The SoulNecklace Stories

by R. L. Stedman

  I spent the rest of the evening pacing about my room, stopping before the window to stare out at the night. Winter’s grip was loosening, although the mountains about the citadel were still snow covered. In the silver-gray moonlight, I couldn’t see the colors of the roses about my wrist, which suited me, because I absolutely did not want to see them changing color. Tricky things! Why couldn’t they just behave themselves? Huff-huff went the vapor from my breath and I watched it slide into the sky, speed away. I wished I could follow it.

  I didn’t really know where the citadel was – no one had taken the time to show me a map – but I was sure I was a long way north. For one, the days were short, and for another, it was intensely cold.

  From my window I could see avalanches form and fall on the distant mountain slopes. Some days the dry air was so cold that it took my breath away. At night the streets emptied quickly, and during the short daylight hours folk moved quickly, huddled into furs. Snow rarely settled, because the wind was so strong that flakes blew away, swirling into white, but on the edge of the fountain and the eaves of the buildings icicles formed. The fountain! It was important, but why? But my thoughts were cloudy and unfocused; the memory slid away. My stomach rumbled. I was hungry, that was the problem.

  “I need to sleep,” I said aloud, and turning from the mountains, lay down on the hard pallet. The air smelt of wood smoke and spoiled food. Hanging from the ceiling above was a red lamp with black tassels. It swung gently in the cold breeze. The girl had put paper across it to stop the draft, but like a fool, I had ripped it free, because I wanted to look out. My thoughts tangled and tumbled, never making sense. There was a reason I was here, I knew that, but the more I tried to discern what this reason was, the more the knowledge slipped away from me.

  Finally, I fell asleep. I dreamed.

  I was in my father’s study. In the grate a fire flickered.

  “Ah, Owein.” My father, seated at his desk, looked up when my brother opened the door. “Are you free tomorrow?”

  Owein nodded. “Why? What is it?”

  “Alden has something to show us.”

  Owein came into the room. “Everything’s changed. The day Dana went away; that light, the storm? Can’t you feel it? I don’t know what it is, but –” he turned quickly. “All the time, I feel as though I’m half asleep.”

  “Perhaps Alden has an answer for us.”

  “In the wine cellars?” Owein snorted. “Any answer will involve a corkscrew.”

  “You wrong your brother.”

  “I don’t think I do.” He opened the door, saying, “Did you need anything else from me?”

  “No. Meet me in the kitchens directly after matins. Tomorrow.”

  Owein nodded.

  “Oh, one thing. Have you heard from the ferryman?”

  Owein shook his head. “No. Why?”

  “It’s nothing. I just wondered.”

  I woke early, feeling homesick. I missed my family; missed my home. I lay unmoving, thinking of the castle: the secret rooms and narrow passageways I’d explored as a child. I’d always longed to leave the kingdom; now I wished I could return.

  A racket in the courtyard below finally roused me from the bed. Going to the window, I saw the normally empty plaza crowded with people, jumping and wailing. Some waved banners, and others banged pot lids together like cymbals.

  Behind me, the door to my room slid open. My attendant was here to give me my food. About time! I handed her the waste bucket, and she bowed, as though nothing had happened yesterday.

  “What is this?” I nodded to the window, but she looked blankly at me. I grabbed her arm, dragged her, wide-eyed and resisting, across the room. I pointed to the crowd below. “See? That? What’s happening?”

  She shook her head – still wasn’t going to speak. I cannot explain how much that simple gesture riled me. She might not understand my tongue, or I hers, but how hard would it have been to try?

  “Don’t bother.” I pushed her shoulder angrily. “I mean, I’d hardly want you to help me.”

  She gasped and staggered sideways. It was so satisfying to hear her make a noise that I pushed her again. And again. And then, of course, because I do not learn from my mistakes, she dropped my breakfast bowl and, just like my evening meal, my breakfast spread across the floor. The mask of her face flickered, and for a moment she seemed almost human. Then the expression vanished, wiped clear, and she sprang for the door and was gone.

  “Come back!” I called.

  No answer.

