by Ken Altabef
Dresdemona’s problems started with the emotion trees. Effranil children were taught to dance specific routes through these special trees, which spilled light and musical notes as they passed. Each dance was a rigidly structured combination of hops and skips, with emphasis on precision, to create a musical piece that embodied not only sound and colored light, not only texture and taste, but also a feast of emotion. She clearly remembered the first time she’d performed a certain dance—skittering through the trees just as she’d been told, basking in an orgy of sensations as the onlookers cheered and sighed, each of them also lost in the total ecstasy of the song. When it was done, Dresdemona was left with a joyous afterglow that had lasted for several days.
And then afterward, she had an idea. While a child might hit a dissonant note every now and then by way of a missed step or a clumsy half twirl, most were not allowed to perform until they were ready to do it correctly. It must be done correctly. But Dresdemona wondered how the song might turn out if she did it another way. If the rules were not followed. If she created her own song.
At her next performance, she was consumed by the idea. She stood at the edge of the grove, a handful of Effranil gathered to experience the thrill, eyes locked expectantly on her, awaiting the bliss of the song. She had no plan for her altered course, no way to predict its effect. That was, in fact, the essence of her idea. As her teacher gave the signal she hung on the precipice, unsure if she dare carry out her plan. She took the first few steps in the prescribed way and the song began to take its expected shape, the colors dazzled, the emotions began to build. And then she took off in an unexpected direction, running a haphazard course among the emotion trees. Even now she could not remember all of what happened next, flashes of incoherent light, a cacophony of caustic smells and unpleasant sensations, and wild emotions that rocked the consciousness of the observers, that tore at her soul. She struggled forward a few more steps and then collapsed.
She spent the next few weeks in a healing bed, a parade of concerned faces passing over her, soothing her mind as best they could, straightening her thoughts, correcting them. She was not punished. The Effranil lived by collective agreement; they knew so little disobedience they had no such doctrine, not even for the children. She faced a minor reprimand from Horaus, the hawk-faced leader of the ruling council. The grove of emotion trees had been seriously damaged by her violent trespass as well, but in time, it would heal itself.
Dresdemona returned to her former life. She had made a mistake. She would not do so again. She tried to follow the rules, but proper behavior often felt wrong for some reason, as if she didn’t quite belong. The rules were too many and too strict. Weren’t they? She took her lessons with the other children but found the lessons did not stick. They grated.
Her improvised song stayed with her, the notes so different, so painful, and yet in odd moments as she sat alone she began to see beauty in it. She occasionally added unwelcome notes to the songs she played on harp or lute and they were dissonant and wrong and brought rebuke but they were also right and true and totally unappreciated. Strange emotions seemed to swirl about her—isolation, jumbled logic, unexpected avenues which beckoned, completely misunderstood.
Her difficulties came to a head again during a game of Three Faces. Even from a very young age faeries know how to put on a glamour, a false appearance which is nothing more than a trick upon the eyes. And though these illusions deceive humans easily enough, another faery is likely to know that the face is not true and see beneath it to the actual identity of the wearer. In Three Faces children layer three separate illusions over their own true face and take turns trying to penetrate each one to get to the third. Ellabae had already seen through Dresdemona’s top layer—an imitation of Horaus himself, and she had recognized the second layer which was the face of Morabeth, a princess of legend. The children were hard pressed to identify Dresdemona’s third glamour. They crowded around, five or six of them, with utmost concentration. Some had begun to feel queasy. Others couldn’t quite understand what they were seeing. Their efforts uniformly increased however, intrigued by her mastery of the game. At a certain point she decided to show them what they were gaping at so uncomprehendingly. She lowered the veil at the height of their concentration to let them see the third face she had devised, a monstrous and disturbing sight that eschewed rationality. Why must a face have only two eyes? Why should the nose be in the center? Why must the skin be on the outside?
