The Green Slave and Dead God

I and One Pink:

Little was left for me to perceive from the outside world-other than its sheer beauty: the brown-green hue of the pulai trees; the golden spurs dangling from the fountain where a bronze horseman stood mid-gallop; and rosebuds that bloomed with their organs and nerves exposed, clinging to curling stems of lotus-so marvelous, yet perilous-fastened to stone walls and the pale ceramic floor, cracked like old porcelain. And there were fountains, too-found often in the garden, though most of their petal-valves remained shut, as if to protect me from harm. They were, therefore, rarely counted among the living things.

How beautiful all that I possess now, how utterly irreplaceable...

I lived within a gambrel-roofed house, green in the center, flanked by saddle-roof wings in white and red. And there I dwelled-with Pink. I thought, considering our age difference of seven years, I was permitted to call her Sister, a Sister in blood. But she refused the title; instead, she wished to be called Mother-a declaration, she said, of maturity. At the time, I found her demand strange and foolish, but I grew accustomed to it. I obeyed. Perhaps because I had no primary memory then, relying only on secondary awareness; I accepted everything without question, even though I knew not who she was.

When I first awoke, it was on a bed-and Lady Pink was already there, at the edge, naked-if I may add. I pulled myself upright, shivering, my head aching and spinning. I beheld her back: white and young, uncreased, with supple smoothness. I sighed. She heard, turned slowly. Her short black hair fell to one side, and I saw her face: a round 'O' of lips-astonished, perhaps concerned-her cheeks blushing, her lashes long, resting above heavy, somnolent eyes.

She crawled toward me-gazing, analyzing-without laying a finger upon me. I do not know if the air she disturbed counted as a touch, brushing across my face from her red-white forearms. And then, she smiled.

The pinkest, most diamond-like face I had ever seen.

I recall that moment: my blood seemed to surge newly into all my principal vessels. Lady Pink drew back her face and spoke, but all I could hear was a ringing in my ears. The only words I could catch, in sequence, were: "House. Pink. We. Not." The rest rang like hammers dropped from above.

Oddly-I nodded. Without any true feeling that might accompany confusion or fear. I believe now, my nerves did not recognize any grave or immediate danger, and so they did not alarm me.

So, with only a little knowledge, a ringing voice, a beautiful and friendly face-I began my life beside her.

I came to know myself as Eldric. And I often saw myself, whether in mirrors or water's reflection, wrapped in a tight furred blanket shaped like a violet jellyfish-something I could neither remove nor touch. Mother, Lady Pink, could see it as well, but paid no mind when I begged her to help remove it. She said it merely obscured vision-it had no weight, did not sap energy-merely a nuisance of sight.

I remember the seventy-eighth day after I rose from the amnesia that stripped away all my former, nameless days. I believe it was mid-spring. We were resting beneath a lone pine, twenty-five meters from the garden. Lady Pink wore her blue-and-white Vyshyvanka dress, ethereal as snow in bloom.

I lay in her lap, her arms encircling my waist. I could feel her warmth-seeping through the thick cotton-warmer than bonfire or thermos, but never burning.

What we watched, I forget.

Not long after, I heard her giggle, softly, above me. I looked up, asked a question. Lady Pink raised her arm and touched her finger to my chin. I could not see her eyes, though I longed to.

She carried a glass-swirled it, a quarter full of wine. We spoke at length. And then, at some point-she became furious.

I do not remember what I said. But the moment did not wait-it shattered my heart, cracked it open and crushed it.

Even now I wonder: did I cry? Or did I only fall silent, empty, in her presence?

Then-she smiled again. Laughed lightly for no known reason.

"You'll understand tonight, once we're home," she said. Her eyes lifted as she spoke, her lips folding into a smile once more.

And that moment-without realizing it-I saw her face clearly: young and sweet, and it comforted me.

Later, we returned to the lush green garden. I ran ahead to the bridge-flat and blushed with white stones. Lady Pink paused at the pulai tree and stood beneath it.

I played, babbled like a child, danced near the fountain adorned with golden ornaments.

And again-I saw her smile. Slowly. Growing until it curved like a crescent moon.

I stumbled back over the bridge toward her. Her face shadowed by leaves and the breathing green of the pulai.

I drew near and smiled back.

She said nothing.

I pressed my forehead to hers and shivered.

