Gekker

Beneath a half sun, the woman gave birth to a girl with yellow eyes, long fingers, and a fox’s tail. The midwife said nothing as she wrapped the child in a blanket. The father turned his head, walked out into the field, and wept. 

They named her Amaris. She never bit her mother’s breast or woke her parents while they slept. She certainly did not throw her toys. 

The father and the mother, by and by, overlooked her fox’s tail, and Amaris was gentle, so good, and she chased the neighborhood kids around trees, tripped over her own feet. It brought the families joy to watch her play.  

The mother later had three boys, each a year apart. Amaris would sneak into the boys’ room and groom them with her tongue. At daybreak, they were often found nestled in her tail. 

By the time she grew into a long-lashed girl of sixteen years, everyone accepted her as she was, everyone but Loomis. 

Loomis—red haired, pigeon-toed, fifteen years old—thought Amaris was of the devil, or perhaps she was the devil. His father, the town’s preacher, did not put this idea in Loomis’s head. In fact, Mr. Rotchford thought Amaris was a fine girl, a great example of godliness, what with her impeccable manners, dedication to family, and natural gift for making cupcakes from scratch. Plus, when she sang, the birds grew silent to hear her. 

Amaris knew how Loomis felt about her. She had a good instinct for that sort of thing. Also, he’d told her, which made things quite clear. 

I don’t like you, he said to her one day when she was alone and sitting below a weeping willow. 

Is that so? she said. 

It most certainly is, he said. 

Have I done something to harm you? she asked. If I did, I apologize. 

Loomis didn’t like this answer. This was manipulation, devil-talk. 

It’s not one thing you done, he said. I know who you are. You are not of God. 

Amaris found this rather harsh. She squirmed a little under his stare. She would have liked to have defended herself, but she didn’t know how to respond, because no one had ever said that to her. She’d never heard it said to anybody, in fact.  

She got her mouth working again, was about to tell him he was wrong, but he turned his gangly body, started hobbling along the path, whistling and tossing a small rock up and down. 

Loomis doesn’t like me, Amaris said to her mother and father at the dinner table.  

Her three brothers exchanged looks. 

Now what makes you think that? her father asked. He was reaching over her glass for more bread, dropping crumbs in her lemonade. 

He told me I am not of God, she said. 

Her father’s face became apple red. Her mother slammed her fork on her plate. 

Bullshit, her mother said. 

Loomis is a troubled boy, her father said. His mother left with that lion tamer, remember? Hasn’t been right since. 

It’s true, her mother said. That was hard on him. Harder on him than on his father. Pastor Rotchford doesn’t have to be so secretive about the milkmaid these days. A bit secretive. But not as much. 

The three brothers were snickering and pinching each other under the table. 

Roar! said the youngest boy to the oldest boy. 

Anyhow, her father said. You are of God. You are closer to an angel than any other girl I’ll ever know. 

You’re my father. You have to talk nice, she said. 

Actually, I really don’t, he said and laughed. But the truth is the truth. 

Sure is, said her mother. 

That night, while Amaris did the dishes, she thought about the devil. His long tongue and thick thighs. Two black horns sharp as lightening. And eyes that rolled around in their sockets, as if untethered. The devil was, of course, handsome—this wicked one, dark dragon, prince of the world. 

She looked out at the moon, which was very full of itself.  

She had never asked the question, because it never seemed to matter. But now she couldn’t shake the doubt. She left the dishes undone and walked onto the porch. 

Mother, she said. Why do I have a fox’s tail? 

Her mother stopped rocking in her chair and lowered her book. 

Because God made you special, her mother said. 

Do fox tails run in the family? she said. 

Heavens, no, her mother said. Listen. You are one of a kind. And we love you that way. 

Do you know anyone else like me? Have you heard of anyone? 

Her mother thought for a moment. 

Well, there is talk of a boy out by Mud Lake who sheds his skin like a snake. 

This did not make Amaris feel any better. She went back inside and finished cleaning the kitchen. 

