Harpy’s Flight

‘It’s lovely, Cora. I’ve never felt much bound by the Romni traditions about green. Thank you. It is exactly what I needed right now.’ Ki hoped she sounded warm. All she felt was tired, and shamed by her dusty dress.

‘I’ll just go out, then, and let you make yourself ready. Not that you need to hurry. Lars told us all how tired you are. We’ll wait for you.’ Cora hurried out, fleeing from herself.

Ki shut her eyes tightly, sat still for a moment. Then she rose. She stripped off her dusty clothes. She dampened a cloth in the scented water and smoothed it over her body. The robe slipped on coolly. Tiny yellow flowers had been worked at the throat and cuffs. It was a bit long for Ki, but surely no one would notice that tonight. She smoothed it over her hips and forced her spine to straighten.

The common room was a long, narrow room with a low ceiling. It had no windows, but was dominated by a huge fireplace that blazed at one end of the room. The floor was of flat mortared stone, the walls of thick gray river rock and clay. They kept out the heat and cold alike. A long table stretched down the room. Folk crowded benches on both sides of it. The table was laden with platters of meat freshly taken from the huge fireplace, with fruit piled high in bowls, with steaming pots of vegetables, and with pastries stuffed with berries. Conversation was muted among the people gathered there, humming like a hive of bees at nightfall: A gathering of the family.

Ki stood framed in the dark hallway, afraid to enter and afraid not to. How could she cross that open space alone, to where an empty chair at the head of the table awaited her? But Lars had been watching for her. He was suddenly at her side, escorting her across the room without touching her. She made her way up the table, past murmured greetings from relatives she had met only once or twice before. She could not even put names to all of them. Lydia, of course; and Kurt and Edward, sons of Rufus; Haftor; and beside him, looking so like him, must be the sister she had never met. The faces merged as Ki nodded acknowledgement of their greetings. Lars took his place, waving her on to hers. She passed three old women she did not know; Holland, wife to Rufus; an old man; and Rufus himself. At last the empty chair gaped at her. Ki seated herself and looked up. At the far end of the table, incredibly distant, sat Cora. How could Cora guide her from there? Everyone sat expectantly. Ki waited. There was food on the table before them, and drink. Was she supposed to make some signal for them to begin? Was the Rite of Loosening a family meal, a coming together to share food and sorrow? Ki’s eyes sought Lars, but he was too far down the table to help her.

At her right elbow, Rufus suddenly whispered, ‘I bring you sad tidings.’

Ki jerked her head to stare at him. What tidings could he possibly bring her worse than what she had for them? But Rufus was nodding and making small encouraging hand signs. Ki surmised his intent. She cleared her throat.

‘I bring you sad tidings.’ She said it clearly. She paused, wondering how to word her phrases for such a mixed group. From the old man fumbling with his fingers at the edge of the table to the little girl scarcely able to see over the top of it – how make it comprehensible to all? But from Ki’s gulf of silence their response thundered at her.

‘What tidings do you bring us, sister?’

Ki took a deep breath. At her elbow, Rufus hissed, ‘There are three ye shall see no more. Drink with me to this sorrow.’

Ki shot Lars a venomous glance. No doubt he was supposed to have versed her in her lines before she arrived here. Lars shook his head apologetically at her. Rufus tapped his fingertips impatiently on the tabletop beside her.

‘There are three ye shall see no more,’ Ki intoned. ‘Drink with me to this sorrow.’

‘There are three we shall see no more. We drink with you,’ came murmured reply.

Rufus’s lips were folded flat and tight when Ki looked to him for instruction. Damn it, he could be as angry as he wanted. She was going through this for their sake, not for any satisfaction of her own. The least he could do was help her to do it as correctly as possible. She caught the tiny movement of his finger. For the first time, she noticed the strangeness of the table setting. Above her plate, in a precise row, stood seven tiny cups. They were handleless, with a shiny gray finish. She raised the first one and brought it to her lips. The entire table followed her motion. Peering over the rim, she saw that each consumed the entire contents of a cup in a quick swallow. Ki copied them. It was not the wine she had expected. The stuff in the cup was warm and viscous, with a faint taste, like the smell of clover. She set the empty cup before her.

‘Sven, Lars, and Rissa: they are gone from us. Drink with me to this sorrow.’ Rufus muttered the words. He seemed resigned now to this role as prompter. So much the better. It would go swifter that way for them all.

