Sleeping Brides

by fallensea

  I closed my eyes, struggling against the pain in my bones. In my hand was a piece of dusty, aged rope—the same Ronnie had tied around our wrists during our hike in Ireland, promising herself to me in a hand-fasting ritual. She had let it drop to the ground after I’d teased her, but I had picked it up and kept it safe, the way I kept her memories safe, and her dreams.

  When I lost Ronnie, I lost my light. I ripped my bike into parts and dumped them. I kept my distance, and my darkness, from others. I had been a fool to believe I was any sort of protector, any sort of man. No man let his woman lie in a grave while he continued to live. I called out to her at night in our studio apartment. I pleaded for her to return.

  She never did, but somewhere in the blindness, a notion came to me—a notion that prompted me out of bed and had me packing my rucksack. Ronnie had wanted to travel, to be an activist for women who had been silenced. I could do that. I could be the vessel of her dreams. So I left. I followed her map. I became her soldier.

  My travels were coming to an end. I’d been living out of a rucksack for five years. It was time to go home, but not to Louisiana. Not to Ireland. To Ronnie.

  The doctor in India said it was cancer. So did the doctor in Kenya. It was probably true, but I was the cause of my own death. I’d allowed the cancer to grow, to fill the void within me, the emptiness of not having Ronnie near.

  There was no fear. Resting on the ledge of the mountain, I was at peace. I was ready to go. It brought a smile to my face, my first since seeing Ronnie in her dress on our wedding day. Upon my smile, a flight of seagulls soared past me, through the abandoned air, crying into the wind, nowhere near the sea.

  Sleeping Brides

  The Sea Bride

  A short story companion to

  Sleeping Brides

  A. E. Scholer

  Chapter One

  The Darkness

  India

  British Raj

  Early 1900s

  Sophina

  The evening was humid and daunting, the stars above lit with a sorrow only I knew. I stood outside in a quiet corner of the verandah that wrapped around my home, wishing I was far from the festivities around me. Within the gardens and terraces, ladies meandered in their ball gowns—creations of lace and ruffled embellishments that flowed down their lean figures. It was no effort to be lean in India, not with the heat that melted our flesh. Most of the ladies wore tiaras, a tradition reserved for those locked in matrimony. Accompanying them were their men, some of whom looked upon their wives with the greatest of affection, others who glanced with longing at the local native women serving us brandies and lemonades.

  I did not wear a tiara. The waves of my pale blonde hair, which flowed like the sea, remained unspoken for. I considered it a freedom, but my father thought it shameful. At twenty-four years of age, I was the youngest daughter of an English admiral and the granddaughter of a wealthy tea industrialist. I was heaven-born. I played tennis, I could stitch, and I could run a household. I was also intelligent, but few men cared about my mind. Intelligence was not a virtue to them. Only my talents, my wealth, and my beauty, or so my mother would have me believe.

  The ball was thrown in my honor, inspired by my father’s hopes that I would find a husband, but I ignored our guests, instead preferring my isolation. Standing on my tiptoes, I could glimpse the sea over the lush treetops of the hill my stately home was positioned on, away from the dirt and hassle of the nearby port city. Even cloaked within the night, the sea called to me. I did not know if it wanted to heal me or destroy me.

  A locust landed on a narrow colonnade of the verandah. The creature was the size of my palm and thick, with hinged legs to tell its song and speckled wings, a wanderer investigating the curiosities of the night, likely attracted by the music and scandal coming from my home. Gatherings in India were not like those in London. In the motherland, there was the illusion of obedience and loyalty. Affairs were common but muted, silent. Here, lust boiled as strong as the heat, parading itself, untamed.

  I picked the locust up into my hand, and I crushed it, feeling its body falter beneath my fist.

  “Hallelujah,” I whispered softly as I released its remains to the ground below.

  A hand was placed on my shoulder, on the loose fabric of my beaded gown, and I feared the hand would crush me the way I had the locust, but when I turned, I did not confront my ruin. I confronted my sable lover.

