Chapter 19 Anassa
We’re dragged into the most resplendent light, yet darkness finds me there like a friend.
As strong as Shepherd’s grip might have been when she steered us through the arch, now all I feel on me is feathers. Black feathers, fluttering around me, eclipsing Shepherd’s light.
By now, I welcome it. When the voice resurfaces, the voice of countless ravens cawing Yours is the path of Claret, I don’t question it.
Ever since that day of keys and cauldrons at the beach, where I was forced to gaze upon the witches three and be confronted with so many things I didn’t know, I’ve learned to see the ravens as a warning or a guidance, one for my ears only.
A marker in the woods, a turn in a tunnel to ensure I won’t get lost, a song that always ends in Claret, Claret, Claret.
Baffling, that this queen of blood and blades would become my one true north.
Yet I know better now than to fight it. I smile, waiting for the susurrating dark to dissipate, eager to gaze upon the fire of Claret’s eyes once it does.
There was an urgency about her, as we crossed the arch together.
Mayhap she had things to tell me. Mayhap there will be time now, time to tell each other things, time to finally –
But when the ravens leave me, and the light reluctantly returns, Claret is no longer here.
‘Do you hear me, child?’ Shepherd’s voice chimes like a knife on crystal glass, rousing my senses. ‘Ah, there she is. You faded, for a while. Your maker was afraid we’d lost you.’
‘Quite, quite.’ The Bard’s voice, punctuated by a nervous cough, comes from my right.
I blink furiously, repeatedly, willing my eyes to make sense of my surroundings.
A brick-walled sitting room, set in a homely hue of reddish clay, with mortar black enough to use for ink.
Ornate double glass doors on one side open to a vast expanse of flora: an indoor garden.
My gaze is drawn towards the garden’s depths, where ruby-red roses glint like drops of blood on green, sole bearers of bold colour in an otherwise all-white assortment.
So many white flowers: roses, lilies, jasmine, others I can’t name.
The sprawling vegetation has crossed over, jasmine shrubs pushing through the doors akin to fragrant curtains pulsing in the breeze.
The smell is mildly upsetting, awaking memories of rotting roses, fighting wraiths, so I turn my attention to the sitting room instead.
Not that this space lacks greenery. Trees with strange, feather-like leaves, seemingly sprouted from the ground, line the room’s corners, their lush green canopies casting long shadows on the floor.
It is upsetting, this juxtaposition of two worlds, of human abode and natural domain so thoroughly entwined.
It brings to mind my castle, Dunsinane, overtaken by the forest on that fateful night.
I’m seated in the middle of the room, on a chair so soft my blackened fingers sink into the velvet. There’s carpet underneath my feet, thick and warm. And I am not alone.
To my left, Shepherd lounges on a leather daybed, so feline in her grace that I can almost see the leopard, shuffling underneath her skin.
She’s wrapped in gold from neck to hip, swathes and swathes of a cascading necklace making my eyes water.
‘Have some aqua vitae,’ she tells me, blackened fingers like mine – but oh, so much sharper – pointing to the table just in front of me.
‘The Bard tells me you would be familiar with this drink. It will help you acclimatize.’
The Bard, as he who wears my husband’s face but not my husband’s heart insists on being called, shuffles in his seat, clearly uncomfortable.
Sharp brown eyes avoid my gaze, flitting instead towards the small, gold-gilded table, where an assortment of half-empty glasses speaks to a gathering that has been unfolding for some time.
With a somewhat trembling hand, he picks up his glass, amber liquid almost spilling.
Thorns of suspicion twist around my ribs.
How did I get here? Did they carry me without my knowledge? Or was I magically transported, once we’d passed through the arch, into this very armchair? But if that’s what happened …
‘Where is Claret?’ I ask, my voice a wisp of what it ought to be.
Shepherd’s arched eyebrows furrow. ‘Claret? What is a Claret?’
‘That was the name of her … companion. A figment of Kit Marlowe’s, I believe.
We both know how desperate he is to gain access to your realm, exalted Shepherd.
His latest works could certainly do with a bit more of a divine spark.
’ The Bard takes a hearty sip of aqua vitae, as if to wash away the harshness of his comments, his eyes lowered in careful deference.
Shepherd chuckles. ‘You needn’t worry, my Bard. I’ve told you many times; out of each era, I choose one as my favourite. One maker of words to bless with access to this realm and to all the stories that inhabit it. I haven’t got tired of you, quite yet. You haven’t penned your last.’
The Bard sighs – in relief or feigned exhaustion, as if this whole ordeal has weighed on him.
As if Claret and I are not the ones unfairly treated.
‘That may be, and I am grateful for it. Still, slightly troubling, how these two ended up together, but misery acquaints one with strange bedfellows. Oh. Perhaps there’s something in that line. I should make haste and note it down.’
Annoyance sizzles underneath my tongue. Scathing remarks, such as the ones Claret would undoubtedly deliver were she here, almost breach my lips – but I control myself.
It has not been lost on me how Shepherd’s gaze never strays too far away from my face, studying the corners of my eyes and the pursing of my lips for any signs of anger, any hints of disdain.
I do my utmost to emulate an empty page, lest she read in my features truths I would rather keep concealed. Remembering her earlier suggestion, I reach out for a glass. The aqua vitae smells of yeast and barley, a scent familiar and mundane. Comforting. I take a sip.
Its warmth anchors me to the here and now, to the burning in my throat and the coolness of the glass between my fingers.
