Guild Of Immortal Women

by David Alan Morrison

  Aunt Liv smiled broadly and her arms swallowed Abbey. It felt more than an embrace, tender, solid and welcoming. Abbey resisted the touch at first, then slowly she sensed the love emanating from her arms and smooth skin. She melted into the olive-skinned beauty. Soon, all the aunts surrounded her, giggling, while the dogs paced the floor. Ruth reached into her purse and retrieved several small cookies which the animals gobbled down.

  “Please don’t feed them, Ruth,” Aunt Tom groaned.

  “I would suppose the poor things are starving!”

  “Please,” Liv ordered, holding out a hand to both the women. “This reunion is about Abbey and how much she remembers us.”

  “She has seen you all at The Meadows,” Eleanor snapped. “She’s suffered amnesia, not mental retardation.”

  Abbey ignored Eleanor and wrapped her arms around the three aunts. “I remember everything.” The aunts’ smiles faltered and they shot a fervent look to Eleanor. Abbey, oblivious to the glances, continued. “Aunt Tom, you are from Iran and you used to lecture me on the finer points of democracy versus totalitarianism.”

  She turned her attention to Zen. “You worked at the museum in London. Your specialty is ancient Egypt.” To Liv, “You teach ancient history at the university. You speak fluent Italian, English, Greek and

  French.”

  “Yes!” Ruth screamed and began jumping up and down.

  “Ladies,” Eleanor’s voice dripped with impatience. “There is much to do and little time to do it.”

  Eleanor pulled Abbey away from the aunts. “Abbey, come with me. I’ll show you to your room.” She guided Abbey out of the foyer gently as the four women stood watching breathlessly.

  14

  “Powerful?” Abbey asked, walking alongside Eleanor.

  “What?” Eleanor broke out of her reverie to look at her.

  “Oh! Heavens! I do get carried away when I speak of ancestors, don’t I?” She laughed and hugged Abbey tightly. “I think all the women in our family were powerful. Despite the general feeling to the contrary, not all families are patriarchal.”

  Eleanor guided Abbey down the stone corridor that lined the perimeter of the Bastille. “Take your time examining the family’s Tapestry, Abbey. All these embroidered scenes”—she motioned to the tapestry that lined the long walls of the corridor—“depict a story, sometimes several, from the lives of women who came before us.”

  “A medieval scrapbook,” Abbey muttered. Just moments ago, Eleanor had guided her through the archway of the main foyer, around a corner and into the residential wing of the mansion. They walked down a long hallway whose walls were constructed from huge blocks of stone while the floor was made of a smooth marble. Torch-shaped sconces lined the wall to her right, which also contained several heavy wooden doors, all of which led to a room that Abbey could only assume were guest rooms. The wall to her left was the one that fascinated her. This exterior wall contained thick glass windows spaced several yards apart overlooking the immense woods of the Bastille. Between each window, hanging from the ceiling to the floor, was a huge tapestry made of woven linen material. This was ‘the Tapestry’ which Eleanor was explaining.

  The fabric felt heavy between her fingers, at least an inch thick of soft, strong fibers. Embroidered into the dark fabric were hundreds of smaller panels, each containing a picturesque scene, ranging in size from three or four inches square to almost a square foot. Although sewn with hundreds of colors, Abbey noticed the threads used for the scenarios had a commonality—they sparkled as if the thread was made of mirrors. Even in the flickering, dim light of the cavernous stone hallway the illustrations shimmered with an eerie life-like quality.

  “The tapestry runs the entire exterior wall?” Abbey asked.

  “Yes. And more,” Eleanor said from the doorway opposite the young woman. “Two sets of parallel hallways create a central square. The Great Tapestry hangs from floor to ceiling in fifty sections along all four of these hallways.”

  “Just like The Meadows,” Abbey murmured.

  “What, dear?”

  “The building is constructed exactly like The Meadows. Hallways surrounding a central arena.”

  Eleanor giggled. “Thus the name ‘The Bastille.’ Before it was a prison, it was a French stronghold.”

  “A prison. Just like The Meadows.”

  “Really?”

  “They are exactly alike.” Abbey fixed her gaze upon Eleanor.

