Curses, Inc. and Other Stories by Vivian Vande Velde

Author:Vivian Vande Velde [Velde, Vivian Vande]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt

Remember Me

I FIND MYSELF KNEELING on the dusty road, doubled over as if in pain—though I remember no pain.

Before me stands a woman, dressed all in black. Her face is wrinkled and old, her eyes blue green and cold. She says, "Let that be a lesson to you, you arrogant pig." Then she raises her arms and all in an instant is transformed into a crow and flies away.

I try to take notice of her direction, which I feel is probably important, but almost immediately lose the tiny speck of black in the glare of the sun. Also, I'm distracted by the thought that I have no idea who the woman is, or why she should have said such a thing to me.

More alarming, I realize I have no idea who I am.

A young man—that I can tell. I frantically ransack my brain, but no name surfaces. No face, either—my own or anyone else's, except the one I've just seen, the old woman's with the cold eyes. This is ridiculous, I think, I'm...

But even with this running start I can't finish the thought. No name. I can't even think: I'm so-and-so's son. I feel no connection to anyone or anything before fifteen seconds ago.

My clothes are satin and brocade. I have two rings, one on each hand—one is set with two emeralds; the other is simple gold, in the form of a dragon eating its own tail. I also have a gold clasp for my cloak. So, I reason, I'm a wealthy man. And, it takes no memory but only common sense to know, wealth means power. But I don't feel powerful, without even having a name.

I look around. The countryside is unfamiliar without being strange. I am on a road, fairly wide and clear. The land is a bit hilly, behind me more so, ahead of me less. Also ahead of me, rising above the tops of the trees, I can make out a distant tower. Much closer is a horse, grazing on the weeds by the edge of the road. I think he must be mine, for he is saddled and bridled, and there is no one else in sight, and what need does a woman who can turn herself into a crow have for a horse?

But I have no name for the horse, any more than I have for myself, and he looks at me warily as I rise to my feet.

"It's all right," I assure him, making soft clucking noises to calm him. "Everything is fine."

Obviously we can both see everything is not fine, but he lets me approach, although he watches me with eyes so alarmed the whites show around them.

I can tell that the horse, like the clothing, is expensive. So are the horse's accoutrements. The saddle is soft leather, just worn enough to be broken in and comfortable, not old or scuffed. The saddlecloth is expensive material and looks brand-new. There are no saddlebags, nothing to tell me who I am or where I'm from.

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