A strange yearning filled me as I stood before the

painting. Henrietta Wilding, 1889, was scrawled

carelessly in a tiny corner. A wide oiled canvas
depicting a heart clutched tenderly almost, by a
hand speckled with bloody droplets, and veins
trailing sombrely below. Ever since I had first seen
it, I had wished endlessly for the same power and
gravitas to grace my own work, but I could never
seem to summon it. The artist herself was long
dead, lost to the churn of nature’s maw beneath; I
imagined her curled up, grasping her brushes, an
easel at her feet, but I knew her burial site would
look a damn sight less pretty than anything my
thoughts could conjure, so I quickly put the image
out of my mind. I preferred to imagine her living
body, a portrait of which was plastered beside the
work. She was beautiful, undoubtedly, with a warm
motherly gaze, tender eyes, hands clutching the pale
bundle of sticks that had aided her in creating her
life’s work, but she was dressed humbly; no
jewellery, a plain white frock, almost in tatters. But
her beauty shined through regardless. It had been a
long while since I had been struck by the beauty of
another, and nobody in my own time period had
quite the same pull to me as she.
I had made a habit of visiting her works almost
daily since I had arrived at this strange, alien city,
and I blessed my lucky stars that it consistently
allowed free entry, though the guard had a nasty
tendency to pay more attention to me than was
necessary, hovering near me suspiciously as if I
were a conspiring terrorist. I simply ignored him,
and was absorbed into the art, occasionally glancing
at the painter herself when I felt capable to wrench
myself free. She had been like me, I knew; my
mother would have called me arrogant had I said so
to her, but I felt intuitively that Henrietta had shared
my qualities, and flaws, and my artistic core, for I
could see them clear as day in her work. A lone
figure, entrenched in a strange darkness, a woman
deep beneath the sea, surrounded by dolphins. Few
other people graced her paintings, usually only that
one woman, and if there were others they were
usually depicted in base positions or sexual acts
with the artist herself, faces lit up with an
incandescent lust against the shadowy background.
I could not put a finger on what it was, but I felt
akin to her in a way I had never felt towards anyone
I had known or met in my life. It was strange,
arcane, mysterious, but a pull was there, a pull so
alluring that I could not wrench myself free of it, no
matter how hard I tried. While absorbed, staring
endlessly, I felt a sudden hand on my shoulder,
startling me. Suddenly I came crashing back into
reality, and my breath sounded sharp and shallow in
the large, mostly empty gallery.
“Eight o’clock”, the guard was looking sternly at
his watch, tapping his foot impatiently. I left
without a word.
Walking among the wash of cold lights that
penetrated the twilight I came to an almost
humorous realisation; I could be the subject of one
of Henrietta’s paintings right now. The setting was
right; dark, dank, mysterious, and I was completely
alone in an empty street, a lone figure, small and
pale, standing out against the cold sheen of the
pavement. It almost made me chuckle to myself as I
began to hurry back to the flat; it was getting later
and later by the second.
That night I dreamt for the first time in what felt
like years; a dream so vivid and crystal clear it was
almost as if it were broadcast by God himself. I was
in a room bathed in crimson, bedsheets stark like
blood, a pale moon shone through the window. I
appeared to be in a castle bedroom of some sort,
once used by Kings and Queens of ancient times,
the laying room of the aristocracy. Thick, silken
curtains, speckled with sparkling jewels were half
closed, so the sharp glimmer of the moon just
peeked through, bathing the room in an arcane,
incandescent glow. Music whispered in the
background, a sweet, divine melody played upon
strings and a harp, indescribable to the waking
world, only able to exist in dreams. The door was
slightly ajar, and after a few moments, during which
I sat with baited breath on the lovely sheets, a sharp
creaking sounded and the opening expanded.
There she was, Henrietta, her beauty a beam of
warm incandescence bathing the room in a scarlet
hue. My heart skipped a beat, but I was not
surprised; after all, I knew she would come.
“Well, what are you doing here, young lady?”, her
voice was soft, playing upon my heartstrings like a
master upon a harp, “I don’t remember inviting
company”, but her tone was curious, her lip curved
in a slight smile, like she expected me, as I had her.
She was dressed in luxurious fabrics, from the
wardrobe of a Queen, and speckled with jewels of
every colour from emerald to scarlet, with bare feet
that made no sound upon the ground as she
approached, and a regal gravitas that rolled off her
like mist off a lake.
I could only watch in wonder as she drifted silently
towards me, and slid onto the sheets by my side,
stretching out languorously like a cat. Her head
turned towards me lazily, showing a sly, knowing
smirk.
