the soft satiny grass. The sense of rightness was overwhelming, wringing joyful tears from smarting eyes, buzzing in her bones, filling her head with sure knowledge she couldn’t remember learningorforgetting.
If this was the way divinities traveled, she only wondered whyDima hadn’t before. But his route was probably a lot less pleasant, and besides, Nat had been… mortal? Or mostly mortal, and maybe couldn’t stand the strain of the trip?
Did she dare to call herselfhumannow? It could give you a headache to think too deeply about.
Now she had Spring’s arcana—Knife, Cup, and Key. Itfeltright, all three vibrating with warm, forgiving force. Not just correct, but complete.
The next step of the riddle saida salt-black tree,but the cedar didn’t seem to count. Coyote saidgo south, and see Georgia.
So far she’d followed the riddle faithfully. It was Maria Drozdova’s game, and Nat knew what happened whenever her mother thought she might be losing. There was no outright cheating, of course.
But Mom made you wish you could lose, and curse any bit of luck. Any victory against the goddess of the yellow house was paid for later, one way or another.
Consequently, Nat hated board and card games with a passion. Pinochle, gin, even the one time she’d tried Monopoly were all terrible ordeals on South Aurora; Leo only played chess in the park.
A dam had broken inside Nat’s head, and while she drove through Spring’s verdant country with Baby’s windows all down to catch a soft breeze, edged with just enough crispness to refresh, the memories crowded her like predators clustering a running deer.
Stop lying, Natchenka… don’t give me that look… you must have cheated, little girls shouldn’t cheat… I will march you into that house at midnight… your attitude, Natchenka, go to your room… clean this up, filth is disgusting… have you gone to Baba yet, have you gone… cats don’t talk in this country… you and your imagination, little Natscha, go dust the parlor.
Sometimes the low sweet sound of the slipstream impersonatedher mother’s voice, scraping Nat’s ears and producing an unhappy growl-edge to Baby’s engine. Nat gripped the steering wheel, her hands aching.
How far away was New York from this strange place, this dimension built for fast travel? Did her mother, lying on a bed in one of the Laurelgrove’s most expensive rooms—because a window was an absolute necessity, Maria needed natural light—somehow feel Nat traveling in this secret place, under that pale perfect mooncoin with no meteor scarring?
Spring’s Country,indeed. It was as good a name as any. Baba de Winter probably had snow-covered hills and a round chariot with chicken legs, striding along and casting a terrible scratch-edged shadow. Marisol? Her country might be akin to the coast highway, bright and warm, the top on her convertible down and her glorious long black mane an untangled banner.
“Natcheeeeenkaaaaaa,” the slipstream moaned, and Nat wanted to rub her grainy eyes. But her hands wouldn’t unclamp from the wheel.
Her first unicorn mug, “accidentally” broken while she was at school. Those nights when she half-woke and Mom was standing over her bed, head cocked, blue eyes lambent in the dark—child-Nat had been both uneasy and comforted, because at least the goddess of the yellow house was paying attention to her miserable, misbegotten daughter. The aggrieved sighs when Nat grew out of another pair of shoes, the glare when a hungry child had the temerity to ask for seconds, the parent conferences Maria bothered to attend in order to dazzle a nun or one of the infrequent male teachers.Oh, Natchenka has such an imagination, you grade her so nicely, we know she’s not that bright…
Each time Nat thought she had a handle on the entire mad, impossible affair another memory would coldcock her, driving the breath out of her lungs and making her eyes fill with hot saltwater.
This was probably what therapy felt like. Nat wouldn’t know,it was too expensive.You think money just grows, Natchenka? You think I am made of it?
Maria never laid a hand on her, though. Sometimes she prodded Nat a little ungently, especially when her daughter bumbled while weeding, but that wasn’t like realabuse,was it? Just a steady drip, drip, drip of caustic irritation and impatience, just making it clear Nat was a burden and a mistake, just…
Just tenderizing the meat?
Nat flinched, swallowing hard. Her throat burned with bile, her hands shook, and though the deep sense of utter physical well-being flooded her, there was nothing in it to make the memories hurt less.
She had to wait until the proper moment, Marisol said. If Nat hadn’t made plans to move out, scrimping and saving—and that was another thing, taking three-quarters of her daughter’s paychecks to help with the “house bills”? What wasthat, when a divinity could literally make cash, or did you need your arcana to do it?
“Get out of my space, Natscha!”
Nat jumped, honeydark hair bouncing as she peered wildly in every direction, still gripping the steering wheel. Her heart leapt into her throat, pounding wildly. Baby’s engine roared.
Crackling black spiderwebs poured down the soft green hills; a rumble of thunder rose in the distance. Bright diamond lightning forked, and the windroar of swift passage was full of ozone and perfume, the peculiar smell of Maria Drozdova’s anger.
“Get out!”The cry scraped down Baby’s side; the car slewed, her tires biting powdery dirt, sending up a spume of gravel, finding the road again with a fluid feline lunge.
What the hell?Nat’s fingers cramped. The lightning struck closer, thunder washing over hills like those awful black cracks. If the scavenger-shadows were around—
“I… said… get… OUT!”A banshee scream tore across the road, digging a gaping crevasse. Nat practically stood on thebrake; the mental image of her mother on the hospice bed—stiff and skinny, her bloodshot blue eyes wide and rolling as her back arched and a terrifying wail rose around the plastic tube forced into her throat—was sudden and Technicolor-vivid.
The hills blinked out, the moon snuffed like a candle. Rubber screamed, brakes squealed, and Baby rocked to a stop, sending up a long roostertail of night-gray dust. The hay-scented breeze vanished, replaced by sagebrush, exhaust, and a distinct dry-rasping undertang.
It was still night, but high scudding clouds held the orangish reflection of citylight. Pavement seamed with veins of hot-tar repair ran in either direction, and it was a mercy there was no traffic because Baby was cockeye across the wholly normal, whollymortalroad, a thin gravel shoulder diving into a deep ditch a fraction of a foot away from the blue car’s shining chrome bumper. The only sounds were Nat’s jagged breathing and the car’s dissatisfied grumble.
