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Christabel was asleep, and yet aware.
She could feel her body, if only distantly; as much as a person whose head is submerged beneath the water can see and hear what is happening on the surface above. Her body, which in the living world must have seemed calm and languid, peacefully lying on its soft bed, did not feel like a living thing. Her bones seemed to be blocks of lead, and her flesh, a coating of clay laid across them. Sparks of vitality remained in the very tips of her fingers, which burned like coals and itched to move, if only to tap restlessly. But her hands were numb and powerless, as if a needle had been coated through each knuckle, before a coating of the frost was allowed to form over them.
She was asleep, but not dreaming. Not really. Not even the kind of dream where you seemingly blink, for just a moment, and in truth your eyelids fell like a casket or coffin shut down, and there is nothing awaiting your mind, not even the darkness, and next thing you know the sunlight is pouring through the window, nudging you to get up, even though your body feels as weak as wet tangle of wool, and you are groggy and sweaty and your hair has done it’s best to strangle you as you sleep.
Much less was it the chaotic unspooling of scenes based on twisted memories and unspoken worries, where one second she was clumsily dancing with them , and the next she was being mocked by girls her age as they drank tea. Or unexplainable dreams without rhyme or reason, the ones where people forgot their own name as they danced on the wings of bees while running from evil porridge...
(Much less, the dreams she had been increasingly having, with new arrival in their house. The dreams full of shadow and tension, confusion and blood, the ones that set her heart beating like a songbird convulsing, the ones from which she woke dizzy and lost, flushed with terror and with a hot ember of shame burning within her, constantly wondering whether anybody had overheard her. The ones that left her staring with dread at the cold body next to her, simultaneously tempted to inch towards it, to let their palms and cheeks touch, even as she wanted to crawl away from it, hide in the corner...)
No. In Christabel’s dream, her mind’s eye cannot see anything but the mist; the mist before and the mist behind, mist left and mist right, mist above and mist below. Everything was pale and gray and formless, like sky when the rain temporarily stopped, and the mind that was Christabel drifted in it, devoid of fear, devoid of desire to escape, devoid of any sort of passion which might animate her body, give strength to her spirit. She did not, even, as it sometimes happened in dreams, imagine seeing her clothes, or her arms; she was stripped bare and raw, nothing but thought alone.
(Perhaps this was Purgatory, or Limbo, or even the entrance chamber before she was ushered in the depths of Hell...)
In the waking world, Christabel felt sheets below her shake, heard them rustle, as something turned and moved, a miniscule action, and yet a slight chill settled over her, as if a northern breeze was caressing her skin. And though she knew not with what sense she felt it, she became aware of a gaze laid upon her, of two small yet intense eyes roaming over her sleeping form, like those of a snake hiding in the grass awaiting its prey. A single finger- long and slender and hard and dry as bone- hovered above her forehead, before it descended on Christabel’s lips.
In the waking world, her heart slowly hitched. In the dreaming one, Geraldine arrived.
Christabel did not perceive her as she would have in the waking world. Here, she had no eyes, and here was in truth her own mind; and so she saw Geraldine from every possible angle, every direction that could be; a hundred thousand mirror shards floating on wind, each containing different reflection. Christabel was huddled in the midst of Geraldine’s eyelashes, and she was observing the back of her head from a thousand miles of distance, and she was watching her left cheek, and blunt nails on her right index finger...
Geraldine was more and less beautiful than in reality- but perhaps, with how odd everything about Geraldine was, perhaps this was reality for being like her, and the living world in which Christabel dwelled was but a dream through which she wandered- as accidental visitor, like a child that stumbled off path while it was picking forest strawberries, or a predator, a succubus that causes fright and uneasy dreams and paralysis at night, the question remained.
Part of what made Geraldine so uncanny, Christabel realized, was that Christabel could never properly perceive her. Geraldine was beautiful. Christabel remembered that much, and so did her father, their guests, and everybody else who came in contact with the girl. But it was as if somebody had reached inside their minds, and wrote it inside as a fact, so that Geraldine would be worshiped and adored, even if Geraldine had been nothing but a yellowed skull swarming with maggots.
