Shadowsong

by S. Jae-Jones

  But I had vanquished these fears before. I had spent an age Underground cracking open my ribs to lay my insecurities bare before me, to face them without flinching. I had the courage and fortitude to conquer my doubts, and I would not back down now.

  It was the hope I could not bear.

  Don’t look back, the Goblin King had told me. And I hadn’t. But in the moments between sleeping and waking, the hollows that loneliness carved from my soul were large enough to swallow me whole. Playing the Wedding Night Sonata conjured up ghosts, both literal and metaphorical.

  I could have let it rest. I could have passed the time with my klavier in other ways, with other composers, other compositions. Yet the abyss always beckoned at the sight of those black and white keys, the temptation to break my promises and run back and back and back.

  The coach that would bear us to Vienna was arriving in three days. Nearly all was in readiness, and all that was left was to pick up the flotsam and jetsam of our lives. For Käthe, those were her ribbons and trimmings and other pieces of finery and frippery, and for me, it was the klavier.

  We had managed to sell the instrument to a merchant in town, who had amassed enough wealth to want to enrich it with musical accomplishments. He had even managed to hire a tutor all the way from Munich to teach his wife and daughters how to play. The young man would be arriving after we had gone, but the merchant would be bringing along a hired wagon and some hired hands to bring the keyboard back to his home on the morrow.

  It would be my last night with the klavier; I ought to say goodbye to it like a proper friend.

  After the inn had settled down for the evening, I sat down at its bench, feeling both awkward and not. The feel of the wood beneath my thighs was the same as it had always been, yet somehow different, somehow new. I was relearning the instrument, experiencing it with fresh fingers and fresh eyes. I had forgotten how to take it for granted.

  Moonlight edged my world in silver, illuminating the yellowed keys of the klavier, turning them a dull gray. I ran my hands over the keyboard, and hesitated, my fingers poised with notes unplayed. A prickle skittered along the side of my neck, invisible spiders crawling up my spine, an unseen breeze stirring my hair against my skin. I shuddered, trying to brush away the cobwebs of doubt. The weight of a promise sat heavy on my breast, hung from a chain about my throat. A wolf’s-head ring. His ring.

  I played a few chords, softly, quietly, although I was far enough removed from the rest of the inn in Josef’s old room that the guests would not overhear. I ran through a few scales, warming up my fingers before settling into some exercises by Clementi. I was avoiding another song, another melody that was fighting its way to the forefront of my mind.

  The longer I played, the easier it began to feel. There were no ghosts in my home, no regrets or longing made flesh. But it wasn’t only my mind that carried memories; it was my muscles, my fingers, my heart. Slowly, but surely, the music began to change.

  The Wedding Night Sonata.

  No. I wrenched my thoughts away from the past and toward the future, my brother, Vienna.

  Vienna. Where one could attend a concert of the newest symphony by Haydn, see the latest play by Schikaneder at the Theatre auf der Wieden, or mingle with the greatest minds of our generation in a myriad of coffeehouses and salons. Vienna, where artists and philosophers flooded the streets, conversation flowing like wine. Vienna, where there were no sacred spaces, no places where the worlds above and below existed together.

  Where Josef was free.

  Where I might be free.

  I clenched my fists, wringing sour notes from the klavier. No. I will not. I would not.

  Yet like a boat borne backward along the current, I found myself sinking back into the music. My music. In my memory and in my mind, a violin began to play the second movement, the adagio. I closed my eyes and let myself be swept out to sea.

  I let myself drown.

  Elisabeth.

  Images rose up behind my closed lids. Long, elegant fingers across the neck of a violin, the smooth motion of a bowing arm, the rise and fall of a body in thrall to a musical tide.

  I played.

  Working on the sonata was as easy and as difficult as falling asleep. My body instinctively knew how, even if my mind had forgotten. My fingers found their places on the keyboard, occasionally forging new paths, new combinations. Composing was the process of working through an idea, the gathering of snippets of melody, of sound, of rhythm, of harmony. The refinement of phrases, counterpoint, and supporting lines. Drafts upon drafts upon drafts until a theme emerged, a story, a resolution.

