Ghosts In My Head




Three Fancies from the Infernal Garden By C.S.E. Cooney

PART ONE:SCARECROW IN THE GARDEN OF KOSHCHEI THE DEATHLESS

In a certain kingdom, in a certain land, there was a wonderful garden.

There, the moon bloomed white apples on a silver tree. In golden groves
the sun grew restless, radiant fruit
the godsł own food. (Dragons tended
these.)
At the base of every oak or hickory sorcerers buried their treasure
chests: each secreting a slice of heart, shard of breath, left eyeball,
little finger. Each hiding his own Death, that it might never bide in his
body.
There were cottages in that garden, too, tucked in leaf-occluded corners.
Cottages made of candy-canes and broken dolls, the braids of orphans,
skulls. Cottages that walked on chicken legs by the wills of witches, not
caring what they stepped on.
Grey wolves stalked with saucer eyes, and where they drooled, the dead
lived again.
In this garden, a Scarecrow made his home.
He slept on beds of moss, in lofty branches, played tricks on finches,
summoned ravens, strummed his red guitar. Mostly, though, he witnessed the
ruckus of the garden.
The Parade of Ivans
Ivans in and Ivans out. Ivan the Fool, Ivan the Bear, Ivan the Tsar, Ivan
with stars bound up in his hair. Ivan on his quest to who knows where
to
fetch who knows what
for who knows why. In any case, to end up there in the
garden.
When he felt helpful, the Scarecrow gave the Ivans some direction. Often
even the right direction.
But sometimes (as in the cases of Ivan the Rude, Ivan the Ugly, and Ivan
the Crude), the Scarecrow put aside his pity, his glass eyes cold with fatal
sympathies, and consigned these voyagers to the unkind hut of Baba Yaga
Bony-Thighs
Who baked them into Ivan pies.
These infrequent executions, and his own effacing nature, clad the
Scarecrow in practical black (so the blood would not show). His feet poked
out of ragged shoes to turn blue in the snow. His hair grew thick as weeds
(for there was no one to cut it) and the longer he stayed in the garden, the
stronger his twig bones became, the brighter his burlap skin shone.
One moon a month he ate. One white apple, waning. And then, for drink
the
nectar of the sun. The dragons did not mind him, a brother of the garden.

He ambled, he rambled, he shambled and strode. The wizard wood showed him
its secret roads, and its deepest groves, where green stars glowed on the
darkest trees and the sky came close as a dream.
It was there he talked to the Firebird.
She was a legend herself. The downfall of princes! An invention
or
abduction
or reluctant seduction of Koshchei the Deathless.
“DonÅ‚t you get bored in this garden?" she asked one day, apropos of
nothing unusual.
“Not bored," bowed the Scarecrow. “Stuck in my ways some, I guess. But I
do my best
the music is fine. The food is unparalleled. And here, far from
the ardor of Ivans, in your grove lit only by gold and fire
the company
leaves me nothing to desire."
“How kind you are," said she, making a curtsey. “Å‚Tis true, too
it is
pleasant when the frog maids sing at dusk. And every dammerlüng, the swan
has her song. Though she must die of it."
“IÅ‚m partial to the ogreÅ‚s opera," he countered. “When the trolls
trip-trap, and the giants fum, and the goblins play accordion. And no one
minds if I strum along on my guitar."
The Firebird queried, “Yet you will not stay forever, surely? Even I
cannot remain
though I admit it is restful, whenever Koshchei keeps away,
and the Ivans arenłt galloping up obtusely, demanding my feathers. Or my
flame. Or the pearls in my eyes as prize for a princess!"
The Scarecrow parried, “Where would I go, if I did not stay? For I do not
know the world."
“Why," the Firebird replied, “Beyond this garden is an ocean. Beyond the
ocean, the Thrice-Nine Lands. And then
the Thrice-Ten Kingdom. And realms
uncounted! Beyond those and this island planet, far outside our infernal
garden
there is elsewhere! Anywhere! Donłt you itch to go there?"
“I thought that was just my hair," joked the Scarecrow, scratching the
straw under his battered black cap.
“You do have rather a lot of it," she observed in the pleasant way of
Firebirds. “I could braid it back, if you like."
Cried he, “Fie, Madame, fie! Fo and Fee! A bit of twine does for the
likes of me!" Beneath his breath, he muttered: “What is it with
females and combing things?"
The Firebird heard. The grove burned scarlet with the strength of her
smile.
Politely, he backed-stepped
one, two, three
for he, after all, was
flammable.
“If you do go
" she asked, “when you go
do you have what you need?
A magic ring? A mortar? Pestle? Piece of amber? Copper pot? The North Wind
tucked up in a knot? A falcon skin? The speech of eagles? A talking reed? A
dried green pea? A handkerchief that becomes the sea?"
The Scarecrow stretched his long, long limbs, arranging his gangling
straight and slim, brought up his hands, their burlap and buttons for
inspection, and
displaying all this efficiency
concluded, simply, “I have
these."
“When you grin," she informed him, “You have that too: what Ivan the Hero
and Prince Ivan do. Be careful, Scarecrow, where you smile."
The Scarecrow laughed and asked, a twinkling wink in his winter-glass
eyes, “What am I, if not wise? I am, after all, of this garden."
“Yes," said the Firebird. “The best of this garden."
After that, there was nothing more to say. In a day
a week
a month or
two, he would go away, with his pillowcase of moss, his red guitar, to seek
his fortune far beyond the bars of the garden.
While she, beneath those deep green stars, would dream, dark and
smoldering, of the death of Koshchei the Deathless.
PART II:
IN WHICH THE WITCH LUMINA EATS A FEW IVANS
Elsewhere in the garden, the Witch Lumina stirred her cauldron.
Other Witches feared her. Cottages on chicken legs reared and quaked when
they neared her. And even Baba Yaga had to nod as they sidled past each
other at market.
The Witch Lumina was damned powerful.
She had a hunch a whale would envy. A nose like an anchor and a mole like
a maggot. She had crabbed hands, hagged features, three iron nipples, and a
foot that doubled as a club.
She ate babies. And kittens. Things that writhed at swamp bottom and
thrived on the corruption of corpses. But of all the fell fruit of
Koshcheiłs garden, of all these perilous flavors, these savage gastronomical
endeavors, she liked the Ivans best.
Ivans a-plump, Ivans aplenty, twelve for a dime and two for a penny.
These ruddy specimens, with their carrot-curls, rusty swords and trusty
talismans whetted her appetite. Ivans on Quests to best Dragons, kill
Koshchei, capture Firebird, woo LadyOooh, these Ivans were tasty!
And even if her palate were not already partial to a passel of Ivans,
there was this bonus, too
Whenever the Lumina ate a few, she grew young and beautiful again. With a
spring in her step and a gleam in her eye. A sheen of silk
a milk-white
thigh. And her blood burned hot as her chamber pot after a good movement.

