by Tanith Lee
But there comes another time (half a year, a hundred years), when an adventurous traveller comes down from the mountains to the pocki villages the other side of them. He is a swarthy cheerful fellow, would not take him for herbalist or mystic, but he has in a pot a plan found high up in the staring crags, which might after all contain anytl or nothing. And he shows the plant, which is an unusual one, ha’ slender, dark, and velvety leaves, and giving off a pleasant smell vanilla. ‘See, the Nona Mordica,’ he says. ‘The Bite-Me-Not. The flower that repels vampires.’
Then the villagers tell him an odd story, about a castle in another country, besieged by a huge flock, a menace of winged vampires, how the Duke waited in vain for the magic bush that was in his garden the Bite-Me-Not, to flower and save them all. But it seems there w curse on this Duke, who on the very night his daughter was lost, raped a serving woman, as he had raped others before. But this woman conceived. And bearing the fruit, or flower, of this rape, damaged her so she lived only a year or two after it. The child grew up unknowing, and in the end betrayed her own father by running away to the vampires, leaving the Duke demoralised. And soon after he went mad, and himself stole out one night, and let the winged fiends into his castle, so all there perished.
‘Now if only the bush had flowered in time, as your bush flowers would have been well,’ the villagers cry.
The traveller smiles. He in turn does not tell them of the heap peculiar bones, like parts of eagles mingled with those of a woman and man. Out of the bones, from the heart of them, the bush was rising, the traveller untangled the roots of it with care; it looks sound enough now in its sturdy pot, all of it twining together. It seems as if two separate plants are growing from a single stem, one with blooms almost black,and one pink-flowered, like a young sunset.
‘Flur de fur,’ says the traveller, beaming at the marvel, and his luck.
Fleur de feu. Oh flower of fire. That fire is not hate or fear, which makes flowers come, not terror or anger or lust, it is love that is the fire of the Bite-Me-Not, love which cannot abandon, love which cannot harm. Love which never dies.
Bite-me-Not or Fleur de Fur
Chosen by Freda Warrington and Cecelia Dart-Thornton
‘In the tradition of young girls and windows, the young girl looks out of this one… The stained glass of lizard-green and storm-purple is several inches thick… The colour red is forbidden in the castle…Even the sun, behind the glass, is a storm sun, a green-lizard sun.’
In just a few words, Tanith Lee creates an atmosphere that pulls you straight into the story. That is her wondrous talent.
It hardly needs saying that the breadth of her imagination is amazing, her use of language astonishingly beautiful. Tanith was unique, creating endless kaleidoscopic visions that few writers, if any, have equalled. She breaks all those daft rules about not using adjectives and adverbs in glorious style, and the result is a spellbinding narrative that reads like poetry. I chose Bite-Me-Not (or Fleur de Fur) because the story embodies her skill at its most poignant. A household barricades itself into a vast, decaying castle, besieged by every night by flying vampires. These are no ordinary vampires but an alien race, incomprehensible to humans, proud and fierce. Yet an encounter between a wounded member of this race and a servant girl begins one of the most profound, chilling yet poignant love stories I’ve ever read.
Tanith’s characters are often cold, unsentimental, even brutal. And yet, still a red flower blossoms out of the barren icy rock, love crosses impossible barriers, love is more important than power, love vanquishes death.
The result, in Bite-Me-Not, is ravishing. Tanith, we love you and miss you.
– Freda Warrington
Author of twenty-two fantasy books including Nights of Blood Wine, Freda was deeply inspired by Tanith Lee's incredible imagination. She contributed a story to Night's Nieces, the anthology published by Immanion Press in loving tribute to Tanith.
