Friday 3 July 2015

All this time
I roll my eyes. 'Fancy bringing me apples for targets! Worse still, BRAMLEYS! You think me a simpleton, Conall? By your teaching, I can shoot the eye out of yonder crow.'
            'Treasures of the forest, my Lady. Has his Majesty not meat enough on his table? Come, when you have shot at all the apples, you can collect the pieces and make a pie!'
            'Mag-pie, now there's a fine reward, fit for the richest bellies in Crantoch!'
            'My dear Lady, fine, your culinary skills are not. Pray leave the baking to the cook; I've already broken two molars on your offerings. A smile from you is reward enough, but pray do not part your lips, for I fear I might disappear between the gap in your front teeth and be lost forever.'          
            I raise my bow and take aim. 'Sire, if I did not miss you already, I might be tempted to bury this arrow in your forehead. See how miserable you make me by leaving?'
            'Do not wrinkle your brow so, I beg of you, I might mistake you for the sloe-sucking Sister Mary Benedict, upon my return. The likeness is already uncanny.'
            I stretch sinew and release. The arrow misses the target by a good hand's height — but what does it matter?
            'You must stay. Your Lady commands it. Who shall keep me safe if you leave me? It's all curtsies and 'Yes, M'lady, no, M'lady.' No disembowelling of hares and making fire from dry tinder and sticks. It's all dull. Dull. DULL.
            'Ava, Whitman is better qualified to guard you by far, and unlike you, I was not born to a life of privilege.' Sorrow tinges his words; he conceals it behind a smile that touches my heart, but not his eyes. 'I must make my own fortune.'
            'And what of fortune?' I cry. 'What are gold coins in one's pocket and fine silks from the Chinas when one is miserable inside?'
            'Wealth is everything in this world, Ava and while I am hungry for it, I must go.' Two rosy spots bloom on his cheeks. 'But what would you know of the world? You are not fourteen years old!'
            I glaze over. They are coming for me; heavy footsteps, their breath soured by stale mead. A King's Ransom for my little pretty head. Remember the knot, Ava, the knot! They will not return. A leather Turk's Head knot — Conall's talisman. Nine braided strands of the softest skin I could find — father had so many doublets and I'd made so many attempts to get the twists just right, little of the doublet remained. Three strands for Conall, three for me, and three for Crantoch, Father's kingdom, entwined in one complete band encapsulating everything I hold dear. I'd made it for his last birthday.
            Who will keep the dreams away if you leave? I suck in the tears stinging the backs of my eyes. 'Remember us by your knot. Me and Crantoch. Until you return.'
            He rubs his hand over the leather band on his wrist and with a sniff, pulls a sheaf of thick vellum, sealed with a crust of black wax, from his breeches.
            'A promise from my Lady, if I may be so bold? I shall return to Crantoch a man of standing, never fear, but until that day, I ask to entrust this letter to you for safekeeping. Pray do not break the seal, for the treasure within is as precious as it is fragile.'
            Never have I seen Conall so grave, except perhaps the day the Queen was entombed, and I readily agree.
            Our goodbye is as swift as it is painful. I have no wish to prolong the agony of losing him to a quest for riches. But no cause or crusade would have made our separation any less unbearable.
            I vow that a smile will not grace my lips until I see your face again and I weep from summer until spring, so deep are the wounds of my loss.
            For months your letter burns in my bodice, my cilice; every minute that passes, I pray that you are not lost to me forever. In my dreams, they are coming for me, but your knot keeps them at bay.
            Whitman is duller than ditch-water and my answer to Father's indifferent enquiries of, 'Cat got your tongue?', is the disappearance of Gilbert, the castle cat; but the beauty of the paradox is lost on him. What would he know of the hoar frost shrouding my heart?
            By the blood-moon of All Hallows' Eve, my sorrow turns into anger. How can you leave me thus, my mind and hands idle, bar the tittle-tattle of the courtiers and this scraggy embroidery on my knee?
            I withdraw your letter and in a fit of childish rage, I thrust it into the waning embers of the fire, only to singe my hair and fingertips as I retrieve it. I stow it behind the portrait of my po-faced grandmother and try to forget. But these castle walls are my prison and the grounds where once we wandered, are worse torture than the rack, the twist of each passing month more painful than the last. From behind each tree falls your shadow, every birdcall, the echo of our laughter.

