Blood and Stone

Complete Short Story

Feet pounding. Screams muffled—stone breaking. Sisters taken.

I’m falling...I have memories…I remember!

She knew she lay in ruins, looking out upon the sea of broken faces. None of the statues in her Queen’s chambers were spared, including herself. Arms, legs, and torsos were smashed and scattered upon the chamber floor to be walked upon, ground further into dust.

As dawn broke, the lives never lived lay strewn and broken in her periphery. The first rays of sun filtered through the window, revealing the destruction of her Queen’s personal quarters. She saw the heavy oak door ajar; a bloodied hand holding a spear lay just beyond. Her Queen’s armoire, hewn from acacia wood, its intricate latticework finely carved by favored artisans, reduced to splinters. Cracks spiderwebbed the black obsidian looking glass that hung above it, bathing the room in shadowy prisms of light. Shredded lace canopies blanketed the overturned bed, the delicate material lifting and blowing away on the breeze like specks of snow. The delicate hand-sewn foot warmer, a tapestry made from the finest Chinese silk, was beside her Queen’s bed in tatters. All the Queen’s fancies, ornate or ordinary, lay shattered or shredded, destroyed by these vandals.

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Sent down from the heavens, her Queen had the blood of Gods coursing through her veins, sent to stand against the tyranny of her kingdom’s men. The very men who had captured and jailed any woman who declared their autonomy. Sculpted in the likeness of her Queen, Athaliah of Ossorow, the once-glorious statue, now lay in a puzzle of random fragments, never to stand again. Though her mind decried the damage done her, she ached for the loss of her Queen, her sisters, herself.

She was first guardian of the Queen, first in line beside her bed with her sisters standing silent vigil beside her. Oh, how she loved to look out the great window! Such a grand view of rolling farmlands and the pristine lake at the foot of the mountains. The room so high, eagles soared past as they flew from their nests atop the tall pines to the distant white-capped mountains.

Since the days it took Queen Athaliah to vanquish the men of vile character from the countryside, she had been carved here in her Queen’s bedroom, the most trusted of places in the castle. This had been her charge: to watch over her Queen and protect her. She had failed.

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Then, on a night whose moon spared no light, the townsmen gathered in the pitch-black forest. A resistance against the great Queen, they waited long into the dead of night to overtake the castle. They incited one another with whispered chants of vengeance. Resentment rooted in years of oppression haunted the vows of these men seeking justice.

Huddled under the pines of their neighboring borough, they found the moment nigh, and a rallying cry burst forth. Quiet chatter at first, and then a full-throated roar so mighty, it woke everyone in the valley, as their tongues let loose the fury bound within. They were clever, these men, using the wind to carry their cries into the further boroughs, calling to arms any man that could fight.

As the hours passed, they were joined by many, all taking up arms with one goal in mind: gain entry to the bedchambers, then seize Athaliah of Ossorrow. They stormed the castle, taking the sleepy guards by surprise, and easily breaching the gates. No sentry was spared, no servant left unharmed. Up they climbed, an unstoppable force fueled by rage. Atop the tallest tower, they slayed the Queen’s prized guardsmen and slipped into her room.

Even a God leaves a fragment of themselves exposed in those wee hours when sleep deprives them of the last shreds of consciousness. She fought, oh, how she fought against them. She pounded them until they bound her wrists, spit spells at them until they gagged her. Overcome by the sheer number of men who had come for her, they defiled the Queen and took the life from her.

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Before they left, the men with dirty clothing and the blood of her Queen on them began plundering her inner sanctuary. They ripped tapestries from the walls and curtains from the great window, staining them with the blood of those they killed to capture her. Armed with axes and maces, they approached the statues, smashing into the stone with blows meant to annihilate.

All were taken down, one by one. Luna, daughter of the Moon and the youngest Goddess to be chiseled, fell first. Then Gaia, Goddess of the Earth and giver of all life fell. Theia, the noble Goddess of Light, fell next. And then Athena, the Goddess of Wisdom, crashed at her feet. Then she, herself, fell to their assault, her marble beauty reduced to rubble.

As the stone shattered, a cloud of dust danced in the air and settled over their remains. Softly at first, the dust sang to her, an alluring, unfamiliar melody she had never before heard. She couldn’t understand the words but felt the warrior song resonate within her. Her sisters were dead or dying, their parts and pieces falling in a manner that encircled her until they, too, all lay motionless, in ruin on the chamber floor. Why do I think these things? Statues cannot live.