  “Hey! I’m hungry.” But my calls were lost in the shouting from outside.

  Angrily, I crossed to the window, stared out. Let the food just sit there. I wasn’t going to clean it up again. I rested my head against the carved wood of the window-screen, and felt a vicious thrill as the sharp carved edges pressed into my scalp. Good! I wanted to hurt myself. I wanted to feel pain. About my wrist the roses changed to red.

  Outside, the crowd shouted “Ha! Yah! Ha! Yah!”

  I peered through the carved grill. A standard bearer, carrying a red pennant that swirled in the breeze, entered the courtyard. The shouting grew louder still, turning to shrieks of laughter. Soldiers marched into the courtyard, and more and more pennants fluttered in the breeze. Drummers joined with the marching soldiers, and the deep throb of drums seemed to set the air a-tremble.

  “It’s the spring ceremony,” whispered a woman’s voice in my head. I spun about, trying to track its source.

  “We knew this might happen,” whispered another.

  Who? What?

  “Is she strong enough?” said a man.

  “I do not know,” said the first.

  “She is strong,” argued a third voice. “She just does not yet realize this.”

  “Hello?” I spoke cautiously to the empty air. Perhaps I was going mad. Or perhaps there were ghosts up here in this empty tower.

  “She can hear us,” whispered a woman.

  “Hello?” said a man. His deep voice was hesitant, as though he doubted I’d reply. “Dana?”

  “I’m here,” I said. It was like talking to someone outside the room.

  My wrist ached. The tattooed roses were all colored now: pink, red, white, yellow, and orange. The rose stems grew, winding about my wrist: twice, three times. Like wire, or a vine. Even as I watched, the outlines became thicker, the colors richer, more intense.

  “Dana,” said a deep voice, but whether it was male or female I could not tell. “Dana. You need to listen. You’ve been drugged. It’s important you wake. Dana, do you understand me?”

  “Drugged?” My mind felt bound.

  “That’s right. They put something in your food,” the deep voice said.

  My food. I looked at the remains of my breakfast, and the bucket. “The girl. She dropped my meal …”

  “Yes,” said a woman’s voice. “And now the drug is leaving your body.”

  “If they don’t give you food,” said the deeper voice, “you start to wake. They don’t want you to wake.”

  I knew I should feel concerned by this, and I suppose at some level I was, but the fuzziness in my head was such that even concentrating on a multi-syllable word took all my energy.

  “She doesn’t need to worry about it,” said the man.

  “What do you mean? She doesn’t need to worry about a little thing like being drugged?” snapped the woman.

  This, oddly enough, was reassuring. Voices inside one’s head might be concerning, but arguing voices felt as though I was hearing real people, and not just imaginary fragments.

  “We’re not imaginary, dear,” said a calm voice, soft as the summer sea. “Don’t you remember us?”

  I shook my head.

  “Close your eyes, dear,” said the soft voice. “Lie back. And let me show you a time long ago.”

  “Wynne,” said the baritone, “is that wise?”

  “We can’t wait for her to come around by herself. Eventually, they will bring her food, and the state Dana i
s in right now, she’d probably eat it. She needs to rid her body of the poison herself.”

  I lay back on the bed. On the roof, the black tassels swayed gently. Drums throbbed outside, but the shouting was growing fainter, as though the procession was moving away. I was too tired to go to the window, and my body felt so heavy I could hardly move. I closed my eyes. I needed sleep. Sleep and silence from all these annoying voices.

  “That’s right, dear,” said the calm voice. “That’s right. Close your eyes. You feel heavy, don’t you? That’s right. Focus only on my voice. Your breath sighs in and out; your chest rises and falls. The world spins beneath you …” I felt myself growing heavy. The room seemed to rock and turn. “Let me take you back,” said Wynne, “to a time, long ago.”

  I closed my eyes. I dreamed.

  Chapter Four

  The Glass Globe

  I saw a man and a woman in a lamplit room. The man carried a heavy sack and the woman wore a long robe and a veil. The stark light, outlining the bones of her wrist and jaw, gave her face the appearance of a skull.