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When I first read this gothic, strange, and richly gorgeous tale it became my favourite Lee short story. From the opening paragraph the reader is drawn into Tanith’s universe of violent, exotic colours (“The stained glass of lizard-green and storm-purple is several inches thick”) and mystery (“The colour red is forbidden in the castle” – why?) Synesthetically, even singing is expressed in colour: “The dark silver voice, turning to bronze or gold, whitening in the higher registers…” Tidal rainbows of colour swirl through Tanith’s poetic prose, along with her playfulness and wit – exemplified by the clever title, a pun that draws on a phonetic mistranslation of French into English and weaves itself into the story in many other ways. The reader cannot help but empathise with the protagonist from the very beginning; she’s young, caring and downtrodden but wishes for more; she wistfully imagines herself as “…a princess floating through the upper corridors...” I was gripped, entranced and spellbound by the beautiful, sinister ambience of the castle of the Cursed Duke, and by the sound of powerful wings beating against the stones every night after dark... The way the story unfolds is unexpected. It soars and swoops among tall, sharp crags in a “…sky, thick as a daisy-field with the white stars…” until it reaches the apt, bittersweet, perfect conclusion.
– Cecelia Dart-Thornton
Cecilia Dart-Thornton is an Australian author responsible for numerous bestselling fantasy novels, notably the Bitterbynde Trilogy.
Jedella Ghost
That fall morning, Luke Baynes had been staying a night with his grandmother up on the ridge, and he was tramping back to town through the woods. It was about an hour after sun-up, and the soft level light was caught broadcast in all the trees, molasses-red and honey-yellow. The birds sang, and squirrels played across the tracks. As he stepped on to the road above the river, Luke looked down into the valley. There was an ebbing mist, sun-touched like a bridal veil, and out of this he saw her come walking, up from the river, like a ghost. He knew at once she was a stranger, and she was young, pale and slight in an old-fashioned long dark dress. Her hair was dark, too, hanging down her back like a child’s. As she got closer he saw she was about 18, a young woman. She had, he said, not a pretty face, but serene, pleasing; he liked to look at her. And she, as she came up to him, looked straight at him, not boldly or rudely, but with an open interest. Luke took off his hat, and said, “Good morning.” And the girl nodded. She said, “Is there a house near here?” Luke said there was, several houses, the town was just along the way. She nodded again, and thanked him. It was, he said, a lovely voice, al! musical and lilting upward, like a smile. But then she went and sat at the roadside, where a tree had been cut and left a stump. She looked away from him now, up into the branches. It was as if there was nothing more to say. He did ask if he could assist her. She answered at once, “No, thank you.” And so, after a moment, he left her there, though he was not sure he should do. But she did not appear concerned or worried.
“She had the strangest shoes,” he said.
“Her shoes?” I asked. Luke had never seemed a man for noting the footware of women, or of anyone.
“They were the colours of the woods,” he said, “crimson and gold and green. And – they seemed to me like they were made of glass.”
“Cinderella,” I said, “run off from the ball.”
“But she had on both,” he said, and grinned. After this we went for coffee and cake at Millie’s.
I had no doubt he had seen this woman, but I thought perhaps he had made more of her than there was. Because I am a writer people sometimes try to work spells on me – Oh, John Cross, this will interest you. You can write about this. It does them credit, really, to make their imaginations work. But they should take up the pen, not I. Usually, I have enough ideas of my own. About ten, I went back to my room to work, and did not come out again until three. And then I too saw Luke’s lady of the mist. She was standing in the square, under the old cobweb trees, looking up at the white tower of the church, on which the clock was striking the hour. People going about were gl
ancing at her curiously, and even the old-timers on the bench outside the stables were eying her. She was a stranger, and graceful as a lily. And sure enough, she seemed to have on sparkling stained-glass shoes.
When the clock stopped, she turned and looked around her. Do any of us look about that way? Human things are cautious, circumspect – or conversely arrogant. And she was none of these. She looked the way a child does, openly, perhaps not quite at ease, but not on guard. And then she saw – evidently she saw – the old men on the bench, Will Marks and Homer Avary and Nut Warren. She became very still, gazing at them, until they in turn grew uneasy. They did not know what to do, I could see, and Nut, who was coming on for 90 years, he turned belligerent.
