My Heart in Your Hands

When Isobel’s husband took ill, she prayed to the gods. Every day as she dabbed his face with a worn wet cloth and forced small mouthfuls of stew down his throat, she prayed for healing. In the very early hours, before the sickness woke him as he coughed until he vomited what little his stomach had kept, she would leave their little home, go to the temple, light a candle, and pray for the bad times to end. They never did. He did not get better. By the time the district doctor finally came down to their town, he pronounced that there was no hope. That her husband wouldn’t last through the winter. That she should burn a death offering for him.

Fuck that Isobel had said.

The townspeople saw her rage. The self-destructive draw in her shoulder. They kept their distance. But still, they offered the only advice. All that was left.

Find the witch, they said. She lives in the deep woods. Ask her. If you’re truly that desperate.

Isobel was.

Isobel laid bleeding out, the snow soaking into her back.

The men had promised her a day’s work. She shouldn’t have believed them. But it had been so simple. A bit of sewing. Things that need cleaned. Just some women’s work, they said through knowing, teethy smiles.

They had promised her food. Of course she gave in.

Halfway through the woods, they pulled their wagon over to the side of the road. The men slit her stomach and went on their way. It was a clean, tidy job. Not their fault it hadn’t worked. They didn’t know she wasn’t able to die.

Isobel got up.

The winter seeped down into her bones. Her worn soles gave no protection against the cold digging into her. She pressed on. Where, she didn’t know. But if she kept still, she knew she might just lie there forever.

She staggered through the woods, grasping onto the trees for support. Blood smeared onto the bark.

Isobel weaved her way through the woods. The cold clung to her, flowing into her thin, worn clothes. She staggered forward, sharp branches buried in the snow jabbing into her. She thought nothing of where she went. It didn’t matter.

But as she walked, the cold tapered off. This isn’t right Isobel thought. She pushed through the bramble and-

Her hands smacked against stone. She looked up. A fence. That was a good sign. Civilization.

“Hello?” Isobel called. Her voice came out rough from disuse. She cleared her throat and tried again. Nothing.

Isobel shoved her foot into the rock’s crevices. She thrust herself up. Climbing until she pulled herself to the top.

Beyond the fence, nestled in within the foggy rolling mountains was an impossibly green world. It must have been a farm or a garden- the neat rows of vegetation were clearly well-tended to. But there was nothing like that on the map.

I’m dreaming, she thought. But she never let herself dream of summer. She leaned forward, worried the vision would melt always. Maybe she’d gone mad. Gods knew people had told her that before. She bent forward, just the tiniest bit forward, squinting, studying the detail of the trees.

Isobel fell.

She slammed into the ground and let out a surprised cry. The sun glared down on her. She shielded her eyes. The sun had definitely been clouded a moment before.

Before she could think of that too long, a shadow blocked her view. A man stood above her. The land’s caretaker. He must have been. A tall, muscular man. Tanned in the way of most farmers were. He wielded a sickle above his head. The man narrowed his eyes at her. ”What are you doing on my land?”

Isobel scrambled to her knees and bent down into a bow of apology.

“I’m just a traveler. I got lost,” she said, “I didn’t mean to trespass.”

The exhaustion pressed in her, anchoring her to the ground. Whatever he did, she couldn’t fight back. She didn’t have the energy.

Isobel kept her head pressed into the soil. She must have been a pathetic sight. Quivering from the cold, her face sallow and sunken-in. She hadn’t bathed in- well, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d bathed.

Already stinks like a corpse. One of the men had snorted, rifling through her coat as she failed to die.

The man swung the sickle down. Isobel flinched. It plunged into the dirt with a soft plunk.

“Why didn’t you just say so? I’m Mikael, by the way.” He grinned. Isobel recoiled. It seemed a very cold smile.

He offered her a hand. She took it and he pulled her up.

“Isobel,” she said. His rough callouses rubbed against hers and her heart ached a bit for home.

