Monday, 28 January 2013

Puddle People




Nobody believes me about the people in the puddles, the ones who are more shadows than people with actual features.

They are more substantial than ghosts: I know because I tried passing my hand through one and instead of going straight through the puddle-person rippled and disappeared.

Their hats are shapes on their heads, and the only way to determine where their shirt ends and their wrist starts are the inches of visible space between the cuff and their skin, but when they tip their hats to me I can tell.

I told Mama and she dismissed it at first (she was more interested in the lady selling fancy Parisian hats with died feathers and paper flowers) but when I finally told her she glanced in the puddle to humour me before laughing and shaking her head.

I insisted they were there and her dismissals escalated to a lecture about the apparent lack of realism in puddle-people.

So I watch them all on my own, and I stand around puddles to guard them from those imperceptive park-goers who would step in a puddle in their boots and not think twice about it.

I’ve come to know a few of them: the lady with the hat, the man with the cane, and the man with the umbrella.

They nod and wave when it becomes too dark to stay in the park and I have to leave, and I’m sure if I could see their faces they would be smiling.

I still try to tell some people, those that smile as they approach me, but I known they don’t believe me when they ask why I’m standing by a puddle and I tell them about the puddle-people and their smiles falter.

I’m not so worried about not being believed anymore, (I can always use overactive imagination as a an excuse) but when the rain finally stops and the sun comes out, when their puddles dry, where will they go?

Text by Lucie MacAulay

The Puppeteer




Mr.Gregory and the puppeteer do not meet in the manner of companions clandestinely meant to collide, but instead in a fortunate coincidence.
Mr.Gregory has departed his flat, after depositing the card with the circus proprietor’s name on it in the breast pocket of his coat, and holds an umbrella over himself to ward off the rain.
There are only the most ardent lovers of the circus migrating of out the city proper through on the almost empty street. Their umbrellas sprout like mushrooms beneath the nubivigant sky.
Mr.Gregory only pauses to wonder at the figure, huddled in-part in the rain, glancing at the sky as though it shows signs of stopping.
The girl is young, certainly barely more than a teenager. She seeks shelter from the rain under an awning that is too small to protect her shoes and the bottom of her dress, which are both soaked through.
“Excuse me,” he shouts over the howling wind. “Do you need some assistance?”
The girl startles, clutching the flap of her coat as she locates the stranger addressing her in the downpour. She meets his eyes and offers a small grin.
“My umbrella has unfortunately broken at the worst of times,” the girl replies, in a lower pitch than he would have expected. She shakes the umbrella, which Mr.Gregory has not noticed until now, at her side for emphasis, the spokes askew and poking her coat.
“Would you like to share my umbrella?” he offers. The girl visibly startles again.
“I am headed for the circus,” Mr.Gregory says over the din of the rain. “But I do not mind taking a detour.”
The girl smiles, clutching her hat as another gust of wind blows the rain sideways and it dapples the side of her gown with dark spots. “You need not take a detour. I am going in the same direction.”
“All the more reason to accompany me,” he reasons.
He approaches her quickly; holding his elbow out once he reaches the protection of the awning.
He watches her hesitating, likely thinking better than to accept offers from strange gentlemen in the rain on largely abandoned streets approaching nightfall. To his surprise, she nods.
She rests her hand tentatively in his elbow, and follows closely to keep under the umbrella. They emerge from the awning, the shop immediately obscured by the rain. It fades to a blur in the grayness as they exit the city.
“I did not think it would be open in the rain,” the girl remarks as they walk, falling easily into pace beside him.
“Perhaps they have cast a spell over the circus,” Mr Gregory says in a serious tone. “And it will only rain beyond the gates.”
His companion laughs, the sound all but lost in the rain and their meager protection under the canopy of black silk.
“I do not think even that is possible for our crew, or our illusionist. It is more likely the rain will let up.”
“In the space between now and the sunset? I do doubt it. But one must stay positive.” He pauses as his rain catches up with his ears, turning to stare perplexedly at the girl. “Your crew? May I take it then that you are a part of the circus?”
The girl smiles again, cat-like and with mirth. “I am indeed.”
The gates are in sight, nacreous and shining despite the inclement weather. There is no indication of life beyond it but there is no forewarning closure sign clattering over the gates. The shapes and shadows slowly distinguish themselves until they are recognizable as people and circus tents.
“I am honoured to be introduced to a performer of such renown,” Mr.Gregory says.
“Thank you.”
They pause before the gates, where the ground is not muddy despite the lack of cover, and a small line has already formed around a section of the gates, patrons eagerly watching the sun disappear over the horizon.
The rain has lessened, the tempest beginning to end.
“I rather enjoy the rain. If you don’t mind, I think the worst has passed, and I’d like to close my umbrella,” Mr.Gregory says.
“Not at all.” His companion relinquishes her hold on his elbow as he pulls the umbrella closed.
Mr.Gregory gently shakes his umbrella before closing it, scattering droplets of water that sparkles like diamonds.
“I must go,” the girl says, glancing inside the gates, eyes searching the labyrinth of canvas.
“Of course. Thank you for accompanying me. I do hope to see you again.”
“It you are in the mood for puppetry, then I will see you again. And thank you for sharing your umbrella.”
“It was a pleasure miss…”
“Una,” she responds, holding out a gloved hand to shake.
Mr.Gregory grasps it firmly in his own. They shake briefly before the puppeteer turns and strides not toward the gate, but around the side of it, disappearing behind caged canvas.
Mr.Gregory watches the space she occupied, searching for an opening in the gate, but between the oncoming twilight and the lengthening line of patrons waiting for the circus to open, he sees nothing out of the order. Mr.Gregory tucks his umbrella under his arm and takes his place in line.

Art by Katie DeSousa

Text by Lucie MacAulay

Recondite Fairies




“Look, it’s a fairy!” my sister cried, pointing into the dense foliage of the jungle, so much more green that our gardens at home.

On this unfamiliar voyage (which I hadn’t wanted to be a part of but mother dragged us and father didn’t protest and sister said there would be fairies so of course we had to go) we had been riding a woven raft down the majority of the river.

The approaching rock face wasn’t worrying to the natives, but I felt apprehensive at the slightest hint of azure or vermilion lizards slipping around the niches and grooves of the ancient carvings there.

“Fairies don’t exist,” I said, glancing to the bush she had indicated where the ferns swayed gently.

“Don’t be silly,” she answered.

We neared the rock face on our creaking raft and a slight disturbance in the river sent a spray of murky green water over my toes. The rock face opened like a mouth, a tunnel disappearing into darkness, welcoming us with teeth and eyes.

“Fairies,” my sister said again, and pointed to a scuttling creature on the ceiling of the cave.

Fairies in books, with wings and bright eyes and spider-silk hair, don’t exist. I have never believed in them and I never will. But the creatures in the cave with membranous extensions on their back, and stone coloured teeth and dark green eyes, they are more than real.

As we sailed into the cave I realized that fairies are more recondite than we can imagine, and when sister pointed a third time and whispered, “fairies”, I heard the cave fill with sound, as though it were laughing.

Text by Lucie MacAulay

Sunday, 20 January 2013

Breathing Light



The trees turn to the colour of embers, then brighten until they are as blinding as the sun.

Text by Lucie MacAulay

Understanding




She wipes at a stray tear rolling down her face.
She meets the eyes of the tiger beside her. They give nothing away, only stare, unflinchingly, back at her. They are more ice than sky, a shade too light to be pure blue.
“I understand now,” she says. He does not reply.
She kneels before him, putting her hands one either side of his great snowy head. He feels more solid than even the ground beneath her feet. “I know what I have done,” she says. “I understand now.”
He does not look or move away as she puts her arms around him. He is as still as a statue.
She pulls him so closely her arms plunge through fur and skin and into his very essence, and the feeling of realness, the coalescence of her two diluted states, makes her gasp. There is no contrast, no expected dichotomy that makes her withdraw. But it is hard. Harder than diluting herself. It is so simple for salt to disappear into the vastness of the ocean, yet to disappear into the vastness of the real world is another thing. Her limbs feel heavy, the pain in her head increases. She does not open her eyes to see the castle changing around her. Elements she has seen as thinly as gauzy veils become hard and real. There is nothing transparent, though time has still passed and its passage has changed much about her once-upon-a-time-home.
She does not open her eyes until she is sure she is herself. There is no tiger in her arms, and her body aches with exhaustion and effort.
It takes a significant amount of bravery to open her eyes.