When summer came, the three brothers built a treehouse in the branches of a hemlock. Inside they crafted stools, four of them, because their sister was forever and always welcome. Inside they had a table for cards, and a glossy card set, and a crate where they kept apples and melons.  

One day, while they were all in the treehouse, and the weather was especially wild—lots of rain and wind—they heard someone huffing and puffing up the ladder. They saw the flair of Loomis’s red hair first, and then his eyes—beady, searching.  

He heaved himself up onto the floor and stood awkwardly, his hands in his pockets. He glanced behind at the ground twelve feet below. The three brothers paused their whittling, and Amaris stopped licking her tail. 

I want to talk to your sister, he said. 

No, said the oldest brother. 

Go away, said the middle brother. 

Roar! said the youngest. 

It’s okay brothers, she said. 

Privately, said Loomis. 

As you wish, she said, and followed him down the ladder. 

They walked together to a small patch of clover, away from the ears of her brothers.  

I’ve been thinking, Loomis said. I’ve been thinking it’s time that you go. 

Is that so? she said. 

Yes, he said. I’ll help you get everything together that you need. Make sure that you have supplies and a map and a route, at least the beginning of one. 

Is that so? she said again. 

He was earnest, and sure of his conviction. He did not see the way her eyes narrowed, how one side of her mouth lifted into a hint of a smirk. She thumped her tail against the weeds. He kept prattling on about the best way for her to trek into the mountains, the kind of boots that would benefit her. He was a solider of God. He would rid the town of her, but he would be humane about it. She’d stopped listening. She was looking closely at his hands, how the sun hit them, how they appeared wet. 

What do you say? he said. 

Sure, she said, though what she had agreed to, she had no idea. 

Wonderful. You have made the right choice. I’ll fetch you tomorrow. 

And off he went, over the hill, back to his home, the home without a mother, the home where God’s chosen boy slept. 

After dinner that night, Amaris sat by herself in the treehouse, listening to nothing. The room grew dark while Amaris thought about fate, thought about the difference between a body and a soul, about why a God would see her mother’s womb, and the girl growing there, and decide, with a gesture of his Hand, to make her a bit of a dog. What did it mean that she told small lies? That the holes in the yard were made by her, not by moles? That she hungered for rabbit, raw and freshly caught? That she found birds—those snatched from their nests—tasted best beneath moonlight? The thinking made her tired, and she fell asleep in the tree, while bats flew out to catch their kill, and wild poppies closed to the evening’s black. 

She awoke to the sound of someone on the ladder—someone wheezing, struggling. She could see the weak dawn through the planks. She stretched her arms and her tail and popped her head down to see Loomis straddling the ladder.  

Are you okay? she asked. 

Yes, he said, stopping a moment to catch his breath. I’m just tired. I was up all-night praying. 

Well that seems silly, she said. You only have to tell God something once. 

Says the devil, he said. 

She laughed, a deep sound in her throat, a warning—primal, instinctive. She knew by the sun that her family was still in bed, that the grass and tree were slick with dew, that Loomis had traded sleep—so necessary for a growing boy—for her surrender, which was not forthcoming, ever. In one hand he hauled a pair of pink boots and a backpack bursting with food. He reached the final wrung, and tried to sling his haul up ahead of him onto the room’s floor. Then he fell. 

He didn’t cry out when he hit the ground. By the time Amaris was at his side, his eyes were closed and blood seeped out from the back of his head where a small stone lay. She pulled him into her lap, wrapped her tail around his waist, licked his wound.   

His skin was cool to her tongue. She lapped the blood away, and beneath the blood she found an orange skin. She groomed his neck, and found bright rust, dotted with small spots. Gently, she pulled off his t-shirt. He slouched in her arms, whimpering. As she cleaned his back, she uncovered large inky stains like eyes. His skin felt rough. She turned his face to hers. He was crying, his pupils wide. She licked them, and they became two dark beads. He smelled like the sun. She heard her brothers calling. She took the nape of his neck in her teeth and dragged him deep into the trees. All day, the salamander laid with the beast.