I squirm under her gaze – oh, how dishevelled I must look! Barely clothed, my propriety in tatters, my hair undone. But to be judged by a blood-soaked banshee, that I won’t tolerate. ‘You must not behold yourself in mirrors often, spirit. At least my skin is clean of sin.’
Partially. I try not to gaze upon my hands.
‘Sin?’ She spares a quick glance at herself, then points that infernal knife of hers at me again. ‘This isn’tsin, you insidious raven! It’s merely blood – well spilled, well earned. A payment in kind, and I carry every drop with pride.’ Her voice rattles like late summer skies, volatile, threatening with thunder. This is a voice that peasants cower under, but not a queen.
‘You are a killer,’ I manage, disgusted by her brazenness.
I ignore the tiny inner voice that points out my hypocrisy.
She does not seem that offended by the word. ‘I am Klytemnestra, Anassa of Mycenae. I only kill those who need killing. Tell me, are you one of them?’
Mycenae … The name jolts the memory of something, something etched in myth, together with that other name she mentioned earlier.Trojans.Newfound fear slithers slowly up my spine. What if I’ve got it all wrong? If she’s no creature of the witches, then what is she? Whose will does she abide by?
And who controls this place I’ve found myself sequestered in?
‘I promise you, I mean no offence.’ I raise my hands again. ‘I came across your door by accident, it seems. So I shall simply walk on, if you’ll kindly leave me be.’
Her eyes narrow as she considers me anew. Part of me wants her to deny me; to insist on waging war with words. Though I fear her knife, I find myself suddenly dreading this unending empty corridor much more. The silence that swallows every step. The desperate hope of ever finding a way out. At least a demon, I could coax information out of. Have it explain the rules of this place, so I can twist them to my benefit. A human, if that is what she is, is useless to me. But … She could be company. Someone to pass the time, in a place where no such thing as time exists. Someone alive and vibrant to look at, even if this vibrancy comes with assorted violent nightmares. The witches must be happy; I’m already driven mad. ‘Say something,’ I add, allowing desperation to lace my voice. Perhaps if I show vulnerability …
She furrows her impressive, bloodied brow. ‘You’ve tried to threaten me. Then, to bribe me. And now you beg.’ She taps the blunt end of her knife against the palm of her other hand, in time with her words, as if counting my transgressions. ‘I don’t know what you are, but you’re hardly worth my while. I have unfinished businessto attend to.’ With that, the demon turns her back on me, curls spilling drops of blood as she walks back whence she came. The drops distract me for a second as they soak into the whiteness, quickly absorbed, vanishing.
And then I see it – or rather, I don’t see it. I don’t see it anywhere.
Her door has also vanished.
6. Klytemnestra
I turn my back on that good-for-nothing goddess, to show I don’t consider her a threat. She could still smite me if she chose to – but judging by our little dance she’s not strong enough to smite a kitten. Some defender she is. Deceitful and weak, even weaker than Cassandra.
No matter. My knife’s work is not yet done. Its thirst has not been sated.
I take a few steps into that disconcerting white, trusting my feet to carry me despite the lack of any path I can detect. I know the soles of my feet must still be soaked in Agamemnon’s blood, yet there’s no red-hued footprints anywhere; nothing to betray my presence, or my recent deeds. It disturbs me, this erasure of my truth. As if I’m but a wisp of wind, fully inconsequential. As if I didn’t slice my husband’s throat with glee.
This isn’t right. Murder should carry weight, in every realm.Ishould carry weight.
I push these unpleasant thoughts aside. Whatever this pristine, perplexing world is, be it the sphere of ghosts or gods, it’s not my place to question its mechanics. I don’t belong in it; I’m merely passing through, chasing away crow goddesses who’d dare intrude on my queendom. Besides, we only walked a few paces when I followed her into the light. It shouldn’t be so hard to find my way tomy halls. The entrance, such as it was, should be straight ahead. I should be gazing at the gaping skull that once contained my husband’s spirit, at his coagulated blood dyeing the marble bathtub like a rosy sunrise. Right here. Any second now.
Yet there is nothing but this milky fog, as far as the eye can see.
Fear finds me first, its icy fingers sinking in my chest. I refuse to turn around, to ask that wretched goddess for directions; it’s clear I cannot trust a word she says. I plunge my knife forward, hoping it will catch on some unseen surface, lend me passage back into my world.
The knife only slices air, making me lose my balance and fall screaming into nothing.
No – intosomething. Something solid though invisible cushions my fall, stifling my cry. Soft to the touch, akin to a sheepskin rug. I push myself back up, knife still at hand, only to noticeherhovering near, long, dark-clad limbs shuffling, pale hands clutching her skirts. ‘You! You did this, you destroyed the opening. Take me back at once.’ I reach for her, but she retreats, flinching.
‘I …’ Her eyes keep darting to my knife. ‘I did nothing of the sort!’ Her voice hitches higher, terror transfused with indignation. ‘It was the witches, they … they tricked me. They said the mark on my hand would lead me to glory, and then they made me drink this poison which almost buried me in forest dirt then spat me out into this empty place, where I was forced to walk forever, or it felt like forever, until I found a mark of claret on your door and then I opened it and – oh, don’t you see how it’s all tied together, leading back to those hags?’
I consider her words, coated in almost endearing panic,in true distress. She’s hinting at powers greater than her, which would fit. This squawking raven cannot be in control of any magic. Not willingly, at least.
Still, every second in this colourless terrain grates on my nerves. My anger is a crackling thing, making my fingers tingle, my throat ache.
Today was supposed to be my greatest triumph. Yet here am I, already a world away, being subjected to uncanny emptiness and spineless lies while Cassandra lives. Probably trying to convince my court she’s carrying Agamemnon’s child, so that she can take my throne.
I’ve had enough. Succumbing to the rage that courses through my veins, I grab this hollow goddess by her soft, soft hair and tug, bringing her to her knees. The hunger in my stomach writhes, screaming, demanding, craving. ‘I believe you,’ I say, my knife about to meet her swan-like throat. ‘Perhaps spilling your blood will pave my way home.’
She panics. Her hands find mine like fluttering birds, struggling to stop my knife.
Her touch sears me. A thousand unseen birds caw in my head. Colours erupt everywhere.
