The Truth of Things Unseen

Part Three

Mother

A young girl pads down a wide, oak-lined hallway. Her slippered feet make no sound on the polished wooden floor.

"Taliette!" comes the call from downstairs. Her governess is ready for lessons. No matter, the old maid might hunt for her, but she has other plans.

She feels a gentle tug in her chest.

"This way," whispers her heart.

"Why?" she replies, but her heart is silent.

The door to Mother's room looms large. It is closed, as it has been for a whole year, ever since that day when she had said goodbye. Taliette pictures her, pale and gaunt, still beautiful, the eyes too large for the face. The breathing quick and shallow. The adults hustling the little girl out.

She reaches up to the handle and is surprised to find it unlocked. The door swings open with a soft click. She slips inside, and the door closes behind her.

The room is just as she remembers. The bed made up with lace, the nightdress hung over the back of the chair, bottles and jars of perfume and makeup on the dressing table. The mirror, just a little dusty.

"On the mantelpiece," whispers her heart.

The fireplace is a grand affair, grey marble carved with muscular figures of gods and men. Women with animal legs instead of people legs prance around with stags and lions and dragons, and there are funny animals like wolves with snarling human faces and ordinary human hands and feet. She runs her finger over the carvings as she has done so many times before. She presses her fingers into the hollowed-out mouths and the empty eye sockets.

"Look up," whispers her heart.

On the mantelpiece, cradled on a wooden stand, is her mother’s bow. It is made of yellow-blonde wood, polished to such a shine that it is as though she can see right into the deepness of the wood, memories of summer upon summer.

"Take it down."

With the thrill that comes from breaking a sacred rule, she lifts the bow out of its cradle and holds it in un-trembling hands. The grip of it feels natural. It is lithe and tight. It likes her. It wants to be used.

"You will be an archer," whispers her heart. "You will do great things."

There is no bowstring, but even so, she sights along it, picturing her father, her governess and all the servants cowering. She tries to bend it with her hands, but it is too difficult.

"Look in the drawer."

"Why," she asks out loud. "What's in the drawer?"

Her heart doesn't reply, it just waits expectantly.

She slides open the drawer next to her mother's bed. There are nightclothes, neatly stacked, nothing interesting. She glances around the room. There is a little drawer in the base of the bowstand. She slides it open and discovers a creamy white bowstring with a loop at each end. She hooks one end onto one tip of the bow, then tries to stretch it round to the other. She presses on the bow, leans on it, puts her weight on it down towards the floor, but it will not flex enough, and the string will not reach.

"Not like that," whispers her heart. "Use your knees."

She squeezes the bow between her legs and bends it further, but it slips free, and the handle drags along the skin on her thigh. She stifles a cry, puts a hand there and finds blood. Determined, she sets her jaw against the pain and tries again, gripping it tightly and using her legs as levers. This time, she manages to bend it round far enough to slip the bowstring over the other end.

It is taught, poised, ready to kill something. She senses the energy in it, the desire. It is full of possibilities, stretching out further than she can see. It is like standing at the ballroom door when the lights are out, sensing the hidden space. It is an invitation to stride out into the dark.

There is a quiver of arrows on the mantelpiece. She slides one free, a slender yellow thing with red feathers and a delicate silver point. She fits it on the string, pulls back just a little. It rolls off the bow, and falls to the floor.

"Try the other side."

She fits the arrow once more and pulls back. She can not pull it right back like mother had, only a little way. Her arms tremble. The bowstring cuts deep grooves into her fingertips. The string slips free of her grasp with a little twang. The arrow flies and sinks into the wall, sending a spray of plaster showering down onto the floorboards.

She covers her mouth, hardly able to believe her own audacity. A golden wave of glory spirals up inside her chest, up into her throat, filling her face and skull, so she feels like her eyes might pop out with the warm pressure of it.

Her shoulders are shaking, and she senses the prickle of bruises forming on her fingertips. She lies down on the bed with the bow next to her, stroking it tenderly. It is like stroking Mother's hair. Smooth and deep and yellow. She can still smell Mother's perfume on the pillow.