  “How unusual.”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes!” Eleanor broke the gaze first, “you are quite right in your description of the Tapestry! A medieval scrapbook!” She giggled childishly. “Pictures before the camera was invented! Come look into these pictures and know that at some point, human hands embroidered every one of them.”

  “Unbelievable,” Abbey said, eyeing the image of two boys playing under a tree while a watchful mother played a harp.

  Eleanor laughed. “Yes,” she said simply.

  Abbey spotted another, smaller image. This one of a woman sleeping under the night sky as two large stars shone onto her. She stepped closer to the Tapestry and looked more closely at the woman sleeping. She shifted to a different angle, but couldn’t see the face of the young woman any clearer. Was it the dark threads that made this small figure look like herself? Why would a likeness of her be inside the Tapestry?

  “The handiwork…they look alive, do they not? Almost like magic.”

  “Almost.”

  The sound of dogs barking erupted from within the mansion and Abbey rolled her eyes. Why couldn’t any of these ladies take a fancy to songbirds?

  15

  Abbey awoke to the sound of horses’ hooves on stone and immediately registered two things: She was naked and someone was watching her. She pulled her matted hair from her face and scanned the room as her feet searched the bottom of the bed for her nightshirt.

  The full moon illuminated the room through the French doors, casting gray shadows on the marble floor. Abbey’s panic faded as she recognized the familiar furnishings of her bedroom in the Bastille; the heavy mahogany canopy bed consumed only a fraction of the huge turret room. In addition to the king-size bed and the cedar chest at its foot, her quarters held the Louis XIV desk, the clothing armoire, a vintage dressing table, and a variety of sitting chairs. A monstrous fireplace ran the length of the wall opposite her bed, with two suits of armor acting as bookends. After such meager furnishings at The Meadows, the ostentatious made Abbey feel decadent.

  Her toe found the nightshirt and she slipped it on, all the while her eyes darting around the room for signs of an intruder. She saw nothing. This didn’t stop the hairs on the back of her neck from standing on end and gooseflesh from erupting along her arms. She knew someone was watching her; she could feel it. From outside her door, the sound that awoke her repeated itself. Abbey froze, listening intently. She could have sworn that the sharp, heavy clopping was a horse’s hoof hitting the stone floor of the hallway.

  The sound came again, this time closer to her door. A slight pause and then another clump on the stone rang out. Another, faster now, as

  if the animal was speeding up. No doubt about it—a horse was inside the mansion.

  Abbey flew out of bed, the cool night air pinching her sweat-soaked skin. She grabbed for her robe, shoving her arms through the sleeves as she grabbed for the door.

  It stood ajar. She froze. She had closed the door tightly before she retired, she was sure of it. Someone had opened it while she slept. As she stood with her hand inches from the handle, the faint sound of a horse’s neigh floated through the air. She whipped open the door. The cool stone bit the soles of her feet, but she barely noticed as she ran into the middle of the wide hallway. A flash of color to her left drew her attention and she turned toward the sight. The tapestry fluttered against the wall, as if it was a giant flag caught in the wind. Waves fluttered down the length of the hallway like ripples on water. Abbey’s eyes followed the rippling fabric until she caught the
slightest glimpse of flowing red hair disappearing around the corner. Aunt Boo? What was she doing up so late? Why did she bring a horse into the house?

  Abbey dashed down the hallway, took a sharp left turn as she headed back to the main foyer. As she rounded the corner, she ran headlong into a wall.

  “Abbey! Dear! What are you doing?”

  She hadn’t run into a wall. She had run into Aunt Boo. Abbey looked up at the red-headed naked Amazon and noticed that Boo stood next to Aunt Zen (looking quite spiffy in a tri-colored muumuu) and Aunt Ruth. All three held shovels.

  “I…heard…” Abbey managed to say before blurting out, “Aunt Boo, why are you naked?” Suddenly, the pungent smell of horse manure assaulted her. She looked down. A huge pile of steaming horse droppings lay at the feet of the three women.

  “Couldn’t sleep?” Aunt Ruth laughed. She wore a tattered, brown terry-cloth robe, which she held tightly closed around her neck. Her feet sported thin leather sandals, the kind normally worn in the desert. She looked like a biblical refugee.

  “What’s that?” Abbey asked, pointing to the horse droppings.

  “Why are you all awake?”

  The aunts looked to each other in silence.

