Winning Chapters

Nothing discloses real character like the use of power. It is easy for the weak to be gentle. Most people can bear adversity. But if you wish to know what a man really is, give him power. This is the supreme test.

-Robert G. Ingersoll

In 1864, the States of America remain in the throes of their great Civil War. Japan struggles to maintain its ancient culture under intense pressure and invasion by Europe. China reels from the impact of its Opium War and the arrival of the English to its shores. One Empire of the far east remains untouched. One final, hermit kingdom is still a complete mystery to the west: Korea.

January 16, 1864

Palace of King Cheoljong

Seoul, Korea

He makes his way up the palace steps, looking at his shoes, and the grey of the slate. The air is cold as it whips the stone dragons on either side of the walkway, but he is warm with anticipation.

He holds his summons bearing the mark of the royal seal in clear view and wills himself to move at an unhurried pace, lowering his head just so, not making eye contact. He offers a slight bow of deference as he bypasses other ministers awaiting a royal audience and strides directly to the King’s private chambers. He barely notices the young boy behind him, striving to keep up.

The round columns are a deep red, supporting a roof painted in bright jade with geometric designs of blue, gold, and black in opulent detail. The ornamental eaves jut out like heads of snakes.

“I come at the request of His Majesty,” he utters, as planned, and the double doors open to admit him. He leaves the boy outside. No need for him to know the truth of how his crown was achieved…of blood and sacrifice. Not yet.

The room smells of sweat and sickness. And something else: fear.

He expects what is coming, he thinks.

He sees the fading body of his monarch laid low on his luxurious bed of mats, pillows, and cushions. The labored breathing coming from the limp form is already jagged and uneven.

The poison has done its work.

Privacy screens are positioned on three sides of the bedding, but this is an illusion. There are always others listening, though they will not interfere; mere women, or some eunuchs who have been well-bribed for their silence. There is no reason to hesitate. No reason to shrink from his destiny. Power, he knows, is won and bought. And he is willing to pay this price.

He kneels beside the emaciated young King and places both hands firmly over the man’s nose and mouth. He feels the hard floor under his knees and rests his elbows and forearms on the cushions- for comfort. This moment of total control is ecstasy. But there is barely any struggle; no fight left in this man who should be at his peak of physical strength.

Within moments he is exiting the chamber again, turning the King’s royal seal over in his fingers. He carefully composes his face to show humility and surprise. And then relaxes it. There is no longer need for that. He who holds the seal, holds everything. He places one hand on his son’s unsteady shoulder.

“Our King has passed from this world, and has named my son his heir,” he says, poised at the top of the steps, holding up the royal seal in his other hand.

There is no reason to say more. The seal is in his possession and they know what it means. The distrust in their eyes tells him they guess how he has achieved it. His son, a child, will be King. But he will rule, as regent. Their suspicions do not bother him. Better they understand what he is capable of. What he is willing to do. Fear, in this circumstance, will be helpful. His pride swells as he realizes he evokes this most useful emotion in the nation’s highest ministers.

He does not linger, but strides confidently toward the palace gates. As he does, it seems that even the stone dragons are bowing to him now. This time, the only place worth looking, is forward.

March, 1866

Village North of Seoul

Mother braces herself for the next pain, her arms strong against the frame of the doorway. The entry is open to the frosty air but Mother’s face is glistening with sweat.

“Do not look so worried Sun,” she chides with a grin that takes some effort. “I have done this before.”

Sun warms at the use of her name. It isn’t really her name. She will receive her name when she marries, and then will be addressed as her husband’s wife. Still, Mother has always called her Sun when it is just the two of them.

Mother does not mention that only twice have her pregnancies resulted in a living child. And only once has that child survived. But they both remember. That child is her: a girl. This time they need a boy.

Mother resumes her pacing, back and forth across their one-room house. Her hands are pressed into her lower back and her elbows stick out taught with pain. She pauses her shuffling for a moment and moans. Then continues on, back and forth, panting heavier.

“A boy will make us safe, won’t he Mother?” Sun glances around at the few items they could take with them should it be a girl and they lose their place. It isn’t much beyond the clothes they are wearing.

“A boy will bring your father pride and dignity. And yes, he will make us safe.”

After a while some neighbor women arrive, all muttering about how Mother should have hired a soothe-sayer and sorceress to be there for the birth. But Mother stops the bickering with a firm word. She cannot afford a sorceress. She lifts her chin defiantly and uses some of her precious energy to summon a smile for her daughter.

As daylight fades Mother lies restlessly on the worn, thin, sleeping mat. She is in terrible discomfort and the women fear the labor has gone on for too long. They debate in low voices as the heat from the ondol floor radiates upward through the soles of their bare feet. The warmth that should have been a comfort at this time of year was too intense.

The cluster of shoes at the doorway shows that most of the women of the village are present. But for all their collective experience they seem helpless to come to the aid of Mother and her unborn child.

