“Aunt Bett isn’t home, and Marylou’s at her club meeting. Where’s your key?”
“I don’t—I don’t have it.”
“You’re lying.” He looked down at her, a piercing look, then he pressed her hard against the rail and was kissing her over and over—and she eager with it, kissing him back hungrily so a blackness folded around them, engulfing them.
Then someone was jerking them apart: she was pulled roughly away from Jack and spun around to face Aunt Bett’s fury. Aunt Bett pushed her aside and slapped Jack across the face. And the black power that had possessed Bethany burst like a nauseous bubble so she stood there limp, and petrified with shame.
Aunt Bett said no word. She opened the door and marched Bethany in. Inside the house she remained silent, looking coldly at Bethany until Bethany fled to her room.
She stood leaning against the door, cold and sick. At last she knelt on the floor, her face pressed against her bed. When the sickness had left her, she curled up on the floor like a hurt animal. Had she been only herself when she kissed Jack? She could still feel the wild rebellious spirit of someone else—someone young, someone angry and lost and young.
When she woke, she smelled dinner cooking. She lay staring at the carpet and the hem of the bedspread, wondering why she had gone to sleep on the floor, then knowing why and feeling utterly desolate once more. At last she rose to her knees and began, hesitantly at first and then in a frenzy, to rummage under her bed for the carton that held her childhood belongings. She dug frantically among the toys until the wooden box lay in her hands and the two birds caught the light. It was the box the Zagdesha had held; she opened it and dumped its contents in her lap as if it might contain something that could tell her. But there were only some pencil stubs, three small glass horses wrapped in cotton, and a clam shell.
At last when she had put everything back, jumbled the box in with the toys, and shoved the carton as far under her bed as she could, she lay in bed huddled and cold and, when the night came, pretending sleep. Marylou came and went, she could hear the rattle of dishes, and dishwater running, then later the silence of the sleeping house. She was utterly alone, revolted at what she had felt within herself, terrified at what she had encountered in that bizarre room; but the most horrible thing of all was the reality of the box. It proved something unprovable, something she could not begin to understand. She could only lie there numb and miserable, seeing again and again, and trying not to see, the black void, the hands, the box. And hearing Selma say, “Her face was yours, Bethany. Was your face—was your face—”
When first light came, she dressed and went alone through the empty village to the church. The door was unlocked and she knelt in a pew close to the statue of Christ. She wished she could cleanse herself and perhaps find some ease. She sat in the pew weeping weakly; and when she tried to hold her hands in prayer, they shook so that she had to press them hard to her mouth to steady herself.
She stayed in the church for a long time, but no peace came. She went away at last, depressed and shaken, and stood on the steps in the harsh, bright wind. She was so tired. She wanted to sit for a while on a bench with her eyes closed and let the sun warm her as she had seen old people do, but the wind was too chill; she went, at last, through the village to the dunes and out onto them alone.
She didn’t believe in the Zagdesha, she had never believed in it. And yet she knew that whatever had possessed her had been real beyond anything she had ever known. It can’t have been my box, she thought wildly. It can’t have been! Then, she can’t have looked like me! She wanted to run and never stop running, but she was so tired. She yearned to go to the grass tower, and yet the thought terrified her. The wind was cold, biting at her. She wanted Reid, she wanted to be comforted. She wanted his steady common sense, she wanted him to tell her it was all right, that it could be explained and she mustn’t be frightened. But then she remembered they had fought. She went at last to the meadows and wandered along the edge of a little marsh getting her feet soaked, her arms wrapped around herself and her head down, watching the intricate, changing patterns that her feet made as they pressed the marsh grasses into the amber water. When she looked up at last, she was surprised to see how dark the sky had grown. And she was warm, so warm; she was standing on the balcony, deliriously warm and her feet dry, and holding the wooden box. She stared at the carved birds as if they could move and speak to her; the evening wind murmured in the tree, and all across the city, lights were coming on; orange plumes of sunset flared in the sky, and the breeze was silken. When she turned at last to go into the bedroom, it was with a strong sense of peace, and with a heady feeling of triumph, too, though she did not know why —then her thoughts fuzzed and the room she entered spun, the colors jarring so the light around her warped. She didn’t know where she was. Go back! Go back! She thought. But she didn’t know what was meant by that— When at last the room steadied, she set the box on the dresser and stood staring at herself in the mirror. She could smell plantain cooking, Corrinne was frying plantain. She was wearing her white slip, it was getting too small, she would— But it was not her mirror, not her room! Her curiosity flared, and was stifled by a shattering fear; she whirled wildly to stare at the unfamiliar room:. I don’t belong here! She flung open the door, ran down the hall, and fled down the long curving stairs, terrified.
She heard a door open above her and quickly she pulled the heavy bolt on the front door and ran into the street. Behind her a woman’s voice began calling, but she could not make out the words. She started to run—the city was strange and frightening—people stared, then moved away from her… .
… she was running in a meadow. The wind was harsh in her face, and her shoes were soaking from the marshy ground.
She stopped, panting with fear.
This was not her world either! This world, into which she had fallen, it was not hers. She turned in panic— then she saw the dunes, the familiar dunes. The wind was blowing across them catching up the sand, and she collapsed, sobbing, on the mud.
Much later she sat up, knowing she must find out. She thought of going home and looking at the box again, but that would tell her nothing. She knew what she must do.
Light-headed from hunger, and with the dusk coming down, she started toward the village. The wind pelted her with sand, jerked at her hair and her clothes and laid the grass of the meadow flat before her. In the village the wind rattled the eucalyptus trees and beat at the plate glass windows so their reflections warped and flowed like water.
She stood for a moment uncertain, then went on toward the Church of the Zagdesha.
At last she stood inside, in darkness. She felt her way clumsily, and found and lit the candles. Then she put on the black robe. She started to fill the chalice with wine, then stopped. Was this necessary? She was afraid not to do it, and yet the thought of filling the chalice made her skin crawl. She set the bottle down and stood facing the room. How empty it was, how dank and chill. She tried to make herself begin the ritual, but she was afraid. She stared numbly at the empty benches, at the candles before her. I can’t, she thought. What am I doing here? But she knew that she would do it, though all the fear of the unknown, of the things of the unknown, swept over her. If she didn’t do it, she would never know, she could never be free. Already something seemed to be reaching out to her; the urging was completely outside of her, but she could not cope with it. The power was strong, pulling at her until at last she abandoned reason, abandoned questions, and raised her trembling hands to make the signs across the hot, flickering candles. The shadows leaped around her, and the wind rattled the door and seemed to shake the very walls. She began the incantation, and the terror in her was almost a joy.