Sleeping Brides Read online

  “Would you like to go back?”

  Chapter Seven

  Heaven’s Lair

  Several billion years from now, the sun will become so bright, it will dehydrate the earth, making life impossible. Then it will continue to expand until it completely devours the craters and the clay. I had always hated such facts, but looking around at the place the Trickster had brought me, at least I had proof life carried on, somehow. Even when all we knew was destroyed, we would still exist.

  I didn’t know how I’d gotten here. I was in the meadow, and then I was here—somewhere beyond the living but still much closer to those I’d left behind than I would have thought possible.

  Wonderstruck, I stood barefoot in the beige sands of a cove. Massive cliffs rose around me, covered in verdure that cascaded down in palatial green tendrils, reminding me of the willows weeping over the bayou. It was night, but shimmering specks of light floated around the cove, illuminating the seascape as if miniature versions of the stars above had fallen to the shore. I couldn’t tell if the floating specks of light were living insects or something more ethereal, but they lit up the smoky blue waters that swept out to the horizon and the coral seashells that were like small flames scattered across the beach.

  The Trickster didn’t seem at all awed by the scenery. His attention was focused towards the inlay of the cove. Near the cliffs were large slabs of stone that looked almost ritualistic were they not collapsed on top of each other. Sitting on the slabs of stone were four other women.

  Like me, most of their faces were a wounded mix of curiosity and sadness, except for a young redhead towards the back who was nothing but fearful. She was hunched over, folded across her knees, her almond brown eyes full of shock and horror. It was a look I recognized from the shelter. I wanted to go to the redhead and offer her solace, but I didn’t know how to behave in this otherworldly hideaway, so I quietly followed the Trickster to the group and took a seat on the stone.

  “And five fills the pot,” the Trickster announced gaily.

  I looked around closely at the other women. Something was off. I wanted to know what it was, but I also knew the answer would unnerve me. When I finally figured it out, any expectations I had regarding the Trickster and his puppeteering weakened.

  We were all wearing wedding dresses. Our dresses were unblemished, free of whatever catastrophe had caused each of our deaths. It was unnatural to have five dead brides sitting together, even in such a graceful place. I pulled my hoodie tighter around me, suddenly very suspicious.

  “Why are we here?” I demanded, hearing the accusation in my voice, my mistrust of the Trickster evident. “Tell us more about this proposition.”

  The Trickster was amused. “And here I thought you’d be the quiet one. The solitary one.”

  I caught the eye of a woman a few years younger than me. Wearing a floral gown, the woman was tall and lean with smooth black skin and an upright posture that indicated a fierce self-determination. She also seemed agitated by our experience. “My momma taught me never to gamble, especially when it comes to the soul,” she said firmly.

  The Trickster did a half spin and pointed towards her. “Now you, Hayley, my Toronto beauty—you I expected an uproar from. But rest assured, my little wild cat, this is no gamble. Call it an opportunity.” He put a finger to his mouth, as if it were a secret. “Those above have taken pity on you, my sleeping brides. For one of you, this is all an illusion. Soon, you will wake up, alive and well, the tragedy that has befallen you no more. One of you will be sent back.”

  It was an exhilarating revelation, but I didn’t trust it. I may not have found that which fulfilled me as an individual, but I knew there was purpose—to life, to death, to everything in between. Dermott’s love had taught me that. As such, I didn’t trust that higher powers would disobey the laws of time and destiny so easily.

  “One? That doesn’t seem very holy,” Hayley scoffed.

  “Or fair,” I added. “It’s a bit cruel, don’t you think?”

  “Is it?” A smug anticipation twisted the Trickster’s features. “Is not one better than none? Is not one gift much more charitable than no gift?”

  “Who gets to choose?” Hayley challenged.

  “You do.”

  “Me?” she asked, taken aback.

  “No, my dear. All of you. You must all unanimously agree on which one of you goes back.”

