The Autumn Castle

by Kim Wilkins

  Mayfridh shook her head and turned to face Eisengrimm. “I’m jealous, yes. But not of him. I’m jealous of her.”

  “You mean . . . ?”

  She sighed, sinking into the bed. “He is so very beautiful, Eisengrimm. For ten wonderful minutes I had convinced myself he would be mine. And then . . . then Christine came and he wasn’t.”

  Eisengrimm’s golden eyes narrowed, and the ghost of a sneer creased his muzzle. “Is it not for the best, Little May? Human men are treacherous.”

  “Eisengrimm, I felt so bound to him. My heart pounded. It never has before.”

  “But you know nothing of his heart or soul, only his face and body.”

  “I know his soul, Eisengrimm. I felt it. It touched my own. There was a jolt of recognition, connectedness. I know he felt it too.”

  “Could it not be your imagination?”

  “No, it was real.” She sat up. “Eisengrimm, what if he’s my soul mate? What if he’s the only man I can ever love? Would it be so wrong to fall in love with him if the whole of destiny has decided we should be together?”

  “Mayfridh,” Eisengrimm replied, a warning note in his voice, “do not think to interfere with Christine’s life.”

  “But—”

  “The last leaf will fall, and it will be time to go to the Winter Castle, and you will forget Jude soon enough. He is Christine’s lover. Do not destroy her happiness.”

  “You give good counsel, Eisengrimm,” she said through gritted teeth, “though I sometimes despise you for it.”

  “One day you may thank me for it. Enjoy your time with Christine, remembering always that it will pass.” He stretched his legs and leapt from the bed, padding toward the door. “Tomorrow I shall accompany you into the autumn forest again.”

  She watched him leave. When she was sure he was gone, she searched in her hessian bag for the spell, the special one she had cast and then recovered in Christine’s bathroom—Jude’s bathroom—in front of the shining mirror.

  “Here it is,” she said, cradling it in her palm. Yes, it was stealing, but he may never notice it gone. She peered closely, looking for Jude’s reflection.

  A long way away, that’s where she was. The loud jazz music, the smoke-filled air, the taste of the beer, the hot itchiness of heating set too high, all registered on Christine’s body, but still she felt a long way away. She looked around. Gerda was involved in some kind of drinking game with Fabiyan, and Pete regaled Jude with statistics about roadkill per square mile on Australian roads; the swirl of people dressed in dark clothes, and the glow of cigarettes being lit and smoked from one end of the bar to the other; everything was flat and staged as if she were watching it in a movie.

  I can’t tell anyone.

  The sooner Mayfridh returned, got her visit over with, and went back to faeryland forever—even though Christine was looking forward to reminiscing with her—the sooner she would be able to feel normal again. Or would she ever completely recover from this shock? How many more things in the world were there to be feared than she had ever imagined? If faeries existed, why not ghosts, aliens, witches, sea monsters? She looked at Jude—one eyebrow cocked, peering at the end of his cigarette to see if it were properly lit—and felt a surge of . . . something. Maybe not love, as it wasn’t entirely a pleasant feeling. Yearning and fear as much as desire. One day, perhaps, she would tell him about Mayfridh. In the distant future, when they had left Berlin behind and life had resumed its reassuringly ordinary dimensions.

  “So what’s with you today, Miss Starlight?” Gerda asked, breaking into her bubble.

  “I’m tired, that’s all,” Christine answered.

  “An old friend of Christine’s came by today,” Jude said. “An English girl.”

  “I didn’t know you knew anyone in Berlin,” Gerda said, stubbing out her cigarette.

  “What was her name, Christine?” Jude asked. “Miranda?”

  “Yes, Miranda,” Christine said, wondering again why the faery queen had given Jude her human name. It was convenient, because she had spoken at length to Jude about a certain May Frith, and he would surely have noticed the similarities in the names and asked too many unanswerable questions.

  Gerda had tilted her head, was watching Christine curiously.

  “An old friend from when you used to live here?” Pete asked.

