Hilde opened her eyes to a gray world.
She knew this place, somehow. This cottage, time-torn and rain-beaten. And it rained forever, now.
She had walked the cracked boards and stroked the rotting walls, since waking up. Seen through holes in the thatch that were not holes. There were many places like that – gaps, breaks, places where the fabric of the structure was ghostly, as if her imagination was trying to fill in the blanks.
And these places she could touch, though she passed through the solid-looking expanses of the house as if they were air.
Beyond the walls, the garden, grass, the world only stretched so far. It ended in an impenetrable black wall, like shadows given form. She was trapped in the rainy circle of tired gray light that held the cottage and garden. Sometimes she could see lights, out in the perpetual night that bordered her world. Sometimes things appeared in the house.
The first was a bottle on the doorstep. Familiar and comforting, somehow. It glowed with a faint, golden light, and was the only thing with colour in all the world. The glass was clear; the liquid within amber. She reached for it, lifted it- No. The bottle remained. She lifted the colour of it to her lips, the ethereal glow of the glass and libation.
Fire. Heat. Pain. Feeling! The numbness, the cold and hunger, they were pushed away as the… the whiskey ran down her throat. Whiskey. She remembered it, fuzzily. The fire in throat and stomach faded, the spectre of the bottle was gone. The hunger returned though she felt… better. Less cold, but not warmer.
And she fell to her knees. And she wept.
The second thing was a cake. Small, dark, rich. She ate the colour, feeling the delicious crumble of the cake, tasting cherry and chocolate and brandy baked into it. This had glowed silver. Once more the cold, the gnawing hunger was driven back. Briefely.
In a rage, Hilde seized the faded gray cake that somehow still sat upon the table, and hurled it spitefully at the wall – through it passed, one of the shimmering unreal holes.
She could not touch it a second time, her hand passing through. And once more, Hilde wept.
The third thing came from beyond the dark. It shambled into her world, green and crooked. She hid, watching as it wandered around the house. Eyes bulbous, unfeeling. Hair like ragged red thread. Dry, rubbery flesh. Fangs protruding from the flabby mouth like broken glass.
When it had left, Hilde heard a voice.
“You did not have a cat. This was foolish.”
“Wh-What?” Hilde cried, clapping her hands to her mouth and stumbling from her hiding place in the pantry.
“You would not be so lonely, or so unprotected,” the voice continued, seeming to come from all around her. “It would have consumed you, were it not too mindless to find you.”
“Who are you?” Hilde asked, half-sitting on the floor, casting her eyes fitfully around.
“I am.” said the voice. “You have forgotten it all, haven’t you?”
Hilde thought about arguing, demanding answers. But it was true. “I have. I don’t know who am I, only my name. I don’t know where I am, or how I came to be here, or where I was before.”
Hilde blinked, and began to cry again. Perhaps she had always been here.
“This is a desert on the edge of death. You stopped here, and may fall yet deeper if you are uncautious. Lost souls are like that, you see – they are heavy.”
“You didn’t tell me who you are.” Said Hilde, stalking slowly through the house in search of the voice’s owner.
“I am.” It repeated, and carried on.
“Apathy is absolute death, Hilde. Or worse. Remember that.”
“Worse? Worse than death?”
She felt so small, alone in the lifeless spectral rain.
“What could be worse than death?”
“You will see. For now, you need to feel again. Does it not assail you? The unbearable hunger? The cold? Passions will protect you.”
“Why are you helping me?” Hilde asked, stepping out into the garden, feeling sly and clever in her sudden suspicion.
The Voice was silent for a long time, then spoke again.
“That you think to ask is why I will not answer. Do you want to sink into the cold, Hilde?”
“No!”
A frantic, choked whisper.
“Then listen to me. Look, out into the long night – do you see the lights? Go to one. You will know what to do when you arrive.”
“But I’m scared.” She said, standing near the worn little gate in the wall, at the edge of the endless dark. “I… I can’t leave here, can I? What will happen out there…”
But there was no reply. Only the cold, and the hunger, and the distant light of lonely, broken stars.
Hilde fixed her sights on the nearest point of light, floating out in the void. She stepped, trepidation in her heart, from the now-familiar soil of her garden.