  “Her name is Sarah,” whispered Wynne. “The man, Shimon, is her husband.”

  “Take it.” Shimon thrust the sack into Sarah’s arms. It was heavy and lumpy, awkward to hold.

  “Is it food?” she asked eagerly, before easing it open.

  My focus shifted, and instead of watching, I became Sarah. Inside her head, I shared her thoughts. And now I could tell that Sarah ached with fear, and something else. Hunger. She was deeply, terribly hungry. No, more than that. She was starving.

  Sometimes, my dreams take me places I would never readily go.

  Sarah reached into the sack, and her fingers touched cold metal. Fighting a surge of anger, she closed her eyes and pulled a candlestick from the sack. The lamplight played along its golden base.

  “Gold,” she/I said blankly.

  Shimon folded her fingers about the heavy base. “It’s from the temple, Sarah. A gift from the priests.”

  “I can’t take it,” Sarah said.

  “They want you to.”

  Sarah pulled a bowl from the sack. Like the candlesticks, it was gold. The metal felt slippery under her fingers. More golden candlesticks. Caught in the seams, coins clinked. Any other time she’d feel awe at these riches. But right now, she would have preferred food.

  “What good is gold, when you are hungry?” she whispered, and again I felt her terrible, desperate hunger.

  There was something else in the sack, something heavy. Reaching in, Sarah pulled out a globe. It was round, like a bead, but larger and far, far heavier. The lamplight, glittering on its surface, splintered into thousands of tiny reflections that looked like tiny stars, floating over a dark sea. Sarah turned the globe curiously in her hands and peered into its shimmering heart. Her breath misted the surface; the stars disappeared into fog. “What is this?”

  Still invisible, still watching, I felt my heart catch. This, I had seen before.

  “I thought you’d like it. The priests say it’s made of glass.”

  “Glass!” As she turned it, light sparked across the roof. “Where is it from?”

  “It’s very old. They say the Queen of Sheba brought it as a gift for King Solomon.”

  I felt Sarah’s annoyance. We need food, not pretty things. What use is a globe made of glass?

  But the thing was captivating; the way it held her reflection and turned upside down. It was like looking into another world: a different, prettier world. Inside the globe, a reflected Shimon stood behind her, his image distorted by the glass. Then, for a moment he seemed to change, appearing as a tiny, distant figure with a shrunken stomach and hollows beneath his eyes. What were those marks about his wrists? They looked like chains.

  Looking up, Sarah stared at Shimon’s hands. They appeared the same as always; roughened and dirty from his time at the temple.

  Shimon saw her confusion. “What?”

  “I thought I saw …” She shook her head. No. Her husband would never be a captive; he would rather die. “You’re planning something, aren’t you?”

  “How did you …?”

  “I know when you’re keeping something from me.”

  “I was going to tell you.” He took a deep breath, paused as though reluctant to speak. “Sarah. I have a route prepared. Thomas will take you.”

  “Thomas?” She blinked, realizing: Shimon plans for me to go on, without him. She shook her head. “No. I’m not leaving you.”

  Her husband put the globe down on the bed. It rolled, scattering stars of light across the wooden rafters. Gathering her towards him, he held her close. Sarah nestled there, listening to his heart beating.

  “Dear Sarah.” Shimon brushed a thumb across her cheek. “It’s not forever. We’ll see each other in paradise.”

  “Paradise! My place is with you, now!”

  “You must. Rebecca – she’s so quiet. She worries me.”

  “Of course she’s quiet. Everybody’s quiet. We’re hungry, Shimon.”

  But Shimon was right. Their daughter had retreated into silence. Perhaps it was Rebecca’s shield against her terribly broken world. After all, what other protection did she have? He was right; their daughter did need her.

  Shimon picked up the globe and held it in his lap as if it were a child. Sarah touched Shimon’s face gently, rubbed the back of her hand along his beard. “You don’t think you can win?”

  He laughed dryly. “Against the Romans? I had hoped to bargain with them, but I misjudged. Our rebellion was too successful. We lit a fire, Sarah, and they need to stamp it out, or their empire will be destroyed in its flames.” His reflected face was small and perfect in the globe. Light ran across it, turned his skin red.

