She dwelled in a chamber that was full of mirrors.
Though she was beautiful, she was also vain. As was her glory, so was her pride. And both swelled as time passed, ripening like the delicate peaches of late summertime.
She lived upon the edge of a cliff, on a lonely island in the Great Sea that crashed on the crimson shores of ill-fortuned Tilmarine. She hid there from her many suitors. They flung themselves into the stormy waters and dared the breakers in fragile boats. But each one who tried was thrown back again, and the sands of Tilmarine reddened further.
Numerous as the bloodstained grains of sand upon the dark beach were her lovers, but strive though they would. She cared for them not. In her tower, in her room, in the sparkling depths of her mirror-shrouded tomb, she did not deign to notice them.
Once there was a poet, lithe of limb and keen of eye, quick of wit and passionate as the white stallions of the Sea-King. The whole of his fiery soul was hung upon the Lady who dwelled in a room that was full of mirrors. Though he had never seen her, he knew he was destined to love her. For a spider had come down upon his cradle as a child and whispered the words of her dreams to him. And the spiders of Tilmarine always dream true. He dwelled within his love as the Lady did her mirrors, and his songs were full of longing.
He sat upon the crimson beach, amid the broken ties and shattered spars. There he gathered bone, wood, and hair, and the red-stained waters of bloody Tilmarine. He gathered sorrow and yearning, fire and air, and from these things he built a harp, and its name was Seraphim. He played his harp and sang his songs of love, calling them out into the sea and the endless crashing of the waves, which swallowed both his music and his love, and guarded them jealously. For the Sea of Tilmarine is covetous and full of secrets. Thus were his songs kept from She whom he loved.
The horses of the Sea-King heard his songs in their deep gardens, and they felt his soul akin to theirs, the heat of his passion warming the icy depths, where no sunlight falls. The horses went out, to ride upon the waves. They rose to the surface, and came to the poet, who still played his songs of love, crying his heart’s need into the greedy waves.
“Come with us and we will bear you hence, to the Lady who dwells in the chamber of mirrors,” they said to him.
“You are the wild horses of the sea,” he answered. “You will throw me off and I will drown in the red waters of Tilmarine.”
“Come with us and we will bear you hence, to the Lady who dwells in the distant tower, where no man may pass,” they said to him again.
“Here and now, my love is true and pure,” he said to them. “How can I leave this place? For change brings death to love.”
“Come with us and we will bear you hence, to the Lady whose beauty causes the sun to hide its face in shame and the moon to shed starlit tears,” they said to him a third time. And the poet mounted their backs and they bore him hence, for the horses of the Sea-King must always honor a promise spoken three times true.
When the poet came to the tower, he called up to the Lady, and begged to be admitted. She refused him. He told her of his love. She refused him still. He played his songs upon Seraphim. A third time she refused him, and he knew his love was in vain.
Even so, he would not leave, but stayed on the rocky shore, where the sharp rocks pierced his legs, and played upon the harp, singing songs of her lovely face, and of the beauty of her.
After a year and a day, the Lady came to her window once again. “You play such beautiful songs,” she said. “Come up to my room and play your songs for me here, so that I may better hear them.”
And so the poet came up the stairs, and beheld with his eyes the Lady, who by now had grown to be the loveliest creature there ever was. He told her of his love for her, but she spurned him still.
“You see only my beauty,” she said. “You cannot see the truth of me.”
And so she put out his eyes, and put mirrors in their place, so that all his eyes could reflect was the truth of her. He stayed with her in her room, and for a year and a day played upon his harp and sang his songs of her velvet voice, and of the beauty of her.
“You play such beautiful songs,” said the Lady. “But you hear only my beauty. You cannot hear the truth of me.”
And so she put out his ears, and put mirrors in their place, so that all his ears could reflect was the truth of her. He stayed with her in her room, and for a year and a day played upon his harp and sang his songs of the love in his heart, and the beauty of her.
“You play such beautiful songs,” said the Lady. “But you know only your heart. You cannot know the truth of me.”
And so she put out his heart, and put a mirror in its place, so that all his heart could reflect was the truth of her. He stayed with her in her room, but he played no more songs and spoke no more of her beauty, and his eyes and his ears and his heart could only reflect the truth of her.
She dwelled in a chamber that was full of mirrors.
Nathaniel Lee’s tale of unrequited love was modeled on ballads and narrative poems. Learn more about his work at his web site http://scattercatstories.blogspot.com.
Speculative Flash Fiction - Text and Audio
|
In her tower, in her room, in the sparkling depths of her mirror-shrouded tomb, she did not deign to notice them.