  I did not have a resolution.

  Elisabeth.

  A weight settled onto the bench beside me. The scent of pine and deep woods filled the room, tinged with the edges of ice and winter, though the spring rains had already begun outside. My breathing grew shallow and quick as I tried to silence the thudding of my racing heart.

  Elisabeth.

  A cool breeze, the barest breath, a whisper against my ear. The Goblin King had always called me Elisabeth.

  “Be, thou, with me,” I whispered to the listening dark.

  My skin tingled as a tender touch brushed the hair from my face, the softest press of lips against my cheek. My hand flew up to my face, as though my fingers could capture his kiss in my grasp.

  “Mein Herr,” I said, voice trembling. “Oh, mein Herr.”

  There was no answer.

  I wished I had a name to call him. You cannot love a man with no name, he had said. He had thought he was doing me a kindness. The man he had been was nothing more than a shadow now, his name irrelevant, lost to the old laws as the price he paid to become Der Erlkönig. But it was not a kindness. It was cruelty—cruel to be here in the world above, alone, alive, and apart, our story abandoned.

  “Please,” I said hoarsely. “Be, thou, with me. Please.”

  A sharp intake of breath. A gasp of pain. The weight on the bench beside me shifted, and I waited for the feel of the Goblin King’s arms around me once more.

  But when I opened my eyes, the room was empty.

  It was always empty.

  I buried my face in my hands, and cried.

  A soft, shushing sound, the sound of branches rubbing together in a winter wind filled my ears. I thought of Twig and Thistle, my goblin handmaidens, of their long, crackling fingertips brushing against their dry, scaly palms. Goblin applause.

  I rose to my feet. “Hullo? Is anyone there?”

  Silence answered, but it was not an empty quiet, not as it had been before. I fumbled my way across the room, thrusting my hands out before me. Grotesque, otherworldly creatures resolved themselves into drapes, chairs, and other mundane, everyday objects.

  I was alone.

  And yet.

  I should sleep. Fatigue wore down my defenses like a rising tide against a dike, leaving me vulnerable to the vortex at the heart of me. I undressed down to my chemise and quickly climbed into bed, shivering against the night.

  Darkness doused my eyes, but sleep did not come. I reached for its shores, straining and swimming toward slumber, but it remained out of reach. I desperately wanted to rest, to shut my eyes and my mind and my heart.

  Don’t think. Feel.

  “Oh, mein Herr,” I sighed. “I wish I could. I wish I could.”

  As my mind drifted into slumber, I felt the weight of a name upon my heart. I wrapped my hand around his ring at my throat and tried to wake up, tried to remember, but it was gone before the dreams came.

  she calls to him.

  A monster lifts his head as the sound of music filters down from the world above. The Hunt has ridden him hard, and his hands and teeth are stained silver with the souls of the disbelieving. His eyes are blue-white and glow with pleasure, remembering how the taste of life, of sunshine, of breath, of passion had burst like bubbles on his tongue. Even now they tickle his throat until he throws his head back with laughter, joy, frenzy, and wild abandon.

 
It is a cry for help.

  Several more have joined his immortal company since they began their eternal ride across the sky. The dancer in the grove, the singer in the wings, the painter in the studio, the prophet in the alley. The Hunt bore them away on undead horses across the veil, but the living cannot bear the crossing. The barrier becomes a weapon, a blade, a dagger in his hand. Innocent blood is spilled as Der Erlkönig’s own join the unholy host. The drops fall to the ground and blossom into scarlet petals, like poppies in a field. The last vestiges of the living, they are all that remain of the humans they once were.

  The music is all that remains of the human he once was.

  Passing through endless, empty halls, the monster slips from shadow to shadow, a train of goblins in his wake. His hands have carried the sword and shield on the long night, but now they hold the violin and the bow. The Underground rearranges itself as he pleases, but for the first time in an age, he finds himself in a room lined with mirrors, a klavier at the center. A receiving room.

