But when he looked up, taking in Oliver’s pale face and Alice’s pinched lips—the both of them focused solely on bringing Laylee back to life—Benyamin decided it would be best to wait until they got Laylee to safety before he said anything about what he’d learned. He convinced himself there would be no harm in withholding this information just a little longer. After all, he thought, the spirits must have escaped as a result of a simple misunderstanding. This was the only explanation that made any sense to him, as Benyamin was still operating under the assumption that Laylee had time left to wash her dead. In fact, the more he said this imagined truth to himself, the more he believed it. Soon, he’d managed to dispel any lingering worries.
You must understand: Spirits had never, not in all the history of Whichwood, ever escaped the hallowed ground of a mordeshoor’s home. It seemed improbable that anything so horrific would happen now.
In time Benyamin would learn the whole truth.
For the moment, all he could do was worry quietly and support his sudden friends through this difficult time. It seemed a wholly incredible thing to him that he’d met these strangers just several hours ago, as he already felt closer to them than to anyone in Whichwood. They three knew without speaking that they could rely on one another and that, somehow, their lives mattered to one another. It was a gift few people received in their lives. And it was a gift Laylee was unaware she had, too.
As soon as the train pulled into the quiet peninsula station, Oliver lifted Laylee into his arms, stepped off the train, and set off running. Oliver didn’t know where he was going, but he moved with such conviction that Alice and Benyamin had to race to overtake him. Benyamin shouted for the others to follow his lead, but only occasional lamps were lit in this abandoned land of Whichwood, and it was too dark to see. Benyamin, who did not have spare magic to light the way, did what he always did when he’d run out of options: He asked his insects for help.
At once a storm of beetles and spiders rushed down his legs and out from under his pants and marched on ahead, proud and determined to get their human-friend (and his friends) to safety. Their swarming, feverish mass was lit only by sporadic lantern, misty moonlight, and fourteen fireflies, and so, in the absence of stronger illumination, the sounds of clicking pincers helped the children navigate by sound. Haftpa stood on Benyamin’s shoulder, translating directional cues into his human-friend’s ear. It was a slow, careful trek. The main stretch of road leading out of the station was fairly clear of snow, but even the occasional mounds, snapped twigs, and scattered pebbles presented treacherous terrain to the many-legged mass, and they scrambled, struggling with grace over each obstacle as it came.
It was a while before they finally reached the forgotten road that led through hills and valleys of waist-deep snow to the small cottage that was Benyamin’s home. Oliver, who carried the heaviest load, did not complain, despite having to lift Laylee above his head in order to keep her from getting caught in the drift. The insects—who knew their guidance would be of no use if they were buried under the flurry—crawled back up Benyamin’s legs, where their cold, hard bodies took refuge against his skin. In their stead, the flies and bees and ditzy moths (who’d been sleeping behind his knees) took flight, buzzing forward to join the fourteen fireflies, leading the way with all the confidence of professional docents. Benyamin’s bug-friends knew the road home better than even he did, and Alice, who’d been watching closely all this time, was quietly awed by the gentle camaraderie that existed between this strange boy and these small creatures.
Finally, a distant light throbbed in the distance, its brilliance flashing like a beacon in the starless night. The moths fluttered forward with a greater eagerness than even before—dizzy with love for the yellow flame—while the flies and bees buzzed back into place behind Benyamin’s knees. The remaining army of bugs, now tucked safely inside Benyamin’s clothes, remained deathly still, watching for anything at all that might signal new danger. They would protect Benyamin above all else—and at great danger to themselves—remaining vigilant until dawn to make sure their human-friend came to no harm.
It was only when they walked into Benyamin’s humble home that Alice and Oliver realized exactly how humble his life was. His house consisted of only one large room informally divided into several smaller sections (eating, cooking, sleeping, sitting—and of course, a little closet for the toilet), but it was a snug, cozy space, its rustic interior warmed by beautiful wooden beams, whitewashed floors, chunky, roughly hewn rugs, a small stone fireplace (from which hung a large metal kettle), and the many happy lanterns that flooded the room with soft orange light. It smelled like hot chocolate and cardamom and the delicate perfume of saffron. And though the home was sparsely furnished, its few pieces were bright and very, very clean.
This, the cleanliness of it all, was the thing that struck Alice the most. It was a simple space, yes, but it was spectacularly tidy. And though it seemed tight quarters for a family to share, it was clear that capable hands kept it carefully maintained. Alice and Oliver were hugged by its welcoming walls and they settled in at once—perfectly at home in the house of a stranger.
That is—strangers.
Benyamin, who’d only ever known one parent, lived with his mother, who, at the moment, was propped up in bed, staring at them in fascination and understandable surprise.
Benyamin’s mother had been ill for two years, you see, and she’d never, not in all that time, seen Benyamin bring anyone home. But then, he’d never had occasion to. The thing no one knew (not even our unfriendly mordeshoor) was that Benyamin’s troubles had begun around the same time as Laylee’s. It was a matter of simple, unlucky luck.