One lady looks as though she cannot bear to see Mother’s distress, and runs out of the house. But she returns, holding a talisman for luck: a wooden cross hung on a bit of rope. She lifts it aloft over Mother.

“Not that!” the others shriek. “It is an ill-omen!”

It is one of their symbols: the men from across the sea. By order of The Taewongun, anyone caught with one of these symbols will be put to death, and everyone in their village will be tortured.

Their voices are barely audible whispers as they argue.

“She needs whatever help this can give!”

“But we do not understand its power!”

“It is dangerous to even have that here!” someone hisses, and two of the women leave without looking back.

Mother writhes in pain.

“No one ever needs to know.”

No one asks Sun what she thinks. She is an unmarried, 12-year-old girl. She is invisible.

Mother lets out a terrible scream. Then there is a gush of blood and the room is filled with the smell of copper.

“If you do not stand aside, and she dies, her spirit and that of her dead child will haunt you! And when I die, I shall haunt you myself!” the woman with the talisman spits to the others blocking her path. She lunges forward and loops the necklace over Mother’s head, who is too awash in agony to notice. It hangs there between her heavy breasts; recklessly provocative, even in the dim light.

In one sudden heave the baby is born. Its healthy cries fill the small room while the women help Mother to clean herself and put the baby to breast before taking their leave. No further mention of the talisman is made.

In a few moments Father enters. Sun glances quickly at her mother’s chest, but the necklace is gone.

“Prepare some rice for your father,” Mother orders her. “He wants to celebrate his new son with a meal.”

While Sun cooks, she steals glances at her parents. Father’s posture is easy. Finally, he has a son to carry on his name and to pray at his shrine when he dies. Mother’s jaw is clenched less tightly than before. Now she will keep her home and her husband. She has no reason to fear divorce as long as this baby survives.

The water in the kettle is hot. Sun reaches into the rice sack and nearly scrapes the bottom. They will have to make what’s left last until summer, and Mother will need her strength to feed the babe. She prepares the dish and serves Father first. He balks at the meager portion, and shoots her a mean glance. She flinches in reflex, but he does not raise his voice. His gaze travels to the slackening rice sack, then to his new son, and finally rests on Sun. A look of comprehension dawns on his face, and resigned, he sedately eats his portion. Father finishes and goes to share the news of his good fortune with the men of the village.

Next, Sun serves Mother an even larger portion than Father. Mother gasps.

“You are good to me, Sun. Thank you.”

But she knows where her extra has come from. Mother scoops a large spoonful of her own pile of rice onto Sun’s paltry portion.

“It is a mother’s duty to take care of her children.”

They eat in silence. The only sound in the still night is the clink of their spoons. The short grains of rice have gummed together and each chewy bite is a buoy against the depths of exhaustion. When Mother finishes her rice, she lies on her side, puts the babe to her breast, and succumbs to sleep.

As Sun rouses herself to clean the dishes, she remembers the foreigners’ talisman and is filled with dread.

Little news makes its way from the capital to their lonely village, but everyone knows enough to fear The Taewongun. The father of the boy-King holds all the power as Regent and his might is far-reaching. It is said he met with a sorceress to win the throne for his son and bargained for his crown with the promise of the blood of 10,000 lives.

Where is the necklace now? If it is still here, Mother has been careful to hide it from Father. Sun shudders, imagining the others this necklace may have belonged to and what has become of them.

Bone-weary, Sun curls up at Mother’s feet. She feels gratitude for her new brother. He has brought stability to her family. And the warmth of the ondol floor is reassuring once more.

₪₪₪

At dawn, Sun stirs to the sound of scraping. She cautiously opens one eye and sees Father taking rice from the grain sack.

“Ahh,” he rasps, frustrated with the little that remains. He ties up a pile of rice in a cloth and exits the house. Sun sits up and sees that Mother is awake too.

“Sun,” Mother hisses. “Take this!” She tosses the cross necklace at her. Sun is hesitant to touch it, and it clatters- too loudly, across the floor.

“Quickly, before your father returns. Take it outside. Far from the house. And bury it! I fear the trouble it may bring us.”

Sun looks at her usually unshakable mother, now trembling in desperate terror- her eyes pleading. And she understands she must do this. There is no one else. She snatches up the necklace and in three quick strides is out the door. Mother is depending on her. There is no choice; only obedience.

Breathing in the fresh air is exhilarating. Sun has not been allowed outside in the morning light since she was nine. She and Mother save the outdoor chores for evening and wear their dress collars high to hide their faces. Sometimes, after full dark, they visit a neighbor. But only if the neighbor’s husband is not at home.

Sun tucks the cross into the top of her dress. She doesn’t want to be found carrying such a talisman. Being seen at all would cause harm enough. Now that she is twelve, she expects Father will arrange a marriage for her soon. Being seen out-of-doors in the daylight would make her unsuitable to be anyone’s honorable wife and bring only shame upon her family. Still, this risk is necessary. Their lives depend on it.

