Personal Darkness

by Lee, Tanith

  "This is real," she said.

  She should know.

  "Will you have something to drink?" asked Miranda. "I'm afraid Eric and Sasha are upstairs. And the girls. Tracy and I have been watching this remarkable film. Do you know it?"

  "Yeah," said Cardiff. "Can we have the sound up?"

  "No," said Connor.

  "But of course," said the woman. She touched Connor's hand sweetly. "I'm Miranda. Camillo will be here soon, I'm sure." She went to the TV and turned up the sound. Rose, Cardiff, Whisper, Tina, and Pig became totally glazed. And the beauty with the plate of rum baba also returned a fixated gaze to the screen. Viv sat and stared only at Connor.

  Miranda made them drinks then. There was a bottle of Zinfandel two-thirds full standing in ice, and Connor had some of that. Red too. Cardiff asked for beer and Miranda went out into the hall and called softly, and someone came and she sent him for it.

  Rose and Pig had vodka, and Tina had some sherry. There seemed to be virtually everything there.

  "Would your dog like a drink?"

  "I'll give her a drop of wine, if that's all right. She's got a good palate. Never smoked, you see."

  Miranda laughed, musically, like a girl. Connor looked at her closely. She was old, but he quite fancied her. She bent and smoothed Viv over and Viv beamed. Then Miranda took the real jade bowl off the -table and put Zinfandel in it for Viv. The dog lapped. She was delighted.

  Someone died on the screen.

  "Yeah!" bellowed Whisper.

  An oldish man came in, carrying a big tankard of beer on a tray. Cardiff grabbed.

  "Watch it," said Connor.

  "Thanks," said Connor to the oldish man, who was not actually really old at all, only gray-haired.

  The man went out.

  Connor said to Miranda, "Ever been on a bike?"

  "No," said Miranda. "In my day it was horses."

  "It's like a horse," said Connor. "A horse that has wings."

  "Why—" said Miranda, "how exciting."

  Her eyes were glorious. Black as buggered night.

  She was a queen of the green hills, and he could sit at her slippered feet with his harp, if he only played one.

  "If ever you want to try," said Connor, "I'm your man."

  Secretively, the way the women did, she lowered her eyes, and Connor thought of riding with Miranda, and those slim pale hands around his big middle.

  "The last time I rode on a horse," said Miranda, "was to a wedding feast. The bride was dressed in blue, and there was a big cake colored by saffron, the shape of a hand holding a key. The things one remembers."

  "Some foreign wedding," said Connor.

  "Oh, yes. In Italy. My name wasn't Miranda then, you know. That came later, from a play."

  Connor felt a wide crevice opening before him, and he was almost eager to drop into it, but something stayed him. The raven goddess, the dark-eyed Morigan. Best beware.

  Red said, "Connor, he's here. This is him, isn't it?"

  She had confided long ago that she did not care for young men. At Cambridge she had had an affair with a scholar sixty years of age. She had wrapped him in her copper hair.

  Connor looked around, and in the doorway was Camillo.

  He looked young tonight. Maybe too young for Red. But no. The ancient eyes were still there, looking out.

  "Here you are," said Camillo. "Is it time then? It must be."

  "Whatever you say," said Connor.

  Viv barked lightly. And Camillo knelt down. Viv went to him and they greeted each other.

  "On your feet," Connor said to the TV addicts. They got up and clustered around. He brought Red forward. "See what I have here."

  Camillo looked up, slyly.

  Red smiled, showing her even white teeth.

  "Not a bimbo this time," said Connor. "Red has studied history. She's ridden a long way to meet you."

  Camillo stood up again. He looked at Red, with his head to one side.

  "I'm an old man," said Camillo, skittishly.

  "I like old men," answered Red. "They're clever."

  "And grateful? I'm never grateful."

  "I'd hate you to be," Red replied.

  "Tell me something about history," said Camillo.

  Red hesitated. She said, "There were three King Arthurs. Tribal chiefs. Three Camelots, too. Only one Guinevere. But that wasn't her name."

  "Something else," said Camillo.

  "Under the Romans, Britain produced some of the best wines in the Empire."

