The wind was howling, sheets of rain tumbling from the low sky
as I straightened from my position at the bank of the river. Rivulets
of water ran down my face, plastering my long hair to my cheeks as I looked
back one last time at what had been my home.
The plain gray stone loomed overhead and a shiver went through
me as lightening cracked the sky, shadowing the tower that had been my
shelter, and prison, for so long. Lowering a shaky hand to my white
skirts that were quickly becoming almost translucent from the rain, I pull
the heavy, sopping material away from myself as I take a step in the direction
of the towers.
I’d only gone a step before I faltered, some unseen and unknown
force keeping me at the riverside. I sighed and shook my head slowly,
knowing the inevitability of trying to fight. I’d been warned of
the consequences of seeking out a different life.
All my life I’d spent cloistered in my windowed tower, with one
purpose and one purpose only. To weave that damned cloth that would
never be finished. When I was younger, I had never been bothered
by my task. It had been the only life I knew, the only life I’d thought
I’d ever need or want. With only minimal contact with the outside
world, you can make yourself believe ideas like this for so long that you
never question them.
My life revolved around shadows. I marked time by the sunlight
moving across the floor of my room, the shadows of candles used to brighten
the darker corners flickering across the walls. Then there was the
mirror, primarily used to check the back of my work, but later used to
give me inspiration. I don’t remember when I started to weave what
I saw reflected back at me, but I’m sure that was the beginning of my rebellion.
Its uneven surface mocked me with the sun and flowered fields and at times
I can remember wanting to do nothing more than throw my shoe at it, ending
my torture. Even knowing what is coming, I still take a perverse
sort of enjoyment at the sound the glass made when it shattered.
I shiver again, both from the chill of the autumn rain as it
strikes my flesh and the memories that wash over me, and I wrap my arms
around myself. Faintly I hear the small barge behind me bump the
riverbed, but I ignore it, losing myself for one last time in remembrances.
I never used to be so upset over what I didn’t have. The
images I saw as my callused fingers worked on the web before me would only
amuse me. The slow movement of the river that encircled my small
island, the fields of barley or lilies swaying gently with a light breeze,
I thought them beautiful. They were nothing more than images of a
world that I did not know, and didn’t much care for.
I was content for much of my time. There were moments though,
that the shadows that passed before me, the living, breathing people living
out their lives behind me, brought a pang to my chest. I’d see all
kinds of people, from different walks of life. Entourages of ladies,
peasants traveling to market, knights going off to seek adventure and their
fame; they all passed by my window.
I knew there were rumors of the lady in the island tower.
My habit of singing in the early morning, welcoming the sunlight as it
cast my small room in hues of pink and gold, only fed the rumors.
The reapers in surrounding fields I’m sure heard my tune, for each evening,
as they passed by, I’d see upturned faces in the reflection of my mirror,
a look of curiosity and wonder upon them.
The pang of hurt high in my breast that came when I saw these
images never lasted; they always passed quickly as I poured myself into
my labor, the small groups of nobles and knights finding places in my tapestry.
Once, a funeral procession passed by on the nearby road, the night breeze
carrying the music through the open window at my back. My fingers
paused for a moment, and I wondered, if, when I die, if people would mourn
for me. Would they know who I was? Would they know my story?
Even with the thought of death, I did not waver in my toil.
I do admit that my weavings were tinged in dark, mournful colors.
The mirror’s shadows inspired me as they always had.
Only twice have the images the mirror shows ever tempted me to
turn and get a better look at what life really was. The first was
only a few nights ago. I’d been absorbed in my work, glancing up
at the mirror only to check to make sure my weaving was straight, when
the laughter of two people in love reached me. My head snapped up,
and I watched, my eyes glued to the cloudy glass as a couple stopped at
the river below. They looked so happy, so complete and content that
I felt the familiar pang in my chest, except I knew what the cause was.
I was jealous. Jealous of their lives, their ability to be free and
simply live.
I shook it off, but unfortunately not completely, because I could
feel it festering deep inside. A tiny voice would whisper to me every
time I looked in the mirror as it mocked me with what I could not have.
It reached culmination only earlier today. The only knight
to ride alone that had ever passed the island. I don’t know what
it was that struck me about him. Maybe it was the sunlight playing
against the polished armor or the image of him riding into sight that did
it. Perhaps it was merely the handsome face I saw below his helmet,
a simple song upon his lips.
All I know is that suddenly the jealousy that had been bubbling
below the surface suddenly boiled over and I wanted something more than
the simple life I’d lived for so long. Before I knew what I was doing,
I had pushed the loom away from my lap and I was out of my seat. Ignoring
the ruined tapestry on the floor, I turned away from the mirror as I looked
outside for the first time. Three steps. It was three steps
from my seat to the window, and I looked out in wonderment at how much
richer the color was. It was simply so much more real than the thin
ghost of a world that the mirror had shown me.
The cracking of the mirror brought me back to the room I was
in, and I turned back for a moment, shocked at what I had just done.
I’d always known that turning away from it would have its consequences,
but the reality of those consequences had never hit me, because I had always
told myself that I would never look away. But now I had, and I knew
my destiny was coming upon me.
My gaze searches out the window that had been my link, but it
is growing too dark, and the wind whips my hair into my eyes. Clenching
my hands into fists, I turn my back on my past and look at what will consist
of my future. There is some hidden truth inside of me that tells
me I have not much longer before my musings of death haunt my form.
I wonder for a slight moment if everyone faces their death this way, with
no fear, only the realization of its inevitability.
I pause beside the barge and look futilely out over the river.
I see nothing but dim expanse stretching into dark nothingness. Unconsciously
I bite my lip as I step carefully into the barge, loosing the chain to
allow the current to carry me at its whim. My body feels heavy, my
bones weak as I lay down in the center of boat, my white tunic spreading
out around me.
The storm lets up slightly, the raindrops falling like tears
upon my face as I look up into the skies. A mournful song, one I
have never heard, but know the words to, comes unbidden to my mind.
I let myself sing, my voice rising and falling, and eerie sound to my own
ears. I imagine my blood slowing in my veins and my eyes close as
the last words of the song fall from lips. My body relaxes as I exhale
my final breath and the boat continues on down toward Camelot, the words
The Lady of Shallot vibrant against the dark wood grain.