by R. T. Kaelin
*
Shadowlands
by Elisabeth Waters
Oriana confronted the household priest over her husband’s body, which lay on the bier in front of her. “No, I will not agree to hold the funeral at first light tomorrow! Why are you in such a hurry to put my husband underground?”
The priest sighed. He had been in the chapel with her and the body for several hours now, it was late, and he was tired. “My lady, why do you insist on delaying the funeral? This refusal to accept the situation avails you nothing.”
Oriana simply stood there, a silent column of black. Her sole concession to her husband’s death had been to put on mourning robes: a loose black gown, tied at the waist with a plain black cord, covered with layers of black veiling, enough to hide her pale face, her dark hair, and anything of the slender body the garments might conceivably have revealed. She felt like a walking shadow, and everything seemed distant and unreal.
The priest gathered what remained of his patience and tried again. “You are overwrought,” he said gently, “and it’s late. Please, my lady, go to your bed, sleep, and things won’t seem as bad in the morning.”
That argument she had heard before. “No,” Oriana said firmly. “I did as you ask last night, and I assure you nothing was the slightest bit better this morning.”
“Healing takes time—” the priest began weakly.
Oriana ignored him. “But, as you say, it is late, and I am sure you are tired. You have my leave to retire. I shall stay with my husband. I’m not as ready as you to consign him to the lands of the dead.”
The priest opened his mouth to protest, decided it wouldn’t help, and left, shaking his head.
Oriana knelt at her husband’s side, the perfect picture of a devoted widow—no, wife; she absolutely refused to think of herself as a widow—and listened to the priest’s footsteps fade away into the silence. It was nearing midnight, and the rest of the household had gone to bed long since.
Oriana looked steadily at the face before her. Quaren looked magnificent. He had always worn his age lightly, even in life. Oriana had never thought of him as old, even though he was twice her age. Now, with his body at rest and his face peaceful, he looked even less than his forty years. The few threads of grey in his dark hair seemed to be nothing but a trick of the flickering light cast by the candles about his bier reflecting off the silver embroidery of his dark green tunic. She still expected him to open his eyes and speak to her at any second.
He’d never been ill a single day in the six years of their marriage. It was totally inconceivable to Oriana that he could be gone so suddenly, in a single hour. The huntsmen who brought his body to her spoke of an accident, a bad fall with his horse, which had landed on him, but it made no sense to her. Her husband lay on the bier before her, but he just couldn’t be dead.
And if he was, she was going to bring him back.
* *** *
The house was still now. Even the priest had gone to bed, leaving no one about to interrupt what she was about to do. Quaren might yet benefit from the things he had taught her. Of course, every minstrel knew the song of Orfeo, who had gone to the lands of death to bring back his wife, but very few people knew how to make the journey in truth. Such studies had been a hobby of Quaren’s, and he had taught Oriana everything she could absorb. She rose silently to her feet and crossed the room to the door standing open between the chapel and the rest of the house. Quietly she closed the door and locked it. Then she returned to the bier.
From its hiding place in the long sleeve of her undertunic she pulled a small sliver dagger, Quaren’s ritual knife. The household priest didn’t know about all of the rituals performed in the chapel. This would not be the first ritual she had done behind locked chapel doors, even if it was the first one she had tried to do alone. She could only hope that Quaren had taught her enough.
Using the dagger, she cut a lock of his hair and two locks of her own, braided them together and wound them around the hilt of the dagger. Now the dagger would tie her spirit to her husband’s and help her to find him. She circled the bier, blowing out the candles, until the chapel was absolutely dark. Then she lay down on the bier, draping herself carefully across Quaren’s body, and shifted into trance state.
* *** *
She was in a narrow rock passageway, filled with billowing fog. Everything around her was a very dark grey, but as she went forward down the sloping tunnel, it widened and became lighter. Soon she could see quite well. She needed to be able to see here, for this was the place of the recently dead, the spirits not yet detached from the world and its concerns. Quaren should be here, if she was lucky.
The fog had slacked off to the occasional wisp by the time she reached the gates. There were two sets, made of round iron bars the size of her arm welded together into giant lattices. One could climb them easily, as many of the forms on the far side of them were doing, but since they went right up to the ceiling, they couldn’t be climbed over.
Oriana walked up to the first gates, the ones that didn’t have whoever they were crawling all over them. The gates were latched on the other side, but they didn’t fit together snugly and it was easy enough for Oriana to slide the blade of the dagger through the crack and lift the latch. Opening the gates was much harder. She had to lean on them and push with all her might before they opened wide enough for her to slip through. They shut with a loud clang as soon as she released it, but by then she was safely through. Holding the dagger tightly with both hands, she approached the second gates.
The forms on the other side proved to be people—more or less. They wore no clothes, and their bodies lacked the sharp detail of a human body, rather they were pale brown human-shaped manikins. But their faces were definitely human, as were their voices.
“Who are you to walk through the dark mists before Death has summoned you?” one of them demanded.
“This place will fill you with horror and drive you mad!” said another form. It was not a friendly warning. The voice sounded gleeful at the prospect.
