The Fatal Strand. Robin Jarvis
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ancient wellhead, from which divine waters were once drawn to anoint the ravages of age afflicting the great root, was now choked with moss and a hay-like growth of dead weeds. Upon their dry, cushioning layers the stretcher was placed and Edie put the ebony cane in Miss Veronica’s lifeless hands.
‘And the blade,’ Miss Ursula directed. ‘It should be beside her.’
The girl obeyed, carefully removing the deadly weapon from the bag. Then she caressed the dead woman’s cheek with her fingertips and whispered, ‘You can rest now.’
Regarding the child keenly, a curious light glittered in Miss Ursula’s eyes and she returned her attention to her dead sister.
‘Are you in truth at peace?’ she asked, intently scanning the lined face. ‘Is your soul finally free? You were never content, Veronica. In our youth I denied you your happiness and to this unending existence you were irrevocably fettered.’
Edie kissed the dead woman’s forehead then gave Miss Ursula a conciliatory smile. ‘At the end,’ she told her, ‘Veronica said as how she were sorry and didn’t blame you for what happened.’
On hearing this, the eldest of the Fates squeezed her eyes shut. Then, when she had mastered herself, she took the oil lamp from Edie and leaned forward – holding it over that cold, expressionless face, as if the answer to what troubled her could be found amongst the countless wrinkles which mapped its aged contours.
How different those familiar features now appeared. Without the inner spark to kindle that mottled flesh and fire it into life, it was like viewing some poorly executed sculpture of her sister. No trace of the character that had once burned within her could be glimpsed or guessed at. The absolute stillness was hideous to see and the pallid skin reflected the lamplight in a cadaverous ghastliness.
Still searching that beloved face, Miss Ursula muttered in a voice which at times cracked with despair.
‘Of this world there is little I do not understand,’ she said huskily. ‘But to this plane alone, and of those who are bound unto it, does my wisdom extend. Beyond the frontiers of life, Urdr has no knowledge. Outside the immutable confines of this strangling reality, is there an end to care and suffering? Can there indeed be a paradise? Is that where you are now, my dearest little Verdandi? Is all your hurt now healed?’
Listening to this, Miss Celandine snivelled into her handkerchief once more. It frightened her to hear Ursula so uncertain and questioning.
‘Is Veronica with Mother now, do you think?’ she spluttered.
Her elder sister lowered the lamp and let out a long breath. ‘I do not know,’ she replied with a bitter edge in her voice. ‘And I doubt whether I shall ever discover the answer. For how may the immortals ever know the truth of that – the most hidden secret of all?’
The woman lapsed into silence as she continued to survey the wizened corpse lying upon the dried weeds.
‘How small she seems, and how ignominious her journey to this place. Verdandi, princess of the Royal House, and yet she was carted here as though she were of no more import than a sack of coal.’
Spreading her hands wide, Miss Ursula lifted her eyes to the towering vastness of Nirinel as she contemplated the pomp and dignity that her late sister truly deserved.
‘In the forgotten past, the funeral of this daughter of Askar would have been effected with the highest ceremony. A legion of horns and trumpets would have sounded the heavens, and banners of sable flown from the city walls to mourn her passing. What solemn elegies the poets would have composed, what glorious outrage to inspire the balladeers’ songs.
‘In every window a candle would burn in memory of her. Across the land, monuments would rise and the brightest star in the firmament would be named anew.’
The woman’s voice trailed into nothing and she looked again at the wasted body upon the wellhead. ‘I regret that such ceremony is forever behind us,’ she admitted, ‘but still we will do what we can. Verdandi may indeed have to remain in this blessed place until the end of all things, but not for a moment shall she be alone. In this, her tomb, we shall take it in turns to sit beside her. However, on this grievous day, we shall all keep watch.’
‘Oh yes!’ Miss Celandine cooed. ‘And when it’s just her and myself, I shall bring down a plate of jam and pancakes to put at her side and tell her everything that happens – I shall, I shall.’
Under Miss Ursula’s instruction, they each took a torch from the carved walls and fixed them into the soil around the wellhead. Then, together, they knelt before Miss Veronica’s body and the long vigil commenced.
With her head to one side, and the torchlight sparkling in her bright eyes, Miss Celandine rocked backwards and forwards upon her knees, murmuring the snatches of old rhymes and songs she remembered from the ancient city of Askar and the days of her youth.
‘Oh see within that sylvan shade, the fairest city that e’er was made. A mighty tower roofed with gold, where dwells the Lady so I’m told. Queen of that ash land she may be, with daughters one, two and three.’
Turning to the old woman in the nightgown, Edie saw that large tears were trickling down her walnut-like face as she recited. But Miss Celandine’s memory soon failed her and the words trailed into nothing. Humming to herself, she twisted the end of her plaits around her knobbly fingers, whilst her whispering voice slowly began to chant another half-remembered rhyme:
‘… thus spurred by need she wove her doom. Then all were caught within that weave and from its threads none could cleave. The root was saved, but by the Loom all things are destined, from womb to tomb …’
At Edie’s side, the girl thought that she saw Miss Ursula flinch when these words were uttered and wondered what she was thinking.
‘… How fierce He roared, she cheated him of the ruling power hid within …’
Again the poem faltered, but Miss Celandine continued to drone the rhythm until a sad smile suddenly smoothed her crabbed lips when a different thought illuminated her muddled mind. Clumsily, she rose to her feet and, assuming a dramatic pose, pointed a big, grime-encrusted toe. Then, very carefully, she started to dance.
Edie shifted around to watch her. Swathed in her ragged nightgown, the old woman’s less than graceful movements were a peculiar sight. In other circumstances Edie would have laughed, but here in the midst of their grief, Miss Celandine’s shambling performance possessed an aching poignancy.
Around the Chamber of Nirinel Miss Celandine waltzed, twirling and revolving with her arms flung wide. At times she looked like a collection of tattered sheets torn from a washing line and caught in a buffeting gale, but there were moments when the crackling torch flames clothed her in an enchanted light and the endless years fell from her shoulders. In those brief moments Miss Celandine was beautiful; her hair burned golden and her supple limbs skipped the steps with dainty precision.
Then the vision was lost as she sailed out of the torchlight and reeled towards the entrance, where the metal gates formed a perfect backdrop for the rest of her display.
‘Oh what heavenly dancing there used to be,’ she pined, temporarily interrupting her tune. ‘What darling parties we had back then. Terpsichore, the gallants called me – Terpsichore, Terpsichore.’
Flitting behind Miss Celandine, a dozen shadows stretched high into the darkness above, magnifying her every move. Edie stared, enthralled by their grotesquely distorted, whirling shapes.
Even Miss Ursula had turned to watch her sister, yet the eyes which regarded her clumsy cavorting were filled with pity.
All their attention was diverted from the corpse which lay upon the wellhead, so not one of them noticed when the withered hand of Miss Veronica began to move.
With painful slowness, the arthritic fingers twitched and flexed, creeping across the bloodstained robe like the legs of a great, gnarled spider. Down to her side the hand