“Knowledge is never a waste,” she interjects sharply.
“I’m not attending school just for the sake of learning things.”
“Of course.” Belle takes her first bite of the cone. “Will you try to find a job, then?” she asks. “Once you’ve got a degree, I mean. Though I’m sure you could find something temporary in the meantime. A store clerk, perhaps; aren’t they always looking for people to help out around Christmas?”
“Something like what Sue had? No thanks.”
Belle runs her tongue along the edge of the cone. “I don’t know how she managed there, even before that debacle with the supervisor.” She purses her lips thoughtfully and looks up into the cloudy sky. “I’ll have to call her later.”
I fold my arms. “Supervisors aren’t known for being bearable. They’re more often exploitative and difficult.”
Belle grins. “I doubt that they’ve invented the supervisor that could take advantage of you, Diana.”
“Be that as it may, it’s an avoidable situation.”
“Of course.” She shifts on the bench and turns to meet my eyes. “You must be seeing much more of David these days, now that you’re taking that class together.”
“Yes.”
“How does it feel to be spending time with him again?” She examines her half-eaten cone for a moment, then tosses it into the trash can beside the bench.
I shrug. “He’s there. I’m there. So are thirty other people and the professor. I barely even notice him.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
I choose my next words carefully. David has always been a sensitive topic with Belle, and I’d rather not have another pointless argument with her about him. “It’s an improvement over sitting next to a stranger.”
“So you sit next to him, then?”
“Yes, I do.” My eyes narrow, daring her to comment on this.
She doesn’t. “Just curious.” She pauses, perhaps to search for a safer topic of conversation. “Maybe things will be clearer for you by the end of the semester.”
“I suppose that we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”
“Yes: cross it, or burn it.” She drapes her arm over the back of the bench, and her fingers brush my shoulder gently. “I’m so excited about my new story. I really think that it’ll turn out well; I might even be able to turn it into a novel when I’m done.”
I raise an eyebrow. “I wasn’t aware that it was that long.”
Belle waves her other hand. “The assignment is a maximum of fifteen or twenty pages, but I feel that it could become the core of something much larger. Something in Ruby’s story just ... resonates so strongly with me.”
“I’m glad for you.”
“Thank you.” Belle smiles. “One of these days, I’ll manage to write a story that’ll seize your interest. Until then, you’ll simply have to listen to me carry on.”
“I don’t mind.” It’s better than watching her sulk. I won’t make that mistake twice.
“That’s very sweet of you, but I should be fine until I can fit in another two-hour conversation with Denise about it.” Belle glances at her watch and sighs. “I should be heading back. I’ve got a few other assignments to deal with before I can devote myself to Ruby’s story.”
I look down at my own watch and nod. “I should be going too.” I stand up and dust myself off, just in case any of the bench’s dirt has come off on my clothes. “Good luck with it.”
“I don’t need luck.” Belle wraps her arms around me. “Always lovely to see you, Diana.”
I return the hug dutifully. “Yes,” I say, then force myself to add: “Let me know how it comes out.”
Belle
THEY WERE CHASING her. Their torches illuminated the shadows of the alleyway through which she had just fled, and she could hear blades clanging against shields in the ancient hunting rhythm, handed down through generations of ignorant, bigoted men. She felt her pace slowing, almost too subtly to be noticed, and knew she would not escape this time. She no longer had her sisters to protect her, and there were no friends left to die for her. Soon, she would fight, or she would die.
The witch ran anyway.
Through a seemingly-endless maze of passages she ducked and weaved; the shouting and clanging seemed to come from every direction, and she knew that the men were circling, hoping to overtake her. She wanted to stop, but the mouth of the alley loomed before her, and she knew that, if only she could get past it, and into the street beyond, she would be safe, and they would never find her.
She was no more than five steps from the street when the diabolic orange glow of a torch flickered into her view, casting thick shadows on the visage of its wielder, an aging, overweight, but still physically strong man. “End of the line, girl,” he said, advancing on her with a leer that she only wished was murderous.