Then both her arms lifted, and her fingers plunged beneath my ears. She spoke:

"I refuse," she said calmly.

Cautiously-I replied, afraid she might again grow angry for some forgotten trespass:

"But... I don't know what I'm supposed to do."

Her eyes sank low. My heart throbbed with unease. I wished to resolve the complication before it reached some dread climax-

Now, her forehead touched mine.

I inhaled her breath-she struggled to keep it in, but I knew.

"Don't come home late," Lady Pink whispered.

"What do you mean by that?" I asked.

She paused, stared at me. Beautiful. Vicious.

Then, with a stifled giggle, her nose flaring and folding:

"Don't come home late," she repeated.

She leaned in, grasped my arm, lifted it to her pale, aching cheek. Smiled again-gentler.

"I know something... tonight..." she added. Holding my arm higher, her own arms wrapping tighter.

"Poor Eldric..."

I looked at her. Only then did I see: she was biting her lip.

And before I could act-I was standing again on the bridge.

Behind me: the gurgle and crackling of spring water and residual filth. When I turned, she was gone.

So I remained, as she had asked. I wandered near the fountain of the horseman.

Around four o'clock, I rested beside the pool, watching a vulture perch not far from the blooming red rose. A sparrow sang upon the spur and shield of the bronze rider. And a crow watched from beneath the pulai's shade.

A cat and two foxes passed.

The cat-black and orange-knew me well. She leapt into the ring of stones, purred against my coat. I opened it for her-she took her usual place, curled into a furred cushion upon my lap.

The foxes did not know me. They swirled their golden tails, barked once, and walked away.

Time passed quickly, especially after I lit a cigar from my box. The water whispered. The birds-vulture and crow-did not speak, though they stared at one another. The sparrow alone sang, whistling a tremulous melody, and its waves shook the cigar's tobacco leaves loose, scattering ashes across my trousers. I brushed them off.

The cat purred on-her breath like a train crowded with laborers at dusk, bustling, weary, and tender.

Yes-just like that.

Evening came and sang overhead.

The tree-canopy shimmered. Stars blinked in the clean sky above, bright as polished thumbs and light as ornamental stones.

Behind me, the bronze statue crumbled slightly. The sparrow fluttered, flapped, twitched its spur like it was dreaming.

The crow-once perched and murmuring on the pulai-vanished.

I looked upward and shuddered.

It had simply faded.

It was the first time I'd seen such a thing.

The vulture-its beak still hooked-remained. But its mutilated form continued to decay. Its left wing was falling apart: red strands dangled from its bones like wet silk.

And the rose-fully open-held its thick crimson crown, rising like royalty, with threadlike filaments taller than one would imagine.

I inhaled sharply at its terrible grace.

And somehow-it reminded me of Lady Pink, waiting at home.


The Ceremony

The journey ordinarily consumes some twenty‑three minutes, yet today the world lay hushed and black-an eerie boon, for it presented no obstacle. Along the path I discovered new blossoms-mystic in shape, borne of Southeast or far Chinese realms. Their petals bled with swollen, veined crimson. Compelled, I paused, stepped aside, plucked the central flower-and inhaled its essence. Its stem rose like tulip; its pistil head dripping golden nectar; petals and stamens turned gently toward the dying sun, forming shapes like gas‑smoke, plastic dust, cotton clouds...

I smelled one; then three-each fragrance enchanting and faint, while the rest were sweet. I gathered them-I intended to gift them to Lady Pink and delight her. I rose, clutching a handful-yet I staggered as I walked homeward.

There lay our haven. I noted the gambrel and saddle roofs, compactly merging at the stairwell; the walls white as pale granite-elegant, eccentric if one gazed too long. From afar, electric lights glowed in the rose garden below the pine-bright enough to set the Gothic door aflame in flamboyant hues that Lady Pink and I once dressed in painful splendour on a forgotten day.

I entered the courtyard and placed the blossoms gently. Within the house, lights flicked on-perhaps Lady Pink heard my footfalls-but I did not pause, instead slipping into yard slippers. And there-though fear struck my spine-I dared only glance upward: Lady Pink stood at the end of the hall beneath an orange‑lit tulip chandelier. Her posture unnerving-bent, vicious, yet clearly in pain.

I lifted my head timidly. She wore Abigail's favorite corset. From my spot I asked, voice shaken, "What is it, Lady Pink?"

