Under the Pendulum Sun

by Jeannette Ng

  The sound of the hunting horn broke her reverie.

  Her eyes darted towards them. We heard again the cackling of the hyenas; they were nearing.

  “You have to kill me. Don’t let your brother do it.” Ariel drew a knife from her belt. It was dark and slick with blood. Her bruised fingers closed my pale ones around it. “Mab will force him. She wants him to sin. Don’t let her.”

  “But to sin–”

  “You’re safe. It doesn’t matter to you. You’re like me.” She glanced over her shoulder. “It’s in Mab’s nature to toy with people. To make them sin. To make them fall. Protect him for me. I beg you. Promise me.”

  PART THREE

  Golgotha

  Chapter 27

  The Blood on the Hands

  If changelings are something between man and beast, what will become of them in the other world?

  To which I answer, It concerns me not to know or enquire. To their own master they stand or fall. It will make their state neither better nor worse, whether we determine anything of it or no. They are in the hands of a faithful Creator and a bountiful Father, who disposes not of his creatures according to our narrow thoughts or opinions, nor distinguishes them according to names and species of our contrivance. And we that know so little of this present world we are in, may, I think, content ourselves without being peremptory in defining the different states which creatures shall come into when they go off this stage. It may suffice us, that He hath made known to all those who are capable of instruction, discoursing, and reasoning, that they shall come to an account, and receive according to what they have done in this body.

  John Locke, An Essay Concerning Human Understanding

  I killed Ariel Davenport.

  That much I remember.

  I could not entirely say how it happened even as I could describe each second leading up to me plunging that knife into her chest. Each moment flowed into the next like a dream, illogically and yet with inexorable logic. Each second ticked forward with solid, irrevocable certainty, and I was swept up in it.

  “Do it, Cathy.”

  For all its sharpness, the knife did not pierce far. I hit bone. Ariel screamed.

  Blood bloomed from the wound as I pulled the knife out. She sobbed in pain and her eyes met mine. She was begging me. She crumpled.

  She bled like a slaughtered pig, the blood draining from her. It spread across her clothes like so much red ink.

  Perhaps it is only right, given the talk of our mutual inhumanity. I thought of what Mr Warner said about dolls of flesh. Had I simply torn her seams? Was that her stuffing I was exposing to the sun? Would I find her cogs and springs among all this blood?

  I brought down the knife again, but I was shaking too much. A graze, more blood. Her blue dress was almost all red and it clung to her.

  Ariel had stopped screaming.

  Her blood was warm. She told me once that blood binds blood, but I didn’t know what she meant then. Was this true blood? I felt it between my fingers, slick and slippery. I gripped the knife tighter, feeling the contours of that fine wooden handle under my fingers.

  Laughter filled my ears with its long ululating notes, though I could not say if it was the mocking hyenas or Queen Mab herself.

  I breathed in the taste of blood, thick, slick and acrid. I dared not close my eyes. I did not want to remember this moment, but I could not look away.

  Ariel mouthed words, words I would never hear and never know as I plunged the knife into her again. Changeling flesh was no match for Sheffield steel. I was surrendering her secrets to death itself and I wondered if this was a pagan sacrifice, some heathen ritual.

  “I’m sorry.” It was my own voice, but I did not remember speaking the words. The apology tumbled from my lips, following another cut of the knife. “I’m so sorry.”

  The soulless may not be able to sin, but they could certainly be sinned against.

  I did not look up. I did not want to meet the horrified eyes of my own brother. I did not want to tell him the nested truths that had been revealed to me, the reasons that weighed me down, and the sheer irrationality of it all.

  How had it come to this?

  A copper tub of hot water waited in my room.

  I sank into it without thought, my bloody clothes still clinging to me.

  The water was scalding hot. My own breath hissed out of me. I rolled my head back, the blood-matted mess of my hair falling into the water as I did so.

  For long minutes, I breathed steam and soap. My mind was filled with nothing but blood and the look in Ariel’s eyes when I killed her. A changeling’s blood shed by a changeling’s hands.

