The Evolution of Mara Dyer

“Did my father and mother get sick?” I asked, even though I did not remember my father or mother. I did not remember having either.

“Perhaps,” the girl said quietly, and pulled me back against her. “But you are with us now.”

“Why?”

“Because we will take care of you.”

Her voice was gentle and soft, and suddenly I was frightened for her. “Are you sick?”

“Not yet,” she said, then stood.

I followed quickly. She was not like the others. I wanted her to stay.

She glanced back. “I was not leaving,” she assured me.

“I know,” I said, but followed her anyway.

We did not go far. We simply turned into another small room, this one with several mats on the caked straw floor. The girl ducked down behind one and held a bundle of fabric in her hand, as well as a needle and thread. She removed a jar full of something dark and withdrew a puff of it in her fist. She folded the cloth around the fluff and hummed a simple song—it consisted of only a few notes—as she began to sew.

I was hypnotized by her hands. “What is that?”

“A present. Something for you to play with, so you will never feel alone.”

I felt something like fear. “I want to play with you.”

She smiled, warm and bright. “We can all play together.”

This made me happy and I settled down on the mat, lulled by the melody and the rhythm of her fingers. Soon, the shapeless form in her hands became something else; I found a head early on, then two arms and legs. It grew eyes and eyelashes and a thin black smile, then rows of stitches of black hair. Then the older girl made a shift for it, and slipped it on over its stuffed head.

When she finished, I settled back into the crook of her arm.

“Do you like your doll?” She held it up to a shaft of light. There was a spot of red on the underside of its arm, where she held it. Where its wrist would have been.

I did not answer her. “What is that red?” I asked instead.

“Oh.” She handed me the doll and examined her finger. “I pricked myself.” She drew her finger to her mouth and sucked.

I was afraid for her. “Are you hurt?”

“No, do not worry.”

I held the doll close.

“What is her name?” the girl asked me gently.

I was silent for a moment. Then said, “You made it. You choose.”

“Her,” she corrected me. “I ca

“Why?”

“Because she belongs to you. There is power in a name. Perhaps once you know her better, you will be able to decide?”

I nodded, and the older girl stood, lifting me with her. My stomach made a noise.

“You are hungry.”

I nodded.

She caressed the crown of my head, smoothing my thick, dark hair. “We are all hungry,” she said quietly. “I can add more water to the soup. Would you like some before supper?”

“Yes.”

She nodded and considered me. “Are you strong enough to fetch water from a well?”

“I am very strong.”

“The handle is very heavy.”

“Not for me.”

“It is a very deep well. . . .”

“I can do it.” I wanted to show her, but I wanted to be outside as well. The close air of the hut was pressing in, and my skin felt tight.

“Then I will tell you the secret to get there, but you must promise not to go any farther into the trees.”

“I promise.”

“And if you see someone, you must promise not to tell them where it is.”

“I promise.”

The girl smiled, and nudged the doll back into my hand. “Take her with you, wherever you go.”

I clutched the doll tightly and brought her to my chest before the girl showed me out. Her eyes followed me as I ran into the fading sunlight. The scent of charred flesh singed my nostrils, but the smell was not unpleasant. A thick haze of smoke hung in the air and stung my eyes even as it rose among the trees.

I followed the path I was told. The well was quite far, and nearly hidden by thick brush. It was large, too; I had to stand on my toes to peer down into it. It was dark. Bottomless. I had an urge to throw the doll in.

I did not. I set it down beside the worn stone and my thin arms began the work of drawing up the water when I heard a cough.

Close.

I was so startled I dropped the handle. I picked up the doll and gripped it tightly as I crept to the other side of the well.

An old woman sat propped up against the trunk of a date palm, her wrinkles deep, folding in on themselves. Her black eyes were unfocused and watery. She was weak.

And not alone.

Someone was crouched over her, a man with waves of black hair and perfect, beautiful skin. He held a cup to the old woman’s lips and water dribbled down her chin. She coughed again, startling me.

His obsidian eyes flicked to mine, and something flashed behind them. Something I did not know or understand.

The woman followed his gaze and focused on me. Her stare pi

I felt a roll of sickness deep in my belly and doubled over. Red swirled at the edges of my vision. My head swam. I gulped for air and slowly, slowly rose.

The woman began to tremble and whisper. The man—surprised, curious, but not afraid—leaned his head in to hear her. Without realizing it, I took a step nearer too.

She whispered louder and louder. It was the same word, just one word, that she repeated over and over again. Her frail arm rose, her finger pointed at me like an accusation.

“Mara,” she whispered, again and again and again. And then she began to scream.

25

MARA,” A VOICE SAID, WARMING MY SKIN.

My eyes opened, but the trees were gone. The sunlight had vanished. There was only darkness.

And Noah, next to me, his fingers resting on my cheek.

A nightmare. Just a nightmare. I let out a slow breath and then smiled, relieved, until I realized we weren’t in bed.

We were standing by the guest room door. I had opened it—my hand rested on the knob.

“Where are you going?” Noah asked softly.

The last thing I remembered was falling asleep beside him, even though I shouldn’t have. My house was tainted, but in Noah’s arms, I felt safe.

But I left them during the night. I left him.

I had been sleepwalking.

The details of the dream hung low in my mind, thick as smoke. But they didn’t fade with consciousness. I didn’t know where I was going in my sleep or why, but now that I was awake, I needed to see something before I forgot to look.

“My bedroom,” I answered him, my voice clear.

I needed to see that doll.

I pulled Noah along behind me and we crept silently to my room. Noah helped me unpack the doll from the box I had entombed it in, no questions asked. I said nothing as I looked it over, my skin feeling tight as I held it.

Its black smile was a little faded—from wear or washing, I didn’t know—and the dress it wore was newer, but still crude. Definitely handmade. Otherwise? Otherwise it was eerily similar to the doll in my dream.

Maybe more than similar.

I remembered something then.

There was a spot of red on the underside of its arm, where she held it.

I lifted up the doll’s sleeve.

“What is that red?” I had asked the older girl.

“Oh,” she said, and handed me the doll. She examined her finger. “I pricked myself.”

Looking at the doll now, I saw a dark brownish red spot on the underside of its arm. Where its wrist would have been.

My flesh felt dead where my skin met the doll’s. I didn’t know what the dream meant, if anything, but I didn’t care. I was starting to hate this thing and wanted to get rid of it.

“I’m throwing it out,” I whispered to Noah. He looked confused. I’d explain in the morning. We couldn’t get caught, and the more we talked, the more we risked it.