(Incidentally, it was always on the chamber pot she passed her
Ivan-induced youth. Her bloom faded, and the Witch traded comeliness for Old
Gray Cunning
not without a sense of relief! For, in those brief hours of
beauty, the lithe and girlish Lumina was vulnerable to fire and water,
earth, air, desire, horn of unicorn, the bitterness of gall. She became
in
other words
Mortal.)
So she stirred her copper cauldron, cackling.
Her one-eyed cat looked on with interest. She had been spared from the
stew only because she had been born a Goblin Princess, bewitched into sheath
of beast until the day her one true love released her. He must chop off her
head, it was said, with a silver ax bright from smiting a Wolf, a Wizard and
a Windmill dead.
The one-eyed cat was doomed to wait a long, long time
She didnłt mind.
#
Soon, the broth was prepared. Good stock, too: requisite newt and slime
of salamander, henbane, hemlock, coriander, acid, aspic, asp
wormwood for
dreams
a flask of bog juice, a dash of mummy dust, and pinch of dandruff
from the head of Koshchei the Deathless, who sometimes had to sleep.
And now for the meat.
The Witch Lumina turned to her one-eyed cat.
“Listen up, O Royal Pain In My Highness! Guard our cottage, for I am off
to fetch us an Ivan of firm flesh and rosy disposition. A red head, I hope.
I do like me some red-heads."
And she smacked her slack lips, and bared her gray gums, and off she
hobbled, hexing all the way. The grass withered where she spat. The trees
shivered where she brushed them with her tall black hat.
On the road, she passed a Scarecrow with a knapsack and guitar strapped
to his back. She knew him of old, a creature of Koshcheiłs careful mold, and
cried:
“Hey, you! Good for nothing!"
“Yes, beldam?" said the Scarecrow with mild ennui.
“You see any Ivans pass lately?"
“Only two or three. One for the Firebird. One for Keep. One to wake a
Princess from her hundred-year sleep. Or maybe break her free of bondage to
some solipsistic crone in an ambulant home. (Begging your pardon, małam.)
But perhaps that was an Ivan from yesterday. I really couldnłt say."
“May all your offspring be semi-fluent!" spat the Witch, for she could
not depart a sentient thing without cursing it. Yet
the Scarecrow had been
helpful. And it wouldnłt do to incapacitate a perfect tool unduly.
He bowed, careful not to smile. The wily Witch Lumina limped back the way
she came.
#
Ivan the Woodsman, strong and true, knelt before the one-eyed cat who
regarded him with suspicion. Silver tears reflected in the ax he bore, poor,
grimy, footsore Ivan swore his enduring love for the Goblin Princess:
“My heart is yours forevermore. So must I perforce enact this heinous
role we both abhor!"
But
Before the Ivan could make his move, prove his love, decapitate his
darling, stain his blade with brain and bone, her grime and blood and fur
and gore
before he could unveil the pure thing stored inside that foul hide

