An Underground Corridor, 1701
In those moments, as we drew nearer to the door where the women sat, where I became increasingly certain was our destination, I became very conscious of things like my breath and heartbeat. I suppose this is because I would have fallen unconscious quite easily, and my sudden awareness of my own biology was my brain's way of keeping me awake. Even so, I was dizzy. For what seemed like the hundredth time that day, I was tempted to cling to my father and make him carry me through this ordeal.
When we came to the door, outside of which I had huddled and listened to a caged woman's melancholy song not so long ago, I did not feel surprise. Instead I felt a sort of numb shock, coupled with a dread that manifested itself in a tingling of my scalp. What if he knew, what if he had known all along and was drawing out the reveal as a sort of punishment?
My father sorted through the various keys on a huge and heavy ring for what seemed like an eternity. I was willing to let this time pass slowly. Finally, he found the one for which he had been searching and inserted it into the door. It made a sound that spoke of want of use, twisted, and the door creaked open.
What I remember first are the feathers. They were everywhere; huge, black feathers in piles and scattered across the floor like lilies in a pond. After that strange sight had sunk in entirely, I noticed something glittering on the floor which upon closer examination was revealed to be a thin golden chain. This chain was extraordinarily long, and resembled jewelry more than the chains of a gaol, and I followed its twists and turns until my eyes came to its source. In the rear corner of the cell sat someone shrouded in darkness. I could barely make out the shape of a body tucked up on a low bench.
She had, apparently, been hugging her knees to her chest. Her feet left the shadow first, as her legs touched the floor the shadows melted from them to reveal her white feet. In one fluid motion she stood, and the shape that had just seemed hazy and indistinct now coalesced into the obvious form of a woman. The golden chain whispered on the ground as she stepped forward, into the pathetic light provided by the tiny grate of a window over our heads.
She did not look how I had imagined her. She was even more perfect and beautiful than I could have dreamed. Her hair was the black of crows' feathers, it iridesced under the dim light. Her skin was so pale I almost thought it illusion. Her body was at once delicate and strong, it was something that even then awakened something like need in mine.
I had a hard time meeting her eyes. They seemed to me to be depthless and full of secrets, but I could not bring myself to look into them. It was as though I were looking on something as private as her sex; but that is a poor comparison. I would have been able to view that with clinical detachment. Days spent indoors with physicians' books prepared me for that sort of thing--nothing could prepare me for this. I squeezed my own eyes shut and held my breath, as if by this process I could force myself to wake from a dream made terrible by its beauty.
"Hello," she said, reminding me that I was awake. Her voice was so calm, so measured, it was almost painful to listen to. It was also undoubtedly the voice I had heard on the other side of the door two years before.
"Milady," said my father, and I opened my eyes in time to see him leaving my side, and kneeling at hers. He took her hand in his and pressed his lips to her knuckles in an unprecedented gesture of respect. Had the day not already been the strangest one I had ever experienced, this might have seemed to me more bizarre. As it was, I took it quite in stride.
"You came back," she said. She did not sound surprised, more similar to my tutor pointing out facts than anything else.
Her eyes fell on me then; black, infinite, and alien, and it was as though I had been struck in the stomach. The air left my lungs for an agonizing moment, and I knew that she had recognized me. Then, the moment had passed, and I realized that she would not tell my father. The thought that she and I now willingly shared a secret was to me the most precious thing in the world.
"I want to introduce you to my son," said my father, and her eyes seemed to sparkle at those words. The corner of her mouth twitched up into half a smile.
"He is handsome," she said. I felt as though a crow had made itself a nest in my ribcage, and that at any moment it might burst forth and end my life in a shower of gore and viscera. The thought did not bother me nearly as much as it ought to have.
"He looks much like his mother," said my father, and those words actually broke enough of the spell that I looked back toward him. "He is adopted." This last part was as much to me as to the lady in the cell, and for good reason. I was shocked.
