The Black Forest

I.

Shoeless, the four sat around their table.

Creaking carriage wheels made stops like horseshoes.

No step declined, the coachman leapt to earth-

His clothing red and yellow, his boots black.

Did a beard adorn his cheeks in ringlets?

The baker, the miller, the priest, they say

That it is of no use to remember,

That the Count of the Black Forest employs

A different man with each passing season.

One tear fell from a mother’s bloodshot eye.

The steaming bread in baskets was soon stale.

A glass half full, a glass full, two empty,

And all of a sudden the knocked door.

“Your daughter’s name is Tatiana, yes?

Her presence is the request of the Count.”

Tatiana put on a pair of leather shoes

And was led to the coach (cushioned seats and locked doors).

II.

The room was lit. The room was lit and she was alive

and she noticed that her legs were immobile and then

that she had no tongue.

Her body heaved but this defeated water and not poison

and every second was a fresh horror (the way vomit feels

in an empty mouth, the matter of acid clinging on teeth that once could

be cleaned without a thought, the knowing that her young sister

would not have another lullaby) and her chair was made of stone.

To her right she saw a row of chairs all hewn from granite

and in each of them a skeleton.

She heard a voice.

“Oh my, such absolutely lovely hair,

The boys must have told you so many times

Of how it brought to mind a field of wheat;

Or fresh sawdust, if they were carpenters.

Did the most daring speak of autumn leaves,

And did he flush when you said in retort-

‘May I never see beauty in imminent death!’ ”

Like a breath the waves of watered fear came to her eyes.

Tatiana shuddered and blinked and the voice was a woman’s

and slow moans rose unbidden like the worms after a storm.

What curse had been placed upon that creature?

How long had she lived,

that her hair should make ropes of itself in imitations of asps,

that her face should be a fissure in a screaming, shaken land?

The woman spoke again.

“It is my custom to wait for your eyes

To find your compatriots sitting here…

However did they make themselves so thin?

Oh, pretty little girl, they were waiting for you,

As was I; for the next slut from the villages

To join our ever-popular table.

“I know you must be wondering, just rapt

Within yourself, if I always take the tongue-

Of course it is not so, once excuses

Positively flooded these cobblestones,

But I decided some few years ago

That the lies were a touch repetitive.

My new method has received no complaints!”

The woman laughed the way the devil does

When he tells the dead that every life is his.

“Sorry, I never mean to drag this out.

You have lain in a bed with my husband

And those sheets were meant for only two souls

And so I am afraid that you must die.”

Any blade with ambition to stop a heart has a moment

where the light that pools on its edges grasps at infinity-

the last elusive beat like a scar that heals into a scar.

Tatiana was awash in fear and could not think to wail.

Desperate, she raised her eyebrows high and leaned forward,

making sounds like rain that had yet to fall.

The woman slowed her hand and her eyes furrowed

as if in thought and she exhaled. Was this tenderness?

She spoke, whispering like the blurring of a cloud:

III.

“The only girl I ever loved was young.

She was a servant in my bridal home

And her hair was cropped close. When first I found

Her face, I thought she was a beardless youth,

Of heritage forever locked in marble.

And then there was something in her cheekbones

And a softness just around her earlobe

And instead of desire there was hunger

And I cared nothing for the world. I would have her.

And next…

Never mind. It is none of your concern.

One day she was leaving my library

And the man who I married saw her there.

Did he solve the riddle in an instant?

Though a servant, she was proud as hawks are

When talons cut into squirming trophies.

-Oh, Bella, did you do this to yourself,

What could you possibly have said to him?

Through my heavy door I heard him, roaring.

I opened it (the knob was tarnished, old).

His sword arced, a fist that fell forever.

He had buried it. Through her very spine,

His tooth came from the void. The blood shook him

And he held his hands both before his eyes

And rocked his head as if to cleanse a dream.

I did not even close that oaken door,

I live today because I fled in haste!

There was a window, hidden by design,

And through that I preserved my earthly life.