  "More."

  "In certain Semitic cultures, prostitutes placed gold coins in the mouth of the cervix, after the birth of a child, to prevent further unwanted pregnancies."

  "Do you have a gold coin?"

  "No. My tubes are tied. I don't want children."

  "But you want old men."

  Tray turned from the TV and looked suddenly afraid.

  "Camillo, shhh," said Miranda. She went to Tray and put her arm about her, and Tray rested her head on Miranda's sequined arm.

  Red said calmly, "Old men are only young men in a different skin."

  "Not me."

  "Well," said Red, "you can teach me, can't you."

  They made a camp, down the slope from the house, under the trees. Nobody would disturb them, try to move them on, Camillo had said.

  Camillo was not ready yet, apparently. That was fine. They could wait.

  The man who had brought them beer brought them down a supper from the house. Wine and beer and vodka, smoked fish and hot toast streaming with butter, wedges of yellow cheese, prawns, a dish of grapes and apples and peaches.

  "He's a tease," said Red. She grinned at Connor. "I like that. I'll have to woo him."

  Connor thought about Miranda. Viv settled on his chest as they lay in the tent. Viv was tipsy.

  Outside, the fire burned. They were a camp of mercenaries. Camillo's now: Waiting. The rain slept. They slept too.

  In the morning, early, Connor and Viv got up in the gray-tawny February dawn to relieve themselves. Viv was in high spirits despite her debauch, playing about in last year's leaves. When they came back, a man was standing under the house, regarding the camp.

  "Good morning," said Connor. And took a stance on the grassy slope. Viv ran up, staring.

  The man was tall and spare, with the longest, whitest hair Connor had seen. The face, Connor knew.

  The man said, "Camillo's friends, perhaps."

  "Believe it," said Connor.

  The man nodded, and walked away around the house. As he went up, the woman, Miranda, came out and down. They passed each other with a vague acknowledgement. Miranda turned, and looked after him, her hands up to her throat.

  Connor climbed to her.

  "What is it?"

  "Ah," she said. She put down her hands. "Some news. He will want Eric."

  "Whitey," said Connor. "He's Camillo's son, isn't he?"

  Miranda glanced at him. She was preoccupied.

  "Oh, no. No. His father. That is, Camillo is Malach's son."

  Connor looked away into the distances of the world.

  "Malach. You're telling me that white one is the father of Camillo."

  "Yes," she said, distractedly.

  Connor felt a stirring he had known all his life. It was the oldness in him. He picked up Viv and ruffled her head. And Miranda glided by him down into the trees, as if she went to gather strange herbs for witchcraft, or to some tryst a hundred years too late.

  CHAPTER 38

  BEFORE THE DIM IRIS MORNING WINDOW, Althene's form was elongated and black. "He'll bring her this evening. I am to tell you."

  "I see."

  "Not entirely. I am also to explain it all to you."

  Rachaela said tartly, "Since I'm the resident imbecile."

  Althene laughed. She sat down on her dark blue bed. Rachaela huddled there in her jumper and skirt. They had got up early, to walk on the common, then Althene returned from below with a tray of new bread and coffee. And with this.
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  Malach was bringing Ruth to the house.

  "Why does he have to come here?" Rachaela asked. "Is it some sort of test?"

  "Yes, perhaps."

  "What will they do? Poison her with a glass of wine?"

  "No. They will formally give her to Malach. That's all. It's a ceremony. Then they can be free of her, even though she's theirs."

  "And mine. She's my daughter. Supposing I don't— won't—give her to Malach."

  "She belongs to him already, I imagine," Althene said. "That's what he will have been doing. Taking her."

  Rachaela clenched her hands.

  "You mean they're lovers."

  "I expect they are."

  "She's twelve," said Rachaela. She frowned. "No, she's thirteen. But—for God's sake. She's a child."

  "Never, probably. A child in some ways, of course. But he will take care of that too. Malach is expert."

  "Oh, yes."

  "So bitter, my love," said Althene. She stroked back Rachaela's hair. "Ruth was a burden to you you could never bear. But for Malach it will be interesting, a challenge, perhaps. He'll take her away. He'll see that she is educated, trained. She'll want to please him and so she will shine. A father and daughter, with the sweetness of sex added for spice."