Mikael led her through twisting paths. The trees stretched high above them. He expertly maneuvered them through the grounds, ducking under branches weighed down with fruit.

The dull ache in her stomach burned at the sight of real, fresh food. She squashed it down. Isobel had far too much experience in being hungry to let it overtake her.

Remember civility, Isobel told herself, Remember what it’s like to talk to people.

She remembered another life. Going to the harvest festival. A bustling town square filled with the noise and presence of a whole village. A hand in hers.

But there was something wrong with the man and his land. Even if somehow the weather had changed and the day had grown warmer while she walked, how could there be so much life blossoming in winter? How could the crops remain untouched by frost? And how could this one man alone possibly care for them all.

He couldn’t she reasoned, Especially not during harvest season. He couldn’t pick it all. They’d rot on the vine.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve had a guest,” Mikael said. He led her up a small cobblestone path. Nestled at the top of the hill was a singular cottage, its lit windows bright and welcoming.

And the smell. Wafting from the little house, something roasting on a fire.

“I was about to have dinner. Do you want to join me?” he asked.

Isobel managed a jerky nod.

“Sorry there’s no meat,” he said, “I don’t get many animals here.”

“That’s fine,” Isobel said. The words flew from her mouth unthinkingly.

Everything besides meat was on that table. So many vegetables, rice, fruit. She bit into bread and had to restrain herself from swallowing it whole. When in cities, she’d dig through garbage for scraps. In the woods, she’d eaten the poisonous berries her mother had warned her against as a girl, choking down the bitter, burning taste.

After dinner, he offered her the bed. It had been so long since Isobel had slept in a bed. She lowered herself down into it, her throbbing muscles and creaking bones unused to the softness.

Reaching the witch hadn’t been easy. There were trials in the woods. Isobel had expected them. Everyone knew that the hag loved games. But Isobel proved herself. She solved the riddles whispered by the trees, resisted the temptations of fate that begged her to stray off the path.

Her journey ended at the hag’s shack. Perched on its porch sat a shrunken woman with a wicked, pleased grin. Isobel bent herself down at the withered woman’s feet.

“My husband is dying. He’s in such great pain. Please heal him,” she said. Isobel had practiced the words a hundred times as she traveled. They became a comforting mantra, pushing her forward when her legs failed to.

The hag hopped off her footstool. She watched Isobel with intent and curious eyes. “I could grant you this wish. But what would give for it?”

“Anything,” Isobel said. She met the hag’s eyes, surprised to find herself unafraid.

The witch frowned. She considered Isobel, tapping her chin.

“What pain would you undergo to relieve his?” She asked.

Isobel steeled herself. “Anything. Any pain. Stab me a thousand times, burn me alive, chop off all my fingers. As long as he is well again, I’ll be satisfied.”

The hag stared at her a moment longer. A smile split across her ancient face. “I believe I can work with that.”

The morning hung thick with an uneasy quiet.

Mikael didn’t seem to notice. He whistled jauntily, as he bustled through the kitchen. Clanging away with pots and pans. But his thoughtless noise couldn’t drown out the silence lurking underneath. No birds chirped, no insects buzzed or whined, not even a breeze rustled the leaves. The stillness suffocated Isobel.

Mikael eventually returned with the food, serving in front of her. A simple porridge and a sampling of fruit. Isobel frowned and picked up a red, plump berry and set it in her mouth. This was wrong too. The woods around her home village had those berries. They only grew in spring.

“Do you need to head back on the road today?” Mikael asked. He leaned back in his chair. He wasn’t eating. In his hand he held a knife and carved away at a little wooden block.

It all struck her as so false. The impossible warm little cottage, so blindingly alive in the dead of winter. A bitterness shot through Isobel’s heart.

“Would you let me?” she asked.

Mikael frowned, still chiseling away. The blade glinted in the creeping morning light.

