Content Warnings
Suicide mention
Sexual harassment (kinda, very borderline)
We reached the castle’s outer gate by late afternoon — at about ten to five, according to Casma’s ‘flawless’ internal clock.
Compared with the first two legs of our journey, the landscape grew more peculiar on that final portion, (as third legs do tend to be). As we travelled up from the open meadow and into the true highlands, on which the castle sat like a black and white crown on the headland’s brow, it was as if earthly norms had touched only the low places of this dimension, sinking like an invisible layer of the atmosphere, settling into the valleys and plains, leaving the craggy heights free to get really weird.
No, not ‘as if’.
If my sister had said those exact same words, you would take it as a colourful metaphor. She’s good at those, she enjoys them too much for her own benefit (and so do I), even when she doesn’t understand she’s doing it. But I’m not speaking in metaphors, I’m being literal, and you better accept that.
Whatever made this dimension vaguely like Earth, it didn’t reach very high.
First the grass lost all colour, fading from green to pale to chalky white — not dead, but alive and thriving, even thicker than the green stuff in the meadow and the lowlands below, blending with the rapidly thickening fog that choked the narrow ravines of naked rock. The mist was clean and moist and smelled like rain on concrete, but it cut our vision down to less than thirty feet. Muadhnait advanced with her sword in both hands — the sword made of cold iron, for cutting down fairy magic — and bid us stay close and stay quiet; if she lost us in that fog she would likely not find us again, because raising our voices here was not only hopeless due to the tangle of rock and bush, but was actively dangerous, though she struggled to explain why, (though why I cannot imagine, it was obvious enough to me.) Kimberly ended up holding one of Tenny’s hands, while Casma held the other. A sweet little trio, with no place for a fourth.
I trailed in the rear, watching the back of Muadhnait’s armour glisten with a sheen of moisture, toying with the edge of losing her in the fog ahead.
After the grass went disgusting, the bushes got stupid. In the lowlands they had been thorny enough, but now they sharpened into razor-wire twists and turned so green they went black, as if they had leeched the colour from the soil and left nothing for the grass. They ambushed us from the fog — mostly in front, relying on the mist to hide their spiky outlines until we were almost on top of them; they would have done nothing to Muadhnait’s armour, but she acted as if the tiniest scrape would be fatal, even through all that metal. She slowed to a crawl whenever we saw the bushy shapes looming from the white-out haze. A handful of times they attempted the same trick from our sides, lining the top of a ravine in thick hedgerows before coiling down upon us, or creeping up beside us on seemingly open ground. I showed the bushes my knife whenever that happened, and they stopped bothering us; stupid, but not suicidal. Better than the grass, at least.
Now — was that one a colourful metaphor?
No, it wasn’t. Between the grass and the bushes and the mist, the world had gone black and white.
We weren’t the only things abroad in the uplands. We heard footsteps a few times; Muadhnait told us not to count them, and be careful not to allow our own footsteps to match the rhythm. Once the cry of a bird echoed off some hollow bluff; Muadhnait said there were no birds here, do not follow the voice, try not to think about it. Twice the sound of panting came so close to our rear that something must have been there, just at the edge of the fog — a hopeful dog, perhaps; Muadhnait told us not to go backward into the mist, not to call out, not to stop and wait for the presence to catch up.
One time, a man watched us from the limit of our vision. He was emaciated as a dried-out corpse, skin like dead leaves, his eyes pits full of rot. He just stood there, arms dangling like twigs by his sides. Kimberly nearly screamed, smothering her mouth with a hand, (which was nice). Casma said, “Oh! It’s a fellow.” Tenny made sounds that made my chest feel empty.
Muadhnait told us to ignore the man and carry on. Which we did.
Only two things were visible beyond the ghostly fog — the obsidian ocean far to our right, stretching to the horizon as a stain too dark for even the mist to hide; and the castle itself towering overhead, a mottled corpse dressed in funerary robes and the tatters of a torn wedding dress.
…
I know.
I said I know!
I sound like Heather.
Don’t you think I know that? Don’t you think I’m more keenly aware of that than you could ever be? Every word, every sentence, everything I say is stained with the memory of how she did this. I turn left, I turn right, I turn back, and fuck it, here’s more of her shadow! And what’s worse — I love it. I love her more than you or anybody else can possibly understand; I love the weight of her shadow on my back, on my face, on every inch of my skin. I would choose her shadow over Heather-less light every time, and nothing could stop me. Sounding like her is the greatest compliment and most foul curse I could ever receive, and it’s constant! Oh, Heather describes buildings like women! Heather spends too much time on the landscape, the environment, the feeling of moving through it! Heather, Heather, Heather, Heather, Heather!