“You will be trapped here forever—unless Death deigns to release you!”
Oriana looked from face to face. Their threats didn’t terrify her; if she couldn’t save Quaren, she didn’t care what happened to her. But his face was not among the ones around her.
“Why have you come here?” one of the spirits challenged her, facing her through the gates.
“I am looking for my husband,” Oriana replied steadily.
“Husband!” The spirit laughed. It was not a happy sound. “Do you see him here?”
“No,” Oriana answered.
“Perhaps he is on the Isle of the Blessed,” one of the others said sarcastically. Oriana started. The voice sounded very much like that of her eldest sister, who had almost invariably used that tone when talking to her. Well, she knew how to deal with sarcastic bullying.
“Perhaps he is,” Oriana agreed quietly.
“And do you plan to go all the way there to look for him?” This spirit also seemed to have been female, its face reminding Oriana of the way her sisters used to look when they teased her.
“Yes,” she said firmly, “I do.” This produced a great burst of hilarity, and the spirits pulled open the gates and bowed Oriana through—or perhaps they were simply doubled up with laughter. Oriana walked quickly past them, glad that Quaren wasn’t there. Even for the sake of finding him easily, she wouldn’t wish him condemned to such company. But it was odd that he could have gone so far so quickly. Was he truly already on the Isle of the Blessed?
* *** *
The mocking laughter faded into the distance behind her and was replaced by the sound of water lapping sluggishly against the shore. Oriana knew this landmark well. The river had many names, but everyone knew one had to cross it to get to the Isle of the Blessed. Some people said was a ferry across it and buried their dead with coins for passage money. Oriana had always thought that story rather fanciful, and certainly she saw no sign of a boat or a land
ing for one now.
She looked down at the dagger in her hands. It was glowing faintly. She took a few steps downstream and the glow faded, brightening again when she returned to her original position. When she continued walking upstream, the glow got even brighter. She watched it carefully and stopped when it started to fade again. Obviously this was as close to Quaren as she could get on this side of the river. He must be on the land opposite her, which she could see dimly through the thin ghostly river mists. The river was eerie, but the current wasn’t particularly swift and Oriana had never been afraid of getting wet. Still, she knew she had better get across this water as quickly as possible. One of the names for this river was Oblivion.
She stepped in and gasped. The water was colder than anything she’d ever felt in her life—probably, she thought, colder than anything anyone ever felt in their life. Gritting her teeth so they wouldn’t chatter, she slogged on. Step, step and another step. Come on, you can do it, she admonished herself. Remember to keep the dagger dry. Step, step, step…
* *** *
She sat in the grass, under the trees. She was wet up to her breasts, but it didn’t matter. She would dry fast enough in the sun, which was making lacy patterns as it shone through the leaves. It was so peaceful and so beautiful. She was perfectly content to sit there and watch the play of the light and listen to the rustling of the leaves. The birds were singing, the squirrels were chattering. It was the kind of morning that made one glad to be alive.
Alive. For some reason the word bothered her. But why? What’s wrong with being alive? Her fingers, idly tracing the dagger in her lap, touched the braid of hair around the hilt, and her memory returned with wrenching suddenness. Quaren. My husband is dead, and I came here to save him.
She stood up and pulled at her wet robes, which seemed determined to cling awkwardly to her body. She started to remove the layers of veiling, but stopped after the first two. The light about her was getting too bright to bear without veils. Obviously the living were not meant to wander unveiled in the land of the dead. Is this why widows wear veils? Has someone before me done this, and succeeded? She tucked the extra veils under her arm and started through the woods, trusting that the faint pull from the dagger was a true guide.
She was concentrating so hard on the dagger that she nearly tripped over the boy. He appeared to be about eight or nine years old and he was lying against a tree trunk, turning a leaf between his fingers. He wore a short silver-blue tunic which matched both his eyes and his hair, and his skin looked so pale as to be true white. Oriana apologized automatically, and he looked startled, as if he hadn’t noticed her presence before.
“What’s wrong with you?” he asked with the directness of childhood. “You’re so faint I can barely see you.”
Oriana thought about it. She looked normal enough to herself, but she had to admit that he looked somehow more solid than she did. “I guess it’s because I’m not dead—at least I don’t think I am.” She looked down at braid on the dagger. The hair was still dark, except for a few strands of silver in the hair that had come from Quaren, and Oriana felt somehow certain that it would look different if she were dead.
“You’re alive? Really?” The boy seemed to find this a strange idea. “What are you doing here, then?”
“Looking for my husband.”
“Oh.” He frowned, puzzled. “Aren’t you supposed to wait until you’re dead, too?”
Oriana smiled for the first time in several days. “Maybe that part of my education was neglected. Did your parents teach you proper etiquette for the Shadowlands?”
“My parents didn’t teach me anything,” he said matter-of-factly. “I was only a baby when I died.”
“I’m sorry,” Oriana said.
“Why? Lots of babies die. And I’d rather be here anyway.”
“You’d rather be dead?” Oriana asked incredulously.
“Of course.” To him, this was obvious. “Look, isn’t this leaf beautiful?”