“When are you from, then?”, her voice was warm
and effortless, with the lazy confidence I had
always associated with monarchy. I gazed at her
inquisitively; I could only frown in confusion. “This
place connects different times”, she continued, eyes
drifting to the window, “that moon has seen
everybody, from every century, every year, so you
might as well spill it; which is yours?”
I found I could not speak, it was as if my throat had
contracted or was blocked up.
“Well you won’t get far here hiding things...”, she
muttered, eyebrow raised, “though I doubt you
could for very long...”, and after a tiny cough, I
finally felt my voice break free from my breast.
“I suppose I’m from far away”, my voice sounded
strange in my ears; it had been a long while since I
had heard it outside my head, “suppose I’m a
stranger to all this...”
A pause, silence; all I could hear was the soft
undulation of her breath, which I could feel
brushing warmly against my neck.
“Nobody is a stranger to this place, miss”, she
whispered, almost sternly, “this is everyone’s true
home”, her hand drifted closer to mine, and the
music rose to a climax. My heart, which had been
pummelling my chest, ascended to the back of my
throat as I felt a flush spread through my body. “Be
not afeard, my dear, we are all the same here”, her
words bound me in a spell beyond my
comprehension, and I could do was stare,
temperature rising, heart hammering, strange
feelings echoing throughout my body which I had
scarcely felt for anyone; certainly not anyone from
my own time. I had not seen them before, but by
chance my gaze landed on her left hand, the one
further from me, and I stared in yearning at the pale
brushes she held tenderly between her fingers.
“Ah”, she had seen me looking, “do you paint
too?”, her eyes inquisitive.
“I-I try, not like you though”, I replied, looking
down shyly. She laughed softly.
“Oh nonsense, I can sense that genius, and I know
you can too, locked away beyond the veil of your
consciousness; it only needs to be freed!” Her voice
had gained a sudden passion and momentum. My
heartbeat seemed to be accelerating beyond what
was physically possible. She inched ever closer, “I
can help you”, a whisper as soft as the sun, and as
the music reached his peak and my heart felt like it
would explode, she lay a warm hand on my face,
stroking tenderly.
“I-I”, with a start, my eyes were wide, my colour
reddening.
“Shh, you don’t need to tell me anything just now”,
her voice was so soft it was almost silent, and her
face so close I could feel her breath upon my lips, “I
can feel everything”, and as the music ascended to
unprecedented heights, she drew closer and our lips
connected, and I felt as though my heart would
burst, blood tearing through my ears, the moonlight
an incandescent wash upon everything. I let my
eyes close, but then all collapsed into darkness, the
world imploding and crashing in on me, and my
eyes snapped open. There was the ceiling, dull and
grey, and a dreadful, sick feeling in the pit of my
stomach as I felt my body was covered in cold
sweat.
The coming day felt hazy, and my mind was
unfocused and indistinct; the dream had felt far
more real and vivid. It was Sunday, and the gallery
was closed. I stared morosely at the bolted doors,
having somehow forgotten that they shut them on
the Sabbath, and sighed heavily, wondering what I
would do that day. I dreaded these days of lonely
wandering, dog-walkers dragging their pets asunder
before my path, mother’s hushing crying babies in
carriages veiled by intricate fabrics. Perhaps not
everyone saw the world like I, but nightmares
constantly seemed to tear their way into my reality
until the two became almost inseparable, existing on
the same plane.
I stared constantly. Couples, parents, lovers, friends;
none looked back, but there was a coldness I could
sense emanating from them, a distaste or mistrust
whose existence I had no concrete evidence for, yet
could feel in my brain on an almost instinctual
level. It felt almost as it they were staring at me,
enviously while I wasn’t looking, jealousy writ
large upon their faces; none of them were true
artists, and as such a small, dark part of me felt they
secretly desired the keys to my craft, which I would
never share. The only thing of value I had and they
would steal it, pretending not to notice me, but
conspiring behind my back... I shook myself; these
were the thoughts I needed to get rid of, I told
myself. If I let myself enter the abyss, the abyss
would in turn enter me.
As I turned to face a humble little street, and
stumbled up it to see if it led anywhere, a biker
dressed all in black seemed to follow me. A dead
end, as I had predicted; I turned around and saw the
motorcyclist zip past me, and while ambling back
down I glanced back and saw him perched on his
bike, completely still, staring into the distance... Or
was it me he was staring at? I could not tell, and
hurried away, heartbeat accelerating.
