Page 54 of The Maiden and Her Monster
Whatever Malka felt, it was worsened by Chaia’s calmness, the way she never cried or was distressed by anything. It made her hot with anger, to see Chaia so composed while Malka’s life fell apart, while her goals were torn to nothing.
She had failed. As a big sister, as a Yahad, as a person.
She had never been brave, never wanted to be brave.
But for Imma, she had tried bravery on as a mask.
She had felt the curves of it along her jaw, and where it pressed around her nose.
She had worn it for weeks until an unthinkable tragedy ripped it from her face.
There was nothing left for Malka.
She was not made for politics or revolution like Chaia. And Danya was so brave—braver than Malka could ever be. They were survivors and could handle anything.
And Nimrah? Nimrah was made of stone and would fall back on her knees at the Maharal’s call.
Malka would never forgive herself for letting her family down. She would never forgive herself for robbing Danya of her mother and a sister.
Chaia fell asleep at the table, hand around her cold mug of tea. Vilém came in and wrapped her in his arms.
“Will you be alright?” he asked Malka.
Malka nodded, and Vilém smiled at her before carrying Chaia to bed.
Malka stood from her seat and wrapped herself in her cloak. Chaia had cleaned it and it smelled fresh as soap, though blood still stained the edge of her hood. Malka didn’t mind anymore. She was not a stranger to blood.
She slipped soundlessly out the door. Without the lanterns lining the way, the walk was agonizingly cold. The breeze blew treacherously through Malka’s unbound hair and tears stung the rims of her eyes.
She didn’t know when she started to run, but tears blurred the trees and buildings around her. The rooting spell sent a warning bout of nausea as she moved farther away from Nimrah. She didn’t care.
Malka was sorry for how the rooting spell would punish Nimrah for this distance between them. But Malka was also selfish. And if Nimrah could understand one thing, it was the desire to be punished for her failures. To let the pain consume.
The Yahadi Quarter was quiet; so still, that if Malka closed her eyes, she could picture herself back in her room in Eskravé, with the moon hanging low, and only Hadar’s soft snores breaking the silent night.
A sound she would never hear again.
She kept running.
The nausea had begun to make her mouth water, her stomach twisting in cramping fits.
Dizziness blurred her vision. She did not notice when the dirt paths outside of the city walls bled into the unruly trail leading into Mavetéh until the smell of pine tickled her nose.
On the edge of the forest, the air was fresh.
No longer did the city smells of Valón permeate the air—wheat and cooked oil, animal dung and incense.
Instead, the ripe scent of balsam and figs, and the slight tang of dead leaves and branches.
However, when she fell into the shadow of Mavetéh, the earth turned to rot.
The scent of burning flesh clung in the air, like soiled fruit and moldy blood.
A lifetime had passed since she had been here, and no time at all. Returning to Mavetéh made her skin crawl. But it wasn’t Mavetéh that had showed her violence first. It had been Father Bro ? ek, giving the order to slice Minton’s fingers from his hand.
Malka continued on.
She didn’t know how long she walked or where she was going. The nausea and dizziness had only intensified; the unmooring making it hard to think. It was like Malka was hollowing herself out, insides shriveling with the absence of Nimrah. Soon, it would consume her entirely.
Wasn’t that what she wanted, to be consumed?
She had once begged to make it through these woods alive, and now, she wanted it to claim her. Perhaps one of the monsters would bite her with its talon-like claws and end her suffering. Perhaps she’d greet the Tannin again, this time awake and hungry.
When Malka could not walk anymore, she began to crawl. Her palms and knees seeped into the wet earth, cold and slick from yesterday’s snowfall. It soiled her skirts, and thorny branches dug into her skin, creating fresh wounds and staining the dirt beneath her like spilled wine.
The dark was unrelenting. Malka treaded forward blindly until a sharp pain shot up her arm. A piece of glass had stuck into her palm, jagged and unyielding.
She cursed, and yanked the glass, her skin tugging hard in resistance. It was embedded deep. With a yell, Malka managed to pull it free. She pressed her thumb into the wound to stop the bleeding.
She gasped when she noticed the looming structure ahead of her.
Even in the shadow of the night, a pale slip of moonlight bounced off the ruins of the structure, revealing crumbling stone half consumed by the forest and swallowed arches and vines in the frames of the windows.
