First, have several of us. Enough that no one can be sure of our number, including you. Not quite so many that we could band together and become powerful, but more than a handful, so that when one or two of us end up in the cooking pot, you’ll have plenty left over for next time. There is always, always a next time.
***
Next, never name us. It would be difficult to keep our names straight anyway, when we’re as interchangeable as a flock of brown birds. Don’t bother. Why should you? We’re yours, and that’s all you need to know. Without names, we’re much easier to replace. Forget. Move on.
***
Speaking of birds: When you touch us with a spell, make it a minor one. Turn us into drab, flocking creatures—sparrows, maybe. Or doves. Or hens. Something that will huddle in the bracken around your chicken-legged house, never bold or strong enough to wander off into the dark woods. Something that can be shooed out of the way when a prince in disguise or a pretty maiden with an enchanted doll comes to stay. But don’t pass along your other gifts: Your sharp sense of smell, your magic fire, your immortality. You can’t swallow what can’t die, after all. Keep things simple. Keep us small.
***
When it comes to other mothers’ children: Steal them. Do it again and again. Always choose a sweet little boy with an older sister—the clever, resourceful type, who is sure to come after him, and who’ll never give up, no matter what mountains and rivers and hungry bears loom in her way. And even when you have a captive, make sure to keep up your daily flights through the woods in the mortar that you never let us touch, so that the girl can slip into the house while you’re out and find the little boy safe and warm and well fed, playing with a golden ball, surrounded by a few clucking hens.
***
That’s right: make sure to have a golden ball ready. Maybe a silver saucer. Some spools of silk thread. Something you’ve never given any of us; something pretty and pleasant, something to occupy a little boy while he waits for the rescue that always, always comes.
***
And when the clever, loyal sister arrives, leave plenty of pieces for her to put together. The huge pot hanging over the fire. The bowl and cutlery set out for just one. Make your intentions perfectly clear. The girl won’t let you eat her baby brother, of course. She’ll have to find a substitute. Hens are easy to slaughter; if you made that choice when spellcasting, you’ll save her some trouble now. If you’ve forgotten to disguise us this time, and left us in our human forms, the girl will square her shoulders and do the job anyway. After all, she is the heroine, and we are your daughters. Homely. Nameless. Never quick enough to escape when the axe comes down on our backs.
***
Please make sure the axe is honed.
***
Stack enough firewood for the girl to use. She might pop us in a stew, or she might roast or bake us instead, so have the hearth swept and the oven ready. (Tell one of us to do the job before you leave.) Keep stores of seasonings for a visiting cook to find. Plenty of salt, garlic, horseradish, dill. She won’t need to disguise the flavor—you’re expecting flesh, and that’s what you’ll get. But she’ll try to make it new. To trick that nose of yours, so you don’t catch a hint of something familiar, like a name you’re sure you should know, but that you can’t quite recall.
***
When the meal is over, and the brother and sister have run away, free, add our bones to the wall around the house, the one that’s meant to warn off unwary visitors. Really, it’s a family plot, an inside-out catacomb, a reminder to the rest of us that this will happen again and again and again, every time the story is told.
***
Don’t take revenge on that clever sister. She’s already found the path to her ending. There will be other sisters, other paths, other tricks and traps and bloodstains on your floor. Don’t learn anything from this. Nothing that would prompt a change. You are who you are, and the rest of us are not.
***
Above all, don’t have sons. Only daughters are for eating.
***
One last thing: Have iron teeth. Keep them sharp.
Jacqueline West’s work has appeared in Strange Horizons, Liminality, Mirror Dance, Abyss & Apex, and Star*Line. Her books for younger readers include the NYT-bestselling series The Books of Elsewhere and the YA horror novel Last Things. Find her at @JacquelineMWest or jacquelinewest.com.
Published 10/13/22
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