A
Castle in the Snow
Ó
Brian O Flynn
The
Queen
“Is it the sadness in the
music that makes me sad or is it the sadness within me that draws me to the
music?” wondered the Queen.
It was the conclusion of the Blackwater
Witches that the birthmark on the Queen’s back was in the exact shape of the
Fifth Winter Island. The freckles on her arm having joined to form the shape of
the number five further confirmed the Witches’ verdict.
“Play that dirge again Jack”
Her voice was gentle. Before her, her secret lover, musician and muse held his
black violin, eager to empathise through the cry of his
music.
“The “Swan Song”
Elaine?”
“Yes, that’s the
one”
The Queen did not normally
consult witches but her young maid Amia convinced her that there is more to life
than there appears.
The Queen’s chamber was
filled with a sweet and sorrowful tune. The acoustics of the room were perfect;
a floor made of oak from the nearby forest and walls made of stones smoothened
from the torrent of the Blackwater. For generations these walls have enclosed
the shame that religion slips between bodies and desires. For generations these
walls have absorbed a river of unanswered prayers. The air Jack played gently
stirred longings within her. As the tune ended silence entered the room. Silence
had a way of speaking for the Queen. In her greatest decisions she always
meditated on the well of silence. After a time she spoke,
“Will you come with me to
the Fifth Winter Island?”
Jack was tired with the
Queen’s newfound irrational ways and blamed Amia for exposing her to what she
called “Secret Forces”
“Since when is the Queen so
rash as to take her cues from the hags of Blackwater
valley?”
“What if there is more to
life, if fairytales are true and that this is mine? Surely there is a time for
being rash?” the Queen pleaded.
Jack replied, “Your
wishfullness is youthful and at the same time foolish. Consult practicality Your
Highness”
“I
was appealing to your regality for reason”
The
Queen said, “Oh I’m sick of reason! Where’s the charm in that? These Witches
understand what fuels the heart. For once I have a calling. Let’s go! Come with
me, if only to be with me, away from the scrutiny of the courtyard and the
danger of the King”
Later
that night as she endured painful, unloving sex with the King, she heard the
chanting of the Witches from the valley below. Amia, her maid, was down there
communicating with forces the Queen could never imagine. The chanting awoke a
darkness within her. The Queen had the uneasiness of a person locked in a cell
with a cannibal, overcome with the sensation that she must consume life before
it consumed her. The big pupiled King heaved on top of her, grunting and moaning
in unison with the peak of the Witches chanting. Her decision to leave for the
Island was made as the King ejaculated; a moment when the Witches hushed and she
became curiously aware of the pitch darkness of the room.
A
month later the ship was ready. Before they set off the Druid gave them a list
of herbs he wanted them to pick up. Goodbyes were made. Amia, as usual was told
to take charge of the servants. Strangely the King did not object to the Queen’s
leaving. All the King wanted to do was to sit in his favorite chair, with his
favorite cushion behind his neck and while his time away staring with vacant
eyes at the walls.
“Will he even notice I’m
gone?” wondered The Queen.
As the voyage was in to hazardous waters
the best seafarers in the kingdom were summoned for the voyage. Prince Sanimus
was to captain the ship. Sanimus was the kind of person who took immense
pleasure in his ability to scream. He claimed he could kill small animals by
scaring them to death with his roar. So the ship set sail. Sanimus’ laugh
thundered from the ship causing people, on the islands they passed, to look over
and say “there goes Sanimus, the loudest man of the ocean, God bless the nerves
of anybody who must share a ship with that man!”
Sanimus safely guided the
ships through three storms. He shouted abuse at the dark clouds and ten foot
waves as he aggressively navigated them.
It
was night time when they eventually arrived at their destination. They landed
safe in the knowledge that the island was empty. The island was small and
seemingly insignificant. The Queen left the torch bearers on the beach and
walked barefoot alone through the dewy grass into the center of the island. A
dark cloud covered the moon. It was a starless night. Waves crashed behind her.
She stood and waited expecting something, anything! After what seemed for an age
she screamed at the gods. Her cries were swallowed by the night. Not even an
echo returned. In the pitch darkness she had the feeling she could be anywhere.
This darkness ridiculed her journey, her longing and her very self. She had the
feeling that all human imagination is extinguished in a darkness like this.
They spent two weeks on the island with
the Queen in a turmoil of disappointment and anguish. Defeated they went to a
nearby Winter Island where a small settlement of mystics lived. As they were old
friends of the Druid, the Queen received a warm welcome. They had long white
hair and eyes that glinted with unimaginable secrets. They gladly gathered the
herbs the Druid required and threw in a few extra ones they thought he would
appreciate. They were alarmed when they examined the Queen’s birthmark. They
said that it was the symbol of a monster called Begfury and they said the
freckles on her arm formed the snake of death.
“All it represents is
pointless endeavor,” replied the Queen.
