by M. D. Elster
“Dear Spirit, I must know… do you feel pain where you are?”
Knock… knock… comes the reply.
At this, the Snake King appears relieved.
“Do you miss me, my Sweet?”
Knock.
At this, a maniacal smile spreads over the Snake King’s eerie cobra features.
Do you remember that perfect night, so long ago now, and the dance we had under moonlight?
Knock.
The ritual continues like this for some time, with the Snake King asking questions — always questions that might be answered yes or no — followed by a knocking response. At the table, cloaked by the darkness in the room, Sir Lewin and I exchange a puzzled look. Eventually, the spirit’s knocks grow softer and softer. The Snake King shifts in his chair, clearly riddled by mounting anxiety, as the conversation grows one-sided. Finally, towards the very end of the conversation, he calls out, with a hint of desperation in his voice:
My Dearest, I must ask you, one more time: Do you forgive me?
(Silence.)
Will we ever be together again?
(Silence.)
Just as quickly as the dress inflated, it now deflates. A disappointed murmur ripples through the ring of onlookers. I am baffled. A chill runs down my spine.
“She is tired tonight, Sire,” Lord Vipond says. “Let us chant the incantation again, to put her to rest…”
“Lilitu amavit mulierem…requiescant…”
The group continues to chant softly, until the candles’ violent flickering ceases and the flames burn normal and steady again.
“She has gone,” Lord Vipond finally announces. He turns to the Snake King. “I’m sorry, Your Highness. That was all she had in her tonight.”
“Thank you for your efforts, Lord Vipond.”
The circle breaks up. The Snake King lets go of my hand. I let go of Sir Lewin’s. The electric lights are switched on again, and the candles are blown out. I rub my eyes, feeling as though I am coming out of some strange trance or dream.
Monsieur Thibault stands up and clears his throats. “All right… all right… that is all for now. The ritual is concluded. Let us now adjourn to the drawing room for cocktails and hors d’oeuvres. Thank you, everyone.”
We return to the drawing room. It has been tidied in our absence and decked out with tea-candles and jars of fireflies, and there are servants passing around silver trays loaded with delicate nibbles and champagne coupes filled with some kind of slightly cloudy, emerald concoction of fizzy liquid.
“This is a very special variety of sparkling ambrosial sweetwater,” Lord Vipond says when he sees me staring. He lifts a coupe from a tray and hands it to me. “This kind is reputed to settle your own spiritual vibrations. The finest our kingdom has to offer. You really must try it.”
“Thank you,” I say, accepting a glass. Sir Lewin, I notice, attempts to decline again. Lord Vipond frowns at him.
“And how did you enjoy tonight’s ritual?” Lord Vipond asks us.
“I’m not sure I am fully cognizant of what we witnessed,” I confess. “I’d like to understand better. May I ask: Who was the… ah, female spirit? Is she somebody who is deceased?”
Lord Vipond stiffens.
“Hmm. Yes. I’d like to answer that, but I’m afraid that’s a question for His Majesty, the Snake King. It is a rather delicate matter.”
“Oh,” I say, embarrassed. I exchange a look with Sir Lewin. “It’s only that the ritual… it looked a little like what we in the human world call a ‘séance,’ and when humans hold a séance, it is usually to communicate with someone who has passed away.”
“That is precisely what it was, but I can’t tell you any more than that, for the rest is the king’s business,” Lord Vipond replies in a dry voice. Without another word, he turns to go, leaving Sir Lewin and myself standing alone, staring after him. So much for getting information out of the Snake King’s advisors.
I look across the room, searching for the Snake King, and I see him standing in the opposite corner. He has put his human face back on, and he is looking in our direction. Mr. Fletcher did instruct me to try to befriend him… I smile at him and make my way across the room. Sir Lewin comes with me, constantly remaining close.
“Hello, Anaïs,” the Snake King says once we draw near. “I hope we did not frighten you tonight.”