She opens the rickety gate that gives privacy to their yard, and leaves its protection behind. Sun moves as stealthily as she can manage, her clogged feet padding along the dirt path. But the village is quiet. No one should see her at this time. The women will not be out, and the men will still be sleeping.

The village road is barely the width of a cart. Small dwellings dot both sides, each home barely one kan- eight paces by eight paces. The one room is shared by entire families, most much larger than hers. The huts are constructed with beams of pine and covered in layers of thick paper. Each one leans at a different angle. Normally Sun savors her moments of outdoor freedom, and notices every detail of her village that the darkness allows. But today, even in the growing light, it is a blur.

At the sight of the edge of the wood her burden feels lighter. But as she passes the last hut, Sun sees a woman pressed up against its wall. Her skirts are gathered up around her waist and one knee is lifted high. A man stands between her legs, jerking himself against her roughly, and even though Sun is ten paces away she can hear his heavy breathing. Sun gathers her own dress in both hands and runs as fast as she can for the cover of the trees. She doubts they’ve noticed her, but when she hears the woman moan, she turns to look again. The man is her father. This is where he was taking our rice this morning: to his mistress.

Sun’s face stings with shame at having witnessed such a scene, but she turns and walks further into the forest. She has a more important task.

She pauses at the base of a pine tree and scans the area quickly to be sure she is alone. The necklace against her chest is suffocating. Her feet kick aside the bed of needles and she kneels to dig with her hands. The scent of pine fills her lungs as the sap-soaked earth grinds under her fingernails. Her heart is pounding so loudly she cannot hear her own labored breath. If someone comes upon her, she won’t hear any warning. She swings her eyes from side to side with each scooping motion, terrified of discovery. Even still, she can’t keep her thoughts from what she’s just seen.

Her mother and father do not have an official marriage. To get one costs more than they earn in half a year. But informal marriages are common, and their union is accepted by everyone in the village. Of course, even in an official marriage, divorce is easy for the husband and a constant threat to the wife.

Sun’s throat is painfully tight, straining with emotion, and her eyes blink back tears of frustration. For a moment she gives thanks for her poverty. Noble Ladies must share their homes with their husband’s concubines, and she doesn’t think she would be capable of bearing that.

Sun’s hands tremble with cold, but she plunges them again and again into the near-frozen soil. She thinks about what might have become of them if Mother’s baby had been another girl. Three girls would be too many useless mouths to feed. Father would divorce Mother, and then Mother would be against some wall…her skirts around her waist…begging a cup of rice. Maybe even Sun, too.

Now her hands are burning, and she glances down to see some of her fingernails are chipped and bleeding. The hole is deep enough. She drops in the cross and stands over it tottering with exhaustion. Sudden nausea overtakes her and she leans over the hole to be sick. The enormity of the risk she has taken brings her to her knees, and she wills her arms to move the earth back into its place. Some things may be worth dying for. But not this.

The sun is rising higher. The village will be waking. She finishes leveling out the dirt and pats it down for good measure. She stands and kicks the pine needles back into place and hurries toward home. There is no reason for her to worry now. The baby is a boy, and her future is secure.

She passes the first shack on the end of the street, and this time no one is there. She urges her cold limbs more quickly and widens her stride. The kachi birds are noisy in the trees and it is full daylight. Father could already be home! Her arms and feet are filthy. She needs to think of a story for her absence if she does not want to cause trouble for Mother. As she nears home, her heart sinks. She hears the babe crying and Father’s raised voice!

Sun steps through the doorway. Her first glance is for Mother who sits on the floor cradling her new son, tears flowing from her downturned face onto the babe in her arms. Father stands over her, the rice sack slung over his shoulder. He looks at Sun in a detached sort of way.

“Come with me,” he commands gruffly.

Sun looks again to Mother, but she does not even lift her head in acknowledgement. So, without a word and in perfect obedience, Sun follows her father back out into the daylight.

₪₪₪

It is past midday before Sun realizes they aren’t going back. Mile after mile she has followed Father but he has not said a word. It takes effort to match his pace and she doesn’t have much energy left for thinking.

Near sunset they pass through a village. Several men gather at the grassy center playing chess. They see her walking by, without her hat and collar, in the fading daylight and Father does not seem to care! The meaning of this hits Sun so forcefully she loses her breath. He doesn’t care because he doesn’t intend to marry her off. He intends to sell her.

Through her indignation she can see the sense in it: one less mouth to feed, and more rice to feed those remaining. She cannot bring herself to feel surprise. It is the hungry time of year. Early spring. Too late for winter stores and too soon for new crops. The time of year people eat their dogs if they have one. The time of year people sell their daughters.

On the far side of the village Father sits and thrusts the rice sack in her direction. They will camp here for the night. He still offers no explanations, but Sun grieves the truth she can feel in her spirit: she is never going home again.