Michaelmas brings flamboyant guests in abundance, bells jangling and much stepping on toes, but no joy. I care not for such frivolity and I care less that my reflection in the looking glass is beginning to resemble that of Sister Mary Benedict all the more for it.
            Father has little time for me now, and business of the state takes him often away. The rains have destroyed our wheat and hops two summers running. Our people grow hungry and when there is no grain to bake bread, and no beer in their casks, men revolt. I hear talk of uprisings and father travels west to soothe the unrest.
            He has recruited two trivialities, the daughters of some Lord or other, to keep me entertained in his absence. Never have I known such flapping of lips, nor such fervour for candied fruits. Ugly and Even Uglier, I secretly call them, and if God had bestowed half a squirrel's brain between them, they would be a good deal cleverer. And, if Even Uglier continues to scoff in such a porker fashion, cook will be calling upon my arrow and bow to feed us! They think I cannot hear their whisperings. What makes her so dour? She takes little pleasure in anything, even supping of hot chocolate cannot bring a smile to her lips! 'The princess of a thousand sorrows', they call me; they know not how I count the hours since I saw you last; thirty thousand upward.
Ж
Tomorrow, I will be on this earth eighteen years, five of them without you, four of them knowing that I loved you heart and soul; love you still. But what have I to celebrate? The King has forewarned me that my days in the castle are numbered. A general announcement is being prepared. Soon Whitman will be seeking employment elsewhere.
            I am to marry.
            It is my duty to the King and to Crantoch.
            I have always known it would be so, but I had hoped... dreamed that one day — but dreams they shall remain.
            Suitors are invited to stake their claim on my flesh for I am to be paraded before a gathering of young men of means and consequence, like a prize bull on market day. The King, all generosity, has bestowed upon me but one quarter, I choose my own poison.
            A husband may take possession of this body, but he will never touch my heart.
Ж
Late August sun draws me out of doors. I am commanded by the King to take in some fresh air before the suitors arrive to feast their eyes on the ripe beauty of the Princess of Crantoch. I am afraid they are to be bitterly disappointed. Any beauty I may have once had, dissolved with my good humour long ago.
            Whitman not far behind, I stumble toward our cherry tree, so many blessed hours spent under her blossoms, I've dared not allow my eyes to seek her out. I catch a glimpse of your last carved notch; it barely brushes my shoulder. I work quickly and fill my basket with the ripe fruit, before entering the orchard.
            All is silent and yet the ghosts of our laughter peals in my ears. Oh, how I long for you. What of your promises? What of your Turk's Head knot with neither beginning nor end, interlaced with the strings of my heart? My saviour and symbol of love eternal, yet I was ignorant of it then. Is it replaced by the follies and frippery of paramours?
            A sudden movement from behind the great oak has me standing stock still.
            Whitman calls, 'Who goes there?'
            The figure of a young man steps away from the tree and I drop the basket, glossy cherries spilling.
            'Conall?' My hand flies to my lips.
            'No, Missus, Felim. Conall's my elder brother, but-'
            'My goodness, the likeness.' I steady myself and catch a breath. 'And, pray, what news of Conall?'
            He scratches his head with conviction. Come on, boy. What news? My heart pummels at my ribs. No news of marriage, I beseech you. I will tear out my own eyes, if you say it is so.
            'Conall's dead, Missus, has been this five year.'
            Air is sucked from my lungs and I crumple; the whole world folding in on me, enveloping me in its welcome nothingness.
Ж
'Your Majesty! Come quickly. I think she's...'
Ж
I awake to the sound of cheering and a dreadful clanging in my head. I half sit up. Conall dead? It can't be. Hot tears race down my cheeks.
            'My Lady!'
            I spy one of the Uglies through blurry eyes.
            'Send for the forester, I need to speak to him immediately.'
            'B-but, my-'
            'No buts. There's not a moment to waste, be away with you, before I ration your sugar plums! And send in your sister with a draft.' I call after her ample nether end retreating through the door. 'My head feels like it's been cleft in two.' I roll out of the bed, but my legs buckle beneath me and I fall in a commotion of crisp cotton and lace.
Ж
'Well, forester. I'm told that Conall has departed this world for the afterlife, is this true?' I hide my fists in the fabric of my gown, nails biting my palms. 'You may leave us, Whitman.'
            The forester bends his knee and begins to bow. 'Highness, I-I-'
            'Sire, speak quickly and plainly. I am in no humour for tarrying tongues.' Gracious, God, do spare me the agony, his eyes are like needles in my heart. 'For the love of all things holy, speak this instant! I command it.'
            'H-Highness, Conall's departin' words were thus: 'From this day forth, Father, I am dead to you. If-'