  This was getting tricky. “I used to know her family,” she said, rising from her seat. “Anyone want anything from the bar?”

  “I’ll come,” Gerda said, springing from her chair.

  They fought their way through the crowd to the bar. While they waited, Gerda turned to Christine and said, “Miranda, the English girl . . . ?”

  “Not a girl,” Christine said, wondering where Gerda was heading with these comments. “A woman. My age.”

  “An old family friend?”

  “What is it, Gerda?”

  “How did she find you?”

  “She . . . ah . . .”

  “Christine, you’ve forgotten. You told me about Miranda—Little May—the daughter of the English colonel. The dead girl.”

  The bartender arrived, saving Christine from having to respond immediately. They took their drinks, and Gerda dragged Christine away from Jude and the others toward a dark corner near the back of the room.

  “Tell me everything,” Gerda said. “Is this why you look so pale? Seen a ghost?”

  “No, really, it’s all just coincidental . . .” Christine trailed off, realizing this would convince nobody. “Gerda, I just . . . I don’t know what . . .”

  “Tell me. I’ll believe you. Jude saw her too, right? But he doesn’t know she’s a ghost.”

  “She’s not a ghost. She didn’t die. We all just assumed she was dead, but . . . God, I don’t even know how to start explaining this.”

  “Just give it a try.”

  Christine opened her mouth, about to spill the whole story to Gerda. But she couldn’t. As much as Gerda was always on about ghosts and psychics and magic, this was just too far-fetched for anyone to believe. Unless they had been put under a spell. “I can’t tell you, Gerda.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I was wrong; she wasn’t murdered. She was . . . it’s private. Family stuff. Not for me to say.”

  Gerda looked skeptical. “How did she find you?”

  “Through a customer at the bookshop. Starlight’s an unusual surname.” Rather than feeling relieved that she had thought up a plausible explanation, Christine felt heavy and sad, her chance to share some of the burden evaporating.

  “So she’s not a ghost?”

  Christine shook her head. “Definitely not. I promise you she’s not a ghost. Sorry, are you disappointed?”

  Gerda smiled half a smile. “Not really. To tell the truth, I’m afraid of ghosts.”

  “Look,” Christine said, “don’t tell Jude about Miranda. He doesn’t know, he doesn’t need to know.”

  “I won’t tell.”

  “Thanks. It’s all too complex,” Christine said, “and anyway, after tomorrow I doubt I’ll ever see her again.”

  Jude slid into bed beside her, his skin cool and his hair damp from the shower. “I drank too much,” he groaned.

  “You always drink too much at Super Jazz.”

  “I’ve got to start taking care of myself. I hate everything I paint at the moment, and I’m sure it’s because of all the junk I put in my body.”

  Christine ran her fingers over his chest. “Your body feels pretty good to me.”

  “And as for my head . . . God, I must be so drunk,” he muttered, pushing her hand away.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “I could have sworn I saw . . .” He didn’t finish, and Christine felt her skin prickle.

  “What did you see?”

  Jude laughed. “Oooh, boy, I drank too much tonight. Christine, it’s what I didn’t see that’s the problem.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “I looked in the bathroom mirror, and
I wasn’t there,” he said. “Jesus, it sounds even crazier out loud.”

  “What do you mean you weren’t there?”

  “I wasn’t there. Like a vampire or something. And I leaned close to look and a moment later I was there. Vodka-induced hallucination.”

  Christine forced a laugh. This had to have something to do with Mayfridh, of course. “I guess so.”

  “Wasn’t it just last week you were worried that you were going crazy?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Looks like it’s contagious.” He kissed the top of her head. “No more alcohol. Not if it’s making us crazy.”

  “I think we’re both perfectly sane,” Christine said. “In fact, I’m sure of it.”

  After the first hour, Mayfridh’s incantation made no sense anymore. It bounced past her ears like abstract background noise. Perspiration soaked the front of her dress, her hair dripped and clung to her face, and her eyes stung. Mayfridh kept her gaze fixed on the large square mirror in front of her, the reflection of Jude captured and still within it.

