Chapter 6 Klytemnestra
I turn my back on that good-for-nothing goddess, to show I don’t consider her a threat. She could still smite me if she chose to – but judging by our little dance she’s not strong enough to smite a kitten. Some defender she is. Deceitful and weak, even weaker than Cassandra.
No matter. My knife’s work is not yet done. Its thirst has not been sated.
I take a few steps into that disconcerting white, trusting my feet to carry me despite the lack of any path I can detect.
I know the soles of my feet must still be soaked in Agamemnon’s blood, yet there’s no red-hued footprints anywhere; nothing to betray my presence, or my recent deeds.
It disturbs me, this erasure of my truth.
As if I’m but a wisp of wind, fully inconsequential.
As if I didn’t slice my husband’s throat with glee.
This isn’t right. Murder should carry weight, in every realm. I should carry weight.
I push these unpleasant thoughts aside. Whatever this pristine, perplexing world is, be it the sphere of ghosts or gods, it’s not my place to question its mechanics.
I don’t belong in it; I’m merely passing through, chasing away crow goddesses who’d dare intrude on my queendom.
Besides, we only walked a few paces when I followed her into the light.
It shouldn’t be so hard to find my way to my halls.
The entrance, such as it was, should be straight ahead.
I should be gazing at the gaping skull that once contained my husband’s spirit, at his coagulated blood dyeing the marble bathtub like a rosy sunrise. Right here. Any second now.
Yet there is nothing but this milky fog, as far as the eye can see.
Fear finds me first, its icy fingers sinking in my chest. I refuse to turn around, to ask that wretched goddess for directions; it’s clear I cannot trust a word she says. I plunge my knife forward, hoping it will catch on some unseen surface, lend me passage back into my world.
The knife only slices air, making me lose my balance and fall screaming into nothing.
No – into something. Something solid though invisible cushions my fall, stifling my cry.
Soft to the touch, akin to a sheepskin rug.
I push myself back up, knife still at hand, only to notice her hovering near, long, dark-clad limbs shuffling, pale hands clutching her skirts.
‘You! You did this, you destroyed the opening. Take me back at once.’ I reach for her, but she retreats, flinching.
‘I …’ Her eyes keep darting to my knife.
‘I did nothing of the sort!’ Her voice hitches higher, terror transfused with indignation.
‘It was the witches, they … they tricked me. They said the mark on my hand would lead me to glory, and then they made me drink this poison which almost buried me in forest dirt then spat me out into this empty place, where I was forced to walk forever, or it felt like forever, until I found a mark of claret on your door and then I opened it and – oh, don’t you see how it’s all tied together, leading back to those hags? ’
I consider her words, coated in almost endearing panic, in true distress. She’s hinting at powers greater than her, which would fit. This squawking raven cannot be in control of any magic. Not willingly, at least.
Still, every second in this colourless terrain grates on my nerves. My anger is a crackling thing, making my fingers tingle, my throat ache.
Today was supposed to be my greatest triumph. Yet here am I, already a world away, being subjected to uncanny emptiness and spineless lies while Cassandra lives. Probably trying to convince my court she’s carrying Agamemnon’s child, so that she can take my throne.
I’ve had enough. Succumbing to the rage that courses through my veins, I grab this hollow goddess by her soft, soft hair and tug, bringing her to her knees.
The hunger in my stomach writhes, screaming, demanding, craving.
‘I believe you,’ I say, my knife about to meet her swan-like throat.
‘Perhaps spilling your blood will pave my way home.’
She panics. Her hands find mine like fluttering birds, struggling to stop my knife.
Her touch sears me. A thousand unseen birds caw in my head. Colours erupt everywhere.
For a second, all I can do is stare. The screeching of the phantom birds subsides, but the colours linger.
So sudden is the change in the world around me, I forget to breathe or move.
Like a veil parting in the sky to reveal the sun, the whiteness of my surroundings withers, and what emerges underneath is filled with colours, shapes and textures.
‘Do you see that?’ my almost victim whispers, her green eyes wide.
She makes to get up, and in my daze, I let her.
Our hands are still entwined, but that’s all right.
I can kill her later. I can withstand this searing sensation, this pain that seems to go straight to my heart.
She clearly has magic – and knows more about this place than she’s letting on. ‘We’re … we’re in a castle.’
‘I don’t know what a castle is, but if this is the palace of some Anax, I prefer mine.
’ Now that my eyes are once again my guides, I can’t help but compare these halls to Mycenae.
No gold, no marble. Just stone, rows and rows of it, curving in high arches on both sides and above us, with torches affixed strangely on the walls, burning low.
The rug under my feet must have once been red, but now its colour is half-faded, a beast’s cut tongue that lies flat, its secrets left unspoken, like someone left it in the sun too long.
Yet there’s no sun – no windows anywhere.
Nothing to orient me in space, or in time.
It’s almost as unsettling as that former emptiness.
Behind me, before me, an endless hallway stretches, lined with closed doors.
One of them must be mine. One of them must be how I go back home.
‘Which one is mine?’ I bark at her – witch, goddess or woman – who has caused all this.
I still hold my knife. If she does not collaborate …
‘I don’t know,’ she whispers, sounding shocked. ‘They all look the same to me. There’s nothing, no stain of claret on these doorknobs. I don’t know which one to pick.’
‘Pick one, and fast. You’re only alive because you pulled this little trick.’ Tugging on her hands, I push her towards a door at random and take a step back, to let her work her sneaky magic.
The world fades back to white.