Dragging my feet wearily across the cold, bone-
white pavement I reached a play-park. Mothers and
fathers sat idle by the side, watching their children
play in rapture. What was that on their faces? Pride?
Concern? A pang of annoyance graced my heart,
and I looked away quickly. The park was filled with
people coagulated in chunks here and there, true
denizens of the world. I knew none of their names,
none of their faces, despite walking through the
same park every time I visited the gallery; it was as
if the people living here changed by the day, a
constant rotation of aliens and strangers with whom
I could never hope to be familiar. The trick of some
cruel god, cackling maniacally in the distance.
I could think of nowhere else to go, so I found a
secluded spot and sat down clumsily, making
certain the trees blocked me from view. I found
myself studying the clouds, kingdom of the birds;
taking note of their every shape and variation, and
imagining how it would be to be unshackled from
my curse of wandering, able to elevate my thoughts
above the skies and fly amongst them. But even if I
were to grow wings I knew my thoughts would
remain earthly, and all birds are fated to wear their
feathers to tatters, and crash back down to mud as
Icarus did, so I put the thought out of my mind. I
had wings briefly when I painted, unchained from
my daily torment, but I couldn’t help but fly too
close to the sun, never quite managing to break free
into the cosmos beyond the clouds.
That night I could not help but fall asleep to the
swirling of my darkest images, and they churned
and twisted, transporting me to another dream. I
opened my eyes, half expecting to be greeted with
the same crimson, moon-scented glow of my last
dream, but instead I found a wash of grey darkness.
I was in the same room, certainly; the bed’s
structure was intact, the form of the room was
exact, the window was in the same place, but the
curtains were in grey tatters, the sheets had rotted a
murky black, and a cold, dank atmosphere filled the
room. The moon was the same, shining morosely in
through the window, a cold, inhuman glare, but the
room itself looked to have progressed a thousand
years into the future, into an age abandoned to rot
and decay.
There, on a ruined armchair in the corner of the
room, lay Henrietta, eyes closed, motionless. I
stared in shock; her once regal attire was now a
twisted rash of torn grey rags, her hair a matted
mess, her lips were cut and blistered and her bare
feet encrusted with ash. Her eyes were hidden
within pools of blackness so deep I could barely see
her lashes. I rose shakily, making my way towards
her, a chill permeating my body. Reaching out a
trembling hand, I touched her, but could sense no
life, no breath or movement in her breast. Was
she...dead? Then suddenly, her eyes snapped open,
and she sprang into motion, letting out a deafening
wail of anguish which filled the room with chaos.
Wind rushed through the open window, spreading a
nasty chill, and the trashed, tattered books that lined
the shelves exploded in bundles of pages and shards
of tinder, then snapped closed again angrily. I leapt
back in shock; she was staring deep into my face, a
chaotic glint in her eye.
“Who do you think you are...”, she muttered, lip
curled, “you rotten rat, what are you trying to do to
me, eh?” I could only stare, mouth agape, in shock,
as she rose. She still had the regal gravitas of a
Queen, but this time she struck fear into my heart
like I had never felt before. “You’ll regret waking
me, I am one corpse you should never have
disturbed...”, suddenly, the glint of metal emerged
from her ruined robe, and I saw she was clutching a
knife, pale under the glow of the moon. I finally
managed to find my voice,
“W-wait!”, I yelped, mouth dry, throat so filled with
bile it barely worked. She froze, knife held inches
from my chest.
“Mercy? Your kind scarcely begs for such”, a
vaguely curious gaze had taken over her face.
“M-my kind?”, I mumbled, heart pummelling my
throat. There was a brief pause in which all I could
hear was her hoarse breath. A strange feeling
compelled me to speak again, despite my fear
“I...have no kin, y-you must be thinking of someone
else.” Her eyes narrowed, she did not move the
knife, but seemed to relax ever so slightly, I
thought.
“It can’t be... They’re all the same, those who visit
me here. It’s only a dream, they think, what harm
could I do? Oh but they barely know... Desecrators
and grave robbers all, they rape and pillage
searching for knowledge that is not theirs!”, her
voice was hoarse, sharp with rage, echoing
powerfully in the small room. “These foolish
dreamers ought to go back to sleep and forget what
they saw, but no, they must touch and feel with their
accursed hands, and read my books... I could only
stomach to slumber through it for a moment.” She
paused, looking suspiciously into my face for a few
seconds that felt like hours.
