Chapter 7 Lady Macbeth
The door dissolves before my very eyes, its sturdy hinges swallowed by that waxy haze.
Colossal sadness settles on my heart. For one second earlier, just as I thought my life would end under that demon’s blade, the world had bloomed in colours.
The terrain had made sense again, I was somewhere that made sense – and it was real, real enough to make that murderer think twice about slaying me. And now? What new treachery is this?
I reach for the door that isn’t there, the door that should be there, but my hands come away empty. It’s not just concealed; it’s rendered once again untouchable.
I’m quite aware I’m not the only one whose eyes and hands have failed her anew – that bloody nightmare of a woman prowls behind me like a trapped she-lion, promising to carve me a new spine with her claws if I don’t fix this now.
Yet my mind cannot seem to grasp the reasoning behind these recent shifts.
‘It’s toying with us,’ I say out loud, because that is the only explanation that makes sense.
‘This world,’ I gesture at the endless void, my voice raw, ‘is toying with us, tormenting us. Offering flickers of hope, glimpses of a way out, only to retract them when we try to act upon them. A doomed endeavour.’ I sag on that carpeted castle floor I once more can’t see.
I’m done. I’m tired. Let the witches have my carcass, let them cackle over it.
My murderer approaches, that knife of hers still fresh from almost severing my throat.
I look up to her demented eyes, at the ire that greets me there. ‘If you mean to kill me, best get on with it. I’d quite like for this humiliating chase to end.’
‘You mean that.’ Her voice is but a whisper, a brass shield vibrating before war. ‘Yet you brought me here. You cut into my home and trapped me here with you.’
I shouldn’t argue with a woman dressed in blood, who’s prone to stabbing first, finding reasons later.
Yet the falseness of her words offends me.
‘I already told you; I thought I was going home. If anyone’s to blame, it’s you.
I was about to walk away. Your realm was certainly alarming, and that bathtub …
’ I shudder at the memory, at the dead body in that bathtub, its head cracked open hideously.
‘You’re the one who left her world behind to come after me. ’
She flinches at that. Interesting. She’s not entirely incapable of recognizing she’s at fault. Perhaps that’s something to exploit – should I survive long enough.
I’m still not certain I should find the fortitude to try.
What is there to even strive for? My lord will surely be lost without me; I fear it was just my gentle pushes that kept him on the proper path of glory. Now, in this saturated shroud, it all feels so vain, our ambitions as far-fetched as a woodland sprouting legs and fighting us.
I sigh, burying my head in my hands, not bothering to care about their wretched, bloodied state.
Our crimes have mingled on my skin, her kills and mine.
The irony is not lost on me. I tried so hard to wash the blood of Duncan and the others from my hand, the blood of all the needed deaths I shepherded, only to meet a woman-wolf who relishes in the reminders of her actions.
She only kills those who need killing, she did say. Could be that I am one of them.
‘All I wanted was to be Queen.’ Mayhap this is my last confession. Mayhap my killer will allow me to say my piece before she strikes. ‘And for the name Macbeth to blaze in glory for a thousand years. For all the wretched things we did to matter.’
I hear a sigh that is not mine. ‘Is that your name, then? Macbeth?’
I raise my head, surprised, only to see my killer squatting in front of me.
What a brutal beast she is! The remnants of a dress that could conceivably have passed as white once – yet is now too drenched in blood to tell – cling to a figure made of curves, all brazen hills where should be modest flatlands.
Preposterous to even look at. My gaze flees to her hair, which has now dried into tight, claret-coloured coils.
I could swear even her eyes have a somewhat reddish hue.
If blood was God, she would surely be his emissary.
The blunt end of her knife finds my cheek, patting it lightly.
Dismay battles irritation in me as the blade touches my skin, strangely warm and tingling, teasing a crime yet to be committed.
I won’t retreat this time. When I’m the one holding that knife, I will teach this curvy demon a few lessons on respect.
Perhaps she’ll tire at some point. Do demons sleep?
‘I asked you a question,’ she says slowly, as if speaking to a simpleton.
I blink, trying to concentrate on her words rather than the absurdity of it all. What did she ask? Ah, yes. ‘Macbeth is my lord husband’s name. He was meant to be the King of Scotland. We were promised …’ My voice fades, as I am once again reminded of our spurned destiny.