  Neither of us were real, so what did it truly matter?

  I peeled the layers of my dress from myself. The blood-soaked cloth floated as a film over the bath, like the skin on cooling milk. I thought of all those bedtimes sipping once-hot milk through that film and making faces at my brother as we raced each other. No, Catherine Helstone’s brother. I corrected myself even as I hated the thought. He was not mine to call my own.

  Yorkshire seemed a lifetime away. No, a life away.

  The water was cloudy with Ariel’s blood. Changelings bled so very much. I wondered then if humans bled just as much or if the doll of flesh was an imperfect simulacrum in this regard. Too much blood.

  I pulled the pins from my hair, letting it all fall in a tangle. The once-neat braids were now anything but as I raked my fingers through it.

  It was something to do with my hands, so strand by strand I slowly untangled my own hair. I lost myself in the task, letting that numbness settle around me like a shroud. It kept thoughts at bay.

  A knock roused me.

  I bolted upright in the bath, startled. My breath tangled up in my throat and my heart beat like a drum, thundering as the horses on the hunt.

  Time must have passed, as the water was no longer steaming.

  “Cathy? Are you there?”

  It was my brother.

  Not my brother. He was Catherine Helstone’s brother.

  “Cathy?” came his voice again. “Are you in there?”

  I did not answer. I sank deeper into the water. I let it engulf me.

  “I know you’re in there. Talk to me, Cathy.”

  I heard the door open.

  “Cathy. Are you–” He stopped. There were no words he could say.

  I was all too aware of my own skin, naked under the water, and the bloody clothes that floated above me. I felt again that warm flush and that heavy guilt.

  But what did it matter?

  “Should I go?” he said.

  I did not turn around. I did not want to see the look in his eyes. I feared his pity, his revulsion, his anger. I dreaded it all, but above all, I feared his absence.

  Tentatively, I shook my head. I did not trust my voice. I felt my own wet hair, clammy against my skin.

  I heard the door shut. The click of the latch falling with all the weight of an executioner’s axe. I was holding my breath but I did not know why.

  And then footsteps. He had not left.

  “Cathy…”

  “Don’t call me that,” I snapped.

  “Why–” I could hear him shift behind me, recoiling at my vehemence.

  “I’m not Catherine Helstone,” I said. I found myself stumbling over the words, my tongue thick and clumsy in my mouth. I cupped water to my face, the lukewarm liquid disguising what tears may be flowing. My eyes stung. I swallowed and steeled myself.

  “Cathy, it doesn’t matter what you’ve done. I understand. Mab made you…”

  “I’m…” I hesitated. I thought of how Ariel introduced herself to me, how she made it sound like it was of no consequence. I tried to imagine myself as her. I tried a laugh; I sounded delirious. “I’m not the real Catherine Helstone. I’m her changeling.”

  “What?”

  “I’m a changeling, Laon.” I ran my tongue over my cracked, wet lips. Soap and blood. “I’m not your sister.”

&nbs
p; “I… I see. How do you know this?”

  “Ariel… she told me.”

  “How would she know?”

  “Before she begged me to kill her, she told me. She knew for far longer but she didn’t want to say. She…” I stumbled again. Would she have wanted him to know? Would the knowledge weigh too heavily upon his soul? And yet, what use had I of secrets? “Ariel said she could not bear her blood to stain your hands. And I… I’m not real, like her, so I could do it. The Pale Queen willed her dead, after all. Someone had to.”

  “You only did as she bid.”

  “But is it enough?” A streak of dried blood was still upon my arm. I stared at it, barely comprehending what I saw. My voice did not sound like my own, did not sound human. “I did as the good book bids: Render unto Caesar the things which are Caesar’s; and unto God the things that are God’s.”

  “Cathy–”

  “It’s not my name.”

  “Don’t do that to yourself. You haven’t changed. You are who you are–”

  “But I’m not her.”

  “You’re still my sister.”