‘Sven, Lars and Rissa: they are gone from us. Drink with me to this sorrow.’ Ki spoke the words soberly. She would put on their tragic puppet show for them.

‘Sven, Lars and Rissa: they are gone from us. We drink with you,’ they responded.

Again a cup was raised and emptied. Ki waited for her cue.

‘You’re on your own now,’ mumbled Rufus, staring at the tabletop. ‘Tell us how it happened, in your own way. Follow the pattern we’ve set. Save a cup to end on.’

Ki glared at Lars, and he ducked his head. Could she tell the tale as she had told it to Lars and be convincing? Ki looked at the remaining cups to gauge how best to tell it.

‘They rode together on a great black horse. Drink with me to this sorrow.’ Ki hoped to Keeva she was doing this right. She would have Lars’s head for this later.

‘They rode together on a great black horse. We drink with you,’ repeated the chorus. The gathering at the table seemed satisfied with her beginning. Ki raised the third tiny cup and drained it. Suddenly, the room quavered, became a dream. She sat tall on her wagon seat. A slight wind stirred her hair. A smile was on her face. There was a presence on the seat beside her, warm and encouraging. Ki knew it but, oddly, she paid no mind to it. All was as it should be. ‘Round the wagon galloped Sven and Lars and Rissa. “Snail Woman, Snail Woman!” Sven roared in a mock taunting. Rissa’s tiny voice echoed him, full of laughter. “Sna-o Wo-man, Sna-o Wo-man!” Lars was too convulsed with laughter to speak, too occupied with hanging on to Sven’s shirt tail. Rom’s black coat shone in the sunlight. The light ran along his muscles, clenching and unclenching beneath his satiny coat. Lars’s blue shirt was still too long for him; it flapped behind him, snapping in the wind they created.

‘For a moment, Sven pulled Rom up. “Shall we show her how a horse ought to move?” he asked rhetorically. The children shrieked their encouragement. Rom was off like the wind. The grays snorted in disgust.

‘Their pale hair blew behind them,’ Ki was moved to say. ‘Drink with me to this sorrow.’ Someone mumbled a response to this. In another place, another Ki raised a tiny cup and tossed it off. It tasted like nothing now. She watched them go, Sven and Rissa laughing, Lars bouncing on the shining black haunches of the horse. Rom’s hooves threw bits of road up behind him. The grays plodded on. The wagon swayed and squeaked.

‘Over the hill the three rode,’ sighed Ki. ‘Drink with me to this sorrow.’ A far wind sighed in the trees. A dampness in Ki’s throat. The presence watched with Ki as Rom disappeared over the long rise of hill. The blue sky rested on the hill top, empty. They were gone. ‘I came behind, too slow,’ grieved someone. ‘Drink with me to this sorrow.’ The wind stirred the tall grasses by the road and they rustled dismally. But the day was bright, and Ki on the wagon smiled and swallowed. There was a warm patch of air beside her, warning her that this was enough. Time to come back now. Time to stop. Ki ignored it. There was something she had to do. A task, a chore not to be neglected. Suddenly she was seized by a compulsion to see the other side of the hill. She wanted to whip up the team, shake them into a trot, a ponderous gallop, to crest that rise. But she did not. On they plodded, the wagon creaking cheerfully. Ki could not understand why she smiled, why she did not stand and lash the team into action. Someone was tugging at her, dragging at her arm. There was no one there. The wagon creaked on, inexorably. Hurry, hurry, hurry. Clop, clop, clop, slowly on the rocky road. She crested the rise.

Ki screamed, wordlessly, endlessly. She could not draw a breath for words. The howl of her grief rushed out of her. She heard that howl bounce back to her, an echo careening back from nowhere.

Suddenly another Ki was aware and fighting. This was hers, hers alone to bear. They must not see, she must not see. She must not think of what she saw. Harpies take the softest meat. Cheeks of face and round child bellies, buttocks of man, soft visceral tissue, haunch of horse. Don’t see, don’t hear, she begged. Harpies, two blue-green, flashing. Laughing, screaming, tumbling in the air above Ki. Beauty keen as a knife, cold as a river. Whistling their mockery at her loss. Ki could not comprehend her own pain. Not again, not again, someone screamed. The closer she moved to the bodies, the fiercer came the pain, like a heat radiated by a fire. To scream was not enough. She could not cry. She howled like a beast. She must not let them see the Harpies, see how they circled above her, screaming with laughter as she howled.