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The Invitation

Maya Ruber

By Anonymous Published 2 years ago Updated 2 years ago 6 min read
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The Invitation
Photo by Peter Ivey-Hansen on Unsplash

The barn owl cut through the feverish night and fell to their windows like snow. Twelve women curled into the purple of dreams were awoken by a haunting call. The owl had come with an invitation in his claws and a question in his eyes.

The young women, in their finery, flashed between the archways that yawned out at the sleeping village as they made their way to the guest chambers. They did not turn their pale faces to gaze at the houses that sat in rows of teeth in the moonlight, or the lightless passage ahead. Instead, their eyes followed the sinuous curves and creamy folds of the stone women below in Sir Edmund’s rumoured statue parlour. Their awe was intensified in bearing witness to what was only fabled and enveloped the gauzy riches that hung in the whispers of curious villagers and now on the castle walls before their eyes. Rather than stifle the women’s anticipation, it brought their desire to see their invitee to an insurmountable height, almost raising them to hysteria as they waited in their allocated chambers, for if all else was true, his unimaginable beauty ought not prove false.

At the call of the owl, the women hurried to the dining hall overwrought with the prospect of matrimony that their invitations surely offered. Each gem, feather and brooch screamed with a gaudy desperation that threatened to drown their show of reticence. They fluttered into their seats like waxen moths and awaited their host. And indeed he did not prove false, for when he entered the tight cloud of luminosity that bound the table, all whispers caught in the throats of the women to prevent their hearts from leaping out. He was hauntingly beautiful, with eyes like blotted ink on the creamy parchment of his skin. His complexion was so smooth, and lines so strong that he resembled a divine statue that beckons you to read its inscription and when he spoke, he possessed an indomitable authority that was honeyed by his character of rakish charm. With every smile given and every word passed, he wound his string tighter around the women’s hearts like a dashing puppeteer and the puppets grew uneasy for they could not and did not want to resist.

When the clock called eleven, the sorrowful sound of young women singing filled the tremendous body of the dining hall. The puppets were lifted to their feet and began to dance to the sombre melody. Sir Edmund moved with grace between the women, dancing momentarily with each and in that short time, filling their person with such a joy that left no room for other earthly desires. And in the brief moments that each spirit was lifted to the high domed ceilings, the others were tormented to see another in his arms. Pale limbs, silk and gems seemed to pulse and waver to the music for an eternity before the clock beckoned once more and shattered their reveries. A horrible dread awakened their limbs as Sir Edmund bid them a brusque goodnight and sent them to their chambers. His famed statue parlour awaited them, seeming to whisper anguished warnings that the women tried not to hear.

Stone ladies in cheerful dance were luminous in the parlour, appearing to almost move as the light stumbled over the lifeless assortment. The guests hurried through, not allowing themselves to acknowledge the unease that crawled up their frames and whispered in their ears but their eyes betrayed them, seeking only to avoid the alabaster irises. In finally escaping the parlour, they did not meet relief. Apprehension instead, followed them to their beds like a ghostly voyeur. Yet they slept, for their hearts were fit to burst and their minds inclined to enter milky dreams of Sir Edmund’s love.

The next evening unfolded much the same. At the call of the owl, the women spilled out of their chambers. The great dining hall echoed with giggling and shrill conversations that were politely threaded between those nearby but sought only one listener. He loomed at the foot of the table, shining white and cloaked in the night sky, dipping nonchalantly in the chatter. He donned the same charm and ease as before, although this night, he spontaneously revealed a caustic disposition, at intervals spilling scathing remarks. At each of these moments, the women were catatonic, swallowed by an unnatural fear of his person. Then all at once, he would return and the gabble commenced as if it hadn’t been stifled. Their adoration was not deterred but rather continued to grow in their chests, threatening to burst through their ribs and consume their shell. If he were to ask one for her heart, she would gladly cut it out and pass it to him on a platter, then ask in an obliging manner if there was anything else she could do. So when the mournful singing once more coaxed them to dance, they found themselves weeping and lamenting every moment they weren’t in his arms and once finally in his embrace, they laughed in uncontrollable hysterics. When again their trance was broken, the dread that enveloped them was almost too much to bear, squeezing their frames as they ran through the statue parlour. Frantic steps echoed through the hollow carcass of the castle as they found their guest chambers, followed by the thick silence of the women sinking into the jaws of feverish nightmares.

The third night was adorned with omens of holy union, for this time the owl did not call but rather a note was left at each door. The women were expected to assemble in the statue parlour and this time, in white. They dressed themselves as if it were the morning of their wedding for the possibility of not being chosen was far too distressing to consider. They trickled into the moonlit parlour like a congregation of ghosts. As they stood pale and still, beside the dancing figures, there was not much to distinguish them from alabaster apart from their chests that lifted slowly with heavy apprehension. They waited. The ashen eyes of the statues drilled holes through their skulls. Yet they waited. The air bit cold on their skin and gnawed them with possibilities of unrequited love. Yet they waited. Through the whistling of the wind, the statues seemed to wail and warn the women. Their pulses pounded thick in their skulls; their blood viscous and breath heavy. Yet they waited. At last, they felt their master enter and the weight of their bodies lifted by a string. They began to glide, for the melancholy singing had started and as if coming from within the parlour, filled them louder than ever before.

Their anguish had never been so acute and they danced in a tortured mass for the love of Sir Edmund. This time he did not dance with the ladies, but watched from an elevated throne. The owl watched from the flat of Sir Edmund’s shoulder and their brooding eyes appeared to follow the women in unison like ravens against a pallid sky. The women moved in grotesque contortions between the statues while salty tears splashed his marble floors. As time passed, their lamentations increased, for their desperation crashed in great waves against their frames and sought to drown them with the prospect of leaving him. Sir Edmund simply watched, exhibiting no sign of advancing towards a decision. So the dancing grew more frenzied as they battled for any acknowledgment, but he remained stony and apathetic. The clock seemed to draw in its breath to cry for midnight and the virgins feeling it upon them, shrieked in torture at the denial of their love. And when it finally called, their hearts tore open with the agony of leaving him, securing their bodies forever to the castle as their pale skin became pale stone. Sir Edmund smiled and scanned his alabaster collection. The owl cut through the feverish night once more.

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