“Well”, she muttered, resigned, “it appears I was
wrong; you’re clearly not one of them”, an
inquisitive look, “you’re someone different... But
who I wonder?”
“I-I”, I stuttered, not knowing what to say, “don’t
you... remember?”
“Oh no”, she chuckled, “I would remember you,
believe me...”, she looked down, a deep sadness
passing over her face, “there’s never been anyone
else here, only strangers...” A powerful wave of
feeling washed over me then, an empathy of a
magnitude I had never felt before. I couldn’t stop
myself, it happened almost unconsciously, as my
heart leapt, I reached out and put a hand on her
cheek, like she had mine.
“I-I know what it’s like to see only strangers”, I
whispered, my voice barely audible beyond the
hammering of my heart. Her eyes widened, she
looked stunned, pale with shock.
“Y-your touch”, she exclaimed, “you’re certainly
not like the others... This warmth... They could only
rip and tear, searching for my heart, my core, but
you touch for comfort...” Suddenly, taking me
completely by surprise, tears welled up in her eyes,
she grasped my arms and buried her head in my
chest. I couldn’t speak, I just stood there in
complete shock.
“Oh you’re what I need, nothing more, oh how the
heavens have blessed me with you! Finally
someone like me, to share in my woes, to drink of
my tainted blood...” I took a little step back,
quivering, part repulsed, part enticed; she scared
me, but I couldn’t help but be filled with a
fascination beyond my understanding. She had a
wild, desperate look to her, hungry almost like a
wolf. I recoiled, feeling the drip of cold blood from
her arm.
“N-no!”, she wailed, “what have I done wrong?” I
fell back shakily on the bed,
“Y-your wrist...”, I pointed, trembling.
“This?”, an imploring look now, “nothing but a
relic...from my time in the waking world.” Did that
mean what I thought it meant? I had never learned
how Henrietta had died... Now that she stood at full
height I could in fact see a dark torrent of crimson
running down her ragged dress from her throat. She
cooled suddenly, expression darkening. “I chose to
leave that wretched place”, she muttered coldly,
calmer now, “come and live here, in this beautiful
castle, where I transform every day, unlike in my
stagnant waking nightmare.”
“W-where is this place?”, I asked, half doubting
whether this “place” was in fact a place at all.
“Oh don’t worry about that”, as if she had read my
mind, “this place is just as real as where you’re
from; however this is more dream than nightmare.”
“I don’t understand”, I muttered, giving a quizzical
look. A pause; she stumbled towards me, limping
slightly and slid onto the sheets by my side.
“Have you never considered the differences
between where you were when you thought you
were awake, and when you thought you were
asleep?”, she sighed, head turned towards the moon,
“there are none.” Her eyes glistened in the
moonlight as she turned to face me, “in dreams
there is pain, there is fear, there is happiness and
joy; there is everything that exists in the so called
'waking world’, so I ask you, what’s the
difference?”, a wild glimmer in her eyes.
“None I suppose”, I said, frowning. The moon’s
glow was growing stronger, reflecting the glint in
Henrietta’s eye.
“That’s exactly right. When I was bound to that
particular dream I too thought there was something
more “real”, more concrete about it than any other,
but as it churned itself steadily into a nightmare,
more and more I began to see them as one and the
same. My eyes grew hazy, I grew tired of the
nightmare, and then the veil lifted, and I realised I
could cut myself from that dream, and live within
another, a sweeter one, and thus bound myself here.
Of course I still visit others occasionally, in what
you would call sleep, but this one is where I truly
reside.” She smiled, seeing my eyes widening. I too
had felt my eyes grow hazy, the veiled illusion of
reality lift; this dream felt more concrete than my
current waking nightmare ever had. “You
understand, I can see”, her smile widening.
“Yes”, my voice had gained a sudden confidence
and authority that it never had before in my life.
“Then”, inching closer, “are we going to spend all
night chatting about everything and nothing, or are
we going to get down to business?”
When I awoke my mind was alive with visions of
what had happened in the castle bedroom. A
desperately wild, frenetic kind of passion, love-
making like I had never known. Henrietta had been
hungry for it, and she had gorged herself on my
body ravenously, voraciously. I wondered how long
it had been since she had known someone she could
trust. I felt a powerful empathy for her in that
respect. I’d had relations before, of course, only
with one person, but there had been an awful lot of
it, and it had been a terribly clinical, passionless
affair; there had been nothing between us, barely
even the minimum amount of lust. James had been
his name... I shudder at the thought of it. Perhaps he
had desired me, but I could not say the say of my
feelings towards him. I thought I’d felt something at
the beginning, but anything there might have been
dissolved into nothingness as soon as we began.