“I don’t know what you mean,” he said.

“You’re not human.” Isobel replied. She tried to say the words like she didn’t care. Words held power, everyone knew that. Isobel wasn’t going to give him any more than he had.

“You’re right. I’m not,” he said lightly. The knife didn’t stop moving. “Lots of folks aren’t.”

Isobel tried to match his casualness. She continued serving herself, spreading jam across her bread. Her hand shook. Maybe he would kill her. Maybe he could. Would that be so bad? But she didn’t want to die on an empty stomach.

“You know, most mortals are more awestruck by the whole ‘magic exists’ thing,” Mikael said through narrowed eyes.

“I’m not like most,” Isobel hissed, “I have experience.”

That stopped the blade in its path. He froze. “Ah. And not good, I take it.”

Isobel remained coiled, hunching her shoulders.

“It never is,” he said to himself. His eyes locked onto her. They were painfully sympathetic. “Do you want to leave?”

Isobel’s reason screamed that now was her chance. That she must have passed whatever test of his, whatever trap the sprawling paradise hid. That she should take her chance and run. But there was another part of her. One that longed to stay. To know where her next meal would come from. To stop. When she had last been able to stop?

“That depends. What do you want from me?” she asked.

“I get lonely here,” he said.

She searched his eyes. They shone, a strange greenish-gold. The beginnings of autumn.

She decided to believe him. It at least guaranteed her another day.

Mikael continued their tour of the land. And confirmed a bit sheepishly that it was indeed weird. And the weirdness was because of magic.

“So that’s why there weren’t animals,” Isobel said.

Mikael nodded. “They tend not to fair well here. Most of the time they avoid me and mine. I think they can sense that this place isn’t for them, you know?”

A river flowed through the middle of the garden. Isobel pulled up her skirts and let her legs rest in the pleasantly cool stream. Pleasantly cool. She snorted. During winter she thought the phrase unfathomable.

“Is the river magic?” she asked, tilting her head. She thought of the old myths. Soldiers sneaking down to the underworld’s river and bathing in its waters so that Death couldn’t smell them.

“Will Death now never notice my legs?” She added.

Mikael laughed. “No, no magic here I’m afraid.” He paused for a second. “But maybe if you buried yourself in the soil?”

Isobel scrunched her nose. Somehow that seemed less appealing.

The sun gleamed in the river’s reflection. Isobel looked up, shielding her eyes. Then squinted. There was a hill in the distance. Barren except for one tree. Not even a particularly large or interesting tree. Just alone.

“What’s there?” she asked.

Mikael followed her gaze. He shrugged. “Oh. Nothing interesting. Not worth making a stop for anyway.”

Though the garden was magic, it still needed tending, Mikael informed her. So she joined him. Watering crops, burying seeds into the ground, pruning stray vines. Familiar chores, comforting in their monotony. Mikael chattered away as they worked.

She knelt in the dirt, carefully plucking tomatoes and placing them into a wicker basket. The tomatoes were bigger than her hand. Isobel turned one over. She wondered what price they’d fetch at a market. Surely they’d be too fine for anyone but a king.

Mikael cleared his throat. “Listen, I’m sorry if I was a little rude earlier. You don’t really feel human. I thought someone sent you. Or you were trying to trick me.”

“I don’t feel human?” Isobel’s stomach dropped.

She knew she was different now. Humans aged. Humans couldn’t go months without eating if they had to. Humans didn’t get back up when they were stabbed and continue going on with their day like it was a slight inconvenience.

“I didn’t mean that in a bad way,” Mikael said, his voice rising in panic.

“No. You’re right. I’m not,” she said. She screwed her eyes shut. They burned. Humiliation surged through her. She buried her face in her hands.

That’s why she never stayed anywhere. Never let anyone get too close, ask too many questions. Even the simplest ones - where are you from, where are you going, what are you doing here? – struck through her heart like a rusty pipe. Of course. Of course she wasn’t human. What had she thought?

