A warning about swans, p.16
A Warning About Swans, page 16
is hotter, sharper.
If I held myself against Franz
for too long,
I would leave blisters
across their pink mouth.
Love should never compress you
so that you will fit inside
a castle,
a gown,
the palm of a single boy’s hand.
Love should make you feel expansive,
a sky of a girl,
a painting
growing in scope
with each new figure and color.
And that is how
I feel with Franz now,
their arms around my waist,
their chin tucked
between my shoulders.
I believe the crow from my childhood
was right:
beside the artist,
I may be more
than just myself.
Chapter Fifty-Nine
There are seven twilights left
before my wedding.
And there are no less
than seven places in Richter’s castle
left unexplored by Franz and me,
corners too well hidden
by night’s many hues
for us to search them
in the ebbing red
of a candle alone.
Under the bloodshot eye
of the late autumn sun, Franz tells me:
If you can keep Richter occupied
in the daylight hours,
I can search for your cloak
one last time.
It’s dangerous
to try to fool Richter.
I feel as if one of my sisters
(Rota, pragmatic as a stone;
Mist, cautious as a deer)
has crept into my mouth
and is speaking through me.
If he
discovers you…
I’ll be careful.
If it’s here,
I’ll find your cloak.
Franz sneaks a kiss
so quick
I could mistake it for wings
caressing my cheek.
I turn
my own head to brush
my lips against theirs,
the feel of the kiss
dizzying.
Half of me
(swan and storm)
wants to forget I ever learned
how to kiss a human
when most
have only brought me suffering.
The other half
(girl and soon-to-be baroness,
if I am not careful)
wants to be suspended
in this second
and never leave.
I am divided
between love and magic.
Our kiss is broken
by the familiar
SLAM
of boots against the stones
as Richter
swoops into the hallway.
He carries himself
like an ill-omen, a prophecy
yet to be fulfilled.
Come, Hilde.
Richter crooks
his fingers at me, as if I am no more
than a dog
he can summon at will.
We must be fitted
for our wedding attire.
There is
no seamstress or cloth merchant
in the castle,
no one to sew us new finery.
A dream
must be what Richter craves…
and for once I am happy
to give it to him.
There is no time to whisper
or plot
with Franz.
I meet the artist’s gaze and hope
their gift
allows them to read
the desperate truth
in my spring-touched eyes:
This is our last chance;
use the daylight well.
In his rooms,
besieged by the riches of his world,
Richter dreams us both December’s fierceness.
His new cloak is a shimmer
of hoarfrost;
his shoes are black ice.
I am confined to
a gown of icicles,
an aurora caught in them.
I am
a bride of bone,
a bride of the sun’s slow death.
When I’ve finished wringing
his wedding-day dreams
from his mind,
Richter kisses
the sharp bridge of my collarbone,
his smile a sickle
tucked against my throat.
You are still
so extraordinary.
I hide my scream
in the back of my throat and force myself
to smile.
Chapter Sixty
I leave my room to meet Franz
well after midnight settles its dark mantle
over the castle.
And even then,
I don’t feel safe.
(I can’t, here.)
It isn’t until I press my ear
against Richter’s door
and hear
the tired whistle of his breath
that my heart
stops
its corvid shrieking.
Franz is waiting for me
at the end of the hall.
The shadows paint them
a cool midnight blue.
After Richter’s fevered touches,
it’s a relief
when the artist’s arms
enfold me.
Did you find my cloak?
Or even a hint of it?
Please tell me
you found
something.
But when I look
into Franz’s eyes,
they are haunted by something
darker
than the sunstruck phantom
of their sister.
Hilde, you must leave
this castle
tonight.
It’s too dangerous
for you to stay.
I shake myself free,
passing through Franz’s hands
like rain.
Franz, no!
I can’t leave.
Not until
I’ve found my cloak.
Not until
I can protect my sisters.
Not until
I’m my whole self again.
Franz cups my face
in their hands.
You’re already yourself, Hilde.
You could never
be less than that.
You don’t need
your cloak.
I see you—
all of you.
Your light,
the depths of your magic.
You could make yourself
into anything—
a bend in a rainbow,
a gust of wind,
a summer day,
a swan—
with a wave of your hand.
Without my cloak,
I don’t have
that kind of power, I snap.
(Am I trying to prove Franz right
and show them I’m still a swan,
savage to the last?)
All the magic in me
belongs to someone else—
it always has;
first Odin, now Richter.
What has made you
so afraid?
Franz’s confession
is petal-soft.
I’m not afraid
of what Richter might do to me.
I’m afraid of what he could do
to you.
Knowing what’s hidden
in this castle
won’t give you back
what you’ve lost, Hilde.
It won’t change your life
for the better.
It will only haunt you,
as the dead
and all the futures
they take into the ground do.
But I’m no willow,
easily swayed by another.
If the choice
is to know the truth
or to be safe,
I choose to know, Franz.
I’ve had my fill
of secrets.
Show me
what you’ve found.
Chapter Sixty-One
Franz takes me
to a forgotten part of the castle,
ruled by dust and cobwebs.
A pass of the artist’s nimble hands
along the right stones
forces a sagging wall to cave
inward.