Heather!
…
Well. You got more of my sister than you deserved. She’s all mine now, and I’m keeping her.
…
I sound like Heather because I was barely paying attention to that third and final leg of our journey. I watched out for things that shouldn’t approach us, and I kept both eyes on the back of Muadhnait’s armour, (and half an eye on Tenny), and I sometimes flashed my knife, sure, because that’s part of what a knife is for. But I was miles away.
What was the purpose of my little solo story, now that it was no longer little nor solo? I still wanted to catch the Mimic, but the things I would do to her once I had her pinned beneath me were not suitable for Tenny or Casma to watch. Seeing another glimpse of the Briar-bitch had lit enough of a fire in my guts to clear my head, but even that had been snuffed out by the wet fog; I would not turn down a second round with her, but again, not in front of the others, (sorry Kim, I know you sometimes like to watch). I had hoped to hear the pale doll following us through the mist, but if it knew what I was, it had not regained our trail. Now we were approaching this castle — this joke. My sister had enough dealings with castles for both of us, and now here I was, treading in her footsteps, re-doing something she had already done.
This castle wasn’t for me — it was for Heather. She should have been there, falling in love with this stone giant. She would have been all over this, no matter what she told herself (or you).
The situation wasn’t for me either. This wasn’t my story anymore.
Kimberly and Tenny were both in danger, (Casma was in danger too, but she could handle herself) and I had to get them home; I was the robust one, the one who couldn’t be cracked, the one with a kitchen knife in my hand and an armoured shell around the only parts of me that mattered. But the moment that chance came, I would be going home too, and my story would be over.
But I was not going to face my sister and tell her that we’d lost Tenny to a sudden gust of wind, or that Kimberly was lying at the bottom of a ravine with her brains dashed out. I would not face Heather and tell her that. I couldn’t.
As we crossed the craggy emptiness before the castle, I resigned myself to this new feeling — duty.
Duty wasn’t fun. Duty didn’t suit me. Duty was Heather’s thing.
No choice. No rewrites. Skip to the end and try again.
Muadhnait slowed us to a crawl on the final hundred feet, walking so softly she barely made a sound in all that armour, sword out, braced for an ambush, (which never came, because of course it didn’t.) The fog thinned out as we finally emerged onto the ultimate apex of the headland, giving us a wide view of the black ocean horizon stretching away to our right — and the castle rearing into the grey sky above.
“Maisie?” Kimberly jerked around and looked back at me. “What was that sound? Was that you?”
“A snort,” I said.
“ … oh, r-right.”
Casma smiled at Kim. “She can’t help it, she can only help herself. Don’t blame Maisie.”
Tenny went brrrrt, but she had all her tentacles folded away, so it was not a happy sound.
Muadhnait gestured for quiet, then halted in front of what I assumed was the ‘outer gate’.
From a distance of two day’s walk the castle had been an irritating sop to my sister’s taste in fairy tales. Up close it was ridiculous.
Black stone blocks too large for any machine to ever lift formed the naked bones, soaring upward into walls coated with layers of pale ivy and feathery lichen. White marble — or something close enough — dressed the fleshless corpse in petticoats of flowing gown, fluttering downward into outer curtain walls that half-spilled from the headland cliffs, each one a greater rival to the massive wall we’d passed beneath at the ruined village. Towers and peaked roofs and thin spires clustered in the core, some connected to each other by slender walkways — a collection of needles aimed at the underbelly of the clouds; thicker towers, chunky and blocky, stood along the exterior, looking out over the empty black ocean or the fog-choked landscape. The castle’s inner walls were studded with thousands of windows, some open to the empty air, some barred, others glassed and leaded. Tendrils of mist floated between the towers and caressed the walls, settling on balconies and pooling in open promenades.
A black and white giant. Totally pointless.
I don’t know much about castles; that’s one of Heather’s many obsessions which I don’t share. But I could (and do) listen to her talk forever on any subject she wishes, without ever getting tired of her voice, so I’d picked up enough to understand that this place served no purpose. Castles are generally built to command a landscape — they’re military strong points. You stuff them with soldiers and horses and then an army can’t move on until it’s dealt with the castle, or the soldiers on horses will be forever nipping at the army’s flanks and rear, so the army has to sit there and besiege it, and sieges suck and nobody likes them, (except Heather, who has a short list of favourite sieges; I bet you didn’t know that, did you?)
