The Lady

from the short story collection Nefastus Venereæ (Wicked Loves)

Beautiful. All I could think was—beautiful.

Puberty was some years off for me, but I knew things in an intellectual way.

This Lady brought home for me what some of those things must feel like.

A Normal Kid

It happened the summer I turned eight.

Weekends in summer, my parents and I stayed at my maternal grandmother’s house in the country. It was a huge nineteenth century Queen Anne farmhouse. The halls were wider the walls of my bedroom at home. The room I stayed in while there seemed bigger than our whole downstairs floor in town. The room I slept in had a genuine canopy bed in it with curtains and everything. I loved it.

During the daytime, I would sometimes play outside under the huge oaks and elms or go to the creek in back and pretend I was fishing under the willows.

Mostly, though, I would play in the house, solving mysteries a-la Scooby Doo, or hunting ghosts or vampires.

The attic was my favorite place. It had several oddly shaped rooms formed of the roofs of the various sections of the house. Worn hardwood floors with steps up or down led between them. There were boxes and chests full of treasure (clothes and silverware; boxes of photos and old books and, yes, a bit of jewelry).

I’d spend full days tracking down lost pirate treasure.

Nights, too.

I never told anyone, but in the wee hours, I’d sneak back up to play. I’d pretend to be wakened by a strange sound. Immediately, I’d say to myself, “Ghosts in the attic! Better check it out.”

That night, I actually did hear a noise. It wasn’t the first time, either. When I’d asked about it before, Grandma said squirrels ran along the roofs and sometimes snuck into the attic. They never stayed, though.

The noise was different, that night. Louder. lower.

Putting on my slippers and tying my housecoat over my PJs, I headed out into the hall.

A permanent set of stairs lead to the attic from a small room in the corner of the upper floor. I could only get there by going along a narrow outside walkway that ran along the back of the second floor. It could only be reached from the end of the upstairs hall. Getting onto that balcony meant sneaking past my grandmother’s and my parents room both.

But I was good at sneaking.

The door leading to the tiny balcony was smaller than any other door in the house; almost kid-sized. It had no lock, but it did stick. Getting it open quietly was a challenge, but one I’d accepted and won before.

Patience, that was the key.

I turned the worn brass knob, being careful not to let it rattle. Leaning against the door, I changed my weight from foot to foot, back and forth, applying pressure on the jam with my shoulder; each time a little more.

The door gave a little, making a small noise.

I stopped and listened.

No sounds of wakefulness from the bedrooms.

I repeated. Again, success and a small noise. Again, no bedroom queries or shuffling of slippered feet.

Twice more and I had the small door open.

It was cool outside, with a bit of wind. I quickly closed the door most of way so the breeze wouldn’t get in. That would be a dead giveaway.

The railing consisted of fat, fancy-lathed wooden posts and a rail. They’d been painted maroon long ago. It was about chest high on me.

I always felt like I was in a horror movie when I was up here after dark. That night was especially good for it. Wind made the oak leaves roar. The occasional draft of air chilled me, setting goosebumps cascading up my back and skull. A fat, white moon high up trailed shreds of cloud. I even heard an owl.

I took the dozen steps, heart racing, a tiny smile making my face feel tight.

The other door stuck as well, but it was two walls away from the hall so I just yanked it open. Once inside, I could see the door at the far end of the room. It led to another room I wasn’t allowed in. I had tried it to get in from the hall, the first night I’d ever snuck up here, but it wouldn’t budge.

I wondered how anyone managed to get to the attic normally.

The inside of the room I had entered was disused, about six feet by six. The windows along the two outer walls were dirty and let in little light. Steep ladder-like stairs along an inside wall, half hid that other door.

Up I went, wooden steps creeking all the way.

A narrow trap door blocked my way. It had no lock and the latch had long ago been bent to uselessness. Though it was heavy, I managed to shove it upward. Finally, I had made it to the darkened attic.

Except it wasn’t dark this night.

A Transnormal Event

At first, I thought the light was just it was the moon shining through the small, round windows scattered around the roofs. I realized it couldn’t be just as I found the real source.