There was a sensation of motion, a cessation of thought, the sudden and unusual feeling of time.
And suddenly, she stood in a long, stone dining hall. It felt miles long, the worn stones of the walls and floor patched here and there with moss. The table that ran along the centre was bare, save for lit candelabra.
Looking up, the roof was open to a night sky, every constellation a winding snake.
“Is… someone there?” came a voice from the end of the hall. Aged, quaking, it sounded like cracked oak.
Hilde stayed silent. Terrified of this strange place, and the bizarre journey that brought her here. What else could be here? What new monster was this?
“Please…” the old thing called again, “I’m so hungry, and they took my face…”
It was so pitiful, that voice. The voice of a lightning-struck tree.
She began to walk haltingly down the hall. There was no sound under her feet, not even a muted slap of shoes on stone. A soft, pink light halted her. It hung from a root sticking out of the wall. A round, pink fruit – or the shade of a fruit, at least.
“Take it!”
It was The Voice, this time.
“But-” Hilde began, but it cut her off.
“Take without mercy. Unless…”
It did not need to finish. She knew it spoke of the looming dissolution, and seized by terror she snatched up the fruit, biting into the spectral flesh…
A tide of kisses washed over her. The taste of a lover on her lips. Warm hands across her body, pushing back the cold for a moment. And it was passed. But she felt stronger.
More confident now, she pressed on. At the end of the table was plate with more of strange fruit, and a wooden throne. The chair faced away from the table, and she could make out some… figure, sat upon it. Long silver hair flowed from the head, and she could make out a wrinkled hand on the armrest.
“Please, who is there? My name is Myrmas,” said the thing on the throne.
“Ignore it. Take the Passions.” This from The Voice.
“I…” Hilde hesitated, then took a breath. “I am Hilde.”
She paused.
“Do you hear The Voice?”
“Hilde… Hilde. I am Myrmas. Will you help me find my face? I’m so hungry.”
“Don’t listen to it!” The Voice insisted.
Hilde closed her eyes tight, torn between Myrmas’ pleading and the ranting of The Voice.
Myrmas seemed to sense her consternation. “Don’t take my fruit, Hilde! I… I need it. I might fall. I can feel the cold clutching at my heart…”
“Do you hear the Voice?” she asked again.
“What voice?”
“I… I don’t know.” She finished, dully. “How do you speak without a face?”
“I have enough tongue, but the wrong teeth. Oh, please, I can reward you if you find my face. I think the Weaver has it.”
“It’s lying to you, Hilde. It will devour you. Take the fruit!”
“Hilde… Hilde, please… it’s so cold…”
“Look at it, then, if you don’t believe me.”
Hilde, who had been edging closer, froze at the suggestion. What was so horrible about Myrmas?
What would a faceless man look like?
Hilde, who had been edging closer, froze at the suggestion. What was so horrible about Myrmas?
What would a faceless man look like?
She got her answer, falling back with a gasp and wanting to empty a stomach she didn’t have.
“You see?” The Voice hissed, triumphantly.
“Hilde? What’s wrong? Wha-” Myrmas shivered in his seat. “You looked, didn’t you? I can’t help who I am, Hilde… please don’t be scared.
Too much tongue, she thought. He said he had too much tongue.
“Who…” she began, as her horror faded, “Who is the Weaver?”
She had the distinct impression the Voice was sulking.
“The Weaver… has my face. I think. It dwells somewhere close. I… I’ll let you take a Passion, if you promise to help me…”
Hilde furrowed her brow, recalling the Voice’s insistence that she take one. If it’s something they actually agree on…
She took a fruit, bit into it – and once again, it dissolved into her body, suffusing her with warmth. A very… particular warmth, this time. An unfortunate moment for Hilde to realise she was nude. Had been all along. The gathering patches of heat, bringing pink to her cheeks, told her so.
There was a hideous, moist sound from Myrmas’… face. The revulsion did not serve to dim her glow, and she fled the hall.
Once again, that sensation of motion, of time passed, and she was somewhere else.
A lake. A lake bounded by high, thorny hedges. Covered in a low mist. There was a little jetty ahead of her, and a wrought iron gate her back. The air was dead, neither cold nor warm, as she had come to expect in this place.
