Godmother Read online

  Godmother

  Adam Wik

  Copyright 2015 Cairn Publishing - Cincinnati, Ohio

  All rights reserved. Except for the use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means is forbidden without the express permission of the author. This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and settings are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, names, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Lay your head down my sweet, it’s time I told you a bedtime story. This is a story from my own childhood. From long, long ago when I was just a girl. About your age, in fact. My mother had died when I was yet an infant. My father loved her dearly, so rather than bury her in the chapel yard he laid her to rest in the courtyard of our home in her favorite spot beside the pond.

  He gave her grave no stone to mark it, but a great hazel tree grew from atop her resting place. There my father and I would sit every morning and speak to her. He told me she was the most beautiful woman in the world, and that no woman would ever compare.

  As often as he repeated it, all men grow restless as time goes on. I cooked and tended to the household, but he needed someone else to warm his bed. Several women came and went but one, a wretched thing with two daughters by her previous husband, caught his fancy and persuaded him to marriage. I’m certain she was after our fortune, but Father was convinced it was love.

  I objected, of course. It did no good. They were married in the Spring. I wept that day, at Mother’s tree. It wouldn’t be the last time my tears fed her soil.

  The wench and her daughters treated me well at first. How could they not? Only once did that woman scold me while my father lived and he punished her severely for it. It still makes me smile, thinking about it. Her wailing sobs, the thud of the iron striking her. She wouldn’t so much as look me in the eye after that. I think I was actually happy then.

  We were in the market on the day it happened. The day my fate changed. I had been begging Father for a new dress for weeks so that I could show those two little harlots who the favored daughter was. He promised me he would buy me anything that I wanted. The dress I picked was a brilliant white, cut by the loveliest blue sash. I never did get to wear it.

  As we were leaving the market there was a great blast of trumpets. A brilliant gilded carriage clattered into view escorted by a full retinue of knights. My father immediately fell to his knees and pulled me down with him. The King had also come to the market to find something beautiful.

  The carriage stopped after it passed us, and one of the knights was summoned to the curtain. He removed his helmet and leaned in close. After a few moments he turned his horse and rode towards us, stopping before my father.

  “You, with the golden-haired girl,” the knight said, “approach His Majesty’s carriage.”

  It was the first time I’d seen my father tremble. He kept his head bowed as he rose and pulled me to my feet. We walked slowly to the carriage, our eyes focused on the cobblestones. When we reached it he pushed me to my knees again.

  “Your Majesty,” my father said. His voice was shaking worse than he was. Out of the corner of my eye I could see the sweat beading on his forehead. I couldn’t understand why he was so afraid. To be addressed by the King was a great honor.

  “You have a very beautiful daughter,” said a voice through the curtain.

  My father’s breathing quickened. The sweat ran down his temples to drip from his chin. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

  “I’ve decided to give her a ride in my carriage. You would like that, wouldn’t you, little girl?”

  “Oh yes, your majesty!” I replied. To be able to meet the King! To ride with him in his beautiful carriage! A dress was nothing. Those wretches would die when I told them the King favored me. I beamed at my father, expecting him to be proud of me, but he didn’t smile back. There was terror in his eyes and suddenly I was very afraid. What could I have done to make him so upset?

  “Sir Gerald,” the King said, “if you would be so kind as to help the young lady into my carriage.”

  The knight that had summoned us leaned down on his horse to take my arm and help me into the carriage. Before I could take his hand my father leapt to his feet. I never knew my father carried a dagger, or where he had it hidden. The first time I ever saw it was when he drove it into the eye of Sir Gerald.

  “Run!” My father ripped the sword from the dead knight’s scabbard as the market exploded around me. He shoved me away from the carriage and turned to face another knight. The world spun and everyone was screaming.

  I ran, just as my father told me to. The clash of steel echoed through the market and I turned, expecting my father to be following close behind me. He cut down one knight and wounded another. Father had been a brilliant swordsman in his youth, but he was outnumbered, unarmored, and unhorsed. The first blade that reached him pierced his heart, a second struck off his head.

  I screamed as they rode over his body. As they ground it into the stones. Then they turned to me and I ran. Were I not so little I never would’ve escaped, but a nimble child can go places in a crowded market where a warhorse cannot.

  It was dark when I finally reached our estate. When I told my step-mother what had happened she slammed the door to her chambers, fastened the bolt and wept. Her wails made me realize that I had not yet wept myself, and I spent that night beneath my mother’s tree. This was the last time I ever cried. By morning I had no tears left to shed.

  When the wretch’s grief subsided she was a changed thing. With my father’s iron hand absent and her filthy daughters to outnumber me, I was treated like a common house maid.

  She blamed me for my father’s murder and the fires of her hate knew no end. All my beautiful clothes were given to her two whores. The rest of my possessions were sold and my room nailed shut. I was given rags to wear and forced to be a slave for their comfort. I cooked and cleaned and tended to the fires. I wasn’t allowed to leave the estate except to buy provisions.

  The corner by the hearth became my bed and, as I woke every morning blackened by ash and soot, they took to calling me ‘Cinderella’. They taunted me constantly, those filthy, pox-ridden bitches!