If someone were to ask me why I had made
passionless, meaningless motions over and over
again with a man for whom I had absolutely no
feelings whatsoever, I would not know what to say.
Perhaps I’d thought I had to, to fit in, to be
accepted, but it had not achieved that purpose; all it
did was distance me further from any real form of
intimacy. Perhaps I did it just to feel something,
anything from somebody else. It only had the
opposite of the intended effect, and left me with
marks I cannot forget, blemishing my waking hours.
Something about it all had felt awfully wrong, no
matter how hard I tried to enjoy him, I just couldn’t,
my body would not allow it, and I eventually started
wondering how so many others saw such beauty in
him. Of course, I went along with all of it, so not
even he could tell something was wrong; imagining
myself then was like looking back at a complete
stranger.
But Henrietta was different. With her, I felt
something; I did not even need to question whether
I was enjoying it or not, as I had in days gone,
because this time I could feel it in my very bones.
Everything felt so perfectly right, it was like every
cell in my body was finally working in perfect
symbiosis, a flawless tapestry of sexual energy,
devoid of scars or blemishes from the past. I did not
know why she had appeared dressed in rags, in a
room so darkly atmospheric, but nor did I care,
because she was the same Henrietta I had met in the
previous dream, her beauty shining even more with
the absence of jewellery. Only now did I truly
understand why they call it “making love”;
previously all I had experienced was a cold,
unfeeling procedure that one could never hope to
equate to affection.
After all had ended with him, it seemed everybody
was content in love besides me. They lined the
walls in droves, laughing and sharing meaningful
looks, while I walked on, increasingly bitter, an
anxious, restless jealousy filling my heart. Maybe
that had been my one chance, I thought, perhaps I
would never get another. I would see a museum
guide’s pretty eyes, and think they were drifting
towards me, but I would be too afraid to look
further, and it would end there before it began.
After all, nobody ever looked at me anymore; to
expect otherwise was to invite disappointment. And
after the icy disappointment of my past affair, I
would never trust, or open my heart up again.
I stayed indoors all that day, hoping to once again
fall into slumber and open my eyes to the castle
bedroom, but sleep would not grace me; when I shut
my eyes I was only visited by the ceaseless,
haunting echoes of the past, voices, pictures, eyes I
did not want to see. So I gave up and turned to
reading. ‘The artist, his inner being’, was the first I
opened. “His” I muttered irritably; clearly not
mine... I put the thought out of my mind; if there
was anything I could be sure of about myself, it was
my artistic soul, and damn what the book said.
Henrietta had agreed with me on that front, and
many others. ‘The artist will often retreat to the
innermost reaches of his mind, and find within,
perhaps through dreams, the inspiration to
continue his work’, my eyelids felt heavy all of a
sudden, as if I was being beckoned. ‘The artist
often feels alienated from his peers...’, a languorous
drooping... ‘sometimes even to an extent which
causes him to withdraw completely...’, the book had
slipped a little; ‘such is the artist’s curse...’, it
registered to me somewhere that the book had
clattered to the ground, but I barely heard it.
Here again. The room glistened it’s gloomy
crimson, awash with a bloody spray of moonlight,
and she sat beside me, dressed once again in finery,
all perfect and queenly. Her touch sent shivers
down my spine, a quiver of excitement that
reverberated across my body from my forehead to
the tips of my fingers. For so long had I felt left out,
discarded, useless. I felt different now; needed,
worthwhile, an influence.
“How was your sleep, my dear?”, a soft voice, like
fresh morning dew; indeed it felt I had woken to a
lush new morning, despite the moon hanging heavy
and bleary in the window. This place had a stark
new realism to it, mixed with a warm, dark comfort.
I did not know how to respond. “It’s alright”, she
whispered, breath warm on my cheek, “I know”.
Something about this gave me such comfort and
warmth I could barely contain it; all my life I had
never felt apt to express properly my feelings, it had
always felt slightly false, always a shade of
pretence.
“W-where are we”, I struggled out, breath shallow
with excitement.
