Mine in the truest sense there is, I suppose. Mine in murderer’s brand. Mine in retribution. ‘What makes you ask that?’ I ask, trying not to look at his mouth.
Hercules shakes his impressive shoulders. ‘Just that I’ve noticed these tend to appear near people with whom they have a connection. From before. Most people don’t acknowledge them until it’s too late. Until they croak, choked by shadows – or saved by Seshat.’
‘But you do. Acknowledge them.’ Maybe he’s not as oafish as he looks.
‘Hey, don’t you know? I’m Zeus’ son. My eyes work better. See clearer.’ He gives me such a piercing look I bet he thinks my dress will fall off of its own accord. Between him and the wraith, I’ve had too many eyes on me for my liking, whether divinely descended or not.
I look with longing past this crowded, noisy hall, towards the hallway that leads back to my bedroom. Helene seems preoccupied with chewing something I don’t want to look at too closely either. Perhaps I could excuse myself, retire.And if this brute considers it an invitation … Well, then. He will have forced my knife. The wraith might even help me. For all his frolicking about, leaving me behind, jealousy was a frequent guest in Agamemnon’s heart – many good men put to the sword for the crime of looking at me too long, in the wrong way.
Perhaps the fragment that is left in him could be of use.
The thought makes me smile as I get up from the bench.
Then – a shimmer in the hallway, like ripples in water. It vanishes again, making me question whether I’ve imagined it, whether my mind is so desperate for news from Anassa that even the prospect of her drowning errant girl fills me with longing.
I get up and approach the shimmer slowly, knowing that if I run, or make a ruckus, the whole dining hall will notice. As it is, only Helene follows me – thankfully without Hercules or the wraith in tow. ‘Sister, what happened?’ she asks once we’ve turned the corner.
But her question is quenched, faster than I could answer it.
Because Ophelia shimmers back into sight, wet and resplendent, like a goddess of retrieval, a helpful river that distributes wealth across its bank.
And this time, she’s brought me something far more precious than a flower.
31. Anassa
Like pilgrims on a promenade of past successes, Shakespeare and I are strolling through that graveyard garden. I take polite stops to supposedly admire the white roses, to pretend I do not see the bones strewn all around us. I wonder what Shakespeare sees – if he only sees the triumph of the flowers, not the surrender of the skulls that keeps the whole structure upright.
But I don’t have the time to ask. Ophelia’s eerie whispers find us.
‘As if he had been loosed out of hell to speak of horrors – he comes before me.’
Her voice reverberates through rose petals, cuts us through thorns. It shakes the ground so subtly, I imagine the skull that I unearthed before is sighing. Shakespeare, lost in recounting the intricate power struggles that led Macbethad mac Findláech to make a play for Scotland’s throne, winning Gruoch’s hand in marriage after he slayed her first husband, stops in his tracks. His hand, holding my elbow, trembles something fierce. I give it an affectionate, reassuring squeeze, while making sure he doesn’t flee.
Not even when Ophelia’s disconcerting odour hits us.
‘My Bard, don’t be alarmed. It’s only your most loyal creation, trapped in the rivers of your words, eager to greet you.’
And what specific rivers she has chosen this time! Words deep enough in symbolism to drown him. Horrors, hell … I almost nod in admiration when the girl appears, her dress only partially wet, some mild moss on her temple, as if she’s made an effort to appear coherent.
Whole. For him.
‘My sweet prince.’ She curtsies. Then, as an afterthought, when she’s already halfway up, ‘My queen. I did as you asked.’
Something soft and unbidden strokes my face; an unseen raven’s wing. Relief floods me. ‘I trust my message was delivered, then?’
‘’Tis in my memory locked, and you yourself shall keep the key of it,’ she croons, becoming slightly transparent.
The key? I cannot parse her words – but Shakespeare seems … pleased.
‘I say, you do recall your lines still. Ophelia, it fills my heart with joy to see you look so … So … But what is this message you speak of?’ interjects Shakespeare, and I don’t know what irks him more, not being able to come up with an adequate compliment for Ophelia’s semi-liquid state, or realizing he’s the one who doesn’t hold all the information, all the dialogue, for a change. That we can scheme and plot and plan without his say-so, without his pen anticipating or alluding to it.
How much to tell him? How much to withhold? I don’t trust him not to run along to Shepherd, inform her that I’m smuggling messages to Claret. ‘Ophelia here is blessed with a unique gift, my Bard. She can appear and disappear at will …’ Well, almost at will. ‘… In different corners of our Shepherd’s realm. Spot other stories, as well as our goddess herself. I asked her to deliver me a message toShepherd, to assure our goddess I was well, thriving in my new domain. I know she worries about each and every one of us.’
Shakespeare can’t possibly deny that, not without insulting his cherished deity.
And if Ophelia blushes at the way her truth is twisted with my lies, thankfully her bluish undertones conceal it. Her drowning habits can be irksome, but they are not without advantages, I’m finding. There is a certain beauty to it all, this dissolution of the self, this trust that she will be resurfacing … So different from my own experience with sinking underwater, with fighting for my life against that wraith. There is something there to be explored, a seed of thought. A wild notion, really. Perhaps –
‘Be that as it may …’ Our Bard’s baritone voice takes me out of my pondering. ‘I don’t see how such a feat could be achieved,’ he insists. ‘Apparitions? Ghosts, perhaps, as an allegory for conscience, but the characters themselves having uncanny powers … Magic was never such a part of Hamlet’s play. Not like …’ Turning from Ophelia to me, he grants me his most scathing look, as if I am the wicked weed that has polluted his pristine, angelic garden.
