A story
The magician promised a remedy. He came one day to her house without neighboors, in a field with the sound of wind and crows. She walked barefoot in the grass and it cut her feet, but she did not own shoes. Yet her saving joy in this quiet place was dancing. The dry blades were trampled, the ground red in places, baring the mark of that joy. But one day, the lacerations in her soles seemed to cut deeper than ever, the grass like knives piercing through to reveal an exhaustion that left no room for dancing. On that day, she went to the well for water to soak her feet. She looked deep through to her reflection, watching her tears distort it with expanding rings, and thought about what it would be like to become the water. Staring at it she was hypnotized for a few moments by her own vision of coming back after sunset, slipping under the dark surface by moonlight, never crying out.
Her trance was broken by the appearance of another reflection. It aligned with hers as the rippling anulets receded, and she turned around slowly to meet its corporeal duplicate. She faced a man dressed head to toe in black, a mask over his face as if he was at a masqurade rather than this bare place. On his shoulder was an exotic yellow bird with eyes replaced by sapphires. It was so very still that she couldn't tell wether it was dead or alive, but then it flapped its wings and resumed its rigid stance. Maybe it was mechanical.
The stranger spoke. "It likes you," he said.
"Why doesn't he fly away," she asked, her voice quivering as the remnants of her tears overflowed from the corners of her eyes, first one, then the other.
"why don't you?" he replied.
Taking a step forward, he pulled the second tear from her cheek, reached for her hand, and placed it in her palm. It was a diamond now, but it melted away again as tears do. She couldn't speak.
"I have a cure for you. For your tears and the cuts that you think I can't see. I can give you wings, and one day, you will never bleed again."
He held out his gloved hand. She looked at it, and then at the well, the field, the greying sky. She had a choice now. She chose the hand.
In a moment her surroundings changed. She was at the masqurade, dancing around a blazing fire without pain. She had shoes. And her own mask, and a red bird on her shoulder with glittering eyes. She had no need for speaking because it spoke for her in a language of song. She had laughter now and never wanted to return home.
She felt the magician watching her. She went to him and tried to remove his mask. He caught her wrist and pulled it away. She removed his gloves instead and felt the pale skin. They danced together and lost track of time, not knowing wether days or years were passing. He showed her tricks and told her stories, and they traveled strange lands together. She came to believe that the magic wasn't illusion, and that there was nothing beneath the mask. She told herself that it was his real face.
But one day he finally alowed her to remove the mask. She startled when she saw that his face was divided. One side was consumed by decay, its eye tilted down and to the side in an akward, dispassionate gaze. She cringed. How could she not have known? She stepped back, overwhelmed by the desire to run. But then she remembered the other side. And it was beautiful. It radiated light and warmth, an understanding unlike any that had looked upon her. She stayed.
As time passed though, she became more acutely aware of the damaged side, in such a way that she could not ignore it. It haunted her dreams at night. Its image hung like a specter in her vision. When the unmarred side faced her, she still saw it. When his mask was on, she saw that much more clearly what was beneath it. It drove her to madness. She began to sabotage his tricks. She tripped him when they danced. She took his mask and hid it. When he found it again, she sawed it in half, so that the good side could only be covered. She wanted the world to see. The lies that were his illusions and his visage. This was not magic.
Finally, she ran away, taking everything of value to the magician. Her wanderings led her to a garden. She felt a breeze, cool and alive with the presense of green things. Things that could grow. Things that were true, rooted in soil rather than illusion. She gorged herself on fruit from the branches of the trees. She pulled petals from their flowers and crushed them into perfume on her fingers. She nestled into plush grass that was so unlike what she knew from the dry needles of her home. Then she came to a fountain and a reflecting pool. She looked into it as she had into the well long ago, and saw that she was still wearing her mask. She hadn't realized it before, but it looked exactly like her own face, the face that she had when she left her home in the field. Slowly, she removed it. When she saw what was beneath she let out an agonizing scream. Her face was distorted in a cruel expression, her skin rotting to reveal the bones of her skull. She knew that it had been forever twisted by her decieptful vengence. The garden shriveled and died where she sat, recoiling from her inner ugliness.
She heard an echoing cry. "Come back" it said. She knew who it was. But by the time she reached him, it was too late. She walked towards him from behind his back so that he would not see what she had become. He was turning to stone, grey granite overtaking him with its stillness. She knew he was crying, and she could not turn his tears to diamonds. She closed her eyes tight.
