Blythewood (13 page)

“A nut I throw into the flame,
to it I give my sweetheart’s name.
However flares this nut’s bright glow
so may my sweetheart’s passion grow.”

Daisy looked hesitantly down at the shiny brown nut in
her hand, her cheeks turning pink.
Did
she have a sweetheart?
Curling her fingers into a tight fist she recited the rhyme dutifully, as she might have said her Latin declensions, and then
flung the nut into the fire as if it were already burning her hand.
We all leaned forward to stare at Daisy’s nut where it lay among
the coals. Within moments it began to glow.

“A nice steady glow, Daze!” Helen exclaimed. “That means
your beloved has a true heart and will be faithful to you. Come
on, do tell, who is he?”

“Roger Appleby,” Daisy whispered, her eyes lit up by the
flames. “He works in the Kansas City Savings and Loan.”
“Well, I bet he’s thinking of you right now. Who’s next?
What about you, Beatrice?”
“As I mentioned,” Beatrice said solemnly, “my sister and I
have sworn off romantic—” Before Beatrice could finish, her
sister Dolores snatched a hazelnut from Helen’s hand and
lobbed it into the fire, silently mouthing the poem. The hazelnut instantly burst into flames.
“Aha!” Helen crowed as Beatrice stared appalled at her sister. “I knew it! Let me guess, you’re in love with a Russian count
who was forced to go back to his motherland but promised one
day to return to you!”
Dolores covered her mouth to hide a smile and emitted
an incongruous-sounding giggle. Beatrice grabbed a nut and
tossed it disdainfully into the fire, where it was immediately
lost in the flames. “Ah,” Helen said wisely, “you will fall in love
with a man who goes missing in war. It will be a grand passion
that nearly kills you, but that in the end makes you stronger.
You will do great things in his memory.”
“Well,” Beatrice sniffed, looking secretly pleased, “I suppose the doing great things part might be true.”
“My turn,” Cam said, flinging a nut into the fire so forcefully that it bounced off the fire screen and fell into the half-full
pail of milk.
“Ah, you know what that means, don’t you?”
Cam shook her head.
“It means you’ll refuse all offers for your hand in order to
devote yourself to a very important cause, but just when everybody has given you up for an ancient spinster you’ll have a wild
and dramatic affair.”
Cam hugged her knees to her chest and stared. “Really?
Will it be a happy love affair?”
“No,” Helen said, touching her hand, “but it will be heroic.”
Cam nodded solemnly. “Like Abelard and Heloise?”
“Exactly.”
Cam bit her lip and looked strangely pleased. Helen, I saw,
knew exactly what to tell each girl. I wondered what story she
would spin for me. I certainly didn’t believe there was anything
to this silly game. At least that’s what I told myself as I took one
of the last two nuts from Helen’s hand.
I didn’t even have a sweetheart to think about. I supposed
I could think about Nathan Beckwith, but as I said the rhyme,
an image of the dark-eyed, dark-winged boy rose in my head. I
saw his face hovering above mine, felt his strong arms wrapped
around me, heard the thunder of wings beating overhead . . .
I tossed the nut into the fire. It landed on top of the flaming
logs. For a moment it lay still and dark, and then it split in two,
each half catching fire and soaring upward on a gust of flame so
that for a moment it looked like two wings spreading out over
the fire.
“Oh my!” Daisy said. “Does that mean that Ava is going to
fall in love with an aviator?”
“Perhaps it means she will
be
an aviatrix,” Beatrice said.
“Like Miss Harriet Quimby.”
“Oh, she’s marvelous! The Aero Club of America awarded
her a pilot’s certificate this summer. The first time ever it was
given to a woman!” Cam said. “Pa says if I do well in school he’ll
buy me an airplane.”
Cam and Beatrice began a spirited debate about how exciting it would be to fly a plane. I was glad to have attention diverted away from me, but I noticed that Helen kept looking at
me strangely. And I noticed that she never threw her hazelnut
into the fire.

WE STAYED UP talking and drinking cocoa until the eleven
o’clock bells alerted us that it was time for lights out. Cam and
the twins went back to their room and we got into our beds. I
thought it would take me a long time to fall asleep in this strange,
new place with its odd rituals and the murmur of two strangers
talking quietly to one another. I felt a pang that since I’d gotten
the bed farthest away I was excluded from their conversation.
Helen had seemed friendly enough at first, but would she freeze
me out now that she thought I liked Nathan Beckwith? Would
she take sides with Daisy against me? I’d read about such things
in Miss Moore’s books. If only my hazelnut hadn’t exploded
quite so vehemently—like flaming wings.