#

Silence befell the castle as the sun rose high in the morning sky; dust from the debris still hung in the air. No servant or sentry roamed the halls. None of the Queen’s cats rubbed their whiskers against their marbled feet. The sun set, and darkness engulfed them. It repeated, again and then again, cycles of light and dark, engulfed in empty silence. Dust swirled and landed upon a fractured alabaster cheek, the air suddenly stirring the room.

An eye, the statue’s left, in her broken face, spotted a foot—no, two feet approaching. Whose feet dared carry its owner back where they had stolen the life of her Queen, she thought in horror. She no longer had the vantage of her seven-foot stature, only a broken face with an eye and half a mouth lying askew on the floor.

How am I now able to think these things? A tickling memory hovered in her mind’s edges, hazy filaments of another life fluttering past before she could snatch one. How, until now, could I only watch over my Queen and adore her?

Two feet approached, and a new sensation assailed her senses. An earthy aroma of dirt and lichen grew stronger as the mud-covered boots with armored tips drew mere inches from her face. They walked about the shattered remains, picking up pieces, then letting them fall. Then the feet came to rest before her.

“Where is the Queen, statue? Speak now, and I will spare you the humility of being cast out the window to fall into the sewage gutter below,” a gruff voice bellowed.

“My Queen has been killed. I have no tongue, and I cannot speak,” she lamented.

“Nonsense. I can hear your words perfectly. Where is she?”

Bewilderment started as a tiny fissure. Light found its way in, magnifying it into a crevasse, unearthing aeons of hidden memories. She saw a girl, alone in the morning sun, sitting by an open window, strumming a stringed instrument and humming. A bird with brilliant green eyes and plumes of every hue landed upon her shoulder, nestling into her tresses. It fluttered up by her ear, softly singing a sonnet that wrapped and filled her to her core. Her hand fell from the forgotten strings and lay open in her lap. A single feather floated down, drifting lazily until it settled in her palm. Clasping her hand tightly around the beautiful thing, she didn’t know why but knew she had to protect it. She tucked it safely within the folds of her skirts. Smiling as the bird hovered momentarily, she watched it return to the window ledge, where it laid a small green-speckled egg, then disappeared through the window.

She had never seen anything so uncommon as this egg. It rocked so gently at first that she almost missed it. Cracks formed and pieces broke off as it was no longer able to contain the creature inside. It wobbled and cracked, all sides splintering around it to reveal a golden dragon with green eyes and blueish-green gossamer wings. It lifted into the air, taking its maiden voyage on those beautiful wings, and then it was gone. She felt it was part of her; it was a magical beast, and she worried not for its safety.

In the first nights, when she lay awake on her small bed, she would hold the feather to her face, feeling the softness caress her face and lips. A vibration would begin to thrum inside her body and mind with intent and purpose, each night growing stronger, until one night, words formed and fell into place from the jumbled confusion, and her secrets were revealed.

The strangled memories threatened to flood her being. But how are they able to haunt a statue? She pushed unfamiliar thoughts aside and tried to adjust her sight to see the marauder, as it walked about the room, yelling, “Remember, statue!” But she was stone, and those memories frightened her badly, even more than this brute before her.

“I’ve told you; they killed her and took her body away. The blood on the bedsheets speaks the dreadful truth.”

She could hear his footsteps recede in the direction of the bed and stop, then heard the rustling of bedsheets. “I see no blood, only an unmade bed. What are you hiding, statue? There are worse fates than being crushed underfoot, I tell you!”

“I saw them enter. There were many. A man pulled a knife from his sheath, and he plunged it into my Queen. I heard her scream. How can there be no blood?”

She was filled with doubt now.No blood? That was not possible. Had her eyes deceived her?

“Then where is this royal blood? All that is here are torn sheets,” he asked as he lifted the ripped cloths from the bed and spilled them onto the floor before her. “It seems you are a poor witness to your Queen’s demise.”

“But I saw them! They stabbed her, and I heard the screams until she screamed no more. Then they toppled and broke us into pieces, my sisters and I, and now we lay in ruins.” She paused, the memory difficult to speak. A tear formed in her lone eye as she told of the horror. But how can I cry for my Queen if I am only marble?

