Cygnet Czarinas

by Jon Jacks

  Now he’s the axis about which rumours revolve: not one of them good or flattering. At best, it’s said that he’s given up chivalry for love, becoming less of a man because of it.

  He stays so long at Enid’s side, doting on her like some lovesick loon, that he no longer attends the tilts or tournaments, neglecting even his duties as a ruler. Forgetful of his glory and his name, Geraint's reputation suffers, his own people secretly scoffing his forfeiture of knightly prowess.

  Naturally, Enid hears whispers of these rumours.

  Naturally, too, she realises that she’s regarded as the ultimate cause of her husband’s fall from grace.

  It’s unbearably distressing for her to hear that her husband has become such an object of ridicule.

  Should she tell him? she wonders.

  No: it would hurt him considerably to learn that he has lost his hard-won reputation.

  And so Enid has to take that gnawing pain into herself, unable to divulge her agonising secret, letting it instead tear at her insides more brutally than any instrument of torture.

  *

  While her husband sleeps contentedly on a night, oblivious to the truth, Enid’s sleep suffers.

  Whenever she lets her eyes close, she isn’t blessed by an enveloping, comforting darkness but, rather, is cursed to wander a darker court of chortling, sneering courtiers.

  She lies awake, searching for a solution to her dilemma, berating herself for keeping secrets from her husband.

  And Geraint awakes and overhears the last words of her lament: and hearing only the barest fragment of a great and hidden truth, he hears it instead only as something false, believing he is hearing her confession to her unfaithfulness.

  For the object of her infatuation is quite obviously a knight she believes superior to him.

  *

  He is a great warrior! he shouts angrily as he rises from their bed.

  And they will both set out on a quest that very morning, so that he may prove it to her.

  Yet he forces poor miserable Enid to ride before him, on a wizened old horse and wearing nothing but her oldest, most shabby dress. Indeed, it is so torn and tattered that her skin shines through as white as a swan’s, as pure as the soul: which, after all, is the meaning of the name Enid.

  Geraint further orders that she must never speak, never object, no matter what provocation she suffers. For now the object of his infatuation has become purely that: an object to be brought under his control.

  Riding in this odd fashion insisted upon by Geraint, they naturally attract the attention of knights who feel he doesn’t deserve such a beautiful wife.

  Each time, however, Enid rides back and informs her husband that he is in danger.

  Each time, Geraint defeats the attacking knight.

  Each time, too, he accuses Enid of disobeying his command not to speak.

  Rather than being thankful for her loyalty towards him, he only accuses her of encouraging these would-be suitors.

  Eventually, as they travel through the most lawless and bleak of lands, Geraint slips and falls unconscious from his horse, the wounds he has received in his many battles having finally overcome him.

  Enid sits by his side, weeping and refusing to eat or drink, hoping that he is still alive despite all evidence to the contrary. Indeed, a passing earl tells a frantically disbelieving Enid that Geraint is undoubtedly as good as dead, offering her a new and rewarding life as his mistress.

  The more Enid refuses the earl’s blandishments, the more he increases his offers of wealth and good living; until, recognising at last that Enid is resigned to staying with and nursing her ailing husband, the earl resorts to dragging a wailing Enid off with him.

  Geraint wakes as he did before, that fateful morning when he awoke and misheard his dear wife’s anxious cares. Thankfully, this time he can’t misinterpret her fears for him; and so, rising up, he strikes and chases off the malevolent earl.

  And, at last, he begs forgiveness for ever doubting the long-suffering Enid.

  *

  Of course, many would be incapable of forgiving Geraint for his ridiculously unfair treatment of the fair Enid.

  Fortunately for Geraint, Enid’s infatuation is of a kind far different to his own; for her aim is to bring those who love each other together as one.

  And with such an object in mind, the infatuated are not wholly beyond redemption.

  *

  Chapter 4

  In Sandy’s painting of Enid the sleeping czarina becomes Tennyson's The Dying Swan: for, of course, she had mutely suffered her husband’s torments after he’d misunderstood the dying words of her lament.

  The cards scattered about her, a true pack of tarot, relate the tale’s past, its present, its future. There are marigolds too, for the despair and grief brought on by the cruelty and coldness of jealously, for the hard work that goes into winning affection.

  Although the painting was displayed with notices saying it was not for sale, Sandy was discreetly informed that enquires were nevertheless being made by someone who wished to remain nameless. The offer was substantial by any standards, but particularly for a painter of Sandy’s relatively low-standing.

  It was an offer she should have gratefully accepted, of course: although she earned more money than most ladies of her status, and wasn’t in any way dependent upon Frederick’s charity, she was far from being wealthy. The increasingly ridiculous prices being proffered for her painting – the more she refused to part with it, the higher the amounts soared – would be more than enough to provide her with a comfortable few years, perhaps even the beginnings of a life as a professional painter.

  Her friends were astounded by her reticence to sell her painting: as Frederick pointed out with an amused chuckle, it was hardly likely that this secretive would-be purchaser would pay such an amazing sum only to mistreat it, or hide it away in some dark cellar forever.

