‘Does Ricardo know of this obsession?’
Fairen shook his head.
Filerion sighed deeply. He felt as if he was being offered a flaming torch and, although the torch could give him light, it might also burn him fearfully. In the past, such offers had been made before and from accepting he had only brought himself pain.
‘You are not of my world,’ Filerion said gently. ‘I am here in the forest to escape civilisation. Do you really want to cast off the luxuries of your life and live here, in this quiet place, for the sake of desire?’
‘If it means I will be with you, yes!’ Fairen replied without a pause.
Filerion sighed again, prompting Fairen to say, ‘It is more than desire, I swear it.’
‘You might find, if your desires are satisfied, your feelings are not as enduring as you presently believe,’ Filerion said dryly.
Fairen made an angry sound. ‘I should hate you for that,’ he said, ‘insulting my love for you, because it is love. Can’t you imagine the risk I’ve taken approaching you like this? Would I do such a thing lightly?’
Filerion looked at the glowing, pale form of Fairen De’ath. Had the house brought him this final, complete miracle? He had everything now but human love. Was it possible he was now being offered that too, in the shape of this pretty, effeminate boy? Impulsively, he held out his arms. ‘It may be you are simply mad, or misguided, or even lying to me, but for tonight at least, then I am here for you,’ he said, and in the moonlight, they embraced.
When they went back to Ricardo, it was to carry an air of celebration with them. No more talk of dark mystery. Now Ricardo regaled them with ribald tales of his experiences and the glade rang with the sound of laughter, the clink of glasses being refilled. The air was redolent of the smoky thrill of anticipation. When at last, they all retired for the night, Fairen De’ath crept to Filerion’s room, his voice hot with the passion of his desire; his hands, his eyes, his lips. Filerion swam in a sweet delirium of ecstasy. So long since he’d touched warm skin, so long. Fairen De’ath told him a hundred times with what impatience he’d waited for this moment, with what dread it might never be fulfilled. Filerion’s happiness was so exquisite, it almost made him afraid.
So followed a blissful week. Ricardo was content to drink his liquor in the porch of the house and in the gardens all day, reading some of Filerion’s books, so that Filerion himself was free to initiate the fey Fairen De’ath into the mysteries of the forest. Filerion showed him the icy pool where he bathed in the light of the sickle moon, obeying a suggestion one of his books had mentioned. Have I ever wished for love on those nights? Filerion wondered silently, thinking about all the wishes he had made, while sluicing himself with the water. Hadn’t they all been for good harvests, for health, for more rain, for less rain and such like? Never this, surely? And yet... This feels like heaven. If I didn’t wish for it, I should have done.
He and Fairen made love in the pool and Filerion marvelled at the svelte contours of Fairen’s body, the cleanness of limb, the sweep of hair, the deep, sulky eyes. Perfection.
Fairen kissed him saying, ‘Never have I seen such beauty as you. You are a gypsy raven! Say that you love me!’
‘You are a silver wildcat,’ Filerion answered. ‘Yes, I love you.’
Whether Ricardo Neathree guessed what was really going on, Filerion did not know. He certainly never professed a desire to accompany the others on their forest walks, but his eyes and smile were free of innuendo. ‘I have had such a holiday here!’ he cried. ‘I feel renewed. Thank you Filerion.’
‘Thank you,’ Filerion said, with a smile.
He and Fairen had not spoken of the future, but Filerion had no doubt that when Ricardo returned to Celestia, he would return alone.
At the end of the week, Ricardo said, ‘Tomorrow, I’ll have to get back to town. But I’ll return one day for another refreshment, never fear!’
Filerion smiled and squeezed Ricardo’s hand. ‘You cannot guess what pleasure your visit has given me,’ he said.
When morning came to the black walls and the black chimneys of Filerion’s house, Fairen De’ath rose alone from the shared warmth of Filerion’s bed and went to the open window. He could not see the wide road leading south through the trees from there. And the air was cool, too fresh for him. He shivered.
Filerion awoke, smiling into the dawn sunlight, savouring the crisp, perfumed air.
‘And now I must go,’ Fairen De’ath said, without looking backwards. He closed the window.
