TCOTNK Season 3.13
TCOTNK Season 3.13
The Castle Of The Naked Knights. The origins of the picture book that will change so many lives....
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VI
And then I wake up?
Yes and no. Almost. A whirlwind is developing inside me. For a very brief moment, all the pieces of the puzzle are in place. I understand the whole construction of connections and it is so logical, so obvious. It can't be anything other than that. I am lifted into a kind of bird's eye view. In which the castle with the party at its feet, the man who made it possible, the large painting of the wedding and this river valley with the water mill and the three rock formations in front of its mouth, lie unfolded like a map.
And then I open my eyes. I stand with the spoon in my mouth. The intense taste of the second smush of porridge still on my tongue. Christ, what was that?
I need to get paper, write this down. Hold on to it, I remember almost all. I rummage through cupboards and drawers. There is only old-fashioned junk. Nothing useful. I sprint up the stairs. Over there. I grab a pencil and then I notice that most of it is already gone.
No, not gone. Unreachable. It's still there, but I can't reach it. Something just came in. Something delivered. In me. Big, it is. Like a circus. Very much like that. Trucks with stuff and people and animals. Everything you need for a great performance. I witnessed the arrival. I saw bits of decor. Some of the players. Patches of decorations. And as soon as they moved into their temporary settlement, the shuttered fence surrounds the large field. And then you can no longer see what is being built. You have a suspicion. You sometimes hear sounds that reveal activity. But other than that you are outside of it. Still. Until the performance starts. Until you buy a ticket. I know I know. And... more than that, I know there are more who have known it.
I sit at the top of the stairs with my head in my hands. What I remember is incoherent. And I'm angry about it. Aggrieved. I walk around the shuttered gate like a sulking child, so to speak. Occasionally kicking the paintings on the partition. Those are fake. I want to know what's behind there. I don't want to wait for them to get there. That takes way too long for me. I don't want to buy a ticket. I want to go inside.
I feel it leaking out. Suddenly I'm back in my body. I had already felt it but ignored it. I flow. I got my period. I lift the fabric of my skirts and peek under the tent. Jesus, what bloody misery. There really was a murder committed there. I stand and try to hold the fabric together like a diaper. It's already soaked. There is a stain on the wood of the step. My light dress has a wet red circle on the back.
The dress has to come off. I step into my room. Clamp the fabric between my knees and untie the laces. I struggle out of the top and long sleeves. I stink of stale old fish.
The dress has to go over my head. The narrow waist doesn't fit over my hips. My chest is a similar size, but more pliable. Taking it off is really a struggle. That's why I keep them on for days. During the operation, I squeeze my slippery thighs together to avoid staining the entire floor with crimson stippling. Although I'm secretly curious too. I feel a mischievous desire to see if I could make something beautiful. Drip. Drip. Drip-drip.
Standing on my dress with my dirty feet. It's already dirty. Might as well make it a polka dot dress. I feel my abdomen and slide two fingers into the blood source. My nipples stand proud. I smell my hand. I have never done that. It's sweet. I'm excited. I drip on the folds, on the embroidery. Once again I dip my three-fingered brush into the ink. Then draw a line from my forehead to the tip of my nose. My breath becomes deep. Flows into my abdomen, where it turns to liquid. Into moisture. Hand in hand with desire. Longing for the warm release. I want the release. But more than that, I want this. My body beautiful and alive.
I breathe through my mouth. Shallow. I'm so close. It would require no more than a brief dance of my hands, no more than a little counter-pressure. I want to drive my quarry, my hill into something. But this time I won't do what I would otherwise certainly not avoid. I let the heat spread. The glow rolls up through my body. Through my chest, through my back. My throat produces a long, low ooo, that fades into a whispering flow that empties me. It goes on for so long that I feel dizzy when I catch my breath again.
I feel very clear. Fighting spirit. I don't think you should give me a sword today.
The water is cold. I wash slowly. My skin tingles.
With a folded towel clutched between my legs and a blanket wrapped as a strapless dress, I run downstairs. Through the kitchen, into the main room. Samanthe is spinning. Was that really her name? She seems very focused. Like she doesn't even notice me going out the front door.
I get dressed in the gipsy-wagon. Put on my other dress. Only hesitating for a brief moment. Nothing more than a moment of conscious choosing. Today it's the red dress.
When I come back in, Samanthe looks up.
Her smile is strange. She seems moved. Like a proud mother. She nods and blinks.
'Was the porridge tasty?' she asks as she kicks the wheel back into motion.
I sit down across from her on the edge of the mill mechanism and ask, 'Can you tell me about the three goddesses?'
VII
With the old woman fully immersed in the task of spinning a thread and me waiting for her to answer my question, I am calmed by the time passing. A stubborn patience takes hold in me. She forms the loose hair between her thumb and index finger. She stretches wool to infinity. It is mesmerising but I am determined. I will not let go.
“Goats,” she says.
I believe she means it is not sheep's wool.
Then she sits and nods, whilst the wheel spins silently. Her face leafs through expressions. As if she is listening to a story internally.
"On the island," she finally says absentmindedly. Doing five things at once. She is very adept at keeping the flow going, the smooth pump of her foot and the fine finger work while attending to her inner narrative. And then I come through. Answering sensibly is of course a bit much.
"You should go check it out if you're that interested,” is all I get.
I'm going to wash my dress. After I have found a bar of soap and put a large zinc bucket of water on the stove, I walk outside with my ivory bundle of stink. I find it intriguing when I walk around the house. What will I find? There is no chopping block, no expensive car, no fruiting blackberry bush and certainly no knight's sword. There is an old bathtub that is apparently used more often for rinsing. You can light a fire under it.