  Sandy, however, wasn’t so sure: although she had to admit she couldn’t understand why she might believe such a ridiculous thing, just as she couldn’t really encapsulate any sound reason for her refusal to sell.

  Eventually, Sandy was informed by her brother that she had a visitor, an old man apologetically insistent that – against all propriety – he must see her on her own.

  Frederick gave her a curious smile as he added, ‘An old man with an accent: Russian, I presume.’

  *

  Today, of course, the elderly Russian wasn’t wearing his uniform.

  As soon as Frederick showed him into the room, Sandy recognised him immediately.

  Recalling his furious expression as he had finally ejected Sandy from the ballroom, she briefly wondered if she should greet him curtly; yet she immediately dismissed this thought as being nothing but childish nonsense. He had appeared to be more angry with himself rather than Sandy, perhaps because he believed he had revealed more about his czarina than he had intended.

  Their greetings were courteous, although the Russian appeared eager to bring their discussion around to the matter of the painting as soon as respectfully possible.

  ‘The czarina has informed me that I should allow you to name your price–’

  ‘The czarina? There is another czarina?’

  Sandy naturally berated herself for her rude interruption, but she had neither being expecting nor had prepared for this new disclosure.

  The elderly Russian shook his head, his expression one of mild surprise that Sandy could think such an outlandish thing.

  ‘No, just the czarina you yourself–’

  ‘She has awoken?’

  Sandy was startled, elated: she almost leapt with excitement.

  The Russian shook his head dismissively once more.

  ‘She sleeps endlessly,’ he said, reiterating the observation he had made on the night Sandy had first come across the sleeping czarina.

  ‘But if she sleeps…’ Sandy began uncertainly, ‘then how is it possible that she has informed you?’

 
; The man shrugged uncomfortably as he hesitated before resignedly sighing, ‘She knew you would ask this.’

  Sandy answered him with nothing but quizzically raised eyebrows: he still hadn’t explained how the sleeping czarina could inform him of anything, let alone of things only she would know.

  Even now, however, he didn’t seemed prepared to give her a direct answer to her question. He stood up straighter, more resolutely.

  ‘She also knows the price you will ask for your painting: and she has granted me the authority to acquiesce to your demand.’

  ‘My price?’

  Sandy failed to see how the czarina could possibly know what price she would ask for. She hadn’t determined even the barest notion of any price she thought reasonable for a painting that somehow meant so much to her. Indeed, she still remained unsure that she wanted to let her painting go.

  And then, abruptly, she did know what her price would be.

  ‘I wish to ask the czarina a question: that is my price for the painting!’

  The old man smiled; and nodded, acquiescing to her demand.

  *

  Chapter 5

  On the express orders of the czarina, Sandy was shown into the room where her painting would be displayed, to ensure it met with her approval.

  It was a room that stood just off the hall, directly opposite the ballroom.

  This surprised Sandy, for she had feared her painting would be fated to be hidden away somewhere, veiling forever a rendering of a rite that many wished to remain secret.

  It was a room, too, of judiciously polished oak panelling; of raised windows that suffused everything with light, without endangering unstable pigments through unforgivably allowing the sun’s more direct rays to penetrate.

  It was so perfect, it could have been specifically built for the display of paintings.

  Its only imperfection, ironically, was its most perfect attribute.

  For the room already had a painting.

  One the like of which Sandy had never seen before.

  Oh, of course, she had seen icons before: but never, ever, an icon like this.

  No matter how hard she stared at it, Sandy couldn’t determine if it was absorbing more light than it should be, or if it were actually emanating all that light. Either way, a luminosity hung about the painting, much as light hangs in an eerie glow around a stained glass window.

  Naturally, the icon was formed mainly of gold leaf, the colours apparently painted upon it, such that greens, reds and blues shone as if emeralds, rubies, sapphires. Naturally, too, as with many icons, it portrayed the Mother of God embracing the Christ Child; a child who could really be of any age, for he is the one granting the painting’s observer a blessing.

  Mary’s hooded cloak was of white and gold, however, when Sandy felt sure they tended to be blue.

  But then, it wasn’t a cloak after all, but the woman’s hair, the fairest of hair: which meant, surely, that this wasn’t – couldn’t be – an icon of Mary and the Christ child. Indeed, she saw now that this ‘Mary’ also held up in one hand what could either be a golden apple or her hair wound into a ball of thread. Even the child, on closer inspection, appeared to be woven, though Sandy couldn’t be sure if this was just an effect of the painting’s style or not.

  And within that child there was a heart or a flame of weeping blood red.

  Yes; it seemed to weep, to sparkle, as the glistening of running blood changes, the fluctuating reflection of light revealing otherwise undetectable movement.

  Moreover, Sandy sensed that there was an almost umbilical cord of mutual attraction running between herself and the painting, as if it were actually drawing her inside its–

  No!

  That wasn’t true.

  Far from utilising perspective to fool your eye into accepting the picture as a representation of life, fooling you into imagining you were stepping into the picture, the perspective here – what little there was of it – was all wrong!