  “Miss Clarke,” Reyansh said as he served me my lemonade. He kept his head low, as Indian servants were mandated to do, but I could still see his eyes—eyes that were round and kind, like a boy, but which carried the wisdom and strength of a man.

  With the fair tones of my hair and the blush upon my sun-kissed cheeks, I was an English rose, a flower amongst ash. My beauty was known throughout India, and it was rumored they sometimes spoke of me in London, my absence in London society making me an enigma, a daydream. The unmarried men who attended the ball did so for me, to glimpse me and to woo me. Some had traveled across the ocean to do so, summoned by my father.

  I did not want them. I only wanted Reyansh. He truly knew me. He knew the darkness that existed inside of me, the blight to the rose. I was not a flower amongst ash. I was the fire that sired the ash. And Reyansh loved me, despite my tendencies. He tolerated the darkness, much more so than I did.

  “Tonight,” I said, taking my lemonade from the silver platter he held. “At the midnight hour.”

  “Tonight,” he confirmed, staring upon me like a prince did his empire, protective and formidable.

  Reyansh left, just as Sir McKendrick spotted me on the verandah. Young and robust, Sir McKendrick was a Scotsman who had sailed into India for the ball. He was wealthy—not as wealthy as me, but wealthy enough to earn an invitation from my father. Were Sir McKendrick and I to wed, we would have lovely children, and he would have lovely mistresses. A man like him could not handle my darkness, not like Reyansh could.

  The darkness lingered in me now, hungry, crawling across my skin like a snake searching for prey. I tried to control it, but it was victorious, twisting my mind with fear, using my good against me. I wanted to scream. I wanted to hide. I wanted to take Sir McKendrick’s head and shove it into the flames of one of the torches that lit the paths around the manor. He was everything my father wanted for me, and nothing I wanted for myself.

  I tensed, preparing to endure Sir McKendrick, but to my relief, Mr. Barlow cut in, hurrying his way past the Scotsman the way a hare outran a dog.

  “Miss Clarke, would you be so kind as to walk with me in the gardens?” Mr. Barlow asked, holding his arm out to me—his good arm. “I need some fresh air.”

  Despite his humble stature, with his dark hair and green eyes, Mr. Barlow had an unstated handsomeness. He had been an officer in my father’s unit until a wild elephant rampaged their camp when they were onshore, killing two men and leaving him with a crippled arm that appeared normal under his formal attire, but was useless to him. In the year since the incident, he lived within our household, recovering from his wounds. He was younger than my father, but I thought him much wiser.

  “Gladly,” I said, accepting his charity. I allowed him to lead me into the gardens, leaving Sir McKendrick behind as we strolled through rows of rhododendrons and orchids and past ponds filled with lotus flowers, all shaded by the black of the night.

  “Thank you,” I said when we were far from the crowd. “Sir McKendrick believes I am a doe to be hunted. I cannot tolerate his arrogance.”

  “Nor should you,” Mr. Barlow asserted. “I must admit, I do not approve of your father’s impetuousness regarding this ball. It is too intimidating for a girl as gentle as you are.”

  I was not gentle. Mr. Barlow would know such if he could hear my thoughts, but I did not mind his misjudgment. There was nothing about Mr. Barlow that I minded. He was a good friend.

  “I appreciate the sentiment,” I said. “Too bad Father doesn’t see the world the way you do. To him, everything and everyone
has its place. By remaining unwed, I am out of place.” I stopped, suffocated by the anger forming inside of me. “You are unwed and Father adores you. Tell me, what is your secret? Have you hired a mystic to beguile him?”

  Mr. Barlow laughed. “He endures me because of his pity, but his pity is not for me. It is for any woman who would have me. He believes the unfortunate events that have left me crippled make me an unsuitable husband. That, and my failing fortune. And so, as an unwed cripple who soon faces impoverishment, I am in my place.”

  “Shame on Father for believing so,” I chided. “And shame on any woman who would turn you down because of your misfortunes. You stopped that elephant. You are a hero.”