As I drifted into sleep I felt myself falling. Then I was
caught up in the arms of the dark-winged boy, as if he’d been
there waiting for me all along. We climbed through the clouds
into the pure blue ether of the upper stratosphere. His face was
limned with a halo of red from the setting sun, as were his great
dark wings. We were climbing toward the sun.

Too close to the sun
. I remembered the old story of Icarus,
the boy who flew too close to the sun. His wax wings melted
and he plummeted to earth and died for daring to reach too
high.
Stop!
I wanted to scream, but he couldn’t hear me above
the sound of his wings beating the air. He was flying straight
into a raging inferno. Each feather was tipped with fire now, a
fire that spread with each beat of his powerful wings. I felt the
heat on my face, heard the roar of the fire, the glare of flames
blinding me . . .

I awoke blinking into a bright flame floating above me, a
face haloed by light. But it wasn’t my dark-winged boy. It was a
tall girl in a white dress holding a lantern, her long hair falling
loosely around her shoulders.

“Avaline Hall, if you would be one of us, arise now and
come with me to join your sisters.”
“What?” I asked groggily. “I thought we already did the initiation at dinner.” Had they discovered I was the one who had
made the bell ring? Were they offering me another chance to
belong? If that was it, I should be getting up to take their offer but all I wanted to do was close my eyes and go back to my
dream, to be carried away by my dark-winged boy.
“Ava!” Helen’s voice hissed. “Wake up! It’s the Blythewood
initiation. We have to go!”
I opened my eyes again and saw Helen and Daisy standing
in their nightgowns behind the tall girl holding the lantern.
“Here.” Helen shoved a pair of slippers at me. “Wear these—
my cousin warned me about this, so I’ve got an extra pair.”
She could have told me earlier, I thought crankily as I reluctantly sat up and stuffed my feet into Helen’s too-small
slippers. Did I have time to put on clothes? But our escort was
already urging us out into the hall, where I saw other blearyeyed nestlings in nightgowns stumbling behind girls with lan

terns. Beatrice and Dolores, their braids hanging down to their
knees, were huddled closely together. Cam, her hair sticking up
in spikes, looked like a newly hatched chick eager for her first
flight, but Daisy, I noticed, looked frightened.

“It’s all right,” I whispered, taking her by the arm. “It’s
probably just another silly oath taking. We’ll read some ghastly
rhyme, spin around three times, and be back in bed before we
know it.”

Daisy gave me a tentative smile, but still looked frightened.
I had to admit it was an eerie sight: two dozen girls, all in white
nightgowns, following the seven lantern-bearing sentinels. It
reminded me of the scene in Mr. Wells’ novel
The Time Machine
when the peaceful Eloi deliver themselves over to the flesh-eating Morlocks. I became even more worried when we reached
the first floor and instead of passing into the Great Hall were
led outside into a moonlit world of mist and shadow.

The lantern bearers walked through the fog as if they
would know their way blindfolded. I noticed now that they
also bore bows and quivers strapped over their shoulders.
The
Dianas
, I realized; ushering the nestlings to initiation must be
part of their duty. We followed them, any hesitation quickly replaced by the fear of losing sight of the lanterns, the only light
once the fog enveloped us.
River fog
, I thought, remembering
the thick mist that had covered River Road on my journey
from the station.

I recalled the story Gillie had told me of the bell maker’s
seven daughters and the journey they had made through the
fog-ridden woods—a wood much like the one we entered now.
Ghostly trees loomed out of the mist, branch tips reaching out
like skeletal fingers. We were entering the woods on the north
side of the school . . . or were we? Gillie had said that fairies sent
a fog like this to lure unwary travelers into fairy land. Perhaps
the lights that floated before us were not the lanterns held by
the Dianas, but will-o’-the-wisps luring us into bogs to drown.
Perhaps the rustling I heard in the underbrush came from the
shadow wolves that preyed on the bell maker’s daughters.