A staircase slithers deep,
deep
inside
the castle’s belly,
this strange extension of Richter’s body
and his family line.
I follow Franz’s descent,
listening (unwillingly) to the history
caught like a choked breath
in the damp air.
This is no place
for something with the roots
of ash trees
in place of veins, the stale breeze whispers.
Leave, leave, leave.
Turn away
before
it’s too late.
In my head,
the voices sound like the final pleas
my sisters made
before they left me in the Marienplatz.
(And before I
left them.)
The weight of the worry and the fear
sticking to Franz
drags my own feet down.
I
persist
anyway.
I have to.
The stairs stop abruptly.
But that’s true of any ending.
The cellar is cool, an eternal autumn
trapped below the earth.
I fight back a shiver.
Now is not the time
to show weakness—
however small, however slight.
Franz holds their candle high
and light splashes on the walls.
I’m sorry, Hilde.
I’m sorry
for all of this.
In the gloom,
I see
what Franz has fought
to keep hidden.
All around me are:
sealskin coats
with no one to wear them,
stag antlers
without a proud head to crown,
sparrow wings and swan wings
(not mine)
with no one to make them beat.
These creatures
(long gone)
are my kin
by soul
(half and half,
this and that)
and circumstance.
They, too, must have been locked
in this castle, endlessly bleeding
magic
for its residents.
Did the Richter family imprison
their seal girls, stag boys, winged things
with wedding rings?
Or did they simply bury them
after their magic
(and obedience)
ran dry?
I see the answer
to my question
in the scratch marks on the walls,
the splintered feathers,
the blood dried to black
on the stolen wings and pelts.
The defiance of these creatures
must have been the last mark
they made
on this world—
all except for Ludwig,
the king in his golden cage.
Because the single pair
of swan wings,
their sparkling plumes, their loneliness,
must belong to him.
Franz waves the shuddering candle
over the relics
Richter’s ancestors
must have prayed for and to.
When I saw these, I realized
you weren’t the first myth
Richter’s family hunted down.
These people
take and take and take
whatever they want
from the forest.
And they don’t care
how much hurt they cause.
Hilde, please.
We need to go back, Franz begs.
Before
it’s too late.
The artist finds my hand
in the darkness.
But I find
no comfort in it.
I believe it may be
too late already.
Chapter Sixty-Two
We rise from the cellar
one stair at a time,
pursued
by the candle’s sickly glow.
Each step
allows me to put the feathers and pelts
farther
and
farther
behind
and beneath me.
But above me,
a gale rattles the castle walls,
mimicking my trembling hands.
I have to find my cloak,
I have to, I chant.
I can’t stay here,
being nothing
but Richter’s creature, watching him
rob the world of magic.
You don’t need to, says Franz.
You are
maid and fairy tale,
girl and other.
Cloak or no cloak,
you’ll always have
yourself, your power.
And
(if you want)
you’ll have me, too.
Together, we can warn
your sisters about Richter,
protect them should he ever
try to invade your woods.
Together, I believe
we can change our tomorrows
for the better.
I recoil from Franz.
I’ve heard these words before
from Richter
(his smirk
cutting to the bone)
and foolishly pressed them
like wildflowers
into the caverns of my heart.
Any oath Franz
(no Tristan,
no true prince or princess
in armor dazzling as the dawn)
makes
to shield me from harm
is just another lie, another trap,
another false hope.
Anger scalds my vision, burning
its edges.
Don’t tell me to abandon myself
and my strength
when you can’t protect me!
You can barely protect
yourself!
I could try to—
if only you would let me,
if only you would trust me.
Franz’s side locks
scrape at their cheeks
as they shake their head.
I won’t force you
to leave.
But I
love you,
Hilde.
I don’t want to see you
down in the cellar,
a stolen myth, proof of a conquest.
You deserve
so much more than that.
Your love won’t save me, I snarl.
It can’t.
You’re just like Richter,
telling me
where to go and what to do,
making oaths you’re bound
to break.
I point to the oak doors
leading to the lake, the Alps,
the cities stationed
past their summits,
my hands quivering more than ever.
If you won’t help me
take back
what’s mine,
then take your things,
take your love,
and
GET
OUT.
The tears in Franz’s eyes
are the closest I’ll ever come
to catching the stars
now that I’ve been denied
the sky.
Maybe my love
can’t save you…
but I don’t want you to be
alone.
I choke on the bitterness
born from Odin’s gift
and my days
in this haggard castle.
I am always
alone, even in your company.
I will always be
alone, even after I return
to my sisters.
(And I was a fool to think
one artist, the thread of their life
stained-glass fragile,
could change that.)
Franz disappears from my sight
like too many souls have before:
lifted by
the wind and their coattails.
But they do not drag me
after them—
by hair, by hand, by heart.
They allow me that much freedom
at least.
Chapter Sixty-Three
The snow begins to fall
the moment Franz escapes
Richter’s castle and all their ties—
to me,
to the king,
to the murals
on the walls of Neuschwanstein.
Maybe by banishing Franz,
keeper of a hundred hues,
keeper of all brilliant things,