Only now did Christabel realize it, but beforehand, the exact shape and form of Geraldine’s face remained obscure to her, like a fuzzy memory of somebody she had half-forgotten. Were she awake, she would be unable to properly recognize her features, nor paint them, if fancy took her, even if Geraldine were to sit right before her for ten hours.
Only now could Christabel see that her chin had a small cleft in it, and that her forehead was rather wide, and her mouth narrow. Only now could she see the light shower of the freckles scattered over sharp nose, and how high her cheekbones were, and that her head was in general shaped like a square, and most of all, how deep and dark and wide her pupils were.
That Geraldine was pale and raven haired, that Christabel did remember. But only now did she perceive it in its fullness: only now did she see that her flesh was like wet lithomarge, like a marble statue riddled with patina. A bloodless thing, lacking any flush of vitality and warmth, almost transparent, revealing bluish veins all across itself, even on eyelids, like a watery web strewn across parchment.
Only now did she see that Geraldine did not breathe.
’’You are quite canny young thing, Mistress Christabel.’’ Her voice is clearer in a dream, too. In the waking world, it was pleasant, but like a medicine that lulled you to sleep, that dulled all your senses. In the dream, it was sharp and clear like crystal. Christabel realized that she had been expecting it to be smooth and gentle like silk; but instead, it was crisp and strong, a hearty voice coming from what her nurse would have described as a large and healthy set of lungs.
So you admit your deceit , Christabel spoke, and without tongue to flit around sheepishly, without lips to tremble, or heart to beat madly with panic, the words came out pure and merciless, a gale of sound coming from all directions, washing over Geraldine. But Geraldine simply cocked her head to a side, like a bird, and stared fixedly in one spot, and Christabel felt herself contract, becoming bound to it, no more able to observe Geraldine from every direction.
’’Is that how you sound to yourself?’’ And those words, so flippantly spoken, cut through Christabel right away. Like new and sharp scissors of a seamstress, dividing the bolt of fabric into two. Embarrassment burned within her, petty and girlish, and she hated herself for it, hated that something so minor mattered now, when all of her household was enthralled under this creature’s charms.
’’That cannot be right. Your voice is a pure wonder.’’ And in the waking world, fingers were interlocked together, the soft flesh of Christabel’s palm caressed by another’s tender touch- Christabel felt cold so intense that it hurt, but it was a dry cold, like an old, desiccated bone buried in dark and arid tomb.
And within her mind, she was bound, reduced, rendered static. Enclosed within a shell, which was composed of her own memories. She wanted to scream, but she could not; it was as if entirety of her being was pushed and sealed within tiny jar, as if she was set ablaze until nothing was left but ash to be sealed within porcelain doll,
And she could see herself.
From every angle, from every possible direction. She could see the tiny incisions left on her lip, when she had bitten it at the dinner, already scabbing over with pale tissue. She could see each and every individual strand of her hair, the way it was tangled and knotted in ugly clumps; she could see the bags underneath her eyes, and how crooked and yellowed her teeth were. She could see how slightly uneven her shoulder blades were, and how her skin appeared too pale and blotched at same time, and how messy her cuticles were...
She tried to close her illusory eyes, to banish the sight, but it was futile. It tormented her, an endless loop revealing her countless flaws.
’’And it cannot be that you truly see yourself so? That is not what I have seen. The kind face that arrived to me as my salvation.’’ And Geraldine’s dream-self smiled, her lips stretching wide, even if they never allowed teeth to show. Ten thousand intense eyes bored into Christabel, and the image of her own reflection changed.
She could not accurately pinpoint where the crux of change lay. Her flushed face did not grow more even in colour, nor did her hair become neater. Her figure was not adjusted, nor did her proportions become more balanced. And yet, it was as if somehow her perception was altered, pulled just an inch right way. As if her foundations became more firm, clay transmuted in marble, and her surface became brighter, patina wiped away from the painting.
The thousand fragmented visions adjoined. She still saw double, and from a distance, like a bird from the great height; two girls in the sleeping wear, one with a confused expression, and the other, pale and raven haired, standing behind her with such a soft smile, and mischievous eyes.
The sound of the slap was high, whistling and sharp pitched, like a kettle on the stove boiling over, filling air with the vapor and spilling bubbles over the surface.
’’You must think me weak and spineless too, to fold and trade my soul over to you over such a simple vanity.’’ In the waking world, Christabel’s voice could never have been so firm, cold and cutting like steel. But this was still her dream, and words were only a shadow of her intention.
