A Feast of Sorrows, Stories

by Angela Slatter

  When I leave, the eiderdown is lying inert, snowy and lovely, waiting for the third ingredient.

  Back at the cottage I help Magnus prepare. We both know Bellsholm will not be safe after this night; we fill carpetbags with all the possessions she refuses to be without. I do not know why she aided me at such cost to herself. Perhaps she simply felt it is time to move on; perhaps her outrage at what was done to me is what made her act; perhaps, as she tended me when I first woke and voiced a sound to make the Devil weep . . . perhaps she cannot live here without hearing it over and again. We load the small sturdy buggy and harness the tall horse, then she says once again, hopelessly, “Go to him. Now. He is a good man. He will take care of you.”

  I hug her hard and let her go; she climbs into the buggy with a sigh. The black cat is perched on the seat beside her, eyeing me wearily. Mother Magnus slaps the reins and the horse, somewhat startled, moves forward with a snappy gait. I watch until they disappear into the darkness of the bend that accommodates the insistent bulk of the Singing Rock, then I go inside. Enough of her things are left in the cottage that any folk who seek her out, who believe her behind what will happen, will not think her fled. They will wait here for her to come home, and by the time they realise she is gone, pursuit will be futile, and I—I will be beyond them too.

  As the dark hours creep by, I sit sewing pointless, shapeless samplers, using up threads and scraps, listening in vain for the great swelling arias and canticles floating from the rusalky damozels, the sopranos and contraltos, with the altos winging between. But they will not sing again until daybreak. Sometimes I make flowers, other times animals, yet other times geometric shapes layered on top of one another. I work thus until I doze upright in the armchair. With no glass of water beneath the bed my dreams run riot, but this night they are different; they transport me, it seems, to the bridal chamber, to unwillingly watch as Adlai takes Edine as gently as a husband might a new bride, he with soft caresses, she with noises all reluctant that are given lie by her heavy-lashed gaze and the hearty wet kisses she bestows on him. Then there is the moment, when she cries out, surprised that he has hurt her, surprised that the pleasure has ended in pain, in tearing, in the blood her governess warned her about but to which she had not truly given credence.

  I wake when the maids by the Rock begin their vocal exercises, an acrobatic warming of throat and voice, and I have but half an hour at best. I wrap the cloak about me once more and run.

  I am breathless by the time I reach Lady’s Mantel Court, and the morning light grows brighter. I stand on the pavement across from that house and watch the windows, listen intently until there is a scream, muffled by glass and thick curtains. Moments pass like breath as folk throw off their slumber, then a male voice, a grunt, and a howl. Adlai sees his bride, but not as he expected, not as he had seen her last night. I wonder at the horror I have created, for all my dreams since Adlai’s men took my tongue and left me for dead have been of a spliced woman, her torso female, her lower half a serpent’s tail. All it required was the third ingredient, which only the bride could provide: blood—so much better if it was virginal—to seal the spell, to make the nightmare dust and tear-threads come to life.

  More bellows and cries now—they sound so like me! Servants waking, rushing, seeing Edine’s shame—I am sorry for her, she did me no intentional harm, but she was the means to my end. Now she’s a fine bride for a seafaring man.

  I turn on my heel and pace steadily, smartly across the bridge opposite the one on which I came. I walk with my head held high, a smile on my face. If I could, I would sing—part of me wants to do it anyway, but I know all I would produce would be a caw even a crow would disdain. In my head, my voice, my true voice sounds, a rich contralto, exultant. In my head, others hear me and turn to listen for as long as they can. I pass people as I go; they take second glances as they recognise me, recoil as if they’ve seen a ghost. I keep moving until I achieve the edge of the town, then begin to climb the steep winding path to the Singing Rock. The songs grow louder as I approach. I wonder if I will join them, the rusalky maids, when I am done. I recognise now that I’ve held this wish in my heart, refusing to look at it for fear it might be taken away. Now I admit it, acknowledge it, hope to find a place I belong.

