Father had always told Uri that if he didn’t get a good trade behind him, he would die alone in a pauper’s grave. But today was his long-awaited chance to start the family trade and he could barely eat breakfast as his stomach twisted and turned in anticipation.

The door leading into the Ghost Merchant’s shop was on the other side of the dinted breakfast table. A door that Uri had not been allowed to access under threat of death, dishonour, and going to bed without supper.

Morning after morning for eighteen years he had sat at this table, in a room with little decoration aside from worn shop castoffs, and stared at the forbidden door. It was almost like his father had placed the door to taunt him.

His sister, Ana, noticed his excited stare. “You probably would have been allowed in there a long time ago if you weren’t so messy.”

“I’m not messy,” said Uri calmly, although his hands clenched the table so hard his knuckles turned white.

“Father let you look at his telescope once and I had to clean it up.” Ana sighed for dramatic effect. “It took me hours.”

“I was five! I’ve not had toffee since.”

Ana chuckled at her brother’s discomfort, then placed a kind hand over his. “It’s not as amazing as you dream of. Dimi down the road gets to drive a cart all over the country to deliver wine. That sounds far more interesting.”

“You think driving a smelly cart down country roads is more interesting than selling actual ghosts?”

“You’ll see.” Ana shrugged. Then she stood up, leaving half her breakfast, to grab her bag. “I have to go to class.”

Uri watched his sister’s exit and shook his head. Walking away from the only ghost merchant in York to go to some crumby university full of books felt like such a boring decision. But it wasn’t without benefits. It meant Uri could steal the rest of her cup of tea before work. The food was still beyond his nervous belly.

And as the clock chimed, Uri walked across to the door that had haunted his dreams since he could remember. He grasped the door handle and entered with a shiver.

---

Uri had hoped for illumination. Instead, he flinched at the brightness of the lights.

Once Uri stopped blinking, he saw luxurious red velvet carpets running from wall to wall between black walnut cabinets with dimly lit candles behind them and lush red silk to showcase the fine figurines of the ghosts. Beautiful swirling-coloured figurines wrought by magic his father guarded closely.

A magic that would soon be his.

There were no customers in the shop, just Uri’s father. He stood behind a green leather countertop with an expression that made it hard to know if he hated customers, or was annoyed at the lack of them. He had gaunt cheekbones with large hollow eye sockets that made him look one missed meal away from his stock.

Father’s thin lips barely parted as he growled, “What are you doing here, boy?”

“It’s my first day, Father,” said Uri, shuffling nervously under a chandelier dangled from the distant ceiling, festooned with candles. In the polished little mirrors around the room, they looked like the lights of a shoal of deep-sea fish.

“That came about quickly ,” said Father. Eighteen years hadn’t been quick for Uri, especially the years delivering milk, but at least Father accepted it was time. “Can I see your hands?”

Uri stifled a groan, but offered out a pair of hands red raw from repeated washing.

“Acceptable, but you should cut your nails. We need to set a good impression.”

“Yes, Father.” Uri nodded, despite having cut them this morning. “I need to set a good impression to sell ghosts.”

“We do not sell ghosts,” said Father, glowering darkly. “We are purveyors of the finest spirits to the distinguished and discerning customer. The only paranormal instigators in Northern England!”

“Yes, Father.”

“We have the finest stock and we will only sell to proper customers. As is our right as members of The Sorrowful Guild of Master Ghost Makers,” said Father. He peered at Uri and frowned. “You can see ghosts, can you not?”

“Yes, sir.” Uri bowed his head. “There was a ghost teacher at Rev. Shackley’s school I used to talk to at lunch. It made him happy. Although the other children thought I was just pretending.”

“Hmm,” said Father, stroking his chin. “I will have to investigate that. We can always do with additional stock. Selection is good for business, as is diversity.”

“Do you struggle to find ghosts?”

“We find an adequate supply,” said Father, slightly too quickly.

“Why are there so few ghosts? Why aren’t they everywhere?”

Father shrugged. “Not everyone leaves a ghost behind. Some ghosts stay longer than others. That’s why we do not see caveman ghosts running around. If they do not receive attention, they just slowly fade away. We ensure that ghosts are remembered forever.”

Remembered forever, Uri knew, as long as people paid an almost reasonable fee. “How do you find them?”

“Ghosts can be anywhere. But the best spot is currently the graveyard. The last person buried in a graveyard stays behind to keep watch over it. We take those cemetery guardian ghosts every time, so there is a steady supply.”

“Like the grave robbers?” asked Uri, his voice brimming with excitement about the men who were all over the papers with their exploits. Making off with jewels, running from the police.

“Those are ruffians and charlatans who steal from their betters for a living.” Father’s eyes flashed with anger before he took a deep breath. “We are preserving the noble heritage of our ghosts.”

“Yes.”

“Just delinquents who are probably covered in tattoos,” said Father with a sneer. In his ever loud opinion, just another kind of scar from needless violence. “But anyway, to business.”

Father walked to the shelves and Uri followed, gazing at the figurines resting upon them, their colours swirling in mesmerising patterns as they wrapped around the non-corporeal remains. They glowed a strange silvery-blue light, like reflections from liquid mirrors.