  Oh, he had it all worked out. Soon the legions would enter the city. They’d come from the west, where the siege engines were the strongest, and they would overwhelm the city. Listening to his matter-of-fact tone, Sarah felt ill. Legionaries loose in the city? What hope did she have? What hope did any of them have?

  “Thomas will take you,” Shimon said. More than a manservant, Thomas was Shimon’s right-hand man. “He knows the tunnels. He will take you to Less Britain. You have family there, and they can keep you safe.”

  “If you are so keen for us to leave you,” Sarah couldn’t help her petulant tone, “why wait? Why not leave now?”

  “The Romans run patrols, looking for escapees. I watch them from the temple roof. Those they catch, they crucify. Sometimes the screams last for days.” Shimon’s face was bleak. “But when the invasion begins – well, the soldiers won’t care if a few rats escape. Not when there’s a whole nest to kill.”

  Sarah clutched her arms about herself. “And while I’m escaping, where will you be?”

  “At the temple.”

  “At the temple,” she breathed. “Why? Why not come with us?”

  “Dear Sarah,” he said fondly. “My place is at the temple. Just as yours is to leave.”

  “No.”

  “You must.” And now his voice was stern. “You must leave; you and Rebecca must live. Don’t you understand? As long as one of us stands, Jerusalem stands, and the temple within her.”

  She kissed him then, moving into his embrace with such fervor that he caught his breath.

  * * *

  Let me out, I begged Wynne. You’re not going to give me a happy ending, are you?

  Peace, she said. You will not be harmed.

  But it wasn’t me I was concerned for.

  * * *

  Two days later, Sarah lay asleep. Beside her lay her daughter, Rebecca. In the distance came loud shouts, distant thuds.

  Wake up, I said wordlessly and, as though in answer, Sarah’s eyes opened.

  Rebecca stirred. “Mama, what is that?”

  Sarah grabbed the carrysack, set ready by the bedside. She had packed it yesterday with the temple treasures, water flasks, a few fragments of food. At the last moment she had put in the globe, even though it was heavy and of
little use. The room felt strangely light; it was nighttime, yet she could see her way about the room with ease.

  Rebecca’s eyes widened as feet pounded up the stairs.

  “Madam!” panted Thomas at the door. “It’s time! We must go!”

  “Go!” she said sharply. “I’m coming.”

  He ran back down the stairs as Sarah shoved the carrysack over one shoulder. She gathered Rebecca into her arms. Her daughter felt surprisingly heavy.

  “Ssh,” she said gently.

  “Is it the Romans?”

  “I think so.”

  Rebecca’s sleepy body stiffened.

  Sarah half-carried Rebecca down the stairs and out through the empty house. The street below was full of panicked people. Screams, shouts filled the air. The world smelt of smoke and fear. On the steps she hesitated. Should she lock the door? But what would be the point? Thomas waved an arm at her. Come on.

  Still carrying Rebecca and the carrysack, Sarah pushed her way through the crushing crowd. The heat was stifling. Rebecca pressed her face into her mother’s neck. Night, but the narrow street flashed orange, yellow, red. Smoke rolled down narrow alleys. Fire! The city was alight. Pulling her headscarf across her nose, Sarah tried not to choke. In the distance flames roared.

  Thomas forced his shoulder through the crowds. Sarah grabbed his cloak. She felt strangely detached, viewing the panic like an observer. Here, see a man pulling at his hair. A child screaming. A woman pushing a cart. And, she thought, there’s us: three figures, wearing rough cloaks. She clutched Rebecca tight. The curve of the globe pressed against her side. In the distance, soldiers shouted. Metal weapons clashed; nearby a building shattered in a shower of stones.

  “Catapults!” shouted Thomas. “Hurry!”

  Roof tiles splintered as Thomas turned into the Via Cardo. Usually full of people, this street was empty; everyone was running in the opposite direction, away from the city walls. At the end of the Cardo, high ramparts blocked the stars.

  “In here!” Thomas pointed to a darkened alleyway.