Text by Lucie MacAulay

A Final Lesson




Her father counsels her constantly to remain isolated and practice on her own. To make ‘unimpeded process’, though he himself hardly overlooks her education anymore. Lessons and lectures that once occupied entire days at a time have dwindled to passages read from books, and short tests of skill. The arena has become a second home to her, and any chance of ingratiating herself with anyone outside of Piper and her father is prevented by the “potential”, as her father describes to her, to do better.
It does not diminish the importance of her tests, he emphasizes, that they occur less often. They are, if anything, of more import than they initially were.
On this particular day the passage to the arena is permeated with a heavy silence and the impression that her next challenge has a terrible purpose.
Before her father allows her to enter the arena he pauses, blocking the threshold, preventing her from going any further. He turns, his eyes black in the dim light.
“Each lesson you have ever had has been for your own good,” he says.
She nods. She has a feeling of dread, a sinking in her stomach.
“You are a good student, and a fine competitor, but you have always lacked control. You are impulsive, and it has cost you more than you know at the moment,” when he notices her confused expression he continues. “Do not think I have not noticed that you have been… teaching that friend of yours.”
Her blood turns to ice water.
“I have simply been too busy to react to it until now. I know you have been telling her your secrets for a long time. Secrets have power, and they are dangerous. More so than you can imagine.” He pauses, stepping out of the way, his shoulder moving into the light of the arena, the outline of his arm and side illuminated like a halo. “Remember that. “
Her knees tremble as she enters the arena. Around the perimeter are more people than she has ever seen in the room, or in the castle altogether. Yet she hardly glances at them. Instead she focuses on the other person in the centre of the arena, standing across from her, edgy and held in place by a black-suited man. Piper does not struggle as he holds her arms, but she casts a fearful glance as her friend as she enters.
“What is the meaning of this, father?” she asks as she takes her place where, customarily, she begins her challenges.
Her father stands off to the side, not far enough to be considered a spectator but not close enough to be considered an opponent.
“Your challenge today is to beat her,” he says, nodding toward Piper, though his eyes remain fixed on his daughter’s face. “The challenge does not conclude until there is a victor. And the victor is the last one standing.”
She cannot find her voice. “Why?” she manages.
“To determine which of you is the better student. If you are confident in what you have taught her, then her beating you should not be a problem,” her father surmises. “If you are not confident, then you will learn that there is no one equivalent to your skill and to try to teach otherwise is a waste of your talent. An abomination of the order of things. And your punishments will be her death.”
“No, father,” she says, the scope of the challenge before her making awful sense at last.
She has been imagining various punishments for days, and this is worse than all of them.
Piper’s face is stricken and white, her eyes darting frantically around the arena.
“What you believe you feel is irrelevant. This is a punishment. You refused to heed my warnings. Your insistency to rebel has put yourself in such a position.”
“Test me another way,” she insists, watching Piper’s face. “You cannot expect this of me.”
“The intent of this is not to test you,” her father says. “It is to teach you.”
She remains silent, heart pounding like a giant pendulum.
“You are a special student. All of these… vermin-,” her father says, sweeping his arm to gesture at the crowd of students and suited persons. “Are below you. I am only trying to make you see that.”
“Please father,” she pleads. “I am sorry. Punish me in some other way.”
Her father’s expression does not change. His face is stony, his stoicism a suddenly constant force. “There is no other way to teach you. Power is finite. To be great there must be as little of it elsewhere as possible. I hope you will know that now.”
The walls of the arena contract as her father steps back, beckoning for Piper’s capture to bring her forward.
Piper stumbles as she is pushed toward the centre of the room.
Her father steps away, and with a small flourish of her hand, he brings her closer to Piper. To her opponent.
Piper does not move. She is stationary, her arms swaying unsurely beside her. She raises them slowly.
Piper pushes her back.
It is the tiniest of gestures, shy and gentle and bred from fear, but Piper looks sick at having performed it.
She refuses to fight back. She is sure her father will stop them.
Piper pushes her back again, harder.
Her father does not move.
The glass of a nearby window shatters, some shards falling to the ground in a jagged pattern, others flying haphazardly toward the arena. She is only cut by one, and Piper falters at the sight of her blood.
Her father does not move.
Piper stares at her beseechingly, face pale, hands trembling at her sides.
She glances at her father. The expression on her face, one she has never been able to read before, has a horrific clarity now. In less than a second she knows, in her heart, what she will do.
She steps away from Piper, in a move that could be defensive were her arms not falling to her sides, her legs not straightening as she stands to her full height.
She closes her eyes, putting Piper’s face far from her mind, tucking it away like one of her volumes hidden in plain sight on a shelf in her father’s study. Her father’s voice, so often intrusive, fades.
She instead concentrates; recounting the hours she has spent in her father’s study, surrounded by bottles of wine or basins of salt water. Separating substances, diluting them when she has finished so she may practice once more.
It is different with herself, she realizes. With all of herself there is much more to separate than salt and water. Her limbs feel sewn to the air around her, her breath mixing with the atmosphere.
Slowly, very slowly, she withdraws from the space around her.
She separates. Pulling herself apart is painful, more painful than anything she has ever done. There is a sound like a screeching train, and she realizes it is someone screaming. She wonders belatedly if it is her.
The power it takes is incredible. The concentration is even greater. She cannot focus on anything else, cannot focus on keeping her energy in one place. It spreads outward from her, knocking many over, shattering windows, shaking the core of the academy.
She feels the repercussion of her action, her energy bouncing off each surface of the academy. Books burn, foundations tremble, birds click their beaks in terror. She feels it as though it were happening in front of her.
The academy is little more than a whisper of what it one was. A mass of rubble that she feels she is overlapping rather than being a part of.
The fire flickers, dimming, though it does not diminish or lessen in size. It is losing solidity, becoming less opaque. The walls of the arena, the people within them, are becoming transparent. Fading to ghost-like shadows. They move in phantom-wise blurs, fleeing and reach for crumbling pieces of the building to steady themselves.
When they are almost gone, the academy an empty piece of ornately carved rock, she closes her eyes. As her physical body disperses, pulling apart, she feels one last pain. Some falling object striking her head.
Between hitting her head and hitting the floor, she does not feel the fall. 

Text by Lucie MacAulay

Dancing With the Wind




Her father allows her outside, provided she stays within the confines of the beach nearest the study and the rest of the building.
The waves are topped with frost, like sugar dusted cake, the grey sand blanketed with crystalline snow.
Her sketches have grown more elaborate; whole nests of ravens drawn in excruciating detail.
The pages flutter in the wind on the beach as she arranges them like a blanket on the snow.
Her feet are frozen, she cannot feel them, and when she glances down they are raw and red. Her arms are chapped from the wind. She thinks perhaps she should have thought to bring a sweater, but she is too excited to postpone her plans to return and get one.
She weighs the papers down with an assortment of objects she has pilfered from her father’s study. A collection of items she is sure he will not miss: a paperweight, a cracked skull, the weights for a scale, a broken compass and an old glove.
Carefully she stands, watching the papers flit in the wind, but they do not escape their holds.
She takes several steps away, closing her eyes to focus on the chilled wind as it hits her skin in tiny pinpricks.
She slowly begins to dance, a smooth movement of spinning on one foot, holding her arms out for balance. She sinks into the snow, and leaps farther away from the pictures.
Ravens pick their way from parchment, some knocking over their paperweights, the pages under them swooping away in the breeze.
They make their way toward her, flapping against the wind. Stray feathers turn to pools of ink on the snow. They stain her feet when she dances into them, though she does not notice.
The rather nip at the ribbons fluttering on her wrist. They nestle in her hair for only seconds before she spins, dislodging them as they catch their talons in her hair.
She pays them no attention, but they stay with her, weaving around her as she dances.
To her there is only the brightness behind her eyelids of sunlight glinting on snow.
Were anyone else able to see her, they would see a silhouette against the virgin snow, dancing lightly, almost suspended amidst a crowd of ravens, enjoying the blinding white sun.

