Chapter 16 Claret
That buffoon shuts the trapdoor, killing the light. I forgo all thoughts of sweetness.
No more rolling on the grass, contemplating what would cut me better – a trusted blade, or a reckless kiss.
No more allowing rain to soften me. This is the part I’m meant to play, daring the darkness first, my knife in hand, Anassa’s soft cloak whooshing behind me like a wave.
I’m meant to cut to shreds the things that threaten me, that threaten us, no matter the cost.
But then the buffoon speaks, and I’m reminded that my part has changed.
‘Careful, my ladies, wait for me.’
It is no longer just the two of us. The man Anassa called ‘husband’ only to be scolded not to, that absurd amalgamation of drunk donkey and vainglorious fool, fumbles with something for a bit – and the dark subsides.
I turn around against my better judgement and see him picking up a lit torch from a metal contraption that sits on a wall lined with heavy stone.
‘Ah, finally, light. How did that line go?’ He waits for a second, as if expecting us to answer, then, somewhat disappointed, he continues.
‘Light, seeking light, doth light of light beguile; So, ere you find where light in darkness lies, Your light grows dark by losing of your eyes.’
He signals for both Anassa and me to step aside, so that he can go first.
That suits me fine. I can always stab him in the back if he keeps mumbling nonsense. He makes as little sense as that first wraith. Part of me wonders if there is a thread between them, pulsing in shadow – but it can’t be. The Moirai wouldn’t lead us to him if that were so.
As he walks past us down the stony steps, the torch flickers.
Anassa flinches. That cave we both so narrowly escaped, whose bloody walls attempted to devour us, still haunts her.
I want to offer reassurance, tell her not to worry, but no words come out.
This bond between us is such a new, tentative thing.
Despite Clotho’s assurances that we were brought together for a reason, I cannot see us continuing on our common path.
Not with him leading us. Not with her yearning for his gaze.
Not with my heart changing its metal, forgetting that it’s sheathed in steel for a reason.
Resigned, I turn my back on her and focus on my footing.
The steps are slightly curved, a crescent moon that never waxes.
The further down we go, the less substantial the surrounding walls become, stone retreating into nothingness, reminding me of that wretched, endless corridor Anassa and I had to face when we first met.
Only this time we’re not wading through a sea of white.
Mint-coloured mist engulfs us from both sides, its ghostly hands of ivy slowly grabbing hold of rocky surfaces, taming them over time.
I can still see the steps in front of me, and that pretentious donkey man ahead, but not much else.
I hope Anassa can handle this. I will not turn to look.
Just then, I hear her. ‘My Lo— My Bard, where are you taking us? Must we proceed amid this dreary mist? Only we’ve been through quite enough already and …’ Her voice breaks.
The Bard doesn’t respond, doesn’t offer comfort, only sighs and keeps going, as if our existence is an inconvenience he must bear. Anassa doesn’t say more.
Damn it all to Tartaros. Without turning to look at her, I extend my left hand backward, stiff as an oar but just as likely to guide her through this storm.
A second passes. Two. Then her fingers, cold and trembling, find mine.
I squeeze her hand. The mist subsides somewhat; the tiniest of retreats, as if the impact of our touch is now subdued.
But we can see each step’s entire breadth, and the endless curvature of stairs below, and I’m not sure if this is an improvement or another burden.
Still, I hold Anassa’s hand tight, ignoring the way my heart pulses there, at the place where our fingers meet.
‘See, that’s better. I’ve found that if you keep calm, the mist subsides,’ the Bard says.
If audacity was ocean he would surely drown. I could help him.
‘Now, if I’ve counted correctly, the steps will end soon, and then the really arduous part of our journey begins.
We must walk single file, on the thinnest strip of land – a bridge, if you will.
’ He half turns his head in our direction, big brown eyes actually looking scared.
‘I beseech you, ladies, do keep your wits about you. Whatever the waters show you, whatever phantoms they beguile you with, do not engage. Do not let them claim you as their own. I would hate to lose my wards to Lethe when we’re so close to reaching Shepherd’s realm. ’
I almost drop Anassa’s hand. ‘Lethe … Are you taking us to Hades, then?’ I don’t know why I kept clinging to the notion I’m not dead.
What else could I be? What else could all this be, if not some elaborate, gods-ordained ordeal before my final rest?
Maybe Agamemnon found a way to exact revenge on me. Maybe his men –
‘Don’t be absurd, figment, this is not the Underworld.
How could a living, breathing human such as myself cross it if it were so?
’ The Bard has stopped descending and stares at me as if I’m the one who wore a donkey head earlier.
‘Yet if you know about the Underworld, and you’re not one of mine …
then lo, I was right!’ A smug smile slashes through his lips.
‘You are indeed one of Kit’s creations! Dido, Queen of Carthage, if I’m not mistaken? ’
The incomprehensible man bows. Does he mean to mock me?
Surely it wouldn’t be a great loss to stab him now?
‘My Bard,’ Anassa interjects, sounding somewhat wary of my murderous intent, ‘in your … great wisdom, you were right to address her as a queen, although her name is Kly—’
‘My name is Claret,’ I say, leaving it at that. No need to give possible enemies ammunition. Plus, I’ve grown to tolerate the moniker. ‘Shall we move on?’
Anassa’s grip tightens. I give it a squeeze back, an acknowledgement.
‘Named after your cloak, I suppose? Endearing, if unimaginative. Very well, Claret,’ he concedes, making it clear he’s humouring me.
I don’t correct him, don’t bother telling him who came up with that name, and why.
Something tells me this man has not been corrected a single day in his life; he wouldn’t recognize the notion if it punched him on the teeth. So I nod.
Let him presume at his own peril.
The presuming idiot stomps his feet, as if testing the terrain. A cloud of something ochre-coloured rises. ‘’Tis as I thought; no more stairs for us to go down. Be ever so vigilant. The sands are shifting.’
He leads us on a surface that feels different from the cold stones of the steps. My toes sink slightly, but I find my balance. ‘It’s sand,’ I tell Anassa.
She sighs. ‘Let’s hope this one won’t go on forever.’
I give her hand another squeeze in lieu of an answer.
The ochre cloud subsides, showing us the truth of where we are.
An enormous cave, so high I strain my neck but can see no ceiling, our party’s lonely torch offering fickle light.
A thin ribbon of sand stretches underfoot, barely enough to fit one person.
No way for me to glean what lies ahead of us; only our guide’s back is visible.
His shoulders shake, as if he’s trembling – and detest him as I do, I cannot rightly blame him.
Because on either side of us, flanking us like a beast’s ravenous jaws, rise the tallest waves I have ever seen. Held in place by some sort of sorcery, when by all rights they should be crashing over us, burying us under their depths, grinding our bones with water.
‘What in Poseidon’s trident?’ I whisper. ‘How is this possible?’
‘It’s possible because, ahem, I will it so,’ he utters with a sort of confidence I don’t believe he actually possesses. ‘Now, trust me, please. Walk fast, don’t stare at the waves for too long, and we should all be safe and sound.’ He picks up the pace, leaving us no choice but to follow.
I manage for a while, holding my knife tight in one hand as if it can lock the tide in place, holding Anassa with the other. But I can feel eyes on me. I cast a sideways glance, to confirm.
Shadows move under the waters’ surface, shadows made of blood and foam. They bring to mind the statues from the cave – will the waters part, reveal an agora of gory limbs, eager to grab us? Is the Erinya among them, having followed us all along?
I am both right and wrong.
The waters do part, but no monster materializes. Instead, the liquid spectre of my long-lost daughter, the one Agamemnon butchered, reaches out a bloody dripping hand my way.