by M. D. Elster
I wonder about all these things, but I don’t manage to gather up the nerve and ask. I am too mystified, in truth, to do much more than puzzle over these questions quietly to myself. And, I realize: I am tired. It’s a cozy cottage. There is a fire crackling in the fireplace, warming the room. I nestle into the chair and close my eyes for a minute and listen to the fire’s steady crackling. Mr. Fletcher hurriedly dashes into the small kitchen to pack up a basket of food, and then, a few minutes later, comes back with the basket and hands me a traveling cloak.
“Shall we embark?” He smiles at me, holding out the garment. It is made of dark crimson velvet and reminds me a bit of Little Red Riding Hood. He nods at it apologetically. “It was my wife’s.”
“Was…?” I echo softly, noting the word I myself have had to employ far too many times in describing my own family members.
“Before the Four Kings took power and struck their accord, there was a terrible war. I’m afraid she perished in the skirmish.”
“Oh,” I say, swallowing and looking down at my feet. This new bit of information certainly answers my earlier, unasked question. “I’m sorry. I suppose I know something about how that feels.”
“Yes, Anaïs,” says Mr. Fletcher. “I believe you do. It is one of the reasons, in fact, I hoped you would be sympathetic to our cause.”
Mr. Fletcher shakes the cloak out and drapes it around my shoulders. He has, I think, a way about him that is almost fatherly. What’s more, his presence is somehow a comfort. I am nearly accustomed to that furry face, those queer pointy teeth. “She was the one who taught me the magic to forge the keys necessary to travel between your world and ours — a lost art.”
“I still don’t understand how I got here,” I remark, since we’re on the subject.
“Yes,” says Mr. Fletcher, “it is complicated; a key must be made. Not only that, you must use it of your own volition.”
“That explains why you ran away from me that first night.”
“Indeed,” he says. He leaves the cloak on my shoulders. “In any case, I hope this will keep you warm.”
“Thank you, Mr. Fletcher,” I say, buttoning the clasp at the neck.
“Hmm,” he says, rubbing his whiskers thoughtfully and looking down at my lack of shoes with consternation. “But will your feet be all right? I’m sorry; I haven’t any boots of the proper size for you to wear.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” I say. “I actually prefer to be barefoot if we are walking in the forest.”
Mr. Fletcher looks surprised, but nods. “Interesting; most unusual for a human. But I suppose it’s lucky you feel that way — when we get to the Court of the Raven, they might have some you may use. Assuming we receive a warm enough welcome!”
He pours water over the fire, and announces our departure in a chipper voice.
“Off we go then!” he says as the fireplace hisses and white smoke puffs upward, drawn up the chimney.
Mr. Thomas, Mr. Croft, Mrs. Hobbs, Mr. Weaver, and Mrs. Ramsey are to remain in the Glade while Mr. Fletcher and I make the journey alone. Time passes very curiously in this strange land. Or — to try to describe it more specifically: The daylight doesn’t shift in the expected patterns. Instead of a uniform rotation through morning, noon, and night, the time of day seems to vary throughout the land, meaning: Over here it is one time of day, and over yonder it is another. The daylight hovers in certain pockets, and depends a great deal on mood and ambience. I didn’t notice this phenomenon so much when I crossed into the land at first, owing to how I chased the fox-man — well, I mean, Mr. Fletcher — under the light of a silvery moon until I came upon the bonfire. But now, as we set out from the doorstep of Mr. Fletcher’s cottage, I survey my surroundings and I can clearly see the demarcations between different patches of day: Far off in the distance on one hill it is a bright sunny morning, but nearer to the cottage it is still twilight, and even foggy midnight another short distance away, back in the clearing.
I follow Mr. Fletcher along a trail through the woods. We wander for some time on the forest floor; go down one side of a ravine, and up another. It feels — I think? — as though we are heading back in the direction of the asylum, but no: This is new and different terrain. There are a few landmarks I think I would be likely to recognize, had I seen them before: A pond with large lily-pads and the most exotic, ornate purple flowers I have ever seen — and then much later, a dead, nearly cartoonish-looking ghost tree, with one branch pointing us eastward down our path, like a commanding arm, and finally, a pumpkin patch of some sort, overgrown and tangled, its earthy, musky-scented orange fruit rotting on the vine.
