Cassilda's Song: Tales Inspired by Robert W. Chambers King in Yellow Mythos

by Allyson Bird

  The hours did not matter then. Cassilda held him in her sway and believed he listened, believed even better that he understood. She plied him with fruits he had never tasted before, let him drink the wine of Carcosa, and he floated. Somewhere far away, midnight sounded from the misty spires in the fog-wrapped city, and still the young man listened, absorbed. Cassilda did not look upon the King all this time, feeling herself alone with the youth he had brought. Whatever the King had meant, Cassilda chased it away with the truth of this place, the truth that left the young man quaking and stuttering when dawn at last came. “Was it dawn at all?” he asked, as he finally slid his hand from Cassilda’s. He looked upon the King as if startled to find another there; he too had forgotten. But upon looking at that face—proud and handsome even in tatters—the young man remembered. I wear no mask, he thought.

  “Oh, but you will.” With these words, Cassilda pushed him through, sending him back, away, out. In the silence that followed, she looked upon her King. She had not touched him in far too long, and did not now. It was his hand that reached for her, bony and trembling. How like an unsure young man, she thought, but allowed the touch. His fingers were a memory of the warmth that had been between them, but he did not seem to mind the chill. Cassilda felt nothing, until she saw the crackling fissures within her own skin, her own clothing. The longer his touch lingered, the more she began to fall apart the way he had fallen. She took a step back and looked upon his unmasked face, knowing there was no sense in trying to determine when they had gone wrong. Time was of little consequence in the end; the young man had come and the Carcosa Cassilda had known—had birthed—would soon be lost.

  Little Attic Ghost:

  Doorways did not always herald departures. This doorway was hidden and would hide those who needed to survive the cruelty of the outside world. Cassilda opened this doorway, behind a clever bookcase, and dared perch beside a young girl in an attic, writing in a small book. Cassilda slid her hands over those of the girl—her name was Anne—and meant to flood her with the story. But a more powerful story came from Anne herself, and Cassilda found herself drawn short. The girl’s hands were cold, she longed to stretch herself tall in the sunlight, but hunched over her book, writing in a very precise hand. Cassilda could only listen as the words flooded from the girl.

  A thing might be hidden away, the girl thought, but in the end, the truth would out. All would know. Truths could not be hidden forever and always. Darkness was not eternal. She would write and pray that one day—one day—all would know.

  Cassilda looked at the girl’s profile in the waning light of day; she was nothing more than any other human Cassilda had encountered, drawn with rough edges that were only sometimes pleasing. Nothing about this girl should have made her remarkable, to Cassilda least of all, yet still something stayed Cassilda’s hand—

  the shriek of a baby—the warm curve of its head in her own cold hand—there were trees, so many trees, and the people needed to go—needed to carry her word—

  Was it possible? Cassilda took a breath. Teach me to wait, she silently implored the girl. Teach me.

  My world is here between these walls, the girl thought and Cassilda wished her beyond the walls, but the world was terrible and would consume this girl, for girls were made to be consumed, devoured by everything greater than they were. But no. No. Cassilda refused the very idea.

  She sat, still as she had never been, and did not think of black stars or golden robes worn to tatters. She did not think of the world falling ceaselessly through space, heedless of the people it carried along. She did not think of her own plight—nor the hollow ache it had carved inside of her. She waited and was still and listened to the breath of the girl.

  This girl, Cassilda told herself, would stretch in the sun; this girl would feel the warmth of it sinking into her even as numbers were marked into her skin, no Yellow Sign this. The world was a horror (and so too Carcosa, though she loved it so) and would carry the girl away, into the ground at last, but the truth would be known.

  Wait, Cassilda told herself.

  The hours did not matter then, either, sitting quiet with the girl in the small attic. The hours did not yet matter.