Some of the memories escaped as they walked by, forming brief pictures in front of Uri before the page turned, and then went flying and fading into the distant, dark corners of the room. There were snatches of sound, too, of laughter, tears, screams, and, for some reason, a brief burst of xylophone music that caused him to pause for a moment.

Eventually, Father stopped in front of a ghost and pointed. The little figure was a wash of orange blurs and green swirls. When Uri stared at it deeply, there was a vague outline of a man, lying down on the floor next to a chisel.

Uri shuddered as he saw his father staring at him from inches away. “You see it, but can you hear it?”

“No.”

“You must be quiet. They are not noisy by nature.”

At first, Uri didn’t hear anything. Then the dim sounds of someone talking in another room came through. He caught his breath, not daring to exhale, and then he heard it. A pitiful mewling like a wounded cat. “I can’t see. I can’t hear. Where am I?”

Uri was horrified, not that he could let it show. He was far from an expert on ghosts, but they had projected sheer, abject misery. The idea of being trapped forever in these little containers with nothing to look forward to sounded monstrous.

“You’re handling it better than your sister. That is why we sent her to the academy.”

Uri could only nod. Ana was the smart one, she’d have understood the horror straight away and realised she wanted no part of it.

“But you don’t need to worry about any of that. Your first job is very important.”

Uri puffed out his chest as best as he could given he could hide behind a stick with a toast rack attached partway up.

“Polish the brass.”

“What?”

“Polish the brass.”

“I thought I was here to sell… to purvey the finest spirits?”

“You are. And we cater for a high-class clientele who enjoy, amongst other things, highly cleansed surfaces. So you will polish the brass, wipe the counters, and await further instructions.”

“Yes, Father.”

Spider Bait held the morning in his hands. The brilliant blue and white sunlight thick and new pooled together on the surface of the dewdrop in the basin of his palms. He drank it in.

It was still early, still just morning on the first day of the rest of his life, and the first sunny day after an unusual bout of rains. That, he thought, was surely a fortunate sign.

Spider Bait wasn’t a particularly fortunate name, especially if your mother was known to be prophet-able, but he was the youngest sprite of a hefty group of five, and his parents had stoked up a solid hatred for one another by the time he came along, so he was never quite sure if the name was meant to be a curse or the predictor of a tragic fate. The fact that he had grown up in the orphan log despite having two living parents made him think it was probably the former.

Probably.

It was on top of the orphan log, still damp with rainwater, that he sat now, waiting for the rest of the meadow to wake and knitting with a pair of wooden needles and a pale ball of silk in his lap. He watched several spiderlings disperse on the morning wind, translating the dawn in signals of light reflecting from their ballooning webs and paid no mind to the shadow descending behind him, sprouting eight slender arms.

He had grown up envying the courage of little spiders, to drift away into the unknown and make their own lives far from the place they were born, with no one but themselves to decide the course of their life. It was frightening. It was tempting. Especially to a little sprite who couldn’t quite understand why he wasn’t living in the lavender with the rest of his brothers and sisters, with his mother and father.

But that would all change today.

“My own flower,” Spider Bait said, mostly to himself, but also to the shadow looming over him, its darkness made harsher, its edges sharpened by the crisp light of this bright day. Its slender legs formed a cage around him, a grasping hand. “My own home,” he continued, as the dampness of his present one seeped into his ass.

When he turned, he found himself reflected in four black eyes, round and staring and larger than his head. There were four more somewhere on the top of her head. He and the spider towering over him regarded one another for a long moment, the long lengths of her jewel green fangs just inches from his shoulder. Then he realized he’d lost count of his stitches.

“Don’t look so confused, I’ve been telling you for months.” He carefully counted the stitches of his current knit row, and Hop moved up, beside, and around him. “No more orphan log for me. No more termites or rotting wood or Brother Clod’s acorn cakes. Or all the other unwanted Sprites,” he added, mostly to himself.

Because it didn’t matter if you were wanted or not. It didn’t matter if your dad hated your mother and she hated him back, but you were somehow their fifth child. It didn’t matter if they couldn’t stop arguing long enough to decide who should feed you breakfast or dinner or put the roof over your head. It didn’t matter if they scrapped over every petal gone toward his clothes because they felt more about each other than they did about him. It was a fortnight until mid-spring, and that meant a new round of sprites would receive their Inheritance – the plant or flower under which their fathers had buried their caul on the day of their birth and would become their home and industry for the rest of their lives. He would come into his own, and no longer have to rely on them or the kindness of Brother Clod. He would provide for himself.

No one knew for sure where their caul was planted. It was a secret until Inheritance day, but they all knew what they could reasonably expect. Misty Morning Clover would get their clover in the patch where eight generations of his family had lived; Mountain Shadow Rosemary their fragrant herb sprig in a frankly overgrown patch of it near the ditch. And of course Spider Bait’s very best friend, Crab Killer Reed, would finally have her own by the creek.

But he, well. He was Spider Bait Lavender, wasn’t he? As much as his parents loathed one another, they were both from the lavender field. It was no contest, no guessing where his Inheritance would be.