Text by Lucie MacAulay

Sacrifice




Lessons are irregular and take place at various times throughout the days.
Tests are never forewarned.
Today is a deviation from her regular challenges. She feels full of anticipation as her father leads her not toward the arena, but outside and along the garden paths lined with swindling students hurrying out of the cold or observing the beach from a safe distance between clouds of mist.
She follows, moving among the marble arches and paths, her perplexed expression deepening as they stray further from the castle.
There are no students when their journey seemingly concludes. They are approaching what appears to be a giant circular hole in the ground, stretching a distance at least five times her height all around.
The inverted tower recedes into a shadow, only shapes and distant outlines visible.
She cannot discern what lies beyond the rim of the darkness until she stands directly before it. Only feet away are ancient stone steps, smooth and grey and winding around the inside of the hole. Where they disappear into the shadows there are ornate carvings in the rock face, lines and swirls only partially obscured by creeping moss. They are interrupted by marble pillars lining the stairs. The staircase ends where the rotunda meets dark soil.
She stands at the edge, toes meeting the air where there is nothing to catch her if she falls.
She does not have time to register the weight of a hand on her back or the violent shove that succeeds it before she is tumbling toward the earthen bottom.
She grasps at roots hanging in tendrils from the towers sides. She wills them to reach for her and hold her tightly, away from the ground.
And they respond.
The roots reach for her, vines twisting in strange and twisted ropes to wrap tightly around her wrists. They hold her in place for only seconds before snapping and following her in a reign of dirt and greenery to the ground. They only slow her descent, perhaps keeping her from breaking her bones like brittle pieces of china.
The air rushes past, as frigid and sharp as blades of ice. She cannot prepare herself for the inevitable impact and subsequent agony. It is every scratch and cut and bruise she has suffered though her lessons increased a thousand fold.
She is blind for what feels like an eternity, though it cannot be for more than a minute. The pain is white, but eventually fades into a grayness in which she can make out her surroundings.
Amidst the shadows and flyblown weather beaten shrubs are ancient stone monoliths, incised with Celtic lettering. She has landed a few feet short of the nearest one; her outstretched arm brushes the side of it.
The first sound to reach her ears besides her own breathing is her father’s echoing footsteps. She cringes with each disruptive one.
“Very well done,” her father says, as he descends the last of the stairs and strides toward her, stopping a little ways away.
“What was that?” she demands, rising onto her elbows.
Her father makes no move to help her.
“It was a challenge. You were pitted against the constraints most people consider unchangeable, such as gravity, and you survived. You must not let panic cloud your judgment,” her father continues. Your reaction was sufficiently quick and effective.”
“You would have sacrificed me for that?”
“Because I knew you would win.”
“What if I had lost? I could have died,” she snaps, looking up at her father.
“But you did not,” her father says dogmatically.
“Does my life really mean so little to you?” she asks, still gasping from the effort of the manipulation. She immediately wishes she hadn’t, as she now dreads the answer.
“You are being overly dramatic,” her father replies. He glances at the monoliths, the face of a satyr on one, an ethereal beautiful face on another. “I am not fond of this setting, though it is secluded, but I suspected you were too accustomed to the heights of the spires and windows in the academy.” He returns his attention to his daughter. “You seem to spend enough time there.” His tone intonates disapproval, but his expression is too difficult for her too read and he does not seem outwardly hostile.
Her father pats her head with a gloved hand, much like he did when she was a small girl, though he has long considered it a childish gesture, and affection mundane.
He withdraws and reaches into his pocket. Her father tosses a snow bright ribbon, smudged with the grey of faded ink, at her. It trickles over her arm like a stream of water and coils on the ground like an albino snake. 

Text by Lucie MacAulay

Maypole




It is a strange tradition to her. Foreign and illogical. But it fascinates her nonetheless. Around a pole children dance and run, excited and smiling widely as adults watch. Music comes from some inexact point, possible from a number of street musicians.
It is warmer than she imagines late spring, especially on the pathway just near the beach.
The company of dancers is predominantly composed of small children, but she spots a few boys and girls who look almost close to her own age. They must crouch very low for the smallest children to lift their ribbons of the youths’ heads, though the younger ones already stand on tiptoes to rival their companions.
Things pass in such a manner for some time as the ribbons become shorter and shorter, until they must be tied to the end of new ribbons to continue.
The pole, which had been as bare and black as a frosted glass lamppost on a city street, is now a curious structure of metal concealed in dozens of colourful shimmering ribbons.
There are whispers of good fortune, blessings on the maypole dance, but most children see little more than a game. She recognizes the bliss of coming summer on their faces and turns her face toward the light. The maypole is still there, behind her eyelids, a pillar of rainbow colours, a forever winding tower.

Art by Sarah Vafidis

Text by Lucie MacAulay

The Fool




She has never thought to welcome the seasons. They are an immovable force to most, indubitable axioms that the world relies on. But to her they are avoidable, and almost non-existent, as each season is spent in the castle, where nothing changes. To others they seem to deserve respect. That is what the Morris dance is for, she suspects. It is as simple as those that worship a deity and praise them for a good harvest.
She has ventured out into the town square after requesting it from her father repeatedly, and he stands a ways away, looking at some recent postage, though she can occasionally feel his eyes one her, monitoring.
The dance is aggressive and captivating as she stands in the circle of spectators, unnoticed.
The Morris dancers move as steadily and gracefully as snakes, with an almost carnal elegance. The fool leaps between them, his light footfalls doing little to ground him. He finds himself narrowly squeezed between elbows and hips, knees and feet. He dances around these limbs, jumping and twisting, always being where the others aren’t.
The beat settles in her chest; not a rattling force, but as firm as a heartbeat.
For her the moment is spinning and endless, a moment suspended in time as the drumbeat seeps into her bones and heart pounds with dizzying force.
She watches the fool, jealously, dancing up to spectators, holding out a hat for money. Many give him coins, some meager amounts, others decent payment. Some simply smile and watch the dance.
She alternately watches the fool and the dancers as the fool makes his way around the circle of the crowd. She does not realize he is so close until he is right in front of her.
The fool stands before her, feet tapping to the tune. Her feet tap out the same rhythm. She does not realize until he looks her in the eye that she is visible, that she has maintained such a vantage point for the dance because she has been seen, and some audience members have stepped aside to make room for her.
Amidst her sudden panic however she finds the courage to smile. She does not have any money, and holds up her hands, turning them over to show that they are empty.
The fool’s smile does not falter. Instead he takes a hand and gently turns it over, kissing her knuckle as though he is kissing a ring. Her face flushes as he smiles at her once more before leaping into the crowd.
She watches them as the crowd members come and go, as the minutes pass and she keeps thinking surely they are tired and will retire now, but they continue dancing. She only leaves when the men cease to dance, straightening their clothes, glancing inside the fool’s hat, which has been emptied into a locked case numerous times throughout their performance. She spots her father where she had seen him standing hours ago. He does not glance up as she approaches.
She glances back once to see the fool watching her as he reaches for a suitcase, an armload of leather-cased coins jingling in his arms.

Art by erin Morgenstern

Text by Lucie MacAulay

Friday, 11 January 2013

Crown of Thorns




The crown grows like thorn-spiked vines, curving and spiraling around her head. A crown of ice. Pure as glass. 

Art by David Kane

Text by Lucie MacAulay

Pagodas




Carefully constructed spires with crying degrees of height and complexity, cupolas inscribed with looping black script like elegant calligraphy, bartizans drawn with mythical beasts. A tower even has the tail of a dragon wrapped around it in circles from top to bottom, though the dragon to which it belongs is craftily hidden in the shadows of gray gates and garrisons, and a tiny courtyard filled with gnarled white trees.
“Stop that,” her father snaps, extending his arm and bringing a hand down on her paper palace, squashing it flat.
She sighs as he removes his hand, flicking away a still-erect, if slightly dented, tower. Her father’s attention returns to the piles of paper in front of him.
“Why? I’ve nothing to do, I am bored to tears.”
“I gave you something to do,” he answers without looking up.
“I finished it,” she says, waving her arm toward the layers of overlapping symbols in precise detail on her journal.
“You need to do more,” he frowns and waves a hand at her flattened castle, the paper rustling with the shift of air. “Stop squandering yourself with this nonsense. I expect more from you, and you need the practice.”
She turns away and pushes her hair from her face. “Why father? It isn’t as though I am impressing anyone. What I do is hardly a feat anymore, especially since you can do twice as much.”
“It does not matter what I can do,” her father snaps. “It matters what you can do, which is not nearly enough.”
She sighs, understanding that there will be more symbols to decipher in near-future lessons.
She picks up the first book atop a pile leaning against the desk. The pile wavers but does not collapse. It is not the pile of ascribed books approved by her father as a part of her curriculum; it is from his personal collection.
Her father barely glances at the pages before his attention wanders once more. She is relieved at his change of late, at his lack of scrutiny at each glyph and inscription. Yet his complete unconcern for her progress also unnerves her. 