The children reacted badly. Very badly. And Dresdemona found herself in trouble again for purposely terrifying them. The house of healing was full of sick children that day and Horaus was not pleased. He attempted a correction of Dresdemona directly but upon merging with her consciousness he encountered something he had thought never to experience again—the chaotic notes of her dysphonic song. Disgusted, he pulled back.
What passed for punishment among the Effranil? Deprivation from music was the ultimate punishment and Dresdemona was put aside on feast days and at musical celebrations which accounted for nearly every day in Avalon. But that treatment had a reverse effect, making her own discordant songs stronger in her mind. She spent her teenage years becoming more and more of an outcast. Her peers shunned her and boys would have nothing to do with her. She tried to play it their way. She tried and tried and tried. But her own music, her own song, would not relent.
Then she met Oggdon. She first noticed him as a mysterious silhouette on a distant ridge. While the other Effranil never ventured so far from their great city, she often wandered the outskirts alone. She’d been warned about the margins of Avalon, that there were other pocket dimensions just on the other side of the mists, places where strange things dwelled, ofttimes seeking admittance to the land of the Effranil. What type of strange things, she wondered? And strange did not necessarily mean evil, did it?
Oggdon wore no glamour or false face. And when Dresdemona saw him she knew right away what he was. Nephilim—the offspring of demon and faery. He had a coarse face to be sure, so unlike the refinements of the Effranil. Dusky gray skin, an overgrown chin, a sharp down-pointed nose, and dark, mean little eyes. A pair of jet-black horns rose from his forehead. And yet, she could not say that he was ugly.
He made no bones about what he wanted, though he said nothing to her, nothing at all. He drew her into his orbit, saw the questioning look in her eyes. When she stepped up close he locked his muscular arms around her. He did not hesitate, his mind reached out for hers immediately. Dresdemona knew little of sex; she’d had desultory interactions with a few of the boys in Avalon, but most avoided any real intimacy with her. Still, what little girl did not know of the method of lovemaking among the faery folk, the meeting of the minds, the total communion of spirit? She thought it must be the same with the Nephilim. She felt afraid, nervous, excited, but the only way for this to work was to open up, to show herself naked before him.
Oggdon’s psyche was unlike anything she had ever experienced before. He was sharp-edged and acid tainted, demanding and cruel. She received only a taste, her heart racing madly with fear and desire, before he reacted unexpectedly by thrusting her away. The mental link was broken. There remained only a look of disgust on the Nephilim’s dusky face. She knew that look well enough. Not even a demon wanted her!
He changed tactic then, gripping her throat in both meaty hands. He intended to strangle her. He began to squeeze, cutting off her air. She struggled helplessly in his grip. She could do nothing but stare into those mean little eyes as he killed her. And then a new thought colored his gaze; she saw it clearly. He’d changed his mind. He released his grip, throwing her to the ground at his feet.
She gasped for breath.
“Come back tomorrow,” he said. “I’ll teach you something. Something important.”
Chapter 5
“A cemetery,” Meadowlark moaned, “Why does it have to be a cemetery?”
Ignoring his friend’s complaints, James surveyed the irregular rows of headstones in the shadow of th
e Lethbridge chapel. Most of the ancient markers closest to the church were made of wood. All were tilted, sunken or broken. After the town had established a quarry rich in slate and shale, newer monuments of polished stone became the rule as the graveyard had expanded outward. All of these markers were set facing west so that, at the sound of the cock’s crow on the day of judgment, the resurrected dead would arise to face the dawn. Tall grass and brambles grew freely between the graves and quite a few mature trees, broad willows and drooping English yews, sheltered the area, setting most of the graveyard in murky shadow. James wandered between the haphazardly grouped monuments, unaware of exactly what he was looking for. Arabelle’s poetic message had mentioned only Lethbridge stone and ‘dark morrow.’ Well, he thought, it will be sunset soon.
