Alabaster skin eerily shone in the moonlit room. She was breathtakingly beautiful,
other-worldly in her countenance. Taking
a small, dainty step forward, she gave them a slightly less shadowed glimpse of
this altered form.
It was as if the young woman were stepping out of a dream:
her movements were the embodiment of Grace.
It was pure, indulgent rapture to behold her. Hair as black as midnight seemed richer than
deepest space next to such starry skin. This
dreamy sculpture of moon-beams and starlight had come lithely to life and was
lightly stealing steps toward them.
It was not until she had fully stepped forth into the center
of the room, unveiled by dark shadows, that they saw her stately, black wings.
“Seneca?” asked her
mother in quiet disbelief. “However did
you come to acquire these ebony wings?”
The old crone in the birch-root rocker snorted loudly at the
query, a stern look crossing her face.
She rocked slowly, rhythmically and stared intently at the maid.
The altered, ephemeral beauty lifted her long arm, turned
her delicate wrist, and, with slender fingers and open palm extended, offered a
genteel reference to the rocking crone.
“The crow,” she offered simply.
Then, without thought, her white fingers, like small birds, took flight
toward the willow pendant she wore around her neck, and fluttered nervously.
“Where did you get that pendant?” croaked the ancient, bent
woman from where she sat. She kept her
gaze tightly locked upon Seneca’s nervously dancing hands. It was a sinister, malevolent look. Her un-worldly eyes were mysterious glowing
green orbs which floated like holograms inside dark, sunken sockets.
Seneca’s palm flattened over her pendant, claiming it
protectively. “It’s mine. I’ve had it since birth,” she said
stoically. Without needing to glance at
her, she knew her mother would be nodding in affirmation.
The crone’s knuckles whitened over the knobby ends of the
chair’s arms, clutching so tightly that her long, talon-tipped nails started to
dig into the dense root-wood. “Yes,
dearest One, but who was it that put it ‘round that baby sweet neck of yours?”
the crow-turned-crone crooned in sickeningly sweet mockery.
“She had it on when she came to us,” offered Seneca’s mother
and looked up with whistle-quick astonishment.
“Why? What is it?” Worry furrowed
her brown brow. Nearly crumpling with
self-feigned fears, the middle-aged woman pleaded toward the crone, “What does
it mean?”
Keeping the pendant flatly sandwiched between her left hand
and her chest, Seneca came closer to the crone, almond eyes locked and one
slender brow raised expectantly. “Well?”
she encouraged, taking another bold step forward, closing the distance between
herself and the ancient green-eyed woman.
“Do you know?”
The old woman clucked lowly, eyes blazing from the black
pits of her skin-stretched sockets. She
licked her thin, cracked lips with a thick, cracked tongue then said, “You have
been trapped, luscious girl. The one who
gave that to you,” her voice cracked and then was still. The old bird tilted her head to the side
while keeping those eerie eyes locked onto Seneca’s. She leaned forward as if to whisper,
presenting a tremulous and crooked, boney finger, “… has got you imprisoned!”
she cackled with maniacal glee. “You
stupid, stupid girl…” her silvery voice was slit with rage. “Both
of us are prisoners, now!”
The crone screeched and deftly rose up from the chair to her
feet. They were now eye to eye, the maid
and the crone. Glowering, un-tempered
rage smoldered in the ancient’s green gaze.
Bold pureness stared back with stone-solid glare. There was merely a heartbeat, not two,
before the old crow stumbled and fell back down into the chair, face cast down
with defeat. Something significant had
passed between them.
“Light the fire,” said Seneca to the crone in a light, but
commanding tone. The ancient sneered
ruefully, then got up slowly. It took
her a few breaths of time to find her footing after she stood. Shuffling over toward the hearth in her stooped
position, she made long, dragged-out scuffing sounds with each step.
The fire was crackling and burning merrily in no time. After the crone finally got to her
hearth-side destination, the elder made quick work in creating a hearty and
lively fire. Soon the area was aglow
with warmth as well as light.
The bedroom, lit again from the center hearth, lost its
former chill and dewy dampness. No
longer did swirls of smoky fog cling and cluster around the carved clawed feet
of the bed, or the spindle-legged nightstand and the slender candelabrum; no
more was the floor layered by deceptive white pools of sticky fog syrup.
Seneca’s mother helped to re-light the candles from the
recently lit fire. Shadows that had
lingered in darkened corners slid into cracks between the old grange’s
crumbling stone mortars. Tapestries on
the walls danced with newly lit, enlivened patterns. There were unicorns with gold swiveled horns
met together in battle in the heart of a virgin forest. Other mythical creatures are shown nearby,
the audience showing a myriad of mixed responses. Some of the expressions seemed realistically
haunting when the candle-light brought to life snarls of haughty hunger in the
most evil of beasts.
Other tapestries
depicted complex forest sceneries of elegant outdoor fairy banquets, rituals
and festivities. The frolicking fire
light lent lewd provocative movement to daring tapestry dance scenes.
Dawn was soon to arrive.
There were already signs of pre-morning stirrings outside. The light was starting to shift, and the
landscape was painted in more familiar tones of pink and stone and
brownish-black.
“Look long and still upon your
changed charge, Madam,” the crone
cajoled, “for come first light of Dawn, you will no longer be able to see her
fair form, or hear her sweet songs.” With one swift and sinister sentence, the
old crow’s foretelling had culled away any delight the other two were wont to
enjoy in Seneca’s newly found mystical evolution of surreal winged-beauty.