The leaf was indeed beautiful. In fact, everything around them was beautiful, which surprised Oriana. She had always thought that the Shadowlands were dim and dull, not at all like this—filled with a bright beauty that hurt mortal eyes. For a moment she almost wished that she were dead too, so that she could enjoy it freely, but her sense of duty and love for her husband drove her to press on in her search. She duly admired the leaf and continued on her way as the boy returned to his contemplation of the beauty of unnatural nature.
* *** *
She found Quaren in a stone-flagged courtyard. He was sitting on a marble bench with two other men, all discussing some terribly abstract philosophical theory. All three of them wore pale blue tunics like the boy’s, and the two other men had the same silver-blue hair and eyes. Quaren’s hair and eyes were still dark, but the grey that had been in his hair was gone. He looked much younger than he had in life, and his face glowed with the intellectual joy a good problem had always given him. But Oriana had never seen him look quite so happy before.
The sight of him made her heart turn over within her, and she wanted to walk over to him and fling her arms around him. Did my trip through the river make me forget how much I love him? she wondered. But for the moment it was enough just to see him again. She sat down on another bench in the courtyard and watched him as the men continued their discussion, content just to be in his presence and to see him happy.
Presently the discussion wound down and the other men left. Quaren sat quietly, lost in thought. Oriana walked over and sat next to him.
“Quaren?” He didn’t seem to hear her. “Quaren!” Now he looked puzzled, as if he could hear a faint sound but could see nothing that could have made it.
Am I fading away? Oriana wondered anxiously. Maybe I’m just invisible in direct sunlight—the boy was in shadow and still had trouble seeing me.
She took one of her extra veils and draped it over his head. Yes, now he seemed to be able to see something when he looked at her. She added the other veil.
He blinked and looked at her. “Do I know you?”
Oriana found herself grinding her teeth. This was not the welcome she had envisioned. After all the effort she had gone through to come find him, he ought at least to remember her. “I’m your wife,” she said. She took his right hand and placed it on top of her left hand, with the dagger held between their palms.
It worked. His face cleared. “Oriana.” He frowned. “But you’re not dead. What are you doing here?”
“I came to find you,” she explained, “and take you back.”
“Oh.” Quaren didn’t seem to feel any particular enthusiasm for the idea. In fact, he looked rather dazed.
Probably due to the veils, Oriana thought. Best get him out of here as quickly as possible. The legends hint at all sorts of things that can go wrong now. She tugged at his hand, and he rose obediently and allowed her to lead him back toward the shore.
This time there was no one in the woods. The walk was silent except for the rustling of their veils. It wasn’t until they reached the shore that Quaren spoke.
“Of course. The river. I don’t remember coming this way before, but then I’m sure I’m not supposed to.”
“I remember it,” Oriana said. “It’s cold!”
He chuckled softly. “When you’re dead, you don’t feel it. By the way, how did I die? I don’t remember that part either.”
“Your horse fell on you. It all happened very quickly.”
“Poor Oriana.” He patted her shoulder gently. “It must have been a dreadful shock for you.”
Oriana found that her eyes were suddenly full of tears and her throat was tight. “It was awful! I can’t live without you!”
“Your heart will suddenly stop beating perhaps?” he chided gently. Oriana knew the tone well. It was the one he always used when she made a statement not fully supported by verifiable fact. He sighed. “I must not have taught you as well as I thought.”
“Of course you taught me well!” Oriana pro
tested. “How do you think I got here? Do other men’s wives come here seeking them? Do you think it was easy?”
“No,” he said sadly. “Not easy. Easier.”
“Easier than what?” Why did he sound disappointed in her? You’d think he’d be pleased that she loved him enough to come seek him in the Shadowlands and that she had the courage and determination to find him.
“Easier than your alternatives.”
“Well,” Oriana mused aloud, “it probably would have been easier to stab myself—but that wouldn’t have brought me here, would it?”
“No!” he said quickly. “Killing yourself would you leave you still bound to the world until the time you should have died.” He put his other hand over hers. “Don’t do that, Oriana.”
Oriana thought of the spirits in the rock tunnel and shuddered. “I won’t,” she said definitely. “Not ever.” She clung to his hand. “But I don’t want to live without you!”
He smiled at that. “That’s better.”
“What?” Oriana realized what she had said. ‘Don’t want to’ instead of ‘can’t’. “So my choices now are to take you back with me—I can do that, can’t I?”
“Yes,” he said flatly. “You can. Even against my will.”
“—or to leave you here and go back alone.” She felt her stomach clench at that thought, but forced herself to think it through. The incredibly cold river that numbs the mind, and beyond that the tunnel, and those awful spirits—and I can well imagine what they’ll say if I come back alone…
She contemplated the water in front of her. It was clearer here than it had been on the other side, and it glistened jewel-like in the sun. The grass was a purer green than anyone alive could imagine, and each blade of it seemed to be full of energy. Oriana suddenly felt out-of-place, like a smudge on the page of a book, a dark spot on the landscape. The veils she wore seemed intolerably heavy and dark.
