and i must pour forth a river of words
or i shall suffocate.
or i shall suffocate.
T
he garden is full of lights tonight. They dance in the pits of each statues carved eyes; crown the image of a fleeing stag; sit as a wreath around a fox’s shoulders.
Maret stares at them all with envy.
And she wonders how even carved horses of bone, and marble, and driftwood, and squash can wear light so naturally when it was supposed to be in her blood — and yet the only light she can conjure is the small beams that reflect off of her ice.It is only a small consolation that their light comes from candles and flames instead of magic (like her father — his sun-bright wings were far more glorious than the glowing eyes watching her in the garden tonight.) But it is enough for her to look past the dancing lights for the moment, to see the expressions carved into each statue’s face, to wonder how that first stallion can look as much like he’s singing as he is screaming, when viewed from different angles.
It all makes Maret want to sing, and scream, and dance, and run through the twisted garden paths like something wild. It makes her want to pretend she is that singing, screaming stallion, a statue carved of bone come back to life for the night. It doesn’t feel that far away tonight; not when that other-world is on everyone’s lips, where ghosts are tapping at the door and asking to be let in.
But she doesn’t. She only pulls out the folded-up scraps of paper that she carries around with her, and scrawls a few verses down while her blood is still humming loudly in her ears.
at the midnight-tolling of the bells —
The pencil scratches noisily across the page, the words gleaming in the lantern-light cast from the eyes of the nearest statue. As if he is watching, as if he understands how she can’t stop the words once they’ve started. Her heart beats like something reckless in her chest on and on, and Maret writes along to the rhythm it creates.
She doesn’t reread what she’s written (not yet — once the night ends, once the page is full, once she can begin to make sense of the emotions swirling like a ripcurl inside of her belly will she then sit down and sort through all the half-poems she’s written.) She only carefully folds the paper back in upon itself once the words run out and tucks it away somewhere safe. Then the black-and-white girl turns back towards the singing-screaming-stallion, curtsies to him once, and continues along the path. She isn’t sure how long she wanders, or how she somehow makes it back to the beginning of the maze; but this time, she is not the only one staring up in wonder at the statue.
She watches as the boy comes forward and carefully, gingerly, hopefully places his offering at the statue’s feet. He doesn’t look up, not until he is finished, and Maret wonders if he is afraid — and yet, the boy she remembers was not one who seemed easily disturbed.
And when she says “I know you,” and steps forward so that the firelight flickers upon her brow like a blessing, her smile dances with something like mischief.
“What secrets do you have for me today, lost boy?”
{ @Leonidas "speaks" notes: sorry for how late this is, I've been struggling to write her lately. }