This castle commanded nothing but a view of the empty black ocean.
Muadhnait held her sword in one hand while she briefly examined her map again; she had not needed to consult it even once on the final climb, what with the castle looming overhead. Kimberly and Tenny held their breath in silence. Casma stared at the castle, enjoying it too much.
“T-this is the outer gate you mentioned?” Kimberly whispered eventually. “There’s nowhere else to go … this has to be it, yes?”
Muadhnait put her map away and signed, “According to my map, this is the entrance. We will camp in the first courtyard. Follow me, but be ready to run.”
The Templar Nun raised her sword and crept forward. I didn’t bother unwrapping my knife.
We passed through the only gate in the vast black outer wall — thirty feet wide and double that in height, wide open and unbarred. The black stone to either side was encrusted with white ivy, much of it crumbled and dry underfoot. The space beneath the wall was not long enough for us to forget daylight, but just long enough to make Tenny hunch her shoulders, which I didn’t like.
I put one foot against the wall. Too solid to give it a good kick without pain.
I kicked anyway. Kimberly looked back; I shrugged. Casma looked back and smiled; I looked away.
On the far side of the outer gate was a massive courtyard — tiled in white, walled in black, with barred gates to either side. A number of narrow passageways led through the next layer of wall ahead, into some kind of garden, but there was too much shadow and confusion to be certain without going to look, (and I wasn’t interested in trying.) The courtyard walls were very high, topped by crenelations, (thank you, dear sister) studded with murder holes and arrow slits and wide empty platforms which looked like they should have held little siege machines, perhaps for turning on uninvited guests down in the courtyard. An area in the middle of the courtyard had once been a big triangular flowerbed, but now it grew wild with grass and flowers and weeds — all of them white, white, white, set in deep black soil. A number of white statues stood around the flowerbed; I looked for the Briar-bitch among them, but she wasn’t there, just faces with their features knocked off or torn away, arms and weapons long missing, or whole bodies toppled into rubble. Soldiers, warriors, that kind of thing, but none of them intact.
The castle itself reared up beyond that little square — more walls, more complexity, more layers of dress. I spied a window far away among the confusion of castle, open to the elements, with a body slumped half across the edge — naked, bleached bone-white by the fog. Probably a corpse.
I wanted to spit on the tiles, just to break the silence.
A tangle of rusted metal stood in the far left corner of the courtyard. A single red-orange rose in the monochrome.
Muadhnait looked left and right — big dome-shaped helmet rotating with her head inside — then lowered her sword. She signed something about firewood.
“Um … ” Kimberly’s eyes had gone wide as little saucers, (which was very cute.) She flinched at the sound of her own voice, echoing off bare stone, (which was even cuter.) “ … M-Maisie? Tenny? Casma? I-is that—”
“Yes,” I said; I echoed too, which was better than the silence.
Tenny went ‘brrrrrt’; her soft trilling faded off into the distance of the castle.
Casma said, “How strange!”
Muadhnait signed for us to follow her. We did, mostly because there was no other way to react to what we were seeing, and no way to explain to her in a fashion she would understand. She led us to an open doorway on the left of the courtyard, then peered around inside; the space was dusty and empty, all black stone walls, some kind of storage room. A few pieces of wood were stacked up in a corner.
“W-was that meant to be our firewood for the night?” Kimberly asked.
Muadhnait signed, “Yes, but the stash is long since depleted. None have ventured here in a long time. I am prepared for this, I have other methods to ensure that we will pass the night in safety, but we will be cold.”
“You said no darkness,” I said. “No darkness ever, or eaten by fairies. Re-tuning your tune?”
Muadhnait hesitated, then dug around in the pouches at her waist and produced a smooth pale stone, just smaller than a snooker ball. It looked like it weighed almost nothing, like pumice.
She held it out as if we were supposed to be impressed. Nobody said anything, (well done, Casma.)
Muadhnait put the stone away again and signed: “I have a small supply of light kernels.”
“Kept that quiet,” I said. “Quietly kept.”
“Yeeeees,” Casma agreed. “Didn’t mention that last night, did you.”
Muadhnait signed, “They are precious and cannot be wasted when firewood is abundant. I will need them for the stone-walking task ahead of me.”
Kimberly broke in. “R-right, right, I’m sure Muadhnait meant well. Um … ” Kimberly swallowed and gestured over at the other corner of the courtyard. “Can we talk about the uh … the … ”
Muadhnait’s helmet rotated to look at the pile of rusty metal in the corner. She signed a blank question; I decided at that moment that I wanted to learn sign language, because that would be very satisfying.
