The Air in My House Tastes Like Sugar Read online

  March 2020 Volume 10 No 3

  The Air in My House Tastes Like Sugar

  by

  ZZ Claybourne

  “The air in my house tastes like sugar and the floors are sticky,” said Amnandi Khumalo.

  “Amnandi...”

  “Unina, you say I should be honest!” She wanted to cry, for she was lonely, yet she refused to allow a single tear to form, no matter how painful a witch’s sharp recollection made things.

  “What did they do after you told them?”

  “They ran! That stupid rumor made them run. I ought to do a forgetting spell.”

  Mother Khumalo touched her daughter’s face, seeing the roundness that would give way to angles and lines. “Beloved, they eventually remember. Memory makes them angry.” Unina hated the thought of moving again so soon. Their current home, a shack formerly used by lumberers because it was close to water, fit perfectly into the forest some distance from a village they’d found, and wasn’t so far away that she wouldn’t let her daughter perform errands unattended.

  Unina—mother—Khumalo was only a lodger, so on principle she wouldn’t change the exterior of the home, but inside? Inside was wondrous. A witch never lived amongst things that didn’t make her happy.

  “I want to make them forget,” said Amnandi.

  “That’s not our way, is it?” said Mother.

  “No.”

  “Then why would you want to do it?” Mother continued.

  “It would make me feel good.”

  “And that is, of course…”

  “Insufficient,” Amnandi said. A flatter word had never been spoken. In a pocket of her brain one of the many shadow Amnandis she visited threw a head back to give a raspy moan, one stomped off, and another—the one Amnandi protected the most, the one who called a Blue world her home—felt entirely like tears at this moment, a young body and mind full of tears. The rest of Amnandi simply waited for what they knew the young witch would decide to do.

  Amnandi shuffled to her chalk tablet and books.

  “No, go and play, my love,” said Mother. “Amongst the veils. You’ve earned it.”

  “How?”

  Mother gently slid the chalk tablet and books from Amnandi’s loose grip. “Go and play.”

  ~~~

  The two witches traveled a lot because people believed extremely dubious things. Not a single child had ever died in a witch’s home. Those stories of ovens and eatings, pure idiocy. Ovens and transporting, yes; a witch used many things as portals.

  In the town before, night-skinned Amnandi had led the worryingly pale sister and portly brother into a large, unlit oven that could easily fit three; what better way was there to play chase? Back in Afrela, witches’ children created structures all the time for their parents to imbue with transport magick, small bodies popping in and out of time and space on playful sunny days.

  Amnandi and Gretel exited onto a field where the petals on chartreuse flowers tasted like taffy and the sky shone perfectly orange.

  Gretel loved it. She’d come out first of the siblings, Hansel being delayed by a lost shoe.

  “Hansel, come see!”

  The colorfully adorned new girl ran in wild circles behind his sister.

  “Come see!”

  He quickly doffed the remaining shoe, grabbed the edges of an opening at the rear of the oven that shouldn’t have existed, and popped out.

  The moment his stockinged feet met the yellow grass—the moment the sweet air filled his nostrils—he grabbed for Gretel’s hand and cried. Like a cat, if cat’s didn’t like traveling through portals, except they did, so not like a cat, but unnervingly a cat’s yowl. Loud enough to attract Unina’s attention; Mother Khamalo had reached in and yanked him out so quickly his feet barely had time to leave an imprint on the ground. Gretel immediately followed, leaping into the low-hanging, slightly out-of-focus ovoid through which she could see the interior of the great oven and the walls of Amnandi’s home.

  Hansel had paused his sudden wailing only long enough to yank himself from Mother’s light hold, then ran for the door. Gretel bolted after him.

  Their parents came not long afterward with a fat constable in tow, who found two shoes in the oven. No sign of a portal or spell.

  A witch never allowed her magicks to be seen by unappreciative eyes, but a child must be allowed to play, and thus the air in the home tasted like sugar. What did a constable and stricken parents know of the taste of magick? Very few in this cold, wet land knew. Khumalo missed the warmth of Afrela.

  Even the floor had the stickiness of wet leaves that time. That, however, was the elves’ fault, always welcome in a witch’s home even though they left invisible trails everywhere they went. Mother Khumalo, taller than everyone in the room, was like a bar of iron: hard, uncomfortable, unyielding. The constable, making a blustery show, left just as quickly and fearfully, Amnandi’s would-be playmates’ parents on his heels.

  That night, Unina shifted their meager belongings into a side dimension, abandoning the house the way she and Amnandi had found it. Although the traveling witches didn’t see a single townsperson as they left on mounts laden with immediacies, riding toward the deeper forest where no one would be brave enough to follow, Unina knew they were watched. They rode till nightingales chorused. At the call of wolves Mother set camp. Shortly afterward Amnandi smelled the burning timbers, the burnt-sugar of old forgotten spells, the musty but cozy dried-herb scents of mouse nests in the walls, the acrid shrieky stink of nestling starlings roasting alive as the enflamed thatched roof fell upon them.

  That had been months ago.

  Long enough for stories to get around, and this new home to be found.