The cat leapt up to scratch out Ivanłs eyes.
It was easy, then, for the Witch to strike him from behind with a frying
pan.
#
Later that evening, a most lissome lady lazed out on her porch, beneath
the sweet susurrus of lazuli skies (a black cat sprawled across satiny
thighs). After a while, with sort of a sigh, she said to herself: “This Ivan
was sweet. This Ivan was kind. A gem among men! And a red head! Had he not
been in love with my catHad I but encountered him whileHumanI just might
have loved him. How queer! How bizarre! How ill I almost feel!
“Still," she told the one-eyed cat, “When you come right down to it, a
silver ax is a fine addition to our collection."
From her knees, the cat purred. Pleased.
PART THREE:
DEATH AND THE FIREBIRD
Death came to the Firebird with an open palm. “A feather to fly with,
sweet lady?"
“I am not sweet," said she. “And even for you, Grandfather, I cannot give
such a thing for free."
“What would you have of me?" Death asked.
“A story. Tell me
why do you need my feather?"
“Ah," Death answered, settling in. “ThatÅ‚s a good one, and I donÅ‚t mind
telling it."
Green stars blinked in the trees above them. The air was crisp and clean,
an absinthe ocean.
“In a certain garden, in a certain land," Death began, “I was making my
usual roundsCollecting a few Ivans (poor chubs), an orphan of misfortune,
two unlucky stepsisters, and one witch who, as I recall, was rather the
worse for wear in a pair of iron boots. At the end of my shift, whom should
I stumble across but a driftless Scarecrow?"
The Firebird cried, “It is not so! You did not take him! No!"
“No," Death agreed slowly. “Though one day it will be so. When and where
I will it so."
“Oh, tell on!"
Death wrapped his rich furs close about his bones.
An odd costume, pondered the Firebird, for the Harbinger of everlasting
nakedness.
“So this fellow says to me
very politely (IÅ‚ve never met such a
well-behaved bundle of raggle-tags and twine in all my circumnavigations!):
“Ho, there, Grandfather! Would you like a song?
“Well, I shouted, elated. It is not every day I am serenaded by
straw!
“Your Scarecrow was an amateur, but his hands loved that red guitar. I
have sat for worse concerts by superior players."
The Firebird nodded. This was all familiar.
“When he was done," Death went on, “I offered him a trinket
some trifle
a
mere triviality
nothing I might miss. Just a bauble to help him on his
travels.
“Why, Grandfather, inquired our intrepid wanderer, Do you mean
to grant me a wish?
“One wish! Why not? I was feeling expansive, indulgent. No
strings attached! I pledged. No ricochet! Nothing regrettable!

“Then, said the Scarecrow, “before you recall my playing isnÅ‚t
any kind of good at all, I would ask, Grandfather, one small thing.
“This being?
“The death of Koshchei the Deathless."
The Firebird stirred in surprise. She murmured, “He is bolder than I
realized!"
Death nodded in emphasis. “So I said to him, Scarecrow, my friend,
such a wish will cost much more than a song. A wish so rich rates the skin
off your tongue, half your sight
all the strings of your red guitar
and
every last hair off your head. That is
if you want Deathless Koshchei truly
dead."
For the first time the Firebird noticed a Scarecrowłs glass eye sparkling
in Deathłs empty socket. So friendly
so menacing
in that stripped face!
Then Death pulled from his pocket a bulky straw braid, bound up in sheep
guts that had once played such strains!
The Firebird reached to touch it, but pulled back just in time.
It was unwise to covet what belonged to Death.
“So now," Death groaned, “I must go to the island at the heart of this
garden. Where
at the base of some tree, there is a box. And in the box, a
hare. And in the hare, a duck. And in the duck, an egg. And in the
egg
Koshcheiłs death
his marrowbone, his first breath, his heartłs blood and
the dust, ash, earth of his flesh. All that is in him that is not the
garden. Everything unmagic, unwonderful. His mortality. That little bird who
devours the seed of eternity"
The Firebird muttered, “The seed that is KoshcheiÅ‚s tyranny!" as she
trembled with terrible desire.
“Except," grinned Death, “I cannot walk to this island. I cannot row
and
I cannot swim. Dragons guard the gates. There is no way in
except by
skyWhich is precisely why I need your feather to fly with."
The Firebird, swirling up from her nest of flame, her crimson couch, her
bonfire bed, balancing on tail and toe-tip, said: “Death, O Death! Climb on
my back! For I abound in what you lack! My wings are true
the way is
long
and as you owe for one sweet song, my debt is twice a thousand strong!"