I knew that he would search across the land

But I had always felt at home in the Forest,

And so we find ourselves here. My temple.

For a time I lived here like a ghost lives.

What I could not find myself, I bartered

From an old woman. She thought me saintly

Though I cannot recall telling my name.

It is from those lips that I heard of a coach

Drawn by two horses big as the deserts,

Driven by a man in bright livery.

That this man brought a great beauty in tow:

A girl, nineteen, born to humble parents.

All gossips swore she could not have known the Count.

The goods I brought in trade, I left in heaps.

I ran as armored ants believe they run.

I was beyond shocked, but I was boiling.

How dare he? I would pull him apart, raw!

When I arrived at my husband’s manor

It was the most precise of all moments.

The direction of the horses told all,

I had not been the wind. I was too late.

The footman was lifting her to the seat.

It was the fourth hour of evening

And I wondered if He had pulled her hair,

And if he grinned when he left her speechless.

Just then, I knew I would hear her last gasp.

I would not live if she saw a new day.

I crept down the hillside and moved a branch

Into the road. Presently the coach stopped

And that prostitute’s temporary guard

Put his feet to the ground, and I put stone

To his head. I barely slowed, to lick my lips,

Cackling in the frenzy of a raven.

Her door? Locked, but opened by a hatchet.

Oh, if you could only hear her music.

She was praying to the gods, to shadow-

My name etched into her uneven shrieks

And I remember that she said, ‘Please, Please’

Although it seems she should have been more creative.

I beat her in the face until she died.

I did not speak- she was not worth my curses.

I set the larger of the horses free.

The mercenary I left to insects.

White-armed, I tied her body to a rope

And made my way home. The name of the horse is Paul.

She is chained there at the end. A place of honor.

I grant that there is not much left of her,

But I am told that she was lovely, once.”

IV.

Like sap from trees hot tears fell unceasing,

trickling, falling down until ashen beads.

Tatiana was frantic, shouting reds,

Excerpts from Babylonian mystics,

The words a boa squeezes from fresh bones.

The Countess was shaken out of the past.

The blade was a promise. It flashed only twice.

One day an eclipse shall swallow the sun:

The sight will be as dust that drinks up blood.

V.

He stood with his arms folded on his chest and waited.

She walked around a corner and he drew his lip into a leer.

He said, “My dear, if you were more lovely

I am sure your taste would be fatal.”

She slightly inclined her head.

“If my Lord the Count believes

that poisons must be brightly colored,

I hope his last bequest is generous.”

He laughed with his shoulders. He spoke deferentially,

“Clever girl. I hope you will not think me rude, but I have

some matters that may not wait. We will have dinner

when the moon becomes visible, if that is all right.

Show yourself around. There are no locked doors.

I only ask that you do not touch the paintings.

Until again.” He turned and shut himself into a room.

Tatiana saw her reflection in a pane of glass. She sighed

and laced her fingers like light through a barn ceiling.

Her eyelids came down hard, choking an idea or a sob.

When she found herself again, she smoothed invisible wrinkles

far from her clothing and corrected as many as four of the curls around her ears.

VI.

She took her shoes from her feet and the stone was cool and smooth beneath them. She shrugged languidly and turned toward the nearest archway. She walked forward. The walls seemed to be of gold, but her eyes were tricked; hundreds of gilt frames hung in the hall.

In each frame a different painting, in each painting the same woman (hair the color of the deep sea, eyes like the Great Library as it burned in Alexandria). If in one an Empress with her hands on a bear, then in the next a nymph slinking from a river on all fours, and in a third a peasant picking flowers of the shade once reserved for royalty.

Tatiana continued ahead until she reached a staircase. She descended into a dining room with the table already set. She muttered “An early moon today” and chose a chair. She tapped her fingernails. Minutes passed. A small man carrying a towel over his arm entered her view and wordlessly filled her cup with crisp wine that blushed so prettily that it seemed embarrassed to be wine.