She backed away from him, and held up her hands. The ancient words spilled into her throat, but she bit her tongue to keep from voicing them. “I didn’t hurt you,” she whispered. “I didn’t hurt anyone. Why are you chasing me?”
The man laughed. “You’re devil-spawn. No human has that kind of power.” He raised the torch, but she noted that his advance had slowed, at least somewhat. “Put your hands down, or I’ll burn you right here. I won’t even wait for the tribunal to pass judgment.”
She left her hands as they were, and closed her eyes, focusing her power. “Leave me alone,” she whispered. “Leave me alone, or I’ll defend myself. I’m not helpless.” She opened her eyes, and they seemed to burn suddenly. “Not like those innocent girls you’re used to killing.”
“Let God sort out the innocents,” the man replied, all smug arrogance. “I just burn ‘em.”
The words did fly from her mouth then, fuelled by rage and terror; her breath became shards of crystal, and cut into his arms, his face, and his throat. As he staggered forward, his shield up to fend off another wave, the cadence of her voice changed, became rougher, and the air around him rippled with heat. Sweat poured into his eyes, blinding him, and surely he must have been overheated in his armour, but still, he kept coming, growling mindlessly.
Her link with the magic grew weaker, the words less clear, less distinct on her lips; she knew that she was tired, that she wouldn’t be able to hold him off forever. She had never mastered many attack spells, preferring the healing arts; now, faced with the bitter irony of her decision, she regretted it. Of course, she was far too late.
A weak charge of electricity, her last attempt at self-defence, ran down the blade of his sword as he raised it over her head. “Pity I can’t burn you alive like the rest,” he growled. “But your corpse’ll roast almost as good, I think.”
The blow cleft her skull, killing her instantly.
My teacher sets the page down, takes off her reading glasses, and rubs her eyes; I stand a bit straighter, waiting to receive her praise, and perhaps it’s this expectation that makes the words that eventually come out of her mouth so shocking: “This isn’t your best work, Isabella.”
I blink once, twice, and let her use of my full name pass for the moment. I don’t understand: I spent three days on this. I tore apart every sentence at least twice, and recited it until I had it memorized. How can it be anything but perfect?
“You seem puzzled,” the teacher says blandly.
“I suppose I am.” I shrug in a desperate stab at indifference, and know that I have not fooled her. “I worked very hard on that piece.”
“Oh, yes. Your effort is clear.” She taps her pen against the pristine paper, and I swallow as I contemplate the horror of her filling it with red scribbles.
“Then what’s the matter with it?” I resist the urge to fold my arms.
The teacher presses her lips together, thoughtfully, and I notice that she’s not wearing any lipstick. “Well, I can pinpoint a few things, a few awkward phrases.” Her pen hovers over the page, but mercifully, she lowers it before it can taint my work. “However, I think that the prob
lem is much more basic.” She looks up at me. “I don’t think that the story works.”
I take a deep breath. “It doesn’t work?” I echo.
She nods. “Yes. Many of the basic elements of an effective text are flawed, or missing entirely.” She pushes the paper further across the desk between us in order to give me a better view of it, as though I am unfamiliar with it. “The dialogue, for instance, feels forced, strained, and perhaps a bit cliché. ‘No human has that kind of power’ stands out here ... it could almost have come from a pulp fantasy film.”
I prepare to object, but all that comes out is, “Go on.”
“The pacing is very rushed. It feels like you want to get to the end as quickly as possible, and once you do, it feels very abrupt.” She closes her hand into a loose fist and holds it before her expressively. “We aren’t given enough time or, indeed, information to become attached to your character. I don’t mean to be harsh, but she’s not at all developed. We know that she’s being chased, and then she’s dead.”
“I thought that the injustice of her plight contributed an interesting subtext,” I say, forcing myself to keep my tone sweet.