I stepped out and crossed the square, and came right up to her, standing between her and the old boys.
“Welcome to our town. My name’s John Cross.”
“I’m Jedella,” she said at once.
“I’m glad to meet you. Can I help?”
“I’m lost,” she said. I could not think at once what to say. Those that are lost do not speak in this way. I knew it even then. Jedella said presently, ‘‘You see, I’ve lived all my life in one place, and now – here I am.”
“Do you have kin here?”
“Kin?” she said. “I have no kin.”
“I’m sorry. But is there someone -?”
“No,” she said. “Oh, I’m tired. I’d like a drink of water. To sit down.”
I said, and I thought myself even then hard and cruel, “Your shoes.”
“Oh. That was my fault. I should have chosen something else.”
“Are they glass?”
“I don’t know,” she said.
I took her straight across to Millie’s, and in the big room sat her at a table, and when the coffee came, she drank it down. She seemed comfortable with coffee, and I was surprised. I had already realized, maybe, that the things of civilized life were not quite familiar to her.
Hannah returned and refilled our cups – Jedella had refused my offer of food. But as Hannah went away, Jedella looked after her. The look was deep and sombre. She had eyes, Jedella, like the rivers of the Greek Hell – melancholy, and so dark.
“What’s wrong with her?”
“With-?”
“With that woman who brought the coffee.” Hannah was a robust creature, about 40. She was the wife of Abel Sorrensen, and had five children, all bright and sound – a happy woman, a nice woman. I had never seen her sick or languishing.
“Hannah Sorrensen is just fine.”
“But-” said Jedella. She stared at me, then the stare become a gaze. “Oh, those men outside...”
“The old men on the bench,” I said.
Jedella said, “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be impertinent.” I said, squaring my shoulders, “I think you should see Doc Mclvor. He’s bound to have some plan of how to go on.”
I had formed the impression she was a little mad. And, I confess, I wondered how she would react to the notion of a doctor.
But Jedella smiled at me, and then I saw what Luke had only heard in her voice. Her smile made her beautiful. For a moment I saw her as my muse. I wondered if I would fall in love with her, and feed upon her mystery. The writer can be selfish. But, in my own defence, I knew that here was something rare, precious – rich and strange.
“Of course I’ll see him,” she said. “I have no one, and nowhere to go. How kind you are.”
What happens when the doctor is sick? An old adage to be sure. But Doc Mclvor had gone to visit his niece in the city, who was expecting her first baby. Everyone knew but me. But then, I had only lived in the town for five years.
I did not want, I admit, to give Jedella, with her Lethe eyes and Cinderella shoes and heavenly smile, over to the law, so I took her to my rooming-house, and there Abigail Anchor came sweeping forth in her purple dress.
“I can give her that little room on the west side,” said Abigail. “This girl has run away. I know it.”
“Do you think so?” I asked.
“Oh, to be sure. Her daddy is some harsh man. Perhaps forcing her to marry. I won’t sit in judgement, Mr Cross. Indeed, Mr Cross, you may know more than you say. But I won’t ask it -”
“I don’t know anything, Mrs Anchor.” “That’s as you say, Mr Cross.”
I met Luke Baynes that night in the Tavern. We had a beer. He grinned at me again.
“They’re talking. Your sweetheart’s stashed away at Ma Anchor’s.”
“Yours and mine. You saw her first.”
“Then it is the girl with glass shoes.”
“A strange one,” I said. “She keeps to herself. But when I came out tonight, she was at her window and the blind was raised. She was looking along the street.”
Luke said, “Don’t you know anything?”
‘‘Not a thing. Abigail has sheltered her from the goodness of her heart. Her name’s Jedella.”
I don’t believe,” said Luke, “she’s real. She’s a ghost.” “I took her arm,” I said. “She’s real as you or I.”
“What is it then?” he said.
“I think she’s crazy. A little crazy. Probably someone will come after her. She can’t have come far.”
