The Elementals Read online

  “What do you think?” he asked.

  The novelty of riding camelback had worn off when they’d gone to see the pyramids and the sphinx. To Kate, this place looked no different from the rest of Egypt. It was lushly green near the river, and tawny sand everywhere else. Obviously, Daddy saw something special here, so Kate did her best.

  “It’s quiet,” she said. “Will I have to be quiet?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Also, I think there are snakes.”

  “Do you?” Daddy smiled. “I wouldn’t play with them, if I were you.”

  With a sigh, Kate leaned against him. “I should like to play with a monkey.”

  Mimi caught up, slipping a lacquered chopstick into her hair to keep it off her neck. She didn’t bother to hold on to the saddle at all. She rolled with the camel’s long gait as if she’d been riding them her whole life. “We already discussed this. No monkeys unless you catch one with a ribbon.”

  “What if it follows me?”

  “Following, no.” Mimi glanced back. “Capturing, yes. Those are the rules.”

  Daddy waited until Mimi was out of earshot, then said, “Rub a bit of banana on the ribbon. That’ll help.”

  Their camel lumbered on, hot and pungent beneath them. The march to camp was a parade of old, broken things. Daddy seemed fascinated, pointing at rubble and ruins in delight. Later, Kate would remember none of it, but she did like having all of her father’s attention for the too-short ride.

  Suddenly, he shifted behind her and pointed past her shoulder. “Look, pet.”

  Silk pennants snapped against golden mountains and lapis sky. Someone had built a pavilion between two massive statues; a polished wood floor rested between the colossi. Hooks ground into ancient stone held an awning high, and lanterns hung beneath it, waiting to chase away darkness once it crept in.

  It was luxury in the midst of a desert, rich furnishings against the canvas of a long-dead empire. Exactly the kind of thing Daddy and Mimi enjoyed: worldly and otherworldly, entirely inspirational.

  Daddy handed Kate down, then dismounted with a hop. “Go play, pet.”

  “Stay close,” Mimi said. She was already busy unpacking: Kate’s worn pillow, Daddy’s cologne bottle, her own favorite shawl. Because they didn’t have a house, she’d once explained, everywhere was home as long as they had their special things.

  The air was dry and bright, a kind of startling hot that burned shimmering waves into the distance. Hopping off the pavilion, Kate wandered to the base of the nearest statue.

  If she tipped her head all the way back, she could make out the shape of a sandstone king at rest. He soared against the sky, sixty feet up and barely recognizable. His head and knees and elbows were left, but his face was lost to time. Daddy said one of the statues used to sing, but this one simply sat, staring blindly into the east.

  Fitting her fingers into cracks, Kate scaled the pedestal. Grit stung her palms, and little black flies circled her head. It was much higher than she expected. Flopping on her belly, she inhaled dust until she caught her breath. From this height, she saw the path that led back to the river, all the colors of the fields, and more ruins. Everywhere, ruins!

  Standing again, Kate walked past the king’s toes. Then she measured herself against the lady statue that stood beside his thigh. She was much taller than Kate, and captivating because her breasts were bare.

  Of course, Kate had seen real flesh bodies; sometimes models came to pose when they were in Paris. Mimi and Daddy both painted, canvases full of watery nude Aphrodites, long-thighed Ceridwens, Eves entwined with snakes.

  But this was a bit different—a lot different! The statue was immense, her body half-polished, and most importantly, no one was looking. After weeks of being warned not to touch anything, Kate couldn’t help herself. Straining, she squeezed little grunts from her throat, but she was too short.

  Up on her toes didn’t work. Stepping onto the sculpture’s broken feet brought her closer. Mimi’s laughter floated in the wind, and Kate froze. She turned, listening, waiting to hear it again. Palms whispered; the flies hummed, but no one called out to her. No one would stop her.

  Steadying herself, Kate jumped. Sandstone, warm as flesh, slipped beneath her hand. She’d done it! Even as the wind tugged her curls and pulled at her hems, she celebrated. Feeling giant, she jumped again.