  The hearth is dead, the mirrors cracked, the instrument dusty and out of tune, but still she calls to him through the veil.

  Be, thou, with me.

  He presses the horsehair to the strings, letting the warm, grainy voice of his violin fill the space between them. The mirrors around him reflect not the receiving hall, but a cramped, dingy space, crowded with trunks and papers and odds and ends.

  And at the center of the room, a girl. A woman. She sits at the klavier with eyes closed, playing their song. Their story.

  Elisabeth.

  Her image flickers, wavers, a reflection seen on the edges of a candle flame. The shadows wriggle and writhe with curiosity, and with tremendous effort, the monster holds them back.

  Please, he whispers. Please, let me have this one thing.

  As he plays, the darkness recedes. From his skin, from his hair, the weight of the rams’ horns on his head lightening. Color returns to the world and to his eyes, a mismatched blue and green as the monster remembers what it is to be a man.

  Elisabeth.

  He sits down on the bench beside her, begging her—beseeching her—to open her eyes and see him. Be with him. But she keeps her eyes closed, hands trembling on the keyboard.

  Elisabeth.

  She stirs. He sucks in a sharp breath and lifts his hand to stroke her cheek with fingers that are still mangled, broken, strange. His touch passes through her like a knife through smoke, yet she shivers as if she can feel the brush of his fingers in the dark places of her soul, her body, her heart. She is as insubstantial as mist, but he cannot resist the urge, the itch, to kiss. He closes his eyes and leans in close, imagining the silk of her skin against his lips.

  They are met.

  A gasp. His eyes fly open but hers are still closed. Her hand lifts to her mouth, as though the tingle of their unexpected caress still lingered there.

  “Mein Herr,” she sighs. “Oh, mein Herr.”

  I’m here, he says. Look at me. Be with me. See me. Call me by name.

  Yet when she opens her eyes, she stares through him, not at him. The darkness hisses and crawls, the shushing sound of branches in an icy wind. She drops her head into her hands, her shoulders hunched, and the sound of her crying is more bitter than even the coldest winter night.

  No! he cries. He wants to comfort and caress her, but he cannot hold her, cannot touch her. He is a ghost in her mind, voiceless, silent, and incorporeal.

  The shadows have had enough of his wallowing, and the inky black twines itself about his hands, his arms, and his face once more. But even as the old laws have him in their grip, the man he is struggles against the monster he is becoming. He closes his thoughts and falls away, holding the last bit of himself uncorrupted and pure. He reaches out for her one last time, pressing his name onto her heart.

  Keep me safe, he thinks. Keep me human. Keep me whole.

  And then he is gone.

  A KINGDOM TO OUTRUN

  the coach was to arrive in the morning.

  To my surprise, that evening, several folk from the village paid a visit to send us off with gifts, well-wishes, and unsolicited advice. The baker and his wife brought sweets, the butcher brought meats, and the brewer delivered several kegs of beer to toast our departure. The inn’s guests mingled with the rest of the crowd, and before long, there was an impromptu celebration. I was touched by everyone’s coming and appreciated their gestures of goodwill, even if their advice was not quite as well received.

  “Mind you watch after your sister, Liesl,” Frau Bäcker said. “Beauty has its own blindness, and we don’t want our Käthe falling in with a bad crowd.”

  “You’ve got a good head on your shoulders,” her husband chimed in. “And we needn’t worry about any men trying to take advantage of you.”

  My grin tightened into a grimace, but I thanked them for the cake, which was a glorious confection of moist white sweetness. We did not have sugar to spare for such luxuries at the inn, so it had been an absolute treat, even if it did leave a bad taste in my mouth.

  But before long, one by one, our well-wishers slipped out the door and into the deepening night, leaving our hearts heavy with anticipation, apprehension, and not a little affection for the tiny town Käthe and I were so eager to escape. Mother insisted we retire to bed early and not worry about the chores, for we needed our rest for the morrow. By the glitter in her blue eyes, I suspected our mother wanted to retreat to the refuge of the kitchen to spare us the sight of her tears.