            Relief tumbles through my veins and I momentarily sag from within. Thanks be to Heaven. 'Sire, pray do sit and continue, may I offer you a cool draft?'
            He shakes his head and clasps together his trembling fingers. 'If I may, Highness, you know my son as well as I know him myself. His head was always full of grand schemes and I fear this may be another. Gold crowns have been turnin' up in the strangest of places. Why only yesterday-'
            'Yesterday? Yesterday? Have you seen him?' A million thoughts explode in my mind and I dare to hope. No! Do not dare hope, silly girl. I glance at the portrait of the King's mother and ponder on the letter behind it.
            'I have not, Highness, set eyes on my eldest for five years.' Conall's father beat his breast and our eyes meet; so much love in his, a mirror of my own, no doubt. He clears his throat. 'But I do believe I may have spotted a young man whose ganglin' gait reminded me very much of Conall, playin' at battledore and shuttlecock with a prize peacock on your lawn.'
            For the first time in five years, a laugh escapes my lips, hearty and raw. 'Sire, you are mistaken, Conall here? I am to choose a husband. By my reckoning, the castle is crammed to the ceiling with preening puppies and peacocks and their useless wooing gifts.' I cannot help but skip to the window. 'Be away with you, sire, and should Conall cross your path, make it known the future Queen of Crantoch would be humbled by his audience.' Several feet beneath me on the lawn, a handful of porkers beat at a shuttlecock, not one of them bearing a resemblance to Conall. Has he grown fat on his wealth?
Ж
The Uglies come to lace and pinch, both waist and cheek.
            'Put away your paints and brushes. I want my future husband to see me. Be assured, a sow would be equally appealing, should she carry the same title as I.'
            They are coming for me. Stale mead on sour— stop, Ava! STOP! No more, now. I conceal Conall's vellum in my bodice — may it bring me strength.
Ж
'Honoured gentlemen.' Gird yourself, Ava, for the hounds are snapping at your heels, jaws dripping with lust for title and celebrity. A hush spreads around the great hall, deadly as the plague. 'Welcome to Crantoch. We are flattered that so many of you honour us with your audience.' As I speak, I pick at the stitches of every stunned face in the room. 'You, as well as I, know why you are here, so I will speak plainly.' I fire a glance at the King who smiles with all of the affability that the contents of his wine goblet afford. 'By my father's vetting, you are all of equal standing in societies far and wide, and each man among you is as worthy of my hand as the next. As I neither care for marriage, nor wish to know any of you any better than the wriggling worms on the end of your fishhooks, I have requested that you each bring two items; a flower, and one that you feel best describes your character. I shall pick my future husband based on his choices. You will each be granted a private audience on the morrow. Pray enjoy the hospitality of the King's table and his well stocked cellar.'
Ж
'Heaven's above, Father! Never have I seen so many varieties of lily! How very dull they are, and so little thought — the sheep in the meadows are aware of the symbolism! And swords galore! 'Oh, Highness — the fine steel is my mighty strength, the jewels my riches, the notches the number of vagabonds and villains I have slain.' Poppycock! They simper and salivate, pray, I cannot bear the sight of another!'
            'But, you must. The wedding feast is ordered and the Bishop prepares the order of the ceremony.'
            'If I must continue, Father, I request a draft of your finest and most robust beverage. Next!'
            No sooner is the door shut, than Whitman re-opens it. I stifle a yawn as a bearded puppy removes his hat and bows with éclat.
            'The Count of Leitrim, my Lady, at your service.'
            'If you must, sire. Let us not tarry.' I cast my eye down the list; suits of armour, daffodils, etcetera, without meeting his eye. 'Pray, sit. Your items? Flower last.'
            A soft thud draws my focus to the table. 'Sire, you liken yourself to an onion?' I cannot help but smile.
            'My lady, I do. An onion has many layers to peel away, but concealed within, is a heart of gold, as potent as it is pure.'
            I drop my quill and meet Conall's burning gaze. 'And the other?'
            A bouquet of tiny flowers falls into my open hand.
            'Forget-me-nots, my Lady.'
            'And had I declared my devotion, Conall, would you have stayed?'
            'I left by Royal Command, Ava.'
            I don't understand? 'My father sent you away?' Such treachery! Tears spill over my lids.
            'To earn my right to be here today, and for you to heal. See here? I wear your love-knot.' He hitches up his cuff. 'I lacked fortune and standing — but the King knew no man could love you as I. A painful, yet purposeful decision. Your father is wise. The dreams?'
            'Under my control, sire.' I draw his letter from my bodice. 'And what of this?'
            'Open it. It's yours, has been, all this time.'
            'Mine?'
            He nods.
            My trembling finger slides under wax and I unfold the vellum. Encircled within a ring of cherry blossoms, are two words:
My Heart


