Ghost

by Louise Welsh

  He took back his blood, now mixed with hers, gagging on its sweet texture. Gilda pulled back again – two times more – to draw the blood from the wound in his neck. Each time she took him closer to the edge of life, letting Julius feel that perimeter and the abyss beyond it. She drew out his life and waited for him to make a sign of protest. If he did she would leave him to his life and wipe these moments from his mind. But he only opened wider for her. His eyes lost their focus, and his body was limp. Gilda pulled her shirt from her chest and sliced an opening below her breast. She pressed Julius to her, waiting to feel the power of his mouth taking in the life she offered.

  He began to suck at the blood insistently, finally understanding the power that moved between them. Electricity surged through him. His head pounded, blocking out all thought until he heard Gilda speaking inside of him.

  And what do you leave in exchange? This is your first lesson. You must never take your share of the blood without leaving something of use behind.

  Gilda felt his moment of confusion. He’d been lost in the blood and didn’t yet understand their way. She repeated her question and was immediately flooded with the sense of well-being only a child can feel when lying in the arms of its parent. She opened her eyes and looked up at the snapshot of Julius’ mother, feeling the complete joy he had felt as a child. He left this most exquisite feeling with her, his gift as he pulled back from Gilda’s breast. She closed her eyes in joy and held his hand to his wound, letting him help heal it.

  She touched her reddened lips to the bridge of his nose and his forehead as she murmured words too soft for anyone in the world to hear. Her thoughts silenced him when he started to speak. Sleep, there is much to be done tomorrow.

  With her back against a thin pillow she held him until he slept comfortably. Inside his dreams she planted calming thoughts that would hold him in peaceful sleep until she returned. She let herself out, looking up only briefly at his shrouded windows before making her way back to her own apartment. Her mind raced trying to organize the things that had to be done.

  She removed two large duffels from her closet. She changed into her boots lined with her native soil and the cloak Sorel had had woven for her by the seamstress who created her new wardrobe years before. It was rare for her to actually spend so much full daylight time out-of-doors. Regular errands that required little effort weren’t uncommon, but this trip would use all of Gilda’s resources. Deciding not to wait for a taxi, Gilda started for the airport on foot. She could be in Virginia by noon, fill the bags with his Virginia earth, and be back in time for the half-hour call at the theater. As she moved quickly through the City, past the tunnel, the factories, the cemeteries, and shipping firms, she tried to keep her mind only on her destination, but a myriad of thoughts rumbled around inside her with the noise and disturbance of the planes roaring overhead.

  She tried to remember her own response to the truth of the choice she had made and to imagine how Julius would react. No matter what he’d said about friendship there might be little solace once he really understood what world he now belonged to. She was taking him away from the life he knew, and she could not provide solid answers to what this life would be.

  Words from the Tao came to her: Give up sainthood, renounce wisdom… The airline terminals were just ahead. The simple truth was that it was done.

  They would be each other’s family now. It’s more important to see the simplicity. She could only hope her judgment had been correct – that it was a good choice for Julius as well. She closed the door to doubt and began to anticipate the night when she would have Julius to show the world to. They would care for each other until they returned to the source, the stillness and the movement that is the way of nature. There would be no sad past between them as there still remained with Bird. When they were ready to travel separately they would be certain it was the natural time for that to happen and not filled with shadowy anger or fear.

  Her Mississippi soil lay comfortably inside her shoes, protecting her from the weakening properties of daylight. She hummed a soft tune to herself, one her mother had sung while preparing poultices and compounds for the mistress’ perpetual headaches. Gilda smiled remembering her mother’s dark face and began to laugh to herself as she settled in the plane. She imagined what kind of companion Julius would be – his enthusiasm and idealism just the thing she needed to face eternity. She looked below at the thousands of tiny lights that sparkled in the receding city and remembered the first time she had seen a city shine with electricity. The lights were such a gaudy imitation of the stars. Gilda strained her neck to see out the window through the clouds. But dawn was upon the City, and the stars had moved on. She wondered if Bird was also looking up at them now. She pulled down the window shade and put her head back, listening.

  After a moment she heard Bird whispering in her ear. It was a soft murmur of comfort, not words, but sounds meant to elicit ease. Gilda relaxed and sent out her message: We’ve finally delivered a brother for me.

  ASHPUTTLE OR THE MOTHER’S GHOST

  Angela Carter

  Angela Carter (1940–1992) was born Angela Olive Stalker in Eastbourne, Sussex. She was evacuated to her grandmother’s house in Yorkshire during World War II and subsequently lived in Balham in London. Carter studied English literature at Bristol University. She is the author of nine novels and four collections of stories. Carter’s awards include a Somerset Maugham Award, which enabled her to live in Tokyo for two years. She taught part-time on the Writing MA at the University of East Anglia from 1984–1987.

  I

  The Mutilated Girls

  But although you could easily take the story away from Ashputtle and centre it on the mutilated sisters – indeed, it would be easy to think of it as a story about cutting bits off women, so that they will fit in, some sort of circumcision-like ritual chop, nevertheless, the story always begins not with Ashputtle or her stepsisters but with Ashputtle’s mother, as though it is really always the story of her mother even if, at the beginning of the story, the mother herself is just about to exit the narrative because she is at death’s door: “A rich man’s wife fell sick, and, feeling that her end was near, she called her only daughter to her bedside.”