  ~~~

  Amnandi had found seven veils, the secretive portals within every home, in this new home. She was certain there were others, but Mother liked her to find them on her own. She hadn’t found a Dead veil yet. She’d found a Time veil, a Doppleganger veil, a Water veil, a Flight veil (which she avoided, as she didn’t like heights much), an Ancestor veil, a Regret veil, and a Newness veil--the latter being her favorite, where she played most often, as it was there that she got to comfort her shadow hosts (she called them The Host, for that is what it felt like they did when she visited): those separate selves most people didn’t have but which she had been born with, each separate self a colorfully-dressed child who looked exactly like her, some in blue wraps, some in red scarves, some with ornate headdresses or even more ornate hair, all shadows under their own suns.

  Having been told to play, she played, sitting cross-legged and meditating, disappearing into the veils, finding another version of herself—the Blue world self—and hugging her deeply. Both girls dropped to the warm, blue ground, smoothed their robes, adjusted their scarves, and talked about things they shouldn’t have known about but, being a witch’s daughter, they knew; about adventures they’d gone on since the last they’d seen each other; about how annoying un-magical children could be. They even traded new spells. Things worked differently in the Blue World. Amnandi, in turn, exchanged a new secret about her, the Green World.

  Yet for all this, as much as she liked herself, it would have been nice, she thought, to see, share and play now and then with happy, new faces.

  ~~~

  Come morning, they rode under the brightest morning sky Eurola had to offer; for every bit of sun there were two of cloud. “I don’t even know how these stories get around, Unina.”

  “Mind your step,” Mother Khumalo said to Amnandi’s pony, who was about to place a hoof directly into the obscured opening of a gopher hole. Natuun canted left, then continued on. “People,” Mother said. “People. They talk constantly tal
k even when not saying anything.”

  “And we can’t use a spell?”

  “No.”

  “Then why am I even learning to be a witch?”

  Unina rode on as though the question hadn’t seen air, with the precise clip-clop of her horse the only useful indication of her mood. They were only and specifically going into town, Unina had said, “To be seen.” Amnandi didn’t want to see those idiot kids though. One had seemed very promising, and it was promise that hurt the most. She didn’t see many children with electric, poofy hair like hers in this place that wanted to be half rocky, half forested and ridiculously lacking in sun. But Mother’s intent was to travel the world and there was no getting around feeling alone. The girl from yesterday had a strange name. Rebecca, and her brother, Anselm.

  “We could put on masks,” Amnandi said hopefully. “Masks aren’t magick, just tricks.” Mother kept their masks well-hidden in a shifted place. It was best to shift objects only, not people. People came back mean.

  “Masks. This is precisely something I’d expect a ten-year-old to say.” Only Unina could phrase something in a way both so chiding and praising. “Never ever toy with such powers, Beloved. You’ve only seen me use a mask as a parlor trick. You haven’t seen me hunt or defend.”

  “I’ll need to learn.”

  “When you’re old enough. For now, your one face will do. When we enter, show me where you met those children.”

  “Why?”

  “I imagine they’ll be there again.”

  “Why?”

  “Does it help a young witch to question her mother so often?”

  “At times.”

  “Is this one of them?”