With the daylight not obeying the regular twenty-four hour clock, it is difficult to be sure of anything, let alone a cardinal direction. But Mr. Fletcher assures me: We are going east. After making a fair amount of progress, we stop and rest on a few obliging boulders, eat a morsel of dark chocolate Mr. Fletcher thoughtfully packed, then press onwards. More time passes — it is impossible to tell how much in this strange world — and finally we are winding upwards, along a narrow, craggy rocky pass. Soon there are dead leaves underfoot, and the trees turn barren, high above us their sharp branches slash a net of sharp black lines against a grey, cloudy sky. We follow the pass as it takes us up in elevation and down again, through several dark, beautiful, haunted glens. Dry lightning flashes in the sky, and thunder booms and echoes throughout the pass. After pressing on a few more paces, I notice the temperature is beginning to drop. Now I understand the logic behind the traveling cape Mr. Fletcher has loaned me, and I pull it tighter about my shoulders, suppressing a shiver. A chilling wind picks up, and I feel prickles of not-quite-rain, but rather, droplets of cold mist collecting on my cheekbones.
“Mr. Fletcher?” I ask. “If the Four Kings rule the land, what is the role of the Young Cwen and her mother? At the bonfire… it felt as though she is respected as some kind of ruler, too.”
“Yes, the cwens — the Young Cwen and her mother, the High Cwen — belong to the old regime. It may amuse you, in fact, to know that while our peasantry is populated with creatures who possess bodies like your own coupled with the heads of animals, it used to be the case that our royal bloodlines were comprised of creatures with the heads of humans, coupled with the bodies of animals.”
“Mythical creatures?” I supply, thinking: I already know the Young Cwen is more or less a sphinx, and everyone has referred to her mother as a harpy — a creature with the head of a woman and body of a bird.
“Yes,” says Mr. Fletcher. “Of course, what you call mythical is not so fantastical to us — such species really exist. In fact, the High Cyning — that’s a very old word for ‘king’ — was a centaur who lived for over a millennium and a half. After the High Cyning died, the land was in mourning, and tragically — although perhaps not surprisingly — confusion erupted over the question of who should rule in his place. You see, the High Cyning and the High Cwen were the last of their legendary line. At that time, they had but one daughter, a little girl who was only a babe in swaddling clothes.”
“The Young Cwen?” I ask.
“Just so,” he replies. “Suitors presented themselves for the High Cwen’s hand in marriage, but in her grief, she would have none of it. There was more and more squabbling until finally a war broke out and the kingdom fell into chaos. A sadistic dictator, a greedy pig — quite literally a man who was part wild boar and harbored the cruelest of intentions for his people — managed to grab the seat of power for a time. Humans still roamed our land at the time, and the Boar King was what we call a ‘blood thief,’ meaning: He built an army of enslaved creatures by sacrificing humans and using the power of their blood. Under his reign it was a terrible, violent, dark age.”
We walk on a few paces in silence. I cannot help but think of my own war, the war that chased my mother and I out of Europe.
“Many lives were lost,” Mr. Fletcher continues. “The dark age lasted for almost two hundred year
s, and during this time, the High Cwen shut herself up in the mountains — herself, and her daughter. But she came back down briefly again when, eventually, four rebel challengers to the evil Boar King’s throne emerged; four champions who were stronger and more well-supported than all the others. Having emerged as the four strongest leaders, they had begun preparing for a great battle — a battle that would decide everything. But it also promised to be a battle that might destroy everything, leaving no kingdom behind to rule, and the High Cwen came down from her hiding place in the mountains to prevent this very travesty. She banished all remaining humans from our land, and issued a royal mandate that the four rebel leaders meet her at the crossroads in the Glade of Commoners.”
“Harpy’s Cross?” I say, remembering the name Mr. Fletcher used earlier.
“Very good, Anaïs. Yes — they met at Harpy’s Cross. There she convinced the four leaders to unite as one so they might work together to defeat the wicked Boar King, and in exchange for their service, she would back their claims to the throne — as a group. Defeat the wretched Boar King they did, and the High Cwen — or ‘Crone Cwen’ as she is sometimes called — brokered a lasting peace by dividing the kingdom into four parts, and giving each leader an equal part to rule under his own stewardship. There was only one exception: It was decided that the small part in the middle, the Glade of Commoners, should remain for those animals who did not wish to take up specific allegiance. And so you have the Land of the Four Kings.”