Hilde covered herself, shyly. The glow had dimmed during her journey, but not enough for her liking. Or too much for her liking. She was torn – it pushed out the cold, and it felt so good, but at the same time…
She realised there was a figure sitting on the end of the jetty, legs dangling into the water, long white hair. It looked over a shoulder at Hilde, expression unreadable, and she saw it to be another woman.
Hilde breathed a sigh of relief. “Hello…” said the woman. “Will you swim with me?”
She was wearing a shawl, Hilde noticed. And as she edged closer – “Perhaps.” She said – her breath caught in her throat. It was like cloth spun from night and studded with stars.
The woman cast it off, and stood to face Hilde. She was like alabaster, white and smooth and disconcertingly alluring.
Hilde stopped short.
“Please swim with me?”
Hesitant, Hilde nodded. Maybe the water would be cool. Maybe the woman would help her.
She smiled, and it was beautiful, and leapt backwards into the water. Hilde giggled, and followed.
The water was… dead. Barely any sensation to it. Hilde wished it would be other wise, but resigned herself to swimming and splashing with this strange woman. It was all so innocent, like being a girl again.
And the water began to feel warm. The woman began to flush.
Their hands brushed. They swam more languidly, meeting eyes and looking away.
“Will you kiss me?” the woman said suddenly, standing near to Hilde in the shallows.
Hilde was confused. Why would she kiss a woman? Well… what harm?
She edged over, set a hand lightly on the woman’s arm, and kissed her on the corner of her lips, a butterfly alighting. And then she looked her in the eye, and the woman kissed her. Like her life depended on it. Like she would eat her.
Later, they lay supine on the jetty. Hilde’s glow had receded. The water was tinged faint red.
“My name is Puca,” said the woman.
“Hilde,” and she felt… regret. She felt the cold again. Why had she given of herself?
“What is wrong?” Puca asked, her once marble flesh pink.
“Do you…” Hilde struggled for the words, gave up; “Have any clothes I may borrow?”
Puca smiled, and shrugged. “No. But you may have my shawl. The Weaver made it, but I don’t like it. And you travel! It will serve you like a map, I think.”
Hilde thanked her. Took the oily, liquid fabric of the shawl, and finding deceptively large, wrapped herself up like a makeshift dress.
Puca called her, from the end of the jetty, standing up. Her hand on the gate, Hilde looked back over her shoulder.
Hilde paused at Puca’s question. Poor unfortunate soul. Poor lost girls, both.
Not that such a thing really meant a thing, anymore.
Would she bring her love?
…No. She couldn’t. Not again. She had what she needed.
“No mercy for the weak,” she heard the Voice say, thick with cruel satisfaction.
She left, Puca’s anguished cry cut-off by her step into the endless dark.
She arrived in The Weaver’s lair quite by accident; a circular chamber festooned with silken strands, the air heavy with incense and the acrid taste of broken sleep.
“Why do you come, child?” said the spider to the fly, his eyes like great burning tears.
“Please, Weaver, may I have the face of the Forlorn King?” she asked, and knew his silence was laughter.
“But why, child?” he asked, clacking claws all a-clatter. “What does he promise you? Why would you sell yourself? HOW do you know?”
And she was at a loss. How did she know? The Voice? Something toyed with her, infected her thoughts. As she stood, naked but for a gauzy map of fallen heavens, the great spider loomed over her like the death of gods, like the glare of galaxies – and she knew his benevolence. He consumed only pests; love was his being, protection his web.
“I don’t know.”
And she didn’t. Know anything. Not anymore.
“This is a desert on the threshold of death,” said the Weaver. “This is a place of cold and hunger and a drought of tears. No one cares anymore. No one ever cared. No one can. This is death of the soul, not the spirit. You remain, in stasis. ”
Hilde knew this was only half-true. Though how… she could not say.
“Mysteries on mysteries, Weaver. Is this not some fever-dream? The rambling of a drunken poet? I am not, nor are you.” Or so she said. She didn’t mean it. Dead or living or dreaming, she had left a world behind and yet remained.
The Weaver sighed, the wind from a deep forest.
“You see through me, child, too simple for philosophy – a lie that fools only clever men and women. You feel, and that is what matters. Take his face and drink your Passions. That all that matters, in the end.”
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