A shoddy shelter, but better than none at all.
There’s one thing to be said in favour of Shepherd’s realm: I didn’t feel so much in it. The cold; the hunger; the frigid bark behind my back; the bone-deep exhaustion; the burning of my cheeks and my scar as the cold air stretches my skin to almost breaking … Even Claret’s body, as she huddles closer, seeking warmth, feels different here. Sharper. Like a knife that cuts –
‘Wait, what are you doing?’
Claret has grabbed my cloak’s helm, slicing it with her knife. Has she gone mad?
‘I’m keeping us alive, in this frozen end of Tartaros you brought us. Here. Almost done.’ She rips a long, thick ribbon of fabric from my cloak, then cuts that part in two. With hurried movements, she wraps each part around each of my feet, tying the ends haphazardly around my ankles. They’re the ugliest shoes I’ve ever worn – but my toes do come back to life, sending pins and needles up my spine. I exhale, half in pain, half in relief. ‘Your toes were getting almost as blackened as your fingers,’ Claret quips when I turn to thank her. She’s done the same to her own feet, I see now, two little scarlet bundles resting on a tree root, dotted with snow already. They look so much like poisonous mushrooms, I almost laugh. ‘Thank you,’ I say instead.
She nods.
The silence stretches, every snowflake an ellipsis in our untold lines, our upended script.
I want to say so many things; things that felt so clear in the sorry comfort of her absence, things that are now once again a muddled mess. Yet the snow keeps falling, and I didn’t bring us here to freeze unceremoniously, two forlorn queens in a forest. ‘It would be wise to keep moving,’I manage. Grabbing on to the tree bark and immediately regretting its icy bite, I get up. My toes protest, burning as my blood rushes back down to them.
Claret mirrors my movements, her face twisted in a knot of pain and anger.
I have to ask, or I’ll burst. ‘Are you mad at me? For bringing us here?’
‘I’ll let you know when I find out where “here” is. Right now, all I care about is keeping us alive.’ A pause. ‘In case I need to kill you later.’
For a second, a cold deeper than the snow, more devastating, wraps around me. But then I see it; that small, upward movement on her lips, that subtle softness in her eyes.
‘You’re making a joke,’ I realize.
‘Good, you haven’t lost all your wits from this cold.’ She takes my hand, gives it a squeeze. Our outside world doesn’t change; it doesn’t shed its secrets like it used to. Yet I can feel the change inside; the strength, the sureness that together we can make it so much further … I must have been staring at our hands because Claret clears her throat, then she continues, ‘Now, where to? Which direction are we headed to?’
‘That … is an excellent question.’ I spin around slowly, trying to get any sense of North or South, of which part of my homeland we may be in. The trees are familiar, but that is little indication. I close my eyes, hoping for a sign, for ravens swooping down to guide me …
Nothing. No, something. Atap tapsound, like time is running out, like Shakespeare’s quill tapping into the bottle to shed its excess ink before it writes our ending. I hate this feeling, this fear that even now I’m not in control of my own Fate.
‘Oh, he’s precious,’ Claret croons and I open my eyes.
Thetap tapsound is real. A little woodpecker, on a tree just to our right, digging for termites. I can’t help but smile at his tenacity. He’s plump and bold, like someone else I know, bending the elements to his will. I take in its fluffy feathers, the green mark on its head, its blood-red belly. Blood-red … A claret spot, really, pulsing with every move.
Yours is the path of claret …Oh, very well. Perhaps this world is subtler in its omens. Perhaps the birds are different here. ‘This way,’ I declare, pointing at the woodpecker.
If Claret senses my thread-thin bravado, she says nothing as we trudge onward, thetap tap taptallying our footsteps in the snow.
We walk, and walk, and walk, and walk, and I’ve all but forgotten who I am, where I mean to go, what I mean to achieve. It’s only step after step, snow and more snow. Our silence stretches thick enough to eat, but I do not attribute any bitterness to it, only exhaustion.
Who knew walking on the snow was so taxing? I never had to worry about that before.
I had servants, carriages, castles, to protect me from the weather.
When I first spot the lantern, I think it’s fireflies – or fairies, like those orbs of light back in that rainy meadow, where everything was sweet. I blame my tired mind, spinning tales out of snow, yearning for magic in a world that seems to have none. Still, that flame flickers, its burnt orange the most welcome sight after hours of white and darkening blue. I turn to check on Claret, see if she’s noticed anything unusual.
My fox fumbles to find her knife, her hands shakingfrom the cold. I can’t imagine how unpleasant holding this metal hilt must be now – yet hold it she does, teeth bared. ‘Stay back,’ she whispers, ‘I can see movement up ahead.’
‘You see it too?’ I try not to sound so relieved that I am not hallucinating. ‘Perhaps there are people we can ask for help …’ Someone to save us from having to spend the night out here, walking until we fall down or we freeze mid-stride. If they are loyal subjects of the Queen, of Gruoch, perhaps they could even point us to my – her – castle. My spirits lift. ‘Hello! Good people, help!’ I yell, while Claret stares at me as if I’ve grown two heads. ‘Stop in the name of the King! In the name of Macbethad! We are two lasses who require assistance!’
‘Why would you –’ Claret hisses, but there’s no time to explain.
The flame floats closer, and soon the man who holds the lantern comes into view.
‘What do we have here, then? Two pretty birds, left behind by their flock. Don’t worry, little birds. Crinan will keep you nice and warm.’
Crinan is more stain than man, a mix of rotting teeth and tattered clothes and ginger beard dotted with crumbs that seems aflame in the lantern light. Still, we hardly look like queens ourselves. I decide to disregard his crude comments, appeal to his loyalty to the crown instead. ‘My good man, we are so fortunate to find you! We are … friends of Queen Gruoch, you see, robbed on our way to meet her. If you take us to the castle, I assure you, you will be mightily rewarded.’I hope.
