STORY: After the End of the Tale
A short, science-fictional story based on what might have happened after the end of Shakespeare's The Winter's Tale. The play ends with the king Leontes being presented with a "statue" of his wife Hermione, supposedly dead after he attacked her out of jealousy, which then "comes to life," but the story is mystical enough that you could imagine that it is in fact a statue that has come to life by magic. Which got me thinking: how would you know?
Content note: domestic violence.
Leonides didn't know when he had started searching for signs that something was wrong. It couldn't have been right after he had got Herma back. The first weeks after Paula had led him to her hiding-place, it had been as though his old delusions - after what he had done - had come true: he'd got another chance, and when he awoke in the mornings he could feel her warm weight next to himself and his breath hitched in his throat. For a while he had stayed awake until faintness came, because if he fell asleep the dream might not have the power to stick.
Doubt came as time went by. It was nothing you chose. It had bit into him, and then it would perhaps always be there.
During his generation, androids had developed until you could no longer tell them apart from those humans who had been born from a womb. He would not have achieved anything with such low-minded actions as looking in the toilet after she had been to the bathroom, or by searching for cut-off fingernails or sweat-stains under her sleeves. Even if he had made her pregnant it wouldn't have been decisive.
He looked at the wrinkles in her lower eyelids and the feathery white streaks in her hair that she would never have deigned to dye away. That was how she would have looked if she had aged during those fifteen years, out of sight. It meant nothing.
“Do you think I'm starting to get old?” she joked and ran a fingertip across the powder-shimmering surface of her eyelid.
He laughed with her and said some flattery that he himself could not remember afterwards.
He couldn't determine what she was from her bodily fluids, or by running his gaze across her skin to find the bleached serial numbers that artificial courtesans had had when Father was young, or by seeing blood smeared on her alabaster-hazy form after a cut - but there his thoughts ended in a hysteria, as if he was the one who would drag the knife across her. He couldn't hurt her again, now that he had been given this chance.
“Have you forgiven me?” he asked one night.
Herma stood facing the window out on the dark, so that all he could see was her glossy hair. She laughed, but like a comforting pat.
“Of course I have. It was just one stroke. It's not as if you wanted to kill me.”
He walked up and embraced her shoulders. Her skin was cool, but it would have been anyway, from the night chill.
“It was wrong,” he said. “Even if you had been unfaithful to me with him, it would have been wrong.”
After that he was calm enough to be able to sleep, but she had said “kill.” Why would that have come to her mind if it hadn't happened? That realisation disturbed the memory until he eventually couldn't remember whether she had said anything more.
Jealousy had taken him over and twisted him into something else, that time. He couldn't even remember at what point it had grown from a harmless little shoot of thoughts into something he no longer had the power to force back. For a few weeks he could have managed, but he would have had to manage for the rest of his life: the awareness that his son might not have been his son, that his wife might have crept into their bed with another man's heat and stink burning on her skin. It had seemed like more than he could stand.
It had been her insistent innocence that had brought him to that point. He'd only wanted to get the truth out, but how could he believe her as long as she said that she was innocent? The servants had stood around them and refused to let themselves be frightened from the room, as if their mere presence were going to make it easier for her. Paula, her body-servant, had dragged her to her feet and helped her from the apartments, and then he had seen a long streak of pale blood down her skirt. It had only been one kick, but she had been pregnant.
*
Paula hadn't left any traces when she disappeared, but when he required his people to search for someone, there was little use in hiding. (That assumed that she were alive.) Asking Herma would have been quicker, but he hesitated even now. Perhaps he would do it if they were unable to find Paula.
It turned out not to be necessary. One of his information officers came to him one morning. They had located the planet and building, but he went there himself and left his bodyguard outside the entrance, at the bottom level of a canyon between glass-bright façades.
It was as if Paula had known, because when he opened the door she was standing in the middle of the hallway, her neck stiff, her head turned a little towards him.
“Torture me again, if that is what you want,” she said.
He could have begged her forgiveness, but that would have achieved nothing other than wasting their time.
“I bring neither bribes nor threats,” he said. “All I ask is that you tell me the truth. Is it Herma? Did she survive?”
Paula was still hesitating. He had to go on:
“Regardless of the answer, I will not harm her, I just want clarity.”
He hadn't thought of that possibility until he said it.
Paula took a step towards him. She was smiling now, a white smile.
“I had my memory of that erased,” she said. “In case you would ask.”
She was smiling, so it took a moment until he realised what she had said.
*
When he asked the question, it was in the morning, before he headed to the Parliament meeting, so that the very hurry would force him to get it out.
She was sitting next to him on the edge of their bed. He didn't look at her while he spoke, but her hand was touching his.
When she drew a breath to speak, his gaze flew up to her face. He couldn't do anything to stop it. She wasn't looking straight at him.
“I do not know,” she said and moved her head a little.
