The old Foxxe house was empty now. Dust lay on the pots and pans, on the table Johnny Foxxe had built. Pepe ran the hills with his kind, adding his voice to the midnight song, but Angela and Isabella were clothed in their slender human forms. In the circle of stones surrounding Red Springs, the Foxxe sisters were dancing.
Far to the west, the wood wife sat by her trailer and smoked another cigarette. When it was done, she shook off the shapeless dress, the folds of woman-flesh; she put on her cloak of leaves and slowly walked through that land, humming as she went. Where she passed, saplings of ironwood and mesquite rooted in the dry soil.
In Cooper’s house, Maggie stood at the window, Fox behind her, listening.
“This is the kind of night,” Fox said, “when I think my mother was right after all: that the cactus run away and waltz together as soon as we’re not looking. The coyotes are making the music for them. What are they singing for now, I wonder?”
“For joy,” she said. “Listen. Can’t you hear it?”
“It’s not a death song?”
“It’s a life song. But I think they might be the same thing.”
Fox put his arms around her. He whispered into Maggie’s ear, “To feel that waking is another sleep that dreams it does not sleep and that death, which our flesh dreads, is that very death of every night which we call sleep… To transform the outrage of the years into a music, a rumor, a symbol … of such is Poetry, immortal and a pauper.”
She leaned back against him, her eyes thoughtful. “Is that Cooper?”
“No, it’s Borges,” he told her. He pointed. “Look. That’s poetry too. The moon. And the color of that sky. The Three Graces in the yard. The mountains looking like one of Anna’s paintings come to life.”
“Those are gemstone colors, not paintbox colors,” she said. She whispered into his ear, “The night, blue lapis. The mountain, onyx. Saguaro, verdigris within a copper dish of moon. The wind rustles dry mesquite. A coyote howls. A star falls. And the night cracks me open, with beauty sharp and poignant as grief. The night cracks me open, like a geode, exposing the crystal veins of God.”
“Is that Cooper then?” Fox asked.
She shook her head. “Only Maggie Black.”
Fox smiled and kissed her bare shoulder. “Come away from the window, Only-Maggie-Black. The saguaro won’t move while we’re watching them—and look, you can see they’re all ready to dance.”
She looked out the window one last time, and saw that they were indeed.
author’s note
The story of The Wood Wife was originally conceived for a series of novellas based on the magical artwork of British painter Brian Froud; over time, the original tale shape-shifted and became the novel herein. Despite the many changes since the story’s earliest conception, Brian’s beautiful art remains a strong influence throughout the text. I am grateful for his vision, his generosity, and his friendship.
I am also grateful to Patrick Nielsen Hayden, John Jarrold, Ellen Steiber and Delia Sherman for their insightful comments on the text; to my agent, Julie Fallowfield, and legal counsel, Mimi Panitch; to Robert Gould for conversations that sparked the character of Maggie Black; to Leigh Grossman and Keith Decandido for early encouragement; and to the following people who helped with fact-checking: Midori Snyder, Tania Yatskievyick, Dhevdhas Nair, Ian Brackenbury, Russell Stevens, and Ray Pepes. In addition, I owe deep thanks to the following people who—in various ways—opened my eyes to the beauty of the Sonoran desert: Beth Meacham and Tappan King, the Harlan family, Jim and Loma Griffith, Dick Laws and Marie Rogier, Jodi and Rupert Encinas, Elisabeth Roberts, and Munro Sickafoose, and, as always, my thanks to Thomas Canty for his faith.
I’m a newcomer to the Sonora, and only a part-time desert dweller at that. I strongly recommend the works of the Southwestern writers who know this beautiful region best, such as Edward Abbey, Charles Bowden, James Griffith, Janice Emily Bowers, and Gary Nabhan—as well as Hope Ryden’s extensive study of coyotes in the wild: God’s Dog.
—Terri Windling
Tucson, Arizona
and Devon, England
And it was at that age … Poetry arrived
in search of me. I don’t know, I don’t know where
it came from…
—Pablo Neruda
about the author
Writer, artist, critic, and editor, Terri Windling has nurtured the careers of many of fantasy’s most innovative writers, including Steven Brust, Charles de Lint, Emma Bull, and Sheri Tepper, and introduced many of fantasy’s most distinguished artists to the field, including Robert Gould and Thomas Canty. She has edited The Armless Maiden and Snow White, Blood Red, and other acclaimed anthologies; created several popular series such as the Fairy Tales novels and the Bordertown books; and coedits the annual Year’s Best Fantasy and Horror with Ellen Datlow.
She divides her time between Tucson, Arizona, and Devon, England.
