I cannot break the habit of writing. I do not want to write, I am too low in spirit, but my hand moves on. I do not care to count the days, but there are other ways of marking time. My hair has grown past my waist. My braid, I should say, its weave relaxing more each day. Last night was perfectly dark, no moonlight, or starlight even, penetrated the Graveyard Shaft. I do not count the days, yet my hand knows this is the Feast of Dolores, the Skeptic. It leaps to the paper to write of the Folk.
I went to sleep, sick with worry that I had only one candle. But on this moonless, starless night, I should have gone to sleep worried about the unalloyed dark. I found myself sitting up, awakened by a change in the pressure of the air about me. They were upon me, they were all over me — oh, they must be ravenous.
I shook my puny necklet at them, but it hadn’t stopped them before and it didn’t now. They boiled in on me. Theirs is a touch almost without weight, and yet worse, for it sinks beneath the skin, running needles of fire through sinew and bone. My arm was already turning numb when a fresh, hot pain skewered my hip.
Oh, for the power of The Last Word. What would rhyme? What would scan? But even asking the question defeats the meaning, for The Last Word must be a rhyme so original, springing so spontaneously to the mind, there’s no room for thought.
Now their touch had weight. Something hard sank into my arm, something wet lapped my hand.
“Saints save me!”
The Folk moaned back at the invocation of the Saints. I leapt for the tinderbox. Just one spark, and there came a terrible shrieking that would have shattered my bones — if I’d had any left to shatter.
It took three tries for my accursed clumsy fingers to light the candle, but at each new spark, the shrieking sounded farther, and by the time the candle finally caught, I was alone.
I was alone, my flame quivering from the quivering in my hand, my arm a mass of blood.
I sat all night holding the candle, never heeding the hot wax falling on my skin. My face was warm, I held it so close. It was not yet dawn when the wick staggered into a pool of wax and was drowned.
The Folk have consumed:
The candlewick is little more than dusty air. I squeeze it between my thumb and forefinger and stare at the ashes marking my fingertips. I blow it into my Twilight Cavern.
Curses on the Folk, curses on Sir Edward. I will circle them with a noose of curses and pull it tight.
Curses on the Folk!
Curses on Sir Edward!
I refuse to be trapped inside my fear of the next moonless, starless night.
I refuse to be trapped inside myself! Why am I still pretending to be a boy, hanging onto the habit of wearing these damp clothes, of binding back my hair? If I die under a siege of strong, square teeth, I refuse to die as Corin the Folk Keeper. I will die as Corinna the Sealmaiden.
The world is an explosion of beauty. My senses have opened like flowers; everything is an exquisite pleasure. I taste . . .
What I taste just kneeling beside the stream! I taste the spicy smell of leaves that wash in from the outside. It resonates in a sensitive spot beneath my tongue. The rat brings damp wood into the cave. It tastes light and dark together, deep in the corner of my jaw.
I feel.
Each fingertip is a separate small heartbeat that acknowledges the other small lives all around. The smooth, damp pull of the skin of a mushroom. It is full of life. I scoop a spider from the floor. Its weightless legs leave tiny vibrations on my palm. I bring my finger to my cheek. They greet each other. Two consciousnesses, brought together.
I see.
Human eyes, or even the eyes of a Sealmaiden, are little good deep below the earth, but my . . .
Oh, I will not give it away at once. I will delight in the telling of it, in every detail of how it unfolded.
This morning I turned myself inside out, turned Corin into Corinna. Off came Corin’s jacket, his loose linen shirt, his breeches. Why did I wear them so long? Here they can stay. What the cave rat doesn’t steal for its nest can molder with damp.
How light and free I felt. Had I ever had so much air on my body? I never knew I had so much skin, the bluishpale skin of the Sealfolk, all underlaced with blue veins.
And when I loosened my braid and raked my fingers through the weave of hair:
The world shifted about me, and did not come again to rest. I’d thought the world was full of bounded space, described by walls and footmen and cliffs and coal scuttles. That’s only the smallest part of it. The air is always shifting, boiling around you, full of mysterious and wonderful things to see — if you only know how to see!
I can see with my hair. When I move, the air bounces off the nearest object, then returns, bearing a description of where it’s been. I take a step: I see the curl of stone draperies high in the roof. I push my palm toward the bat-velvet walls: I can count the bats! There are sixteen hanging in a palm-sized space. I catch an air- sculpture of the cave rat scuttling behind me, quivering whiskers, short legs. How often has it done so when my back was turned?
For four years I have been wearing blinders. I thought all this time I walked a path of cobblestones, and it turns out to have been an avenue of stars! For four years, my head has been caught in a box. Its sides were painted with pleasant enough scenes, but that I should have thought this was the world!
I do not need to look back in my Folk Record to remember that the Lady Rona wore her hair long and loose, that she could walk through crowded rooms with her eyes shut. Remember, Corinna — clumsy Corinna! — how astonished you were to hear that! Remember how in darkness she scrawled her name into the Cellar walls?
You are more like your mother than you think.
I no longer stumble. Now I understand why I could circle the Manor on Midsummer Eve without falling. Why I could leap the fire, run along the cliffs to Finian’s rescue. It was no Midsummer magic, it was my hair, grown to masquerade as Samson. It’s a joy now to walk about the floor without stubbing my toe. A joy to gauge precisely the height of a step. I have been realigned, made true.
I can now make my way through the chamber in deepest darkness, stirring invisible eddies of motion. They shiver off their surroundings and return, translating what they’ve seen into quivering bits of air. I know the dimension of the Graveyard Shaft, I know the clutter of objects in the rat’s nest. My amber bead is one. Keep it, and welcome, cave rat. I won’t need it again.
Why did I not have this power when I was eleven and wore my hair long? I grew clumsy when I cut it, but lost no special way of seeing. Who can explain it?
And writing this now, I am telling myself something new. I can find my way through the Caverns with my hair. I don’t need candles. What of when I meet the Folk in the Caverns? I still have my tinderbox; I can call sparks into the air and drive them back. And if I can’t — better to be eaten alive than return to the old ways.
When I think about Rhysbridge, it seems I was living in a denser darkness than any in these Caverns. I remember the press of houses, the dirty fog, the smell of city filth, the smoky candles, the bruised lips of a dying man.
To think I wanted to stay on as Folk Keeper, living always in the dark. To think that was the end of my ambition! The sea is dark, too, but there — yes, there! — I’ll wear my hair long and loose, living always in my own internal light.