She moved-her posture not slack but forward‑leaning-she walked, pressing her arms to the walls, staggering onward. Then she called my name in a familiar, lilting trill:

"El‑dri‑c... El‑dri‑c." She smiled.

Then sang again, "El‑dri‑ch... El‑dri‑c... El‑dri‑c."

My heart hammered. Terror clutched me, but I stepped forward.

Her arms lifted-pale, delicate-and touched my cheek. I froze. I smelled her oily, sweet scent. Her eyes-red, sharp-gazed at me lowly, sorrowfully. And then, briefly, I glimpsed her palms-there: blood? sauce? wine? paint? No-blood! A sour, metallic stench filled my nostrils.

She halted as though falling. I steadied her shoulders, lowering her. The stench! Yet this was not the hour for questions.

"Lady Pink, are you-are you well?" I demanded.

At first she giggled, as in the garden, then her voice quavered. I shook her shoulders, feeling her tremble in fear-fear for reasons unknown. I hugged her tight, hoping for calm-and to know the cause of her tremor. Her body faded, went limp... then warmed, and warmed further.

I released her, wiped her forehead, smoothed her disheveled hair. She reached for my arm-her bloody palm slick and vile-but I felt no urge to release it. She intertwined her left fingers with mine and offered a fragile smile. Her words, far from what I'd hoped:
"Your hand-warm. Warmer than mine." She showed it to me.
"Feel," she urged, "I hate it...but I cannot let it go."

I managed a gentle smile. "So-is this mine? This warm palm?" I asked.

Her breath, scented faintly sweet, wafted. "I don't know," she replied, "but-my heart is unsatisfied-perhaps more so than this."

I attempted to rise-but she grasped my arm. I froze. "Do not release it before me." she commanded. I obeyed. Carefully, I bowed my head to hers. She, still unfocused, studied the warmth seeping into my palm-now stained with her blood. I lingered a tender kiss upon her brow. The mingled sweat, dried lavender, blood, stain, powder-stirred my blood and reddened my cheek.

She gasped, lifted her face, looked at me in wonder. I smiled-but I felt no mirrored joy. I stroked her head with my right hand. "What is wrong? You seem... undone," I asked softly.

She whispered: "Dubhlachan!" Her trembling fingers clutched my coat. "Dubhlachan has returned!"

"Where? But-but he's dead..." I replied, glancing down the corridor, my heart pounding anew-this time with dread for Dubhlachan.

"He came again-again-yesterday," Lady Pink added. "Yesterday-a White Swan reported it... why?"

I lifted her into my arms, my head resting atop her hair. "But he is dead..."

"Who holds him so many times?" she demanded-but I knew no answer.

I felt dread-for today, Lady Pink was so shattered with grief and anguished sighs-the arrival of Dubhlachan signaled our separation! Why must I part from her? After the precious days of morning's whip and evening's song? Such a foolish fate!

Presently, I set aside my sorrow, drew her forward so I could study her face. It was bruised, pores like great pits, tears forming rivulets to her chin... I felt helpless to comfort her-but she managed a pale smile, tears ceased-and yet sorrow lingered.

A thought came-one that might console. I rose, guided her down the hall toward the ceremony room. As I guided her, she asked in a sweet tone, "Where are you taking me? To help clean up Dubhlachan?"

I replied, "You'll know soon." Her lips curved into her familiar smile.

Unnoticed by me, the mystical flowers still rested warm in my pocket-patiently awaiting their turn to cheer Lady Pink.

We reached the Ceremony Room-a place of order and quiet grandeur, golden light gleaming from wall to wall. Inside sat a one‑point‑eight‑nine‑metre sword‑cabinet and across from it a one‑point‑seven‑metre dragon‑hide mirror. Lady Pink staggered in and reached the cabinet. I closed the door, locked it thrice, and turned-but she had already opened it to retrieve a mantle about 160 cm long-enough to cloak a body fully.

I shed my coat and hung it behind the door, stepped forward, smiling. She said, "Dubhlachan's remains are still unclean."

"Then did you discard it?" I asked.

"Not yet," she said firmly, lifting the mantle into the air. Dust fell and drifted. "No help needed."

I ventured, "I wonder if the Doge will be angry at Dubhlachan. You slew him again."

"This is the fifth," she explained. She beckoned me close and draped the mantle over my head.