‘Go?’ Filerion felt the shining cocoon of happiness around him crack. He felt blood must surely pour from the wound. ‘What do you mean?’ he asked. ‘Only a week ago, you were begging me to let you stay here!’
Fairen shrugged awkwardly. ‘I know but...’ He looked around the room.
Filerion’s shock expressed itself in anger. ‘You virtually forced me to love you!’ he cried. ‘What is this talk of leaving so soon?’
Fairen still stared southwards through the window. ‘It is not right,’ he said. ‘One day I shall have to return to Celestia and, when I do, I do not want to have to hide from knowing eyes. If I stay here when Ricardo leaves, he will know why. I realise now I do not want that.’
‘Because of what I was?’ Filerion asked bitterly. ‘Is that it? You don’t want people to know you lived with a whore?’
Fairen De’ath did not answer. He put his fingers on the window glass, long, slender fingers.
Filerion’s heart turned over. ‘Haven’t I pleased you?’ he asked softly. ‘You said you loved me. You made me feel that too.’
Fairen shook his head. ‘I know. You have pleased me, you have been wonderful and I do... feel for you, but... We achieved the miracle, didn’t we? We fulfilled my prophecy, and it was good. But now it is done. Such affairs as this can only be brief.’
Filerion was stunned. Fairen De’ath had broken his defences, every one. He felt naked and wretched and helpless.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Fairen De’ath.
By mid-day, Ricardo Neathtree, still blissfully unaware of what had transpired, oblivious to any dark atmosphere, set his horse once more upon the path that led to the wide, dusty road, taking Fairen De’ath with him.
Filerion steeled himself and mouthed goodbyes, smiling; stood on his porch and watched them go. Only once the leaves had hidden them completely, did he allow himself to fall down upon the grass outside the tall, black house and surrender to bitter, silent grief.
‘What have I done to deserve this?’ he raged inside, bewildered. ‘Why did he do this to me? Why did I let him?’
Fairen De’ath had destroyed his contentment. Filerion had not needed company, but now Fairen had gone, after bestowing that brief, vicious gift of lust and heat, Filerion felt he could not live with the weight of solitude any longer. All the things that he most enjoyed seemed blighted. Where was the delight in bathing in the forest streams if he had to bathe alone? Where the delight in discovering the dens of the wild creatures, spilling tumbling mounds of cubs and kittens in the sunlight, if there was no one but the grey cat to show them to? Was the sense of satisfaction in a job well done valid if it was not shared? Could he live knowing he would not touch Fairen’s skin again, nor hear his voice and bask in his radiant smile? A torment! Unbearable! Filerion’s heart felt broken. He was sure it could never heal. Not now. Not this time. Never. Everything was gone: light, hope, happiness. He could not escape the past. He was a whore. Used for sex. Simple as that. Even here. He did not want to be this thing.
As the afternoon sloped towards sunset, Filerion picked himself up off the grass and went back into the tall, black house. With bowed posture, he slowly mounted the steepest flight of stairs and ventured deep into the shadowed corridor beyond them. This was the house’s most secret place. Filerion went to door at the end of the passage and turned the handle. Beyond lay a small room, brown with age, lit by a single, dusty skylight. The room reeked of sadness, of betrayal, and had been used before. It wa
s completely empty, but for a slim, silver dart hanging from a nail upon the wall. Filerion had only been here once before, and that just to acknowledge what lay within and why. The house had granted him permission then to see. It had said to his heart, without words, ‘Remember this, but be wise’. It had intimated the power of what lay within the room, its varied uses. It explained something of why the house had been unoccupied, but not everything.
Filerion felt he had no choice now but for a certain course of action. He knew what use to make of the slim, silver dart, kissed with poison. Numb, he lifted it down from the wall, turning it in his hands. A beautiful thing, smooth as satin. It felt good to the touch. And so sharp! He raised his face to the evening sunlight coming in through the roof light and held the point of the dart against his throat. It was as cool as a sliver of ice. He knew it would take very little effort on his part to ease it right into his flesh. Such is the way of deadly things, he thought. So little effort. A piercing. Then darkness. He took a deep breath, prepared to push the dart and then...
