The bell ringing is both an act of kindness and of cruelty. It sounds out the close of each hour to give the tired souls some sort of frame to their existence, but it also rings as if to say, another hour gone where no one came to rescue you. __ __ It was the last anchor to life as we knew it. I remember that rotting bench on the cobb overlooking the water’s edge. The sea would lap against the grim beach as calmly yet relentlessly as it did back in the land of the living. It was the first spot I eyed when I arrived in this place. I took my shoes off and dug my toes into the sand. I tried to run out to the sea - at the time, the tide was out. But I never got there no matter how long I walked. I spent a lot of my time on this bench - what time, if I had none left? When the sea chose to creep forward, I’d watch the foamy waves splash against the sand and rocks. It would spray me if I was sat on this bench but I felt no wetness nor cold.
I didn’t want to explore the city, you see. It was full of the dead. I preferred the edge, as some others did. I believe there were rugged hills and dark forests for others to take refuge from their stark reality. It makes sense. What could be wrong with me if I still see trees planted in the earth, a sky of clouds above my head? But the bell still gently called, reminding us of time. I still preferred nature’s hold to the chaos of humanity’s suffering. Inside the buildings and on the streets, people of varying degrees of regret and sadness shouted, wrestled, played, whatever you can think of. Anything to distract them.
Nothing forces you to leave this place. Though there is a train. Now and again figures would shuffle to the station and get on board. They never came back having made the choice to progress, or halt progress, however you may look at it.
I was wandering down the beach when a crow called my name. I barely remembered it but the bird cried the word enough that it sparked my consciousness. It took me to the arch that everhone revered. Hands grabbed at my clothes and ghosts begged for me to take them with me. Some tried to claim my name as their own. But I was flanked by crows with sharp beaks and glinting eyes. I walked through the arch and into a light so blinding. I felt the weight of a thousand land on my shoulders. I thought surely my legs would buckle. The air became thicker - I felt something punching the inside of my chest, blood surging through my limbs, an agonising headache.
I opened my eyes and I was hit with a wave of nausea as I took in my surroundings - so vivid yet so colourless. A woman I did not recognise nurse stood over me looking both shocked and overjoyed. With a stabbing pain as my brain formed a thought, I realised she was a nurse.
That is how I escaped from the city of the dead. Time is what I needed after all. My body needed to tick away until it was strong enough. Would I call it hell? I don’t know. I know I’m not going back there, to the in-between. __ __ I spend my days gently. I like the small things. The scent of my coffee. The song of wind chimes. A cooling breeze. The warmth of flames. I always take time to feed the crows.
I watched the cloud unfurling around the mountains, threatening to creep down the rocky hillside towards the water. I stood on the damp wooden jetty breathing in the moist air. The lake I looked upon was vast and lifeless, a grey expanse. I thought how cold it would be falling into the depths. It was a booming tourist spot in the warmer months. The lake teemed with visitors splashing with their boats and lilos. The energy of hundreds of people must have shrouded the sense that here there was something deeply wrong. The locals couldn’t put their fingers on it; there were plenty of stories. “Don’t go swimming in Lake Eyrie,” the waitress had said as she poured me coffee. “The spirits want people to join them and they’ll take you under.” “It’s not that,” an old man said, waving his hand from the table behind her. “They say there’s a curse on it. Don’t go messing with it, son, that’s all I can say.” “Have you ever experienced anything there?” I asked, taking a sip of my coffee to give them time to remember. “Of course, everyone round here has. I lost three hours of my time there when I was a lad. Couldn’t explain it,” the old man told me, nodding. “I saw lights in the sky above it in ‘89,” another waitress added as she walked by. It was all intriguing. After my meal, I bid goodbye to the locals, prepared in my lodgings, and drove to Lake Eyrie, the purpose of my trip. Out there on the jetty, I took out my camera and started taking photos. I didn’t see anything strange at first, and it started sprinkling with rain from the shifting clouds, so I decided to take out my Polaroid for one last photograph. I captured myself with my back to the lake, grinning in case a newspaper wanted my photo some day or I could prove to my friends I visited. The picture took a moment to be printed, and then I took it and waited for it to generate. What I saw made my heart sink and my legs go weak. A crowd of people were behind me, knee or chest deep in the water. They were white and partly transparent. Some had their arms raised as though waving. And yet Lake Eyrie was as still and as grey as ever to my eye, innocently and quietly lapping against the jetty. I threw the photo back to the lake and fled to my car, sat inside it, only to find the car suddenly knee deep in water and rising. I gasped in terror, clambered out, and ran towards the road. I don’t know how far I ran, but it had gone dark, and the cafe was the most welcome sight I had ever seen. I flung open the door, and locked eyes with the waitress who went white herself, choked out: “It’s you!” and fell in a dead faint. And it was then I realised that we had done this before.