Art by Helen Musselwhite

Text by Lucie MacAulay

Enter: Vienna




Excursions, when she is visible among the crowds of Vienna, are rare. She can recall two in the past decade, and the relief of not having to conceal herself as she does near the castle, makes her giddy.
Before both of her trips her father forbids her to perform anything he has taught her. He holds her wrist tightly, squeezing with white-knuckled hands as she promises.
She dresses as colourfully as she can on these occasions, despite her father’s obvious disapproval, she enjoys the lack of anonymity that her father claims with his grey and black suits, as well as the deviation from her usual grey and white attire.
Her most recent excursion, years ago, took place midwinter, and the weather alternated between icy rain and fluffy snowfall. The thrill of being in the streets, among the crowds bustling for cover or to make their last round of shopping before vendors and shopkeepers closed for the day, outweighed the inclement weather.
The weather is never favourable when they visit the rest of Vienna, as though the inclement conditions are a requirement/prerequisite for the business of the day.
Today is no exception, the streets occasionally full of rain and sleet. Yet it does nothing to dampen her spirits.
The number of people in the streets surprises her. She had not expected such crowds with the grey sky and occasional sheets of rain. They huddle together under umbrellas, like audiences under circus tents. They pass to and fro from appointments and parties, visitations and temporary places.
They visit the opera houses, music halls. She captures in memory the Neue Hofburg covered in lantern glow in the dark of night.
She traverses the streets and markets filled with vendors selling carp, ready for preparation for some festivity her father titles “a mundane practice” when she asks. There are tinsel and candles, ornaments and holly. She purchases a glass painted with the likeness of a magpie.
When she catches sight of her father again he is carrying an assortment of envelopes, with postage she does not recognize and names her carefully conceals with his thumb.
They visit a menagerie in which dozens of exotic creatures in a rainbow of colours with blinking green and yellow eyes regard them wearily. She is not certain she enjoys the experience, for the beautiful caged creatures look miserable. But she cannot conceal her delight when her father points to a snowy white owl in a golden cage and requests it for purchase. When they exit the menagerie she carries the heavy cage with one hand, keeping the other firmly under its base as the owl clicks it beak sharply.
They go to a seamstress in a small antique quarter of the city and buy her the rest of a bolt of black silk, which her father cuts without scissors into a square to drape over her owl’s cage like a curtain.
Her father takes her to the theatre and on stage a band of milk white horses bedecked in violet and cream sashes and silks dance and jump, eliciting gasps and cries of delight from the audience. The horses glow in the illumination of the footlights. They appear weightless, defying gravity as though it were a rule made to be broken. She leans forward, enchanted and tentative in the same room as the large audience and beautiful beasts. Her eyes widen as one horse rears in a tempest of blue chiffon, appearing like the crest of a wave frothing on the shore. In the mezzanine below their box several ladies’ fans and gentlemen’s’ handkerchiefs begin to flutter, as if with a sudden breeze.
Her father’s hand closes around her wrist, twisting until she cringes. “Control yourself.”
She takes a deep breath and closes her eyes, facing the shadows of the theatre, away from the consummate horses. The fluttering fans and handkerchiefs settles and their respective owners speculate perhaps there was a draft.
When they leave the theatre her father seems not angry, as she would expect, but thoughtful.
He indulges her in several hours spent by the Donnerbrunnen fountain, sketching the curves of cherubic cheeks with charcoal, until the rain starts again. The small crowds that had been gathered in the remote and protected corners of the cobblestone streets disperse, seeking refuge from the worsening downpour. The wind whips her hair across her face like lengths of soaking rope. Her father decides to seek shelter from the rain.
They stop in a café in the Neue Markt, nestled in an alcove of an alleyway.
Her father diverts the waitress’ attention, though their drinks still arrive, the waitress staring solely at their cups until they have touched the table, then turning and attending to another patron’s needs.
The owl sits quietly under their table, occasionally ruffling its feathers or clicking its beak, but it does not attract attention.
Under the cover of the table her skirt dries quite quickly, though it is not clear if that is because of the warmth of the café or something else.
She is intrigued by the mail her father receives from colleagues in other countries. Postmarks from Corfu, Milan, Denmark, Sweden. The contents of the letters are concealed from her, he reads them in cafes, sipping from a painted teacup while she pays special attention to the sugar blown flowers and chestnut cakes being whisked to other café tables. If her father is particularly engaged in a letter she will consider manipulating the curls of steam rising from her cocoa, but she always decides against it.
He tears his attention away from the envelopes only once, when he folds them gingerly and places them in an inside pocket of his coat. Despite the warmth of the café, he has not taken it off.
“Have you been practicing?’ he asks, as he watches her construct a small pyramid of sugar cubes.
“Yes,” she answers when it is done. She drops the topmost cube into her tea, stirring it before returning the remaining cubes to their bowl.
Her father gazes at her steadily. “Publicity is not a factor I approve of in most instances, but it is important to know how to deal with it. To refrain from manipulating your surroundings in venues such as this. Do nothing to interrupt your surroundings unless you can guarantee you will not be caught. And nothing is guaranteed. This is a test,” he adds, he moves his arm quickly and he knocks the teacup from the table, to the floor.
Despite her father’s instructions, she acts upon instinct. The cup and saucer hit the floor, shattering into pieces of painted china, hot tea pooling around the table legs. The owl lets out a single shriek. Patrons turn toward the sound but by the time they sight the possible cause/source the cup has righted itself, whole and full of steaming tea, sitting merrily in its saucer. The clientele dismisses the sound as a part of their imagination. The only one in the proper position to have viewed the entire spectacle is the waitress, whose hands begin to shake, rattling the cutlery on her tray.
Her father turns to the waitress, motioning her over, as if he were about to order a plate of scones or éclairs. Instead, when the waitress approaches their table hesitantly, setting her tray on the edge not occupied by the teacup – she keeps well away from the cup, eyeing it as though it were cursed – he looks straight into her eyes.
“May I ask what you think you just saw?” he inquires politely.
The waitress speaks lowly, as though uncertain the events she witnessed are real. “The cut, it broke, and then it was fixed, like it was n-never-“
“Miss, I am sure this is nothing to dwell upon. Nothing out of the ordinary occurred. I am certain.”
The waitress does not seem entirely convinced, but she looks dazed and vaguely dismayed, the expression of one who has entered a room and forgotten their reason for doing so.
“Certainly there is a much better way to spend your time,” he says, each word quite clear despite the fact that he is murmuring lowly. She has to strain to hear the words at all.
She can feel the air ripple, the sudden change in energy, as the waitress’ eyes become unfocused. She is caught in her father’s steady gaze, as her face slackens, then she looks around, confused.
“I’m sorry, I… What were we discussing?” she asks, slowly.
“The bill, please,” her father says.
The waitress nods and strides away with her tray, not glancing at the man’s daughter.
While she half expects her father to scold her in the café, sure that the patrons will not hear him if he wishes it, her father says nothing as he settles the bill, collects the owl in its cage, and they exit the café.
He remains silent as they approach the library and enter, taking a confusing route she cannot keep track of to a dimly lit hallway. He pauses at a door, grabbing his daughter’s arm to prevent her from continuing on without him.
“You must learn to convince others without manipulation. To make them see something that isn’t there, or make them un-see. We shall have to find you a way to practice,” he adds, gazing not at her, but it seems to her, through her. “A mirror, of sorts.”
He releases her arm and gestures to the room beyond. “I shall return in an hour or so. Do not wander.” He takes the owl cage from her, holding it in his gloves hand.
He says nothing more before abandoning her at the threshold and turning down another corridor.
She waits a minute for him to return, wondering if he really intends to deposit her in a book-filled room and amuse herself for an hour, possibly longer, until his return.
She wonders if he will return.
When she has stood for a time she deems sufficient to prove he is not returning instantly she pushes open the heavy door, letting it swing behind her as she adjusts to the change in light.
The room is filled with bookcases. They line the space, wall-to-wall, floor to ceiling. Hundreds of spines with gold and black lettering.
She has never seen so vast a space, nor so many books, I her life.
The air changes, it is crisper, rippling with some unseen force.
The books tremble, each shelf echoing with a noise like startled birds fluttering their wings against metal and wood cages. The books open on the pages stir, their pages flipping back and forth.
She almost does not notice, absorbed in the multitude of books, so different from her father’s. But she glances around, ensuring she is alone for the time being, that there are no witnesses to the sudden restlessness of the volumes, and takes several deep breaths to compose herself.
The pages stop fluttering, though the bookends still quiver slightly.
She is delighted to discover that they are unlike her father’s collection of tomes, which are printed with symbols and pictures of stars and explanations for things she cannot begin to yet comprehend. These books have philosophies and art, histories and poems, epics and ballads, stories of fantasy. She pulls them off the shelves, holding as many as she is able before settling down to read them.
She feels as though she has been drifting, lost in some alternate world, when, hours later, her father rouses her from her collection of books and informs her it is time to go.
“We have a special visit to make,” he says when she protests.
Her curiosity does not quite trump her desire to read but there is no reason to argue further. She sighs; standing and collecting her coat as the books find their ways back to the shelves. When the library looks as though it has not been disturbed, they emerge.
Through the rain her father leads her down several side streets until they come to a busy promenade before a looming building. It is so large she wonders that she has not seen it before, but the University is unfamiliar to her.
Before she can ask her father what they are doing here, he strides up the steps and into the building. She follows quickly, focusing on keeping her coat dry in the oncoming storm.
Within the doors the university is, to her, unlike a university. The halls are warm, glowing with the golden light form oil lamps, and the walls are lined with gilded and framed maps and daguerreotypes of deceased professors and scholars. The windows are grey with the external weather, not the black glass she is accustomed to. The floors are not marble, but wood, and often carpeted. She follows her father in a daze, spending a considerable amount of time gazing inside each door they pass, at the studies and offices and classrooms, none of which contain birds or clocks or diagrams pinned to the walls.
They come to rest at a tall oak door, a plaque inscribed with a name she has never heard of. Her father knocks, the heavy sound echoing down the corridor.
The door opens to a man, bespectacled with graying hair, holding a multitude of books that he balances precariously in one arm as he holds the door handle. He glances at her father and his eyes widen before his gaze slides to her face. His eyes behind his glasses narrow until he notices the resemblance, her dark eyes almost identical to her fathers, though they lack the creased corners and have fuller lashes.
“Come in,” the man says, widening the door and shifting the books in his arm.
Her father does not enter, but turns to her. “Dearest, I would like you to wait down the hall until we are finished.”
“Why?”
“We have things to discuss,” he replies. “And take him,” he adds, handing her the owl’s cage. The owl clicks its beak as she turns around. He says nothing more, and neither does his companion, as they watch her walk slowly down the hall, casting glances over her shoulder as she goes. When she is at a satisfactory distance her father steps through the threshold and disappears behind the door.
She waits a full minute, counting seconds under her breath, until she can be sure they are engaged in conversation. She places the owl cage on the ground beside her. It takes her seconds to race back to the door, silently, and press her ear against the wood. It is her father speaking on the other side.
“You must challenge her, I insist. It has been too long since I’ve felt such excitement,” her father says, hands clasped behind his back as the older scholar struggles with his papers and scrolls. When, amidst the chaos, they roll of the desk, he does not bend down to reach them, but lazily waves his wrist in the direction of the desk and they are suddenly there, as though they always have been.
The scholar’s face goes white and he puts his hands down on the desk, breathing deeply. “I suppose. If you would like such an education. Though it is unconventional.”
Her father waves his hand. “It is not unconventional in the least, merely unprecedented. It was once quite in style, if you’ll remember.”
There is a significant pause, and she wonders if perhaps they have left the room through some other doorway. Perhaps they are listening for the sound of someone outside the door. She stays as quiet as she can.
In her space behind the door the words suddenly become muffled, as though she is hearing them through a wall, or from underwater.
“The challenges will be quite hard,” the professor says uncertainly. He drums his fingers nervously on his leg.
“All the better. She is extremely talented and skilled. Pitted against anyone she can win.”
“Very well,” the professor says. The paper on the desk rustles as he withdraws a roster of names. “I assume you have already begun her education?”
“I have almost finished it,” says her father’s voice.
“Then we will send tests along for her shortly.”
Suddenly the sounds resolve into words once more, and she is able to hear clearly her father call, “Come back in.”
She re-enters the study where the professor is smiling and holding a trembling hand out to her.
“Lovely to meet you my dear,” he says, shaking her hand. He pulls his hand back quickly when she releases it.
Her father bids goodbye and exits the room. The owl cage waits outside of it, though she does not recall bringing it to the door. He guides her through the gilded hallways to the exit.
Outside in the grey she cannot think of a single question from the tangle in her head to ask her father, except, “Are we going back now?”
“Yes we are,” her father replies as they turn down the main street in the direction of the beach.
She says nothing as they walk, and everything about her father is silent. She is certain that walking along the street only she is visible, and her father is, for his own purposes, unseen. 
When they reach the beach and the building that spans, invisibly, over a quarter of it, her father tells her to veil herself.
She visibly relaxes when they are indoor, pausing to take in the monotony of the black and white and grey halls. She sees little variation in the shades of grey after the colour of the city and the university.
Her father pulls the envelopes from his pocket, their frayed ripped edges catching on the lining.
“I hope you have learned something today,” her father says absently, looking not at her but at the envelopes in his hand.
She nods, then replies, “Yes, father.” She is certain she has learned something very important, though she does not think it is relevant to her father’s idea of the day.