She realizes what little they have to eat. Unsure of how far until their destination, she decides to ration the rice. She makes them half of their normal portions, and when it’s prepared passes the single dish to Father first. She watches him eat, waiting for her share. But he eats it all and hands her the empty dish. By the time she rinses the dish in the brook and returns, Father is snoring. Sun considers making another portion for herself, but weariness wins over hunger and she lies down nearby.

The ground is cold and she imagines the warm ondol floor of home. She remembers Mother spooning rice into her dish. In one day, her legs have carried her farther than she’s ever been, and she may never see or speak to Mother again. The magnitude of change overwhelms her. But before she can summon one tear, she is asleep.

In the morning Sun prepares the rice, and again Father spares none for her. But she finds it difficult to care. Her body is sore, unfamiliar to this much exercise. Her mind is foggy from hunger and fatigue. She contemplates escape, but she has nowhere to go. After eating and relieving himself, Father starts out again. He says nothing and does not look back. He knows there is only one option for her: to follow and obey.

They walk all day without resting, following faintly-marked paths amid rice fields. The rice farming families spend their entire lives among these gently-rolling, fertile hills. Their prayer each year is to grow enough crop to feed their families and pay their taxes, and no more. More brings trouble. If the price of rice is high, a nobleman will come seeking a loan. The kind of loan he will never pay back, and will have you arrested and tortured to secure. Sun has heard of farmers burying their extra money, or even burning it. To survive is the only goal of the rice farmer. She realizes this must be her goal too.

At dusk, she prepares the last of the rice for Father. When he isn’t looking, she quickly stuffs a handful of uncooked granules into her mouth. It nearly makes her gag, but she stifles a cough and holds it determinedly under her tongue while she cooks and serves him. Only when she takes his empty dish to the stream does she dare to chew. By now the rice has softened and she savors the nourishment.

The rice is gone. Wherever our destination, she thinks, Father believes we will reach it tomorrow.

As Sun stands by the stream her breath makes clouds in the air and her hands ache with cold from the washing. She hesitates for a moment, forfeits what’s left of her pride, and lets her bladder go. The warmth trickles over her freezing legs, and she squats and uses her hands to massage the temporary heat into her sore muscles. Then she makes her way back to Father and lies down next to the fire, resigned to survive.

When the sun rises, they walk. Soon the terrain changes from hilly to mountainous. Sun picks her way along the slender foot-paths, each uncertain step taken by force of will on her wobbly, weakening legs. There are no sturdy roads or stable bridges. Those are only hastily constructed for the rich and powerful, and even then, they only last a season. When a nobleman is traveling, one man from each nearby household is conscripted to work on the road. There is no pay, no advance warning, and no choice. It is something to be dreaded.

Now and then they pass other travelers and Sun feels naked without her head covering. Completely vulnerable, she struggles to accept her new identity. Her miniscule worth has been downgraded into something of even less value. Her destiny now is not to be an honorable wife, but a slave. Still, she has no choice but to plod along and hope her master might show her kindness. Is there such a thing as a kind man?

Father stops and Sun raises her glance to see what caused his sudden halt. She inhales sharply as she takes in a view of sudden beauty: granite mountain tops; lofty crags that climb higher into the sky than anything she has ever seen.

But the mountains are not the cause of Father’s delay. Directly ahead a huge tablet sticks out of the earth and reaches above their heads; a forbidding stone soldier. Upon it are letters in both Chinese and Hangul- the informal language of Korea. Sun can’t hope to read the Chinese, that is for the educated. But Mother has taught her to read some Hangul – the language of women and peasants.

‘Death to foreigners,’ it reads. ‘If you see a Man from Across the Sea and do not kill him on sight, you are a traitor to Korea, and will die a traitor’s death.’

The stone warning is new- the earth around it recently disturbed. It is a sign of The Taewongun’s commitment to his campaign against all who trespass on Korea’s shores.

Instinctively Sun clenches her fists, remembering the talisman she gripped in them only days ago. She shudders, contemplating ‘a traitor’s death.’

Around the next bend is a grassy field overlooking a river. The midday sun reflects off the wide water, making Sun squint, but she can make out a small crowd near the edge of the embankment. They are gathered around a boulder: an execution stone. Sun has only heard of them. It is the most common way criminals are put to a dishonorable death.

“Keep moving,” Father urges gruffly.

His words shock her out of her reverie. Even Father seems nervous to be so near such an exhibition. He puts his head down and increases his pace.

Sun tries to do the same but as they draw even with the group, she steals a glance. Three prisoners cling together, a tan rope around each pale neck. They share the same dark eyes, the same dark hair, and the same fate. One is a boy younger than Sun.

Suddenly the woman is torn from the other two and led to the boulder. She cries out and reaches back toward the boy, but quickly by a jerk of the rope, her head is bashed against the stone. A crack reverberates through the valley as her wails stop and the rock is splattered with blood. Several times more a snapping sound rings out as gore flies in every direction. Finally, the rope is dropped and the body lay lifeless in the grass. The head lies a few feet away; a bruised apple ripped from its stem.

