‘Surely you can’t think this will work,’ I say. ‘What do you think our deaths will accomplish? How will this bring your husband back to life? No one can do that.’
‘Pitiful, clueless one. The Spirit,’ Gruoch points to the smoke apparition on the bed with her other hand, ‘is omnipotent. It’s shown me truths before they happened, describing your face in dreams – describing yourscar– and here you are. Proof that the Spirit’s prophecies were right. If it says it can wipe the slate clean, restore my glory, bring Macbethad back to me, I believe it.’
At her words, the candles on that death shrine of a bed blaze brighter, flames licking the ceiling. Heat coats my skin, the sickly smell of burning petals and bird bones soaking the air. So many bird bones, strewn as if in prayer. My terror gargles with a ghoulish curiosity.Did you kill all these little birds yourself, I want to ask,or did you have your cooks or soldiers do it for you?
I don’t know why this, of all things, should matter to me so.
‘You’re not going to hurt them,’ Claret hisses, pushing Will and me behind her body. But she’s only wielding words instead of her own weapon, her knife still nowhere to be found. That cruel cloak of hers betrayed us, hiding our sharp salvation in its depths. And my cloak? I search it but grasp no key, although I’m certain I’ve not left it in our cell door. Only feathers, a useless, confusing mess of feathers that my fingers sink into. What is this fresh taunting from the Fates? Neither their plans nor their gift for us could be trusted, it seems.
What’s left to try? If we all three pounced at Gruoch at once, tried to wrench that blade away from her … But a glance at Will tells me this won’t work. He’s barely holdingon, pale as a sheet of paper flapping in the wind, Claret’s hand the sole thing keeping him from floating.
Oh, we’re doomed, aren’t we? I have come full circle, about to die in Macbethad’s castle, as if I never crawled my way out of the pages of that folio, as if I never found a different world. All this has been for naught. Claret’s eyes find mine, ferocious, and I take comfort in their fires.
Not for naught,I correct myself. For love. I’ll go down holding Claret’s hand.
The smoke is thicker now, luminous white, spilling out of the bed on to the floor. A buzzing, hideous sound emanates from it, screaming infernos sizzling out, echoes of past pain.
‘Welcome, Spirit,’ Gruoch says, saccharine.
The buzzing becomes louder, bringing me to my knees, every bone and tooth vibrating with a wrongness I can’t name, yet recognize. No, no, no, no.
The buzzing splits into distinct words, spoken by a legion of voices, ancient and young, human and other. ‘Don’t worry, my children. You are all safe now.’
The smoke takes Shepherd’s form, and I can’t tell what happens next.
Or rather, what happens first.
My vision breaks, fragments, as if I’m now observing through a myriad eyes, a myriad dark wings flapping. I am become an unkindness of ravens, loosely connected, flying in all directions. Cause and effect, time and logic, mean little to us. Memory is concurrent, eternal.
We are the flock.
We see: Will on his knees, raising his hands in prayer.
We see: Shepherd in her human form, yet a leopard tail made of smoke still trails behind her. She talks to Gruoch,petting her head like a child. They both smile, but Shepherd’s tail tells another story, whipping the floor in ghost annoyance. Gruoch doesn’t notice. She does not share our eyes. She does not share our anything.
We see: Claret, about to tear her cloak apart, desperately searching for her knife. Her cloak looks different through our eyes, as if it’s spun from liquid flames, from scarlet, sentient ribbons pulsing, pulsing. Claret’s attention is on Shepherd, yet she sees us, eyes widening with shock – then narrowing, trying to understand us.
We know: she loves us and she’d never hurt us, in this form or any. We feel tired, not enough clear air in the room to fly, yet we sweep around her shoulders, wings softly touching her. We try to lift her up and fly away, but our strength is spent.
We see: Shepherd lifting a finger, blasting Gruoch’s balcony door to smithereens, shards of glass in the night sky. Air, glorious air lifts our wings, and we can fly, now. We can disappear into the Scottish night, scatter. Shepherd won’t find us. We’ll spread into a web of stories, too many for this cat to track. We’ll haunt this world, rain darkness over forests, dance with the wind in graveyards, inspire new poets. The possibilities pull on us, a tug like talons in our chests. But a different tug makes us hesitate, makes us sad. Claret won’t be able to find us, dance with us.
We hear: all of them in the room talking at once. Will expressing his gratitude; Gruoch asking for what she’s due, the return of her husband and her glory; Claret cursing the Fates under her breath; Shepherd telling them to follow her, her voice carrying a binding power, turning the words to shackles they don’t even notice, wrapped around their throats, dragging them along.
We see: the night sky outside the balcony losing its colour, fading to white, cracking open like a book, like a world. Shepherd grabs Gruoch by the elbow, lifting up Will with her other hand. Her ghost tail wraps around Claret’s ankle, tugging, tugging until she relents, the fire in her heart fizzling. Voluntarily or not, they all step through the opening. They don’t fall, like they should have, being wingless unlike us. They pass through, and disappear.
We have: a choice. To follow, or to flee.
We flutter, but we can’t abandon Claret.
We fall into this world of white, beaks first, wings outstretched.
We hear: a voice, whispered by three women, old and young and neither. ‘And all our yesterdays have lighted fools the way to dusty death,’ it says.
We feel like dying.
Behind us, Gruoch’s bedroom is burning, consumed by candle flames left unattended. And in the centre of the inferno, the bed that held the sacrificial items, so many bird bones crumble into ash, never to fly again.
We fly for them, too.