“I like this one,” Meadowlark remarked. He brushed a stray shoot of ivy from a tall headstone. He read in an ominous voice, “Stranger, stop and cast an eye. As you are now, so once was I. As I am now, so you will be. Remember Death and follow me.”
His whimsical intonation did nothing to lift James’ spirits. There was a time when a graveyard would not bother him at all; there was a time when he did not believe in ghosts. But after encountering the pitiful shade of Marjorie Hightower on his father’s estate, he no longer had the luxury of disbelief. He knew that ghosts were real. And this place seemed ripe for them. He could not shake the feeling he was walking into a trap.
He stopped and turned toward Meadowlark. “This place,” he said, “this isn’t Deepgrave, is it?”
“Deepgrave? No lad, this is a nursery school compared to that horrible place.”
A distant sound came to James’ ears, though he could not place it exactly. It swirled from the left and then the right. James couldn’t be sure he’d actually heard it. Even when not trying, his mind was atypically sensitive to psychic vibrations around him. “You hear that?”
“Fie!” said Meadowlark with a shudder. “Why is it always graveyards with these people?” He climbed up the tallest monument close at hand, a thin spire dedicated to some important citizen of years ago, and crouched at the top like a gargoyle. “You go ahead then, my man. I’ll survey from this perch. But be careful. I smell banshees close about. They’ve passed here within a day, no doubt.”
Banshees here? Servants of the Dark Queen. What was it that everyone said? If a banshee screams someone dies. Suddenly this adventure began to sour on him. Stones and bones and strange sounds in the mist. What was he really looking for? A chance to see Arabelle again. But here? Which spot would she choose? They had frolicked on summer heaths and tumbled in the long grass and even made love in the waters of a lake, but never a graveyard.
The eerie moan came again, nearer still. The sound chilled James’ blood. A tormented ghost it might be, but at least it was not the deadly wail of a banshee. Or perhaps it signified something else. He moved toward it. Dusk was quickly falling and he had stupidly not thought to bring a lantern or torch. Time was running out. James would only go so far. He had no intention of wandering about this place in the dead of night. But he could not consider walking away. If the message had truly come from Arabelle, he must know the truth, he must find out how she felt about him, if there might still be a chance for them to resolve their differences.
And then he spotted a black rose at the base of a tree. Black roses weren’t native to English graveyards. But they had been Arabelle’s favorite. In happier days James had gone to great lengths to procure black roses to please her, even riding as far south as the marsh town of Dymchurch-under-the-wall in order to purchase some from the merchants there. A black rose! This must be the place.
As he approached the old black alder tree, the strange moaning sound intensified. He glanced back at Meadowlark, still perched atop the pointed tomb, totally unconcerned as he dangled sideways rocking one foot up in the air.
The moan came again and a thump from the trunk of the tree. Inside the tree? James stepped forward. A straight line had been cut through the rough bark. He ran his fingertips along the edge, outlining a cut panel. He dug his fingers under, dislodging a few tiny black beetles and swung the panel upward—the tree was hollow—revealing a silky webbed cocoon of some sort. It was getting too dark to see anything clearly, but the eerie moaning sound was definitely coming from within. James steadied himself and tore away at the silky covering. Someone was inside the tree! He peeled the cocoon back to see a withered face.
Threadneedle’s hearty laughter fell away into the jubilant roar of the audience. He was enjoying himself immensely. ‘The English Gentleman’s Guide to Vice and Virtue’ was a certified hit, though London had never seen anything like it before. The players, which included three prominent faery actors, seemed to be making up at least half of their lines on the spot. This was the third performance of The English Gentleman’s Guide Threadneedle had attended in its current run and tonight’s dialogue bore little resemblance to any of the earlier versions.
Nora Grayson took center stage now, in the guise of an English farmgirl. She had altered her face considerably, putting on a human glamour that included buck teeth, an extraordinarily long neck, freckles, and pig-tails so long they swept the stage planks. She shared the stage with the faery actor named Pinky Longbottom. Longbottom performed with no glamour at all, his natural green skin tone covered by a thin sheen of sweat that rendered him very bright under the stage lights.
