Chapter 108

I wonder who died. They were holding a funeral for someone. It was in a large clearing with lots of grave markers made of white stone, all neatly lined up. A crowd of people had gathered there wearing mourning clothes and dark-colored hats. The people all stood with their eyes downcast while the priest in long black robes at the very front of the group gave the eulogy. The low voice in prayer permeated the air in the quiet clearing. At the end of the line of people were a girl and boy in mourning clothes, standing hand in hand. Poor things… I hear the brother and sister were left all alone in the world, is that right? Hearing their whispers, the girl gripped the sniffling and sobbing boy’s hand tightly, biting her lip and dropping her gaze to the ground. What will they do now? They’re just children. The young lady is pretty, so maybe a rich estate will take her on? More whispering. Right in the middle of the solemnly continuing funeral, the adults held this inappropriate conversation. The girl glared down at the golden hair rippling softly over her shoulders, her pride and joy, and looked annoyed. She was in her midteens, and the boy looked right around ten or so; both sported attractive blond hair set off nicely by their black clothes. Squeezing her little brother’s hand hard, the girl lifted her face. Her light ice-blue eyes stared straight ahead, as if to defy anything and everything in this world. She pitched her voice so that only her brother could hear and whispered coldly, “I’m going to be a soldier. You do your best on your own, too.” When the images blurred away, they revealed an unmoving painting hanging on the wall where they had been. It was of a group of girls in poor farmer’s clothes, backs bent as they plowed the dry wilderness. There wasn’t a trace of the mid-funeral graveyard scene, or the boy and girl, or the crowd in mourning clothes either. She rolled over on the bed to face up. The decorative lighting fixtures were turned off now, but she could make out most of their contours against the ceiling. As she twirled a strand of her golden-blond hair carelessly around her fingertip, she stared up at the ceiling and thought, I wonder who that was… Evidently rumors were springing up here and there that Father Sigri was keeping a beautiful lover at his home in midtown. This was actually true, but his assistant was fairly certain there was a gap between the reality and the gossip fuel people were thinking of. The “beauty” they talked about was beautiful, sure, but she was what you’d call the Elder’s hostage, not his lover (and anyway, officially speaking he was unmarried, so even if he did have a lover, it really shouldn’t be an issue), and furthermore, the woman was ridiculously selfish and bossy. Father Sigri had ordered them to let her do as she pleased and then had been so busy ever since that he hadn’t spared her a second thought. And so at this point, his home was in fact run just exactly as she pleased. Thanks to which she’d completely ensconced herself in the Sigri residence, even though she could probably escape if she really tried. That day, the priest went to visit with a few giant boxes of clothes in his arms. “Your work is appreciated, sir,” said the lone Church Soldier on loan from the Security Forces, with feeling. “How is she?” “The same.” “The same?” “Yes.” The priest and the guard nodded to each other and sighed, very much with feeling. “I’m coming in,” said the priest in perfunctory greeting, shifting his parcels to one arm and using the key to her second-floor room that the Elder had given him. When he opened the door, she turned around from holding up an outfit in front of herself at the huge full-length mirror she’d instructed them to put in her room. As soon as she saw his face, she shrieked, “You’re late!” “I-I’m sorry,” he replied, privately wondering if, as a coward, it was his lot in life to apologize when he didn’t see any reason why he should have to. Her room (because somewhere along the way it had most definitely become her room) was in such a sorry state that the phrase “ashes of war” came to mind. The surface of the bed and the entire floor were both so completely covered with new clothes and open boxes that there was quite literally no room to walk without stepping on something. He even saw liquor bottles liberally scattered among it all. “Did you buy them for me?” She ran up to him on her bare feet and forcibly seized the boxes he was holding, then rushed back to her bed and jumped onto it, where she started tearing apart the wrapping excitedly. “Yes, yes, this is the stuff. It’s always best to pair this dress with simple ones like these, you know?” She fished out the black-enamel stiletto heels he’d scoured the town for, trying to get as close as possible to what she’d ordered. One in each hand, she lifted them up to eye level and examined them critically, cocking her head to one side in apparent dissatisfaction. “Hmm…now, if the heels were just a centimeter or five taller, I’d have no complaints…Oh, well, I’ll compromise. Your taste isn’t half-bad. You could net yourself a fine girlfriend.” “Gee, thanks,” he sighed. He was relieved that he’d at least passed inspection, but he seriously worried over why he was the one saying thank you. She immediately took her new shoes to the mirror and started pairing them with the black dress she was wearing. Twirling around to face him and actually striking a pose, one hand dramatically sweeping her hair back, she asked, “What do you think?” “Eh?!” The priest had never in a million years dreamed he’d be asked to comment. He faltered a bit before venturing, “…Yes, fine.” “What kind of way is that to say it?” She frowned in displeasure, so he hastily rephrased. “It all suits you. Very much.” He wasn’t just saying so. The chic black ensemble that set off her golden hair suited her more than enough for her to host a high-society party without having to change a thing. She looked like nothing so much as an ordinarily (well, extraordinarily) beautiful, ordinary (extraordinarily