"And yet he resembles you. Perhaps a part of the soul is transferred through love, after all," said the lady. Her voice was distant to me now, the only thing that existed was the knowledge that the man I had known as my father for twelve years was no such thing.
"You may be correct. I hope that there is something of me in his eyes, for it would be the light of God."
When we came to the door, outside of which I had huddled and listened to a caged woman's melancholy song not so long ago, I did not feel surprise. Instead I felt a sort of numb shock, coupled with a dread that manifested itself in a tingling of my scalp. What if he knew, what if he had known all along and was drawing out the reveal as a sort of punishment?
My father sorted through the various keys on a huge and heavy ring for what seemed like an eternity. I was willing to let this time pass slowly. Finally, he found the one for which he had been searching and inserted it into the door. It made a sound that spoke of want of use, twisted, and the door creaked open.
What I remember first are the feathers. They were everywhere; huge, black feathers in piles and scattered across the floor like lilies in a pond. After that strange sight had sunk in entirely, I noticed something glittering on the floor which upon closer examination was revealed to be a thin golden chain. This chain was extraordinarily long, and resembled jewelry more than the chains of a gaol, and I followed its twists and turns until my eyes came to its source. In the rear corner of the cell sat someone shrouded in darkness. I could barely make out the shape of a body tucked up on a low bench.
She had, apparently, been hugging her knees to her chest. Her feet left the shadow first, as her legs touched the floor the shadows melted from them to reveal her white feet. In one fluid motion she stood, and the shape that had just seemed hazy and indistinct now coalesced into the obvious form of a woman. The golden chain whispered on the ground as she stepped forward, into the pathetic light provided by the tiny grate of a window over our heads.
She did not look how I had imagined her. She was even more perfect and beautiful than I could have dreamed. Her hair was the black of crows' feathers, it iridesced under the dim light. Her skin was so pale I almost thought it illusion. Her body was at once delicate and strong, it was something that even then awakened something like need in mine.
I had a hard time meeting her eyes. They seemed to me to be depthless and full of secrets, but I could not bring myself to look into them. It was as though I were looking on something as private as her sex; but that is a poor comparison. I would have been able to view that with clinical detachment. Days spent indoors with physicians' books prepared me for that sort of thing--nothing could prepare me for this. I squeezed my own eyes shut and held my breath, as if by this process I could force myself to wake from a dream made terrible by its beauty.
"Hello," she said, reminding me that I was awake. Her voice was so calm, so measured, it was almost painful to listen to. It was also undoubtedly the voice I had heard on the other side of the door two years before.
"Milady," said my father, and I opened my eyes in time to see him leaving my side, and kneeling at hers. He took her hand in his and pressed his lips to her knuckles in an unprecedented gesture of respect. Had the day not already been the strangest one I had ever experienced, this might have seemed to me more bizarre. As it was, I took it quite in stride.
"You came back," she said. She did not sound surprised, more similar to my tutor pointing out facts than anything else.
Her eyes fell on me then; black, infinite, and alien, and it was as though I had been struck in the stomach. The air left my lungs for an agonizing moment, and I knew that she had recognized me. Then, the moment had passed, and I realized that she would not tell my father. The thought that she and I now willingly shared a secret was to me the most precious thing in the world.
"I want to introduce you to my son," said my father, and her eyes seemed to sparkle at those words. The corner of her mouth twitched up into half a smile.
"He is handsome," she said. I felt as though a crow had made itself a nest in my ribcage, and that at any moment it might burst forth and end my life in a shower of gore and viscera. The thought did not bother me nearly as much as it ought to have.
"He looks much like his mother," said my father, and those words actually broke enough of the spell that I looked back toward him. "He is adopted." This last part was as much to me as to the lady in the cell, and for good reason. I was shocked.
"And yet he resembles you. Perhaps a part of the soul is transferred through love, after all," said the lady. Her voice was distant to me now, the only thing that existed was the knowledge that the man I had known as my father for twelve years was no such thing.
"You may be correct. I hope that there is something of me in his eyes, for it would be the light of God."