Love Is Red

by Sophie Jaff

“She wasn’t at the funeral was she? I don’t remember meeting her.

  “Came forward a week later. Apparently high as a kite. Turns out she’s a total junkie, clearly hoping to look after Lucas for money.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Yeah, it was horrible.”

  He waits for a moment and then, “Knock knock,” he says.

  I smile wetly. “Who’s there?”

  “Olive.”

  “Olive who?”

  “Olive you, Kat.”

  “Olive you too,” I say.

  I do. I love this Sael, this Sael who is tender, who is loving, this Sael who holds me in the dark. He lets me cry. He does not roll his eyes or sigh when I check again under the bed, again in the closet. He does not make me feel like I’m crazy, or a burden. Something hard and icy inside him has melted. We are still honest but now we are kind.

  “Ice cream?” he asks.

  “Ice cream,” I say.

  As on the other nights we sit on the upper deck and eat our ice cream while the citronella candles flicker and the moths flutter. Then we lean back in our sloping mismatched beach chairs, drink our wine. The temperature falls and under old blankets we stare up into the skies. Sael names the stars and I pretend to listen. I like to hear his voice. I know I won’t remember any of the names given for these uncomprehending stars. The names are only for us humans anyway.

  Then Sael speaks, pulling me back from the edge of sleep.

  “Katherine?” I can tell by his hesitant tone that there’s something on his mind.

  “Yes, what is it?”

  He bends over and sits up. He is holding a box. It’s a small wooden box, hand carved, a soft grain in a deep hue, a perfect thing within itself. I take it. It’s smooth against my skin.

  “It’s gorgeous. What kind of wood?”

  “Rosewood, now open it.”

  My heart halts midbeat.

  What’s inside the box lies shining within. In the night’s darkness it seems to float. At first I see a circle, but my fingertips decipher a designed roughness, a pattern of scales. I trace over them. The pin looks like a tiny sword. The metal gleams, as if it were used to moonlight, used to candlelight. A spider-thin silver chain snakes and curls around it.

  “You can hold it.” Sael’s usually confident voice has a slight tremble.

  I pick it up. It’s hard to breathe as I look at this shining scaled serpent, its mouth consuming its tail. What’s the name for that again? I can’t remember. It will come to me. I turn it over in my fingers, feeling its grooves. It is small but it has heft. There are five stones set along the snake’s sinuous tail and one more brilliant gem for its eye. In the darkness they sparkle black and I cannot tell what they are. It’s a thing of perfection and it rests within my palm.

  “It’s—”

  “That’s an Ouroboros.”

  I am standing in a dimly lit room in the Morgan Library, staring at a manuscript as David leans over my shoulder.

  “—a ring brooch. The Romans used it as a clothes fastener. They used the pin”—he taps on the little sword—“to push through the cloth and hold up their cloaks.”

  “How old is it?” I cannot tear my eyes away.

  “Oh . . .” He smiles but I can hear him growing self-conscious. “Pretty ancient. It’s been in my family for generations. But not the chain,” he adds proudly. “I had a chain made for it.”

  I can see this. The delicate links shine as only new silver can, unlike the ring brooch, which could be older than Christ himself. Thousands of years cupped within my hand, touching my skin.

  Will the chain bear the weight of the circle? Carefully, I let the ring brooch fall, swinging back and forth. The chain is thin but strong. Sael takes my free hand. He kneels before me. He’s like a knight wearing jeans and a sweater. It should feel ridiculous, but somehow, it’s right.

  “The Ouroboros is said to represent infinity, things beginning anew.” And then, “Katherine, will you wear this?”