  This kind of magic was the hardest. To penetrate another’s thoughts and feelings was nearly impossible to do with the little magic meted out to her by Hexebart, and required clear focus and unwavering attention. The deep complexities of being always obscured clear pathways to knowledge; to read a person was akin to trying to distill the Bible into one sentence. Still, she persisted. If she couldn’t have Jude, she could at least attempt to know what she was denied.

  With her eyes fixed on his, she found that glimmers of understanding were starting to form. Jude loved to paint. It was the only time he felt truly disconnected from the petty sorrows of reality. She breathed and focused, trying to explore more deeply. Jude sometimes despaired about the future. She tried to follow that thread farther. Was his despair to do with Christine? But the thread ran out, sent her colliding with another. Jude was filled with compassion, almost to a fault. He cared too deeply about the suffering of others, which made him vulnerable and helpless at times.

  “But does he love Christine?” she said, dropping the incantation for a moment to try to direct her exploration.

  Oh, yes, he loved Christine, but there was something half-empty about this love. He felt sadness for her, and hope for . . . something. What was it? She pushed further, resumed the incantation. Did he love Christine?

  Clunk.

  Like a window dropping into its frame. Mayfridh found herself shut out, reeling back along the threads she had explored and out of her trance. Jude’s image dissolved and disappeared, leaving her staring at her own reflection, pale and wild-eyed and bathed in sweat.

  A thrill of hope and mystery seized her. An obstruction of that magnitude, one that could undo her spell and propel her backward so fast, meant only one thing.

  Jude had a secret.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  —from the Memoirs of Mandy Z.

  This morning, I experimented with my Wife. I was visited by insomnia: my brain was too full and too heavy on the pillow. I arose in the black before dawn, crept up the stairs to my sculpture room, and sat gazing at her in the gently lifting dark for a long time.

  My intention has always been that the Bone Wife will be more than a sculpture. When she is finished, she will be able to wash my clothes, and make my bed, and clean my shoes, and so on. I have no magical ability myself, but I have a secret, tucked away amongst the bones, which has imbued the whole sculpture with enchantment. At my command, the bones will move. But it’s not as simple as it sounds. Yes, they shake. Yes, they jump. Yes, they twitch. It’s up to me to make them shake and jump and twitch in harmony.

  My Bone Wife has the finest ankles and the most exquisite knees. I refine them constantly, making the joints more agile and flexible. This morning, as the first weak rays of sunlight crept into my room, I worked some more on the joints of her toes. Then I stood back and told her to walk.

  She shook. She jumped. She twitched. The bones clacked and clattered on the floor.

  “Walk!” I said.

  Clack. Clatter.

  “Walk!”

  Her right knee jerked up, opened out. Her foot came back down, her weight settling onto it. Then her left knee. Up, out, down, settle. Then her right knee again and I started to laugh, but I laughed too soon, for then she pitched forward and clacked and clattered to the ground. A shining chip of bone sailed through the air and scratched my cheek. A fraction higher and it might have cut my eye. Perhaps my Bone Wife doesn’t like being told to walk. It wouldn’t surprise me if faeries were as cantankerous dead as they are alive.

  Now, to continue with my memoir.

  After I had finished school, my parents tried to send me to university. I refused to go. I knew that I wanted to spend my life drawing and sculpting and seeking out faeries to kill and bone. I told my father that I wanted to travel and see great works of art. They agreed that I could do this for two years, but then I must study at university—something useful, like law or business—or they would cut me out of my inheritance. So I packed my bags and my books, and I strung my carved faery bone around my neck for luck, and took off into the wide world.

  I wanted to go to the place where I would find the most faeries, so I chose Ireland. I know now that, although Ireland is famous for its faeries, it is not because they boast the highest population. It is simply because Irish faeries are irritatingly conspicuous egomaniacs. They groundlessly believe their race—the Sidhe—to be the supreme race of all faeries. They love to read stories of themselves in the books that humans produce, and often come to the Real World to perform activities they hope will make them famous. Despite this, their Shadowland grows less and less populous every year. They are a dying race. You may be surprised to know that the largest population of faeries is in the United States of America. The faeries there prefer the Real World to their own world, and run about in it without ever giving away the truth about who they are. In fact, I suspect a number of famous actors and performers are faeries; rather too high profile for me to hunt them safely (though you can credit me with a couple of unsolved hitchhiker disappearances in that great nation).