Kimberly nodded. “If you would … would lead on, with your, um, sword and—”
I turned away and led the way. I didn’t bother taking out my knife. It wasn’t as if the rust was going to attack us. If it did, that would be entertaining enough.
The courtyard echoed with our breathing, our footsteps, our heartbeats — even those of us with bare feet and no hearts. I stopped us short of the big tangle of old rust. Everyone stared at it, with the possible exception of Muadhnait, who was probably wondering what all these Outsiders were so excited about.
“If nobody is going to say it,” I said, “then I’m going to say it. Shall I?”
Kimberly tried to say it, but she just murmured. Tenny was silent, which was awful.
Casma said, “You can say it, Maisie. If you think what I’m thinking, I think.”
I said, “That’s a car.”
“Was a car!” Casma said instantly; she’d been waiting for that. I almost looked at her instead of the car.
“At what point does a car cease to be car?” I asked.
“When it can’t car anymore,” Casma said. “That’s obvious. This car cannot car. It’s not a car.”
“So what it is now?”
“An ex-car. A post-car. The empty shape of a car, but without the essence of function. An unformed car, uninformed about the fact it is no longer a car! Neither mobile nor automatic, it is not longer an auto-mobile.”
“Rrrrrrust,” said Tenny. “It’s rust.”
“Tenny wins,” I decided. “Correct.”
“Awww,” said Casma.
Kimberly swallowed so loud it was like a whole word. “How … how is this here? How … ”
“‘How’ is pretty obvious,” said Casma. “What you really mean is ‘why’. Mmm, big question. Why car?”
The tangle of rust which squatted in the corner of the black-and-white courtyard was the only thing not either black or white; the rust was a juicy rich dark orange-brown, the kind of beautiful old rust that takes decades of erosion to cultivate. Perhaps some solid metal still survived beneath all the layers of flaking red and ochre, but the car looked as if it would crumble to dust at a touch — which was not the only reason I didn’t try, because there was always the chance of magical bullshit.
Why a car, indeed?
Casma was right — this hadn’t been a car for decades. The body had that sleek, curved look, while the front was high and narrow, so much smaller than a modern car. The roof had fallen in and the bonnet was rusted away, revealing what little remained of the engine. The tyres were still present — flaccid, cracked, warped by dry rot. The leather on the seats had long since decayed, and the stuffing was all gone. The windows and windshield were intact — glass lasts a long time with nobody around to smash it — but they were both filthy with a patina of black grime, perhaps carried by year after year of white fog or pale rain.
“Somebody drove it here?” Tenny suggested. She didn’t unfold her tentacles to poke at the wreck. “Parked.”
“Somebody must have driven it through the outer gate, yes,” Casma said, trying to be oh-so-very helpful. “But the inner gates are too small, so they left it here, and here it is left, left behind, behind the gates.”
Kimberly was not having a good time with this; she hugged herself, digging her fingers into her own sides, probably trying to keep from shaking in front of Casma and Tenny. She stared at the rusted old car like it was the reaper come to lead her away, (and it wasn’t, Kim, I wouldn’t have let it). Her throat bobbed so hard that I thought she might choke on her own tongue.
“Kimberly,” I said. “Kimberly. Kimberly.”
“I … uh … y-yes … yes?”
She didn’t actually look at me.
I looked at Muadhnait instead. “You said you have maps and blueprints of this castle. What do your maps say about this? Is this mapped and printed?”
Muadhnait hesitated, then opened one of her pouches and drew out a much larger map than the one she had used to guide us across the open landscape. It was folded into little squares, organised by some system I couldn’t be bothered to figure out right then. She unfolded and refolded it several times, searching for the courtyard; it was hand-made, drawn in black ink on yellowed paper, covered in notes in whatever language it was Muadhnait really spoke.
Eventually she held up a little corner of the map. There was the car — a tiny scribble roughly in the shape of the car’s bonnet and roof.
“We can’t read the label,” I said. “Unlabel it to us.”
Muadhnait signed, “Gleaming chariot. Cannot be moved.”
“Gleaming?” I echoed. “Gleaming.”
“Rust can gleam,” said Casma. “Gleaming in the falling of metal to rust. Rusted gleams. Gleamy gleam.” She sang the final two words, which didn’t help anybody.
“How old is that map?” I said. “How long since anybody was last here?”