A hand squeezed her shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” Mikael said, “It’s not so bad, really. Being not-human. I’ve never personally been human. But as an outsider, it kind of always seemed kind of overrated. ”

She rubbed her eyes and offered a weak laugh. “I guess so.”

“You’re not alone,” he said, “I’m sure you’ll meet many more like me. Like us. This is just the beginning. You’ll meet lots of our kind. Lots of strange folks. And we tend to stick together. Not human, not divine, we’re our own and we’re proud of it. You’ll see. You have eternity, after all.”

He continued talking, but his words didn’t reach Isobel. Eternity. It loomed over her, a growing shadow in the sunny, summer day.

At the end of the day Mikael and her climbed a tree. The one Mikael claimed had the best view.

Isobel hadn’t climbed a tree in decades. Oh, she had loved to as a little girl. To use her feet and blindly feel for the best grooves to lift herself up. But her mother never approved and would yell if she saw her doing it. Really Isobel, in your skirts? It was improper. Who would marry you, if they saw that?

He hoisted her up. They sat on the same branch. Even from their perch, she couldn’t see the whole garden. Maybe it had gotten bigger. She definitely had no idea where she had entered in at. She swung her legs, taking it in.

“What are you?” she asked, “One not-human to the other.”

He hesitated. His hands dug into the bark, scraping tiny flecks away.

“My mother is the goddess Azura.”

The mother of nature, the harvest season, rebirth and renewal. She who planted the seed of life when the world was but dirt. Nothing but a grave for the great titans that came before.

“And that makes me what you would call a nymph,” he continued.

Her mind flicked back to the nymphs she had seen in tapestries. They were willowy, ethereally beautiful, ivory pale under the moonlight, usually naked, and women. Yes, they had all been women. They looked nothing like Mikael.

“I didn’t think there were nymph men,” she said carefully, “At least they I haven’t seen any in storybooks.”

“You’re right about that. But my mother has sons as well as daughters.” He flashed her a toothy grin. “I guess we’re just not as pretty.”

Isobel rolled her eyes. “You’re plenty pretty.”

Mikael laughed. Her ears went red. She tried to convince herself it was the sun.

When Isobel returned from the witch’s woods, she came with a pouch of herbs. Isobel poured them down her husband’s throat. She gently wiped at the corner of his mouth, whispering to him, promising him that the worst was over.

That night in bed, a loud noise woke Isobel. But she couldn’t move. Her body clung to the bed, completely paralyzed. Her eyes managed to flit open.

The hag stood in her window. She crept towards her. Until she stood right above Isobel, a manic grin illuminated by the moonlight.

She dug her hands into Isobel’s flesh, kneading Isobel apart as if she were clay. It didn’t hurt though. The hag wielded the needled and gave her a wink. She plunged the needle inside Isobel. Isobel braced herself, screwing her eyes shut and preparing for the pain.

None came. The slightest prick itched somewhere inside her. Nothing more painful than a bug’s bite. Then she opened her eyes at the hag was gone.

nta

It was easy to fall into a routine. Isobel had thought she was past that. That after her life had been so uprooted, she would never be able to settle at all again.

But she did. They would get up in the morning. Mikael really did rise at the first sign of dawn like a proper farmer. He confided in her that he didn’t really need to sleep, he just did it for fun. Isobel didn’t tell him that she feared she didn’t to sleep anymore either.

He would tend to the plants. She followed along, learning more about taking care of plants than she had in her entire previous lifetime.

“How do you possibly care for them all?” she asked. The afternoon sun hung high in the sky and they had barely gotten through a quarter.

“Well, it is magic. It’s more like I get out what I put in. As long as I’m working, and the plants know I’m giving it my best, then they do their best too. Does that make sense?”

It didn’t really. A lot of what Mikael didn’t. He talked to the plants and talked of the earth like they were old friends.