Geraldine raised her hand- her nails were now dirty yellow, like the flesh of a dried apple, with dark stains beneath- and cradled her cheek, dragging it slowly, over her swan like neck. She shuddered, and the blueberry coloured lips parted in exultation, as wild joy lit candles within her dark eyes. For a moment, she resembled paintings of tortured saintesses, awash with euphoria of Grace received through martyrdom.
’’I am no fiend. What use would I even have with people’s souls? My own is a troublesome burden enough.’’ There were two tones accompanying those words, like warp and weft of a fabric, like component fragrances of a complex perfume. The blithe, disrespectful cheer, and heavy resignation.
’’You cannot expect me to believe you to be an earthly thing.’’ The mists around them gained form and depth, a canvas transformed into a painting. Though the sky was still gray and cloudy, They found themselves in a meadow. grass growing short and shy, violets blooming brilliantly among the pale foliage.
’’Earthly, yes. If anything, that I am.’’ And the strange smells and sensations now accompanied their shared dream. Christabel could smell mildew and petrichor, and she tasted mud at the back of her mouth, and felt fine grains of dust get caught between her teeth, felt roots wrap among her ribs like thickest chains, felt the heavy weight of soil pressing down, down onto her...
’’And you are really Sir Roland’s daughter?’’ Doubt was heavy as a lead in her tone; her dream-self managed a judgemental, ruthless sneer Christabel could never pull off in the waking world. But deep inside her, something flickered, enthralling pain like that of a dying candle flame pressed close to a mound of thumb. Was it a doubt? Or hope?
’’There, I confess my deceit. I hope you can forgive me, my lady.’’ Geraldine curtsied, an impish smile set on her face, and Christabel fought the amused exasperation she felt. The starlight rippled through the clouds, only for them to grow even more heavy and dark, like sheets of black iron.
’’It is from my father that you should seek forgiveness.’’ She recalled the memories of the past, of the ladies, those who were her peers and her elders both, who looked at her with crushing disdain, whom she had found so beautiful, even when they were cold and imperious. She tried to conjure that effect, embody them, become them.
’’Why? Haven’t my words, false as they were, restored his health? Hasn’t he thrown off the weight of years in a single night? Is it wrong, to lie over small thing, when it brings such joy to somebody?’’ A word the devil would have said, surely. And yet, instead, Geraldine’s speech was sullen and annoyed, like a child facing unreasonable rules.
’’And what will happen when he learns the truth? What will happen when Lord de Vaux of Tryermaine responds that he has no daughter?’’ She could already see her father’s face, twisting like a melted wax, as accusations were hurled at him through the letter.
’’Oh, but he did have a daughter. And she was abducted by the brigands, and in his sorrow, he soon followed her beneath the soil. That is how I came to know of their plight, though I was aware of sad parting between Roland and Leoline before.’’ And Christabel knew, suddenly and inexplicably, that the clothes Geraldine had worn, the jewels woven in her hair, had come from the dead woman; a payment rendered for the revenge delivered.
’’How?’’ There was always sadness around Christabel’s father. They had both learned to live with it, but it was inescapable, like the odor of sweat one could never wash from the clothes, sinking into their whole house.
Friends had fallen out over love, Christabel had heard it all her life; men duelling over women, women tearing each other apart for a man. She had never truly understood it, it had always seemed distant and unreal, like a fairy tale. Even now, with Geraldine before ( inside) her, it seemed strange and silly.
But there were stories, of dead women rising to haunt their lovers...
’’Why did you venture into the forest at night, Christabel? There are wolves afoot, and worse, hiding in the darkness.’’ They were not standing anymore. As sudden as change in any dream, both of them were laying down on the grass, which was softer and gentler than it could ever be in reality; no itching, no dirt. There was a palm between two of them, Geraldine spread out leisurely as a snake on the warm stone, arching her long body. Christabel turned her face away, and yet, she still saw her.
’’It is a sacred oak.’’ She answered, wielding a sentence as if it was a shield, and the air got hot and sticky with shame. But Geraldine only nodded.