‘You were promised? By whom? The gods?’ She chuckles, but it’s all steel, no mirth. ‘Promises pale when it comes to crowns. It’s best to take them if you can. Show your strength. The gods can bless you, or they can curse you – that is their prerogative.’
Who is this woman? How is she so unafraid?
I try to look behind the blood, behind the threats to kill me, but she remains unsolvable.
As opaque as this white world around us.
‘Who are you, really?’ Sensing the thunder brewing in her brow, I raise my hand.
‘Tell me again. This time, use terms that I might understand.’
She bristles. ‘What is there to misunderstand? My name is Klytemnestra. I rule Mycenae. I was about to dispose of my last enemy before … all this.’ She actually sits down properly, using the tip of her knife for balance.
With the floor obscured again, it looks like she’s floating on unseen clouds.
A scantily clad demon, resting in celestial skies.
‘Now,’ she continues, ‘I wonder if my crown will be stolen from under my nose because I can’t find a gods-doomed door in a hallway that’s awash with them.
I always knew the gods had a nasty sense of humour …
’ A pause. A copper gaze, sparkling with something not unlike intelligence. ‘Making sense now?’
‘Klytemnestra …’ I struggle with the foreign syllables, but only for a bit.
‘Ha,’ I say, because somewhere between her squatting in that ridiculous dress and the world winking out of existence yet again, my fear for her must have subsided.
She seems more inclined to converse with me than kill me.
I don’t blame her – I’m reluctant company, but even that is company enough.
Preferable to wandering alone, in unseen corridors for eternity.
Perhaps I can postpone my plans to disarm her, till our circumstances change.
‘What are you laughing at?’ she demands.
‘Nothing, forgive me. It’s just that your name … even your name sounds like claret.’
‘Claret.’ Now it’s her turn to sound unfamiliar with the word. ‘You keep repeating that. What does it mean?’ She raises her hand, mimicking my earlier gesture. ‘In terms that I might understand,’ she adds. Is there humour hiding there, underneath her heavy cloak of horror?
‘Claret means blood,’ I say, pointing at her – anywhere about her person would be applicable. ‘The colour of blood, to be exact.’
She considers this, then shrugs. ‘I’ve been called worse.
I will certainly be called worse, once I’m back in my palace.
’ She says ‘once’, not ‘if’. Like it’s simply a matter of time.
Like the white around us will acknowledge her, and split apart by her sheer force of will, as the night skies are split apart by a bolt of lightning.
I’m almost inclined to believe her.
‘Now you know my name,’ she muses, ‘but you’ve yet to tell me yours.’
‘I told you mine,’ I protest.
‘I don’t need your husband’s name, woman. Some queen you strive to be … Don’t you have a name of your own?’
Her question rattles me more than it should. How ridiculous, of course I have a name.
Don’t I? A deep, gnawing hesitation takes residence against my ribs, a flock of birds perched uncomfortably close, their plumage hiding something I once thought was obvious.
‘I … I don’t remember it, at present. I was called Lady Macbeth, by most.’
Being trapped in this pallid prison must be messing with my memories.
What else have I forgotten? I think back to my castle; to my husband’s face; to the witches in the woods.
The images are there, but they seem hazy – there is a distance between them and me.
As if I have derailed so much from my expected life’s script that it’s impossible to find my way back to it.
‘I don’t like that name. I’ll call you Anassa,’ the woman says, and my mind goes silent.
I stare at her, amazed at how such a little thing, a given name, can change our whole dynamic.
Anassa … it means queen, doesn’t it? Imagine organizing a coup, ingesting poison by choice, battling a forest, getting imprisoned in the pale beyond, for the one thing I’ve ever wanted to be called to now be granted mine.
Freely. From the unlikeliest of mouths. A half-smile forms on my lips, quickly schooled into a grimace. ‘Thank you,’ I tell Klytemnestra.
One mustn’t show demon women too much appreciation, even when one is being courteous.
She nods. Then, she gets up. ‘The way I see it, we now share a common enemy: this realm, and its bid to break our spirit. I don’t intend to let my enemies rejoice.
Work with me, Anassa. Let’s figure out how to escape this net,’ she says.
And then, after a beat, and with her lips returning my half-smile: ‘I promise not to kill you until then.’