  "It's too easy," said Rachaela. "She's a murderess."

  "The forgiveness of sin," said Althene. "What does it mean? That you are freed from evil. Though you have committed atrocious acts, you needn't continue to transgress. Change is possible. Is allowed."

  "All right. I've seen you kill. You'd judge Ruth differently."

  "I make no judgment."

  "How dare you," said Rachaela, drawing away. "How dare you—these absolutes—these doctrines—she's a monster—"

  "I remember," Althene said, "you told me that, when Ruth was a baby, she almost died."

  "Yes, and I wanted her dead."

  "Perhaps Ruth, also. Perhaps Ruth meant to die. But you made her live."

  "A hospital did that. And bloody Emma."

  "How terrible to be forced to go on along a road you know is wrong."

  "Oh, stop it," Rachaela said. She put her head on her updrawn knees. "Just stop."

  "Very well. But there's one further distressing item. At least, I hope it will distress you."

  "When Malach takes Ruth away," Rachaela said, "you'll go too."

  "Unfortunately, I must."

  "Yes. How convenient."

  "I'll be gone a month. Maybe a little more. Then I shall return."

  "Do as you want," Rachaela said.

  "I must arrange my own affairs," Althene said, "before I come back to you."

  "You want me to stand at my window, looking out. Wearily. He cometh not, she said."

  "How can you," said Althene, evidently amused, "compare me to Adamus?"

  "I don't, I don't. But you will go, and you won't come back. And I would prefer honesty. How can you, anyway, want me. The way you are—it must be random. A woman making love to a woman. But the woman is a man. Anyone who consents—"

  "You try my patience," said Althene. "Get up and go away. I'm tired of you."

  "Exactly."

  "I shall cross the symbolic sea, and leave you here, and that's that. Back to my hoards of consenting perverted women."

  "Yes."

  "Rachaela," Althene said, "I'll say this only one time. Perhaps never again. And so listen to me. I love you. Am in love with you. The family have had a hand in it, and perhaps it was meant to happen. It has happened. You don't love me, naturally. You're fascinated by what I am. And I can give you pleasure. You want me to leave you, perhaps. To set you at liberty."

  "I don't know," Rachaela said. She stared downward through the bed into darkness.

  "I'll be gone. You'll be without me. Then you will know. When I come back—"

  "You won't come back."

  "We shall see," said Althene. She stood up. Behind her the other woman of glass stood before the iris-hyacinth window. "They'll want you to be present when Ruth arrives."

  "They may not like what I say and do."

  "Why must you say or do anything?"

  "Yes," Rachaela said, "why must I."

  She walked to the door.

  "Do you," said Althene, "consider yourself to be perverted, because you've had sex with me?"

  "I suppose I must be. No. No, not at all."

  "Good," said Althene. "I have at least that, then, to carry into the sky, while Malach's dogs are howling and piddling with surprise, and the sea is churning far below."

  "But is it possible," said Rachaela, "for you to love?"

  Althene gazed at her. Althene's eyes were soft. They hardened to adamant. "And who, after all, could love you?"

  In her white bathroom with the viridian window, Rachaela bathed and washed her hair. She shaved her legs, and the hollows under her arms, as she did every third day. Save today it was like a ritual, the taking of the Host before battle.

  She sat over the gas fire. Set in a wide hearth, it had cement logs and looked genuine, and it began to seem to her again she was in the other house, the house above the sea.

  She shook her hair to dry it and the fire spat.

  Later she dressed in a black wool dress, powdered her face and made up her eyes. She used the light amber blusher and lipstick Althene had given her. This was the mask, the visor of the battle helmet.

  Don't be a fool. Just let them do what they want. They will anyway. All of them.

  She visualized Ruth coming in, holding Malach's hand. Her hair was done in plaits and she wore a school uniform. Rachaela laughed aloud, bitterly.

  So bitter, my love…

  Outside the dove window came a vague noise of music. There was a camp of bikers on the common, down the slope. Camillo's companions, doubtless. She had opened the window once, and glimpsed a fire and tents.