  The Scholar, Chapter IV:

  She closes the doors in the scholar’s apartment. Shutters the blinds, draws the curtains. He watches with his brows lifted in amusement but asks nothing. She’d have no answer to give if he did, for this containment is instinct alone. When the story is his to tell, he can shout it to the world without impediment or barrier. She will stand by his side, but not for long. She will make her last doorway and return to Carcosa. She will return home.

  Sitting beside him on the sofa, she takes his face in her hands, memorizing the planes and hollows, tattooing the memory of his smile in her mind.

  “And now?” he asks, when she takes her hands away.

  “Now I tell you the rest. I tell you the truth.” She picks up a copy of the book, fighting to keep a sneer from her mouth all the while. “And then you will know that this, this is falsehood.” She opens a small door and the sound of metal grinding upon itself splits the quiet of the room. Unflinching, she shoves the book inside, locks the door tight behind it. His eyes are saucer-wide; his fingers clenched atop his thighs. She smiles, touches his cheek again.

  “When I told you there were doorways and other worlds, I meant it for truth.”

  He swallows hard. “I see that.”

  “This is too large a tale for words alone,” she says, her voice soft as she leans close, presses her forehead against his. “Close your eyes.”

  The tale spills from her mind in loops and circles and images—herself, proud and strong, the King in his rightful place by her side, his robe whole, his eyes holding court with sanity, the stars glittering on the waters of the lakes, the towers reaching into the sky, a flag twisting in the wind from the highest one, a flag of brightest white emblazoned with the true Yellow Sign.

  He draws in a sharp breath; she pours in the rest of the story. All of it: the betrayal, the lies, the doorways, the faces. Shows him the towers, now crumbling; the flag, dirty and torn and discarded in a gutter of filth; the lakes, reeking of sulfur; the King, his face twisted, his eyes bright with the light of the mad and the damned. And last, she shows him the wretch wearing her face and name.

  And then it’s done, the last word melting between his lips like sugar. He sags back against the cushion, blinks rapidly. But he’s still here. He’s still here. He opens his mouth to speak; she holds up a hand and opens his shirt, running her fingers along his chest. Lifts his arms. Parts his hair to see the white of his scalp.

  It worked. Finally, it worked. She covers her mouth with both hands to hold in a sob or a laugh or something between the two. He says nothing for a long time, then he exhales, long and low.

  “My Queen,” he says. “You deserve your rightful place.”

  The air crackles, the hairs on Cassilda’s arms and the back of her neck rise. His eyes burn with a sickly yellow light. She scrambles off the sofa. Backs away. He stands, holds out a hand which she ignores. The Sign then, she missed the Yellow Sign, and Carcosa has claimed him for her own.

  He shakes his head as if she spoke the words aloud. “No, my Queen. It is I who claimed Carcosa.”

  And he unmasks.

  The sound of his tattered robes on the carpet is the rasp of sandpaper against stone. Shucked of its disguise, his face is pallid and drawn. “You cannot undo what was meant to be all along,” he says. “Now it’s time for you to return home. Accept your place.”

  “I will never accept such an abomination. Carcosa was never meant to be as it is now. It was never meant to be yours. Never.”

  The word is acid on her tongue; the truth of his deception, even more so. He has never hidden the hideous truth of himself—and yet now, to deceive her, he has and she can hardly believe it. Her creation is monstrous indeed and even as he seeks to erase her, awe runs through her. Disgusting dichotomy.

  He
waves one hand, cuts a doorway in the air, and through that space, they come: Nuru, Zheng He, a motherless child whose name she still refuses to think upon, because a name gives a person power, and this child should not hold so much in its small, tender hands. All are branded with the Yellow Sign on their palms, madness in their eyes. She tries to run, but there are too many of them to outrace. They surround her, enfold her, grip her arms and her chin, her waist and her hips—how like lovers, she wishes, but this is not love, this is silencing. Their skin is ice, their eyes implacable. She will find neither mercy nor absolution here.

  She turns to the King. “I will never stop.”