  I’m sorry, sweet. I shouldn’t use such language. You see they made Mommy very, very angry. Even now the memory upsets me.

  Those were dark and terrible times. I considered running away, but what would’ve become of me? Alone and with no money to my name, I wouldn’t have lasted a month. I took to feeding scraps to the rats in the hopes they might bring the plague to our house. Sometimes I would catch one and feed it to the wretches without them knowing, but it brought me little joy.

  My only real solace came in my dreams, tucked away in my nest of rags by the hearth. I pictured the King, drawn and quartered and hung by his own intestines for what he had done to my father. My step-sisters would be strung up beside him in my mother’s hazel tree, stripped of their flesh by the birds.

  Best of all my step-mother would be bound alive at its roots where I could dance upon her disgusting face until her blood fed my true mother. I dreamed about it every night, and every day I wished that it were true. It continued on that way until my fourteenth year. Then my fate changed once more.

  I was preparing the evening’s meal when my step-mother burst into the house. “Anastasia, Druzella, come here at once!” she yelled. A piece of parchment was clenched in her fist and she waved it around as if it were burning.

  Her daughters came as quickly as they could. I crept to the kitchen door, opening it just a crack, careful not to let them know I was listening. My step-mother smoothed the paper in her fist and presented it to her daughters.

  “There’s going to be a costume ball at
the royal palace tomorrow night,” she said. “The Prince is of an age where he has begun to fancy the girls, and the King wishes to assemble a retinue of consorts for his birthday. It’s been decreed that every girl of bedding age is to attend. Do you know what this means?”

  Her daughters stared at her like the vapid swine they were.

  “It means,” she continued, “that you girls have the chance to be set for life. You’re no princesses. The best you could hope for in marriage is a man with a little land, not even a lord. If you become a consort of the Prince you’ll be guaranteed a comfortable life in the palace forever.

  I won’t always be here to support you, and this inheritance has its limits. You are my only daughters and I want to know when I die that you’ll have your needs taken care of. Living in service to the Prince is a small price to pay for that luxury.”

  The pounding of my heart began to drown out their conversation. A costume ball with the King. There would be hundreds and hundreds of young ladies, all in costume. I could dance right up to him and as the kitchen knife slid between his ribs I would whisper my father’s name in his ear.

  I quivered as the anticipation of the pleasure of driving cold steel into his heart washed over me. The kitchen door slammed against the wall as I rushed into the foyer. “It says every girl of bedding age. I’ve been of age for two years now. You have to take me,” I said.

  The three of them stared at me, shocked by the sudden intrusion. Then they burst into laughter.

  “You?” my step-mother asked. “A consort to the Prince? You have the idea right, you’re fit to be a prostitute, but no royal consort. Spread your legs for coin at the docks if you’re so desperate. Nothing between them is fit to be touched by royalty.”

  The edges of my vision began to cloud. The room swam and the world took a red shade. How could they deny me this? My one chance to get close to the King and they were taking it away! I stormed back into the kitchen and snatched a butcher knife from the block.

  I burst back into the foyer and charged my eldest step-sister. A second quicker and I would’ve stained my father’s favorite rug with that whore’s worthless blood. My step-mother proved faster and stronger than I expected. She caught my arm and wrenched the knife from my grasp, then struck me with the back of her hand.

  Now I understand the kind of power a mother feels when her child’s life is threatened, but back then I was stunned by her strength. Her filthy paw seized me by the back of the neck so hard I thought my spine would snap as she dragged me to the pantry. I landed on my face on the flour dusted stones and the door slammed behind me.

  I heard the bar clatter down and the iron clank of a lock being fastened. The bitch’s voice was cold as it slid beneath the door. “Consider yourself lucky, wretch. If you weren’t his only daughter I would have broken your neck. If you ever raise a hand to or threaten me or my daughters again I will kill you where you stand. You can sleep in there with the rats tonight.”

  I screamed as hard as I could. This was my one chance at revenge and they were taking it away from me. I pounded the door until my fists bled, then began to pace. There was no way to tell time in the black, windowless pantry. I felt like I paced for hours before I finally collapsed on the cold stone.

  I awoke to a gentle scuffling sound. My dreams had been filled with the voice of my mother. Now I only heard something like the soft creaking of hinges and the scraping of leather on stone. I squinted in the darkness at the shapes in front of me.

  Three large rats scrabbled at the floor before me. They didn’t seem to care that I was there, they were so focused on their task. As I crept closer they finally all turned to face me. We held eye contact for a moment, then they bowed before escaping to the shadows.

  I crawled over to where they had been so fervently working and felt around. One of the stones in the floor where they had been scratching was loose. I slid my fingers around the edge until I could work my nails beneath the seam and pulled.

  The stone was fastened tight, but as I pulled and worked and shook it the mortar finally gave. It slid upward and I rolled it to the side. In the blackness of the hole I could make out an even darker shape. I reached in and pulled it out.

  It was a box, long and thin. I ran my hand over the smooth wood and felt a name carved into the lid. Morgana. The box had belonged to my mother! I felt around for the clasp and opened it carefully. The inside was lined with a soft purple cloth. Nestled within the violet cushions was an obsidian dagger.