Oh, it was going to smell so much better than the log. And just think of the things a sprite could trade with that. He’d been preparing, planning for his mid-spring Offering every damp, horrid night in this dark, rotting bit of oak. There were good textiles in petals, especially when they came in coveted shades. And a good, dried flower bud could make a fine tea, especially if there was a merger involved, which reminded him that he needed to apologize to Moon Light Chamomile for suggesting that his birth parent had been too lazy to provide them with two given names and had instead separated one word.

But there would be plenty of time for building bridges and burying the old rat bone hatchet later. This was a good day. A sunny day after weeks of gloom. Who knew, he might even enjoy seeing his parents. Spider Bait balled up his knitting and rose to his feet.

“I’ll see you at my flower-warming later,” he said, and immediately slipped off the damp, mossy surface of the oak. From his back in the weed patch, he saw Hop look down at him with her usual cocked head. “Much later,” he added, or everyone would run off screaming. He picked himself up, brushing off as much dirt as he could from his withering clothes and trying not to think about the damp spot on his ass. “And you know, a bit of silk would make a nice present now that I can count my stitches in blessed silence for once.” With that, he went into the orphan log for the last time, where he discovered that Brother Clod and the littlest sprites had made him a going away berry cake, which they had to scarf down while saying their goodbyes and farewells and we’ll-miss-yous around choking mouthfuls because the termites were swarming.

Of course they were.

---

All the sprites of Spider Bait’s generation gathered under the lowest branch of the largest oak. It stretched out from the trunk of the tree like one thick artery, briefly dipping into the ground before skimming the forest floor in a table that they would all gather around in a fortnight. After Inheritance, it was each sprite’s responsibility to prove to the peers of their generation how they would contribute to their trade and the continuation of a healthy meadowland industry, and this was the stage upon which they would present it.

Also food.

He said half-hearted hellos to familiar faces and received distracted good-to-see-yous in return. Spider Bait had never made many friends. There was only Hop and one other sprite who didn’t mind the smell of mold and musk that clung to all log-dwellers, probably because she smelled worse than him anyway. It was she that he looked for now, since he didn’t have anyone else to mingle with while they all waited upon the arrival of their parents.

Crab Killer found him first, wrestling him into a one-armed hug – she was strong for someone who’d lost a limb to a particularly mighty mud-bug, which was, of course, extremely cool. “I’m going to bring back a great big one to boil, just for you, Spider,” she said, and her voice was deep and sharp as a river stone.

He couldn’t wait.

Normally, he was against eating the rear ends of things, but he made a special exception for crawfish.

“Spider Bait,” he corrected. “I’d give your other arm for a crawfish boil,” he said, with an awkward laugh to indicate that he was joking, though she didn’t appear to care either way.

“That one got a lucky snip,” she said, boxing at him with her whole arm and the nub. “I know all their tricks now.”

“I know,” Spider Bait said. Crawfish slaying was Crab Killer Reed’s family business, though her dream was to take down a crab and live up to her name.

“One day,” she said, in the same tone of voice that one might talk about finding true love.

“I was thinking I’d bring back some lavender,” Spider Bait said to change the subject, and realized that was a stupid thing to say because of course that was what he would be bringing. “You know, like, the buds. I want to dry them out and give tea making a try.” He hoped the process wouldn’t take longer than the requisite two weeks. He was going to have to find that out. “Just for you,” he added, because it seemed polite after she’d dedicated a crawfish to him and everything, though he wasn’t certain if Crab Killer had any particular fondness for teas.

“You will not,” said Mountain Shadow, hardly sparing a glance. “You were a surprise shit in the field, Spider. Your dad probably buried your caul under some dead grass because he was just as drunk as your mom.”

“Spider Bait,” Spider Bait said. “And how would you know? You weren’t there.”

For a moment, Mountain Shadow was quiet. “Still not going to bring back any dried anything, I’m sure,” she muttered.

“Which reminds me,” Spider Bait started, turning to Moon Light who was passing nearby.

“I’m not getting involved in your herbal tea scheme,” they replied without stopping and soon mingled into another cluster of sprites.

Parents trickled into the shadow of the oak not long after, leading their sprite children away one at a time with happy, hopeful words. With, “Come, let’s show you,” and “Right next to us!” It wasn’t long before Spider Bait found himself alone in the stirring leaf litter. Well, except for Hop, who had parked herself up somewhere in the branches and was watching from above. Probably watching. He couldn’t see her just then and gave a thumbs up in the general direction that he had last spied her to show that he was definitely not nervous. There was no way his parents weren’t going to come, even if they didn’t ever want to see each other again. This was one of those moments where you had to set your ego aside and come together for your child.

Like you had never, not once done before.

But this. This was just too big. This was his livelihood. His Inheritance. His destiny for the rest of his life, decided in the same moment that he’d burst through the first threshold of life, which was now part of the soil on which he would erect the final threshold of home. This was the way it had been since, well, the beginning of time, he assumed, and he was definitely not starting to panic.

“Spider Bait, dear,” he heard, and never in his life had he been so relieved to hear the voice of his mother. She gave the clearing under the oak a once over, noting his solitude, no doubt. “I can’t believe your dad isn’t here yet, the good-for-nothing bastard.” She yanked him into a hug before he could escape, then pulled back with a look of disgust. Some of the scarf he’d knit from Hop’s silk had come apart in her hands. It was always doing that. “What are you wearing?”