"Better we go... Doge will bring five more more worthy!" I advised.

"This is our home," she declared, smoothing its edges as I held the opposite side to ease its weight. She smiled in thanks. "I wonder why you brought up the Doge?"

Fearing to anger her, I merely replied, "I don't want to leave you. Nothing more."

She giggled, and I lifted an arm again to gently pat her head, hoping to maintain her spirits-though it may have seemed mad.

Lady Pink knelt. She shifted forward toward the mirror with elegance, arm extended to me. I grasped it; she pulled but I stayed just upright enough to avoid collapsing into her lap. Then I knelt beside her. Our faces met warmly. I saw her pink, curved lips and soft, round eyes that glowed within their sockets; oh-her face!-so flushed it pained me. My heart thundered as we performed what she called "The Ceremony." I neither objected nor understood why it was so called.

We entwined fingers-close as sap. The dried blood on her hand no longer bothered me-not slimy, not sticky-but still discomforted my sight.

"Are you disturbed?" Lady Pink suddenly demanded. I lifted my gaze from our fingers-I'd barely noticed its focus. I shook my head, smiled. "No... not at all."

"Wunderbar!" she murmured, a low, deep tone. She tapped her hands together.

And we continued the Ceremony upon our faces-doing nothing but gazing into each other's eyes in silence. Only Lady Pink spoke, occasionally-and I understood none of it. At intervals, she would say: "Green, Slave, Die, God." Again and again-for five or six minutes. By now I am accustomed and have formed my own images: from a dragon's gaping maw before a Pope, to green Easter‑eggs hatching octopi, to Prince Castaigne dismembering Doctor Archer in the Asylum. Yet the true meaning remains anomie-and I sat there until I fell-or dreamed myself dead until next dawn broke.


The Guest

I conceived this notion upon my arrival at the Doge's Lethal Palace: that the circumstances which led to my capture today were, in truth, of a most mundane nature-trivial decisions, banal errors: I ought not to have answered the door, nor lent my ears to the knocking; I ought not to have strayed beyond the threshold, nor stooped to pluck a blossom, even though Lady Pink bade me do so; or rather, and this with certainty-utter certainty-I ought not to have existed at all, that I might not be sought or visited, again and again...

In this sense, the matter veers toward a question of existence itself-one I do not comprehend, but which Lady Pink surely does. That I have gleaned so little from her is my own fault. It is not from sloth nor defiance, but because I have dwelt rarely by her side, and so our words exchanged were few. And now, the execution-yes, the execution!-was a climax I was made to witness with mine own eyes.

If only-I had not been with her, or had not opened the door...

I do not know how I came to be placed upon the settee. Was I sleep-walking? Or did Lady Pink carry me bodily and lay me there? At dawn I awoke; the light did not penetrate the house, but the chime of some ancient clock roused me: a tolling, loud and deep-Bing! Bing! Bing! Bing!-reaching from garden to rearmost chamber. Yet I never once beheld such a clock within these walls. Once, I used to shriek and weep at its cry, so wretched was my fear; and Lady Pink would comfort me with a patience most noble. I remember, at times, she would whisper, "Go away! Go away!"-her face wrought with dread and defiance, tragic and brave...

I wonder now: was it truly to soothe me, or did she indeed see something?

As I summoned those memories and their spectral warmth, the tolling ceased. Silence fell. I sat upright, wiped the sleep from my eyes. Darkness... green... yellow... orange... I opened my eyes fully and glanced to either side. Lady Pink was absent. How strange-how unlike her! I stood, stretched, raised my arms-but my sleeves caught, caught on the outer mantle that draped down to my knees and brushed the air.

"Did Lady Pink not remove her mantle?" I asked aloud, turning it in my hands, east to west. It was green-clean, though creased; a plain segment, untouched by embroidery, lay upon it. I called her name-once, twice-but no answer came. She is, at such moments, always in the kitchen. Twenty paces only from the drawing room. She must have heard-so why no answer?

I stepped through the corridor, still cloaked in her mantle, which at times billowed backward as if by its own volition, tugged by an unseen draft-as if forbidding my passage. I told myself this was but fancy, though unease clung to me.

Seven paces remained. I passed the Ceremony Room-glanced at it, moved on-and then-

A knock. From the front door, behind me.

I turned, surprised. Who knocks at such an hour? I clutched the mantle tighter, fingers trembling-but I did not move.

