TWO
December, 1940
GRACE SPEAKS
I was losing touch with reality, and with my sanity. I was caught within a maelstrom of hate and spite which forced me to endure every sin committed by all those I had ever loved—my parents, Jack, Harry, Matilda, Stella—as well as, so it felt to me, the sins of the rest of humanity. The memories, the horrific actualities, overwhelmed me, and I thought that the only way I could survive the memories, the rapes, the murders, the injustices, if not to lose all sanity, was to succumb to a vicious hatred of everyone I loved.
Catling’s malevolence tossed me hither and thither, and as every moment passed I felt myself sliding closer and closer to utter desolation. I had no rest, no comfort. Who were these people? How was it I could ever have thought to love them? They were vile, disgusting, and the damage they had caused to each other, and to all the innocents whose lives they touched, and to my life, was so gigantic it was completely unforgivable.
Amid this maelstrom of hatred, that cold-faced bitch intruded.
So what do you think, sweet Grace, of your inheritance?
I tried to close my ears, but it was no use.
These are difficult experiences for you to endure, eh?
I wept and struggled, but she wouldn’t leave me be. She drifted nearer, her terrible white face close to mine.
Why don’t you talk to me, Grace? I’m here to help, you know.
I flailed out at her, but she wouldn’t go, and I was so lost. No one would come for me, no one could aid me. I was here, in this not-quite-death, caught in Catling’s torment, and I could do nothing about it.
Grace?
“Let me be!” I shouted at her. “What purpose does this serve?”
None, I grant you, save to torment you.
“You cow!” I yelled, furious now, not caring that I sounded like a petulant child (couldn’t I find something more appropriate than “cow”?) and Catling just laughed.
Anger is good, Grace. You
should use it more.
The memories took over, and for the longest time I did not resist. I saw Jack, as Brutus, rape my mother and then torment her for decades, with silent horror. I felt it. I endured it. My half-brothers…I saw them in life, with their wives, their children, and I saw them die, tormented by my father.
I wept.
Family is important, Grace. It is good that you weep for them.
Why wouldn’t she leave me alone? Didn’t she have anything better to do?
I watched as the man I knew as Harry, the Lord of the Faerie, lived a life as Harold of Wessex in Saxon times. I saw his love for Swanne, now Stella, and saw her turn against him, betray him, murder him.
Please, please, Catling, let me sleep.
I didn’t care what word games she used with me. I just didn’t care. Leave me alone, Catling. I am sick of you.
And I am sick of you! I shall leave you alone for a while, and let you ponder your misfortune. When you’re ready, call me.
She left, and I was glad.
The assault of images and sound and horror continued. I fell into the life of a boy called Melanthus, a boy my mother had once thought to love, a boy that Brutus, my beloved Jack, had murdered.
Would I never stop weeping?