Art by Snow

Text by Lucie MacAulay

Sunday, 6 January 2013

Fish Oracles



Fish jump in the rapids.

Scales flash.

Summer is ending.

The moon rises.

She opens her eyes.

The water ripples with the moon's reflection, like a shoal of silver fish.

The reflection disperses, and it is fish.

They flip onto their bellies, gold scales shining.

Under the moon, there is the sun on the water.

Under the sun the fish leap for the stars.

Text by Lucie MacAulay

The Crow Queen



The bones roll across the table, making a sound like rain that echoes in the dark of the room. Ulnas no bigger than mushroom caps and tibulas and collar bones. White as sea foam, bleached by the sun.

She collects them and arranges them into small piles as the water in the old pot, a buckled metal container, begins to boil over the pile.

On a plate she counts teeth, sorting them into groups of molars, incisors and canines. When she is satisfied with the number she tips the plate of teeth over the fire, plumes of white smoke rising into the air.

Outside the ravens drop one by one from the sky, from the trees from rooftops and church tops, as the heat rises.

She surveys her treasures, her instruments. Black bird claws, raven's wings, jagged teeth and fragments of fossils, strewn across the table like an array of jewelry.

There is still blood on some of the animal teeth.

Magic was never nice. She could not worry about niceness, not now.

The red sun rises higher, and the people can barely remember when it set. Night time, and the coolness that comes with it, seems a distant dream.

It is a challenge. A challenge to her.

Prove your strength. 
Prove your will.
Who is the little girl who would play queen?

She is not a little girl.
She is not a queen.
But she is there, and she will do what needs doing.

She focuses on the flames as the crows in the room flap their wings, uncomfortable in the heat. She feels it rising off her bones, off her skin, making her cheeks flush. But her eyes do not stray from the fire.

Outside the people are desperate. The heat on some of the metal statues has made them too hot to touch.  Townsfolk avoid them for fear of burning.

I will play your game.
I will rise to your challenge.

She murmurs under her breath, her voice rising and falling like the flames. The sun turns from red to gold.

Fire and Frost. 
Frost and Fire.

She closes her eyes, the flames are white spots dancing in the darkness behind her eyelids. With her eyes still closed she tilts her head up, and looks at the Sun.

Art by Monjoncio.