One awful winter night, Benyamin’s home had been struck by lightning, and the thatched roof caught fire. He and his mother were soundly sleeping, and they would have died in their beds if it hadn’t been for Benyamin’s insects, who did not abandon their friend, but did their best to awaken the sleeping humans even at great harm to themselves. Still, Benyamin and his mother had awoken too late—they’d inhaled too much smoke and were slowly suffocating, eyes blind and burning in the raging fire. Delirious, they collapsed to the floor.
Many of Benyamin’s hard-shelled friends lost their lives that night as they came together to carry Benyamin’s and his mother’s bodies out of the home. It was through their love and sacrifice that he and his mother were spared, and when Benyamin opened his eyes, he was shocked to find himself warm and unhurt, facedown in the snow. He and his mother should’ve been devoured by frostbite in the deathly chill of the night, but his bugs had saved his family twice over by burrowing under them and around them, linking together arms and legs to cover their exposed, fragile human skin in their own armor.
Benyamin would never be the same.
His love for his many-legged friends, though always steady, had then become a solid, unshakable thing, and he was so moved by their kindness he wept for days at a time. Their great and unwavering affection for him was a support he hadn’t known he needed—and he held fast to their friendship more than ever, especially then, at a time he needed it most. You see, he and his mother had survived the fire, yes, but there was still devastation to contend with, and his biggest problems were two:
First: despite their best efforts, Benyamin’s mother had been badly burned, and her legs, which had suffered the worst, would need a steady supply of time—and magic—to heal.
And second: their once beautiful home (that his mother had built by hand) had been reduced to a pile of cinders, and from the ashes they would have to rebuild with what little they had left. It was now up to Benyamin to support them both.
So when Benyamin walked inside with his three friends, his mother, who’d been waiting up in bed for her son, was more than a little astounded. Benyamin had never done anything so odd before, and it took quite a lot of explaining in order to account not only for the presence of his new friends, but also the fact that two o
f them were from Ferenwood and that one of them was dying.
His mother (whom he called Madarjoon), was not yet satisfied with his answers. She wanted to know everything:
Where had they met;
how long had they known each other;
who were their parents;
why were their parents okay with them leaving home;
anyway, what were they doing here;
what on earth was a Surrender;
speaking of which, why was Laylee dying;
speaking of Laylee dying, when had he befriended the mordeshoor girl;
oh, and why was Alice so pale (at this, Alice blushed and Benyamin nearly fainted in embarrassment);
why was the tall boy carrying Laylee;
why hadn’t Benyamin purchased a new pair of boots yet (and oh, for heaven’s sake, if it was because he was spending all his money on her medicine again, she would just lie down and die, and how would he like that as a thank-you);
why had no one bothered to tell her that the mordeshoor was ill in the first place;
how long had the mordeshoor been ill;
how long had Benyamin known about this;
why had Benyamin been withholding information from her;
did he not know that she was a grown woman;
had he confused himself for her mother;
did he remember when she told him she was the mother in this relationship;
by the way, where had he left her cane;
and why on earth wouldn’t that tall boy put Laylee down?
Benyamin, who was clearly used to this manner of questioning, didn’t seem bothered. He patiently answered all of his mother’s questions while simultaneously making space for Alice and Oliver to settle in, and then clearing off their kitchen table. Once it was emptied, he covered the table with a fresh bedsheet and gestured to Oliver to finally lay Laylee down.
Alice, who was stunned by the loud, curious woman who was Benyamin’s mother, was too terrified to say a word. (She can’t remember even saying hello to the lady, though Benyamin claims she did.) Oliver, who was only mildly aware of what was happening, managed nothing more than a solemn hello before collapsing on the floor.
Only when her curiosity was finally sated did Madarjoon leave them be, but even then she would not be entirely silent, and, friends, I can’t really blame her. Madarjoon had been a jolly, vivacious woman before the fire injured her legs, and this was the most interesting thing to happen to her in nearly two years. She was a woman who worked hard, loved thoroughly, and had strong opinions about everything, and being bedridden did not suit her at all, not even a little bit. She liked to make it abundantly clear at several points throughout the day that if she’d had any choice in the matter—in fact if anyone had had the decency to ask her opinion on the subject—she’d have elected never to lie down, not ever. (And if this was Providence telling her to take a break from standing up—well, she didn’t know what to make of that, because upright was the only way to be.)
Alice, who could not think of a single thing to say to Benyamin or his mother (let us remember she was only thirteen, and not yet wise to the ways of charming a grown-up), decided to instead get back to work. Oliver had been shooting her anguished glances since they’d arrived, and though she tried to settle his nerves with a smile, the gesture seemed to cause him pain. So she quickly took her seat at the kitchen table and reached again for Laylee’s cold, gray hand. But just as she was about to start the exhausting work, she felt Benyamin sit down next to her. He and Oliver now flanked her on both sides, and their quiet strength gave her great comfort. So it went, the three of them huddled together, hoping for a miracle.