  “And you are full of too much blithe to obey a husband,” he returned. “You are like the night-flowering jasmine, the sad tree. During the day, you sleep, even when you are awake, but at night, away from the harshness of the day, you are flawless and fragrant. You are alive. Do not fall under your father’s pressure. Live freely, Sophina. This is India, not England. Live as the natives do. Love as the natives do. Dance to the beat of the tabla.”

  “Only if you dance with me,” I beseeched. “A hero should not be so lonely.”

  ***

  The lagoon was not the sea. It was private and luscious, surrounded by a forest of sheltering palm trees and grassy marsh that encircled a water darkened by the mysteries of the years, but it was not the sea. I preferred the sea because it was open and calm. It stretched on, uninhibited, beyond what was proper and expected, to a bliss that was not defined by traditions that acted like cages, trapping people into their sorrows.

  It was because of these traditions that I could not be with Reyansh, why our love was a secret. It was not solely because he was a servant. A woman of my virtue could not marry an Indian man, no matter his station. It was forbidden. If we were to make our love public, to let it spill from our lips, we would be castaways.

  I had no regard for my own fate. There was integrity in being sent adrift. Those who enforced traditions could throw their stones. I did care about Reyansh and his family. He and his brother Sanjay kept food on their table. Their family was many, and Reyansh and his brother were few. When Reyansh was not working within my household, he was at the port with Sanjay bartering the catch. Without them, their parents and their younger siblings would starve. I was wealthy, but my wealth belonged to my father, the way the coconut belonged to the bark. It was not mine to give, only to use.

  Reyansh found me. The lagoon was where we often met, a place to worship each other without the burden of society. He sat in the grass beside me. “How are you, my beloved?” he asked.

  I was not well. The ball had left an anxiety in me that dug into my flesh, the way the heat did, so I answered him with a kiss, a kiss that led to more kisses, and then we were unclothed, announcing our love to the night, like we had many nights before.

  Reyansh’s touch brought me peace, but the peace did not last. When our bodies no longer intertwined, I was consumed by fears that had no substance, ignited by a madness deep within me. They blistered inside me, making the world a blur.

  “The summer is approaching,” I said as I started to tremble. “The fire will come. The fire will come and burn us all.” I was in anguish as I imagined it—the jungle collapsing beneath the hatred of the flame. My family trapped inside our home, burning. Reyansh a corpse within the cinders. “The fire is coming!” I wailed, hysterical, shielding myself from the fire, burning with my fears.

  Reyansh took me in his arms, holding me as I struggled, trying to still me. “The fire will not come. I am the sea. Remember the sea,” he coaxed, luring me away from the fire, from my darkness. “I am the sea.”

  He was the sea. The sea was calm. I was calm. I walked into the sea, becoming the waves, becoming the calm.

  Tamed by the meditation, I settled into Reyansh’s arms, battling all that tried to destroy me. “I would like to sail,” I told him. “Two years ago, when we took the ship to London to attend my sister’s wedding, the sea called to me. I did not want to leave the boat.”

  “The storms above the waves did not scare you?” he asked with curiosity, trying to understand what provoked my fears and what appeased them.

  “No,” I insisted. “No matter how treacherous, the sea only calms me. Like you do. You calm me. You take away the darkness. You are my sea.”

  Chapter Two

  Sticks

  “I heard Sir McKendrick is extending his stay in India. He and a group of gentlemen are quitting the city to hunt tigers in the jungle. What a brave man, don’t you think?” my mother asked me over dinner. “Only brave men hunt tigers.”

  It had been weeks since the ball. Most of the guests had vanished, running off to attend the next gathering of liquor and carnal chases, or retreating back to their own soil. Sir McKendrick remained, waiting to win my hand, accommodated by my father. Thankfully, he was out exploring the nearby charms of India, Mr. Barlow his reluctant companion. It would have been a quiet dinner, comprised solely of my parents and I, if not for my mother’s incessant rattling. She spoke too loud and too adamant about a topic that did not require volume or persistence.