If you catch the tide just right at twilight, you can slip beyond the rock pools and clamber up the cliff path. Hidden behind draping ivy and tangles of gorse are the Wedding Graves. They had to be moved because the ghoul of the bride kept climbing out of her coffin in the churchyard. Now she sits on her grave and wails from the cliffside, her voice flying amongst the waves and gulls. Sometimes fishermen hear her cries from the sea. If you catch the tide just right, you might meet her on her ghastly routine. Leave flowers to help her mourn her husband-to-be and encourage her rest.
“You can only turn to magic if you are completely beyond help and completely beyond hope of obtaining what you seek,” said Anthea, rising from the stone table. “You will be seizing the strings of this world and manipulating them to suit yourself. You must be sure before you start treading this path. The fates do not take kindly to impatient, ignorant mortals playing with these forces.” “I’m sure,” Morgana said. She stared at Anthea hungrily, her cheeks flushed and green eyes bright with the potential of harnessing magic. “Very well, Morgana.” Anthea bowed her head. Her long grey hair fell in ripples down her back. She passed the young woman a goblet. “Know that you must have purpose and intent with everything you do henceforth. This applies to not only the magic you use but how you act in life, as this affects what spells you will wish to cast, the potions you brew, and how you bend the universe.” The goblet filled with wine and Morgana took a sip. Anthea conjured a goblet for herself out of the air and drained its contents. She set it down on the table. “You must prove to the fates you are worthy and bold enough to cheat them. And this may kill you. Magic comes with a price. Are you willing to pay?” “I am.” Morgana stood up to stare resolutely at her mentor. “I know what I have to do. Surrender myself to the element that calls to me so I know what will be my source of strength as an enchantress. That is the first stage.” “Yes.” A little smile formed on Anthea’s face. “As you may have guessed, mine was earth. I had to bury myself until the brink of suffocation. I woke with the soil running from me in a landslide and the earth giving birth to me once more.” “Water calls to me, as you’ve seen,” said Morgana eagerly. She began to stride around the cave. “So I will have to drown. Mostly, at least. I should survive - I have played in streams since I was a child. The other children were afraid of drowning but I was always the strongest swimmer. It gives me strength now and it can be my source of magic, I know it.” Anthea watched her walk. She was not sure what to make of Morgana. She had the makings of a great spellcaster, possessing a clever mind and passion, but to sacrifice and humble herself in order to attain power was something else. Not being certain of someone unsettled Anthea. But she knew all would be revealed.
Every atom of the universe is tugging at my soul, telling me it’s time, that I need to leave him, leave this life. It feels as though a maternal figure has her hands on my shoulders and arms, gently prising my grip off reality. She isn’t being cruel, but I feel she is leading me off a cliff into the abyss. I can’t leave him. I can’t. I told us only death would separate us, and I suppose that’s true. I cling to him like he is my air and reason for being. This maternal, insistent sense tells me I don’t need it, that I don’t need to gasp for air anymore. I know peace awaits me on the other side. But this agonising sensation of transition is too much for anyone to bear. I see him open his eyes in the morning. They’re lined with pain but the way the sunlight shines on them through the blinds is beautiful. It falls upon his skin the way I want to touch him and he lies there, basking in the warm light. He makes himself coffee. I long for the scent of it, and the fuzziness of the sofa throw, and the wind to ruffle my hair if I opened a window. I long for the cold rain to kiss me. When this all happens again I won’t be me anymore. But time is moving forward and so must I.