Text by Lucie MacAulay


Arrangements




Excursions, when she is visible among the crowds of Vienna, are rare. She can recall two in the past decade, and the relief of not having to conceal herself as she does near the castle, makes her giddy.
Before both of her trips her father forbids her to perform anything he has taught her. He holds her wrist tightly, squeezing with white-knuckled hands as she promises.
She dresses as colourfully as she can on these occasions, despite her father’s obvious disapproval, she enjoys the lack of anonymity that her father claims with his grey and black suits, as well as the deviation from her usual grey and white attire.
Her most recent excursion, years ago, took place midwinter, and the weather alternated between icy rain and fluffy snowfall. The thrill of being in the streets, among the crowds bustling for cover or to make their last round of shopping before vendors and shopkeepers closed for the day, outweighed the inclement weather.
The weather is never favourable when they visit the rest of Vienna, as though the inclement conditions are a requirement/prerequisite for the business of the day.
Today is no exception, the streets occasionally full of rain and sleet. Yet it does nothing to dampen her spirits.
The number of people in the streets surprises her. She had not expected such crowds with the grey sky and occasional sheets of rain. They huddle together under umbrellas, like audiences under circus tents. They pass to and fro from appointments and parties, visitations and temporary places.
They visit the opera houses, music halls. She captures in memory the Neue Hofburg covered in lantern glow in the dark of night.
She traverses the streets and markets filled with vendors selling carp, ready for preparation for some festivity her father titles “a mundane practice” when she asks. There are tinsel and candles, ornaments and holly. She purchases a glass painted with the likeness of a magpie.
When she catches sight of her father again he is carrying an assortment of envelopes, with postage she does not recognize and names her carefully conceals with his thumb.
They visit a menagerie in which dozens of exotic creatures in a rainbow of colours with blinking green and yellow eyes regard them wearily. She is not certain she enjoys the experience, for the beautiful caged creatures look miserable. But she cannot conceal her delight when her father points to a snowy white owl in a golden cage and requests it for purchase. When they exit the menagerie she carries the heavy cage with one hand, keeping the other firmly under its base as the owl clicks it beak sharply.
They go to a seamstress in a small antique quarter of the city and buy her the rest of a bolt of black silk, which her father cuts without scissors into a square to drape over her owl’s cage like a curtain.
Her father takes her to the theatre and on stage a band of milk white horses bedecked in violet and cream sashes and silks dance and jump, eliciting gasps and cries of delight from the audience. The horses glow in the illumination of the footlights. They appear weightless, defying gravity as though it were a rule made to be broken. She leans forward, enchanted and tentative in the same room as the large audience and beautiful beasts. Her eyes widen as one horse rears in a tempest of blue chiffon, appearing like the crest of a wave frothing on the shore. In the mezzanine below their box several ladies’ fans and gentlemen’s’ handkerchiefs begin to flutter, as if with a sudden breeze.
Her father’s hand closes around her wrist, twisting until she cringes. “Control yourself.”
She takes a deep breath and closes her eyes, facing the shadows of the theatre, away from the consummate horses. The fluttering fans and handkerchiefs settles and their respective owners speculate perhaps there was a draft.
When they leave the theatre her father seems not angry, as she would expect, but thoughtful.
He indulges her in several hours spent by the Donnerbrunnen fountain, sketching the curves of cherubic cheeks with charcoal.
They stop in a café in the Neue Markt, nestled in an alcove of an alleyway.
Her father diverts the waitress’ attention, though their drinks still arrive, the waitress staring solely at their cups until they have touched the table, then turning and attending to another patron’s needs.
The owl sits quietly under their table, occasionally ruffling its feathers or clicking its beak, but it does not attract attention.
She is intrigued by the mail her father receives from colleagues in other countries. Postmarks from Corfu, Milan, Denmark, Sweden. The contents of the letters are concealed from her, he reads them in cafes, sipping from a painted teacup while she pays special attention to the sugar blown flowers and chestnut cakes being whisked to other café tables. If her father is particularly engaged in a letter she will consider manipulating the curls of steam rising from her cocoa, but she always decides against it.
He tears his attention away from the envelopes only once, when he folds them gingerly and places them in an inside pocket of his coat. Despite the warmth of the café, he has not taken it off.
“Have you been practicing?’ he asks, as he watches her construct a small pyramid of sugar cubes.
“Yes,” she answers when it is done. She drops the topmost cube into her tea, stirring it before returning the remaining cubes to their bowl.
Her father gazes at her steadily. “Publicity is not a factor I approve of in most instances, but it is important to know how to deal with it. To refrain from manipulating your surroundings in venues such as this. Do nothing to interrupt your surroundings unless you can guarantee you will not be caught. And nothing is guaranteed. This is a test,” he adds, he moves his arm quickly and he knocks the teacup from the table, to the floor.
Despite her father’s instructions, she acts upon instinct. The cup and saucer hit the floor, shattering into pieces of painted china, hot tea pooling around the table legs. The owl lets out a single shriek. Patrons turn toward the sound but by the time they sight the possible cause/source the cup has righted itself, whole and full of steaming tea, sitting merrily in its saucer. The clientele dismisses the sound as a part of their imagination. The only one in the proper position to have viewed the entire spectacle is the waitress, whose hands begin to shake, rattling the cutlery on her tray.
Her father turns to the waitress, motioning her over, as if he were about to order a plate of scones or éclairs. Instead, when the waitress approaches their table hesitantly, setting her tray on the edge not occupied by the teacup – she keeps well away from the cup, eyeing it as though it were cursed – he looks straight into her eyes.
“May I ask what you think you just saw?” he inquires politely.
The waitress speaks lowly, as though uncertain the events she witnessed are real. “The cut, it broke, and then it was fixed, like it was n-never-“
“Miss, I am sure this is nothing to dwell upon. Nothing out of the ordinary occurred. I am certain.”
The waitress does not seem entirely convinced, but she looks dazed and vaguely dismayed, the expression of one who has entered a room and forgotten their reason for doing so.
“Certainly there is a much better way to spend your time,” he says, each word quite clear despite the fact that he is murmuring lowly. She has to strain to hear the words at all.
She can feel the air ripple, the sudden change in energy, as the waitress’ eyes become unfocused. She is caught in her father’s steady gaze, as her face slackens, then she looks around, confused.
“I’m sorry, I… What were we discussing?” she asks, slowly.
“The bill, please,” her father says.
The waitress nods and strides away with her tray, not glancing at the man’s daughter.
While she half expects her father to scold her in the café, sure that the patrons will not hear him if he wishes it, her father says nothing as he settles the bill, collects the owl in its cage, and they exit the café.
He remains silent as they approach the library and enter, taking a confusing route she cannot keep track of to a dimly lit hallway. He pauses at a door, grabbing his daughter’s arm to prevent her from continuing on without him.
“You must learn to convince others without manipulation. To make them see something that isn’t there, or make them un-see. We shall have to find you a way to practice,” he adds, gazing not at her, but it seems to her, through her. “A mirror, of sorts.”
He releases her arm and gestures to the room beyond. “I shall return in an hour or so. Do not wander.” He takes the owl cage from her, holding it in his gloves hand.
He says nothing more before abandoning her at the threshold and turning down another corridor.
She waits a minute for him to return, wondering if he really intends to deposit her in a book-filled room and amuse herself for an hour, possibly longer, until his return.
She wonders if he will return.
When she has stood for a time she deems sufficient to prove he is not returning instantly she pushes open the heavy door, letting it swing behind her as she adjusts to the change in light.
The room is filled with bookcases. They line the space, wall-to-wall, floor to ceiling. Hundreds of spines with gold and black lettering.
She has never seen so vast a space, nor so many books, I her life.
The air changes, it is crisper, rippling with some unseen force.
The books tremble, each shelf echoing with a noise like startled birds fluttering their wings against metal and wood cages. The books open on the pages stir, their pages flipping back and forth.
She almost does not notice, absorbed in the multitude of books, so different from her father’s. But she glances around, ensuring she is alone for the time being, that there are no witnesses to the sudden restlessness of the volumes, and takes several deep breaths to compose herself.
The pages stop fluttering, though the bookends still quiver slightly.
She is delighted to discover that they are unlike her father’s collection of tomes, which are printed with symbols and pictures of stars and explanations for things she cannot begin to yet comprehend. These books have philosophies and art, histories and poems, epics and ballads, stories of fantasy. She pulls them off the shelves, holding as many as she is able before settling down to read them.
She feels as though she has been drifting, lost in some alternate world, when, hours later, her father rouses her from her collection of books and informs her it is time to go.
“We have a special visit to make,” he says when she protests.
Her curiosity does not quite trump her desire to read but there is no reason to argue further. She sighs; standing and collecting her coat as the books find their ways back to the shelves. When the library looks as though it has not been disturbed, they emerge.
Through the rain her father leads her down several side streets until they come to a busy promenade before a looming building. It is so large she wonders that she has not seen it before, but the University is unfamiliar to her.
Before she can ask her father what they are doing here, he strides up the steps and into the building. She follows quickly, focusing on keeping her coat dry in the oncoming storm.
Within the doors the university is, to her, unlike a university. The halls are warm, glowing with the golden light form oil lamps, and the walls are lined with gilded and framed maps and daguerreotypes of deceased professors and scholars. The windows are grey with the external weather, not the black glass she is accustomed to. The floors are not marble, but wood, and often carpeted. She follows her father in a daze, spending a considerable amount of time gazing inside each door they pass, at the studies and offices and classrooms, none of which contain birds or clocks or diagrams pinned to the walls.
They come to rest at a tall oak door, a plaque inscribed with a name she has never heard of. Her father knocks, the heavy sound echoing down the corridor.
The door opens to a man, bespectacled with graying hair, holding a multitude of books that he balances precariously in one arm as he holds the door handle. He glances at her father and his eyes widen before his gaze slides to her face. His eyes behind his glasses narrow until he notices the resemblance, her dark eyes almost identical to her fathers, though they lack the creased corners and have fuller lashes.
“Come in,” the man says, widening the door and shifting the books in his arm.
Her father does not enter, but turns to her. “Dearest, I would like you to wait down the hall until we are finished.”
“Why?”
“We have things to discuss,” he replies. “And take him,” he adds, handing her the owl’s cage. The owl clicks its beak as she turns around. He says nothing more, and neither does his companion, as they watch her walk slowly down the hall, casting glances over her shoulder as she goes. When she is at a satisfactory distance her father steps through the threshold and disappears behind the door.
She waits a full minute, counting seconds under her breath, until she can be sure they are engaged in conversation. She places the owl cage on the ground beside her. It takes her seconds to race back to the door, silently, and press her ear against the wood. It is her father speaking on the other side.
“You must challenge her, I insist. It has been too long since I’ve felt such excitement,” her father says, hands clasped behind his back as the older scholar struggles with his papers and scrolls. When, amidst the chaos, they roll of the desk, he does not bend down to reach them, but lazily waves his wrist in the direction of the desk and they are suddenly there, as though they always have been.
The scholar’s face goes white and he puts his hands down on the desk, breathing deeply. “I suppose. If you would like such an education. Though it is unconventional.”
Her father waves his hand. “It is not unconventional in the least, merely unprecedented. It was once quite in style, if you’ll remember.”
There is a significant pause, and she wonders if perhaps they have left the room through some other doorway. Perhaps they are listening for the sound of someone outside the door. She stays as quiet as she can.
In her space behind the door the words suddenly become muffled, as though she is hearing them through a wall, or from underwater.
“The challenges will be quite hard,” the professor says uncertainly. He drums his fingers nervously on his leg.
“All the better. She is extremely talented and skilled. Pitted against anyone she can win.”
“Very well,” the professor says. The paper on the desk rustles as he withdraws a roster of names. “I assume you have already begun her education?”
“I have almost finished it,” says her father’s voice.
“Then we will send tests along for her shortly.”
Suddenly the sounds resolve into words once more, and she is able to hear clearly her father call, “Come back in.”
She re-enters the study where the professor is smiling and holding a trembling hand out to her.
“Lovely to meet you my dear,” he says, shaking her hand. He pulls his hand back quickly when she releases it.
Her father bids goodbye and exits the room. The owl cage waits outside of it, though she does not recall bringing it to the door. He guides her through the gilded hallways to the exit.
Outside in the grey she cannot think of a single question from the tangle in her head to ask her father, except, “Are we going back now?”
“Yes we are,” her father replies as they turn down the main street in the direction of the beach.
She says nothing as they walk, and everything about her father is silent. She is certain that walking along the street only she is visible, and her father is, for his own purposes, unseen. 
When they reach the beach and the building that spans, invisibly, over a quarter of it, her father tells her to veil herself.
She visibly relaxes when they are indoor, pausing to take in the monotony of the black and white and grey halls. She sees little variation in the shades of grey after the colour of the city and the university.
Her father pulls the envelopes from his pocket, their frayed ripped edges catching on the lining.
“I hope you have learned something today,” her father says absently, looking not at her but at the envelopes in his hand.
She nods, then replies, “Yes, father.” She is certain she has learned something very important, though she does not think it is relevant to her father’s idea of the day.