  Note the absence of the husband/father. Although the woman is defined by her relation to him (“a rich man’s wife”) the daughter is unambiguously hers, as if hers alone, and the entire drama concerns only women, takes place almost exclusively among women, is a fight between two groups of women – in the righthand corner, Ashputtle and her mother; in the left-hand corner, the stepmother and her daughters, of whom the father is unacknowledged but all the same is predicated by both textual and biological necessity.

  In the drama between two female families in opposition to one another because of their rivalry over men (husband/father, husband/son), the men seem no more than passive victims of their fancy, yet their significance is absolute because it is (“a rich man”, “a king’s son”) economic.

  Ashputtle’s father, the old man, is the first object of their desire and their dissension; the stepmother snatches him from the dead mother before her corpse is cold, as soon as her grip loosens. Then there is the young man, the potential bridegroom, the hypothetical son-in-law, for whose possession the mothers fight, using their daughters as instruments of war or as surrogates in the business of mating.

  If the men, and the bank balances for which they stand, are the passive victims of the two grown women, then the girls, all three, are animated solely by the wills of their mothers, Even if Ashputtle’s mother dies at the beginning of the story, her status as one of the dead only makes her position more authoritative. The mother’s ghost dominates the narrative and is, in a real sense, the motive centre, the event that makes all the other events happen.

  On her death bed, the mother assures the daughter: “I shall always look after you and always be with you.” The story tells you how she does it.

  At this point, when her mother makes her promise, Ashputtle
is nameless. She is her mother’s daughter. That is all we know. It is the stepmother who names her Ashputtle, as a joke, and, in doing so, wipes out her real name, whatever that is, banishes her from the family, exiles her from the shared table to the lonely hearth among the cinders, removes her contingent but honourable status as daughter and gives her, instead, the contingent but disreputable status of servant.

  Her mother told Ashputtle she would always look after her, but then she died and the father married again and gave Ashputtle an imitation mother with daughters of her own whom she loves with the same fierce passion as Ashputtle’s mother did and still, posthumously, does, as we shall find out.

  With the second marriage comes the vexed question: who shall be the daughters of the house? Mine! declares the stepmother and sets the freshly named, non-daughter Ashputtle to sweep and scrub and sleep on the hearth while her daughters lie between clean sheets in Ashputtle’s bed. Ashputtle, no longer known as the daughter of her mother, nor of her father either, goes by a dry, dirty, cindery nickname for everything has turned to dust and ashes.

  Meanwhile, the false mother sleeps on the bed where the real mother died and is, presumably, pleasured by the husband/father in that bed, unless there is no pleasure in it for her. We are not told what the husband/ father does as regards domestic or marital function, but we can surely make the assumption that he and the stepmother share a bed, because that is what married people do.

  And what can the real mother/wife do about it? Burn as she might with love, anger and jealousy, she is dead and buried.

  The father, in this story, is a mystery to me. Is he so besotted with his new wife that he cannot see how his daughter is soiled with kitchen refuse and filthy from her ashy bed and always hard at work? If he sensed there was a drama in hand, he was content to leave the entire production to the women for, absent as he might be, always remember that it is in his house where Ashputtle sleeps on the cinders, and he is the invisible link that binds both sets of mothers and daughters in their violent equation. He is the unmoved mover, the unseen organising principle, like God, and, like God, up he pops in person, one fine day, to introduce the essential plot device.

  Besides, without the absent father there would be no story because there would have been no conflict.

  If they had been able to put aside their differences and discuss everything amicably, they’d have combined to expel the father. Then all the women could have slept in one bed. If they’d kept the father on, he could have done the housework.

  This is the essential plot device introduced by the father: he says, “I am about to take a business trip. What presents would my three girls like me to bring back for them?”

  Note that: his three girls.

  It occurs to me that perhaps the stepmother’s daughters were really, all the time, his own daughters, just as much his own daughters as Ashputtle, his “natural” daughters, as they say, as though there is something inherently unnatural about legitimacy. That would realign the forces in the story. It would make his connivance with the ascendancy of the other girls more plausible. It would make the speedy marriage, the stepmother’s hostility, more probable.

  But it would also transform the story into something else, because it would provide motivation, and so on; it would mean I’d have to provide a past for all these people, that I would have to equip them with three dimensions, with tastes and memories, and I would have to think of things for them to eat and wear and say. It would transform “Ashputtle” from the bare necessity of fairy tale, with its characteristic copula formula, “and then”, to the emotional and technical complexity of bourgeois realism. They would have to learn to think. Everything would change.

  I will stick with what I know.

  What presents do his three girls want?

  “Bring me a silk dress,” said his eldest girl. “Bring me a string of pearls,” said the middle one. What about the third one, the forgotten one, called out of the kitchen on a charitable impulse and drying her hands, raw with housework, on her apron, bringing with her the smell of old fire?

  “Bring me the first branch that knocks against your hat on the way home,” said Ashputtle.