“It’s – “

“Spider,” his dad said, dipping his head toward Spider Bait’s mother. “Morning,” he said to her by way of acknowledgment, which worked both as a stingy greeting and also happened to be his mother’s first name. She greeted him back with only a glare.

“It’s Spider Bait, actually -”

“You kept us waiting here all day, you know,” his mother accused, but before Spider Bait could point out that she had only just arrived herself, his dad called her a lying, old whore.

“You’re lucky I came here at all.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Oh, oaks, this old argument. “Could we just – “

“Still insisting this one’s mine? He looks nothing like me.”

“What, you don’t recognize your own stupid face when you see it?”

They went back and forth at each other’s throats while Spider Bait nervously picked apart the thin, ephemeral threads of his latest scarf until there was nothing left of it or his patience. “If you’ll just take me to my flower now, we never have to speak to each other again!” he shouted over them.

“Well,” his dad said after a few moments passed. The older sprite kicked at a bit of leaf litter underfoot and avoided looking at Spider Bait. “To tell you the truth – with the name and all – I hadn’t really expected you to. Live. This long.” Then he paused long enough that Spider Bait began to worry his father was about to admit to something terrible, like that he’d lit the caul on fire or thrown it in the creek. Or ate it. Spider Bait’s face was still frozen in disgust when his dad finally continued. “Follow me.”

Today, my roommate has taken the form of a cuckoo clock. Dark-stained and ornate, bare branches ringed by ivy frame the pale window that has become Lucas’ face. Every hour on the hour, a miniature wooden barred owl peeks from the tiny window on his forehead and gives weight to the time at hand.

Last week, Lucas had been a Persian rug. Delicate floral details swirled from his center, his edges clawed by curved boteh motifs. It had been especially hard to spare him from guests then. As a clock, he has mounted himself well out of the way of foot traffic. A rug, though…I’d done my best to save him from the inevitable trampling, but apparently, the sensation of being rolled up and leaned against a wall feels like suffocation to a rug. Pretty sure he still hasn’t forgiven me for that one.

When I look at Lucas in the present, the crystal window protecting his delicate metal hands has already begun collecting dust. My dust cloth remedies that, but despite acting gently, his holly pendulum twitches in annoyance.

Sorry, I tell him. There was no helping it. He was looking scruffy. I almost hear him scoff at that.

When Lucas becomes like this, our apartment, likewise, becomes strained. He hates it if someone unfamiliar touches him, so unless he becomes something small enough for me to move solo, I’m stuck with his positioning until he regains himself. Entertaining guests whilst he stared me down as a giant wardrobe-bookcase duo in the center of the common area was lovely. I’m a strong guy, but I’m not moving solid mahogany on my own. To make things worse, sometimes, the change comes when I’m out of the apartment. Bringing dates home when I have no idea of what might await us is awkward.

This time around, Lucas has left the milk out. A bowl of soggy cereal teases him from the end table below where he had mounted himself. He hadn’t the time to even finish breakfast.

Click.

I glance back in time to see that tiny owl emerge from his doors. Its tiny amber eyes gleam while he gives the calls: Who cooks for you? Who cooks for you all?

I count the tolls. Four o’clock. Where has the time gone? With a hearty thank-you to Lucas for the reminder, my cleaning supplies are tidied away. Off come my sweatpants and stained T-shirt, on go clean jeans and a button-down. The kitchen is my arena, my apron my shield. A pot of water is on the burner, onions and peppers beneath my knife, pasta from a box – saute, boil, simmer. Our apartment comes alive with the aroma of cooking. When I finish, Lucas ticks with jealousy.

The knock at the door comes just as the turn of five is announced. Behave yourself, I urge Lucas. A flick of his pendulum; he’s rolling his eyes at me.

For once, the guy I’ve invited over is closer to our age. I sense Lucas relax at the realization. I know he has grown tired of me bringing home men ten, twenty years our senior.

My date wastes no time once he’s made it past the threshold. Against the refrigerator I’m pinned, hands sampling my body while he tastes my lips. He teases the delicate skin behind my ear and holds me tight. I allow him this, a starter to wet his appetite before peeling myself from his grasp. Lucas ticks away over our heavy breaths.

Food first.

Faintly, I wonder if cuckoo clocks can feel hunger. If so, I feel bad for taunting Lucas. His overlook is not even ten feet from the dining table. I really should have moved him to his bedroom when I’d found him, but it was too late for that. I would have to prepare an apology plate or two.

At least he makes a cute clock. That’s what my date says when I explain the situation. He finds it charming, asks if I’m aware that Lucas’ rustic appearance clashes horribly with our “discount college fuck-boy” decor. I feel like an ass for laughing, but honestly, he’s right. The shitty furniture is all we can afford. Lucas’ owl is celebrating the sixth hour of the evening. If I look closely at that tiny wooden figure, would I see any laughter on its sharp face?

Well, is he gonna Netflix n’ chill with us, too, or should we take this to your room? My date asks this while tracing a hand down my chest. Again, I laugh. Lucas doesn’t seem the type to spring for that. Even if having a three-way with a clock (something I don’t want to entertain the logistics of) were possible , sex with long-term roommates often does not end well. I try hard not to look at the wall when I explain this.