The teacher glances down at the page once again, but I know that she’s done with it. Her opinions are as fully formed and immutable as Athena’s body was on the day of her birth. “Well, I will admit, that’s one of the text’s stronger points. Unfortunately, while delving into Christianity’s sordid past seems to have come into vogue recently, the witch-burnings have been done to death and then some. It’s no longer ...” She looks up, as though the proper word will fall from the ceiling. “... resonant. It doesn’t make the reader feel anything anymore.” She smiles at me. “Do you understand?”
“I suppose so.” My disappointment is quickly becoming too great to conceal.
Her gaze becomes sympathetic, and she scans the text again. “I’m sorry; as I said, I don’t mean to be harsh. There are some good points: your style is still very compelling, and your imagery is very powerful. I think the problem is more with the story itself than with your abilities.”
“Thank you,” I say even as bile rises into my throat. How can a flaw in something that I’ve created not imply a flaw in my abilities?
She pushes the page back to me, and now I see its lack of red markings as the ultimate failure. She doesn’t even consider it worth her time to correct. “Why don’t you give this one a bit more time to grow? I think that some fleshing-out would do it a world of good.”
“It might.” I tuck the sheet into my purse, not caring how crumpled it becomes. “I don’t have very much time for that, though. The completed assignment is due in three weeks, and this is just the first scene.”
Her smile fades, and she licks her lips nervously. “Well, you’re free to do whatever you like, of course. However ...”
“Yes?” I say, barely biting back the words. “Spit it out.”
“If you submit a finished product of this quality, it’s impossible that your grade will be up to your usual standards.” Her voice is suddenly sterner. “I’m sorry.”
No, you aren’t, you bitch. I visualize myself reaching across the desk to choke her, or perhaps tearing at her with crystal shards, and revel in the fantasy for a few moments before I nod. “I understand. I might start over, then.”
“That might be best.” Her smile is relieved now; she’s happy to be done with me. I can tell that she doesn’t enjoy being tough, and add weakness to the list of her faults. “Have a very nice afternoon, Isabella.”
“Please,” I snap, and her eyes widen, “call me Belle.”
I turn the last page of the Tale of Beauty for the third time this evening; this time, I close the back cover over it as well and slump down against my pillows, crushing a stuffed cat in the process. After a minute or two, I roll out of bed and go to Gertrude’s altar.
“I’m sorry,” I say once the candle and incense have been lit. “I didn’t bring any offerings today. I just needed to talk to you.” I pause to stare at her picture through the wispy smoke of the incense. No reply comes, but I wasn’t really expecting one. “She said Ruby’s story wasn’t good ...” I trail off, remembering how Gertrude used to tell me not to use vague adjectives. “... that it wasn’t relevant, not ‘resonant’.” I take a deep breath, and let the rose-scented incense calm me down slightly. Even now, it reminds me so strongly of her that I can almost make myself believe that I’m back in her living room.
“How could she say that? Ruby was so real to me when I was writing it: I could feel her fear, her pain, her rage. I could see the bastard who killed her, and I’m sure that I’ve got all that down on the paper. How could it not be good?” I stand up and go to my purse, from which I dig out the crumpled copy of the story, and smooth it out on the altar. “Look at it with me, Gertrude, please?”
I stare down at the paper and force myself to read it over again. Nothing particularly awful jumps out at me, and I know from having read some of my classmates’ work that it’s head and shoulders above anything they could have written. It’s the beginning of a well-crafted story about a persecuted woman, and I wonder if that’s exactly what my teacher didn’t like about it.
“I’ll send it to Denise later on,” I say to Gertrude. “She’ll be honest. She’ll tell me what I need to hear, and how I can fix it so that idiot teacher doesn’t have a problem with it.” I smile. “You would have loved Denise, Gertrude. You’d have loved all my Sisters.” I close my eyes for a moment. “I’m so lucky to have them.”
