And so Percy muttered, “I’m going to bed now. So that I can get an early start.”
Niobea had nodded then, and finally, as the girl was about to head to her corner, she said, “I’ll pack you a basket.”
It was the most she was going to get from Niobea. And the most that Niobea was able to give.
This morning however, Niobea, who had spent a sleepless night, got up in the pre-dawn dark and, tormented by pangs of guilt, put together a basket of their best, including all that was to be their dinner that coming day, two fresh loaves of oat bread, a jar of raspberry preserves, and a small bag of dried raisins that had been a precious gift from a distant relation earlier that autumn. She did not know what it was, why the guilt ate at her so much—but no, she did know very well. It was guilt at the relief that Percy had granted her, relief that she was not about to lose either one of her two favorites.
And then Niobea thought about something else and returned to her bedroom where Alann was sleeping like a dead man—or possibly pretending to be asleep—and she pulled out the trunk under their bed that contained her ancient yellowing lace, a few books, and all her treasures from the better days of her youth. There was a shawl there, woolen and fine-spun, yet thick and folded over, then sewn together in a double layer for warmth, one that she never used, considering it too fine for their present life.
But now, she knew exactly how it was to be used. Niobea sniffed the shawl one last time, drawing in the memories of the past with one moldy whiff of mothballs and violets and then folded it on her bed and replaced the chest underneath.
In the dark she took the shawl to the kitchen and left it lying next to the food basket. All the while, a few feet away Bethesia continued to breathe, making the horrible death rattle, as though to reassure Niobea that everything was indeed proceeding as it should.
W
hen the milky grey dawn light started to seep in through the cracks in the drawn shutters, Percy rose from her narrow bed alongside the wall, near her sisters’ beds. She had thought she would not sleep that night from the cold terror and emptiness that had gripped her as soon as she had announced her decision to go. But at some point in the darkness she had fallen into a deep bout of unconsciousness, so at least there was something.
But now she was fully awake; worms of worry and fear crawling through her empty stomach.
What had she volunteered for? This was insane! The realization struck her full-force in the morning, and she considered waking up Alann and Niobea and then falling down on the floor before them like a baby and just weeping and begging to be released from this. But the next instant she thought, then Belle would have to go in her stead, and how fair would that be? Nothing about any of this was fair. But because Percy was going to be missed least of all, for that alone it was her duty to go.
And so Percy steeled herself against the fear and instead took a deep breath, drawing in courage together with the morning chill. Then she went to use the chamberpot, washed her face from the bowl in the corner, and got dressed.
As she put on her usual clothing she thought of what she was about to
do
—go outside into the snow and just . . . keep walking. She had no idea where she was to go. She was certain that very soon she would tire and then freeze to death, probably this very night. Maybe that’s what it meant to be a Cobweb Bride? Whatever it entailed, death was the key factor there, the one inevitable factor. Even if she was not the one eventually chosen, she would still very likely be subjected to the winter cold and the eventual death from exposure to the elements. . . .
Bethesia’s death rattle breath intruded upon Percy’s grim thoughts as she quietly moved about in the corner getting her socks and thick underpants and all her warmest clothing. As she listened to the breath, it occurred to her that she was doing it for grandma. She was going to relieve her of this unending agony, by God! And for Belle! She was doing it for Belle so that Belle could have a life and get married and have a family of her own. And she was doing it for her mother Niobea, so that she would not lose the two daughters she truly loved. And she was doing it for Alann, her father who would be proud of her in the end, proud that she did not live in vain, and that at least she
tried.
. . .
And then a sudden realization of crystalline clarity came to her—she could go through the motions and “die” out there in the cold, but she could not
die
, because death had stopped! No matter what was to happen, cold, starvation, hardship, she couldn’t even die now! None of them could!
And for some reason this one insane thought made Percy feel much better. She was, like the rest of the world, suspended in a bubble of life and thus
immortal
, at least for the moment.
What a strange dizzying thought.
. . .
In the kitchen, Niobea was bustling with her back turned to her, the kettle had boiled, and a warm mug of apple cider-flavored bark tea sat on the table, waiting for her. Right next to it was a huge basket and a wonderful folded woolen shawl that Percy recognized vaguely as one of her mother’s heirloom treasures.
“Good morning, child,” Niobea said, with her back still turned. “There, it’s all for your journey. The food should last for at least a week if you ration it out properly, and then, Lord knows if you might come upon an . . . inn or an eatery, or some kind soul with food to share.”
“Ma!” Percy said in amazement, “I can’t take your best shawl!”
Niobea turned to look at her. There was a look of intensity in her moist glistening eyes. “No daughter of mine is going out in public looking like a beggar,” she said coldly. “The shawl’s very warm, and you’ll need it out there.”
“Thank you, Ma
. . .” Percy’s voice became a whisper.
“Now, eat well, and be sure to drink that warm tea, child. Then we’ll see you on your way
. . .”
And so it was that Percy sat down to eat one of the heartiest breakfasts of her life, which included a whole egg scrambled with onions, potatoes crisp-fried with sunflower oil, a large crunchy pickle, and a warmed thick slice of bread slathered with butter and jam.
While Percy was eating, Belle had risen from her bed, followed by Patty and finally Alann. The two sisters stood with backs propped against the walls, as though trying to disappear into them outright, watching their third sister, while Alann stopped in the middle of the room, frowning.
Suddenly Belle began to cry. She then muttered, “I’m so sorry, Percy!” and ran off into her parents’ room.
Patty too stood with quivering lips, watching Percy.