You’re not supposed to let them in. They appear every rainy night and mope around the alleys. All city folk know they’re coming and dim the lamps in case they come knocking. We eat and drink by candlelight and lower our voices when a shape ambles by the window. Some look more human and some are more misshapen with distorted or horrifying features. They never come knocking. It’s like they’re on their own plane and walk all night, only to evaporate when the pale morning light glints off the dirty, metal city. “Busy night tonight,” Ms Jade remarks, cleaning the bar with a rag. She jerks her head towards the rain-streaked window as a couple of shapes slide by. “Mind he gets you home safe,” she tells my daughter sternly. Saph smiles happily as she swings her little legs off the bar stool. “They’re like sleepwalkers.” Ms Jade raises her eyebrows at me. “That’s true enough, I suppose. But mind you leave them like that. Don’t go poking the bear.” “Don’t go rocking the boat,” Saph sang. She must have heard this at her school. They don’t get taught the rumoured origin of the Rain Walkers until they are older. They say there was a catastrophic explosion of one of the airships transporting citizens from the mainland. That the bodies that fell from the ship were claimed by the Grey Sea. That’s what the Rain Walkers are: the lost souls from that ship exploring the city they never got to touch. The sea spray becomes rain and the spirits fall to land. “Come on, Saph,” I say, ruffling her hair. “The rain’s stopping. Have you still got your ticket for the metro?” She proudly shows me the ticket. “Good. See you later, Ms Jade. Say thank you, Sapphy.” “Thank you!” Saph waves and slides off the stool. “Bye John, bye Sapphire.” Ms Jade smiles. We leave out of the front door and walk along the road. The cobbles are shiny from the light rain. The metro zoomes overhead, cracking and clunking. If you squint your eyes, the city becomes a blur of neon colours. Huge buildings tower above us, lit up by office and apartment lights. The stars are invisible with the light pollution. There are a few lingering Rain Walkers up ahead. Some have umbrellas. It is common practice to give them a wide berth, but even if they are approached they won’t acknowledge the living. There is a fine if you touch or attempt to provoke them, though. Just in case.
The metro doors slide shut and it speeds into the night with us inside. It is a spectacular view if you’re careful not to get used to it. This city is a tangle of buildings and bridges and tracks and wires and stairs. People have even created their own ladders to connect homes to family’s or neighbours’. We’re stacked on top of each other here. But it’s a feast for the eyes and it is better to live here than the mainland. The metro slows at the next platform and the doors open. Sapphire tugs at my sleeve and I tear my eyes away from the building that is the hospital. “Dad! Daddy! It’s got into our carriage!” “Who, darling?” I turn in my seat and my eyes meet a pair of milky blind ones as a Rain Walker stands in the carriage, its blurry hand holding on to the pole. Its head is grey and swollen with a mouth too wide for its face. It is grotesque. I have never seen one in the harsh light of the metro before. “We’ll get off at the next stop,” I tell Sapphire, my mouth a little dry. “Why? He’s travelling in his sleep!” Saph grins as she peeks at the Rain Walker. “You told me not to be scared and not wake Mum up and just let her do her thing.” “Oh, Saph, that’s different. Mum’s your mum.” “Are we going to make sure he’s all right?” Saph asks me. “I’m sure he’s all right,” I laugh. But it fades out on its own as the metro slows again and the Rain Walker steps out on to the dark platform. For some reason, Juliet pops into my mind. How she had me with her by her bedside before falling asleep for the final time. It is a quick decision. I grab Sapphire’s hand and we slip out of the doors. Our breath hangs in the cold air. The Rain Walker vanishes down the steps. “I suppose we could give him some company,” I tell Saph and her face breaks into a smile. And so we follow the Rain Walker through the maze that is the city. Saph chatters excitedly as we pursue it, speculating where they go to rest or wake up when the rain stops. The buildings thin and I realise this is the route to Opal Edge. It is an unpopulated plot of land outside of the city. Rumour has it this was the area meant for the rich, the first ever arrivals to the island. Those in charge would have abandoned the operation because of the unstable land. Or perhaps they gave up on this plan after the airship crash, and decided to set up somewhere else to avoid the dark stain the many deaths left on the map. They wouldn’t have wanted a haunting, but here it was anyway. It’s a large area with views of the ocean. Juliet and I would explore here when we were young. It’s just grass and vegetation. The odd brick and stone. Sapphire and I stop just before the city boundary. We see blue glimmers up ahead as the creature joins several other figures in an area of heather. We creep closer, treading on the sparse grass, which is alien to us in the city full of fumes. I stop us at a safe distance behind a pair of wizened trees. We watch through the sprinkling rain. The blue lights hovering around the Rain Walkers are butterflies. Genetically engineered. Someone thought it was a sweet idea to blend nature with practicality, as blue light is supposed to reduce crime in the streets. They seem to be attracted to the Rain Walkers and they dance around their heads. The figures and their umbrellas are slumped together. Sapphire and I watch from through the branches and she squeezes my hand tightly and whispers “Dad!” as we realise they are sheltering each other from the rain and the cold and the night. We watch for a while. I’m not sure how long. Then I pick Sapphire up, place her on my shoulders, and we make our way home. “It’s important, what we’ve seen, Sapphy,” I tell her. She mumbles sleepily, and I say, “We should help make things better.”
Sometimes, on a rainy night, I’ll leave the door open and our fire going. The Rain Walkers rarely enter, but when they do, and they wander about a while before leaving, I like to think they have a place of comfort. Maybe one night rain will fall on this city and the living and the dead will both rest peacefully.