selfish, rather) young woman, and yet she was an ultimate weapon of massacre that had killed scores of people back in the War, and people called her the witch that had started the “Great Fire of Toulouse,” and she was a wanted woman who’d had a bounty on her head for more than eighty years…Although he certainly didn’t want to encourage her to act more like a “weapon of massacre,” he couldn’t help feeling annoyed by the disconnect. He wondered if her life would have been something very different if only she hadn’t been born during the War era. “Say, listen, don’t you think this skirt would be better with more of a slit in it?” “What?!” How should I know? “Ah, yes…” The priest tossed out a random answer, at the same time perhaps just the teensiest part of him thinking that when it came to slits, more was always better. “Would you lend me some scissors?” “I’ll have someone bring them up to you later,” he agreed, hanging his head in resignation. She makes me so tired… “See, I can only wear clip-ons, because if I pierce my ears the holes just close up on me right away, and I can’t get the earrings out. Being an Undying is such a pain, you know?” She related this grotesque factoid in such a casual manner, taking off her new clip-ons and turning on all fours on the bed to peer into the mirror, examining the effect. Softly rippling waves of golden hair against a black outfit and earrings with bright coppery stones accentuating both—the woman was already beautiful enough without dressing up, but when she did, she was especially gorgeous. Tilting her head to cast a glance at her earrings in the mirror, she asked him in a breezy voice, “Hey, isn’t Kieli here yet?” “Oh, she’s already in town. She’s staying at headquarters right now.” As soon as she heard his offhanded answer, she stopped short. “……Kieli’s here?” she asked again, turning to him strangely stiffly. “That’s what I just said. I believe you’ll be able to see her soon.” Almost before he finished answering, the shoes she’d been wearing were flying through the air straight for him. “Ack!” Reflex jerked his head backward. The shoes crashed against the doorway behind him. His heart raced in his chest—he’d come this close to catching one of those stilettos in the eye. He’d thought he was going to die. “Wh-what was that for?!” “Get out!” He was the one who wanted to take issue with her, but with no preamble she started shrieking hysterically. “Get out! Nobody come in here! Just go away!” “Hey—wah!” Shoes, clothes, boxes, and all manner of things came sailing at the priest, chasing him out of the room before he could even make out what was going on. The door slammed closed behind him immediately after he crossed the threshold. His heart still racing, he pounded on the door and called, “What’s the matter with you?” “Shut up. Don’t you dare come in here!” he heard a muffled voice shriek from the other side of the door. She’d been the very picture of a good mood ordering him around like her own personal servant just a few seconds ago, and now she wanted him to “go away”? What the heck was that about…? The priest stood dumbstruck in front of the locked door. I…really don’t understand women. Loathing them, that despot banished them to a planet of sand and barren fields O ye prisoners bound for another planet, plow the wilderness and grow wheat She heard a song coming from within the painting. A mother was soothing her baby, who wouldn’t stop crying. With her baby in her arms, she looked just like the Holy Mother in all those religious paintings, but this Holy Mother was crooning a parody of the hymn singing God’s praises. An old tale that recollected the people who had truly done the service of tilling the wilderness: the prisoners. The ladies-in-waiting frowned at the lyrics, but that didn’t seem to bother her at all. The child wrapped in a white baby blanket in her mother’s arms still wouldn’t stop crying. Her mother began speaking to her tenderly. “There’s nothing to be scared of. There’s nothing to be scared of anymore, is there? Look, the scary people are gone, and the birdies have come instead.” When she pointed into the empty air, the baby gradually went from sobbing to a soft fretting, and then her tear-streaked face began to beam. Soon she was squealing with laughter. She waved both tiny hands lightly in the air as if trying to chase something flying there. Wave, wave. The baby’s young hands and dark eyes roamed the empty space. And then her wide-eyed gaze swiveled this way. Deeply dark, jet-black eyes. You betrayed me, didn’t you…In a hoarse voice like an old woman’s, the baby said, You talked, didn’t you…If you’d kept your mouth shut, nobody would have known. How dare you sell me out… The baby’s black eyes started turning around and around madly, and then maggots began crawling out of both of them in thick droves. Slowly and steadily, more and more of them squirmed out of the painting and over its frame, spreading out over the wall. Even the people in the other paintings around them began to follow suit, cackling. You sold out your friend. She would never betray you, and yet you betrayed her… “Shut up! Go away! Don’t come out of there!” she shrieked, and threw a shoe. The heel made a mark in the wall, then fell to the floor. The room around her abruptly quieted. With her throwing arm still raised, she froze in place for a while, breathing raggedly. In the dull glow of the overhead light, the paintings were back to normal; the baby and the picture frame and the wall that had all been covered in maggots were gone, as was the taunting laughter. The people in the paintings were back to still figures at the plow. Her throat had gone dry. She slid unsteadily out of bed, wanting water. When she walked past the mirror in the center of the room, she caught a glimpse of her own profile reflected back at her. Hee-hee… The Beatrix in the mirror gave a giggle. No sooner had Beatrix turned back toward the mirror, pale-faced, than the self in the glass burst into shrill laughter. Her face’s reflection in the mirror twisted unpleasantly.