Text by Lucie MacAulay

Wednesday, 2 January 2013

Spotting Pigeons



Kiki can do it best. But she sees no reason in it.

"There are enough birds," she argues. "Do something more productive with your time."

Maybe there is something juvenile and fanciful in those chalk drawings, but I am drawn to them anyway. So I set a goal to draw one each day. Of course, for a waywardly minded child like myself, this was a very serious pursuit, of even greater importance than the acquisition of a new doll each holiday or wheedling another cookie from Mama after dinner.

I drew on my walls first, but when I ran out of space on the green striped wall paper, I began drawing on the side of our house.

Mama and Papa did not see it. They insisted I come in for dinenr on time and wash my hands, though I tried to explain that chalk is quite clean. It is white and therefor not as filthy as dirt. I pointed at the doors on the wall, told them what to expect. But they paid no more attention than if I had pointed at a common pigeon.

Kiki agreed to keep it secret after that, out of sheer indifference I suspect, than actual sisterhood.

But I drew more doors. There are a wealth of birds in the world today because of me. At least, I would like to think there still are and they haven't washed away in the rain like the chalk doors they flew from. It is hard to tell.

I gave up drawing chalk doors long ago, when white birds lost their appeal.

Still, I halt on the street whenever I see a white pigeon, and squint to see if perhaps the wing is jagged, he beak curved too much, an indication of my attempts to capture pigeon anatomy proportionately in my hastily rendered drawings as a child.

Kiki, sometimes on these walks with me, will halt beside me. Then, as though times have not changed, she will haul me away by my elbow.

I always have the urge to look back and see if the pigeon is watching me walk away. Probably not.

Text by Lucie MacAulay

The Mistress



Since she arrived, nobody has slept well. Not during the night.

She arrived without warning, claiming it was some lucky turn of fate that brought her to our doorstep. She began right away, acquainting herself with my father and mother. She planted a plum tree in our back yard and insists we let the white petals litter the ground in the spring because it is beautiful.

She twists her hair into painfully tight knots and holds them in place with long polished sticks gilded and carved with flowers and dragons.

She makes my father smile, simply with her own enigmatic smile. She and mother get along; when the house smells of their moon cakes and the kitchen smells of smoke, I know they have spent the day together.

I ask her why she came to our doorstep, why she has such light hair, why she is so young, where she came from. She smiles and tells me not to trouble myself and to stop squirming because I am going to ruin my hair.

There are small hints though. The apple blossoms in her hair. The soft words she recites over us when my sister and I are supposedly asleep in the middle of the night. The tattoo on her neck.

There have been stories of creatures like her. With sweet tongues and sharp teeth. But each day when she presents me with a new ribbons or my hair (in black lace), or shows me how to make smaller stitches, or dresses me in her red kimonos, I wonder if succubi are truly that bad.

But now we sleep through the day and wake at night. And I have seen flashes of the same smile on mother's face,  on my sister's, on mine in the mirror. Succubi are not found, I was once told. Succubi are made.