  “No.” This was a “character-building exercise”. The sooner it was over, the sooner Amnandi could get back to the veils.

  The village took no notice of them, but even Amnandi knew how much effort it took to not notice someone. Unina, wrapped in her most colorful scarves, radiated; Amnandi, in oranges and yellows, shone as a sunburst.

  The blacksmith nodded. The constable too. Once. This village’s constable was pale, freckled, tall woman, taller than anyone else in the square. Intriguing red hair was braided into a single modest pigtail. She kept a truncheon—lacquer red—in hand at all times.

  Unina Khumalo nodded at the constable. Amnandi whispered to her mother, “People call her the Red Constable. The kids said her stick is red because she killed a fae.”

  “What did you tell them?”

  “I told them it was paint.”

  Unina laughed. She knew precisely where her daughter had met the other children because she could feel Amnandi’s happiness lingering in the streets, but she allowed her daughter to lead on. A granary sat in the village center; around that, several open areas for play, well away from wagon trails leading to and from the granary. Children of various ages played there, miniature versions of the working parents who exited and entered the huge storehouse.

  Two children, so dusty their brown skin was gray, froze the moment Mother and Amnandi settled into view. The paler kids around them edged away. A nervous adult hustled inside the storehous. Mother Khumalo waited. Not long afterward, a man nearly as tall as the constable but whereas she was white he was coal black, exited, the furtive messenger right behind him.

  He and Khumalo regarded one another a moment.

  “I believe our children have been silly,” said Unina Khumalo from her horse. Beedma snorted and clicked its teeth in agreement, for the mare had never seen a child that didn’t dally in silliness.

  The man grunted. “Was there magick?”

  “This time, no. In the past, of course.”

  “There is no ‘of course’ in my life,” he said. “Were they in danger?”

  “No.” She motioned Amnandi’s pony forward. “This is my daughter. Do you feel danger from her?”

  “No.”

  “From me?”

  Another grunt. The gathered crowd took this as noncommittal.

  “You’re the ones from the story?” said the man, his accent nearly the same as Unina’s.

  “The story is silly.” Mother’s eyes never wavered from his.

  “See that woman coming our way?” He nodded to indicate. Another tall woman, nearly identical to the constable save for slightly less height and a loose shock of brown hair, moved quickly toward the granary. “That’s their mother. She’ll not take it silly that at one point you had children in your oven.”

  The only thing that kept the approaching woman from confronting Mother Khumalo were her children plastering themselves to her hips for comfort. The two mothers met eye to eye. An understanding was immediately made.

  “Amnandi,” said Unina, turning her horse away. She and Amnandi left as slowly as they had come, their clops leaving tiny dust clouds whisked by the wind.

  When sure they were out of earshot, Amnandi asked, “Why did you say yes, Unina?”

  “Witches don’t lie. Nor do they vanish without cause.”

  ~~~

  Amnandi tried to recall if her mother ever lied. She could have tranced to remember things before the age of three but trances generally left her too energized to sleep, and they were already down to the final candle before bed. From three on, however, there wasn’t an instance where she doubted her mother’s word or found trust misplaced. She remembered her unina telling a group around a fire back home, “I’d rather be interesting than lie,” which caused a lot of agreeable laughter.