Bidding the mystics goodbye
they set sail for home. The first storm they encountered on the way back was
bigger than any of the storms they had previously encountered. All hands were
called to deck to navigate the ship safely out of the storm. Sanimus’ roaring,
intertwined with the roar of the storm, formed a demonic din. Once out of the
storm they assessed the damage. Nothing could prepare them for just how great
the damage toll was to be. Three of the crew was reported lost overboard. The
Queen’s lover and intimate, Jack was one of them. The other two were old
seafaring friends of Sanimus. The sound of Sanimus’ crying was never to leave
the Queen’s memory. He was crying for the first time in twenty years. It was a
dam burst of emotion. At first it sounded like a deep laugh. Then it thwarted
into the howling of an injured animal. There is something disconcerting about
seeing a grown man cry but to see Sanimus in such a way was a horror show. The
sight contaminated the Queen with the poison of guilt, grief and despair.
The
Queen found Castle Coral a strange, lonely place without Jack. The Queen
wandered through the castle gardens leaving circular trails in the snow. She
stood under a tree where they once kissed. Icicles hung from the tips of the
branches. She looked at the sky and saw a cloud that looked like the map of some
strange country. The silver lining was like still
lightning.
“The silver lining has a
cloud,” she thought to herself. In her mind she could hear Sanimus’ crying and
the music of Jack’s sorrowful violin. She stroked her belly. She was already
showing. She shed a tear at the thought of her child never knowing her dear
father, Jack. She gave birth to a baby girl whom she called “Rosa”. The love for
her child kept her alive.
Amia, The
Jealous Maid
Amia, a
servant in Coral Castle, had beauty that no picture could capture. It was a
beauty that appeared in the motion of her expressions. She had long curly hair,
dark as night, dark skin and a boyish yet beautiful complexion. She had a blue
tint in the whites of her eyes. The stillness of her face, nailed to the castle
entrance was without beauty. It left any visitors to Coral wondering what the
songs were about. The folk songs named her as “The Queen of The Peasant World”.
One such song goes:
“Amia steals
the gaze of passerby’s,
she sings the
children lullabies,
she’s a good witch with many a
spell,
maybe she’ll save your soul from going to
hell”
Typically at the castle she had children
hanging off her legs, the dribbling future aristocracy that cried for her when
bad dreams came.
“Amia, Amia I
had a nasty dream”
“Childer,
childer, don’t you be a frettin”, her voice, so comforting, lulled the future
Lords to sleep.
She often wondered when was it that
people stopped doting over her, giving her care and then the fateful turn, time
to care for others, no more hush now baby, time for welts, go earn your keep!
People say it was at the age of 8 when she was first made to work, weaving
baskets for her mother. She ran away at the age of 14, running into the cold
wind of hardship to make different lives on her travels. By the time she came to
work in Coral Castle she was better at survival than any knight. Growing up she
collected the legends and stories of the country folk. Some stories had an inner
core of wisdom, a moral lesson and others seemed to be just entertaining,
offering no answers and these bared the hallmarks of truth. One such story was
about “The Whiskey Fountain”.
The Whiskey
Fountain is the dream of every vagabond alcoholic. Legend says it’s where The
Original Whiskey springs. This whiskey is an element. Amia, over a stolen bottle
of the king’s Mead, spoke,
“Did I ever
tell you about The Whiskey Fountain? It’s been the ruin of many, oh too many!
It’s funny how a poor girl like me should survive such a place and end up here.
The pilgrimage to The Whiskey Fountain is one undertaken by people who suffer
from what is known as “The Thirst”. If you have “The Thirst”, The Whiskey
Fountain calls your name at night and you are filled with an immense longing,
like a maternal longing for child. There’s the mystical pull of the moon and
then there’s the call of The Whiskey Fountain. It’s where every body is leveled
with drink and a common girl like me can drunkenly rule drunken kings. Still,
sadly it’s where many a life ends. Surrounding the Castle of The Whiskey
Fountain is a graveyard for all those who drank themselves to death. The ghosts
however still drink and dance with the living.
People at the
fountain tend not to get hung-over as they just keep drinking! It is where heaven meets earth and this
liquid, is in fact, all euphemisms aside, the water of the gods. Desires are
spun in the wind as the warm liquid rises inside you. Musicians compose and
play, people sing, dance and cry and make love, philosophy is mused, poems are
written and adorned on the walls, the great dialects of all time are made and as
soon as they are spoken, they are forgotten. God, the host looks each person in
the eye and the guilt’s of your former life dance before you and that’s when you
wonder,
“Am I strong
enough to survive this place.”
The reason the fountain is such a good
secret is because few people survive it.
It’s where I
met Prince Voytech. But there I was his master, a maid no more. Oh yes! He was
under the spell of my body. We made the free, wild love of the drunk before all
who dared watch. Not a care, not a care! In the dim cloud of whiskey all was
permitted and mind you, if a murder occurred, it just occurred and that’s it! No
more about it! Happenings were all too much chance to worry about. When we
grieved, we grieved for human nature and felt the guilt of every crime committed
by mankind.