My bedroom door closes snugly. Even so, I hear Lucas’ ticking well into the night. Over the chatter of the ridiculous B-movie we choose, between our whispers and gasps and the squeaking of springs…through it all, he ticks away.

By the time my date has fallen into sleep’s cradle, I’ve lost track of how many times that owl has called the hour. All I can do is relax in the glow of the television and the songs of my company.

Are you still there? asks the TV. The remote is beneath my date. I haven’t the heart to disturb him. His skin is cool, heartbeat strong through the hollow of his chest. Still, Lucas ticks above all.

I wonder…when the sun rises, what form will he take? A stubbornly firm pillow? A cracked armoire? Might he be capable of sharing breakfast with us? Or, perhaps, Lucas will tick on, announcing the passage of time well into daybreak, his feelings set aside.

Only time will tell.

N.V. Morris (he/they) is a queer writer working towards a career in wildlife conservation. Their work has appeared in Unfortunately Literary Magazine and the Las Positas College Journal of Art and Literature, Havik. They currently share their room with far too many creepy-crawly friends for their loved ones’ comfort.

Every year, Middle Daughter covers the altar with foods I loved when I was alive.

And every year, she discards the uneaten food each evening of the festival.

Youngest Granddaughter is concerned. “Why didn’t Papa eat?”

Middle Daughter tries to explain the ritual, but Youngest Granddaughter cannot grasp the concept.

I was greedy once. Now, I try to atone.

Youngest Granddaughter says, “We should give him something different.”

She leaves bowls beneath the altar since she can’t reach the top. Cereal and cracker crumbs. Dried out rice. Unwanted deli meat.

I wish I could eat her offerings, given out of love and concern. She believes my hunger is literal.

Families feed Hungry Ghosts for many reasons. One is so we will not possess the living.

The teachings were more specific once. We will not possess living humans.

Youngest Granddaughter does not know the difference between human and mouse bites.

“Mommy! Papa ate my turkey!” Youngest Granddaughter holds up a scrap of meat.

Middle Daughter’s response catches in her throat. She recognizes the bite marks. She stoops and finds the discarded food beneath the altar. And the mouse droppings. “We’ll put some turkey on top of the altar tomorrow, okay? No more food underneath.” She eyes the phone, thinking of exterminators.

Middle Daughter sees the ritual and the obligation. Youngest Granddaughter sees the magic. The latter is what matters.

Next time, I’ll possess the dog, who already eats from the table. How can he be blamed for following his nature?

Dawn Vogel has written for children, teens, and adults, spanning genres, places, and time periods. She is a member of SFWA and Codex Writers. She lives in Seattle with her awesome husband (and fellow author), Jeremy Zimmerman, and their cats. Visit her: historythatneverwas.com or Blue Sky @historyneverwas.

News of the madre plants began spreading that winter, shortly after the earthquake, when many of us in La Barranca were still living in tents. There was so much illness then: parasites that started in the belly and moved to the brain or the eyes if you were unlucky, diarrhea that could kill a child in a few hours, lesions that became infected and never dried out. Much of the city’s waste had always ended up in La Barranca, which sits at the lowest point of the city; as everyone knows, shit runs downhill. But the earthquake made it worse, because the city’s infrastructure—such as it was—had crumbled along with the buildings that ringed the outer barrios, buildings we had once aspired to live in. Then unseasonal rains had come, turning our footpaths into rivers of shit and mud. The smell was unbearable, even for us who had grown up accustomed to the scent of raw sewage. We no longer had doors to shut against it.

In some ways we recovered from the earthquake faster than others. Nothing in La Barranca was rebuilt, of course; aside from the tents and a few deliveries of water, we received no help from the government. Our homes—shacks of cinder block with corrugated tin roofs—remained in ruins, impossible to repair, and the stairs fastened to the steep side of the ravine connecting La Barranca to the city now held on by just a few pins. Yet we continued to climb the stairs, for we had no choice, and when the risk of tremors subsided, those of us who could move back into our ruined homes did. What I am trying to say is that while the rest of the city was still walking around with stunned expressions, we in La Barranca got on with it.

I worked as a gardener on the estate of Don Eugenio ‘El Diablo’ Garza Garcia. The job paid almost nothing, but it was better than breathing poisonous dust in the cement factory, or searching for work on a crew every morning and returning home empty handed every evening. My boss’ garden was an oasis surrounded by high walls, and I was left more or less alone. Within three days of the earthquake, I was picking shards of glass out of the bougainvillea and wiping away the thick layer of grit the tremor had shaken from the walls and deposited on the spiny, sword-like leaves of the agave. The power, of course, had been out across the city since the earthquake, yet the generators on my boss’s estate ran day and night. Among other things, Don Eugenio had been the mayor of the city, the governor of the state, and, after failing to be anointed heir to the president, the secretary of the environment. His family still owns the world’s biggest cement firm, including the local factory. Maybe it is the second biggest. The point is, he had connections.