As the night dragged on, Alice grew ever more weary, and Oliver, though determined to stay awake all night, had begun to fade. There were still many hours to go, and Benyamin’s mother, who was watching quietly as these exciting events unfolded before her, was becoming increasingly agitated at her son’s lack of hospitality. She snapped at him to put on a pot of tea, and he swiftly obeyed. She then asked the boy to get Alice a cushion to sit on, and he procured one at once. Not a moment later, she snapped at him to throw a log on the fire, and he complied. Fully in her element, she took swift charge of both the boys under her roof, and soon Madarjoon procured a cure for Oliver’s mournful eyes by ordering him to scrub a stack of dishes. Benyamin, who’d begun watching over Alice’s shoulder, was again dispensed with, this time ordered to make a light supper. (“Nothing too salty, boy, or I’ll bloat like a balloon,” his mother said, rapping her cane against the floor.) And, unless strictly necessary, the two boys were forbidden from interrupting Alice while she worked her magic. Benyamin’s mother was soon spinning the night on her little finger, she alone thinking of all the little things they needed to comfort and distract in order to make these hard times more bearable. There would be many dark and disheartening moments on this long Yalda night, but it was the sharp, watchful eye of Benyamin’s mother that would keep them focused through it all.
Alice had been sitting with Laylee for nearly two hours when she saw the first real signs of change. The mordeshoor’s hand, once silver all over, had now begun to emanate warmth and change color at the tips. Laylee was being revived one knuckle at a time, and now that Alice saw the progress, she could estimate how long it would take—and how much of her it would drain—to bring Laylee back to life, and the approximation was dour.
Still, she was grateful for results. She made a quiet announcement about the changes she saw, and Benyamin clasped her shoulder, his weary eyes overcome with relief. Oliver was overjoyed.
Laylee would not die.
She would not be alive, exactly—at least not for a while, but she would not die, not yet, and the news was a great comfort to them all. The night was beginning to look up, and the three friends felt their spirits soar . . . alongside thirty others.
The wind had changed.
Ice cracked up the windows. The lanterns flickered in their shells. What had been a soft, whistling breeze not moments before was transformed into a bellowing howl in mere seconds, bringing with it the strange and terrifying chill of something more than winter cold.
The dead, dear friends, had come knocking.
IT’S ALL TERRIBLY EXCITING, ISN’T IT?
Actually, I should clarify: Ghosts cannot knock. They don’t have knuckles or skin (or fleshy bits of any kind), so they’re really only good for rattling things, toppling things over, and making loud, frightening noises. They would’ve liked to have knocked, but the simple fact of their being ghosts made those human courtesies impossible. So it was despite their best efforts to be polite that they shook the door off its hinges.
Now, let us take a moment to remember something important: Regular people could not see ghosts. Laylee (and Baba, wherever he was), were the only ones who could see the spirits, so, when the front door had simply fallen out of its frame for (what appeared to be) no apparent reason, Benyamin and his companions had no way of knowing what had happened. Their little heads had popped up, startled and afraid, searching for the culprit and finding none.
The ghosts took great offense to this.
They were tired of being so soundly ignored by man and mordeshoor, and even though they knew better than to expect regular humans to recognize them, they were feeling sensitive as of late, and so took the slight personally. This did not help the situation.
As you might recall, the last we heard of the ghosts was that they’d been angry about Laylee having abandoned them, and that they’d broken free of their shackles and set off at once to see about getting new skins. But you might also remember my mentioning that it was their respect for Laylee that had kept them so obedient in the first place. Well, this was true. And once they’d finally broken free of her hallowed home and begun to roam the earth (a thing no ghosts had done before in all the history of Whichwood), they began to have second thoughts about
their plans to steal skins from living humans. After all, the ghosts knew many of these humans—some were their living relatives—and they’d grown a conscience in the last few hours. So they reconvened.
They decided it would be best to try and speak with Laylee first—to figure out what had happened to make her abandon them so completely—and only then, once she’d had a chance to speak with them, would they make their final decision. They had hoped to be reasonable; the mordeshoor had tended to them—perhaps imperfectly—but they knew that she worked alone, and though on occasion they liked to have fun at her expense, they quietly respected the young girl for her unwavering dedication to a thankless occupation. After all, there were many ghosts who wanted to cross over to the Otherwhere, and without Laylee, they had no means of doing so.
If they were able to find the mordeshoor—and if her words were convincing enough—they would agree to go back to the castle and have their spirits and dead selves be shipped off to the Otherwhere (with Laylee’s assistance) at once. But if her answers were somehow unacceptable, they would have no choice but to spear some flesh and take it as their own, because they were running out of options in the mortal world. They had little time left in the grace period before their spirits would simply disintegrate, and that, of course, was the least favorable outcome of all.
So they’d done their due diligence, searching high and low, on train and terrain to find the young mordeshoor, all to no avail. They were certain she would be at the festivities tonight, and still, they were unable to find her. Frustrated, the last of their patience quickly fraying, they returned to the castle for one last look around, when one of the ghosts, a young boy who’d noticed the light coming from Benyamin’s little home, pointed out that the lone cottage was the one place they’d yet to look.