  An Asian woman stepped forward, clearly doubtful. She wore the same style of dress I had once seen in a Korean painting—a robe with long sleeves and layers of red and gold silk. Around her waist was a white sash with flowers embroidered into it with a heavy thread. “What happens?” the woman asked hesitantly. “The one who is chosen, what happens to her?”

  Understanding the situation before it unfolded, the Trickster went to her. He moved a piece of hair from her face with a gruesome affection. “My Korean gem, it’s like reversing time and rearranging the sequences of your events so you get your happy ending.”

  She shook her head. “No. My death is God’s will. We just renewed our vows, my Woojin and I. Then we drank soju and feasted on bulgolgi with our children and family before leaving on our second honeymoon, where we continued our indulgences. I drowned. I was drunk. I shouldn’t have swam out so far. But I did. So now these are the consequences.” She spoke with conviction, but there was a substantial regret underlining her words. “I would prefer to move on.”

  “Very well,” the Trickster said. I couldn’t tell if he was pleased or not with the woman’s decision. He opened his hand out towards the waters of the sea. “Would you like me to escort you?”

  She shook her head bravely. “No need. My faith will guide me.”

  Gathering her courage, the woman stared straight forward, crying sapphire tears. We, the remaining brides, watched with equal heartache. When she was ready to leave, or at least as ready as she was going to be, the woman advanced towards the water, the sapphire tears still spilling down her cheeks. As she waded through the sea, a trail of white light followed her. When the waves reached her waist, she turned around, a sudden peace overtaking her. And then she faded away, smiling.

  “And then there were four,” the Trickster cooed.

  Something changed in the redhead. The fear within her remained, but she composed herself, her hands less clenched and her posture less guarded. When a stunning middle-aged woman put a hand on the redhead’s shoulder, she trembled but she didn’t move away. The woman had a scar across her face. I watched the redhead examine that scar, finding companionship with the woman who bore it.

  I looked up at the night sky. “We are all stardust,” I observed, thinking of Laney.

  “What was that?” Hayley asked.

  “A friend said it to me once. We are all stardust. But this, everything around us, is clearly not within the realm of our universe. So what are we now?”

  “Something equally beautiful,” the Trickster said, a reverence replacing his gritty mirth.

  I thought of Dermott and the day he proposed, the time I had said yes. We’d both been so miserable, and yet so happy that rainy, lawless day. The choice was clear—face life once again, the hurt and the laughter, to spend more time with our loved ones. Or go freely now. I understood why the Korean woman made the choice she did, but I would die an eternity of deaths if it meant being next to Dermott again.

  “I’m in,” I said.

  It caught Hayley by surprise, but she nodded. “Me too.”

  The pretty woman with the scar agreed enthusiastically, but the redhead looked at the Trickster as if she were repelled by the idea of going back.

  “You’ll return before that,” he told her. “Before all of it.”

  Her relief was instant. “Jakshy,” she said. I didn’t recognize the language the redhead spoke, but I knew she said, “Yes.” It seemed here, all languages were universally understood. I wondered if that was the work of the Trickster or higher powers.

  “So what do we do now?” I asked.


  The Trickster waved his hand in a momentous circle, a dance to his tale. “That part is easy.” He grinned widely. “You each share your story.”

  Part II

  The Lighthouse Bride

  Chapter Eight

  Be Still

  Storme

  I wasn’t worried. I didn’t have a worry in the whole foxy world. With my feet in the water of a secluded lake and the sun embracing me with its warmth, I was a child to the day. The forest around the lake did not hide me. I was free, the way the earth intended, free to love, free to be loved, free to make love. Wearing denim shorts and a plain peasant blouse, I walked further into the lake, the silt teasing me with its softness. At seventeen, I had all that I needed. The water. The sun. My man—Daan. I placed a protective hand on my stomach, which was thin but growing. My baby.

