If I Told You Once. Judy Budnitz

of imps and spirits, of the forest, of the river, of stone, and of the hearth. They said young spirits were harmless, stupid; it was only the older spirits who were clever and malicious.

      But this spirit did nothing, merely looked her up and down, and then trotted back into the trees. The two tiny wings that grew from his shoulder blades flapped feebly as he went.

      She ran home, and thought no more about the incident, except now and then, when she seemed to feel someone watching her, or when she saw a reflection not her own in the distorting bowl of a spoon.

      It was months later that she heard a beat drawing her to the woods, a regular pounding that matched her own heart. She followed the sound, gliding among the trees, and came upon a young man, his shoulders nearly as broad as two men put together. He was splitting wood, in a regular rhythm, using an ax that matched his girth.

      She watched as he worked, his back and shoulders so graceful yet so heavy. She saw in him a solidity that matched her lightness, and for once she could not think of a question to ask.

      She returned again and again to watch him at his work. He was so practiced in his movements that he could stare back at her, lining up the chunks and letting the ax fall without ever looking.

      Watching him she felt as she did when she saw the moon clearly reflected in a pool of water, or rain dimpling the surface of a river, or a young sapling sprouting from the rot of a decaying stump. It was a sense of symmetry and completeness.

      She made her feelings known, without a word.

      The young man came to the village to speak with her father.

      The girl’s parents were pleased with his request. They had assumed no one would want to marry their daughter; she was flighty, an indifferent worker, and they had expected her to remain a light but troublesome burden the rest of their lives. The father was happy enough with her suitor, and the two laid plans and conditions and sealed it all with a firm handshake, both men testing the other’s grip.

      During the months and weeks before the wedding the girl became lighter than ever. She was not permitted to be alone with her prospective husband, so she watched him from a distance, savoring the musical sway of his body. She drifted through the woods, rose to the level of the treetops, and watched him from above. She swooped and tumbled in the sky, dove to earth and rose again, climbing the air as if it were a staircase. At night she darted batlike against a backdrop of stars, all the while humming her tuneless nothings or clucking her tongue like a falling ax.

      The villagers saw her skimming the treetops and muttered: Silly girl, she’ll break her neck.

      And: She should be home helping her mother.

      While she flew carelessly above, trouble came to the village down below. First it was flies, thick dark clouds of them. They settled everywhere, attacking with their stinging bites, feasting on anything left uncovered, burrowing into the hides of animals to lay their eggs.

      And then the yard behind the girl’s home began to collect water from an unknown source. The ground became sodden, the garden plants rotted, the earth sank. Within days the yard had become a swamp, and lugubrious black frogs had taken up residence. They moved lazily, their skins as slimy-black as oil. White clusters of their eggs made a scum on the surface.

      Thick clouds lumbered in, clogging the sky. For a week day was as dark as night.

      These were bad omens, and the villagers eyed each other suspiciously, wondering who was to blame.

      A week before the wedding, the girl woke in the night to find her window open, a sour breeze licking at her forehead. And then she saw the close-bitten fingers on the sill, two yellow eyes glowing in the dark, and a long pink tongue unrolling and creeping along the floor.

      The tongue reached the foot of her bed, lifted the sheet, and burrowed underneath. She felt the rough tip as it nudged its way up her legs, creeping upward to help itself to the thing she was saving for her future husband. She tried to scream, slapped at it with her hands, leaped up in bed. She snatched up a hairbrush and struck again and again, but the pink worm seemed to be everywhere, writhing and soiling the sheets. So she shot upward, toward the ceiling, and fluttered there mothlike, seeking an escape.

      The spirit let out a roar with his tender tongue. He sprang into the room, filled with a jealous rage. He had hoped to lure her into the spirit world with him, he had brought her a crown of hemlock and mistletoe, a wedding veil of spiderwebs.

      Now he snatched at her as she bobbed just out of reach. She sought an exit but the window had disappeared, as if it were a wound that had healed; the door was gone and even the cracks between the floorboards had sealed themselves. The walls drew in closer, and closer, and closer, the spirit nibbled greedily at his fingers, and she covered her eyes and screamed and screamed, and the spirit leaped up and dove into her body.

      If he could not have her himself, he would prevent anyone else from having her.

      Now the girl wandered through the village day and night, her eyes glazed, her face strangely slack. She did not float, she staggered and crashed into fences, she clawed at windows, plucked at her own hair. She spun like a top, her skirts rising to her waist, her hair hanging loose, streaming behind her, a dark streak. She sank her teeth into her own arm, and drank.

      The voice that came from her was not her own. It was deep, hoarse, a man’s voice, it came from deep within her and flowed out her mouth, spilled out over her unmoving lips.

      She wallowed in mud. She rent her clothes.

      Wherever she went, dogs, cats, children fled. But she was followed by chickens, a flock of them, all watching her with their pink eyes and dodging her drunken feet. Wherever she stepped, worms rose from the ground and the chickens pecked at them greedily.

      The villagers recognized the signs. They barred their doors. The girl beat at their walls, calling and cursing in her harsh voice.

      Her betrothed tried to restrain her and she turned on him savagely, clawing his face to the bone with her fingernails. He stumbled away, blinded by blood. Forever afterward he wore a beard, to hide the scars.

      When it began to rain, the girl looked up, slaver coating her chin. She limped to the village meetinghouse to take shelter. The villagers watched from their windows; her father crept out and barred the door behind her.

      The villagers met in the street, rain soaking their clothes, to decide what to do. Many had seen girls possessed by dybbuks before, but they were divided as to the identity of this invader. The future husband was quick to suggest forest spirits; he feared they were revenging themselves on him for killing so many trees.

      Other villagers thought the dybbuk was the spirit of a girl who had died ten years earlier, three days before her own wedding day. Such spirits were jealous of living girls who would soon know the pleasures of marriage. These spirits were childish and petty, more lonely than malicious. They could be coaxed out of their victim’s bodies with gifts, white dresses, music, cake.

      Some said the girl had been strange from the start, there was no helping her.

      The villagers listened as the hoarse, choking voice rose up inside the meetinghouse. They heard pounding, crashes; they saw a tortured silhouette flashing past the windows.

      They knew they would have to act quickly, or the girl would be lost to the human world forever. But they could not agree on the method: some said fire, some said prayer, some suggested a drink of lye, others wanted to sweep out her insides as one might a clogged chimney. As the rain poured down the villagers armed themselves with hoes and paring knives and prayer books. They straightened their shoulders, prepared for battle.

      As they approached the door, they heard again the hoarse guttural voice, raised in anger. It bawled and faded, gibbering, arguing with itself; it rose into hysteria, and exploded. The windows glowed orange, the rain falling on the roof hissed and boiled. A section of the roof blew apart, showering shingles and sparks. A dark and howling shadow swirled up into the sky and disappeared.

      Inside, the room was filled with smoke and the smell of goat. The villagers found the girl crouched