A window just on the left wall near me faced the direction of the moon. It didn’t let in enough light to let me see my hands let alone the rest of the crawlspace.

Ahead of me , on the same side of the building, a soft white light was shining. Almost, it seemed that end of the attic was foggy.

I admit it; fear grabbed me.

Somewhere inside me, though, exhilaration howled. I couldn’t admit it then, but I’d always wanted contact with something extraordinary.

That night I got it.

I advanced toward the light. My mouth tasted of the old pennies I sometimes sucked (I was a weird kid, okay?) I felt a pressure in my gut, like I would soon have to poop. Moving silently, I was sure I’d have heard the smallest sound.

None was made.

As I got closer, the mistiness remained.

It wasn’t fog. The light was just—weird.

On the corner of the room I was in, a small octagonal roof stood. It capped a curved stairway connecting the ground floor to the upper one, the one with the bedrooms. I had always thought of the space containing the steps as a tower.

The entrance to that space was low and triangular. I had to squat to pass through to it. An adult would have had to crawl on hands and knees.

The light came from that small opening. I wriggled through.

A smallish tee-pee shaped room had always greeted me before. It was just a tiny room with no other exits that, like the stairs below it, clung to the side of the house.

The geography of the space had now changed in a way it couldn’t possibly have.

Stairs lead up from the octagonal floor to a large, arched entranceway. The steps to that doorway had to go out into empty space over the lawn on that side of grandma’s house. When I’d looked up at it hours earlier, there had been only evening sky and that tee-pee roof.

The new portal above me was flooded with the soft light. It was so bright, I couldn’t see what lay beyond.

An enchanting, music began. Strange it was because I couldn’t actually hear it. The melody was only a mind thing. It tried to pull me upward.

I stopped for a moment to get up my courage—vaguely ashamed of myself for needing to—and proceeded. Twenty two steps led up to the new attic space. The almost tangible light enveloped me by the time I reached the top.

I stood, trembling with cold, anticipation, and disquiet, at the entrance to a long hall leading off into thin air over the lawn and the driveway. The light came from huge open windows all along its left side.

By one of them was the Lady.

Upon seeing her, the music in my head became ecstatic, rising to a crescendo more beautiful than I thought any music could be. To this day, I have never heard its like.

She was white. Not like me or my family, but white like smooth stone. Like some stone I had seen, she sparkled silver. The skin under her cheekbones and in the hollow of her throat were palest blue.

The Lady’s hair grew halfway to her waist and was wavy and deep red. Individual strands of gold wound through it. Silver combs held the mass of it back from her face.

She wore a pale green dress that ended high enough to show she was barefoot.

One slender hand gripped a narrow wooden column from which blossomed living flowers too beautiful to be real. That hand helped balance her, as she looked out at whatever held her attention.

One foot was flat on the floor. The other was back a bit, two toes bent and resting on the ground, the small ones slightly curled in the air.

Beautiful. All I could think was—beautiful. How pitifully inadequate that word seemed, even then.

Puberty was some years off for me, but I knew things in an intellectual way. My first sight of the Lady brought home for me what some of those things must feel like.

I went to her without a thought. I realize now, I couldn’t have stopped myself if I’d tried. From my first glimpse, my will had been in her keeping. I’m certain it still is.

The Lady didn’t seem to know I was there until I was quite near. She turned and smiled at me as I came to her side.

She smelled of flowers. The scent made me gasp; I inhaled as hard as I could, not wanting to lose that bouquet even for as long as it would take to catch another breath.

Her eyes! Red like liquid rubies, with flecks of purest gold floating on them.

The internal music embodied my wonder.

The Lady held out a hand. “Hello, Clara.”

I heard an accent as she spoke. I did not know what it was at the time. In the years since, the memory of her voice has remained as present as if she was still speaking. So like Irish her lilt, but so very different as well. The music that had pulled me along was just her voice.

It seemed perfectly natural that she should know my name.

