“Can you imagine? They were the spirits of Mama Tani’s firstborn children, a boy and a girl whom she had caused to sicken and die—all so she could hoard the sympathy of the women in her old village. She’d traveled far from that place and it had taken many years for the ghost children to find her, but once they had, they’d done all they could to keep Mama Tani’s new family safe. They’d shattered the jars where Mama Tani hid her poisons. They’d spilled the tainted porridge and kept her new children from sleep when they knew Mama Tani would sneak in to burn herbs to inflame their lungs. They’d even broken the plow, so that their father would have to remain home more often and not leave them alone with their mother. Well, Mama Tani’s living children told their father all this, and though he was skeptical, he agreed to send a messenger to the village the ghost children had named. By the time the messenger returned to tell them that everything the ghosts had said was true, Mama Tani was long gone. This goes to show you that sometimes the unseen is not to be feared and that those meant to love us most are not always the ones who do.”
Again, without meaning to, Ayama had spoken of her own sadness, and again, the beast was quiet for a long time.
“What happened to Mama Tani?” he asked at last.
Ayama had no idea. She hadn’t quite thought that far. “Who can say? Bad fates do not always follow those who deserve them.” Even in the dim light, she could see the beast frown. She cleared her throat and smoothed the brim of her hat. “But I believe she was eaten by coyotes.”
The beast nodded in satisfaction, and Ayama huffed a little sigh of relief.
“I will trouble your fields no longer,” said the beast. “Take a sprig of quince from the thorn wood and bear it with you through the wild lands. Go now and do not return.” There might have been something mournful in his voice, or perhaps it was just his growl.
Ayama plucked a slender branch of blossoms from the thicket and left the glade behind. When she looked back, she saw the beast still sitting on his haunches, his red eyes watching her, and for a moment, Ayama thought, Why not stay a bit longer? Why not rest awhile here? Why not tell another story?
Instead she made her way out of the wood and back across the hot plains. She tucked the sprig of quince flowers into her braids, and it was as if she carried the cool leaves and the shade of the wood with her.
This time when she reached the town, the people saw the white blossoms in her hair and did not pinch Ayama or shout at her. Instead they gave her sweet water and led her quietly to the palace, showing her new deference, for she was no longer just a kitchen girl, but the girl who had twice faced a monster and twice survived.
When she was taken before the king, Ayama told him of the beast’s vow and the prince said, “Extraordinary! We shall raise a statue in this girl’s honor and celebrate her birth there every year.”
Ayama thought that was a fine proclamation, but what she really wanted was to sit down and take off her shoes. She supposed if the prince had bothered asking, he would know that. But he was not as fond of questions as his brother.
The queen took the reddening blossoms of quince in her hands, and once more said to her husband, “You must honor your promise.”
So the king ordered that the best lands of his finest estate be granted to Ayama’s family and that all their belongings be moved there by his servants.
But when Ayama thought to make her curtsy and go, the king said, “Does the monster trust you, girl?”
By this time, Ayama had grown used to speaking her thoughts and rather loudly, so she said, “There is a great difference between not eating a person and trusting a person.” Besides, she thought it would be better for everyone if the beast were left to himself in the thorn wood.
But as had been the case for most of Ayama’s life, despite the strength of her voice, the king either did not listen or did not hear.
“You will take a knife into the thorn wood,” he commanded. “You will slay this beast so that we may all live in peace and safety. If you do this, then you will marry my son, the prince, and I will grant your family title so none but those who bear my own name shall be higher in the land.”
The prince looked somewhat startled but did not object.
“No blade can pierce your second son’s skin,” Ayama protested. “I have seen it for myself.”
As the queen wrung the silk of her skirt in her lap, the king called for a servant and an iron-colored box was brought forward.
The king lifted the lid and drew a strange knife from it. Its handle was bone but its blade was the same murky gray as the box—and the thorn wood. “This blade was crafted by a powerful zowa maker and wrought from the very thorns of the quince tree. Only it can kill him.”
The queen turned her face away.
Ayama hoped her family would speak and say she need not return to the thorn wood, for they had a fine home and Kima already had a rich dowry. But no one spoke, not even Ma Zil, who had promised that adventures only happened to pretty girls.
Ayama did not want to take the knife, but she did. It was light as a dry seedpod. It seemed wrong that death should feel like nothing in her hands.
“Return with the beast’s heart and all will pay you homage and you will want for nothing in this life,” said the king.
Ayama had no wish to be a princess. She had no wish to slay the beast. But for a girl who had spent her life ignored and unwanted, this was no small offer.
“I will agree to this,” she said finally. “But if I do not return, Kima must wed the prince, and my family must still receive their reward.”
She could see the king did not like the terms of this trade. Though he wanted the beast dead, he’d thought to make her risk her life cheaply. But in the end, what choice did he have? He agreed to Ayama’s demands and she tucked the knife into her apron.
All her family’s belongings were carried to their splendid new home. Her father cried out with happiness and her mother turned in circles in the garden, looking out at the fields that went on and on, as if she could scarcely believe that all of it was now hers. Only Kima clutched Ayama’s hand and said, “Sister, you do not have to go. We are rich now thanks to your bravery. We have land and servants. No prince is worth your life.”
Ayama supposed it depended on the prince.
Ma Zil said nothing.
That night, Ayama slept poorly. Her new bed felt too soft after the hard stones of the old hearth. She rose before dawn, when the rest of the house was still asleep, put on her sky-colored apron, and settled her hat upon her head. Into her pocket, she tucked her axe and her copper cup. Then Ayama touched her fingers once to the jagged blade of the knife, slipped it into her apron, and for the last time, she set out across the wild lands.
Perhaps because her dread was so great, the trek through the barren plains seemed to last no time at all. Too soon she was plunging through the iron-colored thicket and into the shade of the wood. Starlight fell upon her skin, so sweet and cool and welcoming she might have wept for it. She told herself that once the beast was dead, she could return to the wood, that she might bring Kima, or simply come here on her own whenever she grew weary. But she wasn’t sure that was true. Would the thorn wood still stand without the beast? Had it always been here or had it come into being just to shelter him? And what would she do in all the silence without someone to tell stories to?
The beast was waiting in the glade.
“Are you so eager to be eaten?” he asked.
Ayama was careful to choose only words that were true. “I thought you might like to hear another story more than you might like to eat another meal.”
So she and the beast settled by the stream, and in the silver light of the glade, Ayama began her final tale.
THE THIRD TALE