On my second or third day back, my boss left his iPad open on the little iron table under the jacaranda where he took his morning coffee. I paused to glance at the home page of El Sol—the casualty reports, the estimated trillions of pesos in damage, the opposition party’s criticism of the government’s relief efforts—and a small article caught my eye. A farmer had discovered some strange plants growing outside of Santa Rosa, near the epicentre of the earthquake. The accompanying photo showed a plant that at first resembled a saguaro, but on closer inspection was different in several ways. The color—green—was too lurid and shiny, and instead of vertical ribs and needles, the plant was covered in knob-like nipples from which transparent tubes hung. A botanist quoted in the article said the plants were of “unknown origin.”

The plants interested me because I am a gardener. They interested my boss too, because the following day, from his spot under the jacaranda, he said, “Hey Juan, what do you make of this?” and showed me a headline on his iPad: Strange Plants Breathe Through Tubes. The article had the same picture from the day before. Now I was able to look at it more closely.

“All plants breathe,” I said. Still, I was perturbed.

That night I told your mother about the plants. When she heard what I had to say, she touched the medal of the Virgin she wears around her neck and said, “Maybe it is a sign.”

“Of what?” I asked.

But your mother just smiled.

No official name was given to the plants because, according to my boss, who sought me out for conversation more frequently in the days after the earthquake, scientists could not agree to what class or even to what phylum they belonged. El Sol referred to them as Los Cardones Santa Rosa, or as Santa Rositas, but when one of the tabloids—I think it was ¡Alarma!—published an article claiming one had given birth through a vagina-like gash in its side, many, including my boss, started referring to them as panochas, a vulgar word I do not like to say.

“Impossible,” I said to your mother. “Plants do not give birth like mammals.”

“The tabloids make things up,” your mother agreed. “But maybe they are not making this up.”

My boss had two bodyguards, a driver, and a boy who took care of the pool. Two women from La Barranca, Lety and Carmen, did the shopping, cooking, and cleaning, and sometimes your mother helped them on laundry day. My boss’ family—his blond, serious wife and his two adult children—lived mostly in Texas and hadn’t been present for the earthquake. It seemed unlikely they would return now. But my boss seldom left the estate. “He’s afraid of being arrested,” Lety whispered. “He’s afraid of being assassinated,” Carmen replied. Both seemed possible. One did not earn the nickname El Diablo without making enemies.

After a week or so, El Sol stopped publishing articles about the plants. I thought it must have been a hoax until my boss summoned me one morning as I was cutting back the oleanders. “Juanito,” he said, calling me by the diminutive of my name even though I am over fifty, “Come look at this.”

He showed me a video on his iPad. In it, a man wearing white coveralls and a face shield approached one of the plants. I had never seen one so clearly before and I watched with interest. The plant’s skin was so glossy it might have been plastic, like one of those fake cactuses outside of the El Taco Feliz on Hidalgo. But this was no plastic decoration. Its skin rippled like it was shivering, and it coiled and uncoiled its many tubes as if it were clenching them into fists. There was a protuberance on the plant’s side beneath one of its arms. As I watched, the protuberance grew and split open into a long abscess that glistened pink and yellow against the shiny green of the plant’s skin. A noise began coming from the tubes, a sort of whistling, like air sucked through teeth. The man in the video—an army medic, maybe—began to massage the abscess.

I understood immediately what was happening, for when your mother gave birth to our Angel, Doña Tonantzin kneaded your mother’s perineum with cooking oil to make it pliant and to help the baby come. I thought, That is what this medic is doing. The abscess widened, and the whistling of the tubes intensified. Now I could see something pushing out of the abscess, pale, green, and gelatinous.

The medic reached his gloved hand into the abscess and pulled out a slippery, comma-shaped creature, about the size of a small watermelon. He dropped it into a clear plastic box on the ground nearby and closed the lid. The camera zoomed in. The baby wriggled like a hooked fish. I could see the plant—the mother, I remember thinking—in the corner of the frame. The gash on its side, once taut, was wrinkled, and a milky substance dripped from it. Somehow, I felt certain it was dead.

“Well?” my boss said once the video ended. “What do you think?”

“I have never seen anything like it,” I replied.

Of course, I told Carmen and Lety about the video, and in the evening, I told your mother. It was then, I think, that she began calling the plants madres, and soon this is what others in La Barranca called them too.

That night, after a few sleepless hours tossing and turning, I wandered down to the waterfall to think. It was a clear night with a full, luminous moon, but even if it had been pitch black, I could have navigated the treacherous footpath easily, for I went to the waterfall often when I was troubled. I couldn’t stop thinking about the madre; its thin, anguished cries echoed in my head. Maybe I hoped the rushing water would drown them out.

Not many people know there is a waterfall in La Barranca. When I was a child, it was a magical place, surrounded by jacaranda, plum, and primavera trees. I used to swim in its pool with my cousins; we played Tarzan and Cheetah, taking turns being the bad guy—as if we knew what a bad guy was! But 25 years ago, the cement factory began dumping wastewater into the river and it was no longer safe to swim there. Then the site filled up with garbage: old furniture, smashed-up electronics, even dead dogs. Finally, someone put a fence around the pool and padlocked it shut. Many years ago, I cut the padlock and replaced it with my own. I was a little drunk and I’m not sure what I was thinking. Maybe that I’d try to clean it up. But there was so much garbage, and the water smelled so bad, that I never bothered. That night, I sat on my broken plastic chair, closed my eyes, and replayed the video in my head. I felt the madre had suffered and I felt sorry for it. Then my thoughts turned to Angel, to the day he was born and to the day he died. I wanted to get drunk, but I didn’t have anything to drink, so I just sat there thinking sad thoughts.