When she opened them, she was back in the field, near her house without neighboors. The well was dry now. She wondered if it had all been a dream. But then she saw a small box at her feet. It was marked, "the final remedy." She opened it.
When you turn to stone, your body goes numb. Pins and needles. And you give yourself up to the loss of flesh and feeling. You don't cry out.
Her trance was broken by the appearance of another reflection. It aligned with hers as the rippling anulets receded, and she turned around slowly to meet its corporeal duplicate. She faced a man dressed head to toe in black, a mask over his face as if he was at a masqurade rather than this bare place. On his shoulder was an exotic yellow bird with eyes replaced by sapphires. It was so very still that she couldn't tell wether it was dead or alive, but then it flapped its wings and resumed its rigid stance. Maybe it was mechanical.
The stranger spoke. "It likes you," he said.
"Why doesn't he fly away," she asked, her voice quivering as the remnants of her tears overflowed from the corners of her eyes, first one, then the other.
"why don't you?" he replied.
Taking a step forward, he pulled the second tear from her cheek, reached for her hand, and placed it in her palm. It was a diamond now, but it melted away again as tears do. She couldn't speak.
"I have a cure for you. For your tears and the cuts that you think I can't see. I can give you wings, and one day, you will never bleed again."
He held out his gloved hand. She looked at it, and then at the well, the field, the greying sky. She had a choice now. She chose the hand.
In a moment her surroundings changed. She was at the masqurade, dancing around a blazing fire without pain. She had shoes. And her own mask, and a red bird on her shoulder with glittering eyes. She had no need for speaking because it spoke for her in a language of song. She had laughter now and never wanted to return home.
She felt the magician watching her. She went to him and tried to remove his mask. He caught her wrist and pulled it away. She removed his gloves instead and felt the pale skin. They danced together and lost track of time, not knowing wether days or years were passing. He showed her tricks and told her stories, and they traveled strange lands together. She came to believe that the magic wasn't illusion, and that there was nothing beneath the mask. She told herself that it was his real face.
But one day he finally alowed her to remove the mask. She startled when she saw that his face was divided. One side was consumed by decay, its eye tilted down and to the side in an akward, dispassionate gaze. She cringed. How could she not have known? She stepped back, overwhelmed by the desire to run. But then she remembered the other side. And it was beautiful. It radiated light and warmth, an understanding unlike any that had looked upon her. She stayed.
As time passed though, she became more acutely aware of the damaged side, in such a way that she could not ignore it. It haunted her dreams at night. Its image hung like a specter in her vision. When the unmarred side faced her, she still saw it. When his mask was on, she saw that much more clearly what was beneath it. It drove her to madness. She began to sabotage his tricks. She tripped him when they danced. She took his mask and hid it. When he found it again, she sawed it in half, so that the good side could only be covered. She wanted the world to see. The lies that were his illusions and his visage. This was not magic.
Finally, she ran away, taking everything of value to the magician. Her wanderings led her to a garden. She felt a breeze, cool and alive with the presense of green things. Things that could grow. Things that were true, rooted in soil rather than illusion. She gorged herself on fruit from the branches of the trees. She pulled petals from their flowers and crushed them into perfume on her fingers. She nestled into plush grass that was so unlike what she knew from the dry needles of her home. Then she came to a fountain and a reflecting pool. She looked into it as she had into the well long ago, and saw that she was still wearing her mask. She hadn't realized it before, but it looked exactly like her own face, the face that she had when she left her home in the field. Slowly, she removed it. When she saw what was beneath she let out an agonizing scream. Her face was distorted in a cruel expression, her skin rotting to reveal the bones of her skull. She knew that it had been forever twisted by her decieptful vengence. The garden shriveled and died where she sat, recoiling from her inner ugliness.
She heard an echoing cry. "Come back" it said. She knew who it was. But by the time she reached him, it was too late. She walked towards him from behind his back so that he would not see what she had become. He was turning to stone, grey granite overtaking him with its stillness. She knew he was crying, and she could not turn his tears to diamonds. She closed her eyes tight.
When she opened them, she was back in the field, near her house without neighboors. The well was dry now. She wondered if it had all been a dream. But then she saw a small box at her feet. It was marked, "the final remedy." She opened it.
When you turn to stone, your body goes numb. Pins and needles. And you give yourself up to the loss of flesh and feeling. You don't cry out.