  This time, stone crumbled beneath her. A slash of wet heat crossed her brow, and then she was on her back. Faerie lights danced in her eyes, motes that turned from silver to pink to red. When she opened her mouth, no breath came out and none would come in, but she wasn’t scared.

  Everything was odd. Above her, stone birds hopped on carved lines; etched flowers waved in the wind. Two men brandished tennis racquets and looked very proud. There were hands and cups, and even whole arms, suddenly washed in crimson. Mimi said they were hieroglyphics, a secret Egyptian language. But those fingers wriggled and reached for her. They were terrifying.

  Kate was sure they’d grab her, snatch her right up, drag her into tombs full of dog-headed men and bird-bodied women. Because she’d dared to touch a stone queen’s bosom, they’d keep her—forever and ever buried in the sand.

  “No,” Kate croaked. “Stop!”

  And it did.

  Everything did. No more wind; no more flies buzzing. The palms held their perfect fingers to the sky, none curling or quirking or swaying. All the voices stopped, camels fell silent, birds hushed. Shadows stopped crawling the throne; they became painted-on and immovable. Kate looked to the pavilion, where her parents should have been. They were gone. She was too stunned to cry.

  Sinking down, Kate closed her eyes. Her head throbbed, and it wasn’t just a feeling. It was a shade of dark that pulsed in her mind. It was almost like the dark when Daddy carried her on the wind. But there were no glimmering waves in it. It tasted of salt and sunset; it felt like velvet on her skin—and then there was a boy.

  In one pulse, Kate saw him, pale hair and dark eyes. He reached for her, and in the next pulse, he was gone. Her eyes snapped open, and shadows jumped into place. The world flickered once, then began again. Sound and light crashed into her; rocks cut into her back.

  Kate took a searing breath, and the first sound she made was a sob. More came, wrenching through her until she felt sick. Blood stung her eye; it smeared her hand when she reached up to touch it. As voices rang out, Kate struggled to sit.

  With the faintest snap in the air, her daddy appeared and scooped her off the ground. He held her so tight, she couldn’t breathe again. But that felt like safety; it smelled like his cologne. He swore against her hair that it was all right, she would be all right.

  Mimi ran toward them, ashen and shocked. “Oh, God, Nate, she was only gone a minute!”

  Which wasn’t entirely true. She’d been gone for eight minutes, then lived another thirty seconds alone while time stood still in the pavilion. Kate had no concept of time, but the silvering of a single strand of hair proved that her body did.

  Every second counted.

  Everywhere

  1917

  Three

  Julian groaned when his mother nudged him with a peck basket of green beans.

  They came fresh from the garden, newly plucked from the vines. Each one would have to be broken in thirds and its string stripped. Next to washing dishes, snapping beans was Julian’s least favorite chore.

  Before he could complain, Zora said, “It’s for your party. You can help.”

  “It’s my birthday,” he countered. “Can’t Sam do it?”

  “He could,” Zora said. A smile touched the corner of her lips. “But I thought you’d want to be on the porch when Elise came by.”

  Grabbing his crutches, Julian hauled himself up. “Will you carry those for me, please?”

  Zora only laughed, following him as he hurried to the back door. Elise Kidwell lived on the next farm over. Her family traded milk and meat for the Birches’ fruits and vegetables. Today, it woul
d be quarts of cream for the ice cream crank.

  On account of the war, most families were going without meat three days a week, and eating gritty victory bread on all seven. Since the Birches grew no wheat, they made do with cereal bread, but they bartered for meat, and butter, and luxuries like cream.

  Thumping across the porch, Julian dropped his crutches and slid them out of the way. Then he leaned against the rail, tucking his withered leg behind the strong one. Sunlight filtered through his blond hair, and when he turned to look toward the Kidwells’ farm, it illuminated the long curve of his lashes.

  He was built beautifully, with Zora’s eyes and Emerson’s strong jaw. Golden from working in the sun, he had a dusting of freckles on his nose, and a whole constellation of them on his shoulders.

  “Thank you,” he said, taking the colander out of the basket. “I’m all set.”

  Instead of taking the hint, Zora folded her hands and looked up at him innocently. “Now, you know you have to snap the long ones in fourths.”

  Julian stared at her. “Yes, ma’am, I know.”