She felt his presence. She clenched her teeth. He sat down and sipped his wine audibly.

“Ah. It is not strictly an occasion for this vintage, but I grew it myself and I do adore the color. You took some time in the hallway, I note. It is one of my most favorite rooms.”

If she had been clinging to a rock face with only hands and feet and had been so thoughtless as to look down, even then she would not have shaken so. Her voice was hard.

“Without a warning you have had me taken from my home. My mother is sick with worry and you want to talk about the damned wine? Why am I here? If you are to rape me, I suppose it will improve things to have a meal first.”

VII.

“Have I that frightful a reputation,

To be called rapist before the soup is cold?

I will answer in order of the asking-

Yes, I wanted to talk about the wine,

For I cannot cure the pangs your mother feels.

The second question is more difficult.

I suppose my loneliness brought you here,

But that knowledge begs for another tale.

In my younger years, oh, I had my hopes.

Shortly after marrying, I began

Writing histories of the Orient.

Perhaps they were verbose, too allusive

By two shares, but I took joy in the language.

-And when I shared them with my love, feeling

That she understood what I was meant to do,

Such things defy attempts at explanation!

For days I would fall into my research

And forget her existence. I apologized,

Of course, but I did it again. Again!

After those two mistakes, I made penance,

And I was never so thoughtless again.

One day, I finished telling of a war

And the last lines rang with finality

That roses wish for. In my excitement,

I hurried through these very corridors.

From one of her rooms, a servant boy emerged.

There was a vague familiarity

To him, but, I confess, I did not know his name.

‘You there,’ I said. ‘A message for the Lady. Tell her

that I have completed something that she will find of interest.’

I can recall the next moment precisely. He scoffed openly!

He grinned, his lips pulled over his canines, his head tilted back, and he said,

‘My Lord, she has read nothing you have written for months.

That she nods when you speak does not mean

that she is listening to you. Go and tell her yourself.’

I was wearing a sword due to a temporary eccentricity,

and in the next moment I remember feeling a Lion-

which is not to say that I felt as lions feel

but rather, that I was truly and had always been a beast.

The steel had riven the poor boy’s neck

and the hilt was, agonizingly, in my hands.

I looked up and her eyes were at the door.

Still I see the hatred, a fire burning without air.

She had seen it all. I cannot remember what happened next.

There was something of the coolness of a cliff-side on my face,

but also a fleeting time of climbing in trees and suddenly

it occurred to me that I was very hungry.

I had been wandering in a field, and when I returned to my house

the body was gone and my love had vanished from the earth.”

VIII.

“This is riveting, but I do not understand.

The Countess is right to have run away.

You killed a boy because your pride was bruised!

Tell me, do you think his voice had broken,

Even once? How could you be such a thief?

His name was then unknown to you. Have you learned it?

Did you tell his mother of your fury,

Or send her a chest filled with gold?

What if She had not seen?

Still such horror?”

IX.

His hands were trembling and he said, “Please go.”

“If it is yours to give women commands,

Then it is mine to refuse you, bastard.

What of all the other girls, what of them?

You know that in the towns, the pretty girls

Are burned in their faces while they are young

So that they will not be taken to this place

And be made to suffer under your hand.

None have returned, not one! Where are they kept,

Or do you eat their flesh as it is said?”

He coughed in disbelief. “Are you insane?

I have murdered, yes, but a cannibal?

As for those that came before you, must I

Detail sordid nights? It seems impolite

To list out pursuits, but they were sent home.

Some tried to remain, but I refused them.

Others I plied with orchids, on my knees

A begging paramour, to share my life,

But each answer was the same- she would not stay.

“I am no longer prey to that madness

That brought sorrow like a sunrise to my window,

And I will not be spoken to in this way.

You have always been free to leave my home.

I suggest you exercise the privilege.”

X.

The footman reached to help in her ascent but her look was icy

and he rubbed the unexpected frostbite away.

She slept for less than an hour before she was jolted awake.

Something had made the horses scream.