  I reach the peak and the breeze is strong—I can smell the brine, even though all I can see is the wide river snaking along, a green-brown band cutting its way through sometimes mountains, sometimes flat pasture, sometimes marshlands, sometimes land riven by many, many streams. I cannot see the ocean, though; it is too far away.

  What I can see, when I turn my head, is the bright golden halo of Léolin’s hair, far below as he knocks upon the cottage door. I hope he will be well, that my betrayal will not break him as I was broken by Adlai. I do not wait to watch him find the place empty.

  I step to the edge. The drop is sheer, broken only at the bottom where the rusalky have their day nest and recline on stone couches. I can see shining hair in all hues, white blouses and long, long skirts in silver and gold. Perhaps there are bare feet flashing pale and pink or perhaps those are fish. I will be close enough to see soon enough. The wind picks up, buffets me. I wonder idly if Adlai was at all touched by the horrors my nightmares bred or does he stride freely as a man with a crippled wife must? A smile lifts the corners of my mouth. How will he like his Edine now?

  How long before she, too, chooses the water?

  I take a few steps back, then run, throw myself out into the sky.

  I plummet for such a short time, but I do not hit. That is not what stops me. I open my eyes. The songs from beneath rise, knit themselves together, catch at me as a golden net. They pull me down slowly, slowly, gently towards the surface of the river. I hover above it, unable to move either up or down, thwarted utterly, as the murdered maids watch me sadly.

  “You have no voice. You cannot join us,” says the one, then the other, then another, then all the voices threading and weaving one into the next to make a chorus of the same words. The same ribbons of sound, wrapping around and around me, telling me that there will be no welcome here. One of them watches me with a spiteful gleam in her bluer-than-blue eyes, as if she knew my hopes and bided her time until they might be crushed; around her shoulders is a cloak woven of auburn-rose locks, lined with the tiniest chips of stars. Then the net is gone, that wonderful thing of light and sound disappears like a puff of smoke, and I am dropped into the Bell River. The current picks at me, the waters fill my skirts, making me heavier and heavier, pulling me beneath, and out towards the sea.

  My nose and mouth fill. I give myself up to the flow—for a moment—then there is drowning and darkness and the actuality of a slow death and I begin to fight. I rip at the catch of my skirts, fingers numb, finally tearing at the band; the buttons wetly give way and all that complexity of petticoats, old lace and weary gingham fall away, down, a’down, into the depths of the Bell. Then my jacket is gone too, and the broderie blouse, and the clever, quiet slippers carelessly discarded after such good service. And here I am naked but for a shivering thin shift, a skin of muslin plastered to me by the press of the tide, which lifts me up and carries me downstream. Towards Breakwater, towards any of more than a dozen tiny places identical to Bellsholm, towards the open sea.

  Sister, Sister

  The final hymn is being sung off-key and I suspect the choir-master will not be pleased. I smile, imagining his scowl as he tries to locate the culprit amongst those angel-faces. Imagination is all I have at this distance, there’s very little to see from the arse-end of the Cathedral.

  Pillars, posts, baptismal fonts, and other members of the faithful all ruin the landscape. My kind are tolerated in church, but only just. This is not the view I used to have; once, I sat in the pews up front, those with little gates on the side to let everyone know how special we were.

  Once, I was on show.

  I still am, I suppose, but now it’s looks of pity, occasionally of contempt. Always curiosity. I’d have tho
ught that after six months it would have died down, but apparently not. I hold my head high, meeting cold stares with one even frostier until they turn away. But I tolerate this, continue coming back once a week for my daughter’s sake. Just because I’ve lost faith doesn’t mean Magdalene should be denied the possibilities of its comfort; besides she loves the theatre of it as only a child can. When she is older she can decide for herself whether there is something genuine to be had.

  The archbishop lifts the chalice, makes his final flamboyant gestures, bows his head, and bids those within range of his voice to go in peace. This much I know from memory. Those in the front rows rise and I think I see the flash of Stellan’s golden hair and a hook twists in my gut; but I could be mistaken. No sign of the other one though. The flock rises with the rhythm of a wave. One advantage of our lowly seating is its proximity to the door. We, the inhabitants of the inn, are out in the sunlight before the exulted few have managed to move two yards.