“Not at all,” I lie. “As a matter of fact, I am even more intrigued than before. And, I should also say thank you, for I did not expect to feel welcome here. You have been most generous to include me in court business that is obviously very meaningful to you.” The Snake King nods his head, acknowledging my gratitude. I raise my champagne coupe for him to clink. “A toast, to your hospitality.”
“Why, thank you,” the Snake King says. We touch glasses.
“Please,” I continue, shifting tactics slightly, “please don’t think me rude, but I very much wanted to ask you…”
“Yes?”
“I wanted to ask if you would show me your grimoire.”
“My grimoire?”
“I only want to look at it. I realize that’s quite a lot to ask, but with your knowledge of magic, and all the years you’ve been collecting rituals and incantations, I can’t help but imagine your grimoire is more thorough and complete than anything I might ever glimpse in the human world.”
The Snake King appears to mull this request over while studying my face. His faux-human countenance searches my own real one.
“All right,” he says in a gentle voice, making up his mind. “I believe you are in earnest, my child. If your curiosity is indeed pure, I will show you my grimoire, and you may ask me any questions you wish about the art of black magic.”
He holds out an arm, and I take it. I feel Sir Lewin move to keep pace beside us, but the Snake King pauses and turns to address Lewin indirectly.
“Your companion will have to forgive me. As I regard my grimoire as an object that is very personal to me, I would much rather show you alone, Anaïs,” he says, and without another word, the Snake King and I stride away. Over my shoulder, I see Sir Lewin try to follow on our heels in spite of this admonishment, but he is swiftly detained by a pair of crocodile-headed men in suits who I previously thought were guests but now understand are guards. I can hear Lewin protesting, but I pretend deafness and continue onward with the king. I’m a little frightened, but I can’t turn back now. I can only imagine that — assuming I don’t die as a result of the Snake King taking me to a dark room in the mansion in order to murder me — I shall get an earful from Sir Lewin when I see him again.
“The cat fancies you, I should say,” the Snake King comments, moments later.
I blush. “Sir Lewin? I doubt it. He has very few words of praise when it comes to me,” I say.
“That only proves my point,” the king replies.
As I gingerly hold onto his crooked elbow, the Snake King leads me along a series of hallways, to a large, creaky wooden door. Beyond it is a long, narrow stairwell. I realize: We are going down, to some sort of basement or cellar. The king reaches into the darkness and pulls on a string. An electric light bulb snaps on, and we begin our descent. The stairs creak and groan with our every step. One feels so bowed I fleetingly worry it will give out under the weight of my foot.
Finally, we reach the bottom, and follow another maze of brick-and-mortar hallways until we come to a locked door. The door is iron, with only a tiny barred window high up in the middle, and feels a bit like a prison door. A cool draft blows from the tiny window, and I get the chills. The Snake King raises a human-looking eyebrow at my goose bumps.
“You aren’t afraid of me, are you, Anaïs?” he asks.
“No,” I lie.
He unlocks the door with a sizeable skeleton key, and pushes the door open. The room looks a little like a small chapel, a long, narrow room with candles all along both walls. At the far end is a pedestal draped with a green velvet cloth. A
very large, dark brown, leather-bound volume sits upon it. This must be Snake’s grimoire.
“May I?” I ask, pointing.
He nods, and slowly, I cross the room, reaching out a timid hand to lift the weighty cover of the book. The cover is quite beautiful, its rich dark leather embossed with golden lettering, displaying the symbols and shapes of countless runes.
“It is, as you say, quite complete. I began collecting incantations and rituals during the time of the Boar King,” the Snake King says, once he has followed me across the room and stands gazing upon the open pages of the grimoire.
“You mean… before you were king?” I ask.
He nods. “Oh yes. I first began during the time of that terrible tyrant’s reign. That was, I suppose, when I acquired a reason to collect such spells, when I gained a purpose behind my interest in black magic…”
“You mean, you wanted to use black magic to defeat the evil Boar King and his armies?”