  I was pregnant. I knew I was, even though I hadn’t been to the doctor. There weren’t doctors where Daan and I roamed. We were free birds, traveling around the Netherlands—our home—the way the pips of wild fruit floated in the wind. Daan didn’t know I was pregnant. He was in our motorhome getting high. He was always high. I wanted to wait until he was sober to tell him. When he was sober, he was like velvet, pliant to my touch.

  Content, I lifted a foot out of the lake and calmly watched the water drip off it, back down into the current, sparkling in the sun like a rain of embers. My children would be free too, like the rain, but they would never feel the need to escape. I had. My father was a professor known to sleep with his students, and my mother was a drunk. Neither showed an interest in me. They were never around. My siblings weren’t much better. The house I was raised in spoke of a moderate wealth, but it was filthy and full of deceit. It was never my home.

  Daan was my home. He was my harbor. We didn’t need walls; we only needed each other. When he was sober, he would be as excited as I was that we had created a living being together. Family meant everything to him, probably because he didn’t have a family of his own. He’d been raised by the man, tossed from one door to another until he found me. I was his home. I was his harbor. With the baby, our life was on the edge of change. We were free birds, but it was time to nest. He would understand, when he was sober.

  I returned to our motorhome, never gone from Daan’s side for long. He sat on the brown built-in sofa like a king sat on his throne. His bright blonde hair was bent over a line of powder on the table, snorting his wonder through a rolled up shop receipt. Daan was lean with narrow hips, but he was toned, like a lightweight boxer. With the evenness of my face and my green eyes set against wheat-colored hair, people said I was beautiful, but all the compliments I received I saw in Daan. He was a playboy of the streets, a gallant, except he didn’t stray, no matter how loud the crowd cried out for him. He was as loyal as a soldier.

  The same couldn’t be said about Sem, his friend sitting on the sofa next to him. Sem was husky with clammy skin and jittery brown eyes that made me think of mud on a traitor’s boots. Daan knew Sem from the system, brothers in survival. He joined us now and again in the motorhome. I didn’t know how he found us. We’d drop him off outside a brothel in the east, and he’d find us again weeks later in the west. It was like he had a radar permanently connected to us—to me.

  I would never let it show, but Sem scared me. He leered at me like a dark whisper. He had traveled with us many times, but he was still a stranger to me. To Daan, he was family, and family meant everything to Daan, so I didn’t protest. I stayed mellow, feigning a tolerance for someone who left a bitter air.

  “You’re just in time,” Daan said when he raised his head from the line. “Have a hit.”

  I declined. “No, baby. No snow. But I’ll take a stick.”

  His eyes red and happy, Daan unrolled a pack of cigarettes from the sleeve of his shirt and offered it to me. I took one and lit it up, inhaling the tobacco as if it were my lifeline. I hadn’t touched powder since the nausea of my pregnancy began. I missed the electricity of it, the murmur it put in my bones. Cigarettes were a bunk second, but they would have to do. Murmurs killed babies. I knew little about pregnancy, but I knew that.

  Sem watched me light the cigarette like I was a creature of his fantasies. It made my stomach turn worse than the side effects of my pregnancy did. I wanted to stay by the lake, to make the waters our nest, but I would gladly move on if it meant dumping Sem next to one of his brothels. “Where are we flying next?” I asked.

  “Amsterdam,” Daan told me. “Our supply is running low.”

  “We need supplies. I don’t know about her,” Sem scoffed. “She ain’t touched the stuff in weeks.”

  Her. That’s how Sem always referred to me. He never called me by my name.

  “Who are you, the man? Storme can do whatever the hell she pleases,” Daan defended. “Mind your own.”

  Sem leaned back into the sofa, uncaring. “I do.”

  “We should go soon,” I said, and I took a long drag of my cigarette. I hated Amsterdam. It was where I was raised and where my parents lived. When it came time to nest, I wanted to be as far away from Amsterdam as possible, but I was willing to hit the city briefly. I could see a doctor, make sure my child was growing strong, and once Daan had his supply, we could ditch Sem for good.