  Its blade and guard were black as jet and its handle the dull worn white of sun-bleached bone. My shaking hand lifted the dagger from its bed. As I touched it a chill swept up my fingertips and down my spine like the trickle of snow-melt. I could feel a connection to my mother in that knife almost as strong as what I felt beneath her tree.

  I cut a strip of cloth from the bottom of my skirts, then wrapped the blade tight and tucked it away in my blouse where it couldn’t be seen. Even wrapped in the torn hemmings there was a comforting coolness to it. It was soothing, like a wet cloth on fevered brow. After replacing the box and stone that others might not find it, I slipped off into a peaceful sleep.

  My step-mother showed little kindness in waking me, though I rose feeling peaceful. It pained me, but I faked an apology for my behavior the previous evening. I think I blamed it on exhaustion. I don’t recall anymore. She was pacified for the moment regardless, too preoccupied in preparing for the ball.

  The rest of that morning was spent doing the pair of tarts up like peacocks to proffer their putrid flesh to the Prince. I was tasked with preparing the afternoon meal while their mother coached them on proper speech, tactics of allure and the finer points of physically pleasuring a man.

  I only had to bide my time and wait. Soon it was the hour of the ball and the harlots, dressed and masked, were off to their carriage. I waited, pressed against the door until the clatter of hooves and creak of wheels faded. Certain they were gone I raced to the eldest sister’s room and pulled one of her dresses from the wardrobe.

  I dressed quickly and with a simple feathered mask obscuring my face and my mother’s dagger tucked between my breasts I would have just enough time to race to the palace on foot. I threw the front door open and ran out, right into the arms of that conniving bitch step-mother.

  “Going to the ball were we?” She tore the mask off my face and then shook me violently by the shoulders. “I will not have you ruin this night for my daughters!” Her fingers curled around the collar of my dress and she shoved me hard back into the house.

  The dress tore wide open across my chest and as I fell into the foyer Mother’s dagger tumbled to the dirt. My step-mother snatched it up before I clawed my way to the door. “That’s my mother’s!” I screamed, “Don’t you dare touch that!”

  I clawed at her face and hands desperate to wrench my precious knife away from her, but she was twice my size and for all my rage I lacked the strength to overpower her. She shoved me to the floor a second time and marched through the house to the courtyard. I raced after her but I was too late. She hurled the knife into the center of the pond.

  She looked at me, ignored my screams of rage and spoke calmly. “You are filth. You will always be filth. It’s your fault your father is dead. If you hadn’t been there, if he hadn’t been parading you around he-” She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “You deserve this life for what you’ve done. The sooner you accept it the easier things will be.”

  She left me on my knees in the courtyard. I was vaguely aware of the sound of her summoning a carriage and departing. It didn’t matter anymore. My dress and mask were destroyed and Mother’s dagger was gone. Darkness was setting in, and it would be a hopeless endeavor to search for a black dagger at the bottom of a pond in the dark of night.

  Numbly I dragged myself to my feet long enough to collapse at the base of my mother’s tree. Long devoid of tears I did all I could think to do. I prayed.

  “Mother, I’ve failed you. Tonight was my chance, my o
ne chance and I’ve failed. I’ve missed the opportunity to get close to the King. I’ve lost your beautiful dagger. I’m worthless.”

  A red haze crept into the edges of my vision. I slammed my fists into the dirt and rocks until the ground was wet with the blood of my cracked knuckles.

  “I would do anything, give anything, to have my vengeance! I’d trade my own life to stare into that bastard’s eyes as his life slipped away.”

  “You would do well to consider your words before you speak them, girl,” said a woman’s voice. It was dark and smooth like black velvet. My head snapped up but there was no one there. I glanced around. The door to the house was shut fast and the courtyard was walled.

  “Show yourself,” I said.

  An enormous raven fluttered to the ground from the branches of Mother’s hazel tree. “I was never hiding,” it said in the woman’s sultry tones. I was certain I had lost my wits. The stress had shattered my mind. I was talking to a bird.

  “Don’t worry, girl,” the raven continued, “you are quite sane. More sane perhaps than others. You must have many questions. We haven’t time for all of them, so I will allow you two answers only. What are your questions?”

  “Who are you?”

  The raven made an odd clucking sound. “A boring question. If it’s a name you want I have many. Most in tongues that were dead and ancient before your earliest ancestors drew breath. Suffice to say I am a friend of your mother’s. An old friend. For our purposes you may consider me something of a distant relation, or perhaps a godmother.”

  “You’re a friend of my mother? You mean you were a friend? My mother is dead.”

  “Which of those is your second question?” The raven cocked its head to the side.

  “I… none of them. I guess. How can you talk if you’re a bird?”

  “What a waste of your questions. I have more shapes than names. Perhaps this suits you better.”

  I blinked and where the raven stood there was a tall, slender woman. Her skin was alabaster and her hair blacker than the darkest night. She was clothed in shadows that danced and twisted and shifted as I watched. Something about her seemed out of focus. I felt as if I looked directly at her I might find she was never there at all.