  It was crude, badly observed – for far from disappearing into a vanishing point lying beyond the rear of the painting (as any decent painter was instructed to aim to accomplish!), the perspective here was completely and unnaturally reversed: the vanishing point, the whole focus of the painting, came together at a point lying before the paining.

  A point lying directly within the midst of her own heart.

  It was a perspective that fooled you into believing you were a part of the painting.

  As Sandy now reverently contemplated the details of the icon, wondering how she herself could capture these effects within her own paintings, the old man entered the room behind her.

  Hearing him enter, she spun around.

  ‘Once you’ve decided that the room is to your satisfaction,’ the man declared, ‘you can make your way through to the main room. The czarina believes that you will wish to see how questions are asked of her, and by what manner she answers.’

  Sandy agreed: the room fully met with her approval. And yes, of course, she would like to see how a sleeping princess replied to any question asked of her.

  ‘Then I should warn you,’ the Russian replied grimly, ‘that I fear what you witness has absolutely nothing to do with the idea of a God that you have doubtless become accustomed to worshipping.’

  *

  Perhaps the old man’s curious declaration was some crude attempt to dissuade her from approaching the czarina once again, Sandy thought.

  Far from deterring her, however, this made her more intrigued than ever.

  Surely, he wasn’t referring to some kind of demonic rite?

  Sandy was well aware that séances were all the rage, that some people had used its popularity as an excuse to dabble in darker arts. But her father had ensured she had received a good education, one that opened rather than closed her mind to the innumerable opportunities presented by our life here on Earth.

  One of Frederick’s many and widely learned associates had told her that the whole idea of their being this ‘Satan’ character was all down to wild misinterpretations of the bible, which never actually mentions him.

  Nehushtan was the healing serpent Moses had raised in the desert, the Hebrew for serpent being ‘nahash’ and rooted in the letters Nun, Het and Shin, meaning ‘to guess’: and from this, we intolerably inherited this ‘Satan’, a word that means ‘adversary’.

  And so, it was her guess that nothing ill could befall her by attending the sleeping czarina.

  As before, the czarina was laid out in great splendour in the middle of the ballroom. Today, however, there was no music, no dancing.

  The people gathered around her, too, appeared to Sandy to be of a more serious nature than those who had attended the ball. Or, rather, they were those who had stood around the edges of the dancefloor, discussing more serious matters, as they were now, their expressions grim.

  The exception was the very same couple who had so excitedly burst upon her as she had struggled to her feet in the hall. Even these two, however, were today more muted and restrained in their displays of love for each other, restricting themselves to whispered asides and giggles, or deft, tender touches.

  The sleeping czarina herself, of course, appeared no different than she had looked that very first time Sandy had seen her.

  Perfectly beautiful

  Perfectly motionless.

  Perfectly and purely white, apart from the remarkable freshness of her skin, the mingling blonde and light auburn of her flowing hair.

  What the man had said about her being asleep, not dead, had to be true then: for although Sandy had been so inspired she had completed her painting relatively swiftly, while its exhibition had been no more than a matter of a few months, all combined that was still almost a year – easily long enough for any corpse to have begun to deteriorate.

  This was no corpse.

  This was angelic.

  An angelic scene that wasn’t despoiled this time by the scattered tarot-like cards.

  The cards, it seeme
d, had been placed in stacks upon what could have been some kind of elaborate, multi-layered wedding cake positioned at the czarina’s feet.

  Far from being a cake, however, this was some incredibly bejewelled ornament, a towering pillar of multiple layers edged with lines of precious gems. Each layer was also marked off into multiple squares, like game boards, only here the pieces were the stacks of cards.

  One of a number of elegantly attired attendants standing just a little way off from the prone czarina looked towards the couple. With nothing more than the stately lowering of his gaze and the crooking of a finger, he indicated that they should draw closer towards the bier. Following his instructions they moved closer, nervously clutching hands and exchanging amused yet anxious glances.

  They stared down into the face of the sleeping czarina as fearful mourners would look down for the last time on the face of a recently departed loved one. They both smiled sickly as the young man hesitantly asked the czarina their question.

  The question, naturally, was in Russian.

  And yet Sandy flattered herself that the couple’s behaviour had at least given her an inkling of what that question might be.

  They either sought permission to marry, or reassurance that they were compatible.

  It seemed to Sandy that it was a rather mundane query to ask of someone as apparently magical as the sleeping czarina, akin to wasting an opportunity to gain wisdom by asking a foolish question of the Greek oracle.

  Then again, wasn’t she being too hard on this young couple?

  Didn’t she herself almost endlessly pine over how loveless her own life was? Wouldn’t she, too, wish that she made the perfect marriage?

  Moreover, she felt sure that the elderly Russian had deliberately brought her into the presence of the czarina at a point when all the truly serious questions had already been asked of her: he wouldn’t want her to witness important affairs of state, after all. (If, indeed, the sleeping czarina was capable of answering the more complicated questions. Yet Sandy felt that she must be, otherwise why would all these dignified statesmen and ladies be gathered about her?)