Muadhnait signed: “Sixty seven years. The last walkers to pass this way recorded what they could to update the maps which belong to my hold. My maps are copied from the master versions. They are accurate.”
“Sixty seven years ago,” I said. “Accurate.”
Kimberly made an exceedingly cute sound in her throat. But when she spoke she sounded like she was about to break. “Sixty seven … y-years?”
Casma asked, “Why’s there nobody here? I thought we might reach the castle and find all sorts of knights and princesses, or maybe at least a herald to say hello? It feels empty and deserted. Are you certain that Maisie’s Mimic is around here, or upside here, or outside here?”
Tenny went brrrrt, then said, “Deserted is betterrrrr.”
Muadhnait signed, “The closed stone is busy with unclean life. We cannot see it from here, we are relatively safe beneath sunlight.”
I looked right into her visor-slit, into the darkness, searching for her eyes. “What is this place, really? Real or not, ready or not, this place isn’t what it places itself as. Castle up here, castle for nothing. Nobody’s home, but I’m still calling. What is this place?”
Muadhnait simply signed, “Closed stone.”
“What does that mean? Treat me like a fool again and I’ll treat you too.”
Muadhnait hesitated for a long time, metal gauntlets paused in mid-air. I heard Kimberly’s teeth start to chatter. Casma said something pointless to her, and it didn’t work.
“Muadhnait,” I said. “Don’t lie.”
Muadhnait spread her gauntlets in a sudden gesture of frustration, then signed rapidly, hands moving so fast she got sloppy and had to repeat several words. “You are Outsiders. You would not understand. This means nothing to you. It is closed stone. I am equipped for stone-walking. Please stop—”
“Humans used to live here, didn’t they?” Casma said. “And then they didn’t. And now other things do.”
Muadhnait stared at Casma for a long moment, then signed, “I am going to look for more firewood. I will not go far. Please stay here.”
The armoured nun stalked off, back to the little doorway where we’d found the scraps of firewood. She drew her sword again, then slipped through without looking back, fucking off to sulk.
Kimberly was still staring at the not-auto-not-mobile.
I took her by the hand and led her away a few paces, just out of earshot. She registered a bit of surprise, but she didn’t resist (good girl, Kimberly, good girl). Casma spotted what I was doing and tried to help in the only way which actually helped; she did the same with Tenny, to keep Tenny’s attention on the car instead of the adults about to have a difficult adult conversation, (pity it wasn’t the other kind, but even I wasn’t that much of a slut). They started loudly speculating on the make and model and age of the car, trying to peer through the grimy windows, and read what remained of the number plates.
“Kimberly.”
Kimberly looked at me like I was about to bite a chunk out of her. Which was not entirely unpleasant, yes, but not what I wanted right then. She also looked pale enough to vomit herself to death. She was still clutching her ribs with her free hand, covered in cold sweat, trembling slightly — all of which would have been very cute, if none of the rest of this was happening.
“ … y-yes?” she said. “Maisie? You’re … staring. Maisie? S-sorry, I’m already freaking out, I can’t, uh … please stop … ”
I had no idea what to say.
My sister has spent plenty of time detailing all the ways in which she finds herself inadequate; she is incorrect about all of them, (not ‘almost all’ — all) which almost goes without saying, but the one she is most incorrect about is her ability to console others. When her friends cry, she knows what to say. When somebody is in crisis, she always has the right words. When plans need to be cut through, she has the blade of her tongue already sharpened. She draws on a deep well she doesn’t even know she has, and berates herself for only being a hair’s breadth shy of perfection.
Kimberly was going grey. She had looked like she was going to vomit, but now she looked like she was going to vomit on me, (and even I have limits).
First thing that came to me. Go. Go. Go.
“It’s going to be okay,” I said.
Kimberly cringed.
“Sixty seven years!” she hissed, then glanced back at Casma and Tenny, to make sure they hadn’t heard. “Maisie, that car’s been there for over six decades. Maybe longer. Whoever brought that here, they … they … they probably died here. Out here. Outside!”
“We don’t know that. Maybe they went home but they left the car behind.”
Kimberly cringed worse. Tears brimmed in her eyes. “We’re … stuck. We’re stuck. We’re stuck!”
“Heather will find us.”
Kimberly turned her face aside. “I … Maisie, I … I don’t want to be rude, a-and I’m sorry I snapped at you earlier, back there, when you and Muadhnait were about to … f-fight or something, but … but … ”
“Say it,” I said.
“You and Heather … you saved her when you were little, and then she saved you when you were grown up. You two have something special, but we’re not all like that. Some of us don’t have anybody, let alone a … a … whatever.”