  The threads were being gathered up, the drawstring pulled tight.

  Going away.

  Soon she would be alone here again, with Eric and Sasha, and with Miranda. Miranda, who was growing young. If such a thing were credible. But it was. It was. Camillo, too—

  "Damn them," she said.

  She put on Anna's ring, the ruby heart. And then a silver snake with a tiny tourmaline in its head. Althene had given her that.

  / shall put it away when she goes. I won't look at it.

  This is how they gather their rings. Heirlooms. The gifts of lovers.

  He never gave me a ring. Adamus. He gave me Ruth.

  She slid a Prokofiev concerto into the CD player. It had black humor, the sounds of diamond rats running about in a giant clock.

  She felt a little sick, thinking of Ruth arriving in her uniform, with Malach.

  At the commencement of the early dusk, Rachaela heard a car, a taxi, a way down the road.

  Her heart stopped. She stood up.

  Twenty minutes later, when her heart was beating solidly all through her body, Cheta knocked on the door.

  "They're here, Miss Rachaela. Will you come down?"

  What if I say no?

  She came out and went along the passage, and down the stairs.

  There was no one in the hall, but the doors stood open and Michael was closing them. Kei was beside him, carrying two bags. The lamps had been lit.

  In the drawing room, unlike the usual sound of the TV, a murmur of voices.

  / don't want to go in.

  Rachaela moved quickly across the hall and into the large white room.

  It was full of warm light, and the colored windows were giving up their very last gleams.

  Eric, Sasha, and Miranda stood in a line. They had donned dark clothes, as she herself intuitively had done.

  She saw too Althene was not there. Nor Camillo.

  Then they turned, and looked at her.

  Malach, Ruth.

  Malach wore white; somehow astonishing, this second whiteness against the white negative of the mane of hair. But the power of him was strong as darkness. It had not ab
ated. Could it be something had increased it?

  Last of all, Rachaela saw Ruth. Her daughter. Did not know her.

  Ruth had grown taller. She had grown older. She was a woman, twenty, twenty-five.

  She wore a long, narrow black skirt that ended four inches from her ankles, and black high-heeled boots embroidered with scarlet and silver. A black velvet coat swung from her shoulders arrogantly, and under it she wore a high-necked tunic of silvery gray watered silk, its collar beaded with drops like red wine and rain, and tied at the waist by a broad black velvet belt that made her waist into the width of a stalk. From under the high, triangular black velvet hat, her black river of hair poured out. She looked like a Russian princess from some novel.

  Her face… was not the same.

  It was as beautifully made up as Althene's would have been. Pale as porcelain with a hint of blusher on the cheeks, the eyelids dark but now like smoke not soot, the lips a light clear red, flame rather than blood.

  Her eyes. Her eyes were alive.

  She was not holding Malach's hand, only a small black bag. She was perfectly poised.

  He's kissed her awake. Out of the coma. This isn't Ruth.

  But it was.

  The two dogs were standing beside her. Enki, the paler one, let out a thin low growl.

  "Still," Malach said. Enki fell silent.

  Ruth's slender gloves were wine red, like the beads, and the embroidery on her boots.

  Red. The betrothal color. The marriage color.

  Rachaela stared at her daughter.

  Not mine.

  His.

  Malach's.

  He has created her.

  "Rachaela," Malach said quietly, "I hope you're well."

  Idiocy. The Scarabae were always well. Well, or dead.

  "Yes, thank you." She could not take her eyes from Ruth. "And I see—that Ruth is well, too."

  A little half glance of the raven head toward Malach. Then Ruth said, "Good evening, Rachaela."

  Not Mommy anymore. Of course. We are both women now.

  "Your clothes are sumptuous," Rachaela said.

  "Thank you."

  But she had always had good taste. Frightening in-sights. And she had always appeared astonishing, dressed up.

  There were no rings on her gloved hands. Perhaps, inside?

  Eric said abruptly, "We should all sit."

  So they sat down. Malach and Ruth on one sofa, Eric and Sasha on another. Miranda in a chair. Rachaela in a second chair. Enki and Oskar on the carpet.