  “Could you not sleep, child?” Ruth asked Abbey again.

  “Uh…no, I slept fine,” Abbey said, shaking the remnants of sleep from her head. “Did you hear...”

  “Heard something?” Ruth asked, taking Abbey’s frozen hands in hers. “What? Did the telephone ring again? That sound! It’s so…harsh on one’s ears.”

  “It sounded like a horse.”

  “Oh, my word!” Ruth laughed, her serious countenance melting under her smile, “of course! The horses from the stable!” Then, with a dramatic tone continued softly, “Your Aunt Eleanor loves those damn beasts!” Zen and Ruth broke out in loud laughter. Boo shook her head in disgust.

  Zen smiled broadly, leaning on her small spade. “That must have been what you heard, my dear. Horses from the stables. One of the steeds must be wandering around and awakened you from your sleep.”

  “Oh, you poor dear,” Ruth continued. “It must be ages since you’ve heard horses’ hooves, hasn’t it?” She pulled Abbey close and hugged her.

  Abbey nodded and Ruth pulled back to look into her face. “Come, child,” Ruth ordered, taking Abbey’s hand firmly. “I spent the day making ginger treats. You must have one with me. Come.” The small woman tugged at Abbey.

  “But Aunt Ruth,” Abbey began, “the droppings.” She pointed behind her toward the pile of dung.

  Ruth lowered her head to Abbey’s ear and spoke softly. “Honestly, don’t you find horses the most unclean animal?” Then, with a chipper giggle, she added, “I have ginger snaps—three kinds of ginger: gingerbread (that’s Tom’s favorite!), ginger pudding, and a delightful recipe I pulled from a magazine.” Turning to yell over her shoulder, she addressed Zen. “Go get the others, girls! COOKIE TIME!”

  Abbey let Ruth’s voice drone on. As Ruth tugged her arm, Abbey’s focus shifted from the aunts to the tapestry. The corner of the twenty-five by twenty-five section nearest the women fluttered again as if caught up in a breeze. Abbey noticed something lying on the stone floor almost hidden by the tapestry’s bottom edge. She stared at it so long, that she barely noticed the stone floor giving way to the imported woven runner lining the floor of the foyer and stumbled when Ruth pulled her around the corner, heading for the kitchen.

  Only then did Abbey take her eyes off the half-eaten apple.

  16

  “A what?” Abbey asked, with the ginger chocolate chip cookie poised halfway to her mouth.

  “A Faire,” Aunt Eleanor answered, pouring more Sevigne

  Blanc into her crystal goblet.

  “Actually,” Ruth giggled, “a Medieval Faire!” She slid another cookie onto Abbey’s plate and patted the girl’s head. “It is such fun!” she exclaimed, clapping her hands together.

  “You do know what a Medieval Faire is, don’t you?” Boo’s voice reverberated so loudly that Abbey felt as if an earthquake rumbled under the house. “It is a re-creation of a period in history. Reminiscent of a living museum. Very real.” She punctuated the last word by slicing an apple in half with one fierce stroke.

  “Where do you host it?” Abbey asked as she gobbled the rest of her cookie.

  “Here,” Aunt Tom responded firmly. “More precisely, there,” she added, pointing out the kitchen window toward the woods.

  “On the grounds of the Bastille?” Abbey questioned. The aunts nodded. “Why?”

  “Well, dear, it is a family ritual,” Ruth reassured her, patting Abbey’s arm lightly.

  “Ritual,” Boo echoed, nodding her head. “Yes,” Eleanor concurred, “for the past several…” “Six,” Boo interjected.

  “Eight,” Tom corrected.

  “Ten?” Zen chimed in.

  “Years, the Bastille has opened our lands to the glories of history,”

  Eleanor finished. “Pass me the cookies, won’t you please, Ruth?” “We find it relaxing!” Ruth chuckled, clapping furiously.

  “Fun,” Zen said, nibbling an apple.

  Tomyris agreed, rolling her eyes. “If you’re a loser geek. I’d rather stay in my room and play Wii.”

  “Thank you for that outpouring of support.” Eleanor drained the last of her drink.

  Abbey chewed on the cookie as Ruth placed the now-empty cookie jar into the sink.