Might the same fate await her own mother? Would the cross necklace be discovered? Or would she be safe? Sun realizes she may never know and her throat sears, thick with burning despair.

Sun risks one final look at the boy as they pass. Near him stands a high official. She can tell by his expensive, bright colored clothes. Before she can lower her eyes again the official notices her. He holds her gaze until Sun, ashamed of her own boldness, thrusts her head down and hurries to catch up with Father.

Only later, when she dares to look up from her feet again, does Sun realize why the stare of the high official had been so unsettling. She is sure that in that moment her face had held unmasked revulsion. The official however, had been smiling.

Sun is heartsick over the suffering she witnessed in the field. It consumes her thoughts, making this day’s journey pass more quickly than all the others. Hours later she is encouraged to have discovered this secret: that compassion for the anguish of others can distract from her own misery. She makes up her mind to keep this precious tool close at hand. Wherever she is headed, she very likely will need it.

They crest a ridge and begin their descent into its valley. Sun recognizes the scents of men and food and beasts. Below them smoke hangs like a thick and fragrant blanket over a bustling city as its inhabitants light their fires for the evening meal. This is the capital. It must be! As they enter the city gate, a man exits past them, lumbering under a load of human dung on his back, destined to a rice field for fertilizer. But most travelers are headed in, not out. As Koreans like to say ‘all roads lead to Seoul.’

Sun is overwhelmed by motion and sound: the steady squeak of a water carrier, the unhurried sway of an ox burdened by bundles of firewood, and the swish of women washing garments in a shallow stream. There’s a chuckle of dice as men place their bets and the tinkle of coins as they pay their debts. But most breathtaking is the cloud of white down each street: every man’s garment as bright as fresh snow, set off by black belts and tall hats.

They press inward toward the city-center and people in the marketplace call their wares about them. Small homes line the narrow roads, made narrower by stalls and shops built onto the house fronts. Smothered among the swamp of bodies, Sun allows herself to ride the wave of the crowd, pulled by its tide; engulfed by it.

Suddenly she feels a hand close around her wrist, dragging her out of the stream and she hears Father bartering in low tones.

She could hate him, she thinks. For bringing her here. For selling her. For separating her from Mother. For not sharing the rice. For not even speaking to her. But she finds she doesn’t have the energy.

He must have found a buyer, Sun realizes, experiencing the scene as somehow apart from it.

She could forgive him, she considers. For doing what he must. For taking care of Mother and the baby. For not letting them all starve. But she doesn’t have the energy for that either.

How much am I worth? she muses. She tries to stand up taller. And what will I become? A laundry woman- consigned to a life of kneeling and scrubbing? A Gisang- slave to men’s lust and entertainment?

She barely has time to consider her fate before there is a firm hand on her shoulder, guiding her away. The setting sun scorches her eyes and brings her back into the weight of this moment. With Father, the last shred of certainty is about to disappear from her life. With him he takes her last piece of home and the only life she’s ever known.

She tries to twist around for a final glimpse of him. But, lost in the crowd, he is already gone.

₪₪₪

2nd Place

Balancing Act

Carmina McConnell

Chapter One

Right now, here watching Ana, you are convinced that she is looking for a way out.

She stands on the cliff-face staring out across that stunning wild coastline. Her handsome freckled face is taut with tension. She is oblivious to the slapping and spitting of the spiteful wind and the murderous taunting screams of the gulls on the rocks. She rages at her own stupidity. She breathes in the rhythm of the tide, struggling for control. What had she been thinking when she said she would come? She should leave. Now. She moves hurriedly away along the path, struggling to keep her balance in the growing storm.

Yes, you are right: Ana is looking for a way out, but not in the way that you are assuming as you watch her.

At the next bay you see her pause. She crouches, touches ground, sensing the ghosts slither away. She glances around, sighs with relief, feels a sense of letting go. To her right, a familiar angular rock ascends from the beach twenty of more feet to the sky; a mad-man’s sculpture of babel. Her gaze rests on its ragged careless journey upwards, to the gulls bending, diving, and surfing the bolstering winds. An island of shark-teeth stones paves the way from the beach and furious waves crash behind.

Ana catches a slight motion, a shadow of something on the rocks. Surely not? She squints, focusses in on the movement against the static black. Somehow, unnoticed in the reckless climb to reach there, up the ancient scramble of sharp-toothed piled rocks, a boy stands atop the pinnacle.

He is eight, – ten maybe? – thin, but compact. Curly black locks flail in the wind, his white face luminescent against the grey seas. Like a gambling ballerina, he pitches this way and that in the churning air. Waves roar below and the rocks’ teeth sharpen ready to tear and snap if his balance fails. He slowly he raises his arms to the skies and stretches upwards, victorious. Ana shivers at the sight: the audacity, the danger, as he sways before her, framed by raging nature. She feels a bolt of unadulterated joy at existence. She is enthralled.

