The Girl Upstairs
The sun creeps over the horizon, illuminating the room at the top of the house. It is not big; about eight feet wide, twice that long, gabled like an attic roof space, with a window at one end and a door at the other. In between is bare boards and bare walls, with only two pieces of furniture: a bookshelf carefully filled with exotic and rare volumes written on aging parchment, bound with linens and leathers in every colour of the rainbow and every colour in between, hunter’s green, Payne grey, blood crimson, aquamarine blue, chartreuse, India ink, ivory; and a wrought iron bed with a patchwork coverlet, the end crowded with dolls and toys that have not been touched in a long time. As the sunlight spills across the window seat with it’s quilted curtains and the spinning spider in the corner, over the floor with the dark, spreading stain of dried blood, it awakens the occupant of the patchwork bed. Skipping out from under the covers, fully dressed, is a little girl, who races across the room to sit at the window, one leg tucked under her, her elbows on the windowsill and her chin in her hand. She is not small, but wears a loose dress of a style more common on younger children, with puffed sleeves and a skirt that gathers just under the bust, vibrant in black and white check. Her woollen stockings are white, her patent leather shoes black, the broad brimmed hat, white, perched on silky black hair in two plaits. She wears little white gloves, but under them, her arms are stained with dried blood. She stares out the window, at the garden, and the sky, and laughs, counting the clouds.
“Seven.” She tells the spider, which spins silently in the corner of her window. “One for me. One for you. One for the white stag. One for the black dog. One for the lion, one for the unicorn and one for the fairy queen. Seven is just right.”
The spider says nothing, never will, just threads another bead into her work.
The sun rises slightly higher, shining over the garden. It consists of two orchards, separated by a winding stream, a golden gate at the far end. To the right hand side, where the sun rises, the orchard is lemons and oranges. To the left, where the sun will eventually set, it is all apples. The leaves move slightly in a light breeze, the fruit is full and fresh, and always is, in gold and yellow and orange, green and red and russet.
As the sun reaches its apex, above the golden gate at the end of the garden, something emerges from the right hand orchard. Enter the white stag.
He is no bigger than an ordinary stag, which is plenty big enough, but built along a stronger line. His coat is pure ivory, his many branching horns shining white gold, his hooves an unblemished cream. The only point of darkness on him is his eyes, ruby red and liquid, with tiny points of glittering light. He has a harem of similarly coloured does, kept safe somewhere deep in the forest, although the girl has never seen them. He leaves them only when he must, to lead the hunters away from his wives and children.
Enter the black dog.
If the stag is no larger than a typical member of his species, the dog makes up for it. Easily able to stare levelly into those red eyes, his coat is as pitch black as the stags’ is pure white. His paws make the ground shake as he canters, rime drops falling from loose, marbled lips. He comes slowly to a halt; ears back and tail down, yellowed fangs bared.
Then, slowly, his ears come up and the tail rises. The smile threat disappears. The two creatures bow, for the far away hunter, who owns the dog, has finally called off the chase in despair, and for the seven times seven thousandth time, no blood will be spilled that day. Always the hunt is called off just as the dog reaches the stag, on the banks of the stream, and always the dog obeys its masters’ commands. And they both disappear into the forest, the hound back to the hunter, and the stag to his vulnerable harem.
The sun presses on towards afternoon, and then evening, and a third creature appears, this time on the left bank, the apple orchard. Enter the Unicorn.
No creature of ivory light is this. His fur must once have been a rich chocolate brown, but is stained, clotted, matted with dried blood, his jet black hooves encrusted with it, the tangle of a beard, the ebony spear of a horn still dripping with blood fresh drawn, his black mane and tail dread locked by long neglect. He, too, has a harem, but of dark eyed and sinister virgins who hide, naked, deep in the forest, for he will not let them leave. The girl has never seen them and has little wish to. The Unicorn comes for a simple reason; he is thirsty. But he, too, is hunted.
Enter the lion.
A beast made of pure gold, a mane of silken thread, claws cut of amber and eyes emerald green, as precious as the stones they are alike to. The lion is a beast of the day, of goodness, honour and chivalry, as much as the Unicorn is a creature of the night, of seduction and destruction, of untameable power. No casual relationship of hunter and hunted is this. The hatred between the two is fierce and bitter.
They clash with a roar and a scream, a flash of gilt claws and blood stained horn. The combat is swift and fatal, and finally, it is the lion that lies dead, bleeding into the stream and staining the waters red, for the seven times seven thousandth time. The Unicorn dips his horn into the waters and they clear. Then he drinks, and turns, and disappears into the apple orchard, as the sun sets.
Then there are footsteps on the stairs, and the door of the room flies open, the girl leaping to her feet in joy. The appearance of the Unicorn signalled the return of his first mistress and only master, the Fairy Queen, who now comes to this room, as she does every night and has done for seven times seven thousand nights. She is both beautiful and terrible to behold, bedecked in all things rare and magical; strands of condensed shadow, purple dragon skin, velvet witchlight, starsong and the voice of the mountains, cold iron, wolf silver and fey gold, cloth woven of blue centaurs tails and storm clouds, hageyes and crystal Pegasus feathers.
She sweeps the girl up in a dance, to music that is half heard and half imagined, and all of a sudden she is swept into bed again, the Queen sitting by her feet, a book from the bookshelf on her lap. A great and wonderful story follows, of a master swordswoman all in red velvet, a rapier enchanted with the power of night, a polar bear with a great glaive and enamelled armour, and a winged boar tamed by a chain of adamantine tulips. Before she knows it, the girl is asleep.
The Fairy Queen collects her new gown from the spider in the quiet comfort of friendship, and leaves, to purposes in the house below.
All too sun, it is morning again, and the sun rises yet again. The light awakens the girl, who leaps out of bed and sits at the window, one leg tucked under her, her elbows on the sill and her chin in her hand. She counts the clouds, and laughs.
“Seven.” She tells the spider, which spins silently in the corner of her window. “One for me. One for you. One for the white stag. One for the black dog. One for the lion, one for the unicorn and one for the fairy queen. Seven is just right.”
The spider says nothing, never will, just threads another bead into her work.