Heart hammering in my chest, I took her outstretched hand. Her skin was softer than anything; her grasp warm and firm.

I wasn’t especially tall for an eight-year-old. Even so, my head still came up past her shoulder.

She steered me around until I was looking out the window. “Look, an’ tell me what ya see.”

There were trees. They couldn’t be anything else. They looked taller than mountains, wider than cities. Pale trunks, each in a different rainbow shade, went up and down farther than I could see. They were everywhere. There was no ground or sky, just trees fading into a white mist.

“Why do the branches have gems on them?” I asked the Lady.

Her laughter was the hymns of angels. “Those’re cities, they are!”

I looked up at her, unbelieving.

The Lady’s answering smile did not mock. “‘Tis true, it is. This—” she indicated with a sweep of her free arm everything in sight—”is th’ world of Ælfen, home ta my people f’r uncounted years.”

“How did you get in the attic?”

“I don’t rightly know. Sometimes a Portal opens of its own accord, it does. Best ya be gettin’ back b’fore it closes an’ traps ya here.”

“But I want to stay with you!” I was almost sobbing. Nothing had ever mattered more to me than the Lady’s company. To this day, nothing ever has. I still feel the intensity of that need, unfaded by the decades of life intervening since that night.

Tragedy insinuated itself into my mental melody.

Gorgeous scarlet eyes regarded me kindly as she leaned in until our noses were only inches apart. Holding both my hands in hers, she spoke. “Y’r mother an’ father’d miss ya, they would. Ya don’t wanta make ‘em sad, do ya?”

Her breath smelled of cinnamon and peppermint. The skin of her exquisite face looked softer even than the flesh of her hands felt. I swore the sparkles on it were actual silver dust. Those small ivory teeth were perfect, the canines just a little longer than they ought to be. Those eyes seemed to contain all the secrets of creation. Eyebrows and even lashes were auburn and gold. The Lady’s plump blue glossy lips…

I don’t know how, but she divined my wish. I do not know why she did it. Maybe as consolation to one who had to part from her. Crossing the remaining inches, the Lady kissed me.

Lips slightly parted, she tilted her her head and met my opened lips at an angle. At the sensation, at the taste of her mouth, I felt strongly something new: a flush to my face and upper chest and a very pleasant tingling in my nethers. My heart raced so fast, I thought it would stutter to a halt. I began to sweat. I thought I should faint from the pleasure of that kiss.

I would not know that feeling again for a number of years. Only when it returned, did I know that the Lady’s parting gift had been to instill in me a powerful desire.

Breaking the kiss, she again reached for my hand, to guide me, no doubt, back through the portal.

“No.” Something grabbed my chest. It was hard to breathe. The vision of her smeared in my sight. My cheeks became wet. I panted, not wanting to wail in front of the Lady.

The song was now an ache of longing and grief.

She hugged me close, her body firm and yielding against mine. I was very conscious of her smallish, firm breasts against my chest. Her skin smelled like nothing I’ve ever experienced. I wanted to lick her neck, an urge which surprised me.

Her hair against my cheek was the softest thing I’ve ever felt. Her dress was like warm ice under my hands.

Softly into my ear, a whisper almost, “Ya havta go back ta the world, Dear Heart. But don’tcha be worryin’ about it. One day ye’ll meet Dævara again, ya will. I promise.” Thus did the Lady gift me her name.

I accepted her vow without question.

It seems a dream, the trip back to bed. I don’t remember falling asleep again.

A Life of Love Lost

For nine more summers, I spent my weekends at Grandma’s old country house. I never played in the attic again. In all the long the years since, I’ve never gone back to that house, not even when Grandma died.

The secret of that night, I have kept.

Two marriages I’ve ended partly, I know, because the memory of the Lady Dævara outshone the love I had for those two. They deserved better of me.

Now, my own parents are dead and the house is mine. I face a choice: sell the old Queen Anne without having been there in fifty years, or keep it—and dare that attic again.

But I’m afraid.

What if the Lady isn’t there?

—Gideon Jagged
Innsmouth, March 2020

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