Ana stretches her hand to him-out towards the sea and across the vast chasm divide between them -as if she can catch him in the ether, as if he would float down and be carried in the wind across the separation and be gently deposited in her open palm to safety. His tiny body writhes and curves atop the precipice. Her arm remains suspended, begging. She is entranced as the boy slowly turns and he holds her gaze. Seconds pass. Her hand still reaching. Then as they remain locked, his lip curls knowingly. His expression twists, spews disdain, loathing, mockery. He is offering her a repulsive challenge. She feels burnt. Maligned. Condemned. She lowers her hand.

In a bid for reason, to make sense and to take control, she reaches for her camera. She will capture him in her lens. She will trap him in his triumphant dance of freedom -if he exists that is. And if he does, and after he falls – which is surely inevitable – he will be forever hers, caught in this moment. She will own him. It takes Ana mere seconds to remove the case, check the settings, and consider the framing. The lens focusses in to where he stood. Nothing. There is no one there. She checks again. Again: nothing. She scans the summit, the wild sea below. Nothing. Not there on the winding ridges. Not there as a black spot in the angry sea. Nothing. Nothing anywhere. She loudly sucks in air, drowning in anger. Of course. What did she expect? This is what happens when she returns here. She must leave. Now. She must go.

She had returned here on a whim. She had been travelling since the early hours and the sensible thing would have been to continue the drive on the main road, the fastest, the direct and obvious route. But somehow it felt too controlling, a metaphor for his hold on her across the years. The urge to rebel, to avoid him, that house, had been too strong. So, she diverted from what she knew was about to come, from the shrill anxiety –and took the road that spun off to the north, to the wilder places, to this the vast raw horizon and these raging elements: this coast that she had so often longed for. But somehow, in spite of herself – to spite herself – she had arrived at this specific spot: this awful ocean of remembrance.

As Ana turns away, she catches a flash of movement; a glimpse of a hand grasping at rock. A child’s limb fleetingly appears over the other side of the structure. A small foot as it touches down on the crusty surface of the shore. A fragile figure scampering across the beach below. Then nothing. He is gone. But where? Ana realizes she has been holding her breath and slowly releases it. She lowers her camera, bends at the waist and drily retches.

She sits a while as the coast rages at her. No other sign of the boy. She tells herself it had all been her imagination. The sprite’s pirouette a torn fragment of childhood memory. A consequence of what had been and what was ahead. Facing it. Seeing him. It is time to continue her journey. She will do this. She can do this. Weary now, she makes her way towards her car and heads West.

You watch. She is out of your reach now. You can only hope she will return.

……………………………………………………………………………………….

Ana had been at the house less than an hour, but already felt smothered and exhausted. It was as if the very walls pushed in at her. Her mouth was dry and the air felt brittle at each intake of breath. He sat quietly in the corner regarding her, assessing her. He noted that she at thirty-four she still carried her beauty unaware: that fresh face, sharp intelligent eyes, the angular jaw and that innocent sprinkling of freckles across her nose and cheeks and that tumbling chestnut hair that so reminded him of her. He felt helpless. They had chattered away since she arrived, but nothing had really been said as they danced around the old tensions. He was fully aware of the accusations crouching stout and alert in the shadows of their words.

Her arrival had been uneventful. Had any stranger been watching, all they would have reported was a door opening, a light greeting, an entrance. But to Ana, every movement, every expression was seeped in tension and substance. She had originally assumed the door would be opened by someone else. Someone unrecognizable. Faceless, newly employed. However, it had been him. He had taken his time to respond to her knocking. She heard him before she saw him, a shuffling of hard heeled shoes, a loud clearing of his throat, then a long pause. As she recognized the sounds of him, she wondered if he would change his mind and retreat. Or that she would withdraw. She pictured herself turning abruptly from the door, sneaking away, hurriedly sprinting across the driveway and back into the car. In the pause whilst he steadied himself, she imagined herself speedily driving away, onwards, homewards, or returning to that coast and the lost promises of freedom. And then the door had slowly opened, and he stood there: “So, Antigone …you came.”

A statement, not a question. That voice. It punched her.

He was not what she expected. He was reduced: a smudged version of when Ana had seen him last – like a final press of an impoverished printer eking out expensive ink. If she was meeting him for the first time she might have described him as an old man. She forced a sort of smile. She played out the motions of a hugged greeting. To her complete surprise he yielded to the movement, not quite responding, but not resisting, and she had to steady herself to avoid falling into him. He turned and led her along the marbled hall.

“Leave your case there. Someone will bring it up to your room.” A hint of irritation at her hesitation. “I have arranged food for half an hour’s time Antigone, so that you have time to freshen up and…please..” his eyes moved slowly down her body, assessing, frowning: “….please make sure you change”.

And at that instance, the clothes that had been so painstakingly considered, became inadequate and inappropriate. Her teenage-self stood awkwardly in the linen trousers and cashmere jumper that she had so carefully selected that morning after days of consideration. She knew that she had yet again somehow failed. She felt totally crushed. Ana had been found wanting. Here she was again. As had always been the way with him, and – she now thought she knew – would always be the way it was.