  He waves his hand again and the broken children of Carcosa pull her back, pull her down and down and down.

  The Doorway, Everopening:

  The door is heavy, banded with strips of iron. Is this a door back to the beginning? Is there even a beginning?

  She wishes it were a rabbit hole—

  (it had been, when they pulled her down, through dirt and roots, shrieking)

  —a length of darkness she could plummet through until she falls hard against something solid, against something true. She wishes she had to shrink herself to move through the proper door, that she could be the change, instead of changing the world to open the door.

  But it is only ever a door and she stands before it as she ever has. Carcosa thrums behind her, broken by a careless playwright who didn’t know what fire he courted. Can she remake it? Can anything be remade? If she does not go, she will never know, and the unknowing is the worst part.

  Worse than the silence?

  This question rises in her from a voice not her own. She closes her eyes and listens. It is the voice of a young girl, who might be Anne, who might be her, who might be someone she has not yet met. If she met herself, would she know? (Hollow eyes, silent plea, come back, you must come back and try.)

  You would know.

  That voice. Cassilda exhales and the door in its frame creaks. She looks up at it, impossibly tall and narrow, but she has made this door. She will fit.

  She can hear them coming.

  Can feel their hooking fingers pulling at her skirts, her hair.

  They will forever pull her down

  She will forever rise.

  Weary but not broken, Cassilda opens the door.

  GRAVE-WORMS

  BY MOLLY TANZER

  The grey flannel suit might have looked masculine on the rack, or on another woman, but the close cut of the cloth, and the way the expensive fabric skimmed over the lines of her straight, slender figure was intensely, wholly feminine. If you saw her from behind, you might have thought she looked frail, or saint-like with her close-cropped hair—but when she turned, the determination that shone brightly from the grey eyes almost lost behind her long black lashes was anything but fragile.

  Or innocent.

  That evening, she had worn no earrings, little makeup, low heels; her charcoal blouse was without detail. Her only adornment was a wisp of a silk scarf knotted at her birdlike throat, grey as well, but suggesting to the viewer the idea of violet. She looked as though she had thoughtlessly thrown the outfit together—but really, she had dressed very, very carefully. She was meeting Roy Irving for dinner at Delmonico’s, to discuss business, and other things.

  Their first meeting had been a chance encounter at the mayor’s fund-raising event, where they alone had objected to the statue the city wanted to erect in front of the courthouse, feeling it was far too abstract to represent something as absolute, as concrete as ‘justice’. His determination had made her keen to see him a second time. After their spirited if whispered discussion about the utter inappropriateness of lions drinking with jackals she had asked him to dinner, surprising him… but he had agreed readily enough. She had seen his arousal when his pupils had dilated, darkening almost to invisibility the piercing ice blue of his irises.

  He looked like that now. The Lobster Newberg and steak and talk of bottom lines had excited him, as had her declining champagne or the good house red in favor of a double Laphroaig with a bit of water.

  “Scotch and steak,” he had said. “You’re a woman after my own heart, Ms. Calder.”

  “Docia,” she said, not dropping his gaze. “If we’re to be business associates, we should be on a first name basis. Don’t you think?”

  “At the very least.”

  If there had been any suggestiveness in his tone she would have instantly dismissed the possibility of whatever he might be suggesting, but the frankness of his desire stoked her own. She withdrew a cigarette from her silver case and lighted it off the candle at the center of the table.

  “At the very least, Roy,” she agreed, and exhaled another swaddling layer of grey.

  Delmonico’s was nearly empty that night, but though it was nine in the evening on a Friday, Docia was not surprised. A strange lethargy had claimed New York of late, slowly but undeniably. She did not know when it had begun, or when exactly she had noticed it, but something had changed. People, when they braved the streets, looked furtive, nervous, and hurried about their affairs without stopping to greet acquaintances in the street.