’’And so it is. It has been venerated since before the Romans came.’’ Her clothes had changed, now. A simple and slightly dirty linen shift, her raven hair falling unbound over exposed shoulders, like ivy over the marble, sight of which transfixed Christabel, for all that they were washed over with deathly pallor.
’’Our priest tells that it was grown from a shard of the Holy Cross.’’ It was probably sort of the thing discouraged in the seminars, but every priest whose ancestry hailed from these lands repeated legend like the fact. Their neighbours variously called that superstition, scam, and blasphemy; as they bragged about their local church housing knucklebones of Saint John the Baptist.
’’When I was child, I was told that the oak remembers primeval wildwoods, that spread across the land before there were people, and that it shall outlive men all together. Silly belief, I always thought; an axe or a torch would take care of it soon.’’ Christabel could believe it. The old oak was tall, but moreover, it was impossibly thick. Wider than many tables, the wood strangely shaped and gnarly, in form less of a pillar and more shaped like a fat catfish. It was constantly shedding shards of bark, like a snake letting go of the old skin, yet neither bugs nor blight ever threatened it.
’’But sacred it is, or so it has been believed for generations. Your father came to pray before it, to confess his fears and regrets. He used to do it quite often. And so did many others. Very annoying when one yearns for nothing but a good, long rest.’’ Geraldine’s voice was mulish and her face surly, and for a moment, she- changed. For a moment, her cheeks were not hollow, and ruddy blush overtook her skin, and her lips were as red as forest strawberries as she pouted.
’’I am sorry.’’ Christabel felt foolish as she said it, both because she owed no apology to Geraldine, and because her words were so simple and so weak. She felt herself sink a little, beneath the dream-soil, and felt the moisture coat her skin.
(Images float through her mind, around them, the foreign memories invading her consciousness like ivy covering balustrades of an abandoned house. A girl with raven dark hair, running through the woods, screaming. Two men who chase her- why? That memories do not recall, if she ever knew. Time washed it away, like rain erasing the carvings in a limestone.
But not the memory of the tight fists wrapped around her thin wrists. Not the slick passage of the knife over her throat. Not the way they threw her over the shoulder, like a sack, and the way they buried her beneath the largest oak, deep in the woods.
Not the memory of the power, of the life-giving essence that rises from the Earth, and pools sometimes in the wells and the groves and the mountaintops men call sacred, flowing into the forgotten bones...)
’’You should not be, dear Christabel. Your voice was very sweet, if unexpected. As was the strength and clarity of your plea.’’ As soft as a raindrop, as final as a guillotine. That is how Geraldine pronounced it.
Christabel wanted to run. She wanted to to drop down, far beneath surface of the Earth. She wanted to disappear back into the mists of the dream-world. But her thoughts had turned still, and her dream self found itself underneath a shell of ice, like chrysalis a caterpillar builds for itself, as all around her, the field burned.
’’Oh, dear Christabel. There is no need for shame. You are hardly the first maiden to hope for the same.’’ Geraldine’s hands wrap themselves around Christabel’s frost covered shoulders, settling in like a silken shawl. Her lips hovered near Christabel’s ear, and oh, Christabel hoped that they would bear a malicious grin ( for she could still perceive both of their faces, as if she was staring in a mirror), but as far as she could see, there was nothing but honest concern written on Geraldine’s face.
’’He is a good man.’’ The ice that covered her face like a funeral mask melted into a curtain of steam, fizzling and grating, as her lips barely moved, repeating what she had been chanting since the day engagement was announced.
’’Is he? Or is he just stuffy, and rich, and good at hitting other men with piece of flat metal? And even if he was, what it matters if you did not choose him?’’ Was it Geraldine’s voice, or Christabel’s own thoughts? She could not distinguish between them, no more than she could locate two drops of water that had spilled into the same puddle.
’’Your protestations of infernal nature grow more hollow by each minute.’’ For perhaps she had misjudged Geraldine. Perhaps she was a demon, and a very capable one; the one who cultivated sin as a farmer cultivates crops, placing small seeds in the soil and tending to them year after year, waiting for them to ripen. A suggestion here and there, whispered in Christabel’s mind, reinforced, until she had finally revealed herself...