“Yes, of course, father”.

And there it was: those words. And here she was once more. And after all these years.

As you watch you are shocked by her expression. As he steps along the corridor held tight and upright, she slowly follows. She glares at his back with loathing. Does he really deserve that? You had not conceived that she was capable of such hatred. You are unsure now whether she should have come. You may need to question yourself and your plans. Time will tell.

………………………………………………………………………

Ana felt well rested and calm when she awoke the next morning. The sense of displacement and disquiet had faded. She washed and dressed feeling a rising wave of good humour. Like everything else since she began the journey that led to this house, she wondered if she was reading too much into everything. There was nothing unusual here. Nothing to scare her. 1997 has been a good year so far; it would continue to be so. Her father appeared innocuous really as he sat across the vast antique oak table at breakfast. His eyes were faded and watery, his grey hair, exuding the cut of class and wealth, wisped faintly around his softened features and sprouted sparsely from his crinkled ears. His age spotted skin softened, his expression appeared benign as he watched over her. She decided it was time to begin; to rip open the parcel and let whatever it contained spill untidily forth:

“You know it was impossible for me to get here.”

A long hard pause, and then, raised brows as he held eye contact, drily:

“So you have said.”

Another weighted silence. She would not have this. She would try again:

“Are the arrangements…was it what you wanted?”

He stared directly at her. The clocks tapping beat seemed to slow, echoing amongst the vast corridors, then sit knowingly at her side, waiting with apprehension.

“What I wanted?…..and what is it that I wanted Antigone? …what? What is it that I wanted?”

Choked with unshed tears, his tremulous voice hung in the air. And stayed there. Time passed. The silence held. She wondered then at her own lack of grief. Her disengagement. She had no answer.

You catch your breath …you can only watch them and wait.

…………………………………………………………..

Later that day, after they had strolled together around the estate, been to greet the staff in the folly house and in the kitchens, Ana decided to visit the local town. She had begun the journey here as an urgent plunge, like a dive into icy seas, and, in her anxiety, she had forgotten to pack some basics. She would not ask him for these, although it would have been easy. Ana would not ask him for anything.

Two o’clock saw her wending her way through the narrow roads that led into the local town. As she maneuvered the car into a small space on the High Street, she felt time had stood still. The town was bustling, lively, familiar: the Victorian shop fronts encased in time, the electric fitted gas lamps, the cobbled backstreets and rambling earth-coloured pantiles and gravity defying chimney pots. So pretty. As a picture. She sniffed. So innately English in every way.

Ana walked down the High street at a leisurely pace. Here it was: the wonderful tea rooms with the windows’ bursting display of caramel chocolate-coated delights, towers of scones, hazelnut meringues, egg custard tarts, meille faille slices, and eclairs. Jewelled jam tarts bulging with fruits resting on cushions of sumptuous creams. Waitresses dressed as Victorian maids with starched pinafores over black dresses and gleaming white collars. Every inch of this place gentile. A woman in her sixties smiled at her as she passed; a hint of recognition, but not sure enough to risk a spoken encounter. Past the butchers that she knew had been there in her great-grandparents’ time, past the groceries and then the bookshop. She stopped to look at the books in the window. She was enjoying the sunshine. She entered the chemist and bought toothpaste, then crossed through the slow-moving traffic, down to the green and sat by the pond and read the paper. The sun soothed her skin and like a well-loved family cat she stretched and unwound, her stomach exposed to the world. She felt content. It was fine. Everything would be fine. She would cope with the big day ahead and those that followed.

As the sun faded, Ana walked back up the High Street towards her car. Guests from the hotel spilled onto the street in front of the broad white pillars. She stayed on that side of the street, acknowledging the man who backed into her, accepting his apologies, moved around him, and continued. A group of people blocked the view of the glass sliding doors of the supermarket. Hardly taking notice of the bodies before her, she moved in that direction, the edge of her conscious noting the form of a woman entering the supermarket, pulling a young boy towards her. And in the fall between two heart beats, she suddenly registered him. The boy. That boy. On the rocks. From the day before. It was him: that defiant free-fall balletic from the stormy coast. The same black curls. The same curled lip. That same thin compact body. How could it be? In that second her conscious marked him, the smirk on his white stretched face pierced her calm. As before: his expression was wild, mocking, scornful. As before: a hateful challenge. She rushed towards his retreating figure– fast through the doors of the supermarket, rushing down each aisle in search of him. She frantically sought out the thin threatening figure of the child as she ran through the store. But there was nothing. No young boy anywhere. Her agitation increased, her breaths sped up and became shallow as her anxiety took hold. She saw the woman she thought had pulled the boy into the shop. But there was no-one with her. No boy anywhere. Desperation. She knew she had seen him. He was there. She knew that he was there. But he was not. Nowhere.