  Constanze had passed the evening locked upstairs in her bedroom. Although I knew it was probably for the best, her unsociability stung. She had deigned to make an appearance for Josef’s farewell celebration, after all.

  I was being unreasonable, of course, but a strange sort of melancholy had taken hold of me on our last night in the inn. I should be happy. I should be excited. My life was stretching out before me, a golden path lit by opportunity, a shining city of possibility on the other side. Yet I felt a curious sort of detachment from the prospect, as though I were experiencing my joy at a degree of remove.

  There was a shadow on my soul. I could see the sensations I should be feeling, the consequences that I should be fearing, but everything was dark, murky, vague. A veil was between me and my inner heart. I thought of the old rector’s dire warnings and of Constanze’s terror of the Wild Hunt. I knew I should worry. I knew I should care. But all I felt, this night before the rest of my life, was exhaustion and fatigue.

  Even Käthe noticed my unusual reticence. “Would you like to pass the night with me, Liesl?” she asked, once everyone else had retired. We were sitting in the main hall before the fire, watching the flames burn down into embers. “I know I could use the company. It would be like old times, yes?”

  As little girls, my sister and I had shared a bed while my brother had his own quarters downstairs. Back then, I had thought privacy the height of all luxury, wondering what it would be like spend a night without another treading on my dreams. And while I cherished having my own retreat, there were times when solitude had more weight than the feel of another’s limbs crowding my sleep.

  “No, it’s all right,” I said, staring without seeing into the fire. “You go on ahead, Käthe. I’ll . . . I’ll retire soon.”

  I could see her reach out, then withdraw, her mouth twisting as it struggled to find words of comfort. I wanted to lift my hand, to meet her concern with reassurance, but I could not. My shadow enveloped me in a shroud, and I could not move.

  My sister rose to her feet and made to head up the stairs up to her bedroom, when she paused. “Liesl,” she said quietly.

  “Yes?”

  “Go to the Goblin Grove.”

  Even the astonishment that knifed me felt dull. “What?” I asked.

  “Go to the Goblin Grove,” she repeated. “Make your peace and say your farewells. You cannot have a new beginning without an ending. Go, and be free.”

  I toyed with the ring on its chain about my throat. “I’
ll consider it.”

  “What is your problem?” Käthe’s eyes flashed, her voice filled with sudden vehemence. I was taken aback by the force of her anger, but more than that, I was envious. I wanted the strength of her convictions because my own resolve was weak. “What is it you’re afraid of? I am tired of bearing your emotional burdens, Liesl. I cannot carry them forever. I am not your crutch.”

  I blinked. “Excuse me?”

  She began pacing back and forth before the fire. “Ever since you came back from—from where you’d been, you’ve been barely holding yourself together.” Before I could protest in my defense, she went on. “You’re hot, you’re cold, you’re up, you’re down, you’re fast, you’re slow. I can’t keep up with you sometimes, Liesl. You’re like a top spinning out of control, and I’m continually watching—waiting—for any wobble that might topple you.”

  I was stunned. Was I so changed by my time beneath the earth? I was a different Liesl—no, Elisabeth—than I had been before I entered the realm of the goblins, but I was still the same me. Still the same soul. Still self-indulgent, selfish, selfless, savage. I had shed my skin to emerge anew, more me than before. But had I always been this insufferable? Had I always been so tiresome?

  “I—I—” Words withered on my tongue. “I didn’t mean—I’m so sorry, Käthe.”

  Her expression softened, but I could see that even my apology wearied her. She sighed. “Don’t apologize, Liesl,” she said. “Do. Stop wallowing and go find closure. Absolution or resolution or whatever it is, I am tired of holding your heart. Give it back to the Goblin Grove if you must. I can no longer carry it.”

  My eyes burned. I could feel Käthe’s pitying glance, but did not look at her. A hot tear slipped from beneath my lashes, and I tried very hard not to sniff. Stop wallowing, she had said. It was hard.

  My sister leaned over and pressed a kiss to my brow. “Go to the Goblin Grove,” she said. “Go, and make peace.”

  I went.