She snipped a curled vine. “Do you like this? The work, I mean.”

Mikael shrugged.

“This garden is mine. My heart’s in it,” he said.

It didn’t feel like a real answer to Isobel. “But do you like it?”

He paused for a second, leaning on the hoe. “Ha. Well. I never wanted to do this.”

“What did you want?” Isobel asked.

She thought Mikael wouldn’t answer. She turned and continued working. But after a couple minutes of silence, he began to talk again.

“I thought humans were so interesting as a kid. All I wanted was to go to a real human city. Somewhere with paved cobblestones and so many buildings you could get lost in them. A labyrinth. Somewhere where you can’t see the green no matter where you look.”

He tapped his heel into the dirt. “My family is connected. All of us. I can hear them through the earth. So I thought, maybe it would be quiet in a human city. I wanted to know what quiet felt like. But my mother…” He trailed off. He looked down, his eyes clouding with the memory.

Isobel frowned. She laid a hand on his shoulder.

“Well, forget her,” she said, “You should do what you want.”

Mikael shook his head. “I can’t. My mother has ways of keeping us in our place.”

He stared out at the beautiful, perfect grounds. It was a prison, Isobel realized. His mother had built a gorgeous prison.

Mikael brushed the dirt off his clothes.

“So what if my roots here are too strong to leave? At least I get to meet interesting people.”

He handed the shovel. Something in her fluttered as their fingertips brushed together.

Isobel’s husband was alive. Alive and well. The townspeople welcomed them back, smiling, thanking the gods for their mercy. But their kindness was different when they thought Isobel wasn’t looking. What price did you pay? Their eyes said. Isobel ignored them.

She ate more. No matter what she ate, she never became full. Instead she learned to lie with a smile so her husband wouldn’t worry and live with the hunger gnawing away at her.

He was back. Back, kissing her neck as she made them breakfast in the morning. Warming her empty bed. And yet she’d lie awake at night. She had saved him. Saving him was supposed to fix everything. But Isobel felt hollow. Felt empty staring at the man she’d been willing to die for.

So Isobel snuck out of their house one night. And returned to the woods. It was like the path opened up to her. They respected Isobel. The trees that had taunted her bowed, lining her way.

“What did you do to me?” She asked the witch.

“I took my needle,” the hag said, “And I made a hole. A hole inside you. Now you will never be satisfied. Not with him. Not with this tiny little world. But that was true before, wasn’t it? I’ve barely done anything to you.”

Isobel’s eyes burned. “That’s not true. I was happy before I met you.”

“Hm. That’s what you say. But, I saw you. Making your way through my forest. You were alive. Had you ever been that alive?”

So she had felt clever. So she had felt she was doing something important. That didn’t mean anything. “I was just doing that for him,” she said.

“Yes, yes,” the hag dismissed, “You were always doing things for him. And locking away any part of you that he didn’t own. You stuffed away so much of yourself. Really, I’m just helping you let it out.”

She wanted to argue with the hag. Her husband was a good man. Her life had been fine. It had been what it was supposed to be. She was happy.

But that feeling. The feeling deep in her gut that now overwhelmed her. That everything was wrong. It wasn’t new. It had always been there. Buried in some forgotten part of her.

She shared the whole story with Mikael one night after dinner.

“You might have heard it before,” she said, “If you ever get bards. I know it’s spread. But I think they’ve exaggerated it. I think in their versions, oh, I’m so hungry I go to our coop and I eat our chicken and blame it on the wolf. Then when I can’t hold myself back any more I eat my poor husband too.”

“What really happened?” Mikael asked.

“The hag was right,” Isobel said softly. She drew her knees to her chest. “I wasn’t happy. I left. Who knows, maybe I would have anyways. Curse or no curse.”

Mikael watched her a moment. The firelight danced across his face. Something flickered in his eyes.

“I haven’t told you my whole story,” he confessed.