In the corridor he turned. She was sitting framed by the doorway, looking at her hands, her hair falling forward and shrouding her face. His shuttle waited below, but he rushed back into the bedchamber and embraced her and did not know what he embraced.
THE END
Content note: domestic violence.
Leonides didn't know when he had started searching for signs that something was wrong. It couldn't have been right after he had got Herma back. The first weeks after Paula had led him to her hiding-place, it had been as though his old delusions - after what he had done - had come true: he'd got another chance, and when he awoke in the mornings he could feel her warm weight next to himself and his breath hitched in his throat. For a while he had stayed awake until faintness came, because if he fell asleep the dream might not have the power to stick.
Doubt came as time went by. It was nothing you chose. It had bit into him, and then it would perhaps always be there.
During his generation, androids had developed until you could no longer tell them apart from those humans who had been born from a womb. He would not have achieved anything with such low-minded actions as looking in the toilet after she had been to the bathroom, or by searching for cut-off fingernails or sweat-stains under her sleeves. Even if he had made her pregnant it wouldn't have been decisive.
He looked at the wrinkles in her lower eyelids and the feathery white streaks in her hair that she would never have deigned to dye away. That was how she would have looked if she had aged during those fifteen years, out of sight. It meant nothing.
“Do you think I'm starting to get old?” she joked and ran a fingertip across the powder-shimmering surface of her eyelid.
He laughed with her and said some flattery that he himself could not remember afterwards.
He couldn't determine what she was from her bodily fluids, or by running his gaze across her skin to find the bleached serial numbers that artificial courtesans had had when Father was young, or by seeing blood smeared on her alabaster-hazy form after a cut - but there his thoughts ended in a hysteria, as if he was the one who would drag the knife across her. He couldn't hurt her again, now that he had been given this chance.
“Have you forgiven me?” he asked one night.
Herma stood facing the window out on the dark, so that all he could see was her glossy hair. She laughed, but like a comforting pat.
“Of course I have. It was just one stroke. It's not as if you wanted to kill me.”
He walked up and embraced her shoulders. Her skin was cool, but it would have been anyway, from the night chill.
“It was wrong,” he said. “Even if you had been unfaithful to me with him, it would have been wrong.”
After that he was calm enough to be able to sleep, but she had said “kill.” Why would that have come to her mind if it hadn't happened? That realisation disturbed the memory until he eventually couldn't remember whether she had said anything more.
Jealousy had taken him over and twisted him into something else, that time. He couldn't even remember at what point it had grown from a harmless little shoot of thoughts into something he no longer had the power to force back. For a few weeks he could have managed, but he would have had to manage for the rest of his life: the awareness that his son might not have been his son, that his wife might have crept into their bed with another man's heat and stink burning on her skin. It had seemed like more than he could stand.
It had been her insistent innocence that had brought him to that point. He'd only wanted to get the truth out, but how could he believe her as long as she said that she was innocent? The servants had stood around them and refused to let themselves be frightened from the room, as if their mere presence were going to make it easier for her. Paula, her body-servant, had dragged her to her feet and helped her from the apartments, and then he had seen a long streak of pale blood down her skirt. It had only been one kick, but she had been pregnant.
*
Paula hadn't left any traces when she disappeared, but when he required his people to search for someone, there was little use in hiding. (That assumed that she were alive.) Asking Herma would have been quicker, but he hesitated even now. Perhaps he would do it if they were unable to find Paula.
It turned out not to be necessary. One of his information officers came to him one morning. They had located the planet and building, but he went there himself and left his bodyguard outside the entrance, at the bottom level of a canyon between glass-bright façades.
It was as if Paula had known, because when he opened the door she was standing in the middle of the hallway, her neck stiff, her head turned a little towards him.
“Torture me again, if that is what you want,” she said.
He could have begged her forgiveness, but that would have achieved nothing other than wasting their time.
“I bring neither bribes nor threats,” he said. “All I ask is that you tell me the truth. Is it Herma? Did she survive?”
Paula was still hesitating. He had to go on:
“Regardless of the answer, I will not harm her, I just want clarity.”
He hadn't thought of that possibility until he said it.
Paula took a step towards him. She was smiling now, a white smile.
“I had my memory of that erased,” she said. “In case you would ask.”
She was smiling, so it took a moment until he realised what she had said.
*
When he asked the question, it was in the morning, before he headed to the Parliament meeting, so that the very hurry would force him to get it out.
She was sitting next to him on the edge of their bed. He didn't look at her while he spoke, but her hand was touching his.
When she drew a breath to speak, his gaze flew up to her face. He couldn't do anything to stop it. She wasn't looking straight at him.
“I do not know,” she said and moved her head a little.
In the corridor he turned. She was sitting framed by the doorway, looking at her hands, her hair falling forward and shrouding her face. His shuttle waited below, but he rushed back into the bedchamber and embraced her and did not know what he embraced.
THE END