Then, through the dusty window, he saw the moon sailing high into a dark blue, lustrous sky. He smelled the perfume of warm earth drifting in from outside and heard the echoing calls of the night creatures, stirred from rest, slithering forth into the pale light. Coming in through the door behind him, the grey cat mewed for her supper and wound her long tail around Filerion’s legs. If Segila sensed her master’s distress, her own comfort was obviously more important.
The moment cracked; cracked like ice. The dart felt cold and wicked in Filerion’s hands. He dropped it, uttering a soft cry of distaste.
‘Meow?’ said Segila.
Filerion rubbed his face, smiled and bent down to caress the furry head.
‘You are right,’ he said, and then to the room, ‘I misunderstood.’
He bent down and picked up the dart. Holding it loosely, carelessly, he spoke six precise words of power over it and carried it downstairs. Laying it carefully on the kitchen table, he gave meat to his cat, went outside, threw corn to his hens and cabbage leaves to his goat. Then he fetched the dart and held it up to the moonlight. The silver glinted icily. A purposeful, condensed thing it was. Filerion closed his eyes and threw the dart high, high into the air.
Twisting, turning, glittering, it seemed the dart would fall back to earth, but then, with a strange shiver of a song, it paused and flew, point first, southwards, above the trees. Filerion wiped his hands, smiled into the moonlight and went back inside. He made himself a fine supper of the food that Ricardo had brought him and then sat down to read, smoking one of his favourite blends of herbal cigarettes, Segila purring happily in his lap. After a while, he shuddered, got up, removed the picture of Celestia from the wall and put it outside. Tomorrow he would bathe in the clearest, coldest stream he could find and it would all be gone from him. Forever.
Outside, the silver dart flew southwards, towards the city. It reverberated to one, single, burning, inexorable sentiment. Filerion had breathed six words into it. Six to make it live, to instil its one true purpose. The room in the secret place of the tall, black house was completely empty now. Nothing would ever come to fill it but the silence of peace. Six words. All the hurt condensed. Six words.
‘Pierce the heart of Fairen De’ath!’
Oblivious of the fiery, white progress above it, the forest continued as always, a surge of silence, and the tall, black house, as always, looked after its own. It may be reached from three directions, that house, but few who follow the paths will find it.
Poisoning the Sea (or Circe Invidiosa)
I have proved them all to be fools! Not that there was any doubt in my mind that my father, his scheming lackwit underlings and indeed all men on this world, were anything other than that to begin with, but this most recent victory has a delicious sweetness on my tongue.
I have just left him: once man, now animal. I left him fawning on my chamber floor. His name is Aertes. He was a poet. He is a dog, now.
Oh, beloved father, did you really think to pull my claws by expelling me into this isolation? I cannot believe you underestimated my intelligence, but then, you are a man yourself and therefore lacking in wit of a sharper nature.
As I descend the cold, white stairs to the terrace, I can see, through the open shutters, that the sister ocean is choppy today. I will pour blood into her waves, as a blessing and in celebration of my triumph. There is little else to do upon this blasted rock. Then, I shall speak to my domestic, Baucis, and tell her to remove the beast from my rooms with a brief ritual; no doubt he will still be whining there among the curtains when I return from the sea.
Beyond the garden walls of my palace, there is a cluster of dwellings that hug the cliffs, inhabited by the rough folk who farm the waves beneath. These creatures, my royal father thought, would be my only companions until I learned humility. Imprisoning me upon this backward isle, secured by the prowling ships that haunt the horizon, he seeks to break my spirit, to imbue me with remorse for an act I can only regard as expedient. As I would have said to my dear sister, whom I miss intolerably, despite her limper nature: ‘It is beyond our beloved sire to penetrate the whims and desires of his female relatives, let alone their skills and caprices.’