She was shaking when she finally gave up searching. She was aware of the concerned looks of those around her: people sneaking glances, guarding themselves against a potential source of danger and threat. She knew her behaviour had been odd. People had noticed her. She needed to gather herself, present normality to the world. She drove carefully back to the house of her childhood, relieved to be away. She understood that she had imagined him. That boy. He hadn’t been there. He probably hadn’t been on that rock either, and even if he had, it wouldn’t be the same boy. It couldn’t be the same boy. It was impossible. It couldn’t be. She understood that.

Ana enjoyed the drive back along the familiar lanes to the grand entrance of her father’s home. The road widened, fecund and deep, pouring forth towards the abundant and glorious landscape. It was truly a breath-taking view. She slowed her car and sat soaking in the beauty before her. The green banks sculptured and carved, curved and rolled towards the central lily-rich lake. The road split to encompass it, as if giving birth to its waters, then married again to announce the splendour of the Rennaissance stone fountain, and the magnificent house beyond. The lake gleamed in the fading sun. She drove on to stop by the fountain. The interwoven nudes were caught in upwards movement, as if turned to stone in a fleeting moment of ecstasy. That bearded muscular figure, arm trapping the females to his side, had always enthralled her. The water gushing forth from his fingertips into the two pools below. His expression, whilst joyous, was also threatening; he gazed outwards from the front of the house as if warding off marauding unknown past intruders. The house stood magnificent; the Queen Anne stonework a patchwork of beige, brown and pink hues, the vast arched windows inviting light inwards, to reflect upon room upon room of opulence and grandeur.

Ana stepped out of her car. She felt the presence of ghosts, shadows of lives that treaded this driveway, sat on the rim of this fountain, danced and argued across the waters. She perched on the icy stone fountain bowl. Past shadows drifted towards her and rested by her side. She was six years old again and being chased round and round this fountain as she screamed hysterically, full tip to toe of ‘stop it I like it’ glee. As she ran, breaths piercing her side, and the excitement of ‘mightbecaughtanyminute’ corseting her rib cage, she was aware of that same bearded stone God looming protectively above. The sounds of the tumbling water, the smash of shoe leather on rubbing gravel and childish past laughter called out to her.

She remembered how that time it had got out of hand. One extremely hot Summer. She and Shanny had been out in the grounds all day and their skins had a sheen of sweat and dust, hardened orchard juices baked into freckled flesh. It was nearly tea-time and they needed to be washed and ready to sit down with the adults; the alternative of cold leftovers at the long pine table in the kitchens an unattractive prospect. She had wanted to go straight in, but they had stopped at the fountain instead and sat on the rim trailing their hands in the wonderfully sharp water.

“Come on Shanny – we can’t be late” Today again she felt the echo of anxiety in that need to be on time at all costs.

“But you haven’t done what I told you yet” Shanny’s irritation took her by surprise.

“What?”

“The dare – you said you would do it”

“But I…and we have to go..” They mustn’t be late. They’d be in trouble.

“I told you: you had to. You said you would. You have to appease the Gods!” He always seemed taller when he commanded her like that.

“But I..it’s too high…I might…. not…”. She felt again the terror mounting.

“You said you wanted to end the curse” He stood both hands on hips now. A warrior. The Leader.

“But I…”. She knew he would win. He always did.

“The Gods are waiting – look at how angry he is” Shanny pointed to the fierce stone figure. Ana shuddered and stood on the rim of the fountain.

“You do it today or the whole family will be destroyed – I told you!” She no longer hesitated: he had dared her to climb up the statue, to drink from the water that stemmed from the bearded god’s finger-tips to stop the curse – she had to take the challenge. When, inevitably, she fell into the water, she heard Shanny’s screams of laughter as she struggled in the viscous space that engulfed her. The water pushed into her nostrils and squeezed the air from her. She clawed at the stone desperate, struggling to right herself, desperate for some coherence between stone and sky. Whilst Shanny’s victorious shape loomed in a kaleidescope blur of colour and mockery beyond her. Her knee grazed as she hauled herself back out of the gushing water and over the rim of the fountain. Snot blocked her nostrils as air sliced and stabbed the way to her lungs. Shanny looked on unconcerned, amused, taunting:

“eeeeeh it’s the curse of the ugly fountain – ha! see Ana– that’s why you nearly drowned!!.”

And when she started to cry :

“stupid moron – only a baby would believe that crap…its your own fault!”

He left her there, defeated, and raced back into the house in time for tea. She stood in her puddle knowing that she must sort herself, dry out and dress without being seen. She would never tell on him. That was the pact. Her and Shanny. Their bond.

Today, she feels once again the helplessness of the child she had been, those first realisations that this was not a safe world. That bad things happened.

She sits now for a while outside the house gathering herself. She considers driving away again, back to where she really belonged. It is no good, she has to see it through. She has to get through tomorrow and all the awfulness that awaits her. It is going to be the longest day of her life; she knows that. She slowly stands and picks up her shopping.

You watch with increased concern as, with shoulders tight and stooped, she steps slowly to the door and into the house.