  Magdalene’s hand creeps up to twine fingers with mine, her grip tight and clammy. In the shade of the portico at the top of the steps sit the archbishop’s six hounds. Grey and silver in the shadows, insubstantial until someone with ill intent crosses the threshold, then they become suddenly-solid, voracious and vicious. No one wants a resurrected wolf hunting them down. I have explained, over and over, to my little girl that they will do her no harm, but there is a core of fear in her that not even her mother can touch.

  From across the square comes the sound of a carriage and four. It is the white ceremonial one I rode in on my wedding day. The sheer curtains are drawn but I think I see pale blond hair as the occupant peeks out. Polly, who has yet to attend a church service in all her time in this city. My sister makes no pretence of religious zeal.

  Behind us the wolf-hounds growl and Magdalene wails, climbing up my skirts like a terrified monkey. She holds me so tightly I can barely breathe. Grammy Sykes pats her back and talks in a low voice to the wolf-hounds. They react to her tone, settle back to sit in the shadows, the exiting crowd giving them a wide berth. I look at them, wondering who among the press of bodies set the beasts off. Grammy pokes me to move along and we head for home.

  The inn is old, so old that if you cut into the walls you might find age rings like those in the great trees of the forest beyond the city walls. The wood panels have been darkened by years, hearth smoke, sweat, tears, and alcohol vapour. If you licked them (as the children sometimes do), you’d taste hops as well as varnish.

  The bar itself, where Fra Benedict serves the drinks, is pitted with the marks of drinking vessels slammed down too hard, the irresistible will of dripping liquid, and the musings and graffiti carved by the bored, the drunk, and the lonely when the barman is distracted. The glassware gleams, though, as do the metal fixtures and the bottles behind the bar are kept clean (although it’s not as if they stay undisturbed long enough for dust to settle). There are booths with seats covered in balding velvet, and the hiss-hum of the gas lamps (lit low for daytime) is a constant comfort.

  Things are quiet at the moment, Sunday afternoon, most of our clients still pretending their piety after Mass this morning. There’s only Faideau in a corner booth, his breeches slung low and his shirt stained with wine. He’s a poet, he says; drinks like one at any rate. He snores loudly. Fra Benedict will go through his pockets soon for the money he owes, then roust him to move on, to spend at least a few hours out in the sunshine.

  In one corner is the crèche, where we whores and wenches leave our children (those of us who have them) under the tender, watchful eyes of Grammy Sykes and her half-wolf, half-something-or-other, Fenric. The small space is scattered with books and toys, which miraculously stay within a reasonable radius. Two little boys, and three girls, one of them Magdalene, three years old and still clad in her red Sunday robe. My little girl, the only reminder that I was once loved.

  In the kitchen I can hear Bitsy dropping pans. A few seconds later Rilka chases her out, swearing mildly, which is about as angry as anyone can get with Bitsy, who now stands in the middle of the room, unsure what to do next. Fra Benedict makes his particular peculiar noise to catch her attention, jerks his head for her to come and sit at the bar. He is mute, his tongue having been torn out many years ago in some monastery brawl. Bitsy hoists herself onto one of the high stools and sips at the weak ale and blackberry shandy he pours for her.

  Bitsy is a little older than me: her face bears the blankness of youth and her long straight hair is a white blond. She used to be a doll-maker. Not all of them go the same way; she made a special kind of doll, putting tiny pieces of her soul into them. Beautiful dolls, they were (I saw some in a museum, once), but each one left her emptier.

  Now she’s touched, little more than a doll herself, with just enough wit to sometimes take drinks to tables, wash dishes, and lie still when a client with no need for a real response climbs aboard and lets her giggle beneath him. Fra Benedict is kind to her; I think they are distant cousins.

  Rilka’s dark head pops out of the kitchen. “Finished with them peas yet, Theodora?”

  I shake my head. “Soon, Rilka.”

  She disappears with a profanity. Rilka was a nun, in her better days.

  Now she’s just like us. Some men pay extra for her to lose her spectacular temper and hurt them. Her special gentlemen callers, she says with a laugh. Tall and muscular, cedar-skinned Rilka doubles as cook.