“I see.”
“Now, Anaïs,” says Mr. Fletcher. “We are nearing the Court of the Raven. His castle will come into view shortly, just as soon as we round this bend. I should warn you, the Raven King is friendly enough, but he is famed for both his intelligence as well as his… hmm, well… the only way to put it is his eccentricity.”
“His eccentricity?” I ask.
“Yes. He’s quite moody, and a study in contradictions; reputed to be both genius and imbecile, urbane gentleman and barbarian,” Mr. Fletcher says, biting his lip with his sharp fox-teeth. “Things are often upside-down and backwards at Raven’s whim, and he likes to play games of absurd logic that may strike you as odd — perhaps even cruel. I know no other way to describe it to you. Well — no matter. You shall see! Try to keep a cool demeanor, if you can.”
As Mr. Fletcher’s sentence trails off, we round a bend in the path, alongside a cliff, and a very Victorian fortress looms into view. I find myself looking at a fastidious sea of gray brick and black stone. It is a distinctly vertical castle, with lots of towers, some stacked one on top of the other so that the building itself appears a bit off-balance, like a ship, listing on rough ocean waves. The turrets are crowned with tall conical caps, steeply-pitched, blue-tiled roofs. It is a strikingly beautiful place with an enigmatic, terrifying charm.
But no sooner does this judgment occur to me than I feel something cold, wet, and very soft under my bare feet.
“Oh!” I exclaim. I turn to share my excitement with Mr. Fletcher. “Snow!”
“Raven’s favorite: dark, gloomy skies and pristine, virgin snow,” he says in a flat, matter-of-fact voice, not seeming to be quite as thrilled as I am with the snow.
I haven’t seen snow since I left Europe. New Orleans has but two seasons: wet and dry — neither of which are ever cold enough to even think the word snow, much less find yourself stamping through it. But here I am now, stamping through a good foot or two of snow. It is so soft and powdery; my legs up to my kneecaps disappear into the snow with every step I take.
Together we trudge in the direction of a narrow path that leads over a drawbridge, and towards the great gate beyond. The tree branches above us are lined with snow, a series of beautiful white, icy veins. At the drawbridge I peek over the edge, peering down at the moat, and see only a black void below; the bottom has been swallowed up by low-lying fog.
“Best not to look down,” Mr. Fletcher says, “it can be a bit dizzying. I trust humans have not sprouted wings since last I took notice?”
I shake my head.
“No? Well, eyes ahead, then.”
I fix my eyes resolutely on the gate. But as I do so, suddenly I gasp.
“What is it, Anaïs?” Mr. Fletcher asks.
“Clubs!” I say. “Like the suit in a deck of playing cards — clubs. Look… there are so many stamped in the iron work on the gate.”
“Yes. So there are. But it is hardly the symbol of a petty card game in this case, Anaïs. The royal club is a significant emblem on the Raven King’s coat of arms. When one looks upon a banner with clubs, one is reminded he is in the Raven King’s territory.”
We draw up to the entrance of the castle in front of a great set of enormous double-doors, hammered from all different kinds of blackened metals: copper, brass, steel, and many other alloys I can’t quite identify. It is ornate, and as I stare at the gate, I realize the hammered shapes reveal a giant raven, the different metals setting off his iridescent black feathers. Before the gate stand two guards. Like Mr. Fletcher, the guards have mostly human bodies, topped with animal heads. They look, to me, to be exotic cormorants of some variety — double-crested cormorants, I think, trying to remember the pages of a fancy ornithology book I once found in my stepfather’s library. They have tall necks with mostly black-feather heads, slight wisps of whitish feathers over their queer blue eyes like bizarre, frowsy, runaway eyebrows, and frowning orange beaks (hooked abruptly at the tip, a sharp knifelike tool meant for spearing fish, I believe). As for their human bodies, they wear silver and black military uniforms that are somewhat reminiscent of an antiquated British colonial fashion, a long double-breasted knee-coat with two rows of silver buttons running down both sides of their chests. Each of their uniforms bears a silver silk patch on one shoulder, emblazoned prominently with the symbol of black clubs.