Her golden eyes wept molten pearls. Never had that calm green grove
glowed with such obliterating heat.
So Death clambered up the Firebirdłs back, hung bony arms łround downy
neck. His gaunt limbs clattered like branches as they ascended.
#
The Firebird saw many things from her soaring flight.
How a bear chased a swan. How a swan wore a crown. How a queen was a cat.
How a witch loved at last. How a turnip in an oven begat a dozen children.
How an Ivan slew a dragon who used to be an Ivan. How all Ivans become
dragons. How all dragons become Ivans
And how a Scarecrow, hanging from the crossbar of the strangest
fencepost, bleeding from the mouth, awaited his fate, with the wisdom of a
one-eyed man in a garden of the blind.
Then the wind changed.
They had come to the island.
The Firebird fell into a stoop as steep as a falcon swooping on her prey.
She landed like an arrow at the heart of her mark.
Death slid down from her shoulders. The Firebird shuddered.
“Sweet, swift, fierce bird!" uttered Death. “Most beautiful
most
bright
most treacherous of birds! Tell me true
what has Koshchei ever done
to you to earn his wretched reward? Has he not fed you? Petted you? Bedded
you? Concealed you under dreaming stars far from fools who value you more
dead than alive? Has he not labored that you might thrive?"
The Firebird, hearing with new ears, seeing with new eyes, recognized how
Death had deceived her; or rather
how the Deathless wore the guise of Death
to make her believe his lies.
“Koshchei," she said. “Is it any wonder I wish you dead?"
“But darling!" protested the Deathless. “When have I ever abused you?
Used you so ill that you would plot against me with a paltry Scarecrow? My
servant? That turncoat? A defective mutant of the garden? I
have blinded him
shorn him. I have torn the strings from his guitar and hung
him from the tallest tree where all the ogres, trolls and goblins of my wood
will see. Though I must admit
the traitor took his penalty gracefully."
She remembered her friend in all his efficiency.
“He always knew," she whispered, “He was greater, kinder, wiser, and by
far better than you!"
Koshchei shrugged, casting off his coat. Its dark furs gleamed with oils;
dead wolves glared from yellow eyes. His raiment glittered
not with gems,
but dying butterflies. The musk of many murders mixed a wicked cologne that
invaded every crevice of the island.
The Firebird, impaled by his scent, swooned. Koshchei caught her, stroked
her, crooned enchantments, brought his fingers to her feathered neck and
squeezed, lightly.
“My love? My beauty? What merited rebuke should I lay on thee? Shall I
banish you from the garden? Trap you in the flesh of some pubescent human?
Rip the feathers from your skin, the pearls from your skull? Leave you
nothing beautiful at all but your consummate shame?"
The Firebird replied, “Take what you will, Koshchei. You cannot take my
flame. And flame is all I need, now that you are here with me on this
island."
Here is what happened then.
First the Firebird flickered. Then the Firebird flared. Then the Firebird
whitened, igniting the air. She kissed Koshcheiłs hands. She kissed
Koshcheiłs eyes. She kissed Koshcheiłs mouth with its terrible lies.
But still, Deathless Koshchei did not die.
Where the Firebird danced, stone melted, mud bubbled, steam billowed,
breeze blackened, sand turned to glass.
But still, Deathless Koshchei only laughed.
“Little bird! Brittle bird! Bird that only I can tame! How will your
kindling kill me
if I myself am smoke and flame?"
The Firebird said nothing, but the streams began to boil and the bushes
made to blaze. Every trunk of every tree remembered centuries of rage. How
once they had been, not of Koshcheiłs origin
but Carbon! Not of Alchemy
but
Ash! Crazed with the past, every tree collapsed, burning.
Every oak, every hickory. Burning.
Even the arthritic twist of timber where under dwelt a Thing inside an
egg
inside a duck
inside a hare
inside a box
burned.
And in its turn, even that Thing burned.
No being on that island withstood the Firebirdłs inferno.
And then, it was over
when the island at the gardenłs heart went nova.

And the death of Koshchei the Deathless abruptly hatched.
#
All the beasts and Baba Yagas of the garden went silent.
All the Ivans. All the dragons. All the groves and woods and river ways,
the sacred roads and secret glades went stiff and scared and silent.
Finally the Scarecrow worked himself free from his impromptu pillory.
Stretching, popping, easing his tortured body, he asked: “Is that it then?"

Only an insidious and sorcerous smoke in the distance answered him. He
watched it with his remaining eye.
By and by from that far-off carnage there came flying a flash
a
snatch
the barest dash of gold. If you could call it flying. Something
weakly winging his way.
This tarnished, lame conundrum barely earned the appellation “bird."
Tiny, awkward and absurd, her infant song obscured by the fire-cracked glass
secured fast in her beak. She landed on a branch above the Scarecrowłs head.

“Hello, there," he greeted, his delight evident.