’’Is it wrong to help our fellows? To extend sympathy to one who has received none? Is compassion not the one of the greatest virtues?’’ Christabel could have choked in her sleep on the laughter. She could almost feel it in the truth, in her body, desperate to roll out of her gut. Geraldine pouted and narrowed her eyes ( her eyeballs were gray and yellow, like faded, ancient curtains, like leaves dried and preserved)
’’One must uphold their duty.’’ The flames that danced around them like the village girls on May Eve had all died down. The world was gray ash and smoke, two of them kneeling in its ruins. Geraldine frowned, and for a moment, she looked unbearably young and sad.
’’Duty. What does that mean? Him off gallivanting whenever he wants, and you loyally waiting for him to come around and make you miserable.’’ Raking her hand through the ash, as if it was poker, she caused violets to bloom. She picked several, and wove them into a small wreath as Christabel stood still. When Geraldine moved to put illusory flowers on her head, Christabel moved out of her reach, an awkward and tense movement, like a fish spasming on the surface before it dies.
’’Is that why you arrived? To test me? To convince me to run off with some stablehand, cause scandal and break my father’s heart?’’ Other girls her age dreamed of such things, sometimes. They gathered together, like clusters of grapes, chattering and shushing about ancient gossip, or sharing romantic novels procured by sneaky means. Christabel never really saw appeal, though she tried to appreciate their interest. One man was the same as any other.
’’Not a stablehand, no. Chambermaid is more to your taste I hazard.’’ And Christabel woke.
It felt, simultaneously, as if she was falling into a deep chasm, and as if she was growing to a gigantic size. She was herself again, her mind constrained and yet directed by the flesh; her body was no more numb, but rushed with energy. She could feel the weight of her own bones, and hair on the back of her neck rising up, and it hurt, for a moment, as her sight adjusted to following only one possible line of perception, the fragmented shards adjoining in a single mirror once again.
The world too, was both smaller and greater than the background of her dream; she was within her bedroom, even the sight of distant sky obscured by curtains. But it had depth and dimensionality even most talented artists, even the richest imagination couldn’t replicate.
Christabel was awake. And the first thing she had done, even before she realized it, was to climb upon Geraldine's body, and wrap her own palms around the woman’s neck.
’’There is no need to worry about your father. You know well that he won’t live for more than a month. Such is the gift of your mother’s blood.’’ Geraldine did not speak, not really. Her face was glamoured yet again, so that Christabel could not truly see it, fuzzy and undefined like a ruined painting (only from corner of her left eye, a glimpse of an old skull, teeth missing; from another corner, a young girl flush with the strength and mischief of the youth), but Christabel could see that her mouth did not move, could feel beneath her hands that no air traveled through her lungs and windpipe. The words appeared in Christabel’s mind, flat and colourless.
She could see, however, that Geraldine was smiling.
’’Perhaps you aren’t a demon after all. A thing meant to ensorcell human souls would know that badmouthing their families wouldn’t endear it to the victim.’’ Christabel released her hold, got up and walked away from the bed, towards the window. Thankfully, in the waking world she could not see Geraldine’s face with her back turned, but by the same measure, her motions and words were clumsy and tumbling, like a newborn foal trying to walk, instead of the cool and unaffected stance she had desired to take.
’’What ill word have I leveled against either of them? Your mother was a clever woman, and she perceived what men usually are not privy to. You have inherited her gift. That is why you have already begun preparing for your father’s passing. That is why you were wary of my intrusion upon your home.’’ And there were names for such things, were there not. Witch and wise woman and cunning folk; Pythia and vestals and druidess. And there were always rumors about her mother, that her early death had been punishment, that she was moody and strange and overly educated, that it was good that she didn’t live to corrupt the child...
’’Why are you here?’’ Christabel’s fingers picked at the curtain, as if they could fray it into nothing but threads. She did not open them, did not stare at the vast estate meant to belong to her husband, that could be hers.
’’For now? Walk in the sunlight. Smell flowers. Taste delicacies. Talk with the people. Listen to the music. Dance. All the things you cannot do beneath the earth.
But afterwards? That is not on me. You woke me. Your invocation harnessed oak’s power and called me forth. My story has already ended, and this is nothing but diversion, an unimportant interlude. You alone can write the ending to yours.’’ And receiving no answer, Geraldine got up and skipped down the stairs, joining the household at breakfast.
Christabel remained by the window, deep in the thought.