  Docia Calder was not the kind of woman who believed in bogeymen, but just the same, it made her uneasy. The shift seemed sinister, though to believe that meant she must believe there was some intention or plan behind it all, and that she could not credit.

  She and Roy lingered over their food, savoring it—though she could not help but notice it lacked the same flavor as she usually expected. Perhaps that meant she was the problem—even the scotch tasted less potent on her tongue. She decided to put it to the test, and order dessert. If there was one reliable thing in New York, it was Delmonico’s Baked Alaska.

  “Don’t have it tonight,” said the young waiter, almost rudely. He seemed bored.

  Docia was astonished. “This is Delmonico’s,” she said, as if he might not be aware of where he was. “You always have Baked Alaska. It’s your signature dessert.”

  “Sorry. Coffee?” he asked.

  “No… just the check.” The waiter slouched off without pressing the issue. “I’ve never seen anything like it,” she mused. “Everyone here is usually so good. Do you think Delmonico’s is going downhill… or is it something else?”

  Roy shrugged. “Have you found the Yellow Sign?” he asked.

  “Don’t say that!”

  He looked surprised by her outburst. “I’m very sorry,” he said curiously.

  “No, I’m sorry… I don’t like that expression.” These days, everyone said it, but it made her feel queer. “Where did it come from? Why did we begin saying it?” She shook her head. “What exactly does it mean?”

  “I suppose I’m not really sure. I don’t think anyone knows, really.”

  “It seems like… when I hear it, I feel like lying down… shutting the curtains, locking the door… going to sleep.”

  “Maybe we just need to get out of here.”

  The fresh air made her feel better. Though the streets were less busy than they should be, the city was still ablaze with light. Docia had matched Roy drink for drink at dinner, but it was only the sight of countless sparkling electric pinpoints against the dark heavens that made her feel drunk. She reeled, giddy. The sky was obscure, stars and moon invisible behind cloudbanks reflecting groundlight, and for a moment, Docia imagined the lights of the city were the stars; the skyscrapers, galaxies. But that was not the case—no human hand had made those stars and galaxies, but every I-beam, every sheet of glass, every brick and block and sheet of stone had been made with human hands out of strong materials and stronger human will.

  She knew then that she shouldn’t worry. Nothing could break the city’s spirit. Nothing could make it lie down.

  Lost in these thoughts, when she stepped down off the curb she stumbled—but he had her by the elbow, by the waist. She had not realized how tall he was, six feet at least, broad across the shoulders but narrow at the hip.

  “Let
me drive you home,” he murmured, his square chin brushing her earlobe.

  “Whose home?” she asked carelessly.

  He threw his head back and laughed, a terrifying laugh, free and loud, the laugh of a living god… but she fell into his arms without any fear at all.

  They met many times after that, but regardless of whether their encounters were in her office, or his bed, or her bed, or his office, she found them intensely arousing. Not that their lovemaking interfered with her ability to work; no, rather, her body’s response to his presence heightened her awareness, fine-tuned her senses, made her mind sharper. She drove a harder bargain than she would have if they’d never once touched hands, lips, more. He treated her with humor and distain in equal measure, and she admired him for it, responded yet more eagerly when they were alone and his hand found her bottom with a sharp smack, or his lips her body with a bruising intensity that left her shuddering, satisfied, and yet wanting him more.

  That, in particular, was the most natural thing in the world, this they agreed on. As captains of industry, they were neither of them ever satisfied with what they had. They wanted more, always more, be it profits, side-ventures, workers, productivity, or product. They desired.

  “To desire is to live, and to live is to desire,” she claimed, lying naked on his bed, the imprints of his belt still pink against the whiter flesh of her wrists, their mingled sweat stinging her bitten upper lip. He was standing naked at the window of his penthouse apartment, his prize-fighter’s profile and taught muscular buttocks silvered by the lights of the city beyond. “To give up one is to give up the other.”

  “I have a desire,” he said, turning to face her.