He led her to lonely tree on the barren hill. He unlatched the fence gate and let her go ahead. Isobel continued on warily.

She stood right under the tree. It had a single fruit, that had grown so large the branch curled underneath its weight. A beautiful, plump red, it smelled so sweet made her head dizzy.

The fruit pulsated. Alive. So clearly alive.

My heart is in this garden he had said.

“Gods,” she breathed. Isobel turned back. “Your mother did this to you?”

Mikael leaned against the fence. He didn’t look at the tree. “I ran away. When my mother caught me, she said I cared for no one but myself. And so she punished me. I care for this garden because this garden is me. When she first exiled me here, I tried to ignore it. Neglect it. But as the trees withered, so did I. Now, I do as she asks.”

A wry, bitter smile twitched across his face. “My only responsibility is to take care of myself, after all.”

Rage flooded through Isobel. “What gives the gods the right? To do this to their own children.”

Mikael stared resigned at her. “My mother has many children. I should have known better than to waste her time.”

“Isobel,” Mikael said, “I want to give you my heart.”

“What?” Isobel said.

“Eat my heart. Leave here,” he continued as if he hadn’t said something insane, “And when you do, take me with you.”

“But your mother,” Isobel protested. She had to find a reason something to get off this insane path.

Mikael shook his head. “She’s not looking. And don’t worry, when she finds out she won’t blame you. Honestly I think she’ll be proud of me. She’s always liked clever solutions.”

“You don’t have to do this. I’ll stay here. It’s been nice, hasn’t it? That way, I’ll just stay here and we’ll just live together and you won’t have to-“

“This is a prison, Isobel,” he said quietly, “Right now you say you’d here with me. For me. But I couldn’t hold you to that promise.”

Isobel shook her head. “I’d be okay,” she said, “I could spend my eternity here.”

“Isobel,” he said painfully gentle, “You’ve already been looking towards the horizon. You’ve already been looking to get out.”

“But if I do this, you’ll just fall through me eventually,” she said. Her voice cracked. He wouldn’t stay with her. He would slip through the hole, gone, gone like everything else.

“I’ll be here.” He brought his hand to her temple.

Mikael handed her a knife. She gripped the handle. Her hand shook, but he nodded at her.

She cut through the vine, sawing through until she freed the heart. It fell into her hands, warm and drumming steadily.

He gasped. She turned back worriedly.

“It’s okay.” He clutched his chest but his were determined. “Eat.”

She sunk in her teeth into the red thing in her hands. The flavor burst through her. Sweet as wine. Warm like freshly cooked meat.

Yes. Fresh. That was the word. She tore into the next bite. Like a deer killed right in front of her. Like she could still taste the hint of life with every bite her teeth found. And so incredibly sweet. Like a pie on the windowsill. Like a kiss under the shade.

She couldn’t think. She could only eat, could only rip off the flesh, tear at the slices of fruit, dig into the core, scooping it out so that crimson pulp decorated her hands. She sucked at her fingers. Juice dribbled down her chin.

A cry shook Isobel from her trance. The sound of something crumpling to the ground.

Isobel stopped. This was Mikael. She wheeled around and ran to his side. Already he was pale. Dying. She thought of another life and another cot another pale man staring at her like she held all the answers.

“Thank you,” he said.

She smoothed his hair. She pressed her lips to his forehead. Her touch left behind a sticky sad smear of red. And by the time she pulled back, he was gone.

She didn’t bury Mikael. She didn’t think he would have wanted that- for the land to claim him. But she stayed one more night in the cottage and when she went to check on him in the morning he was gone anyways. A bed of flowers bloomed where he fell.

Without Mikael the land decayed. Sickness spread through the plants. The thick stench of rot choked her.

She packed up the meager belongings. All she had in this world.

She placed a hand to her lips, to her stomach, to her heart. No. Not quite. And not forever. It was a big world, after all, full of all kinds of strangers and strange folks.

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