  “Please, Mummy,” I begged, letting my spoon drop into my lobster soup. “I don’t want to hear any more about Sir McKendrick.”

  “Then who do you want to hear more about?”

  “No one,” I mumbled, irritated by the heat that invaded the dining hall through the tall open windows. There was no breeze. There was no respite. “I don’t want to hear about anyone.”

  My father cleared his throat, witnessing our conversation with a false patience. “Sophina, if you refuse to listen, then you must start talking. I intend to find you a husband, and soon. It is not proper for a girl your age to be unwed. Now is the time to choose, or we will choose for you.”

  It was usually the task of a man to choose his bride, not the reverse. Wealth gave me a privilege very few women knew. “Perhaps I will inquire about Mr. Barlow,” I said, plucking at my father’s feathers, riling him.

  “No,” my mother gasped, appalled. “I’ve seen you two talking in the gardens. Mr. Barlow is after your money. The man has no substance beneath him. He sees only your wealth.”

  “All men see only my wealth.” Except Reyansh, I amended silently to myself. “At least Mr. Barlow makes me laugh, and he’s honest. He does not hide behind pretense. He declares himself to the world in his humbleness.”

  I had no affection for Mr. Barlow other than our friendship, but pretending otherwise for the benefit of my parents was great fun.

  “You will not lead the man astray,” my mother demanded. “Let him have impoverished heirs with his black mistresses. Only the natives will have him.”

  “Mr. Barlow is a bachelor. He can have all the mistresses he wants,” I argued.

  “What do you have to say about this nonsense?” my mother asked, addressing my father. “Mr. Barlow is a friend of yours.”

  “I believe Sophina finds amusement in pulling your strings,” he said after he sipped his soup. “She is jesting.”

  My mother fell back into her chair, relieved. “Thank the Good Lord.”

  “It is our fault,” my father continued. “She inherited your beauty and my intelligence. If it were the other way around, we would have her married off years ago.”

  “Sir!” I admonished. “You have just insulted Mummy.”

  “I heard no insult,” my mother said. “I would rather be regarded as fair over intelligent. Beauty is a woman’s virtue. With beauty, she has power. Ask all the mistresses of all the kings.”

  “This is a new century, Mummy. Women are powerful regardless of how others perceive their fairness. Beauty is subjective. Its influence is obsolete.”

  My mother tittered. “Do you really think Sir McKendrick would have crossed the sea for you if you were plain?”

  “Yes,” I said with the greatest of confidence. “Because he wants ownership of my inheritance. Don’t mistake me for a
fool. The reason Father sent out correspondences to those in England is because he wishes for me to return to the grey and the cold, even if it means I marry a man who does not love me, who only wants my wealth.”

  “It is my wealth,” my father corrected. “And I can send out correspondences to whomever I please. Make a decision soon, Sophina. Otherwise, I will have no choice but to ship you back to England to live with your sister and marry you off to one of her retched in-laws.”

  I had made my decision. I’d chosen Reyansh.

  “Yes, Sir,” I said, compliant. “I will be married soon. I am sure of it.”

  ***

  As a timid rain settled upon the treetops of the jungle, I slipped away into the early morning, dressed in a faded blue sari and a scarf over my head, like what the Untouchables in the fields wore as they labored under a caste system that allowed no movement, no freedom. In the forest, away from the eyes of my household, I dirtied my face and nails, concealing my breeding.

  I walked down the hill to the city. The streets were busy, filled with an infinite number of people. Avoiding them, their spices and their fabrics, their poverty and their hope, was impossible. I pushed my way through them in my slippered feet, keeping my head low until I reached the port where Reyansh worked with his brother. Most on the port were laborers—mariners, merchants, and custom officials—but some were beggars looking for scraps, the men barely clothed, the women covered in rags. I found Reyansh on the docks packing the morning catch to sell on to the cooks within the British estates. Sanjay stood beside him, as miserable as ever. Sanjay was a good man, but he had the temperament of a crab. Reyansh, on the other hand, was the sunlight on the water.