  We are so rarely aware of the acts that truly shape our lives. I am still raw and recovering but I can see for a moment, as the doors swing open, everything: what has been, bed and betrayal, and Sael outside at the window, asking to be let in. I think of my underwear on the floor, and first hearing of Sara from the mouths of others. David’s face pale and calm, Margot whispering something into Sael’s ear and the bitterness of the games we played. But then I think of the lazy days we’ve had, the nights, the sweetness, my feet on his legs, his head in my lap, how a room feels empty without him, his arms around me, both of us reading with fingers entwined, curled up in the dark, the terror of loss, and gaining back life, and all that might be in the future. The laughing, eating, arguing, remonstrations, car trips, fights, furies, broken hearts, reunifications, reminders, private jokes, walking together, apart, lingering, and maybe, maybe, maybe the future of a family, children, a child we would make, us and our and we, a family, and his mouth is solemn, his eyes are serious at the finality of the question, but they are filled with hope, with light.

  “Will you wear this, now and forever and always?”

  The lake, the insects, the man who kneels before me—the whole world holds its breath and waits, waits in the gathering silence for my answer.

  The Maiden of Morwyn Castle | PART EIGHT

  EN THE NEW BRIDE SAW THE GOLDEN cup, she remembered the words of the old woman she had met in the forest, as she truly did wish to be a good and gentle wife and give Lord de Villias many sons. So she took the small parcel she had been hiding amid her garments for this very day and emptied the grainy powder into the cup of wine. Then she said the words as she had been bidden.

  Song to song,

  Skin to skin,

  Lip to cup,

  Heart to wing

  Bone to bone,

  Day to night,

  Blood to blood,

  Wish take flight.

  And drank them down.

  21

  You sit in the dimness of an ill-lit bar. The small streaked windows defy the very day. The jukebox plays a sad, sweet country song. A woman sings about her man, how he loves her good but treats her bad. A time to drink and a time to think and now it is time for a toast.

  You always like to toast your Ride before the Final Hunt. Afterward there will be no time.

  Before you arrived, the problems that he had faced were by comparison as insignificant as a speck of dust in an infant’s eye. Your Ride had not known suffering or hunger or thirst or pain.

  You were grateful that this Ride, in particular, was a good one. In the prime of his life, good-looking and strong. Fair faces beget fair fortune and life is easier for the lovely.

  You think back to the Rides of your past, who lived in darker days, who bore the brunt of wars and famine, hardship and brutality. This Ride has been so favored by his time and place, so educated and clever, at the pinnacle of health and happiness and success. He made your work so easy.

  And oh, how you loved his city.

  You who have run on stony roads and ridden horses over dung-smeared cobbles, who have tossed upon turbulent seas and sweated through burning deserts, here you sauntered down the shining streets, the smooth pavements stretching out for miles. How you will miss his world, this now of nows, this present, this time where numbers one and zero allow everything to flow. To travel and to talk, to write, everyone knows, so everyone can know.

  Oh, what an age, this beautiful twenty-first century, bright and brilliant and terrible and true and yours for the taking.

  So yes, you are grateful and possibly a little sentimental. Good-byes are always sad, and after you depart he will not last long. For when you leave them your Rides inevitably plunge into madness, their ears harboring the endless screams, their memories unblinking witness to the endless upturned faces begging, cursing, pleading, the cutting and the bleeding. Rides have put out their eyes, sliced off their ears, hacked off their hands, and still the mind holds them close; still they see and hear in endless repetition your b
loody acts caught in an endless bloody groove. Your Rides must be innocent in order for you to possess them. There must be no vestiges of evil, no foul or murderous thoughts or desire for harm. They must be clean tools with which you can do your work. You have turned them inside out and remade them, and they cannot be comfortable in their stained skins.

  You, who are immortal, drink to the great and wasteful and delicious and terrifying gift of mortality as your Rides take their own lives, candles desperate to be snuffed. They leap from high places; they drown in dark waters; they take knives and let their own lives pour out while you, in your righteousness, thrive.

  Your Rides do not understand the blood that must be spilled, the many colors that must be consumed. They do not delight, as you do, in every drip and drop. They do not understand that there is truth in all fluids, that there is beauty in putridity; they do not rejoice in blood. For they cannot know the mission they allowed you to fulfill, your purpose, the reason for your being. It is better for them this way.

