‘Wraiths. Creatures of shadow and burned dreams, stories gone astray …’ Clotho points at my blackened fingers.‘My sisters and I arrived too late; I see you already met one. Not many survive such an encounter.’
My breath catches. ‘I thought we killed it … You’re saying there are more of these … wraiths?’
‘Wedidn’t kill it, Anassa. I did,’ Claret says, her proud eyebrows arching high enough to reach her hairline. ‘And I will kill its siblings too, if they decide to come for us.’ She only gives Clotho the briefest look, as if to ensure her defiance is permitted.
‘No one doubts your killing skills, little thunderous one,’ Clotho says, and if Claret is offended by that repeated appellation she does not let it show. ‘Though I’m afraid it’s not that simple. You can’t stay here; this is not your storyworld. The soil itself will fight you, the longer you stay. It will strive to abort you, with tooth and rock and claw and never-ending sand.’
Sand … ‘That’s why we kept walking, yesterday, never reaching anywhere?’
Clotho nods. ‘You can trick it for a bit, when you work together. The rules are mostly made for single stories – with your hands entwined, you can pass through the seams. Catch glimpses of things beyond your understanding, survive in worlds not your own, open doors that shouldn’t open. How do you think you understand each other’s language? But even that has limits. That’s why it’s crucial to find your guide, the one who’ll take you where you need to go.’ Clotho gets up, indicating we should do the same.
We obey once more. I should be questioning my willingness to please her, shouldn’t I?
Clotho’s eyes find mine. ‘I see my spell is waning fast,’ she says. ‘Soon you’ll be seeing what you always saw; theold hag that he wrote, not my true self … Never mind. Here, let it be known I keep my word: put your hands inside this cauldron, one at a time.’
I shiver, conscious of my ruined fingertips. ‘Must we?’
Huffing at my indecisiveness, Claret shoves me aside and sinks her hand inside the cauldron. Her impressive brow furrows. She removes her hand reluctantly, holding a key. A claret-coloured key. ‘What is this?’ she asks, fear and anticipation orbiting each other in her tone.
‘This, my dear, is the key back to your storydoor. The place from whence you came.’
I can’t hide the resentment in my voice. ‘If we’d had this earlier, when we were chased by that wraith, eager to open any door …’
‘It wouldn’t have worked. Even if a door did open, like I said, neither of you is ready. It would be akin to carving wings from wax and flying to the sun. And besides –’ Clotho holds up a finger in apparent warning, ‘even if you could, youshouldn’tuse it yet. Not unless you’re determined to balance the scale for your crimes; save an innocent. Until that time … your cloaks have hidden pouches. Keep your keys there, and you shall never lose them.’
Claret’s face could have been carved from rock. She stands still, holding the key gingerly in her fingers, and I can tell there is a war raging inside her – a war she’s losing. Eventually, the woman I sincerely thought was a demon not so long ago deflates. She grabs that vermilion cloak, wears it, and slips the key inside an inner pocket. ‘I understand,’ she says.
That makes one of us, I want to scream, because I really do not understand at all. Balance the scale for our crimes? Save an innocent? I don’t know the extent of Claret’s crimes,but mine were justified; ordained by these very witches – goddesses? – who promised my lord husband greatness. There was no other way to rule as prophesied … Was there? Uncertainty coats my tongue. I swallow the dryness in my throat and place my hand inside the cauldron. Thankfully, nothing burns me.
There is a key for me as well – predictably, mine’s raven black. I try not to think of ravens, fluttering about, whispering things no one else can hear. Following Claret’s example, I put on my cloak and secure the key inside. ‘Is that it, then? Where do we go from here?’
Clotho doesn’t answer. She looks up to the sky, where the sun now hides behind a billow of bitter-looking clouds. ‘When shall we three meet again,’ she whispers, ‘in thunder, lightning or in rain?’ She looks so incredibly sad; even the flowers on her hair are wilting. Her skin is quickly losing its previous radiance, echoes of the witch I met back in the woods flickering under it. ‘I’m afraid we’re out of time,’ she croaks. ‘She’s on her way. Quick, get into that cave, both of you; her reach can’t cross its threshold. There’s a torch next to the entrance; take that and use it as you navigate the tunnel. And no matter what you see or hear – keep going.’
‘Whose reach?’ I ask, but Claret is already ahead of me, doing as she was told.
With no choice but to comply, I head to the cave’s entrance as I hear thunder rumble. When I turn around, gracing that strange ebony beach with one last glance, Clotho has disappeared. A scent of singed paper lingers in the air, increasing by the second. A wild wind whooshes along the beach, removing any remnants of our campsite. Transfixed, I watch the wind swirl faster and faster,picking up black sand in its path, moulding it into a shape that looks like an animal, prowling my way. A big cat, a tiger or a leopard, made up from storm and sand and those black pebbles, with holes of empty space where its eyes should be. The wind sounds more like screaming now. I don’t need to linger any longer, wait and see if this apparition will become tangible enough to leap, to claw, to bite, like the wraith was.
I back away as quickly as possible and follow Claret into the cave. She has picked up the torch Clotho mentioned from near the entrance and is lighting our path ahead: indeed a tunnel, high enough to walk in.
I consider whether I should tell her what I saw, about the cat-shaped storm approaching us. But when I look back to confirm whether we need to run, the beast is just beyond the threshold. Tail wagging, teeth drooling, paw batting at a barrier I cannot see. Transfixed, I look at it rising on two legs to fall on to the threshold with more force – but it dissolves into the sand and pebbles it was made of. I let go of a breath that was locked in my throat.We’re safe.
I turn around and realize Claret never saw what happened. Instead, she has been looking forward, studying this new terrain, whispering something I can’t hear. The torch’s flame burns steadily, painting the walls with glistening shadows, like we’re inside another beast’s slippery mouth. And when I gaze upon the cave’s walls, all my previous thoughts of safety are forgotten.
‘Claret …’ I try to keep my voice calm, even, only slightly flabbergasted. ‘The walls … the walls are bleeding.’
12. Claret
Bleeding … bleeding … bleeding …
Anassa’s warning echoes off the walls. Holding the light of the torch near the wall’s surface, I take a closer look at what I first thought was rock, licked sleek by ocean winds. ‘Yes. The walls are bleeding,’ I confirm. Oozing like an open wound that never heals, fresh rivulets of blood mixing with the black stones underneath our naked feet. A carnage of a cave – and we’re walking on it. The poetry is not lost on me. But Anassa sounds uncharacteristically upset, so I decide to keep that further horror to myself. For now.
Maybe she won’t look down.
I should be reacting more to this, to all of this. Yet I find it hard to care. What difference does it make if the walls are oozing blood, or gold, or naiads’ tears? I’m still the mother of my killer, as Clotho said. Which means my vengeance was for nothing; that my remaining children chose their father over me, even in death. Of all the noxious things I’ve seen and heard and smelled these days, all the threats to undo me, explicit or implicit, that knowledge might just be the thing that makes me throw my knife away. Quit fighting.
I sigh, my cloak weighing heavily on my shoulders. I can’t quit fighting yet. Not with Clotho’s admonitionsthat we must keep going lest this world abort us, and with Anassa looking so pale amid these bloody walls. ‘Don’t fret,’ I tell my partner in penance, my tone as even as I can make it. ‘It’s like Clotho said: this place doesn’t want us here. Stay away from the walls. We’ll be fine,’ I add, to reassure her. It seems to work.
Torch in one hand and knife in the other, I lead the way.