  ***

  Fighting the wind that swept off the canal, I folded my arms around myself and stared into the clinic. The noise that carried with the wind hurt my ears. How could people live in cities? It was vulgar and unnatural, like a bunch of rusted bolts jiving around a box full of bad equipment. The clinic was no different. Stunted and understaffed, it mostly served the red district of the city—prostitutes and the poor. It was a charity, but a charity I would accept, especially since it didn’t ask for identification. I wasn’t an outlaw, but Daan was, and I was Daan.

  “Have a seat,” a receptionist invited once I had finished filling out a form.

  The inside was how I remembered it from when I was here before—bland tones and an old shag carpet where a school of kids sat and played beneath the feet of their mothers. I usually came for contraception, but I’d waited too long for a refill. Had I been to the clinic sooner, I wouldn’t need an ultrasound now, but I was glad for my mistake. Being pregnant felt like a gift. And I was absolutely certain I was pregnant, so much so that I had written it on my form, even though I had yet to take a test. I didn’t need a test to tell me so. My soul was already connected to the little one growing inside of me.

  I grabbed a magazine on a corner table and sat in a hard chair. It’d be a wait. On the cover of the magazine was a woman with dark hair, heavy but defined brows, and a knowing stare. Rosalind Franklin, according to the headline. I flipped to her article and skimmed the text. She was a chemist who made important contributions to understanding the structure of DNA, whatever the hell that was, but she was never really recognized in her time because of the inequality of women in the sciences.

  “That’s bogue,” I rumbled, and I returned to the cover and ran a finger over her prominent brows. In 1962, she died from ovarian cancer. The magazine was a few years shy of the twentieth anniversary of her death. “Rosalind.” I liked the name.

  Her name was followed by another—the alias I had used on my form. The doctor was ready to see me. I tucked the magazine into my bag, which was knitted with hemp, and I followed a nurse to the back, studying a water stain on the low ceiling as I walked. She sat me in a tiny room and handed me a gown that smelled like it had been drenched in chemicals. It burned my nose, much like the city did. I preferred to wash my clothes in a lake and dry them under the sun.

  “So you have no idea how far along you are?” the doctor asked, frowning down at my chart when she joined me in the room.

  “I took a home test,” I lied. “They don’t speak.”

  She wasn’t amused. “Lie back,” she instructed me, and she felt around my stomach, pressing into my flesh. I was worried she pressed too hard. I didn’t want the hag to hurt my child. “You’re barely showing. You must be early in
your pregnancy. When did you take the test?”

  “Not long ago.”

  The door clattered as the nurse rolled a large metal box into the room. It had a lot of wires attached to it and a monitor that looked like it belonged to a computer. I had never seen a computer in person, but they were advertised in magazines—big boxes with strange green characters on the screen.

  “We’re going to do an ultrasound,” the doctor said, grabbing a wand from the side of the machine. “It should give us an idea of how far along you are.”

  “Right on,” I said eagerly.

  With the nurse standing by, the doctor rubbed the wand around my stomach, keeping her eyes on the machine. The whole process took ages. The room was silent, so I didn’t fully understand what was going on, but I waited patiently. After a long while, the wand was finally returned to its place, and the nurse took the machine away.

  “The baby looks like it’s four months along.”

  A joy spread through me. I knew I was pregnant, but having the doctor confirm it was thrilling.

  “But it’s underweight,” the doctor continued. “And so are you. I’m worried that you’re not showing more. Are you eating enough?”

  I wasn’t. The powder I had put in my veins before the pregnancy had suppressed my appetite, and I hadn’t gotten it back, but I couldn’t admit it. “Yes, I’ve been eating,” I claimed, my joy replaced by worry.

  The doctor frowned. Or she’d always been frowning. I’d stopped paying attention when the machine had been rolled in. “It could be your age. Seventeen is quite young. Your own bones still haven’t fully developed.”

  “That must be it,” I agreed quietly. “Is my baby okay?”

  “All vitals seem normal, so I’d say yes, for now, but we’ll have to monitor your pregnancy carefully.”