Nameless

Cinders glowed, a dim orange tinging the darkness around her. Snow fluttered, kissing her cheeks, her nose, her lips—kissing her where no one else would. Once more, the Nameless Woman—because that’s what she was now—brought the poorly-rolled joint to her mouth. Inhaling deeply, she relished the scorch in her lungs, the heady taste of herbal smoke coating her tongue, sticking to the back of her throat. 

Her nose ran, and her eyes watered. One…two…three…

Release. Plumes of smoke coalesced in the frigid air. She used to fight back her coughs, holding it in until her face went red because everyone else could take it just fine, but then her chest would seize and if she wanted to breathe she had to hack and wheeze, and in the end it was always worse and more embarrassing than it would have been in the first place. So she let herself cough, let herself drool, let herself succumb to the searing but fleeting pain. 

Her head spun. Numbness settled over her limbs like chainmail, a strange sort of solace rooting her to the splintered bus-station bench. 

One more drag. Another bout of gasping for air. Another, and all she tasted was ash. 

Dejected, she flicked the butt of the joint into the snow. It sat there, a pitiful stump beside the first she’d finished an hour ago. 

Fingers red and nearly immobile with cold, she began to roll another. Painstakingly slow, she filled the thin brown paper with the last of her bud—she wasn’t sure how she would replenish. She didn’t have him anymore. She didn’t have anyone. 

Memories rose unbidden. Sitting in their sparse, claustrophobic living room, sharing drinks and tongues and lessons. Family dinners every Sunday, alternating between his folks and hers—one crowded and lively and chaotic and the other simple but pleasant. A squealing baby in her arms. 

Click. Whoosh. Click. Whoosh. Click. Whoosh. 

Desperately, she tried to spark a flame, cupping her fingers against the wind. Her attempts grew more frantic until finally, finally the end of the poorly rolled joint caught (it was already beginning to canoe, but she was certain she’d smoke it fast enough it wasn’t going to be a problem). 

She squeezed her eyes shut, and this time she did hold back her cough but only because she was certain it was going to be a sob and she was so goddamn tired of crying. 

Like always, the cough punched out. Tears and screams punctuated it. 

When again she opened her eyes, a cool sense of dread washed over her. All at once her distress silenced, replaced by the sinking feeling someone was watching her. At first, she chalked it up to being high. But there was no mistaking the hulking shadow of something at the edge of the lush, devouring forest. 

She squinted, reaching for her phone—the lamppost at this stop had never been functional and light was particularly scant tonight. By the time she had her flashlight on, the shadow was gone. 

The Nameless Woman sighed, flicked her phone off, and turned her head to the sky. Stars were her favorite thing about this stop. Without a working light and nothing else within walking distance (save for an ominous gas station with a dinosaur mascot she only ever stopped at once for a chocolate muffin when she was particularly peckish), the universe seemed endless. Knowing. Alive. 

Why must clouds muzzle it? 

She took another deep puff. This time, her cough was half-smoke, half-startled scream. 

Sitting at her feet was the hulking shadow she’d seen edging the pines. Except—it wasn’t hulking at all. (Must have been a trick of the light, the fault of my muddled mind, she convinced herself). An elegant black cat sat with its tail curled over its toes, wide yellow eyes peering up at her. Judging her. 

“What?” she snapped, taking another deep drag. 

She’d never been a fan of black cats. Not because they’re supposedly unlucky (though, her mother would insist this was a matagot demon here to rub salt in her ever growing wound, even if the Nameless Woman had always insisted they were there to help) or because they are supposed to eat children on Christmas (her father would joke about the Jólakötturinn, the Yule Cat his own mother used to threaten him with if he didn’t wear his new sweater every Christmas). They were simply just plain to look at. 

The cat blinked. She blinked. She took another drag. It blinked again. 

“Well, if you’re just going to stare, you might as well come up here,” she said, after it seemed they’d been in a standstill for what felt like eternity. 

With a small chirping prr, the cat gracefully leapt onto the bench beside her. It moved with such ease, such fluidity she wasn’t entirely convinced it wasn’t a shadow. She had to admit there was something  preternatural about the cat: eyes just a bit too impish, teeth just a bit too sharp, movements almost gaseous, like it might melt between her fingers if she were to pick it up. 

“You know,” she said, her breath blossoming around her, almost like a flower unfurling, “most people would consider you an omen. Is that why you’re here, now, of all shit times to show up?” 