Faery actors were all the rage In Covent Garden these days, and in The English Gentleman’s Guide, Signor Spagnelli had at last landed himself a genuine hit. The Menagerie shook to its pillar posts with laughter as Longbottom comically pursued Nora across the stage. His movements were a unique combination of dance, levitation and flashing lights. He thrust his pelvis this way and that as Nora’s milkmaid skillfully evaded his every advance, each time giving his wooden codpiece a pejorative rap with a cooking spoon. The audience roared. They had never seen such acrobatic lechery before. It was almost obscene.
Not everyone was enjoying the faery’s amorous antics. Seated in the second row of the pit, Threadneedle had an excellent view of all the persons of quality inhabiting the boxes at the side of the stage. One gentleman in particular drew his attention. A man of mid-forties with a dour face among the smiling masses. He wore a smart summer suit made of plain black cloth with only a hint of embroidery on the edges and pockets. His waistcoat was likewise black and tightly fitting around a muscular frame. Contrary to the prevailing fashion, he wore his hair shortly cropped and a black pointed beard that recalled an Elizabethan sense of style. This man held his quizzing-glass trained directly so as to examine each of the faeries on stage in exquisite detail.
The final act reached its climax as signaled by the return of the star Humbert Itreglia to the stage in the title role. Pinky Longbottom left off his flirtations with the milk maid and transformed in full view of the crowd from a male to a female faery. The crowd gasped in hushed breathless tones as the faery’s suit and waistcoat disappeared, his waist narrowed and upon his chest blossomed a pair of shapely breasts. For a brief moment it seemed all the newly formed naughty bits were to be fully revealed until, as part of the glamour, convenient sprawls of green fronds and baby’s breath appeared just in the nick of time to conceal them. The crowd put forth an exuberant but mixed reaction—a sigh of relief from those with a more religious bent and moans of frustration from the other sort.
Threadneedle rose and made his way across the row of seats. He wanted to get backstage and wait inside Nora’s changing closet before the final curtain call. He entered the theatre’s lobby and passed through a side door into the hallway at the rear of the stage. He passed Spagnelli coming the other way, a monkey perched on his shoulder. “How do you find it, Mr. Templeton?” murmured the burly manager. His round face was flushed by either wine or excitement, or both.
“An excellent performance, as always,” said Threadneedle.
Spagnelli did not pause for further conversation or words of encouragement. “Mustn’t tarry,” h
e said, still on the move. He gestured to Nora’s closet. “She’ll be along presently.” He flew down the hall as fast as his stubby legs could carry him. The monkey turned its head full round and spit a cherry pit back at Threadneedle. The faery spy barely dodged it in time.
As he waited for Nora to arrive, Threadneedle couldn’t help going over the current situation in his mind. He’d never been good at waiting. The last few days had been spent criss-crossing London town from Parliament to Westminster Hall to St. James’s. He’d been gauging reaction to the establishment of Everbright and weighing possible political threats. The attitude of George Grenville, the newly appointed Prime Minister, was especially difficult to predict. George the Third had never favored faeries and had ample reasons to despise them. Threadneedle no longer had direct access to the palace. Since the most recent infiltration by the Dark Queen they had tightened measures, and the alias he had maintained there for many years, Jacob Schroeder, groom of the King’s bedchamber, had been revealed as a faery spy. He mourned the loss of that valuable identity—a necessary sacrifice in order to stop Dresdemona’s plans. The palace was closed to him now, though he was sure he could get back in if need be.
The changing closet door opened with a thump.
“Bravo!” he said, bowing at the waist. “Bravo!”
Nora, still in her guise of the busty milkmaid, shut the door behind her and dramatically fell against it in a pantomime of exhaustion. “Oh, darling, I’m completely drained! I can barely keep up with Longbottom. Someone should explain to him we are doing an improvisation, not a public rape.”