Anyway, I don’t know how my boss got that video but, like I said, he had connections. For a few days I could think of little else. Gradually, however, I was able to put the video to the back of my mind. I assumed that once the government finished studying the plants, they would share their findings and it would all make sense. But in the meantime, life went on. Carmen’s young niece caught dengue fever and died. My boss prepared to go on a trip.

Before leaving, he asked me if I knew how the baby madres—he called them panochitas—grew into adults.

“No, Don Eugenio,” I said politely.

“The panochita feeds on the corpse of its mother,” he said, grinning beneath his bushy mustache. “Then it picks a spot and burrows underground. A few hours later, presto! A new panocha emerges.”

Adlaid Dunlop was at chores when the soldiers came. That time of morning was the pigs, feeding them and cleaning the pens. With her arms and nose straining at a couple of overripe slop pails, she turned her head toward the road for a sniff of fresh air and espied the greycoats marching into her mountain village of Fifty Lashings, gunmetal swaying at their shoulders.

She ran into the house. “Mama, soldiers headed this way. Where’s Daddy?”

“He and Willy went to help switch the point on the Ralliths’ plow. Supposed to be back for supper.”

“You think they’re looking for war refusers?” asked Adlaid.

“Most likely, if they’re seeking anything besides our food. Henry!” her mother called to Adlaid’s nine-year-old brother, “Fetch some wood for the stove.” Her mother chopped some potatoes for the pot. “Maybe they’ll leave the rest alone and move on.”

But upon their arrival, the soldiers moved across the farmstead taking inventory of stores, animals, and people. Finished that, they crowded into the sitting room on the first floor of the Dunlop home, leaving their rifles propped against the plank walls.

“We’ll need our one part of ten,” said the lieutenant, a young man with cloudy gray eyes. He handed Adlaid’s mother a sheaf of scrip, useless for buying anything outside the cities. “The trip through the mountains depleted us, so thank you for your service to your country. Speaking of which, you told my sergeant you haven’t seen your husband in how long?”

“Since strawberry season,” said her mother. “He fixes tools and travels round. Never came home. We’ve been on our own since and now getting ready for winter. Might as well be a widow.” Her mother produced a tear, which Adlaid found a bit overwrought.

The lieutenant said, “Your mountain men play at war dodging and have no fellowship with their countrymen. I’m not one for wrath though. If Mr. Dunlop were to appear, we’d just induct him and move on.”

Her mother nodded. “I sure wish that fickle man did love his country.”

Adlaid rolled her eyes, just slightly.

“We stay overlong, and you might find these men eating into your winter stores.” Then, lower, the lieutenant added, “And maybe finding things they shouldn’t. That what doesn’t belong here.” Her mother’s eyes widened, but she remained silent and looked after the stewpot.

Adlaid’s mother served cider to the soldiers in their own tin cups. Her little brother Henry watched wide-eyed, hanging close to his mother except to fetch and refill cups. Adlaid had imagined soldiers joking, laughing, maybe telling dirty tales when women weren’t around, but hardly a word passed these men’s lips. Each sipped his cider, stiff-backed, gazes cast at the floor. A grey-haired corporal with an empty cup snapped his fingers at Henry or attempted so; the sound was more fingertips rubbing. Adlaid grabbed the pitcher from the boy’s trembling hand, filled the cup, and pushed it back at the corporal. A slosh hit his cuff, drawing a scowl, but Adlaid turned her back and walked to the door.

She put on her overcoat and work boots. The corporal followed, too closely and said, “Where you going, girl?”

Adlaid’s mother’s hands fluttered toward her chest. The sergeant cleared his throat. The corporal looked at the floorboards and shuffled aside. The lieutenant looked up and asked Adlaid, “So where are you off to?”

“I got to feed the pigs we still have,” said Adlaid. After a moment, she added, “and the ones you took will be hungry, too.”

The lieutenant turned a faint smile. “Considerate of you.” He gestured at the door. “Don’t take a chill. If you happen to find your daddy, tell him to come on in. The war wants fighting, even from mountain men who want to hide from it.” He turned to Adlaid’s mother, a grin pulling lips from teeth, “I’m afraid I forgot to tell you that this cider is splendid. You make it with apples from that orchard I saw coming up the road?”

Her mother issued some terse but polite answer as Adlaid opened the door. A step over the threshold, Adlaid slipped a hand into her coat pocket, and her fingers came to rest against a coin, an iron viaticum her mother had given her the year she’d first bled. She’d retrieved it earlier from behind a wallboard in her room just before the sergeant had knocked at the door. The viaticum had been long ago blackened with a mixture of beeswax and linseed oil to protect it from rust. According to her mother, all viatica coins had crossed the oceans on the ships that had borne all their Yaghda race to this country, clenched in the fists of Yaghda women in the hold. From the coin flowed memories of Dunlop homelife: flour-caked pieces of chicken, crackling and adance in the fry-pot; her daddy’s cheek, rasping against hers as he tucked her in; stripes of fire across her backside and her eyes stinging with salt tears, but her face sticky and sweet with an apple pie ill-gotten.