To my surprise, the Snake King smiles a bittersweet smile and shakes his head. “No,” he says. “While that would be an honorable and prudent application of such knowledge, that is not the reason I took up this hobby. There was… another reason…”
I look at him, sensing a threat, but when I glimpse his expression, I see no malice there. Suddenly it dawns on me. How could I be so blind to not put it together sooner? “The woman,” I say. “The woman we summoned tonight. She is the reason.”
He nods, looking very sad.
“I was a fool,” he says. “She was not of noble blood; she was a peasant, a crow — a distant cousin of Raven’s, as a matter of fact. I did not think I could marry her. I squandered what little time we had together, and then — quite suddenly — I lost her to the violence that had taken over our land. She was…” his voice breaks ever so slightly, and he struggles to regain his composure. “She was — I don’t know how a human would put it, but — the other half of my beating heart, is what we say here. Her name… her name was Cora…”
In the blink of an eye, Snake’s kingdom does not seem so strange to me, not so menacing, not so dark. It only seems… sad. This king is grieving, I realize. He has been grieving for hundreds of years, and he will likely grieve for hundreds still.
“This grimoire is your penance,” I blurt out, abruptly comprehending.
He sighs. “I suppose. The matter was complicated. I had allied myself with the Lion King, and was in the middle of a great battle against Raven when I got the news she had been killed in the confusion. I felt could no longer fight her countryman, and withdrew my troops immediately.”
“Oh,” I interrupt him, thinking aloud, “that is why the Lion King said you abandoned him on the battlefield.”
The Snake King nods. “I never explained myself to him. I should have, but I was not in a good state. I no longer wanted to live. But then, one day the fishermen who harvest crayfish in my bayous told me a story — a story about black magic, and in particular, about a spell that might resurrect a loved one. From that day forth, I dedicated myself to the art of magic, hoping something might come of it. I’ve collected such an extensive knowledge of rituals and incantations — more than any other creature I’ve ever heard of — and yet, every night, I only get a few moments with her, at best.”
“You’re heartbroken,” I murmur, piecing together this new bounty of information. “All this is about a woman. You have no desire to rule as High Cyning; even if it meant inheriting the entire land, you wouldn’t even marry the Young Cwen.”
He shakes his head. “I can never marry another,” the Snake King says. “Cora was my only love.” He looks solemn. “She still is.”
I look at him. I believe him. His human face sags so profoundly, for I moment I worry I might see the king weep. Uncomfortable, I pretend renewed interest in the grimoire. I turn a page and coincidentally find myself staring at the Ritual to Extract the Power of Human Blood. I let out an involuntary gasp.
The Snake King follows my gaze to the page, and back to my face again. His eyes narrow with suspicious scrutiny.
“Why are you here, human child?” the Snake King asks. “Truly. I would appreciate you doing me the dignity of answering the question, without any subterfuge.”
I search my instincts, and decide to be honest with him.
“There are rumors in the other kingdoms,” I say, “that you are behind the murder of those other human girls, that you have orchestrated them.”
The Snake King snorts and blinks, obviously offended. “And why, pray tell, would I do such a thing? For what purpose?” he asks.
My eyes dart involuntarily to the obvious answer: The page containing the ritual spell. He follows my gaze.
“I see.”
The king looks again at me, holding me fast in his black-eyed gaze. His is a forlorn expression. “Do you know, Anaïs, why I chose the face of an older human? You know: I can wear any face at all, but this is the one that suits me. Do you know why?”
I don’t. I shake my head.
“Love has come and gone for me. In my heart, I am an old man. I felt I ought to have a human face that accurately reflected that.”
I am quiet, pondering this.
He sighs again, and looks at the page containing the ritual. “I see. You fear I will use this,” he says. “Someone has convinced you I may use this very spell much as the Boar King did, and attempt to take over the entire land.”