The path to the ocean is steep and winding, hemmed by stiff herbs of a thorny nature and shivering with green and turquoise lizards. The air is scented by a sharp, leafy reek that mingles with the smell of brine. The day is shaking to the sound of roaring waves and from beneath my feet I hear the brisk crunch of the shells that litter the path like little white flowers. I am wearing my favourite cloak of finely spun wool, dark in colour as befits my mood, and am accompanied by black Ishti, who is the largest and most splendid of my companion cats. Ishti, perhaps unusual among his kind, loves the sea. In fact, I took him half-drowned from the wreck of some vessel that had spewed lolling white corpses upon the beach some seasons back. Baucis maintains he is not a cat at all, as he is rather too big to fit comfortably into that category but, to me, anything that purrs so divinely must surely be a scion of the tribe of the Egyptian Bast. I treat him as such, for which respect he repays me with touching loyalty.
We wind our way down through the black, damp rocks. At high tide, there is no beach at all on this side of the island and, when the sea draws back her foamy skirts, there are pleasing pools full of unusual, twisted shells and weed that streams like long switches of green hair. Sometimes, we find richer treasures, but I am not beachcombing today. Ishti has brought me a white cockerel from the village, which I drained into a bowl, ultimately transferring the blood to a stoppered vial. The villagers are afraid of my Ishti and never interfere with his excursions into their territory to bring me the things I need. They are also rather afraid of me, which effectively prevents them from taking the law into their own hands concerning Ishti. I give them things in return that my father has sent me – items of clothing, meaningless baubles, certain foods I dislike – so they cannot really complain.
Mad Helen is on the rocks today, an eerie figure amidst the foam. She is staring out across the grey waves, her pale hair blowing right over her face, standing still as a stone. She, of all the peasants, I find intriguing. Her people believe her to be simple-minded, yet I know she is merely stultified by the life she leads upon this rock, and would blossom away from it, if she could only find a place to exercise the skills with which I have acquainted her. An eager student, Helen. When I am allowed to return home, I have a mind to take her with me. It would serve my father right.
‘Good day to you my dear!’ I announce.
Helen does not move. She is thinking deeply. Sometimes I pinch her sharply to make her share her thoughts with me, because they can be so interesting.
‘I have some blood to cast!’ I tell her.
That wakes her up a little. She turns her small pointy face in my direction, her narrow grey eyes screwed up against the wind. ‘Have you, Mistress? May I watch?’
‘Of course.’ I take the vial out of the poc
ket of my cloak and begin to wrestle with the stopper. The vials I use are quite old, and the only vessels suitable for this type of task I can find among the rubbish of my equally old palace. I am always concerned they will spill their contents onto my clothes and consequently tend to stopper them too tightly.
‘Allow me, Mistress,’ Helen says, and I hand the vial over to her clever fingers, surprisingly brutish and thick members, on such a fragile body.
‘There is talk that raised voices were heard coming from your windows last night, my lady Circe,’ she says.
‘Indeed,’ I reply, as perhaps question or exclamation. Helen does not understand the difference, but she eyes the vial with greater interest.
‘A cockerel,’ I say.
Together, smiling each our different smiles, we turn towards the sea.
It was not a grey day when the Persephone came towards the island but, like this day of wind and clouds, I was standing on the rocks at the half tide, casting something – I have forgotten exactly what, perhaps an entrail or two – into the receding waters. Ishti was with me, as always, poking his long, stiff whiskers into the rock pools, sniffing for crablets and vulnerable fish spawn.
Helen came sliding over the wet, weedy stones towards me from the direction of the village, her dripping skirts tucked up into her belt, her feet encased in sopping animal skin slippers, tied at the ankle. She had her enhancing vitrine with her, something her grandmother had fashioned, she being a woman of invention and devices. The ignorant populace of the village believe Helen’s grandmother to be a witch, but I know better and have used her inventions in many ways from time to time. The vitrine is a cleverly fashioned glass lens set in an embellished metal frame. Looking through it, things far from the eye appear close, and interesting details can be discerned. Helen, I am sure, has many clandestine uses for this device – if she has not, she is no true disciple of mine! – but sometimes, on clear days, we take it in turns to squint through the vitrine at the distant waves. It is possible to distinguish the eyes painted on the hulls of my father’s guardian ships on the horizon; a dull view, it is true, but I like to peer at the tiny figures of the men on board, wishing them various misfortunes such as love and marriage.