Adlaid pushed her mind free of the iron’s reverie, and turned back once toward her mother’s sitting room, toward unspeaking men and unwashed bodies in a closed space. She stepped outside and pulled tight the door.

Children rarely deal in the abstract, and you are no exception. You know Love in the way Mother runs her fingers through your braided locks, and you know Beauty through her, too—hair smooth and black as the river at night, skin bronze like the fields of sand that stretch as far as the eye can see.

“When I grow up, Mother,” you declare, “I would like to be as you are.”

---

You remember only bits and pieces of Father, fragments that, when slotted together, never quite make a coherent whole. But you never do try very hard, for there is little to desire outside the life Mother has crafted for you. Mornings, you feed the chickens and tend your garden. There is lemongrass, of course, and peppers and snow peas and scallions. But it is the flowers you care for. Mother points to each of them in turn.

“Sun Lily. Empress’s Thistle. Blue Mayapple… If you sing for them, they will sing for you.”

---

When you are old enough, Mother teaches you your characters. But you already know Horse and Jar and Empress’s Thistle, just as you know Love and Beauty. You know how they taste, you know how they sound, you know how they feel to the touch.

But Mother only smiles away your objections and says, “To capture a moment in words is to preserve it in resin.”

Paper and brush, stick and stone. Around and around you go. Your wrist hurts; you develop a crick in your neck. You have not the patience for these exercises of tedium. But you weather them all for Mother… and the trips that are promised at the close of each. Your lesson of the day over, Mother takes you to the edge of the forest, where a great banyan stands. Again and again, you climb its knotted limbs, lose your grip, and scrape your knees against the tree’s rough bark. But you are a daring child, with limitless energy, and it is not long before you manage to scale the first juncture.

---

You live with Mother in a cottage on the outskirts of a small village. Visitors rarely grace your doorstep. But it is neither fear nor scorn that deters villagers, merchants, and travelers alike; there is simply nothing to gain from venturing this far west, where the road eventually gives way to legions of shifting sand.

And yet, he comes. He, with his long, black locks and skin like white jade.

The first time you see his footprints in the dirt, you do not know what to do with yourself. For you know little of boys and even less of men. But you know flowers, and he picks them for you, white ones that perfume the room you share with Mother.

“Like honey,” you say.

“Like honey,” Mother agrees.

And you find, suddenly, that you have little need for anything else. The flowers in Mother’s garden pale in comparison, and as for the great banyan—you feel certain your conquest of it has finally come to an end. So you scrub the dirt from beneath your fingers; you spend hours oiling your knees to a shine; you avoid the sun like the plague.

---

Your wedding is a joyous occasion. Mother braids your hair and drapes you in robes red as the blood that spills from the pig they slaughter in your honor. That night, you lie beside him in that grand, old house of his and, long after he has drifted off, relive again and again your sweet love making. You knew what to do, then. Knew the way a body can come undone.

---

Mother came with you to live in this grand, old house. It is some consolation. The place is like a maze. There are more rooms than you ever could have thought possible, and you spend the first few days losing your way to the kitchen, thinking wistfully of the little cottage and the little life Mother spun for you.

But there is a pleasure, too—a certain thrill, of slipping from one echoing hall to the next, knowing all the while that this is yours.

---

It is a mild winter. The snow, when it arrives, does not remain for long. At breakfast, you serve Husband first, then pour cups of tea for Mother and yourself. You wait, patiently, for Husband to raise the cup to his lips, and only then do you inquire, “Have you seen my mother?”

Steam turns his eyes opaque. “She is out there, in the garden.”

You are seconds from taking your first sip of tea when Husband speaks once more. “You are fortunate not to have taken after her.”

When the steam clears, you follow the direction of his gaze out the window, and gasp. For you find that he is quite right; with her thin, scraggly hair, pockmarked skin, and dark, sunken eyes, Mother is a hideous sight. How in the world did you fail to notice? Heat creeps up your neck and floods your cheeks. How long have you been sharing your home with a monster?

At dinner that evening, Mother recounts a chance meeting in the garden with a curious squirrel.

“I thought they’d all gone to sleep for the winter. You should have seen him!” Mother chuckles. “I swear, he was as intelligent as any human child. He had such shen.”

“You shouldn’t laugh quite so much,” you blurt out. “Your teeth are rotting where they hang.”

Mother falls still. Husband brings a bowl of steaming rice to his lips. In the quiet that follows, you sigh your relief.

---

The midwife prescribes you a diet of bitter teas and broths.

“Nothing cold,” she warns, “unless you wish to be barren as the sand fields to the west.”

You grimace as the last spoonful of soup slides down your throat. You can feel Mother’s eyes on you. You wish she wouldn’t. She holds a hand over her lips. She has taken to doing so on the few occasions you speak.

“What?” Husband interrupts. “Mother, I cannot understand you. You must speak up.”

Mother wishes to tell us that the flowers have bloomed before their time, you think of saying. Instead, you fix your gaze on the opposite wall and reply, “It is nothing, Husband. It is nothing worth repeating.”