“Hail, fox,” the one on the left says. It is clear they know Mr. Fletcher, or at least are familiar with him on sight. “What business today?”
“I seek a special audience with the Raven King.”
“And why should the King see you? — you know you must present a riddle in order to pass.”
“It so happens I have a good one! A simple riddle, but very good,” Mr. Fletcher says. “Tell me, gentlemen, what manner of creature is this?” He flourishes an arm in my direction. The guards make a closer study of my person and gasp.
“A human! A live human, here in our kingdom?”
“Quite right; brilliantly done, gentlemen. You’ve solved the riddle! You can see why the King would want to take an audience. And now we shall pass.”
Curiously won over by Mr. Fletcher’s brusque confidence — and perhaps shocked by my presence — the two guards step aside, both of them still gaping at me. They scramble to open the gates and usher us through. The gates groan open, two doors singing a rusty birdsong, revealing the castle grounds of this aviary king.
“His Highness is holding court in the Hall of Chequers,” one of the guards directs Mr. Fletcher.
“This way, my dear.”
We make our way through a maze of stone walls, drafty hallways, and snowy gardens. Just as it was from the outside, the interior of the castle is mostly Victorian in style. It reminds me of the Natural History Museum in London, with its soaring gothic arches. There are countless libraries and drawing rooms, glass displays of seashells and butterflies and beetles and every variety of biological specimens one might collect. In one of the gardens I glimpse a fountain spewing not water, but more snow. The fountain itself is, I realize, an ice sculpture of a swan. Around the fountain are gorgeous white trees that appear to be birch trees — but can’t be, as they hang heavy with enormous, jewel-toned apples, deep red in color.
“Here we are… the Hall of Chequers,” Mr. Fletcher says. “We ought to be able to find Raven somewhere within, very likely sitting on his throne, demanding to be entertained…”
More guards flank the entrance, wearing the same black-and-silver military uni
forms emblazoned with the playing card club symbol. This time, instead of cormorants, they have the heads of kingfishers: blue heads with golden streaks like a pair of eye-masks, and a thinner, straight, pointed beak. They confirm our admittance, nodding as we pass, but also flinch in surprise at the sight of me.
We proceed into a great hall full of animal-headed creatures milling about in regal attire — judging by its black-and-white marble floors, I can only assume this is the “Hall of Chequers.” It looks a little like a game of checkers come to life. To think: Only hours earlier, I was watching my fellow asylum patients play this very game. I follow Mr. Fletcher further inside.
Dim gas-lamp chandeliers light the room from overhead, the hall is long and immense, the ceiling vaulted very high with flying buttresses throughout, all of it like the nave of a cathedral. Near a great fireplace with an ornate mantle carved of black marble sits a heron-headed man elaborately attired in a velvet waist-coast, black jacket with tails, and a top hat. Nearby him a cuckoo-headed man examines us with his giant red cuckoo eye. He is dressed in a gray herringbone suit and lies stretched out on a pile of dark amethyst silk cushions piled about on the ground, lazily guzzling a crystal goblet of what appears to be brandy or something of the like.
We pass through a gaggle of women laced up in corsets and bustles, fussy dresses, plumed hats and puffed sleeves, some of them with fur muffs to guard their hands from the chilly air. And I suppose the word “gaggle” can be taken quite literally in this case, as four or five of them have the heads of various different varieties of geese. They look at us, gasp, and immediately begin chattering away with one another, the timbre of their voices making a soft honking sound as they gossip. There are lots of courtiers and courtesans with the heads of birds: I see a flamingo, an egret, an ostrich… the list goes on. I hear the sound of someone strumming a guitar and look to see a woman with the head of a swan dressed in a gauzy, ethereal white dress. Her long neck stretches in a surreal arc, bending towards where her fingers pick out chords. I see animals other than birds, too — there is a jackal-headed man dressed in a navy jacket and blue silk cravat. He smiles at me with a strangely wry expression, his enormous pointed ears and intense yellow-brown eyes standing at alert, his nose twitching the air.