“Your dykes will come for you.”
Kimberly spluttered. “My- my what, sorry?”
“You’re not as lonely as you pretend.”
Kimberly pulled an absolutely incomprehensible expression. Gave Casma a run for her money. At least she wasn’t cringing anymore, or crying. Well done.
“Heather will come for us,” I repeated.
Kimberly sighed. “Maisie, it’s been over twenty four hours. Thirty six hours, now? Where is she? What could possibly be blocking her like this? It doesn’t make sense.”
“The Mimic.”
“If this Mimic is strong enough or clever enough to block Heather from getting here, then … then I don’t think we can deal with it. I can’t even think of any magic I can do, not alone, not by myself, not without tools. And this place, this castle, it’s insane! It’s the size of a small town. We could search for days, weeks. And Muadhnait said it’s dangerous in there? We can’t take Tenny or Casma into the castle. I … I don’t know what to do. I just don’t.”
Her tears were gathering again. I needed to get much more stupid.
I raised her hand to my face and kissed the back of her knuckles.
Kimberly froze.
She gave me the worst possible look — a look that said not only did she have no idea I’d been about to do that, but that she had not even considered it remotely possible. She considered it akin to being kissed by a dog, or an insect, or a tree.
I dropped her hand. Kimberly awkwardly lowered it.
Because I am made of carbon fibre and lies, I am very good at keeping my feelings off my face.
“I’ll deal with the Mimic,” I said. “Then we’ll go home.”
“Uh … r-right, yes,” said Kim.
At least she wasn’t crying.
I meant to say more — I meant to tell Kimberly to keep herself together, at least for Tenny and Casma, (though really just for Tenny). I meant to tell her that I would deal with everything and she was going to be okay and I would make sure she got home, and then I would be her heroine, just like the women her own age who she was into. I meant to tell her that I would take care of her. I meant to tell her that I wanted to kiss more than her hand — but actually that I didn’t, because the kiss had been boring, and what I really wanted to do was bite her cheek and make her squeal in that delicious way I imagined she would, and …
Do you think I would have been able to say any of those things? Don’t be gentle with me, (because I won’t be gentle with you.)
Luckily I didn’t have to discover my limits, because a figure appeared atop the crenelated wall which surrounded the courtyard — Our Lady of the Forded Briar.
She was standing on one of the wide platforms meant for inward-facing weapons. She peered down at me with eyes of nuclear fire trapped behind thin glass, muted a little by the omnipresent mist. She had her spear in one hand, the tip still missing, (ha!) Her dress clung to her body in the moist fog, showing more than she had done in the dream.
The Briar-bitch raised her free hand to her own lips and kissed her own knuckles. Mocking cunt.
But then she bit down, drawing blood that burned and bubbled as it fell.
Kimberly was saying something — something about drool. I wasn’t listening.
Our Lady of the Forded Briar lowered her hand with a great big bite mark on it. Her blood was like molten steel spiced with rubies. She flicked the hand, then wiped it on the front of her gown. Then she turned and walked away, swallowed by the tangle of monochrome masonry.
“Maisie?” Kimberly said. “Maisie? Maisie, you’re drool— ah!”
I grabbed Kimberly’s hand again and forced it against my lower abdomen, beneath my t-shirt, her palm on my belly. Her eyes went very wide, as they should do — cute, cute, cute. What had I been thinking with a kiss on her knuckles? Go for broke, go all the way, or lie down and die. Never did the latter before. Never going to.
“Does my stomach feel warm?” I asked.
“Uh— wha— sorry?”
“Does my belly feel warm to you?” I said. “Like I have a fever, or trapped wind, or something like that. Nothing?”
Kimberly shook her head. “N-no. No. You feel … normal, Maisie. Y-yes. Normal.”
“Okay.”
I let her go. Kimberly pulled her hand back like it had been thrust into a fire. “Are you … feeling sick?”
“No. Better than ever. Everything is going to be okay.”
The reignited glow of molten gold low in my abdomen carried me aloft through the next few hours of bored waiting. Nothing could be done with everybody watching, though I could probably have gotten away if only Casma had been present — but that was the whole problem. If this story was just me and Casma, there wouldn’t be a problem in the first place.
If I just charged off without thinking, I would be acting too much like my sister, wouldn’t I? And I was already an irresponsible slut; no sense in adding her flaws to mine.
So, I waited. I’m very good at that. I did it for long enough.