  Kitty thinks Rilka killed someone, tells how she talks in her sleep.

  Kitty mends our dresses, sitting in the corner, working on one of those I brought with me, taken apart and made over to fit others. I had no further need of finery. Kitty pulls hard on her final stitch, makes a knot then cuts the thread with her teeth, etching more deeply the tailor’s notch in her left front tooth. Her hair is brassy-bright, a touch of red, a touch of gold; it’s beautiful and distracts clients from the scars on her face: two running parallel across the bridge of her nose before dropping down her left cheek like deep gutters, relics of an unkind husband. Her eyes are blue and sad.

  She holds the dress up for me to see: the green and gold brocade is now short enough to show off Livilla’s fine legs, and tight enough around the waist to push her breasts up so they will spill from the top of the bodice. I nod approval just as we hear one of Livilla’s loud sighs floating down from an upstairs room. A few seconds later there is a satisfied, bellowing grunt from her client. She has earned her fee for the day.

  Fra Benedict and Grammy Sykes, his common-law wife, don’t make us take all comers. Most of the men are regulars who know Fra and Grammy keep a fair house with clean, cared-for girls. Sometimes there are women, too, anxious for something soft and gentle as a welcome relief from their husbands’ violent prongings. We need only bed one client each day, any after that are up to our discretion. The fee here is high enough and the need for us to work as bar wenches outweighs the pull of the money to be made in excessive bed-sports. One of the advantages of Fra and Grammy’s lax policy is that men are anxious to have what might be refused them, so we always have clientele, banging on the doors, hoping to pay for our favours.

  Grammy Sykes was a whore once herself; she remembers what it was like, the constant line of hard, demanding cocks. I think she prides herself on being kinder to us than anyone ever was to her. Livilla whispers that Grammy was a great beauty in her day, although there is scant evidence of it now.

  Grammy and Fra will both tell you how many of their girls have gone on to better places, indeed, so many of their old girls are now the wives of rich and influential men that upper-class dinner parties sometimes resemble a whores’ reunion; can’t throw a silken shoe without hitting some woman who used to earn her living horizontally. The comfort of a prosperous future is for the other girls. They don’t tell me this story.

  I finish shelling the peas then turn to polishing the silverware Grammy keeps for the private parlour. I hear the front door open behind me, see the sunlight flare in momentarily before the door closes and the cool d
imness is restored. I don’t turn around until Fra nods to indicate that the customer is waiting for me.

  Prycke was, still is, the Prime Minister. He wanders the capital with minimal guards as if he is still as unimportant now as he was when he was born in the lower slum areas, out near the abattoirs in the furthest, poorest quarters of the city. He’s not overly tall, has a stern sallow face, but his eyes are kind. Clad in dark colours, you might not realise how fine the fabrics of his breeches and frock coat are unless you look carefully. The buckles on his shoes catch the light of the gas-lamps and it seems he has stars on his feet.

  “Have you a moment, mistress?”

  I nod, feeling the precarious pile of dark curls on my head sway; one long tendril breaks free and snakes down my neck. He watches it fall. “My time costs nowadays, sirrah.”

  He is taken aback, reaches into a pocket and draws forth two gold coins. I raise one finely plucked brow but say nothing. I remain silent until he has extracted seven gold coins, then tell him to pay Fra Benedict.

  Prycke follows me upstairs. I choose the room with blue velvet curtains hanging around the four-poster bed and a view of the city, an expanse of roofs and, if you look straight down, the Lilyhead fountain and children playing in its greenish waters. I tug at the loose stays of my dress with one hand and at the single clip in my hair with the other; the russet velvet falls to the floor and torrents of hair tumble down to my waist, obscuring the jut of my breasts. I sweep the tresses back so he gets his money’s worth.

  He gulps, removes his shoes first (so sensible! So practical! So strategic!), then his coat, and unbuttons his breeches, letting them drop. His legs are pale, hairy, strong. The tip of his cock peeps from under the hem of his shirt, shy, not quite ready. He didn’t expect this encounter, I’m sure, at least not this kind of encounter.