“Where are they taking us?” I whispered to Helen, who
hung on to Daisy’s other arm.
“To the Rowan Circle,” Helen whispered back. “My cousin
told me about it. There’s a clearing there surrounded by rowan trees. Look—” Helen reached out her hand and plucked a
branch seemingly from the fog itself. She handed it to me and I
could see that the branch was heavy with red berries. My mother had told me something about rowan trees once.
I lifted my eyes from the branch to ask Helen if she knew,
but the question died on my lips as I saw what lay in front of us:
a clearing ringed round with flames. For a moment I thought
the woods were on fire, until I saw that the flames came from
torches plunged into the earth. Beside each torch stood a dark,
robed figure. As the last girls entered the circle each figure lifted
an arm and held aloft something that gleamed in the firelight.
A peal of bells sounded through the fiery circle, playing a
tune I hadn’t heard before, a mournful dirge like something
medieval church towers would have rung to announce the coming of the plague. The very fog seemed to flee before the sound,
creeping out of the circle and into the woods, uncovering as
it went a solitary hooded figure standing in the center of the
circle. When the bells had ceased the figure lowered her hood.
Dame Beckwith, her silver hair billowing loosely about her
face like a swath of fog that had wound itself about her head,
turned in a slow circle to look at each of us. In the firelight her
pale gray eyes shone yellow, like the eyes of an owl sweeping
the forest floor for prey. When she had made a complete circuit,
she spoke.
“Girls,” she said, her voice ringing with the same carrying
force of the bells, “you have come here tonight to be initiated
into the mystery of Blythewood. In a moment I will tell you a
story that will change the way you see the world and alter the
course of your life. We have tried to ensure that only those who
are strong enough to face this moment have made it this far. I believe that every one of you has it in her to be a Blythewood Girl.”
She turned again, resting her eyes on each of us. “But I have
been wrong before, and there may be some among us who are
not ready to commit to this undertaking. It is not a covenant
to enter into lightly. Much will be asked of you. You may find
yourself in grave danger. Although we will train you to face the
dangers ahead, even the best trained among us have been lost.”
Her voice wavered and I imagined she was thinking about
the girl who had disappeared. In the flickering torchlight her
face seemed to quiver, as if a gauzy veil had been dragged across
her features. But when the flame steadied her face appeared
calm and she continued in a sure and measured voice.
“If any of you wish to leave now, you may. You will go home
on tomorrow’s train with no reproach from me or from any of
us here. Many are called, but few are chosen. To make it easier for those who wish to leave, you may do so under cover of
darkness.”
At her signal the torches and lanterns were extinguished
and the circle was plunged into darkness. I heard the rustle of
one or two girls leaving, accompanied by one of the Dianas,
who lit her lantern once they were outside of the circle. As I
watched the light of that lantern fade into the fog, I thought of
going myself. It would only be a matter of time before it became
obvious that I did not belong here. I wasn’t like the other girls
with their smooth hands and carefree smiles. I could feel my
difference—my
wrongness
—like an itch on my skin that threatened to spread into an ugly rash for everybody to see. Wouldn’t
it be better to skulk off in the dark before anyone could see how
different I was?
But then I thought about what Agnes had said to me before
I left—that coming to Blythewood would be my only way of
finding out what happened to my mother and who my father
was. Dame Beckwith had told Nate that my mother had disappeared once while at Blythewood. I burned to know where she
had gone, what had transpired, and how she’d returned, as it
sounded like the other vanished girls hadn’t. Perhaps if I could
find out the truth about my mother’s past, I would understand
her life and why it turned out the way it had.
Thinking about my mother gave me the strength to stay.
After all, whatever was going to happen to me at Blythewood,
she had gone through it once, too.
When the sound of retreating footsteps had faded, the
torches were relit and Dame Beckwith began her story.
“This is not a tale told round the fireside to delight and entertain,” she began. “This is a story of the very real dark things
that lurk in the shadows and the sacrifices each and every one
of us—” She laid her hand over her breast and I thought I heard
a slight catch in her voice. What had
she
sacrificed? I wondered.
But when she went on her voice was steady. “Must make to keep
those shadows from destroying all that is good.
“Our story begins with the tale of the bell maker’s daughters . . .”
Oh good
, I thought, as I listened to the story Gillie had told
me earlier today,
I know this already
. But she didn’t stop with
Merope’s abduction.
“After their sister was taken from them, the six daughters
brought the seven bells to the prince’s tower at the edge of the
woods. The shadow wolves followed them.”
She paused, letting that last sentence sink in. I remembered
Gillie had said the shadow wolves were made of the bits and
scraps of what was left of the dead. Outside the circle, the gray
fog billowed like floodwater held back by an invisible dike. One
could imagine creatures like the shadow wolves taking shape
inside it, but it was just a story. Wasn’t it?