“But,” he said, “she’s – wonderful.”
‘‘Yes,” I said. “A fascinating woman. The woman you can’t have is always fascinating.”
‘‘You’re too clever,” he said. “I fancy going courting.” “Don’t,” I said. I frowned into my drink. “Don’t.”
Two weeks passed, and Jedella lived in the room on the west side of the Anchor house. She gave no trouble, and I had had a word with Abigail about the rent. I believe Abigail helped with any female things that Jedella might have needed, and certainly, I was presented with a bill before too long. My trade had brought me moderate success, and I did not flinch.
Otherwise, I saw no reason to interfere. I gathered from Abigail that Jedella did not much wish to go out, yet seemed quite well. She ate her meals in private, and enjoyed the services of the house. Now and then I noted Jedella at her window, gazing along the street. Once I lifted my hand, but she did not respond. I let it go at that.
Of course, word had got around about the unknown young woman. I was sometimes pestered, but knowing next to nothing myself, could be of little assistance.
Did I want to draw Jedella out? Rather, I was inclined to avoid her. Real life that takes the form of a story, or appears to, is so often disappointing. Or, if one learns some gem, must one become a traitor who can no longer be trusted with anything? I prefer to invent, and that keeps me busy enough.
Luke did try to introduce himself to the woman on the west side. He took her flowers one afternoon, and a box of sweets in a green bow another. But, Jedella apparently seemed only amazed. She did not respond as a woman should, hopefully a flirtatious, willing woman. He was baffled, and retreated, to the relief of the two or three young ladies of the town who had such hopes of him, some day.
On the last Friday of that second week,just as I had finished a long story for the Post, I heard at Millie’s that Homer Avory had died in his bed. He was nearly 80, which for the town is quite a youngster, and his daughter was in a rage, it seemed, for she had always loved him and had been planning a birthday dinner.
Everyone went to a funeral then, and presently I heard it was fixed for Tuesday. I looked out my black suit with a sensation of the droll and the sad. My father had once warned me, ‘‘You don’t feel a death, John, not truly, till you start to feel your own.” He was 50 when he said this, and he died two years after, so I may not argue. But I felt it was a shame about Homer, and about his daughter, who was 60 herself, and had lost her husband ten months before to a fever.
On Monday evening I was reading some books that had come in the mail, when a light knock sounded on my door.
It was not Abigail, evidently, who thundered, nor Luke, who burst in. I went to see, and there stood the apparition called Jedella, still in her dark dress,
but with a new pair of simple shoes. Her hair was done up on her head.
“Good evening, Miss Jedella. Can I help you?”
“Mr Cross,” she said, “something is happening tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow? Oh, do you mean poor old Homer’s funeral?”
“That,” she said, “is what Abigail Anchor called it.” “Abigail? Well, what else. A burial, a funeral.” She stared straight at me. She said, still and low, “But what is that?”
Abigail had her rules, but it was just light. I drew Jedella into the room and left the door an inch ajar.
I made her sit down in my comfortable chair, and moved the books.
“How do you mean, Miss Jedella ?”
She seemed for a moment disturbed. Then she composed her pale face and said, “They say the – old man – has died.”
“He has.”
“Was he one of the three men I saw in the square that day?”
‘‘Yes, just so.”
“He has some terrible illness,” she said. She looked about distractedly. “Am I right?”
This unnerved me. I could not put it together. I recalled, I had thought her slightly insane. I said, quietly, “Unfortunately, he was old, and so he died. But, please believe, he had no ailment. He passed away peacefully in his sleep, I gather.”
“But what do you mean?” she said.
“He’s dead,” I answered. “I’m afraid it happens.” I had intended irony, but she gazed at me with such pathos, I felt myself colour, as if I had insulted her. I did not know what to say next. She spoke first.
“This funeral, what is it?”
“Jedella,” I said firmly, “do you say you don’t know what a funeral is?”
“No,” said Jedella, “I have no idea.”