  Of course, a few of your Rides were caught before they could end themselves. After you left they moved too slowly, stunned with horror, sickened and shocked. If a mob ended them, so much the better, but now there is modern medicine and trained professionals who ask why.

  It makes as much sense to question a straw man, to berate a husk, to smash an empty jug upon the floor.

  And each Ride speaks the terrible truth when he says, “I do not know.”

  So you are grateful to your Ride, and grateful to the women who gave you their colors. Each cut you made was a dedication to them, each cry they gave a poem, each sacrifice a song. Their endless, endless hues, their bright blooming colors, allowed you to stay and seek the Vessel out.

  And finally, a toast to the Vessel. To Katherine, Katherine who brought you out of nothing and who will send you back with her passing. From all the many, many you have had, she has been the hardest one to wait for. Still, the grape must ripen on the vine; the vintage cannot be rushed. You will have your drink.

  And now you sing a little song, to Katherine.

  Katherine, oh, my Katherine,

  I loved you best of all.

  Your heart is red, as red as red,

  And I must heed the call.

  Katherine, oh, my Katherine,

  I have loved you so.

  Drink up and fill my cup again,

  For soon I’ll have to go.

  So come and fill my cup again,

  For soon I’ll have to go.

  22

  I wake with a start. I have no idea how long I have slept. Waking in the afternoon, especially from a vivid dream, is always strange. I’m sweating. The dream, so rich, so real, has already begun to recede, great swaths of it dissolving in the afternoon light. I can feel the sweat cooling on my body. I can hear the birds sing. I will have a swim.

  It’s not surprising I’ve been napping. Early this morning I had woken for the express purpose of gloating. He’s mine. His dark hair and his eyes. His earlobes and his nose, his eyelashes. Mine and mine and mine. I gloat over his smooth back and I gloat over each round cheek of his ass. I gloat over his chest, which contains his heart; this too is mine and every beat a declaration, I love, I love, I love, I love. I gloat over the lean length of him, and his penis, curled and soft and sleeping, too is mine; his arms that hold me, and each finger and thumb, and his cheekbones and the place between his shoulder and his neck in which I nestle are mine. His navel, his chin. His skin, his breath. My heart creaks and groans with the enormity of everything I have. It is too much to bear. I try to rise but his arms, which are mine, tighten around me. I can feel him stir and harden against me and wordlessly he is on and then inside me and we are moving together.

  Now Sael has gone down into the town—for errands, he said, but I’m pretty sure that he’ll have a beer down at the Deer’s Head. He likes the jukebox, which plays old-timey tunes; he likes the drinkers with their hound-dog faces. Maybe he wants to casually, or not so casually, mention our engagement. The ol’ ball and chain finally got me. The prison sentence is starting soon. I got life. Maybe someone will offer to buy him a round, or more likely he’ll buy everyone a round, and that will be good because free beer always tastes better. He’ll be a man in the company of men.

  Again there it is, the cool weight of the ring brooch between my breasts. I have been worried that its pin will prick my skin, but it hasn’t yet. I will have to be careful with such an ancient piece of jewelry, with the burden of Sael’s heritage.

  I could call a friend and share the news but I plan to wait for a day or two. I want to be selfish with this; I want to hold this as my secret gift, and scratching around in the place where I don’t want to look, I think I know why this little voice is telling me to wait. When Andrea was NEW VICTIM BRUTALLY MURDERED! killed, my life ROOMMATE WAS IN THE HOUSE! became public property. My online photos, flattering and unflattering, were now in other people’s hands. I took down pictures and links, tried to erase myself, but not in time. Some information couldn’t be removed. Some things I had said were taken out of context before I learned to say “no comment.” That’s why the little voice says wait, because this news is special. It’s my news and his news but not anyone else’s news. I don’t doubt that I’ll be seen as callous, getting engaged so soon after Andrea’s GRISLY SLAUGHTER! death. At the very least eyebrows will be raised; people will be polite instead of happy. So I’ll hold on to this private joy for a while longer before releasing it into the world, where it will get kicked around like a soccer ball, growing grubby and worn.