  “And to save the strings and stems for the compost.”

  “Mom!”

  With a wicked smile, Zora licked her thumb and reached up to smudge imaginary dirt from his face. When he recoiled, she laughed and went back inside. Her voice floated out behind her, before the screened door slammed closed on its own. “That’s my baby sunflower.”

  Cheeks hot, Julian snapped beans with a vengeance and called after her. “I’m seventeen!”

  “Not ’til tomorrow, cootie,” Sam said from below. He yanked the hem of Julian’s trousers, then darted out of reach. Two years older, he was the only other brother who still lived in the big Indiana farmhouse. The other two had a cottage out by the river and acted like they were grown men on their own.

  Throwing his arms out, Sam cooed from a safe distance. “Baby sunflower. Bitty baby sunflower, teensy tiny sunflower.”

  Pointing at him, Julian said, “Don’t make me knock you on your back seam.”

  “Is Elise coming over?” Sam took a few steps back. “Think she’ll wear her war crinolines?”

  Julian tossed aside a stem and reached for a new handful of beans. “No.”

  “I could stand to get a gander at her ankles again.”

  Though he kept his expression still, Julian simmered inside. There were plenty of girls in town for Sam; girls he’d gone to high school with, girls from church. Every year on the Fourth of July, he hopped from picnic blanket to picnic blanket. He came home stuffed with homemade rhubarb pie and, last year, with lipstick on his cheek. Julian cut him a black look; Sam didn’t need to go gawking at Elise, too.

  “Maybe she’ll”—Sam wiggled his fingers suggestively— “do the hoochee coochee for you. Maybe she’ll do it for me.”

  The fact was, Sam couldn’t have cared less about Elise Kidwell. But Julian didn’t know that for sure, which was why he grabbed his crutches and came off the porch like a bullet. There wasn’t much room to run behind the house. Too far to the east, and they’d trample their mother’s house garden. Too far to the west, and they’d end up in the chicken coops.

  So Sam twisted like a dervish, just out of reach because Julian couldn’t angle as quickly. Fresh with sweat and swinging himself around, Julian suddenly grinned. He didn’t have to find more speed. Stopping dead in place, he stroked his fingers against the smooth curve of his crutch.

  “Giving up already?” Sam taunted.

  Julian grinned. “Too tired to keep up?”

  Sam’s high-pitched laughter rang out. He stopped, then lunged toward Julian. Each time, he threw up his hands, trying to get his baby brother to flinch. His hazel eyes danced when he got closer, and then he made his fatal mistake. He leaned too far forward.

  Wielding a crutch like a crook, Julian knocked Sam’s feet from under him. Then, before he could get up, Julian hopped over and pressed the crutch’s cotton-wrapped foot against Sam’s breastbone. Not hard, not to hurt him. Enough to make the point that this skirmish was over, though.

  “Uncle?”

  “We don’t have one,” Sam said, refusing to surrender.

  Pressing a little harder, Julian leaned over. “Say it.”

  “Uncle,” Sam whispered, then grabbed the crutch with both hands and pulled. He paid for his cleverness when Julian fell on top of him, with an unintentional elbow to the ribs. They both lay there and groaned. Beans weren’t being snapped, and no one was watching the side gate to see Elise let herself in.

  The screen door snapped shut. Julian sat up, shoving Sam for being Sam. “Thanks a lot.”

  “Hey, you’re welcome.” Sam sprawled in the grass, tucking his hands behind his head. Careless and soaking up the sun, he waited for Julian to stand. Snaking a foot over, he poked the back of his knee with his toe.

  Julian bobbled, but revenge would have to wait. Elise appeared in the frame of the screen door, and she wasn’t wearing war crinolines. Instead, it was her usual dungarees and blouse—working clothes. The girls in town could go around in glad rags every day. They wouldn’t be called on to deliver a calf or rewire a stretch of fence.

  Raising a hand, Julian waited ’til she stepped onto the porch. “Afternoon, Elise.”

  “Afternoon, Elise,” Sam echoed.

  Elise bounded down the steps, brushing stray tendrils off her forehead. “Happy early birthday, Julian.”