  Witches had a lot of rules, but it couldn’t be said that witches weren’t happy. She and her mother were very happy. Mother taught her which plants in which areas listened best to messages; Mother played with her in the portals from time to time. As a matter of fact, she had yet to catch her mother in a game of chase even though Amnandi was extremely fast and extremely clever about sending herself to other places.

  They hadn’t been in Eurola long enough to call any of it home, but on the whole Amnandi found the land pleasant. Until recently. Fearful people made her uncomfortable, and when she was uncomfortable nothing would bring sleep. Fearful people burned things.

  She rose from her pallet. Unina rested on the other side of the room, never a noise from her during the night any louder than a shadow’s, but alert immediately.

  “Unina?”

  “Yes, sweet?”

  “Why do we travel?”

  “The world is like an elder. It appreciates visitors.”

  “Are we safe here?”

  “You, my sweet, will never be in danger.”

  “Thank you.” Amnandi returned to bed.

  ~~~

  In the morning three knocks shook the frame of their door. They usually enjoyed meals with the door wide open, as Unina said breezes promoted digestion, but owing to the fog clinging to the surrounding grasses, she hadn’t opened the home yet. Fog here smelled like suffering and sadness.

  The tall man from the village bowed to her, his children a few yards behind him, and rather than a grunt, he actually spoke. “They apologize for being disrespectful,” he said.

  “Do they? From way over there?”

  He waved them up, his only instructions for them a nod at the woman.

  “Sorry,” said both.

  “Will you apologize to my daughter?” Khumalo allowed Amnandi forward, stopping her at the threshold with a subtle hip placement.

  The man’s children looked at Amnandi. Amnandi looked at them. All three felt foolish standing between the grown people, despite the two having run from Amnandi the day before after Amnandi’s delightful description of her home; feeling foolish, tension quickly left them. Mother Khumalo shifted her thin hip and Amnandi took off. The children cleaved the fog but stayed close to the ramshackle cabin. Mother Khumalo took her eyes off the children. “Children are mean in sprints. In the last town,” she said to their father in a voice too low for any other ears, “My home burned. I won’t tolerate such foolishness again. Do you understand me? Is their mother aware they’re here?”
r />   “That’s my concern.” He touched his chest. “Jobam Imnahl.” He grunted in the direction of the children. “My boy and girl, Anselm and Rebecca.”

  “Their mother?”

  “Ingrid.”

  “I’ll be sure to pay her my respects,” said Khumalo.

  “Did I interrupt your meal?”

  “We’ve been up hours. We watch the sun rise.”

  Jobam frowned, trying to recall if that was a tenet of any particular religion. “Out of faith?”

  “Out of an appreciation for beauty.”

  He scratched at his ragged beard, said “Beauty”, then grunted.

  “You were an orator in a past life,” said Mother Khumalo.

  He brightened a teeny bit. “I’ve been told! Oh…you are joking.”

  “Fully jesting,” she said. “Your accent places you in the northern lands.”

  “My oldest is ten. I’ve been here twelve years. From Abéhé.”

  “I’m south of you.”

  “Zul?”

  She acknowledged with a nod.

  A long way from home, but one didn’t question a witch traveling alone with her daughter.

  “I forgot myself yesterday,” he said, following with the honorific, “Unina.” He touched his forehead and opened his fingers to the air as apology. “My children speaking fairy tales is my fault as well. This land is full of terrible warnings to children. They use them as entertainments.”

  “Learned foolishness is like sickness,” Unina said dourly.

  Jobam grunted, but added a nod.

  “I think we forget how much power we have,” she Khumalo. “Many are comfortable speaking stupid things into being.” She motioned him into the one-room home. She possessed a small table, two chairs, two sleeping mats, and a heavy cookpot dangling from the center of a tripod situated in a bed of river stones. No fire, yet the stones gave off heat. It felt good. He felt no need to speak of it.

  “It’s been getting colder and colder here. Every year. People can’t help but think magick,” he said.

  “And is magick an evil thing to them?”