“A better dream”, she said simply, “this castle is
where souls like you and I come often; a place
where we find comfort. The petals it is built upon
are supple, their branches tender, this is no place for
the weak willed, the narrow minded. Many of the
people you have known would have no place here,
and I know them all, I would banish them, never to
hurt you again.” She rose, drifting over to the
window. I followed, like a sleepwalker. Looking
down I saw gargantuan crescents of light veined
pink beyond the bulwark of black brick that made
up the castle foundations. Curled around them were
tendrils of brown and green twisting and writhing
like snakes, and below still, between the cracked,
marbled edges of the petals, barely visible was an
incandescent ray of all colours imaginable, beyond
our known rainbow; colours I could neither name
nor put into words. Amongst were the nameable;
reds, stark, angry, blushing, oranges, golden
sunlight, the dark blue of the deep sea juxtaposed
with the pale of the skies, deep purples like wine
grapes, dark, ancient, mature greens, as found in an
arcane wood, all sparkling in the pale glow of the
moon from above, the silent watcher, a single
glimmering eye upon the hush of the gloam.
“Quite the spectacle, isn’t it?”, it was like it was her
own world, painted and conceived by her alone.
“You could live her too, you know”, whispering
softly, the breeze brushed my cheek from the open
window. I stood in silence. Could I really? Leave all
I knew and live in this heaven?
“But...”, I muttered, “it was different last time”,
eyes roving over her clothes and body curiously.
“Ah”, she looked dismayed, “you must have
met...her; my other half”, a breathless pause,
“dressed all in black, no? Eyes like the devil’s, dark
but strangely alluring?” I nodded carefully. “I don’t
like her much... But I presume you did”, she smiled
slyly.
“I thought you were the same...”
“Two different sides of the same coin, different
enough to call her, her, and me, me”, I watched her
thin hands clasp the window’s edge as she spoke.
She looked down briefly, and breathed a heavy sigh,
then turned her head to look at me, a light
playfulness taking over her gaze, “would you like a
guided tour?” I nodded, curiosity blooming
violently almost.
“This castle has many names”, her voice took on an
arcane, mysterious qualify as she led me through
the open door into a velvet-quilted corridor of sheer
crimson, lined with portraits of women, men and all
in between, some of whom I recognised. I saw a
few jazz greats amongst; Davis, Coltrane,
Fitzgerald, poets and writers of prose; Austen,
Woolf, Angelou, Blake, painters and sculptors;
Rothko, Kahlo, O’Keeffe, and even some scholars,
explorers and scientists, most of whom I could
recognise but not name. But amongst were many I
had never seen before, strange faces,
unrecognisable, darkly mysterious. “Castle
Somnium, from the Latin, ‫ טירת שינה‬in Hebrew,
Kastro Orseïs; clearly the Greeks had a different
opinion of the nature of this place...”, I stared
around in wonder, mouth agape. “But some, even
more arcane names exist for it, names which would
not be recognised in any human tongue, no matter
how old”, she made a strange, inhuman sound then,
which sent shivers up my spine; a gelatinous, alien,
ancient sounding tongue which I could never hope
to write nor recreate, and could barely describe. I
followed her down the corridor in stupefied wonder,
as she pointed out the greats’ portraits which lined
the walls. “I am sure you recognise most of these
people; all of note, like you and I, all deserving of
their own room here”, she paused, looking at me
inquisitively.
“I recognise some of them, many are unknown to
me...”
“They are from worlds you and I could only hope to
have been born into- either that or worlds we should
be glad we have never seen...” She took me by the
hand and led me on; her touch was electricity. “All
these people come and go like clockwork, but I
don’t see any of them unless I want to; I can have
this whole place to myself if I so choose, and you
can too”, with a smile.
“Is there anything beyond the castle?”, I whispered,
awestruck.
“Why, of course, there’s a whole world down there,
far below the petals, nestled in the cliffs; war-torn in
some places, heavenly and peaceful in others, but
we can escape above it all, upon this flower. I
wander down there sometimes, to see how it is, but
I always return here, in the end”, she said, her eyes
becoming wistful. She suddenly turned to me, “we
can go down there if you like; it would be
preferable with a partner”, I smiled, wide and true; a
smile unlike many I had felt in my birth world.
Following the corridor for what seemed like hours
we came to an enormous entrance hall, whose dark
brick walls were entrenched in a deep, velvety
purple glow that seemed to be emanating from
beyond the slightly ajar double doors. There were
sets of ornate clothing lining the walls; intricate
masculine suits, fabulously detailed dresses of all
kinds, voraciously decorated pieces of golden
armour, inlaid with labyrinths of pattern, strange,
voluptuous feathered hats, all of the upmost quality
and detail. My eyes drifted lower still, and I gave a
start, grasping Henrietta’s arm. I felt a surprised jolt
of breath as she looked at me, smiling warm
reassurance and putting her other arm protectively
around mine. Lining the perfectly straight strand of
crimson velvet in the middle of the hall were
hundreds of small, strange things; swollen,
gelatinous creatures that looked like they belonged
in the depths of the ocean.