  Why did she ask for that? Did she make an informed guess at how little he valued her? Or had a dream told her to use this random formula of unacknowledged desire, to allow blind chance to choose her present for her? Unless it was her mother’s ghost, awake and restlessly looking for a way home, that came into the girl’s mouth and spoke the request for her.

  He brought her back a hazel twig. She planted it on her mother’s grave and watered it with tears. It grew into a hazel tree. When Ashputtle came out to weep upon her mother’s grave, the turtle dove crooned: “I’ll never leave you, I’ll always protect you.”

  Then Ashputtle knew that the turtle dove was her mother’s ghost and she herself was still her mother’s daughter, and although she had wept and wailed and longed to have her mother back again, now her heart sank a little to find out that her mother, though dead, was no longer gone and henceforward she must do her mother’s bidding.

  Came the time for that curious fair they used to hold in that country, when all the resident virgins went to dance in front of the king’s son so that he could pick out the girl he wanted to marry.

  The turtle dove was mad for that, for her daughter to marry the prince. You might have thought her own experience of marriage might have taught her to be wary, but no, needs must, what else is a girl to do? The turtle dove was mad for her daughter to marry so she flew in and picked up the new silk dress with her beak, dragged it to the open window, threw it down to Ashputtle. She did the same with the string of pearls. Ashputtle had a good wash under the pump in the yard, put on her stolen finery and crept out the back way, secretly, to the dancing grounds, but the stepsisters had to stay home and sulk because they had nothing to wear.

  The turtle dove stayed close to Ashputtle, pecking her ears to make her dance vivaciously, so that the prince would see her, so that the prince would love her, so that he would follow her and find the clue of the fallen slipper, for the story is not complete without the ritual humiliation of the other woman and the mutilation of her daughters.

  The search for the foot that fits the slipper is essential to the enactment of this ritual humiliation.

  The other woman wants that young man desperately. She would do anything to catch him. Not losing a daughter, but gaining a son. She wants a son so badly she is prepared to cripple her daughters. She takes up a carving knife and chops off her elder daughter’s big toe, so that her foot will fit the little shoe.

  Imagine.

  Brandishing the carving knife, the woman bears down on her child, who is as distraught as if she had not been a girl but a boy and the old woman was after a more essential portion than a toe. “No!” she screams. “Mother! No! Not the knife! No!” But off it comes, all the same, and she throws it in the fire, among the ashes, where Ashputtle finds it, wonders at it, and feels both awe and fear at the phenomenon of mother love.

  Mother love, which winds about these daughters like a shroud.

  The prince saw nothing familiar in the face of the tearful young woman, one shoe off, one shoe on, displayed to him in triumph by her mother, but he said: “I promised I would marry whoever the shoe fitted so I will marry you,” and they rode off together.

  The turtle dove came flying round and did not croon or coo to the bridal pair but sang a horrid song: “Look! Look! There’s blood in the shoe!”

  The prince returned the ersatz ex-fiancee at once, angry at the trick, but the stepmother hastily lopped off her other daughter’s heel and pushed that poor foot into the bloody shoe as soon as it was vacant so, nothing for it, a man of his word, the prince helped up the new girl and once again he rode away.

  Back came the nagging turtle dove: “Look!” And, sure enough, the shoe was full of blood again.

  “Let Ashputtle try,” said the eager turtle dove.

  So now Ashputtle must put her foot into
the hideous receptacle, this open wound, still slick and warm as it is, for nothing in any of the many texts of this tale suggests the prince washed the shoe out between the fittings. It was an ordeal in itself to put a naked foot into the bloody shoe, but her mother, the turtle dove, urged her to do so in a soft, cooing croon that could not be denied.

  If she does not plunge without revulsion into this open wound, she won’t be fit to marry.

  That is the song of the turtle dove, while the other mad mother stood impotently by.

  Ashputtle’s foot, the size of the bound foot of a Chinese woman, a stump. Almost an amputee already, she put her tiny foot in it.

  “Look! Look!” cried the turtle dove in triumph, even while the bird betrayed its ghostly nature by becoming progressively more and more immaterial as Ashputtle stood up in the shoe and commenced to walk around. Squelch, went the stump of the foot in the shoe. Squelch.

  “Look!” sang out the turtle dove. “Her foot fits the shoe like a corpse fits the coffin!

  “See how well I look after you, my darling!”

  II

  The Burned Child

  A burned child lived in the ashes. No, not really burned – more charred, a little bit charred, like a stick half-burned and picked off the fire. She looked like charcoal and ashes because she lived in the ashes since her mother died and the hot ashes burned her so she was scabbed and scarred. The burned child lived on the hearth, covered in ashes, as if she were still mourning.

  After her mother died and was buried, her father forgot the mother and forgot the child and married the woman who used to rake the ashes, and that was why the child lived in the unraked ashes, and there was nobody to brush her hair, so it stuck out like a mat, nor to wipe the dirt off her scabbed face, and she had no heart to do it for herself, but she raked the ashes and slept beside the little cat and got the burned bits from the bottom of the pot to eat, scraping them out, squatting on the floor, by herself in front of the fire, not as if she were human, because she was still mourning.