  The immense kitchen rivaled any restaurant, easily taking up over a quarter of the first floor. An entire wall of the room sported a marble counter, barely visible under the platters of cookies, plates of pies, cakes and brownies, all handmade by Ruth’s tireless devotion to all things culinary. In the center of the space sat an island where a wide assortment of pots, pans, colanders and other cooking utensils hung sparkling in the light. Ruth moved the platters of cookies onto the sideboard and fished a huge mixing bowl from beneath the counter. She smiled at Abbey as she measured flour into it and began humming as she folded in a tablespoon of baking soda.

  “The yearly event brings the townspeople and the Bastille closer together.”

  “We tried hedonistic acts reminiscent of ancient Rome, but Eleanor put the kibosh on the orgies and the vomitorium.” Tomyris’ voice carried a distinct air of disgust.

  “I have never been a part of one before,” said Abbey.

  “Yes, you have,” Zen whispered, laying her hand over Abbey’s.

  “Oh, dear! It’s after midnight!” Ruth gasped. “Off to bed! All of you!” She tossed the remaining half-eaten cookies to the dogs sniffing around Tom’s feet and began shooing the women out of the kitchen.

  “I wish you wouldn’t feed them treats.” Tomyris snatched a cookie from Ruth.

  “The poor things are starving.”

  “You always say that.”

  “Good. It’s settled,” Boo bellowed over the squabbling and headed out of the room. “I’ll give Abbey a list of chores by morning.” “It is morning, dear,” Eleanor snapped.

  “Yes, dear, I know,” Boo’s icy tone cut the air. Abbey nodded to Boo as the aunt disappeared down the hallway.

  “Chores?” Tomyris asked, walking through the kitchen on her toes. “Good for the calves,” she explained to Abbey.

  “I have a question,” said Abbey, as Tom settled her feet onto the floor and began her pelvic thrusts. “Can I visit the horses?” “Horses?” Tomyris shot a sideward glance to Eleanor.

  “Of course you may,” Eleanor said, holding out her hand. “But now, bedtime, young lady.”

  As Abbey turned the corner towards the residential wing, she heard Tom whispering something to Ruth and Eleanor, but by the time she turned back to the three women they had stopped talking and were munching on shortbread. Where did Ruth find time to bake all the sweets? Abbey made it as far as the corridor outside her room before she sensed someone watching her again. She glanced over her shoulder and her eyes landed on the Tapestry. She wandered closer to it, imaginin
g that seeing every one of the embroidered scenes would be impossible— there were simply too many of them. As she searched the Tapestry for the woman sleeping under the stars, the tiny figure in the upper corner of the third panel on the right caught her attention. The figure was a peasant woman, dressed from the medieval period. The woman stood on her toes with her arms outstretched reaching into the air. From her vantage point, it seemed to Abbey that the woman was reaching into the corner of the fabric itself, as if trying to escape the confines of her woven prison. All alone in the far-flung corners of the art, Abbey felt a sense of connection to the embroidered woman. She, too, was lost, alone and reaching for something out of sight.

  And the tiny woven woman looked just like her.

  17

  Mick Jagger belted out “DOWN HOME GIRL” as the Lincoln cut through the morning mist and glided to a stop on the shoulder of the road running perpendicular to the Bastille’s private drive. Robert pressed the electric windows and the tinted glass slid silently down into the car door as he placed the binoculars to his eyes.

  “Want me to cut the music, boss?” Joshua asked, obviously trying to sneak a peek into the rear compartment.

  “No,” Robert answered as he surveyed the manicured lawn across the strip of pavement. “And don’t call me ‘Boss.’”

  Robert saw no activity at all, which surprised him. Surely someone—even several people—would be moving about the grounds at this hour. Eleanor hadn’t been able to keep herself inactive for more than five minutes since the Crusades. Ruth, the useless, addle-pated fool, with her endless tinkering and flower gathering, would garden during the apocalypse. Boudicca was…well…Boudicca. That woman was a few bricks short of a load anyway. This hyperkinetic activity is what he was counting on if his plan was to be a success.

  Zenobia, of course, was not an issue.

  The only woman he had to worry about was Tomyris. The girl was unpredictable and reckless, two characteristics that would work against him. If she teamed up with Boudicca to challenge him, he could be thwarted. Boudicca’s insanity and Tomyris’ cunning could prove formidable.