  Warming from the inside out, Julian smiled. “Thanks.”

  “Know what you’re going to wish for?”

  “I have a couple things in mind,” Julian said. His smile stiffened slightly when Sam nudged him again. “You’re coming to the barbecue, aren’t you?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it.”

  “Me either,” Sam said.

  Since his crutches lay on the ground, Julian couldn’t kick Sam for interfering. Instead, he fixed his gaze on Elise and pretended his obnoxious brother didn’t exist. It wasn’t hard, looking at her. The freckles in her hazel eyes entranced him. She cast spells with the curve of her lips.

  “I’m glad. I’m looking forward to it.”

  “I hope you like your present,” Elise said.

  “You didn’t have to get me anything.”

  A breeze stirred, tugging their hair and trailing the sweet scent of wild roses between them. Casting her eyes down, Elise was quiet a moment. When she looked up again, her expression was softer. So were her words. “I wanted to.”

  Sam pushed up on his elbows. “My birthday’s next month.”

  The moment broken, Elise rolled her eyes and said, “How nice for you.” She tugged Julian’s collar, then backed off. “See you tomorrow.”

  Julian wanted to stay her. His bones and blood begged him to. He knew poetry, all sorts, romantic and classic. And songs; he could take his father’s fiddle and sit beneath her window, make the night weep with a ballad for her. Instead, he waved, watching until she disappeared past the corn.

  Sam rolled to his feet. Reaching over to chuck Julian’s chin, he said, “Better shut your trap, baby sunflower. You’re catching flies.”

  Still dazed, Julian brushed his hand away. “’Bout time for you to shut up, Sam.”

  “You kill me, kid. It’s just Elise.”

  Julian didn’t mean for the words to slip out; maybe if he’d been talking to Charlie. Charlie understood him better than anyone and never felt like he had to rattle his cage. But it was Sam standing there, so he’s the one Julian told, “I’m going to marry her.”

  Picking up the crutches, Sam thrust them into Julian’s hands and clapped him on the back. “You should try kissing her first.”

  It wasn’t bad advice.

  ***

  The trouble with stealing her father’s clothes, Kate decided, was that she had to keep hemming them.

  Leaning against the bedroom door, she listened as her parents’ friends laughed and talked in the next room. In all the rooms, really; they spilled into the backyard, and some of them were no doubt wading in the
bay.

  Basting quick stitches, Kate bit the thread to cut it off. Pinning the needle into her cuff, she pulled the trousers on quickly. Stuffing linen shirttails into them, she glanced at the light spilling through the crack in the door. Her fingers flew along the buttons, then she cinched everything with a fine leather belt.

  Heart pounding, she listened again. She had to figure out where her parents were so she could slip out around them. Tinny music bleated from the Victrola, which blended perfectly with glasses clinking. Knotting a tie at her throat, Kate squinted, as if that might help her hear a little better.

  “Always sorry to see the fair close,” a woman said.

  Another woman replied with a snort, “Well, there’s the War Exposition.”

  A burst of laughter from the room drowned those voices out. Pulling on a jacket, Kate smoothed herself out and then reached for her hat. She’d already tied her hair in a loose knot on top of her head, and the hat fit neatly over it.

  That was the perfect touch; she was transformed. A quick look in the mirror confirmed it: lovely Kate Witherspoon had become a nattily dressed young man.

  Slipping her big, boxy camera into a satchel, she took care to fold the crank down and to cover the lens. Then she walked into the party as if she belonged there.

  Technically, she did. She was her parents’ crowning achievement: a worldly girl who spoke English with an unnamable accent. Her dark eyes and full lips had already inspired any number of paintings, and once, a stained glass window. She could debate the relative merits of the Italian Masters versus the Dutch Masters, grind pigments in her sleep, and had very rarely had the same address for more than a year or two.

  Her schooling had been in traveling, learning to read with authors, studying geography by walking it. All of it, always, within arm’s reach of her parents. Her sickeningly almost-famous parents, known in “the right circles” and absolutely anonymous out of them. To that wide and limited world, she wasn’t Kate Witherspoon. She was Nathaniel and Amelia’s daughter.