To the fearsome scent of flowers – and the sharp absence of Claret.
‘That’s better,’ Shepherd purrs. ‘Now, I believe you had a question?’
I have a million questions, a million beady eyes blinking within me.
But only one question is urgent. ‘Claret,’ I repeat, enunciating with more confidence, thanks to the liquor warming up my lips.
‘The red-cloaked one. We crossed through the arch together but then … Where is she?’ I can feel my cheeks blooming with colour.
Shepherd takes her time before responding, reaching for her own glass.
Her own goblet, rather, tall and ornate and gold-rimmed, filled with a fig-coloured drink.
I notice the Bard casting a longing look at it.
Ignoring us both, Shepherd drinks, unharried.
Moments stretch out in silence, coated in jasmine and uncertainty.
My fingers itch for any kind of weapon, for Claret’s knife, for any way to assert my authority and make Shepherd answer me.
I’m still wearing my cloak, my raven-coloured key resting in its depths.
My key that must be kept a secret, from both of them.
I don’t know how I know this, only that there’s a fluttering of wings inside me that demands it.
A blessed, prudent darkness that urges me to play my cards carefully.
After I’m certain aeons must have passed, and the Bard has filled and refilled his own glass and mine, Shepherd sets down her drink and smiles at me.
‘Dear child, I believe you are mistaken about your acquaintance. Both of you, in fact,’ she says, broadening her gaze.
Her teeth are stained the red of a fresh kill.
‘That lost, misguided story’s name is not Claret; it’s Klytemnestra.
A rather old one, almost as old as me. Not a figment of your compatriot’s imagination, my Bard.
And certainly not your friend, my child.
’ Her words drip with a syrup that supposedly contains sorrow, though I know better than to swallow it uncritically.
I could tell Shepherd I’m aware of Claret’s actual name.
I could tell her why I call her that, and what she calls me in return, and how we’ve both grown like mismatched, invasive plants in foreign soil, changing our shapes and aspirations since we found each other.
I could tell Shepherd – but that familiar fluttering of ravens in my chest warns me I shouldn’t.
Let her assume I’m guileless, to beguile the time.
‘I’m sure you know best, Shepherd,’ I start, inclining my head ever so slightly.
A show of respect; not so little as to draw ire, not so much as to draw suspicion.
‘Yet whether friend or foe, I wouldn’t have survived this journey without Clar— Klytemnestra?
’ I make it sound like a question, blinking with feigned uncertainty.
Shepherd nods, gracious and pleased. ‘Do go on,’ she urges me.
‘You must forgive my insistence, but it was … disorienting to find myself here, without any knowledge of what happened after we crossed the arch. And I want to ensure my companion is well taken care of, even if she is not able to join us at this moment. Perhaps I could write a letter?’
Would Claret even know how to read it? Does the Fates’ meddling, which helps us to understand each other’s words, extend to writing? But it’s the only thing I can think of to try.
‘Look at you, so keen on writing! A letter filled with beautiful, convincing words, I’m sure.’ Shepherd laughs a sharp-edged laugh, too close to a growl for comfort. But then she softens. ‘Be careful, my Bard, your latest creation might just turn out to be competition.’
Creation? I bite the inside of my cheek, hard enough to bleed. Once more, I feel like I have stepped into a conversation I’m not privy to, being exposed to jokes whose meaning I can’t grasp. It’s infuriating. The only silver lining is that the Bard bristles at these words as well.
‘Yes, well, I don’t see how such a radical departure from her given part would even be remotely possible …
’ He shakes his head, as if remembering himself.
‘But I am but a humble servant of ideas, and I’m afraid I have over-extended your gracious hospitality, resplendent Shepherd.
’ He gets up from his armchair, wobbling slightly.
‘The Muse calls me, capricious as ever, and I’m afraid I must harken to her call.
Unless … I’m needed for this next part?’
I shouldn’t be offended that he managed to deliver such a lengthy monologue about me without even looking at me once. I’ve come to terms with this one truth: he is not my husband. He is not Lord Macbeth. Which is just as well; I haven’t felt like Lady Macbeth lately either.
Shepherd nods. ‘You may go. Explanations are a writer’s least favourite part to write, this I know well.
There isn’t much excitement to be found in exposition, when all plot mysteries have been revealed.
So go ahead, search for your next story, or return to your pavilion.
You know most of the paths by now. I shall join you later. ’
If that’s intended as a promise or a threat, I do not know.
Relief apparent on his face, the Bard bows and exits through a side door I hadn’t noticed, one painted the same reddish colour as the walls around us, with a doorknob black as ink.
I know I mustn’t move to follow him. I’m in the presence of a predator, this much has been clear ever since I saw Shepherd shed her feline form outside the arch.
It would be most unwise to run, to force her to give chase.
Plus, I need answers, and the meeker I appear the more she might be inclined to offer them.
Yet she did say the Bard knows most of the paths around.
So as he closes the door behind him, a door that might lead somewhere better, somewhere close to Claret, my carefully constructed facade crumbles.
I get up, dashing towards the door. I refuse to look behind, see Shepherd’s reaction.
My hand has all but reached the doorknob when a wraith appears, blocking my way out. No scent of flowers heralds its arrival, only a silver thread of something pulsing, trickling like poison, reaching out to me amid the shadows of its hood.
Deadly tendrils of darkness reach for my throat, my nose, my ears.