Muadhnait returned with an armful of firewood, all that she’d been able to scrounge up in that little chamber; it wouldn’t be enough for a fire to last through the night, but it would be enough to cook some dinner. She set the logs up in the opposite corner of the courtyard, the spot best protected from any wind, though the fog was everywhere, even if it was a little thinner than outside the huge castle walls. Casma asked why we couldn’t sleep that night in the little room where she’d gotten the firewood, but Muadhnait explained that we needed to be outdoors — spending the hours of darkness inside the body of the castle would be too dangerous, even with her methods of protection. The night would be cold without a fire, but we would survive, (and I had a fire in my guts, anyway.)
Everybody settled down as best they could, even though there was almost nothing to do. Muadhnait built the fire ready for later, drew a fresh circle of salt around our new camp, then took off her pack and sat down to clean and oil her swords and dismantle her crossbow again. Tenny and Casma asked if Muadhnait had anything with which to draw — and she did, she had several pieces of coloured chalk. She was happy to lend it to them, but asked them not to use too much, as she would need it for marking her (our?) way once inside the ‘closed stone’. Casma and Tenny amused themselves playing some ultra-complicated version of noughts and crosses on the ground and chattering about the game they were designing back home. Kimberly tried to meditate; she does that a lot, but she’s not very good at it. (Sorry, Kim. You just aren’t. You should have been a professional gardener, not a mage.)
I walked around the edge of the courtyard several times and peered back through the outer gate, at the visible edge of the highland crags. Things were waiting or lurking in the mist, vague shapes with burnt outlines. I showed them my knife and they went away.
Stupid place. Not a proper tree in sight. And so silent; made me want to scrape the walls and throw things, but the only thing to scrape was my knife, and there was nothing to throw but bits of broken masonry from the anonymous statues.
By the time I had finished failing to add to my ideas, the sun was creeping behind the body of the castle itself, filling the courtyard with deeper shadows. Muadhnait distributed her blankets again, then took out three maps and spread them on the ground. She sat cross-legged and examined them, or at least stared at them.
The three maps were all quite different to each other. All three were hand-drawn, but the big fold-out one we’d already seen was the most primitive, all freehand lines and tons of scribbles, a vast piecemeal attempt to map the innards of the gigantic castle. The second one was smaller and more simple, breaking the castle up into vague areas and groupings, each one labelled with a word in Muadhnait’s native script. The third map was actual blueprints — angular, straightforward, precise — though the castle the blueprints described looked smaller than the massive edifice of reality.
I stood at Muadhnait’s shoulder. She looked up at me, but I said nothing, so she looked back down. That was better.
Kimberly was sat on the floor nearby. She said, “That … does seem like an awful lot of ground to cover. What are your, um, plans, Muadhnait? If you don’t mind sharing, of course.”
Muadhnait raised her hands and signed, “Don’t eat anything. Don’t read anything. Don’t go into the dark. Don’t stay under the roof if we have to spend more than one night here.”
“Uh … right, yes.” Kimberly swallowed, but she didn’t look like she was going to cry. Sexually harassing her earlier had probably short-circuited her tears for now. (And yes, I was sexually harassing her. Don’t pretend I wasn’t, I don’t need your defence.) “But, I mean … more in terms of, um … how will you … ”
“How will you find your sister?” I said. “Or will sisterly love guide you?”
Heather’s methods. Not that I doubted.
Muadhnait started to sign something — “Guide — she —” But then she stopped and tapped several places on the map, then signed. “I will start with these locations.”
“That’s it?”
That was it.
The sun dipped lower, the shadows in the courtyard deepened, the fingers of mist in the far corners thickened; there was no great blazing sunset that evening, as there had been on the first night in the ruined village. The highland fog swallowed whatever rusty glow the sun and the clouds conspired to create, washing out the colours until they were only fading white. Muadhnait lit the sad little fire; the orange and yellow flames seemed to hunch and hide, as if trying to conceal their hue. I think it cheered the others quite a bit, but I was elsewhere, tugged by the fire in my guts. Muadhnait cooked another meagre dinner of oats over the cheery little flames. Casma ate. Kimberly ate more. Tenny ate sadly.
When the fire started to die down, Muadhnait demonstrated the function of the little pale rock she’d shown us earlier. She held the ‘light kernel’ in her mailed fist and squeezed it hard for about thirty seconds. Weak illumination started to leak out from between her fingers, and when she opened her palm the stone was glowing with a cold greenish light — not much, just enough to light our little camp. She placed the kernel next to the fire.