  I traced a finger down the crusted blood. I studied the smear of it on my fingertips. It had been so red earlier, so vivid.

  How was there still blood on me?

  “She loved you, you know,” I said. “Davenport. The fake one. She loved you.”

  “I know.”

  I submerged my arm and began scrubbing with my hand. When I drew it again from the water, it felt no cleaner. The shadow of the blood lingered, and I could still smell it on myself.

  I heard the rustle of clothes and the dull thud of a greatcoat dropping to the floor. He was taking off his jacket.

  In the corner of my eye, I saw his hands roll up his sleeves. The spotless linen of his sleeves folded up. He took a washcloth that hung on the edge of the bath and waved it into the water.

  “I can clean myself…” I said in a breathless murmur.

  His hands wrung murky water from the rag and very gently, far more gently than I would have done, he washed Ariel’s blood from my wrists.

  “We used to share a copper bath like this by the fire,” he said conversationally. I could hear the strain in his voice, see the slight tremble in his motions. “When we were small enough to both fit inside the tub. You hated washing your hair because of the soap in your eyes.”

  I nodded. The warm memory was tainted now. I watched it in my mind through glass, as though it was happening to someone else. I imagined myself pressing my face against the cold window, watching the scene unfold inside the sheltered room. I imagined my breath upon the glass, each heave of my lungs obscuring further that childhood vision. Did I giggle when he upended buckets of water over my head or was I angered? Did I sit patiently as he scrubbed my back or did I squirm at his touch?

  The water was lukewarm but Laon’s touch was anything but cold. I followed his every movement, the nonsense patterns upon my skin.

  I was holding my breath, listening to his. I could feel him, warm and solid behind me, his breath hot on my shoulder, at the base of my neck. Shivers spidered down my spine and spread over me.

  I ached.

  The rag dipped again into the water and it travelled over my other arm, my shoulder, my collar bone. I leaned into his touch and at some point he had dropped the rag and it was his hands that traversed my body.

  We maintained the pretence a moment longer, but barely more than that.

  His arms were around me and he drew me from the bath. Water ran off me in rivulets, and I shivered. I clasped my arms around him like a woman drowning, clinging to him. He felt so real, so tangible.

  I was not clean, but it was not about that anymore.

  His arms closed around me, and I felt their enveloping warmth. The water on my skin soaked into his clothes, spreading like a shadow of me onto him: the shape of my hands, the curve of my arms, the press of my body. I buried my face in the soft, now damp linen of his shirt. I felt the cold bite of his buttons. My fingers tangled in the wet fabric, fingernails pressing into him.

  For all his closeness, he still felt too far away.

  My lips brushed against his, and that was all the invitation he needed. His hands cupped my face, and I was gasping into his hungry kisses. He tasted of soap and blood and wine. I chased his kisses with my own, and he wound his fingers through my wet hair. We fumbled at his clothes until his pale skin was against mine.

  He was so very real. For all that we were reassuringly alike, I still felt like a reflection in still water, hazy and indistinct.

  My mind was dwelling again on my own unreality, believing I would ripple and rip at his touch. I was that spirit from the moors that he supposed so long ago, here to tempt him and then disappear when the sun burnt away the morning mist.

  And then, his hands were on me again, strong, demanding. I revelled in his force; it proved to me that I was not breaking, that I would not shatter. He tightened his grip on my hips and I gasped.

  Fleetingly, I felt real.

  Chapter 28

  The Stranger in the Skin

  Thou hast ravished my heart, my sister, my spouse; thou hast ravished my heart with one of thine eyes, with one chain of thy neck.

  How fair is thy love, my sister, my spouse! how much better is thy love than wine! and the smell of thine ointments than all spices!

  Thy lips, O my spouse, drop as the honeycomb: honey and milk are under thy tongue; and the smell of thy garments is like the smell of Lebanon.

  A garden inclosed is my sister, my spouse; a spring shut up, a fountain sealed.