Every once in a while, when I glance at my reflection, I see a dark, horned figure with glinting eyes standing behind me. It may be peering from behind a stone archway, observing me in a deserted corridor, or simply standing in the room. When I blink or turn around, it vanishes. It does not appear when I am surrounded by people. Only when I am alone. I first remember spotting this creature in my hand mirror when I was thirteen. I was inspecting my face before greeting guests in our dining hall. My sister Nell told me I still had flour on my nose from assisting the cook and she ran from our bedroom before I could throw a slipper at her. I had picked up my hand mirror and nearly dropped it in terror. The creature stood in the doorway, taller than me. It was shadowy and unclear as though I was peering through a steamy window. When I turned to look at the doorway and then back in the mirror, there was no trace of it. I have attempted to draw this figure, but I give up every time as it looks like a mess of charcoal on the paper. Now I am nineteen, and Nell has married a man of some kind (he is quite dull) and I live here with Mother and Father and the servants and our animals. I know my time is coming - Nell’s marriage is not enough to satisfy our family and our world’s ways. That scares me more than any spirit in the mirror.
“Amelia!” I stroke my horse’s nose in the afternoon sun. He is called Spring because he gets excited when we ride in the woods and jumps as though he has a rabbit’s soul. Flies float around our heads as I prepare him for our ride in the courtyard. I really shouldn’t be doing this. We have guests for dinner. Again. “Amelia!” “Come on then,” I murmur to Spring. “Let’s flee before she catches us.” “Amelia! I know you can hear me.” Mother abandons calling from the window and hurries outside just as I mount Spring and grasp the reins. Mother is a tall woman whose appearance is nothing short of perfection. Her hair is neat, her dresses spotless, her mind sharp. “Amelia, you do simply not have the time for this nonsense, you need to bathe, have one of the girls brush your hair - ” “Mother, I won’t be long,” I insist. “I promise. Spring needs his exercise and so do I.” I have a glimmer of an idea. “If I am to meet all of the Whittons tonight, I must have some time to myself to prepare.” Mother looks surprised but pleased. “Well - I suppose you need to prepare - yes. Best behaviour and everything. But you know, Harry is already very sweet on you.” “And I him,” I say. It’s true. I smile. “I had better be going, Mama. I will be back with plenty of time to spare.” And with that, Spring and I hasten to the woods. We leave the sun behind as we enter the cool canopy of trees. It is quieter here, which is why I like it. There are no mirrors. No reminders of how I have fallen short of expectations, either mine or others’. Just nature in its wild, soft explosions of plants and earth. I am grateful, of course, to my family. They allow me to do things other women may not. I know Mother has this streak in her too, and Father loves her for it. I know the tree on which she would practise her archery. My mind drifts to Harry as Spring takes us to the glade. I cannot see my reflection, just the vague blurred images of the trees’ branches as they dip their leaves in the water. Taking Harry as a husband would be not only a duty, but a pleasure. But sometimes, particularly after an activity where he does not seem as interested as he has been previously, I come away feeling small and cold. The opposite occurs when his face breaks into a smile in my presence and coaxes an excitement out of me to be in his. It makes me worry. Of losing myself. Of losing this. I can only hope he would not lose his mind if he sees me galloping off on my horse on a whim and reading as many books as I can. There is more of me to know. And, of course, more to learn about him. I slide off Spring and run my fingers through his mane. Then I sit at the glade’s edge and bend over to scoop the water. I gasp as I spot an old, ornate mirror lying under the surface. Without thinking, I reach in, soaking my sleeves, and pull the mirror from the water. I stand it up and stare at the glass, and sure enough, there is my demon. It sits on the edge of a glade in its world of reflection. “What do I do, creature?” I ask, and I blink. For the first time, the creature stays and does not vanish. I rest my palms on the cool barrier between us and it mirrors me to the same moment. And now is when I realise, it is no demon. No malicious spirit, no ghost. It is me. What I am, what I could be, what I hold back from the world and not what I choose to reflect. I understand I have a choice. I can run off on Spring if I want to. I can change my name, change my appearance. I can stay and marry. I can stay unmarried for all of my days. There will be consequence and sacrifice borne of all my choices. This creature is me, free, and scorned upon by this world. Looking at my companion, I trace its horns and claws with a finger. “You never scared me, even when I was a girl,” I say softly. “It was the shock when you first appeared, but I know who you are now. And I accept you as mine. I will face this life anew. If you accept.” The creature smiles, showing sharp little teeth, and slowly melts away as though I breathed on the glass. I feel my chest glow. Spring nudges my shoulder with his head. It is time to go.