“It will last about ten hours,” she signed to us. “Do not knock it away or pick it up, lest you risk letting too much darkness in with us. If anything happens to it, wake me at once.”
There was almost no talk that night. Kimberly was withdrawn, staring at the fire, then at the stone when the fire had died; she tried to make a joke about wanting to brush her teeth, but it wasn’t a joke. She looked at me several times when she thought I wouldn’t see, but it wasn’t the kind of look I wanted from her, so I focused on the fire in my belly and pretended I hadn’t done anything to her earlier. Casma and Tenny shared a blanket again, and they fell asleep early, snuggled up together, probably exhausted from the long hike. Muadhnait lay down on her back just like before, like a suit of amour in a tomb, like she had been a walking corpse all along. Kimberly eventually slept as well, lying lengthwise on the outside of our little huddle, to protect Casma and Tenny from the night.
I pretended to sleep for a while, bundled up in my own blanket, shawl about my neck, kitchen knife on my chest. I waited until I was certain nobody would hear me.
Muadhnait ruined my plans.
She moved mere moments before I was about to. She sat up without a sound, (quite a feat in that armour, right?) then stood up slowly and carefully, moving for stealth and silence. I unwrapped my knife inside my blanket, because I thought she might be going for Tenny. But she didn’t. She walked to the edge of the circle of salt and sat back down, cross-legged. She took out one of her swords and laid it over her armoured lap.
Muadhnait stared into the darkness.
Do as she says, not as she does? What a hypocritical little nun you were, Muadhnait. Tut tut. Shouldn’t you have been taking your own advice?
But this darkness was not the same as the darkness in the ruined village, fair enough. The kernel’s light was not linear, like flames, but faded out forever as it stretched, without ever quite dying. Though the mist was thick and the walls were black they were just about visible at the edge of the courtyard. I watched for a few minutes, waiting for the sprites and pixies of the previous night to appear on the battlements or peer around the doorways or cavort in the overgrown flowerbed. But nothing showed itself.
The village had been a gleaming corpse, still fresh despite age. This place was mummified, dry and empty.
I stood up — softly softly. Muadhnait didn’t turn her head, which made me smiley smiley. I tucked my shawl around my neck, then crept up almost beside her, just outside the range of her vision from that slit in her helmet.
She saw my shadow. She turned her helmet and looked up at me. She started to sign something about how I should go back to sleep — then she saw the naked knife in my hand.
“You have no idea how to find your missing sister, do you?” I said.
She hesitated, then signed, “That’s not true.”
I pointed with the blade, past her, into the dark.
“I’m going to find the Mimic,” I whispered. “If I see a sister, a sister will be freed.”
Muadhnait did what she kept doing, what she was doing right then, what she had been doing all along — she hesitated.
I turned away and stepped past her, one foot over the circle of salt.
Muadhnait clanked gently as she rose quickly to her feet, then grabbed my wrist in one armoured fist. I turned and raised my kitchen knife. She let go of me and spread her gauntlets.
“Don’t try to stop me again,” I whispered. “Or I’ll stop you, sister or not.”
Muadhnait signed, “You can’t — night — danger — too much — don’t—”
“Stop.”
Muadhnait stopped. Her gauntlets shook. Slowly and carefully, she signed, “I’m terrified.”
“Yeah. Are you coming or not?”
There’s so much going on in this chapter that my usual riffing off events down here feels totally powerless. Maisie is … a hot mess, let’s call it that. A castle! Trying to do something with Kim! A burning need in her gut. And now a burning need to get this over with ASAP by inviting the knightly nun out for a nighttime stroll with the ghosts and goblins. Good luck Maisie.
As for behind the scenes, Maisie is proving downright impossible to narratively control. She’s following my outline – kinda, but also pulling at every loose thread and constantly turning around to stare at me, which is an interesting experience! I wouldn’t have it any other way, though, as I keep saying. I thiiiink the arc is probably reaching the halfway point, but that’s almost entirely dependent on Maisie herself. I’m just, you know, along for the ride.
And so is Muadhnait, by the looks of it.
Meanwhile, if you want more Katalepsis right away, you can get it by:
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And thank you so much for being here, dear readers! Thank you for reading Katalepsis! As always, none of this would be remotely possible without all of you, the audience. Maisie would surely turn her ire on me alone. Ahem. So! Katalepsis is for you!
Next chapter, will this knightly nun ever stop hesitating? Is it time for M&M to talk a walk off into the dark? Or is Maisie going to make like her sister, and blunder off all alone?
Katalepsis 