Text by Lucie MacAulay

The Botanist's Daughter




“It is not quite intimate enough to tryst,” the botanist’s daughter says as she ignites the lamps. Her father’s library is appropriately piled with books, so much so that the collection of Moroccan furniture adopted into the room is barely visible beneath disheveled towers of leather bound volumes. The botanist’s daughter has made some attempt to shelve the books in accordance with her father’s stringent system, but has foregone the effort and opted instead to let the books become the room. Heaps of them serve as benches and seats.
The botanist’s daughter navigates between a pile of dickens and a pile of Shakespeare, righting a toppled tower of Yeats on the desk before crossing to the cabinet her father opens on occasion, while organizing his correspondences with merchants in Livorno.
“You seem quite comfortable in the library. I had not thought you were an avid reader,” her fiancée muses, following her slowly.
“Nonsense. Books are of much more import to education than one might suppose, especially for a lady,” the botanist’s daughter says, her voice rising above the colliding champagne flutes as she pushes them aside in search of the expensive Rosette.
“And is wine especially important for an education?”
The botanist’s daughter places the bottle of Rosette, half empty post-textile season, on the side table. The Moroccan lamp next to it stretches in the glass, like distortions and reflections in glowing amber.
“’Wine is bottled poetry’,” the botanist’s daughter quotes, smiling as two glasses join the bottle on the table.
“Then I am well educated,” her fiancée says, grinning wolfishly.
The botanist’s daughter turns her back as she pours, her silk skirt rustling on the carpet below. Her fiancée steps even closer, until his toes are brushing the hem of her gown.
“I hope you find it to your taste, a charming wine for a charming man,” the botanist’s daughter says, turning and passing her fiancée a glass, passing the stem from her hand to his.
The botanist’s daughter slowly removes her lace gloves, tossing them on the side table. She picks up her glass of wine and sweeps past her fiancée to the window.
“I take it you are not one for large gatherings?” her fiancée says, turning to watch her, intrigued by her seeming restlessness.
“That is not at all the case. I am fond of my father’s parties. I thought perhaps you wanted to speak in a more intimate situation.”
Her fiancée smiles widely. “How unexpectedly delightful.”
“Many unexpected things happen. I did not expect to be engaged so soon following my coming out,” the botanist’s daughter says.
“I did not expect to be engaged to such a beautiful lady. I had to act quickly, so you would not be enchanted by someone else, as you have so enchanted me.”
The botanist’s daughter blushes at the flattery. “Is that why you spoke to me at my coming out party?” she asks, seemingly curious. “Mere beauty?”
“And intrigue,” her fiancée rallies. “I had heard great things about your beauty, and also that you are sweet and angelic. I am not disappointed whatsoever.”
“Had you known me longer would you have wooed me? Properly?” the Botanist’s Daughter asks.
“I would have written you poetry.”
“Poetry, really?”
“Of course,” he says.
“I would not have thought you were a romantic,” the Botanist’s Daughter says, leaning against the wine cabinet, her skirt rustling against the wooden panels.
“You think me charming and handsome, but not romantic?”
The botanist’s daughter twirls the stem of her wine glass between her two fingers. “I do not remember calling you handsome. And it is hard to be romantic with the daughter of a botanist. I am very picky about flowers, so they rarely make good gifts.”
“You must have a favourite blossom. Let me guess what it is,” her fiancée says.
The botanist’s daughter watches him.
“Roses,” he says, fingering the silk blossoms on her gown, his hands trailing from her shoulders to the neckline.
The botanist’s daughter’s expression does not change. She does not move an inch. “Wrong.”
Her fiancée’s smile falters for a fraction of a second but his hands trace the neck of her gown, lower and lower. “Perhaps Lily of the Valley? Something as beautiful as you.”
The botanist’s daughter steps away, out of the reach of his hands. She smiles as though she has a secret. “You are very handsome,” she says, without a trace of her usual coyness. “And wrong again.”
“Would you give me a hint?” her fiancée asks, unnerved by her boldness and slightly frustrated with the elusive and enigmatic flower. “You must have a favourite blossom. Let me guess what it is,” her fiancée says.
The botanist’s daughter watches him.
“Roses,” he says, fingering the silk blossoms on her gown, his hands trailing from her shoulders to the neckline.
The botanist’s daughter’s expression does not change. She does not move an inch. “Wrong.”
Her fiancée’s smile falters for a fraction of a second but his hands trace the neck of her gown, lower and lower. “Perhaps Lily of the Valley? Something as beautiful as you.”
The botanist’s daughter steps away, out of the reach of his hands. She smiles as though she has a secret. “You are very handsome,” she says, without a trace of her usual coyness. “And wrong again.”
“Would you give me a hint?” her fiancée asks, unnerved by her boldness and slightly frustrated with the elusive and enigmatic flower.
The botanist’s daughter picks up the bottle of wine, pouring a second glass as she answers, “Bleeding hearts.”
Her fiancée leans against the window, his arm cold through the velvet of his coat.
“How… unusual,” he says. “I must admit I am not familiar with that particular flower.”
The botanist’s daughter smiles, a smile that makes her fiancée decidedly uncomfortable, feeling like the wolf who is corned by a deer not easily intimidated.
“It is one part of my education. Unusual plants and rare plants. I could tell you facts you would not dream of comparing with botany. It is a wicked science, that winds its way into most other parts of history.” When her fiancée does not interject she continues. “For example, did you know that Lucrezia Borgia was rumoured to wear a hollowed ring filled with poison?” The botanist’s daughter asks, looking not at her fiancée but at the bubbling fountain outside, as she speaks.
“I am not familiar with Lucrezia Borgia,” her fiancée answers, his eyes twinkling.
“Lucrezia Borgia was a famous Italian poison-ness in the 1500s. She was famous for her crimes. She was clever and cunning, and knew quite a bit about poison.”
“And why would a refined young lady know about poison?”
The botanist’s daughter adopts an expression her fiancée does not understand.
“Quite a lot. There is much more to being a botanist’s daughter than you might think.”
“Apparently,” he says, feeling slightly more comfortable now that the expression on her face is less predatory.
“There is something rapturously beautiful about poison,” the botanist’s daughter says, gazing at her wine.
“You are beautiful,” her fiancée says, eyes gleaming as his gaze travels from the hem of her gown brushing the carpet to he fine boned face.
“Thank you,” she replies. “You are too charming.”
They stand in silence, gazing at one another. The botanist’s daughter has changed, in some indistinct way; she has become less open, less soft. She does not possess the good posture and hint of a smile that her fiancée is used to seeing, the sign of youth and inexperience. She is sphinx-like, beguiling and alluring. Her beauty is like a siren song; there is a hint of malice beneath it.
“There is history involved in botany. I admit, my father rather spoiled me in that regard. Not that I didn’t help him along. There are many interesting facts one could learn about the implementation of plants in the past.”
Her fiancée is formulating a response when she continues. “Did you know that Italian women used to drop tinctures of Bella Donna in their eyes to dilate their pupils? Because they believe it made them more attractive. It is where the name comes from. Atropa belladonna. It is also called deadly nightshade. In Ancient Rome Agrippina the Younger killed her husband, Emperor Augustus, with the poison.”
Her fiancée appears uncomfortable, unused to encountering intelligent women. Unaccustomed to the challenge.
“It’s rather romantic, isn’t it?” the botanist’s daughter says. Her fiancée grins, feeling once more on familiar ground, the impression of romance in a young girl’s mind is more common to him than musings about poison. She lifts her glass to her lips.
“I hope you would not poison a modest man-in-love,” her fiancée teases, his grin widening. He takes a step closer to the botanist’s daughter.
“I would not dream of it,” the botanist’s daughter says, smiling over her wine.
“You smile as though you have a secret,” her fiancée comments, nodding to her.
“I have none. Save for that which I keep from my father.”
“And what is that?” her fiancée asks, the piquing of his interest almost palpable.
“My father wants to be famous for his discoveries, the be in illuminated script in historical journals. He desires recognition above all else. I only get in the way of his ambitions. I suspect that is another reason he is marrying me off. Were his plan not such an interference with my own, I would hardly mind.” The Botanist’s Daughter watches her fiancée curiously as he coughs.
When the fit has passed he straightens once more, watching the lantern light flickering across her face. “Your plans? What are your plans?”
The Botanist’s Daughter’s gaze flicks from his face briefly to the plant on the desk, partially obscured from his vision by the multitude of books. “I have studied at least half what my father has, in less than half his lifetime. He prefers theoretical study, while I prefer practical. I have my own hypotheses that go, I believe, beyond some of my father’s theorems. I would look beyond his boundaries, and even more, beyond my own. Had he a son, I believe my father would respect his endeavors, but as it is, he hardly acknowledges my interest.” The smile accompanying this last statement is not bitter, despite the edgy tenor of her voice. Rather it is amused. “Beyond that is my pride.”
“What do you mean?” her fiancée asks.
“My father believes he can marry me off to the highest bidder. He is often of the opinion that I am to young and silly to make my own decisions,” she says as she gazes at the books, seeming to speak to herself as much as him. She glances back over her shoulder at her fiancée. “It is in part why we are engaged.”
Her fiancée is visibly startled, the glass slipping in his grip and it is only by reflex that he catches it around the rim, wine sloshing within the glass. “I did not know that.”
“Did you not?” the botanist’s daughter does not seem to expect an answer. She finishes perusing the library and turns back to him with an amused smile, though there is an edge to it, like the brittleness of newly formed ice.
“How much did my father offer for my dowry?”
Her fiancée frowns. “What, dearest?”
“An exorbitant amount, I imagine. I told him he could not sell me to the highest bidder, but fathers, at least mine, do not listen to their daughters as well as they should,” she says pensively. “What did he offer for my dowry?”
Her fiancée seems to be struggling to compose himself. “I don’t know what you mean.”
The botanist’s daughter leans against the windowsill, her back against the cold glass, regarding him in the lantern light as she swirls her glass between her fingers. Her eyes appear darker as she stares for some time at him.
“Would you like to know what I’ve heard about you?”
Her fiancée opens his mouth to answer, but suddenly coughs, a shockingly strong cough that leaves his hands shaking and his cheeks red. The botanist’s daughter continues on as though he has been silent.
“You are charming and charismatic. And that is before someone knows you well. After someone knows you very well, you are distant and dismissive and disloyal.” Her fiancée’s smile, already thin, falters further. “Of course, that is only what I have heard from a lady I am acquainted with, and another lady I know, and one of her maids.”
Her fiancée frowns deeply and opens his mouth once more – to deny the accusation – and bends over coughing. He stumbles toward the curtain, grasping for some support. Her fiancée clutches the curtain in a white knuckled fist as he doubles over, his hand in front of his face as he continues coughing. His coughs become wet sounding, small sprays of blood appear on the white cuff of his shirt and the black sleeve of his suit.
The botanist’s daughter watches wordlessly, sipping her wine, counting the ticks of the clock.
“Bella donna has very interesting effects,” the botanist’s daughter says calmly. “The poison stops your heart. You begin with a pain in your stomach that grows until you feel as though something is trying to crawl out of it. Horrible gnawing pain. Then the coughing starts. It racks your body, purging it of your own blood…” she breathes. “And that is only one account of it.”
Her fiancée cannot stop coughing. The thin sprays of blood have progressed to large clots that stick to his sleeve. He sinks to the floor, propping himself up on his arm as black dots dance before his vision. He shakes as the botanist’s daughter kneels over him.
“I would rather die than be married to the highest bidder. “You’re just doing it for me.” Her voice is a barely recognizable whisper.
She straightens and steps back gracefully before he reaches for the silk of her skirt.
As he gasps for breath she takes a last sip of wine. When he has ceased to move she places her glass upon the wind cabinet.
Her former fiancée’s face is a mask of surprise. His skin pale, lips dotted with blood.
The botanist’s daughter taps her ring thoughtfully before opening the top of it and peering inside. She frowns and brushes her finger into the hollow, withdrawing her finger and rubbing the last of powdered belladonna from her fingertip.
The botanist’s daughter smoothes her skirts and twists the ring on her finger before crossing to the door of the room.
The botanist’s daughter strides through the door, passing through the darkened hallway lit only by shafts of light shining through the adjacent ballroom curtains. The music swells then fades as she walks down the stairs at the end of the hall. She makes several twists and turns before arriving at the greenhouse, shivering slightly from the drop in temperature.
Beyond the glass walls there is darkness, only the flickering lanterns half hidden by foliage provide any light, but the botanist’s daughter navigates instinctually around spiked plants and under large hanging leaves.
The clipping of belladonna is hidden in plain sight, tucked into the vase of roses.
“It did not take as much as I’d thought,” she murmurs.
The botanist’s daughter smells the roses, sweetness with a hint something sharp and bitter, before departing for the ballroom.

Art by Monika Viktoria

Text by Lucie MacAulay