When the cat didn’t respond, she offered it the butt end of the joint. Nose twitching, it ventured a sniff, then scowled in that subtle (yet indubitably) judgemental way that cats always managed to appear human. 

She scowled back. “You wouldn’t be so adverse if it was catnip. This is people catnip.” She wagged it in front of the cat’s face and it almost seemed to roll its eyes. “Judge me once you have your entire life stolen from you, Kitty. Is that your name?” 

Silence was her only answer, though the cat seemed to take on an air of melancholy. As if it had no name. But everything in the cosmos had a name, a home, a life. 

Except, her, she supposed. She wasn’t sure she would ever be used to it. To understand, reflexively, that she no longer exists. Not in any way that matters. 

“I get it. Names are powerful. They’re everything.” She took another long drag, probably too long, because it was beginning to burn her nose. She let it, deciding she didn’t care, deciding she liked the suffering. “That’s why they took mine.” 

Drawing another puff, she fished around in her pocket. The only edible thing she came up with was a bag filled with the shavings of beef jerky she’d long since forgotten about. She offered a sliver to Kitty. Once more, it sniffed hesitantly, then more insistently, until it snapped it up. 

Prr. 

It butted its head against her fingers. Allowing herself the faintest quirk of a smile, the Nameless Woman scratched its ears. 

Click. She took another puff, tossed another sliver, took a puff, tossed a sliver. 

They continued like that in a comforting silence—a woman with a past she couldn’t speak of and a future that was nothing more than a dream, and a cat that she swore shifted colors with the excitement of jerky (but it was certainly just a trick of the light)—until neither joint nor jerky remained. 

Head blissfully clouded, the Nameless Woman watched as pools of yellow illuminated the night. Kitty’s ears flattened, his (she decided he had a sort of masculine energy) tail puffed. His claws dug into her thighs and she realized with pleasant surprise that at some point in their silent exchanges he had crawled into her lap. 

The bus came into view. Instinctively, she moved to stand, to board the rickety bus as she always must when she had finished her escape to the country (though, in truth, her thirst for the stars was never fully sated no matter how many times she trekked out here). Kitty’s warm, solid weight kept her rooted, the fuzz in her head kept her emotions muted, as the bus rolled past her showing no signs of stopping. 

She supposed it would never stop for her again. 

Wishing she hadn’t run out of pot, the Nameless Woman idly ran her fingers through Kitty’s sleek black fur. Purrs rumbled beneath her palms. Tears pricked in her eyes. 

“I used to think there was magic in the world,” she whispered, burying her face into Kitty’s side. “I mean, real magic, the good stuff, not this bullshit.” Her voice caught in her throat, words congealed in the thick of her sorrow. “Not this twisted devilry.” 

Flashes of that night—their last night—(no, no, she refused to think that, there had to be some way back) whited out her vision. Just a simple summoning spell, a call to the Underworld—a prayer, really—for blessed waters in labor. 

Instead the djinn answered. They stole him, they stole their baby they had loved together so unconditionally, so wholly, whom they had prayed for. The djinn stole her name. 

Wears her face.    

Lives her life. 

The Nameless Woman wondered what others saw when they looked at her. If they saw anything at all. 

“I just wanted my sweet girl to be blessed in health and love.” She pulled her head back from Kitty’s comforting purrs, craning her head back to the cloudy, empty sky. “I wanted her to see the stars.” 

Slinking like a common cat and flowing like a ghost, Kitty was at her feet, curling between her legs. 

Come. It seemed to say, as it set off down the road, and she knew in her soul it was most certainly not a natural cat, and that perhaps, it was her saving grace. You will see the stars. 

Slowly, she stood. “And you, whether cat or matagot or something else entirely…” 

He glanced back at her, tail flicking in what seemed like hope, or maybe understanding. 

“You will have a name. And it will be yours alone.” 

Kitty chirped. Slowly, the snow lightened. Clouds parted. The Nameless Woman’s eyes widened in awe at the breathtaking splatter of stars against the inky sky. 

You will have a name. 

A sentiment, a truth, something bittersweet, that she had said aloud, but echoed and reflected back to her tenfold by a force and indescribable feeling she knew didn’t originate from her will, but something archaic, something potent.. 

She is no longer anyone. She is the Nameless Woman. Kitty is a creature not entirely one thing or the other, without place or name. 

She fell in step beside the sleek black cat, and finally allowed herself the mirth of a full smile. 

Even if it was only each other (and in fact, it was only those two for what felt like a time so long they were trapped in glass), they would be something to someone again. 

They would be someone again.