had sandwiches and pears, drank tea from painted china. He was riding the water on an oak leaf when he saw me sitting there alone, all round cheeked and plump. He wanted me, he said, so he jumped.
When I said I didn’t believe that he would want me like that, for no reason at all, he laughed and said that all of his kind wanted hair like mine to stroke and braid and play with, but maybe I was right.
In truth, he said, he had been traveling the sky as a crow at the time, his bird’s eyes trailing the ground for prey. He was very hungry, he said, for meat. Then he saw me, just a baby then, lying alone outside our home. He swept down and perched on the edge of my basket, talons curling around the edge. He thought I had the loveliest eyes, and wondered how they’d taste. But then my mother came out and shooed at him, chasing him away. He said that was why he remained with me; still wondered about the taste of my eyes, how it would feel to have them slip down his throat.
I didn’t quite believe that, either, and told him as much. Why would he wait so long to eat them, if my eyes made his stomach growl like that? He laughed again, said I might be right, and told me I’d tripped on a faerie mound. He’d been strolling nearby, minding his own business, when a terrible wail rose from the ground. That was me, knees bruised and hands dirty, white dress all ruined. He felt sorry for me then, and wanted to make me something pretty, like a wreath of flowers or a crown of twigs, but then my mother and father came rushing and carried me away, shushing and kissing and tending my wounds. He followed me home and slipped inside, making me gifts ever since.
There is another story too, where Pepper-Man and I are born from the same pod. Siblings in spirit if not in flesh, forever connected through unbreakable bonds. We are the same, he and I, even if we don’t share DNA. We have always been together and will always remain so.
I will not speak of that other option, so brazenly launched at the murder trial. There will be time for that later. Unlike the others, the latter was not among the stories I heard as a child, when I was lying in his hard arms, breathing against his still chest, his dry hair a blanket, his pepper scent a comfort, feeling the paper-thin leather of his pointed ears against my fingertips as I trailed their shape against the lace of my pillows. His voice sounded only in my head; a soft whisper, like wind rustling in leaves. I used to close my eyes and drift on the sound of his voice, losing myself in its rise and fall. Like being submerged under water, that feeling; that falling into him. A rattle would start at the base of my spine and push its way through my body; push and push, rattle and shake, until I split open and rushed from my skin; sped like a lightning bolt through the roof, toward the sky, while images and noises flashed past me. I saw people I hadn’t seen before walking unfamiliar streets. Once, it was a woman in a black coat looking through her purse, the pavement under her feet was cobbled, the buildings surrounding her made of brick. Another time it was a man with a mustard-colored tie, chasing a blue bus. The bus driver glanced at him in the mirror and drove on, while the man stomped his foot and threw his hat to the ground. I saw children with brown skin in a playground, wearing gray uniforms, munching soft candy. And other things too, twisting, coiling among the roots of ancient trees: pale snakes and old women licking black juice from the trunks, men with goat’s heads running through the woods, and girls with snapping jaws spinning dresses from spider silk in hot, dry caves underground. Sometimes I was at sea, moving with the waves, salt on my lips and seaweed in my hair, moving with the shadows beneath me.
When I woke up from these trips, Pepper-Man was always there, his teeth buried deep in my throat. He lifted his head to whisper in my ear: “I love you, Cassie, I do. You taste like the finest buttercups and wine.”
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