“Don’t be afraid”, she whispered softly, “they are
but inhabitants of this dream, natural denizens; they
will not harm us”, her words quelled the initial
instinct of fear, and as we walked between them, I
even felt a strange sort of kinship while glancing
into their twisted, wild faces. The gargantuan doors
creaked and groaned before us, revealing an arc of
soft, dull pink glistening beyond, and my heart leapt
into my throat as we crossed the threshold.
The crinkled petals seemed to form vague steps
leading down to a craggy land of rock and mud, and
as we descended lower and lower I began to see the
origin of the rainbow shafts; it came from between
the cliffs themselves, from endless ravines, through
rivers and seas, from below the surface. The land
itself was bare, with an arcane, dull sheen of
mystery covering everything. We were drifting
upon some invisible tide, and though we didn’t
seem to be moving at an unusually fast pace, the
distance we covered and places we explored were
so vast and unending we could not have been
moving at the speed of any human. The landscape
changed from dusty, deserted plains to lush forests
to craggy wastelands, all populated by the same
strange, slimy creatures that lined the castle hall.
Over the course of our journey, Henrietta seemed to
be growing ever more irritated, throwing dirty looks
at the little things as we passed them.
“Look at how they regard us”, she muttered. Her
voice had changed, gained a mellow husk; I had
heard it like this before. “We are strange beasts to
them, unknown and therefore hated. You must
know the feeling”, glancing at me.
“I do, certainly”, I admitted, slowly, looking at her
with trepidation. She was transforming; her skin had
gone a hollow grey, her lips cracked and bloody,
and her eyes a blistering glare. Even her clothes
were changing, now rotted and raven-like, tattered
with soot and dust in a swirl around her. Her hair
had gone thick and matted, veiling half her face
from view.
“Perhaps we should go back now”, I said, reaching
towards her.
“Yes... Perhaps that would be best”, and as I
reached out to touch her arm, she made a sharp,
snapping gesture, and I lurched forward, collapsing
into her, and in the blink of an eye, we were back in
the castle bedroom. It had fallen into disarray again,
tattered curtains, shards of glass on the floor, animal
bones and trashed books strewn about.
“Oh”, she muttered, heaving, hands on her eyes, “I
am sorry... Sorry that you must see me this way
again...” She was clearly weeping, and I rushed to
her to comfort her.
“These shadows...”, I whispered, “they bloom
within both of us”, stroking her head, “don’t cry
now...”
“You...”, her voice cracked, “you would be a good
mother...” I felt a powerful pulling on my
heartstrings and within moments my I had crumbled
and was weeping beside her, and looking down
briefly I saw my clothes too had gone black, rotten
and tattered, and my hands were cracked and dried
out, and we were two broken ravens, embraced in a
flood of tears. “Come and live with me”, she
whispered, head buried in my chest, “please, come
and live with me, I’m so lonely...”
“I will, I promise. I’m lonely too. I won’t be long
gone this time, I’ll shed my chains just as you
did...” With that, as we shuddered together in bliss,
the room began to change again, to regain it’s
sparkling hue; the books repaired themselves, the
bones and glass were swept up by an invisible
broom, and the curtains and bedsheets stitched
themselves together again, regaining their scarlet
hue. Once again the moon washed everything in a
beautiful crimson glow, and stepping back I saw
Henrietta, all her finery laid aside, in nothing but a
humble white gown, smiling; as she was in her
portraits. I was in a finely woven, but simple dress,
comfortable like nothing I’d worn before. Her hair
gleamed, a shock of startling flame, and hurriedly
our lips connected and we were one again.
For the first time in ages, I awoke with a clear goal
in mind. I leapt up, changing into whatever I could
find; I had some business to take care of before I
left. I had thought hard about how I would make the
journey as comfortable as I could. Henrietta had
told me I simply needed to picture the castle in my
head as I left, and I would be brought there, freed
from this dreadful mortal coil. I had nobody to say
goodbye to; no family, no friends, I was simply me,
alone on this plane. A wonderful excitement
replaced the usual terrible drone of anxiety, and
now my heart beat with renewed vigour. For the
first time ever I felt I was growing wings. I strode
over to my secret cupboard, known only by me. The
click of a turning key, a sharp creak and hundreds,
thousands of paintings fell upon me, shedding
shards of colour all over the place; my unknown
works, my secret pride, seen by nobody but me, and
Henrietta, of course. They were genius, every single
one of them. Henrietta had only confirmed for me
what I had known in my heart for years; I was a true
master.