The End

Forced to grow her own.

Fifteen years it took for her to culture and graft; to perfect. Just the right amount of sunlight, same of rain, lashings of horse manure. Snipping, trimming; grooming. She'd almost bottled it once.The broom handle he'd rammed inside her vagina, changed her mind.With meticulous care, for it only ever blooms once, she'd tended the bud until it swelled and burst into exquisite flower.The stamens, she'd removed and pounded into pulp, stirring it into his tea.His death was murderously slow as the poison spread, turning his blood to jelly.'Should've bought me roses. They don't cost much.'
Father and Child


'Lord? You waken me. Is that you? Or I am to suffer, forever alone?'
                'It is I.'
                'Why did you leave me? You were here, and then, you were gone. Who are you, Lord?'
                'I never left, child. I am thy father.'
                'Father? What place is this? How did I come to be here? I have no memory.'
                'A place where thou hast not left, nor yet arrived, mine child.'
                'I make no sense of your words, Father.'
                'All will become clear in time, daughter.'
                'Father, the pain? I have wept an eternity and now my eyes are dry. I weep dry tears.'
                'As is the beauty of time, my child, for only it can heal, but in your case, I fear not.'
                'But yet, I weep still. The pain, Father. I know not what causes my marrow to putrefy; it's poison pollutes my bones, makes an enemy of my blood, turning it against my flesh, which falls from me like rotted meat a carcass.'
                'Mine hands will be the balm to thy pain, mine child. But they will bring no comfort to thy mind.'
                'My mind?'
                'Thy body, I can heal. But the poison in thy mind must be released by thyself. Take mine hands in thine. Together we will set it free.'
                'I cannot see your hands, Father. I am blinded by smoke — cataracted. I see nothing but shadows; shadows that stretch and unfurl like fearsome dragon wings beating towards the dying sun.'
                'Take mine hands, child. I shall wipe the fumes from thine eyes.'
                'Father, I fear what I may see.'
                'It can harm no more, in this place, where thou hast not left, nor yet arrived.'
                'Father, such comfort your touch brings ... but no... No...NO! I am choking! What I see, when the smoke clears, I cannot bear! Is this why I am here?'
                'Child. Look.'
                'I cannot look! Pray, blind me forever! Such mindless destruction, I have no wish to see. Breathe my air, Father; it is toxic, the fat of my land, rancid. Drink of my rivers, Father! You cannot! They run with filth, my seas bleed into the land. MY ICE MELTS. My trees, Father, my lifeblood... I can bear no more. I wish to ARRIVE. At the place I have not yet arrived! I beg you.'
                'Daughter, Mother Earth, thou hast suffered much. Thou hast endured torture worse than the pits of Beelzebub's hell. And now thou must arise. Take strength from thy Father.'
                'And do what, Father?'

                'And reek thy revenge, mine child, mine divine Avenging Angel.'