  However, as a young man I thought Ireland was the place to be, and so that is where I went.

  I found myself in a village on the Antrim coast, passing the hours working with marble. I have always preferred the discovery and drawing-out involved in carving and chiseling sculpture, rather than the molding and shaping used with clay or other soft substances. I like to force my will on stone and bone. I began to produce small sculptures—models of the birds and animals I saw daily—reveling in the challenges of creating something that looked soft and pliable from something so hard and rigid. I grew adept very quickly, and by summer I was selling my sculptures as souvenirs at a local bookshop. Still, months had passed and I had seen no faeries. I began to wonder if my two earlier experiences were the kind of rare luck that is never repeated, and whether I would live the rest of my life, traveling as far as the sky was sky, never to see another faery. While the thought disappointed me, I took great consolation in my art. I could truly be happy while sculpting.

  And then, a story began to circulate around the pubs and shops, a story in which I took great interest.

  Sorcha O’Faolain, youngest daughter of the O’Faolains who ran the Merry Myrtle, was seventeen and very pregnant. Her boyfriend, Conla, had run off to Dublin and abandoned her. Over the past few months, I had watched the poor girl serving me my dinner and drinks every night in the pub. As she grew bigger and bigger, her face grew sadder and sadder. I saw her parents exercise their sharp tongues on her. I saw her wandering alone and friendless in the village, her shoulders falling lower each day under the burden of the rest of her life.

  The story goes that one day she woke up with a desire to walk, to walk fast and far, just to move. A rush of energy had gripped her and to sit still was to feel as though she might explode. So she walked. She walked down the path and out the gate, and up the road, and over the fields of ragged grass, and
to the cliffs, and right to the water’s edge, and up the stony beach for miles, one foot in front of the other, feeling her heart and her lungs and her muscles move.

  Then the first wave of pain hit. Starting in her back, spreading up under her like a giant crooked hand. The child was coming.

  She took herself back up the cliff path, but just a few steps onto the grass she knew she could go no farther. A biting sea wind had risen, and she took shelter in the roofless remains of an empty stone cottage nearby. She lay down on the old floor and cried and cried for her poor child, and her poor self.

  “I will take care of you, Sorcha.”

  She looked up and saw a beautiful woman, with sharp features and long pale hair, standing over her.

  “Who are you?” Sorcha asked.

  “I am Duana of the Sidhe. I will take care of you.”

  And right there, under the wide sky and rotted roof beams, the faery helped deliver Sorcha’s baby, administering faery medicine and faery magic in equal measure, and wrapping the child in a strip torn from her glowing faery dress. Then she disappeared, and Sorcha walked back to the village with her babe—a little girl she named Duana—in her arms.

  The next morning when she went to look for the scrap of faery fabric, to show her friends, it had disappeared.

  Now, this story spread quickly through the village, and Sorcha O’Faolain was considered by some to be one of the chosen few with a faery guardian, and by some to be a barefaced liar. Only I knew the truth: Sorcha O’Faolain was simply in the right place at the right time to take advantage of an Irish faery’s narcissism. Duana of the Sidhe knew such an act would make her famous. All I had to do was visit the same place and take the same advantage.

  I called in on Sorcha, asked her as many questions as I could without arousing suspicion, then packed my rucksack with weapons and tools and headed out of the village.

  Of course, I could hardly pretend that I was a heavily pregnant woman. I had to feign some terrible distress. I found my way to the ruined cottage, taking photographs like a tourist. When I was inside and away from the sun and the eyes of others, I pretended to trip. I cried out, thumped the ground hard, pricked my palm on my knife and smeared the blood over my forehead. Then I lay, very still, and waited.