Denise
FOR THE THIRD time, I scroll through the story Belle sent me last night, and which I’ve only gotten around to reading this morning. That was a mistake: she’ll expect a response by noon, and I haven’t a clue what to say. I tab back into Belle’s e-mail, and reread her teacher’s feedback. Rushed, not resonant, characters underdeveloped ... I tab to the story itself. She’s right, as far as I can tell. But how can I tell Belle that?
I stare at the page for a few more minutes, then hit reply and just start writing. “Good morning, Belle. I’m sorry for not replying sooner. Thank you for sending along your story — it was pretty good.” I replace “pretty good” with “very interesting”. “I especially liked ...”
What did I like? Not much. In desperation, I start exploring possible endings to the sentence. “... the characterization?” Was there any characterization beyond “distressed damsel meets overly religious brute”? “... the plot?” There wasn’t any of that either. It was a one page story about a girl getting killed. “... the setting?” A dark alleyway ... I think. She doesn’t say much about the setting.
I’ve just about settled on “... the magic” when the phone rings. It’s Belle. She’s early. “Hello?”
“Good morning, Denise. How’s it going?”
“Very well, thanks, Belle. How about you?”
“Fine.” She pauses, then asks sharply, “Did you get my e-mail?”
“Yes, of course. I was just responding, as a matter of fact.”
“Were you?” Her tone is dry, almost sarcastic. “You usually respond much more quickly. I was expecting to have your answer hours ago, particularly considering the urgency of the situation.”
Urgency? “I suppose I didn’t realize that it was that ... urgent.” This doesn’t seem to be enough for her, so I add, “I’m sorry.”
“Well, it’s done now ... or not done, in this case. Just forget about it. What did you think?”
I do my best to put my frustration aside and frown at the couple of lines on my screen. I’m no closer to an appropriate answer than I was when I wrote them, but I’ve got to say something. “Actually, I was going to ask if you wanted to meet to discuss it in person.”
“Is it that bad?” she snaps.
Yes. “No, of course not. I just ...” I run my free hand over my mouse, then close the window in which I’d been composing my message. “I need to get out of the house, and anyway, there’s something that I’ve been meaning to talk with you about
.” Might as well kill two birds with one stone.
“Really?” Now she’s suspicious. “Is everything alright, Denise?”
“Yes, I’m fine.” I roll my eyes. It never ceases to amaze me how easily Belle seems to be able to switch between chewing me out and acting concerned. “Can I come over?”
“I suppose so.” She doesn’t sound very thrilled, but she’s still probably happier about it than I am. I wish there was some other way to get more time to prepare, but if I tell her I don’t know what I think of it, she’ll insist on staying on the phone until I read it, and then demand instant feedback, and then ... It’s better this way, but only just. And I have been meaning to talk to someone about Clyde, and Belle is probably the best choice for that what with everything that Sue’s been through recently. “I’ll see you in a little while.”
“Uh-huh. Bye.” I put down the phone, exhale, and glance over the story again. I hope that I can come up with something by then.
“Finally,” is Belle’s greeting when I arrive at her apartment. “What took you so long? I was sure that something must have happened to you.”
I look at my watch. “It didn’t take me any longer than usual to get here,” I say, trying to stay calm.
“Really?” Belle cranes her neck to look at the clock in the kitchen. “I’m sure you usually make better time than this.” She gives me what I find a very forced smile. “Well, you’re here now. Come in.”
“Thank you.” Belle goes into the living room; once I’ve hung my coat up, I follow and find her stretched out on the couch, forcing me to take the recliner. Almost like a psychiatrist’s office, I think, except we’re facing each other, and I can’t help but laugh at the mental image.
“What’s so funny?” Belle demands.
I clear my throat. “Nothing.” She’s in one of her difficult moods; she often gets this way, I realize all of a sudden, when someone says something less than kind about her writing.
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