“Yes, go on, statue.”

 “Before they left, I heard them say they would take her body so that her spirit could not find its way back in. I saw their feet leave and saw nothing until some days later when I saw yours enter.”

“We both are in agreement that she left. But exactly how and where is the question at hand. How long have you been here, statue?” His armor-tipped boot came to rest in front of her face. A thin layer of dust now covered the leather parts—the dust that was once her sisters.

“I was created in the year my Queen was anointed ruler of Ossorow. I’ve watched over her and have seen her subjects come and go, paying homage to her greatness. They tithed her with gold and incense, and prepared great feasts in her honor. I’ve wished to be one of them, to feel the warmth of her touch penetrate my being so that I, too, could become a devoted subject. To become human.” Another image flew past her mind’s eye. A vision of a man being flayed and then killed by her Queen for the crime of disloyalty. No, that cannot be! Where did this evil thought come from? Why do they torment me so?

“But even my Queen could not imbue me with that warmth. To make me human.”

“How do you know this?”

“Because she did not. She adored me, adored that I was made in her likeness.”

“Does that not speak more to her love of herself?”

“No. All loved her, and she loved us without question.”

“How could you know that? It would seem to me a statue who can feel nothing but the marble confining her could ever know such a thing, and surely not the mind of her Queen.” He scoffed at the word as though it soured his palate to speak it. “I dare say she loved no one but herself.”

“Stop saying these blasphemous things! Her memory will live on in us and her kingdom’s subjects.” Another memory played at the edge of her mind: Her Queen sat before her looking glass as a servant girl brushed her long, auburn locks. As she turned to admire herself, she knocked the brush from the girl’s hand, and the enameled brush fell to the floor, shattering into pieces. Words that cursed the serf caused her to scream out in pain as her hands twisted backward, breaking the bones and rendering them useless. The servant was then taken out into the courtyard below and flogged without mercy for the misdemeanor.

“Oh? How do you propose this, when the only subjects left joined the townsmen who took her? And all that remains in her absence is a pile of rock that cannot put itself back together?”

“No! This cannot be; I stand for her. I will always stand...!”

Placing a hand on his knife, he walked in a circle around her. “You are naught but detritus now. Soon, you will be swept up by the encroaching army of men and thrown away. Unless you tell me where your beloved Queen is.” Openly defiant, the acrid words dripped with venom as he spoke them.

“But I’ve told you, they took her, and that is all I know.”

Lowering the hand from the hilt of his blade, he appeared to ponder her words. “Perhaps. But then why are you left lying on the floor to talk with me? I think you know more than you will admit to yourself. Perhaps even where the real Queen is hiding.”

What does he mean by “real” Queen? Queen Athaliah is the true Queen, the only Queen, isn’t she?

His words shook her, and he moved closer as she was about to object. She tried to look away, but her lone eye could only stare at the leather-shodden feet with the armored tips approaching.

He bent his body so that he was eye-to-eye with her and asked, “Tell me, statue, what is your name?” He picked up her broken head and rose, looking squarely into her half-face.

“My, my name? I was created in the likeness of my Queen. Can you not see that? I have no name; I exist to exalt her.”

“You, then, shall be called Athaliah.”

“No! I cannot take the name of my Queen; that would be an egregious sin.”

“Have you not learned to take that which is yours? I believe the truth lies within you, statue. I cannot help if you do not show me your secrets.”

He walked to the great window, listened, and said, “I hear the horses’ hooves in the distance. Quickly, the men are advancing, and they will soon breach the gate and sack the castle to finish what they started, smashing your pieces into rubble and scattering your dust about the kingdom. You must unshroud your truth now!”

Why does he believe these things and that I exist for naught but my Queen? She parried the thought away and instead drew into herself, looking amid the fractured remnants of truth. The veil slowly lifted from her mind. Thoughts buried in stone, now illuminated by this man’s words.

A bird appeared behind him, came to rest on his shoulder, and thrummed its joyful sonnet into their ears. Unlocking secrets couched in obedience, hidden behind loyalty and lies, that never gave rise to thought. Her Queen’s memories visited themselves upon her...or were they her memories?