Was it not my duty to answer?

I stepped softly. Another knock resounded. Cautiously, I bent and turned the bolt, pulled the knob toward me...

Oh! "This is the complication! This is the complication!" I thought, and my limbs quivered, my heart convulsed-for there he stood:

Dubhlachan.

He was taller than Lady Pink herself-so imposing that I hesitated to bar his entry. I merely stood, grasping the knob, my nerves swollen with ceaseless blood.

He wore a tuxedo-why such formality? Was it only the lack of a head that disturbed me? His skin was pallid, marred with the blight of cancer. This was my first close look.

And then-I beheld it.

A distortion above his collar. An illusion of a face, warped, fragmented. He had no head. Was he a new variant? The Doge is a genius...

Suddenly, from his pocket-a glowing crystal! I recoiled, startled. Within the light, a hair-fine, golden-and then: the Faerie.

She peered out. Her beauty stunned me-wide eyes, freckled nose like a fox, wings of deep azure. She shimmered, shedding scarlet dust that danced in the air. She flew, examined me, circled, and settled on Dubhlachan's outstretched palm.

She folded her legs, bowed, and rose again.

"Fear not," said Dubhlachan.

He could speak?

I released the knob. My lips trembled, but fear did not seize my heart, and clarity returned to me. Why-why did I imagine that terrible face smiling at me?

He spoke again, voice heavy, word by chosen word: "Fear not. I seek audience with the Countess Pink."

I was speechless. Dubhlachan added, "You wear that mantle with honor."

The Faerie chimed, voice girlish, "Indeed! We've come to fetch you today!"

A girl?

"All faeries are female. They reproduce as Amoebae do." she explained, matter-of-factly.

Dubhlachan lowered his posture-as if to speak once more. I gathered my bearing.

"May I enter?" he asked.

I looked up. Would the Countess accept him as guest-or kill him once more? She had never welcomed Dubhlachan. But now that he could speak-could they be harmless?

Why then did Lady Pink slay them as she did the rabbits in the garden?

A thought struck me.

"Do you truly know Lady Pink?" I demanded.

He smiled. "Lady Pink. A most poetic epithet. Yes, We know her..."

"We?"

"We have called many times. Each time, the response is the same." He paused. "We are slain. I, too, do not understand."

"Each Dubhlachan is one," said the Faerie, smiling.

"What do you mean?" I asked, bewildered.

"We are sent to escort you back to the Lethal Palace."

"Each time we come, you are away. And each time, the Countess kills us. Ingeniously. Her mind is keen; her promises, sweet." Dubhlachan glanced down the corridor. "May we enter?"

"She speaks for her other selves," said the Faerie.

I stepped back, nodded. Trusted. Fell silent.

I shut the door. They waited for me. I walked ahead.

But-

A knock again.

I turned. They watched me, puzzled. I stepped back toward the sound.

"It's not the front," said the Faerie.

"But the knock just now-?" I pressed.

She pointed ahead. "From there!"

"You may trust her," Dubhlachan added. "The Doge gave every Faerie ears that make even the Pope tremble at his own secrets."

I nodded. "Very well. Where?"

"There!" she cried.

She pointed-toward the Ceremony Room.

I walked to the door. Dubhlachan asked: "I sense no presence of the Countess. Where is she?"

I smiled bitterly. "Had I known, I'd have told you already."

I turned the knob-

And did he see what I saw?

Was his shock equal to mine?

Was it he who had done all this?

Am I so foolish, so senile, that the first knock I heard-before letting them in-could have come from this very room?

No!

I am not foolish.

She lay in blood. Wrists mutilated. Both. The corset still fastened-now crimson, sharp, soaked through. The pool reached the door.

No stab wound. But the wrists... severed... beneath her.

I bent low, turned her over, sobbing, arranging her hands. Her face was still red-eyes half-open-still beautiful, still alive... but in pain.

A wide grin. A bite. Teeth exposed.

And still-still-a pulse.

A heartbeat.

Oh, what madness! What loathsome nightmare is this?

Behind me, the Faerie's wings fluttered away. I heard a distant ripple-something stirring in the nearby deep.

Dubhlachan remained. Watching.

Silent.

Solemn.

As I wept and wailed, he spoke softly:
"Forgive those who sacrifice a Child and consort with the Devil."