I leave the dress to soak in the cold soapy water. Walk to Uglee who is napping. She half lifts an eyelid. Then sighs contentedly and continues sleeping. I stroll down the path and try to think and make sense of what is happening.
The hare, what was her name again, crosses the cart track. In three jumps. She's busy with other things, I think, and then I hear what she's running from. Engine noise. A heavy truck. No, more than one. I want to see what passes by. Not entirely sure about it though. I sneak towards the road through the undergrowth. The rumbling comes closer. It looks like a column. The growing drone is polyphonic. I peek through the vegetation. They drive slowly. A clown car in front. Cheerfully painted. It's not over yet, I think, and I'm feeling a little cold. It just feels so normal. So really real. The second is a semi-trailer. It really is a circus. What is this? Is someone trying to clarify something? It may be easier to tell me straight, because I don't get it. Then listen better, my inner self echoes. A truck with a highly loaded trailer. All straw bales. An absurdly large block of grain stalks on wheels. Then two closed faded-red trailers. An animal cart. Followed by tent parts. Two campers. A tractor towing the cash register. Still followed by more vehicles. All the same shade of stale blood. It's quite a convoy. What are they doing here?
Then I think of the bridge. Further on is the narrow stone bridge over the river. They can never get across. As soon as I think that, the front brakes and the entire caravan comes to a screeching and creaking halt. Doors open, people shout that it's a dead end and other people swear. Doors are being slammed shut. People walk towards each other. I estimate there are dozens of vehicles. I can't see the end.
A group forms. A few meters in front of my mediocre shelter. I stand still and hold my breath. I don't actually know why.
'Turn? On this road? Fuckin’ L!'
'What then?' says a female voice. ‘Drive backwards all the way to the coast?'
"This day turned into yesterday many hours ago, if you ask me," says a third.
"But we didn't ask you anything!" The first man again. He's pissed off. He spits in my direction. The bloke doesn't seem to see me. I am wearing a red dress, only slightly faded, how can he not detect me?
“I agree,” says the woman, “we've been on the road all night. That's why we fucked up. Carlos has completely had it and the rest are just struggling along. It's high time we stop.”
The first man growls once.
The woman walks away. By the looks of her physique she’s an acrobat. With an attitude. I believe she will sort it out.
Samanthe pops up next to me. I didn't hear her coming.
“Guests,” she whispers very loudly and high pitched, “how very nice.” She nudges me. Her elbow sharp and painful in my ribcage.
The men look in our direction in surprise.
“Well,” Samanthe announces, “I'm going to prepare the soup. You ask our visitors if they want something to drink, dear,” then she pushes me with both hands towards the guests and walks away through the bushes herself. The guys look as if they see a ghost. They even take a few steps back as I stumble into view. I'm causing a commotion. I hear my arrival ripple along the roadside in both directions. I don't know how to respond.
The acrobat comes walking back. Gives the big grouch a serious punch on the upper arm to at least take his attention away from me for a while. "Superstitious piece of shit," she snaps at him. She also looks at me strangely, but also pulls me by the hand from the side of the road and onto the street. On my bare feet. Then stands back to take a look at me.
"Where are you from, beautiful?"
Well, I guess, difficult question. I can't find a simple answer. The number of people gathering around me is growing steadily. I stammer something incoherent. My head has already had to process too much bizarre nonsense today. I would prefer to become invisible on the spot.
A large man with a pirate haircut steps through the circle of bystanders and puts an arm around my shoulders. He's really big.
'Do you think,' his voice is a double bass, 'we can stay here overnight? Do cars ever pass by? Do you live here somewhere? You look beautiful, is there a party today? Did they tell you already that I am Carlos? Have you ever ridden a lion? Or doesn't that seem not like you at all?'
Delicious. Someone who doesn't expect answers. Especially with that cello voice of his.
"Uh," I say, "Samanthe is asking if you want something to drink?"
Then the ice breaks. A kind of cheer goes up. And the huge man next to me bellows out. I've never heard such a laugh. As a knight he would be able to dismantle a whole regiment with a chuckle. Plough over battlefields with one happy roar. Everyone is set in motion by this thunderous laugh.
A parade goes up the cart track. Lead by me. Or more, I am pushed by an incoming wave and behind me the line of loud guests grows. Ongoing. Invited by the deep voice of Carlos who remains at the gate to extend the invitation. Everyone comes along. Well almost. Nothing short of an invasion.
Uglee gets the attention of seven petting and inspecting animal people. I don't think she’s too annoyed.
Samanthe is busy filling glasses with lemonade or berry juice. At least something purple. Dark as ink. She’s emptied the mason jars. Her massive collection of bolts, screws, rings, buttons and dead specimens now piled up next to the planting table. At least she removed most of the contents before pouring the drink.
The circus people love it. I get a wink from Samanthe. She is also in her element. I am a bubble. Float through the crowd and threaten to burst at any moment. Only that doesn't happen. Sam gives me a large bowl of dried apple slices. I share. People take them out of politeness. They are brown and a bit spotted. Then, after a bite, they look surprised and grab a few more.
More food is brought in by circus folk. I walk against the current. I have to distance myself for a while. Five almost identical girls pass me. They giggle because of me. And then I know. I feel my nose. No wonder. The streak of blood is still there.
I suddenly laugh uncontrollably. The tall thin man who comes towards me looks at me with glittering eyes. I laugh with tears in my eyes. You can't call this a happy laugh. It's hysterical. I cannot stop. As soon as I look at someone I contaminate them and the smile bounces back at me. The laughing virus is a flood. I can't explain what's so funny. I'll try. Hopeless. But a circus visiting a watermill miles away from anywhere? You're not making that up.
Not long enough 😢