  I think there will be time enough to tell everyone. I think there is nothing but time, the way people in love do.

  I am wrong. This is in fact the last day, for so many things.

  But I don’t know this yet. I only know that it’s still pretty hot for the late afternoon and that a swim would be nice.

  I crunch down the gravel path, wearing an old black bikini and little white shorts, toward the lake with the woods on either side. In my small cotton bag are the following items: a threadbare towel, an Agatha Christie paperback, a plum, a paper napkin, and my phone. I hope Sael will remember to pick up more plums. We both love them. I know William Carlos Williams wrote the whole “Forgive me” icebox thing, but frankly that’s a bullshit apology if ever I heard one. I bring my phone because there’s a good patch of reception near the edge of the lake and I might as well check my messages.

  On either side of the gravel path long fields teem with insects, the shhh and hiss of them creating the obligatory sound of a sleepy country afternoon, a living static. Behind the grasses stretch the woods. The woods are lovely, dark and deep. I learned that poem in school. My teacher told us it was a metaphor for death, but I always thought it was sexy. Lovely, dark and deep.

  I am brimming with poetry today. It’s probably the “love” thing.

  To get to the lake you have to veer slightly left off the path and duck down beneath some small low branches. Then there it is, with a tiny strip of firm wet sand and the huge mossy trunk of a fallen tree to sit on. This is where we lodge the old canoe, which has provided a good workout for my arms. I step into the water and it’s cold and then it’s wonderful. There’s nothing better than to swim in the late afternoon with the last of the sun beating down, pushing through the cold and warm pockets of water, and then to stretch on a towel, eat a plum, and read Agatha Christie. I do this until the shadows are a great deal longer and it’s starting to grow chilly.

  I heave myself up and begin to walk up to the path again. By the side of the road I hear my phone ringing. I’ve come to the good patch of reception. Sael and I call it treasure hunting.

  “Hello?”

  “Katherine!” David’s voice sounds strange, and almost to himself he says, “Thank God.”

  “Thank God”? “David, I—”

  “Shut up, there’s no time, is Sael around?”

  “Shut up”? Something is very wrong. “No, he—”

  “Where is
he?”

  “He went shopping, he’s probably having a beer down at the Deer’s Head. Why? Do you need to speak with him?” Will you be friends again?

  “No,” he says, so quickly that he startles me. My heart speeds up. I hear him take a breath. “Katherine, I need you to listen.”

  It is definitely colder now. The afternoon has taken the turn toward evening. Night will soon be here.

  “David, what is it?”

  “Listen.” His voice is not mean, but it’s impatient. “I’m on my way to you now.”

  “Here?”

  “I left as soon as they called me.”

  “As who called you? David—”

  “The police.”

  My heart stops.

  “The police called me. They want to speak with Sael.”

  “What? Why?”

  “They want to talk with him in connection to Andrea’s murder.”

  “Why would they want to talk with Sael?” I should have brought a sweater, or an extra towel. Something for cover, for warmth.

  “Listen to me! I don’t have much battery left.”

  I will myself to be quiet, to concentrate.

  “They called me because they couldn’t get in touch with him and they couldn’t get in touch with you.” Now he sounds angry.

  “We told everyone where we were going. I gave them the cabin’s address, you’ve been here before, you know what the reception here is like! And anyway, you said you never wanted to hear from us again.”

  Fear has made me spiteful, irrational, but David doesn’t rise to it, like he’s determined to control himself. Somehow this is scarier, as if becoming angry would waste too much time. “The police say they’ve been trying to call him, that it just goes to voice mail.”

  Is this true? I’m trying to think but panic is beginning to buzz like a swarm of bees. “But he has his phone, I’ve seen him take calls.”

  “Katherine”—his voice grows quiet—“I’m telling you what they told me. The police have been trying for at least two days to get hold of him. They may have found some prints that matched.”