“By the time they reached the prince’s tower they were surrounded by the shadow wolves and other creatures who had
come out of the woods, because in those woods lay a door—a
door to hell, some might call it, although some of a more fanciful mind might call it Faerie.”
It was obvious what Dame Beckwith thought of those possessed of a fanciful mind. I felt a pang at the thought of my
mother and her love of fairy tales. Was this story supposed to
cure us of a childish love of stories? If so, I was doubly sure I’d
never fit in here. Besides a stray feather and an empty laudanum
bottle, the tales my mother had told me were all I had left of her.
“But let me assure you,” Dame Beckwith continued, “that
the creatures who came through that door, though they may
have looked innocent, were not. They were bloodthirsty scavengers that preyed on humankind. They stole babies from
their cribs and wives from their husband’s beds and replaced
them with changelings. They assumed pleasing shapes to seduce women and then drained them of their vitality and beauty,
leaving dry, withered husks behind. They lured unwary travelers to their deaths and pulled fisherman from their boats down
into the bottom of the sea. They waged war on humankind and
would have destroyed us all if they were not stopped.
“The sisters found that if they rang the bells correctly they
could keep the creatures away. By trial and error—grievous error that cost many lives—the sisters learned how to ring the
bells not only to repel these beings but to summon them. You
see, it is not enough to merely evade evil. One must seek it out
and destroy it. And so the sisters learned how to lure the demons into traps and how to shoot them down with arrows.
They founded the Order of the Bells to pass down their skills to
the next generation. The good knights who served them were
the first knights of the Order and have faithfully served them
since. Together the sisters and the knights brought the Order
to wherever the evil creatures dwelled and fought them back.
They fought so well that the doors to Faerie fell into disuse and
closed. The old ways were forgotten by all but a very few. Many
thought the war was over and that evil had been defeated. But
evil is never entirely vanquished; it just goes underground and
emerges somewhere else.”
She held out her arms by her sides, her fingers splayed wide.
“It bubbled up here,” she said, raising her arms. The fog outside
the circle seemed to rise with the motion. I felt a tingle at the
back of my neck and I began to realize that this wasn’t a story
that took place once upon a time in a faraway land. This was a
story about
here
and
now
.
“The remnants of the Order heard of evil rising up on
America’s shores. They scoured the country looking for the
root of that evil, and when they found it, they knew what they
had to do. At great personal cost and danger they brought the
bells—and the bell tower that held them—stone by stone to
Blythewood. The evil creatures that came through the door
were so threatened by the bells that they summoned a storm to
destroy the boats carrying them. Many lives were lost battling
the dark forces. Sacrifices were made. But the Order prevailed
and we established a stronghold here on the banks of the Hudson and on the edges of hell.
“That is the tradition to which you girls are heirs. That is
the mystery of Blythewood. Tonight you will be welcomed into
the Order of the Bells.”
The chime of bells filled the circle. The peal the hooded figures played was surprisingly sprightly after Dame Beckwith’s
frightening speech. Perhaps it was a fairy tale after all, a parable meant to teach us a lesson, and now we’d sing a song to
celebrate our union. My body swayed and my feet tapped. On
either side of me I felt Daisy and Helen caught up in the tune,
too. It made you want to dance, to fling yourself into a circle.
But then the hooded figures raised their torches and we saw
what ringed our circle.
A multitude of faces peered in at us. My first thought was
that they were children—wide-eyed, elfin-faced starvelings.
I’d seen faces like this staring out of tenement windows on the
Lower East Side, children so malnourished their bones stuck
out and their eyes were too big for their faces, but I’d never seen
children who had starved until their ears were pointy, or their
faces wrinkled like old men, or their feet cloven. Or ones who
had grown long rat-like tails.
“
What are they?
” Daisy whispered, her fingers digging into
my arm.
“I don’t know,” I managed, my throat so tight it hurt to
speak. “They look like . . .”
“
Goblins
,” Helen hissed. “Goblins and elves and fairies. It’s
true. I’d heard the stories but I didn’t believe them.”
I stared at the creatures, desperately looking for some other
explanation. They had to be children in costumes cleverly made
up to look like the fairy creatures that decorated the margins of
the storybooks my mother had read me. One of the creatures
pressed itself up against the edge of the circle, its fox-like face
sniffing low to the ground, a ridge of brindled fur raised along
its spine, long tail twitching in frustration. Some invisible barrier seemed to be keeping it out of the circle. It lifted its sharp
nose, sniffed, and licked its lips with a dark-blue tongue the
length of my forearm.
Daisy screamed. The creature arched its back and snarled,
baring sharp, pointy teeth. Its delicate pale blue ears quivered.
“Some of them look almost human, don’t they?”
Dame Beckwith’s voice seemed to float over the circle. My
eyes were glued to the creature—
the goblin,
I said to myself,
scarcely believing it. It was just like the ones in Miss Rossetti’s
poem: