hangman (biyn + oona)

[clover ❁]

oona st. james. 

i trace her footsteps like i'm going to find her at the end of the path. 

the forest is overgrown, moreso than i remember it being. through each tangle of branches and crawling ivy, i think i catch sight of her. just a flash of long, dark hair. a pair of huge brown eyes peering at me through the bracken. when i look back, she is gone. i do not believe in ghosts. my little sister is, presently, buried beneath the earth of the cemetery. she no longer stays out too late playing in the woods. i cannot find her and bring her home, and yet i catch myself trying. 

i collect acorns and conkers, although there is nobody for me to give them to. the house is dark, all of its corners far too empty and collecting dust. there is dust, too, settling on the browbones of my family, and the fear of choking to death on it forces me outside into the open air. i hunt down the witch that left her for us, ready to wrap my fingers around her throat and squeeze until she is as cold and stiff as junie. 

i never find anyone. 

after all, the forest was hers. now, i suppose, it is mine. it is an inheritance i never asked for, never wanted, and yet now that it belongs to me i cannot seem to stop myself from coming to visit it, to stare into its endless green. i have found it is a good place to scream. nobody can hear you. maybe that was why she liked it so much. 

i am screaming when i find him. 

i stop, abruptly, as my eyes make out a shape that is altogether unfamiliar, out of place here among the oaks and pines. hanging from the tree by his arms is the bulk of a large man. i stare at him, unsure what to make of it. it is a strange thing to do, but i cannot suggest that my own behaviour had been any less queer. not since she jumped from the rafters, thinking she would fly. 

"what are you doing?" i demand, as though i have the right to know. 

[Bella 🌻]

biyn forrester.

just like clockwork, the boy is hanging in his tree again this morning, bare-chested with two long (too-long) lily-white arms stretching up to clasp the pine branch, a tangle of brown hair at the point of the inverted triangle tossing side-to-side softly as he watches the woods. the waking summer sun filters through the branches, kissing every living moving thing with softmorninglight. the air shimmers dusty with the movement of tiny insects waiting to become frog lunch. like every morning, the quiet contemplation fills biyn with a contentment he cannot describe, like being full-bellied all over.

there are always some deer, a rabbit, a pair of mourning doves, a few bugs that pick at his skin while he hangs (though he’s learned to ignore them). But there is never a girl.

today, though, there is one, screaming.

the boy thinks: i do not think she sees me here and: it is a good thing that i wore clothes. and then: oh, that’s it then, she has run out of air.

the forest is even more silent when her sound ends, out of respect perhaps. the girl’s feet make crunching shushing sounds on the leaf-laden floor. she looks up, up, up– he is tall and the tree is even taller. the light finds each gentle curve of her upturned face and spills into it like seawater filling hollows of sand, the nose a tiny cliff above her lips. she opens them to speak.

”what are you doing?” she asks.

he has never been asked this. the question suddenly makes his arms ache unbearably, as if they are timid to be caught in the act of hanging. the branch groans and stretches as his hands release it. biyn, too, groans and stretches, sap-sticky fingers flexing towards the ground.

he looks at her. his eyes twinkle with wary curiosity as he answers, wiping his reddened hands on the canvas shorts.

”i am hanging in this tree,” he explains quite simply with a nod to the pine, like someone might give the time of day, ”so that i can crush a man’s skull if ever i need to." his fists open and close absentmindedly with each word. he tilts his head at her.

”and why were you screaming?”

[clover ❁]

oona st. james. 

oona remembers a song about a hanging tree, but this was not what she understands it to mean. she thought it was something more vulgar, more terrible than what she sees in front of her now. now she had time to look - to properly look, not just gawk in surprise at the intruder in her forest - she finds the act deliberate, almost serene. almost as though she is the one who intrudes upon him. perhaps he does not know that this is junie's place. 

or perhaps he knows junie. the thought strikes her hard and fast. nobody really knew what the little girl did in the forest, when she came back with twigs in her hair and leaves tucked into the buttonholes of her clothes. maybe she had friends there, friends nobody knew about. 

"i'm hanging in this tree," the boy said, seriously, which was an accurate description of what was occurring. "so that i can crush a man's skull if ever i need to." 

oona had not been expecting him to say that. she looked at him through narrow eyes, unsure if he was attempting to threaten her. immediately she braces herself, fixes a stern gaze across her features, determined not to betray that she is intimidated by his giant form, twice her size at least, talking about crushing skulls.

"and why were you screaming?" the boy asks. at this, oona blushes despite herself. 

she expects to find contrition in his eyes, but when she meets them she finds them to be open and honest. there is no hostility there, just straightforward curiosity. strangely, it reminds her of junie - that strange, wide-eyed way she had of saying exactly what she meant, without carrying the grown up fear of reproach around with her. 

"do you expect to be crushing many skulls?" she says this without thinking, without remembering that her fierce little sister ripped a girl's throat out with her teeth. it is a stupid thing to say, but the words have already left her lips and cannot be returned to where they came from. 

"i'm screaming because there isn't anyone here to here me. at least, i thought there wasn't."

she introduces herself as oona, minus the st. james. that part of her has become something it did not used to be, and she is sick of being looked at with pity.

[Bella 🌻]

biyn forrester

he hears her question, but she is quite a fast talker. just as he’s about to answer, she distracts him with the introduction of her name. ”oo-na,” he repeats, drawing out the oo, the vowels tickling at his protrusive adam’s apple. the name’s mournful sound pleases him, being not so different from the hooting of owls or the howling of wolves, the coo-coo-cooing of doves, all sounds that feel like home in these woods. he places a hand on his chest. ”and i’m biyn.”

her first question has a delayed effect on him, striking him as rather funny as it boomerangs back around. ”do you expect to be crushing many skulls?” he lets out a throaty laugh which sounds out of place now that the time for answering has passed, as if he’s just remembered one of his own amusing thoughts.

”well, it is funny,” he explains, forming the words carefully. ”i do expect to be crushing many of them. that is why i hang here each morning. but nobody ever comes along, not since…” he pauses with a frown, momentarily forgetting his train of thought. he scratches the back of his neck idly and watches the pair of doves take flight from a nearby branch. they call out her name as they beat their wings, ooo-na. which reminds him that yes, somebody does come along occasionally.

”but you came along, ooona. i would never crush your skull.” he adds, nodding slowly and almost reverently, as if he were giving her a compliment; then, in a burst of inspired afterthought, ”it is so lovely. like a seashell.” he smiles humbly, content with this comparison he’s dreamt up.

”’s a bit odd that you thought there was nobody here, though. after all, i am here all the time. you’re the one who is always not here, except for today.” the effort of this thought draws his eyebrows into a knot on the broad, freckled forehead. so he leaves it there, and watches his companion with a hopeful look.

”and will you be screaming here for a while longer?” he asks, really just curious if the girl will be staying, or if today will be like all the others.

[clover ❁]

oona st. james. 

once again, the words the boy speaks and what he really says do not align. 

"oooo-na," he repeats, sounding like a chorus of her first-grade enemies. father told her that it meant 'the universe' or something to do with being the first, which made sense, as she was the st. james baby which turned them into a family. pa, on the other hand, recalled it differently: it means lamb. before she had been born, they used to take in the motherless baby sheep, orphaned or otherwise rejected, and feed them with bottles of warm milk that they suckled through a teat. oona had not been so different, the story had gone much the same way. neither of these contradicting explanations did much to placate oona when the other children mocked her - oooooona - and yet the same sound on the boys lips felt altogether different. 

"and i'm biyn," he offered, generously. then he laughed, as though he had made a joke, and for some reason oona laughed along with him, although she did not know exactly what was funny. 

"well, it's funny," he begins, and oona listens carefully, wanting to be in on it, too. "i do expect to be crushing many of them. that is why i crash here each morning. but nobody ever comes along. not since..." he trails off, and oona's heart leaps in spite of herself. she is afraid to ask, afraid to hear, afraid to discover parts of her sister that she never shared, not wanting to discover concrete evidence of how much of junie she had neglected. 

"but you came along, oona," again, he stretches out the first syllable of her name, as though he enjoys it especially. "i would never crush your skull." he is earnest. "it's lovely, like a seashell." it is a strange compliment, but oona tucks it carefully and securely away for safekeeping. she has never come across it before, and she likes it. 

"well- thank you, i suppose," oona says, "that's kind of you to say." 

"'s a bit odd that you thought nobody was here, though," biyn continues seriously. "after all, i'm here all the time. you're the one that's not here, except for today." 

oona cannot fault him on this one. her voyages into the forest are new - a gradual investigation, launched on the day junie left. she has never been in this deep before. in truth, she has been a little afraid of not finding her way home, although that sort of sensible thing never bothered junie. oona was more affected by practicalities than her sister had been. 

"and will you be screaming here for a while longer?" the question shocked her, and she snorted with laughter. she realised that this morning was the first time she had laughed since junie's sharp teeth had ended sofia markus' life. 

oona caught her laughter and restrained it, trying to take the question as seriously as its asker had intended it. "i might be screaming for a while, yes. i lost somebody i loved very much, you see." 

she frowned. "i came here because this was her favourite place to be. so that's why i didn't used to be here, and now i am."

[Bella 🌻]

biyn forrester

oona laughs at his question, and biyn mirrors her with his own throaty laugh, though he’s not sure what is funny. perhaps she is simply an easy-laughing person.

”i might be screaming for a while, yes. i lost somebody i loved very much, you see.”

biyn nods, eyebrows furrowing in concern for his new companion as she explains to him that this had once been the favorite place of the person she lost.

empathy blooms for her inside his big, open heart, shining through his eyes resolutely, brightly, like a beam of light. he, too, once lost somebody in these woods–his hound, tomúr. he had spent a full day and night calling the dog’s name into the deepest part of the forest, where the thickets grew thickest. after falling asleep, exhausted from the effort, he awoke the next morning to find his hound sleeping soundly next to him.

this experience has wholly convinced biyn that he is a very skilled finder of lost persons.

as he begins to imagine himself finding oona’s lost somebody, a contented smile grows on his features, granting oona a peek at his row of crooked teeth. ”if she is lost,” he explains, pronouncing each word carefully, ”then it is a good thing that you have met me, oo-na. i will help you find your somebody; i promise i am quite good at it.” pride swells up inside him, widening his toothy smile.

“but i am afraid your screaming might frighten her away. i do not know if you have noticed,” he dares to add, looking around them, turning his head left and right, ”but your screams send the birds all aflutter.” he nods as if this were self-apparent. ”maybe we should call to her first.”

he pauses, sticking out his bottom lip in concentration as he imagines what they should call out. there are a few breaths of silence and the soft chirping sounds of insects before he thinks to ask, ”what is her name?”

[clover ❁]

oona st. james. 

she hasn't really talked about it, since it happened. not because she didn't want to, but more so because the world has disintegrated around her into shadowy hallways, and suddenly everywhere became the sort of place where you must tip-toe very carefully. her house felt like it might blow down with a sharp intake of breath, and so it was best to be very quiet there. 

that was why she needed to come out here and scream. it was essential, so she did not explode. it was also why she had not yet found the words to describe what had happened, had barely done so much as speak her sister's name aloud since she had fallen from the eaves. 

biyn does not know. "if she is lost," he says, oblivious, "then it is a good thing that yuo have met me, oo-na. i will help you find your somebody; i promise i am quiet good at it." 

as always he is grave, very serious. he is wrong; he will not find junie st. james, not anywhere. she is quite gone. and yet oona can't bring herself to admit it, doesn't want to explain the reality of what has happened to her little sister, does not want to break biyn's surety. 

"but i'm afraid your screaming might frighten her away. i do not know if you have noticed, but your scream sends the birds all aflutter." 

oona glances up at the canopy around her. she had not noticed. now, she sees that everything is still; the birds are gone, they have fled. the boy is right. she feels a little embarrassed, to have poisoned the forest in this way. 

"maybe we should call to her first," biyn suggests, reasonably. 

oona knows that she should admit it, now. she should say it, simply and clearly: junie is dead, we will not find her. she cannot come when we call. oona cannot do this, however, cannot force her lips to distort into the words. they defy her. 

"what is her name?" he presses. 

she frowns, furrows her brow, engaged in a crusade against her twisted tongue. she gathers all her strength. it takes everything, to say it, "she was called junie," oona says, in a tone she hopes is even. "but if we call her, she won't hear us. she's not here anymore." 

oona takes a shaky breath. she hopes that biyn will not pursue the matter. "i'm sorry to interrupt your hanging, it was really quite rude of me. if you like, i can go--" she looks around herself, realising that every tree looks just like the next, and she is no longer sure which direction is ahead and which is behind. "you might have to point me in the right direction, though." 

oona st. james is not made for the forest, as junie was. she is a stranger, here. 

[Bella 🌻]

biyn forrester

it appears to biyn that oona is pulling the lost person’s name out of some deep well of her memory. he waits patiently for her answer. it is hard to be in a hurry when one lives in the woods.

”she was called junie. but if we call her, she won’t hear us. she’s not here anymore.”

a quivering breath whisks her words out from beneath a sudden frown. biyn feels the change in her mood like a dark cloud rolling over–she is not laughing anymore. he pauses, furrowing his brow, chewing on the name she’s just mentioned, which echoes in his brain, knocking on all its stubborn little doors, calling out for recognition.

a scattered sequence of images comes to mind:

a flash of uncombed brown hair floating just beneath the water’s surface like seagrass, a lungful of bubbles pip-plopping as they rise to the top. pocketfuls of acorns and touch-me-nots piled at the edge of the pond.

the forresters crowding around the television set as a little girl sinks her teeth into a redhead’s face, spitting blood and chunks of flesh onto the ground like she’s just eaten something foul.

fairy dust sand filtering through bloody fingers; then, grains and girl alike, carried away on the wind. a soft, silent emptying.

that junie, biyn thinks. as the threads connect one by one, he understands that it’s pain for a dead person, not a lost one, that makes her voice quake. when oona inhales, readying a goodbye, there is a heavy sinking feeling inside him, as if his whole body were hollowed out and each of her words were filling him back up with water.

"i'm sorry to interrupt your hanging, it was really quite rude of me. if you like, i can go–” she says. ”you might have to point me in the right direction, though.”

biyn does not think she was rude in interrupting his hanging; or, if she was indeed rude, he begins to think he would quite like it if people were rude to him more often. oona interrupting his hanging has easily become the highlight of an uneventful week, the second place being the wild boar he had seen give birth a few days earlier.

the truth was, although hanging by the arms each day was good for one’s grip, the sights to be seen in the meantime were not much to write home about. Aside from the animals scrambling about in the underbrush, or teenagers looking for a secluded spot to snog in, people only seemed to come out here to hide something, like a dead body, or to throw away some bit of trash where it would never bother them again.

except the girl he saw in the pond (and later, on tv)–junie, who would venture out alone to climb trees and swim underwater. and now oona, who is screaming about her.

not knowing exactly where the right direction is, he does not point her there. he is all busy-minded with his remembering of junie. he speaks over oona’s shoulder as she looks about. ”i saw your junie,” he explains, gesturing with a sweep of one long arm, ”not here, but near a pond over that way. she used to hide under the water for a long time. seeing how long she could hold her breath, i think.” feeling nostalgic at the thought of it, he turns back to smile at oona. ”it was impressive, really.”

”i could show you the pond if you like,” he offers. biyn does not want to say goodbye to oona, but he also considers, reasonably, that he cannot take her home: he does not have a good place to put her. it would be best to see if she would just like to stay here a little while longer.

[clover ❁]

oona st. james. 

oona does not believe in ghosts. sometimes, in her dreams, she almost hears them, but fundamentally she cannot abide by the idea of second chances, of unsettled business, of debts to pay. after this, there must be nothing, because anything else would be magic, and oona has already established, beyond doubt, that magic cannot exist. if it did, things would have gone differently. 

when she speaks junie's name, however, she catches a glimpse of a ghost in biyn's eyes. 

his face is trapped behind ice for a moment, frozen by the memories that flash behind his eyes. oona cannot see them, but she wants to. this boy has known her sister (not in the way that the whole district has, as a frenzied fairy child with a foul mouth and sharp teeth, not in the way that they think they know her because they saw her fall, saw her die, no, not like that). oona wants to know exactly what he knows, every single bit of it. she wants biyn to show her the shadow-puppet remains of the not-ghost girl who used to play here in the forest. 

"i saw your junie," he confirms, but she already knew. 

oona feels her chest constrict, wonders if it is possible for all of her teeth to fall out from the pressure of it all. she imagines them scattered, little white shards, among the pine needles on the forest floor. 

"not here, but near a pond over that way. she used to hide under the water for a long time, seeing how long she could hold her breath, i think." this was a trick junie had been strictly banned from years ago, when she'd scared their father half to death. "it was impressive, really," biyn adds, and oona knows he is right: somehow, wretched, ragged little junie always was impressive, in an ugly, startling sort of way. the kind of way that made you stop and gawk, unable to tear yourself away. 

"i could show you the pond, if you like," biyn says, simply, as though it is that easy. 

there are no such thing as ghosts, there are no such thing as ghosts, oona tells herself. not even deep in the forest with strange boys you've never met before. after all, if biyn knows junie, he is not really a stranger. 

oona nods her assent. "okay," she breathes, "i think- i think i'd like to see." 

she is ready to follow him, unquestioningly. in his story about the pond he has shown her that he holds a key she did not know she was searching for. she is glad she has found it. 

"was it just that once, that you saw her?" oona says, and, surprisingly, all of her teeth remain rooted inside her mouth where they have always been. "didn't try to crush her skull, did you? she looks small, but she's scary." 

there it is again, the present tense. she isn't anything, anymore. 

"we found her in this forest," oona gestures around, although the forest is big and she isn't really sure where within it she had come across the baby. she is struck then by the peculiarity of the person with whom she speaks, and wonders aloud: "you don't live here, do you?"