  Thy plants are an orchard of pomegranates, with pleasant fruits; camphire, with spikenard,

  Spikenard and saffron; calamus and cinnamon, with all trees of frankincense; myrrh and aloes, with all the chief spices:

  A fountain of gardens, a well of living waters, and streams from Lebanon.

  Awake, O north wind; and come, thou south; blow upon my garden, that the spices thereof may flow out. Let my beloved come into his garden, and eat his pleasant fruits.

  Song of Solomon 4:9-16

  I did not see Mab again.

  I knew she was still in the castle, though her guests vanished soon after the hunt. Catherine Helstone’s brother busied himself in attending to her. She had further entertainments planned, but nothing as grandiose as what had come before. We were gone too far to turn back now. One word from Mab and our sacrifices – Ariel’s sacrifice – would be made worthwhile.

  Whatever excuse was given for my absence seemed adequate, as I was not disturbed in my tower. Though it mattered not, as I barred the doors and imprisoned myself with the silent accusation of my thoughts.

  Day and night, I found myself washing my hands over and over. Not so much because I believed them stained with blood, but that I wanted to feel that guilt. I wanted that sweet madness that Lady Macbeth once felt. For all the deed weighed upon me, for all the echoes of it I saw behind my closed eyes, it was not enough.

  This was not true guilt.

  I knew I should feel more. I needed to feel more. My own inhumanity was showing through and the thought of that terrified me. I was no more real than the walls that surrounded me, no more true than the promises of Mab.

  Still so selfish.

  The blood of a friend stained my hands, and I still obsessed about myself, about my own reality. I could not even feel true guilt.

  I scrubbed my hands until the skin was red and sore and finally, it bled. I watched my own blood soak the washcloth, the pain a distant sensation. I thought it would slice through the tangles of my mind, but it gave no greater clarity.

  All my memories seemed so distant. My imperfect, simulacrum mind with its imperfect memories. I remembered now Ariel’s fascination with how I remembered and I realised now that she was testing me, trying to work out if I was as unreal as she was.

  I was no more real than her.

  She must have guessed then when I told her so very foolishly that all memories could be hazy, th
at any mind could misremember. And now I here I was, a patchwork mind doubting itself.

  I told my youth to myself like a story, trying to remember who I was. I told myself about the little papers I wrote with Catherine Helstone’s brother, the names we gave the toy soldiers and the fantastical yet tediously mundane lands they explored. I tried to remember the icy lips of Catherine Helstone’s sister at her funeral, the moors beneath my bare feet – I was always losing my shoes – and the hard beds at boarding school. I tried to remember the bare classrooms and the hard cane on my fingers, the cruel words of the other children. It all seemed so very insubstantial.

  Except that memory.

  I flushed warm whenever my thoughts brushed against it. Unlike everything else, I remembered with embarrassing clarity, every touch between us, every biting kiss and each hot breath.

  I was a moth, speared like a specimen by his scrutiny. I lay under him, pinned. His gaze, his touch, his grip made me real.

  But then, there was after.

  Catherine Helstone’s brother had departed by dawn, and I almost laughed. I had feared that I would be the one to melt away like the morning mist. He left a note to tell me that Mab had summoned me but that he was going in my stead.

  He did not return.

  Still, it filled me with giddy, nonsensical hope and a hunger to feel again that anchoring solidness.

  I did not eat in the tower, but as Ariel said, changelings didn’t really need food. I had water to wet my mouth and the hollowness of my stomach was barely any distraction from my thoughts.

  I turned often to my well-thumbed Bible, but it offered little comfort to one such as myself. I remembered the sermon Catherine Helstone’s brother had given on the fae being the birds that roosted in the tree sprung from a mustard seed. They could shelter within the kingdom of heaven, but I was not fae.

  I read the promises that Jesus made to those who died and those who lived, that they would know life again through Him. It rang so hollow to my ears. I could believe it of Laon, of Catherine Helstone’s dead mother and sisters, even of Mr Benjamin, that they would all know the kingdom of heaven, that the bread and wine of sacrament was for them and that the lord and saviour would wipe away every tear they had ever known.