Pillars made into trellises for the foliage, the greenery coiling around each one like a serpent’s tail.
It was a synagogue. Even ruined, it stole Malka’s breath.
Slowly she stood, wiping her bloody palm on her apron. Stepping closer, Malka could see the ark which had held the sacred scroll, and the platform where the rabbi had once stood. What broke her, though, were the remains of paper cuttings tacked to the ruined walls.
They were stunning, even touched by the elements and time.
“They are beautiful, aren’t they?”
Malka froze. The Maharal’s voice caught her unawares in the solace of the forest.
“One could say they are made more beautiful with age,” he continued. “A true symbol that art lasts far after we are no longer there to appreciate it.”
“How did you find me?” Malka pressed her forehead against the cool wall. Tears fell down her cheek, stinging against the scrapes the branches had left on her skin. She felt empty. So empty.
“In truth, Malka, I was not looking. But perhaps Yohev meant for me to find you here. You see, I was woken from a fitful sleep by the desire to walk and breathe in the rotted air of this forest.”
“Are you not afraid of Mavetéh?”
The earth groaned at the use of the forest’s name, the wind sending a whistle through the air. Malka suppressed a shiver.
“It was my magic that made this forest come alive. It seems to spare me. Out of pity or dishonor, I do not know.”
A week ago, she would’ve shaken her head. Vehemently insisted his only fault was creating Nimrah. That Mavetéh was her doing, her liability. Now, she just sighed. “I have lost so much tonight. Will you let me grieve alone?”
Silence fogged the air for a stretch of time. Malka waited for the crunch of his footsteps to signal his leaving, but it never came.
“Humor me for a moment and I will leave you if you still wish it. Do you know the Orlon clock, Malka? Tell me you have seen it, for it is truly one of Valón’s greatest beauties, even though it no longer works.”
Malka recalled the astronomical clock, unlike anything she had ever seen before with layers upon layers of glass and metal that fit together to tell facts about the universe: the time, the day, and secrets of the zodiac.
Malka also recalled the four figurines, which rendered the Yahad and the Fanavi people as outsiders. As people to be hated.
She nodded.
The Maharal climbed the creaking steps to the bimah. “Can I tell you the story of the Orlon and its maker?”
Malka was tired of stories but could not deny the Maharal. Instead, she focused on the cool press of stone on her forehead, dug her fingers into the ridges of the chipped rock, and listened.
“Many years ago, King Ordobav, from whom the kingdom gets its name, wanted Valón to be one of the most advanced cities in the world.
A place to rival the river city of Lei, or the resource-rich Balkisk Kingdom.
He had been told of this legendary creator, Hus.
He was a master of clocks and mathematics who lived deep in the mountains, working on his trinkets, and perfecting his science.
For many years scientists and mathematicians from universities across the world had come to him for his advice and mentorship.
The king wanted no one else to create the clock, so the legendary clockmaker was summoned to Valón, where he met with King Ordobav in his personal meeting room.
“‘I want you to build a clock,’ he said to Hus. ‘The grandest clock in all the world, one that will make all other kings red with jealousy.’
“Master Hus agreed and began working on the clock immediately.
He would spend all day working on it and nothing else, until it was done.
City folk would pass by and watch him work—from dawn until dusk, when it was so dark that not even the candlelight could help illuminate his work.
People soon grew accustomed to the clockmaker, making it part of their routine to come and watch him work when their own chores had lulled.
Finally, after weeks had elapsed, Master Hus finished his creation.
When he presented it, King Ordobav was pleased.
“‘I will be the envy of everyone with a clock as great as this,’ he said, clapping his hands together. ‘It is only a precaution, you see, that I cannot let you design a greater clock for anyone else.’
“With a flick of his hand, the knights grabbed Master Hus. He thrashed, but he was no match for the knights and their sturdy armor. The king stalked forward and clawed out Master Hus’s eyes, leaving him with only bloody sockets.
“Angered by the king’s deceit, the clockmaker threw himself into his masterpiece.
The gears cut his flesh until he bled out and died.
The great clock was ruined, and the king was devastated.
He called forth clockmaker after clockmaker to fix the Orlon, but none were able to fix what Master Hus had created and destroyed. ”
Malka was breathing hard when the Maharal finished his recitation. Her life was filled with enough violence and grief without the knowledge of this tale.