I gathered them all in my arms, a powerful new
confidence blooming in my breast, and made my
way out the door, leaving a trail of coloured
splinters where I walked. It was 6am; the city was
dim and veiled with mist. The street lamps dripped
languorously with morning dew. Everything felt a
little fresher, a little less oppressive, now that I
knew it was impermanent. I didn’t meet a soul as I
splashed through puddles, glided through mist, and
staggered under the weight of my work, making my
way slowly towards the gallery. It felt like hours
passed, then finally, drifting in the mist like a great
ship was the ornate gallery entrance, carved with
angels and patterns so intricate you could barely
make them out on a clear day. I scarcely knew what
exactly I planned to do, mostly compelled by
instinct. I was stunned when I saw the doors
looming above me, wide and open, shadows
gathering in their cavernous depths. Still there was
nobody in sight; it felt almost fated, so I entered,
praying the guards had somehow forgotten their
posts. Against all logic it appeared they had, and as
I drew further towards Henrietta’s works it became
ever more apparent that there was nobody in the
gallery at all. I did not question it; perhaps Henrietta
had powers beyond her own world, such that would
allow her to open those doors for me, and keep
curious souls at bay. I gathered speed as I
approached her paintings, ignoring everything else,
and stumbled to a halt before them. Then, carefully
as if handling a small creature, I placed my own
works in a small arrangement beside hers, admired
them for a moment, and crept away, satisfied. Mist
was creeping in through the open door, and
everything shone with a strange glow. The
ambience was immaculate, and suited the art far
better than the ugly, sharp lights that normally
adorned the walls, I thought. I hurried home,
through the gathering chill, beneath the dripping
balconies, through the sheer white skeleton of
civilization, relieved to be finally leaving it all
behind.
 I didn’t bother closing the door to my apartment as
I entered; there was nothing of worth in here any
more, or at least there wouldn’t be, in a moment. On
a table on the balcony there sat what I had prepared;
a deadly cocktail of unspeakable power, the kind
that would spirit me away from this world
altogether. I stepped out into the open air, heart
hammering. This was it. The end of all the pain, all
the suffering; finally freedom. I hesitated for a
moment, but I was still sure. Holding my breath, I
took it all into my body in one swift movement. A
few minutes passed in which the world seemed to
begin whirring and spinning like the inside of a
clock, my heart thudded, and my head ached, then
all imploded and was gone.
My eyes were shut tight, then glided open slowly. I
was once again in the castle bedroom, where
everything glowed beautifully, shimmering in the
moonlight, and there she was; Henrietta, sitting
beside me, entrenched in serenity, still clothed in
her simple gown of white.
“I have been waiting for you, my dear”, then
suddenly, without warning, I burst into tears, and
she moved swiftly to embrace me. “Don’t fret, it’s
all over now, I will allow you nothing but peace and
happiness from now on, and we can paint together
for eternity…”
“I-I”, sniffing, “I’m finally...happy”, I struggled out,
heaving against the powerful wave of emotion that
had just crashed into me.
“I know, I know my dear”, she smiled tenderly,
holding me tighter, “and I know you better than
anybody could. I am you, and you are me, and there
should be nothing but love between us...”
“I always knew, somehow”, I whispered.
“You could always feel it, inside. Perhaps you
remembered traces of my time in our birth world,
sometimes a shred of memory remains between
lives. Time has fractured us, split us in two, but we
are still one heart, one mind. We flit between the
light and dark, like a coin has two sides, but we
understand each other, nobody can hurt us any
more.” I shuddered with emotion, but a steady
warmth was growing within me, a comfort that felt
unmistakably permanent. “I saw what you did with
your work”, she whispered, smiling. I laughed,
suddenly jovial.
“And what did you think?”
“A tale for the ages, it will be retold for
generations” she was laughing, but I could tell she
was not joking. “You will be remembered there,
like so many other were, after they left.”
“Oh, I don’t care”, laughing harder now, “typical,
they don’t appreciate me until I’m gone, of course.”
“They’re all the same”, she shook her head, sighing.
“Well, you don’t need to see them any more unless
you choose to; we can visit anywhere we like now,
even beyond this world”, she reclined, laying her
head upon my lap, smiling up at me.
“Perhaps sometime, but I think I’m perfectly happy
where I am for now”, I smiled back at her, an
honest, glowing smile, and I had truly never been
happier.