She felt the gorge rise within her, years of holding the memories at bay and cautiously looking outward toward her Queen for the favor of a glance. Never inward, toward herself. The silence was now deafening; how could she have quieted herself for so long? Why would a Queen so great wish nothing but morbid silence to enshroud her most loyal subjects?

Ah, and there it was, so clear to her now; her greatest desire to be a mortal subject to her Queen was nothing more than elusive vagary. She waited, always the hope of life, the question left unasked. But how could she speak when she was disallowed to do so?

She saw it now. Her Queen, so ignoble, never allowed her the opportunity. Cloaking who she truly was beneath cold marble. In truth, her Queen had always been her captor.

She heard him move again behind her, and when he was within view, she saw he held the other half of her head. “This was hidden under the rubble, statue,” he said. He lifted both halves and joined them together. A vision took shape in her mind at the joining. The Queen had been taken unaware, and a spell had been cast upon her! It hardened the skin into stone, the warmth leaving her body until she became the statue she was now—the statue I am now.

Shock, anger, and enlightenment seeped through the fog, and she opened herself to him and shared her restored knowledge.

He bowed his head in acknowledgment. With a curve of his arm, he lifted her broken face over his head and smashed it down into the granite floor, where she crumbled into fine dust.

Darkness. Confusion. Chaos. My sisters, you will not perish!

A vapor cloud rose, thick with viscous steam, taking the form of a woman. Eyes, mouth, arms, legs, and a heart that coursed with blood and warmth stood before the man. She raised a hand to her face and felt the warmth penetrate her fingers.

Discomfort. Flesh. Emotion. I feel warmth!

“I breathe; you have restored me, my life!” she croaked with a mouth dry from disuse, speaking the first words to pass through them in millennia. She spun toward him, the memories firmly taking shape now.

“I was locked away before I could speak. A witch afoot, she told the townspeople. And my sisters were taken with me. Her spell deemed me forever encased in stone for the crime of witchery. Our sentences, she declared to the townspeople, would be sealed in marble. But as you see, the townspeople grew weary of her lies and soon knew the truth she hid. They knew she had been their witch all along.”

Shaking the anger away, she went on. “But she! She was the true witch and trapped me in stone all those years ago. I am not Athaliah, witch of deceit and lies. I am Lilith, the Goddess you seek and Queen to no man. I will thresh my sisters of blood and stone from the tyranny of men, the work I was sent to do.”

The man bent and took a knee before her, “Aye, my Queen, herald the Gods, you have returned!”

She took her first steps to the great window and looked down upon the valley where the men with torches and arrows neared the open castle gates. She reached into the pocket of her skirts and withdrew the green feather, put there so long ago. Raising it to her lips, she breathed in the musky scent of its owner and blew through the fibers. The sound revived the sonnet that began to fill the castle and all the lands below with a harmony where none had been heard in a long time.

As the men drew nearer still, they heard the sonnet but still pressed on, for they had not been able to kill the witch and were now under her spell.

She extended her hand outside the window, the feather clasped between her thumb and ring fingers, her index finger pointing toward the heavens. The tiny golden dragon flew past, hesitating to peer in, then returned and alit her waiting finger. Gently stroking its wings, it thrummed with the vibration of the sonnet, growing larger as the song filled and grew within it. The creature bulged and grew before them, and when it was the size of the window itself, it raised a brilliant blueish-green wing toward them for purchase.

She spied the floor covering of Chinese silk beneath her feet and bent to grasp a loose thread. She pulled, unraveling it, and rolled the thread between her fingers. It wove itself, first into a cuff and then a glove, perfectly fitted to her hand. She unraveled more threads and spun them into long, golden reins.

They crawled from the window onto the dragon’s wings and then to its neck, where she threw the golden reins around it, securing them tightly to use as a harness. They gripped the scales with their free hands as it carried them away. Below, the townsmen reached the gate once again; the dragon swooped down, and, circling the castle’s perimeter, blew a scorching swath of fire that prevented entry, sending them and their horses away.

Lillith held tightly to the dragon with one hand and took her rescuer’s hand with the other. “Take us to the spring of life, dragon, so I can return with the healing water to wash the layers of death and dust from my sisters and make them whole again. We have much work to do, Azreal, Protector of Gods.”

“Aye, true Goddess of Ossorow, we must return the lives to your sisters. And then seek out the imposter because now, we have a witch to kill.”