I look at him, not saying anything. He appears sad and deflated. I feel inexplicably sorry to have wounded him. Then, without warning, he reaches a hand to the open page of his beloved grimoire, and rips it out.
“Here,” he says, handing it to me. “Please take it. May it restore your faith in me, may it allow you to feel safe in my home.”
He holds the page out, but I do not move.
“Take it!” he orders.
I take the page. Again, he sighs.
“Now it is yours.”
“Aren’t you reluctant at all to give away something so powerful?” I ask, probing one last time.
The Snake King gives a solemn shrug. “Yes and no. The spell alone is useless. To complete the ritual properly, in addition to human blood, a creature would also need the bloodstone and the ritual dagger — and both are lost to history, as far as anyone can tell.”
I cannot believe it. Mr. Fletcher sent Sir Lewin and myself to Snake’s kingdom to steal the page, and here it is now; the king has handed it over willingly. I had assumed Sir Lewin and I would have to sneak in and smuggle the page out, but it is not so.
“If you have it, hopefully you will feel safe.”
“Thank you, Your Highness,” I manage to squeak out.
“I grow tired, Anaïs,” he says, his voice sounding suddenly very weary. “Forgive me. May I escort you back to your chambers for the night?”
I want to say I’m sorry, but all I wind up saying is, “Of course, Your Majesty.”
I follow him out of the dark chapel, up the cellar stairs, back towards the foyer and up the grand staircase. After climbing to the third floor, we find our way through a maze of hallways, making our way back to the Opal Room. I’m not quite sure how many rooms the mansion contains in total; while it is more of a house than a castle, it nonetheless seems a great deal bigger inside than it looked on the outside. I am honored that the Snake King is showing me the way himself, walking over the creaking floorboards in his human disguise, the disguise itself a concession made for my benefit. I still want to apologize, and I still haven’t the faintest idea how.
“Here we are,” he says, producing a skeleton key and unlocking a large, rather ornate door. “Do you know: I consider this our finest room, named for the gemstone of which I am most fond?”
“Opals?”
“Yes. I know humans consider them unlucky. They are often considered unlucky in this land, as well. But that is precisely why I favor them — it seems to me their beauty is overlooked, and all simply due to superstition.”
“Well, goodnight, Anaïs.”
Still looking like a butler, the Snake King bows somberly at the waist and turns to go. I watch him disappear down the dark hallway. I enter the room that is to be my chambers for the night.
I am busy splashing water on my face to refresh myself when I hear a heart-stopping pounding at the door that alarms me.
CHAPTER 28.
“What the hell did you think you were doing, going off like that, all alone with the Snake King?” Sir Lewin demands. “How am I supposed to protect you if you’re so content to be a reckless little fool?”
“How did you know which room I was in?” I say, surprised to find Sir Lewin standing on the threshold. As expected, he is plainly angry. I move aside as he shoulders his way into my guest chambers, and close the door behind him.
“Don’t try to change the topic,” he scolds. “You brazenly walk out of the cocktail party, arm-in-arm with the Snake King, and leave me behind to worry about you, powerless to do anything at all.”
“You were worried about me?”
“I was worried about your blood falling into the wrong hands. I’ve already told you that once before.”
Sir Lewin paces around inside the room, pacing so as to behave like a true jungle cat and leopard, then making a concerted effort to calm himself; taking stock of the furniture and knick-knacks, pausing to inspect a figurine on the mantel of the unlit fireplace. It is very hot and stuffy in the room, just as it is in every other room throughout Snake’s mansion. I move to reposition the electric fan.
“I followed your scent,” he says, seemingly out of the blue.
“Huh?”
“Your scent. That’s how I found you. I followed it here. This had to be your room.”
I blink, slightly embarrassed and unsure what to make of this. “You can detect my… scent?” I ask.
“Very much so,” Sir Lewin says. “One of the strongest and most memorable odors I’ve ever experienced. Quite easy to track.”