Percy swallowed another bite of eggs then said, “Stop it, Pat. Nothing to weep about, you just watch, I’ll be back. There’ll be a fancy noble maiden chosen as the Cobweb Bride, I’m sure, and the rest of us ordinary girls will get to go home.”
At those words Patty broke down completely, became a mess of uncontrollable sobbing, and rushed out of the room after Belle.
“Daughter,” said Alann suddenly. “You don’t have to go. When was this decided, last night? Why wasn’t I told?”
“You were abed,” Niobea said. She had a peculiar expression on her face as she turned to her husband.
“It’s all right, Pa,” Percy said. It was getting to be easier and easier for her to insist on going, now that they were actually giving her reasons not to.
“I mean it, child!” Alann continued. “You are not obligated to do the duty that should fall, by all that’s fair, to an older daughter.”
“Alann!” Niobea exclaimed. Suddenly she looked agitated, and had dropped the cover of the pot she was handling. “It’s already settled, say no more, I beg you!”
But Alann’s frown only deepened and for once he stared directly back at his wife with intensity. “How was this settled, wife? Did you make her feel obligated to volunteer? Is that what you call settled?”
“How dare you!” Niobea’s voice rose a notch.
“Ma, Pa, please!” Percy suddenly cut in. She then looked back and forth between her glaring parents. “Everything is fine, and I am going.”
“Decree be damned, girl, you can stay here and let them all go to hell around us!” Alann said, his eyes reflecting the angry licking flames of the hearth fire.
How I love you, if only you knew, Pa, how much I love you. Now, of all times, your words give me joy. . . .
With a burst of hope and pride, Percy set down her spoon, emptied the dregs of her mug, and got up. And suddenly a smile broke out on her lips.
Alann and Niobea watched her, both stilled in a strange combination of horrified anticipation and remorse.
Percy went to get her overcoat and put it on in the quiet of the crackling firelight and the death-rattle music coming from her grandmother. She bent down, wrapped her feet in a second layer of socks and slipped her feet into the bulky woven snowshoes. Last of all she approached the table and took the shawl. With care and awe she unwrapped it, was assailed with a faint musty smell and the scent of flowers; and then she drew it over her head and wrapped it tight around her throat and tied the ends together.
The shawl draped itself with immediate luxurious warmth around her shoulders and reached all the way down her lower back and hips. It would serve her more than well as an extra protective layer against the cold wind.
Percy stood up straight, pulled her old mittens out of the coat pocket, drew them on, and then took hold of the heavy basket filled with food.
“I am ready,” she said.
There was a pause.
Alann came up to her and took hold of her in a bear hug. He kissed her forehead and she felt the power and love in his arms and it gave her an extra resolve, added to her strength.
“May the Lord watch over you, child
. . . my Persephone,” her father said softly into her hair.
When Percy was finally released from the embrace, Niobea was holding the icon of the Mother of God. She took a step toward her middle daughter, and she raised the icon and held it near Percy’s forehead.
“Bless you, child . . . Go with the Lord.”
“Thank you, mother, father,” said Percy. Suddenly there was the beginning familiar pressure at the back of her throat, a storm roiling to burst. And so, instead she turned her back on them quickly and went to the front door. She did not look back as she drew the bolt, opened the door and slipped outside into the world of cold grey dawn.
“T
ake this away. I am dead and have no more need of food,” Duke Hoarfrost said to the servant who had brought in the morning tray up to his bedchamber. Usually he’d reach eagerly for the mug of strong tea and down it for the invigorating heat, the warmth, then begin on the toast and pungent herbed bacon. But now—
“Yes, M’Lord.”
“When you are done, have my son attend me.”
“Yes, M’Lord.”
He barely turned his head to watch out of the corner of his stiff eye the movements of the man who bowed and began removing the service with an unreadable expression.
Hoarfrost was standing before the great window overlooking a vista of Northern forestland and just a slice of the Western hills in the distance that marked the edges of the Chidair holdings. The winter morning sky was grizzled and dull. Occasional black streaks of hunting hawks moved in silhouette against the vapid sky.
The night before they had returned to the Chidair Keep, a strange nightmarish army comprised of soldiers both humanly alive and no longer so—an army of men and living body parts. The cheers of the townswomen and children and the old men who greeted them soon turned to sobbing and cries of terror as they saw their loved ones returning in pieces or as walking corpses. As the day faded into twilight the wailing resounded non-stop, hushed only by the coming of the cold night and the snowfall.
But Hoarfrost continued hearing it, the music of winter and grief and passing. It filled his mind with dislocated pain and a confused jumble of thoughts. Even as he rode into the courtyard of his ancient family holding, followed by his subdued son and the remaining men of his retinue, the ghostly weeping echoed in the stones of the Keep, in the crowns of the evergreens growing alongside the road.
Later that night, he refused supper. And he did not sleep, of course. Bodily functions had ceased together with bodily needs; there was only the tedious sensation of imprisonment in this physical shape that no longer fully served him, no longer connected him via the senses to the world.
As the fire burned low in the fireplace of his bedchamber, he forced himself to bend, forced his stiff muscles to assume the proper shape, and then he sat down in the deep padded chair and watched the fading of the flames until the room was thrown into complete dark. He was not tired. It was merely simpler to sit than maintain the subtle balance to remain standing, for with the cessation of life in his tissues the interesting notion of physical balance became more relevant. Living bodies balanced naturally, automatically, while he had to make a specific effort, as though maintaining a juggling act with several separate weights—head, arms, legs, torso.
His bed remained untouched. His clothing, except for the outer armor, was still the same as the day before, decorated with drying bloodstains and torn in many places where the steel had entered his flesh. . . . Why bother removing it?