God standing by our side approved of all
and took another drink. God hinted at other fountains far superior to the
whiskey fountain but he still joined us many a time for a sup of liquid
goodness. He told us with a smile how a few crafty Celts survived the fountain,
even took a sample but they found the recipe difficult to copy. But they’re the
reason for the Scotch and Irish whiskey. “Let them have it” he said with
empathy, “the weather’s bad in those parts. Now where’s my cup” “Understanding”
is I suppose the best word I could use to describe god.”
Voytech, the
Polish Prince, had short blond hair and blue eyes that inspired confidence. His
skin was dark from days working in the sun. Amia and Voytech spent many a late
night talking over the fire in the servants’ quarters. Lovers at The Fountain,
at Coral Castle they were just close friends. Having to strain normally to speak
English, Amia’s fluency in Polish was a delight for Voytech. He enjoyed the
uninterrupted ease of his native tongue. Drunk, they discussed the river of time
that flows without end. To the clicking of Amia’s knitting needles and the
crackling of the logs in the hearth, they let the words flow freely from the
tongue. Time is a shared mystery between old friends.
“Ahh the way things used to
be”.
“How could I judge you in any way? We’ve
been through too much”.
Watching the flames in silence, she could
not guess the immensity of her love for her dear companion Voytech and the
jealousy she felt towards his bride to be.
Princess Rosa attracted attention
comparable to the hypnotic allure of a fire in a darkened room. She always stood
out in a crowd. But growing up she found her beauty brought her unwanted
attention. Men acted in peculiar ways to her. Thus she found them loathsome
creatures. A dance with her was worth the world to some and became unusually
important, sometimes dangerous. The bubble of youth was burst for Rosa. She was
raped at the age of sixteen. Beauty became for her a curse, an affliction worse
than ugliness. She cried at night, resenting her body. Her perceptions began to
change. Sadness welled up inside of her clogging her sense of reason. She stayed
long hours in her room playing slow, sorrowful airs on an old black violin. Her
arranged marriage with the Prince approached like death’s carriage. She looked
down at the engagement ring, cold silver and a stone that changed colour with
the light, a ring that Prince Voytech said he won off God one day when he was
gambling at The Whiskey Fountain. She knows her maid Amia still loves Voytech
since her time with him at The Whiskey Fountain. Rosa would gladly swap places
if only there was a way.
Amia realised
her jealousy only when she had Princess Rosa drowning beneath her hands, her
frail beauty squirming in the green water of the moat. Rosa’s body gave in
easily as if welcoming death. As the Princess drowned, drifting to the bottom of
the green moat water, her spirit traveled into her glowing engagement
ring.
The
Druid woke up one morning after a rough week of time travel, mushrooms and other
mystical ceremonies, to find his legs still in what he took for the dream
world.
“How peculiar! Why don’t I feel more
alarmed?” wondered the Druid scratching his beard.
“Well
this looks like our moat. What’s that shining at the
bottom?”
With his toes, he dislodged the
engagement ring from the dead body’s finger. He could sense the Princess inside.
In dreams space is easily overcome so it was with ease that he placed the ring
amongst the jealous maid’s linen. He didn’t know why he did this. But he
dismissed the whole affair due to the fact that dreams are not easily
understood. The Druid stayed in bed and watched the dream world slip down to his
ankles and then to his toes and finally leaving him completely. As the dream
slipped away he felt a counter current rise within him which made him forget the
dream content. Since then he always wears cured ivory anklets to chastise the
reluctance of his feet to leave dreams.
Amia was doing
her work one day after the drowning when she found a beautiful ring. It changed
colour with the light. It seemed to be blue like the blue tint in the whites of
her eyes. She put on the ring thanked her fortune and resumed her work.
News in the
court yard was that Princess Rosa took her own life. It was deemed by all that
her melancholy was of the fateful kind. The Prince took the news like a
lightning bolt from the heavens.
Publicly the
Prince declared,
“This world is
too cold for me, I’m returning to the warmth of The Whiskey Fountain and this
time I won’t survive it.”
At the royal
burial, tears flowed from the Queen. The King could not cope with his emotion.
Grief began to strangle the old man. He spent days on end sitting in his chair
with his cushion behind his neck, staring blankly.
As Amia
prepared to join the Prince for the pilgrimage back to The Whiskey Fountain she
was overcome with the condemning spirit of the Princess. Amia, under the
influence of the ring came before the gathering at the burial and confessed her
sin.
“I did it, I
killed her. I set her free from life. She is in God’s care now. It seems I was
jealous. I loved the Prince ever since The Whiskey Fountain, a place where there
was no class. I was no maid there. I was the same as a Queen! Don’t punish me.
Let me return to that sacred fountain and you will never see me
again.”
The Prince
turned with eyes of hate and spoke,
“How could you kill that innocent girl,
you witch! Murder may have been natural at the Fountain but here it is a sin.
When you submit to whiskey you submit to have no choice. Here in the natural
world we must be in control of our emotions and not the other way
around.
The
head of the jealous maid was nailed over the entrance of the castle. It was not
long before ravens plucked her eyes out. It seems ravens too have a nature they
can’t fight.