The Mysterious Play of the Crimson Night

Hannah

I sat in silence with Juliet, running my fingers absentmindedly through her jet black hair. A little tune played on my lips. Both of us were bundled up into the arms of our favourite tree and in the arms of one another. We were safe here from everyone else. Together.
'I love you.'

Wild Mushroom picking was a weekly exercise. One that no family member was exempt of.
We would always traipse down to the fields outside our cottage, equipped with wicker baskets and over-sized, second hand Wellington boots. Mine had numerous holes in them, looking like a boot shaped wedge of leerdammer cheese. This was a problem when the typical, English weather struck and all sorts of gooey wetness trickled in.
'It will have been those mice getting at them,' My Mother had said with a swift wink in my direction to kindle my spirits. I was quite surprised at this statement. I knew for a fact that Wellington boots didn't taste very nice.
I had given mine a swift nibble once Mother had not been looking.
I had no idea what mice saw in them.
This tradition had always been a bit confusing for me. Mushrooms were rarely consumed at the dinner table, though we always came back with a good haul of them after marching through field after field every Sunday. If we had them with stew or grilled on toast with a little cheese, they were always the small mushrooms we had outside in our garden. Tasty, plentiful and always readily available to pick. When I had confronted Mother with this after a particularly gloomy afternoon of mushroom racing with Toby (winner has the most mushrooms- and I had again, lost), I'd had the rather unsatisfactory reply of,
'It's a fun, family outing. Come on Hannah! Stop being so miserable!'
It is surprising what some people think is fun.
Mother had used to tell me stories of fairies and princes upon these walks. Sometimes she would sample a mushroom for herself and her stories would become even more fanciful.
Toby and I were never allowed to eat the mushrooms though.
Toby had once tried, but Mother had caught him just in time, clouting him around the back of the head and firmly telling him that 'You'll do as you are told or you'll get no supper or bedtime stories for a week.' Toby never tried to eat the mushrooms again.
It had never occurred to me to try. Mushrooms were meant to be cooked, not eaten raw.

*****

Prince Serda sits upon his golden throne of Autumn leaves, viewing the Council at order. Beside him is Princess Mona. She is said to be the most virtuous and beautiful fairy of the land. She likes to play bowls on a Saturday.
Together they make the ruling whilst their Father is at bed with a slight case of the goosebumps. The goose in question is upon trial.
'Please state your name,' says the Prince, his eyes of silver glinting in the candlelight.
'Mr Gander, if it pleases your highness,' honks the goose with a graceful bow of his long neck.
'And how do you plead?'
'Innocent, sire.'
'Off with his head," remarks the Prince airily, thinking on tonight's feast and the rather good looking lady fairy in the first row.
The guard lops it off.
The Princess rushes to feed off the carcass, blood smearing grimly down her robe of blossom. The Council look on impassively.
'Now, now Mona,' the Prince chides, 'Save some for later.'

*****
The first time that Mother hit me had been one raining afternoon in the January months of my seventh birthday. The familiar kitchen of our childhood carried an oppressive atmosphere that weighed heavily upon my shoulders. It didn't feel like I belonged here or was wanted at all between these stone walls and heavily chipped, wooden work surfaces. I was never allowed in the kitchen usually. That was Mother's turf. You knew you were in trouble if she dragged you in there.
As soon as I had crossed from the living room to this alien area of pots and pans and hanging herbs that tickled my senses uncomfortably with their sharp aromas, I knew that the school had called home. The guilt must have shown on my face because Mother's nostrils flared, turning a strange white colour. She was mad and trying to keep herself in check.
"Hannah Bethany Groves," she began menacingly, towering above me with her heavily patched apron still pulled tightly around her waist and with a threateningly presented wooden spatula in her hand. Hysteria welled up within me at the sound of my full name. There was some strange rule amongst Parents in which they had universally agreed to state their children's names formally when miffed with them. It was quite considerate if you thought about it. It at least gave you a chance to prepare yourself before the onslaught. I gulped.
'School called today,' she stated, scrutinising me for some sort of reaction. I stubbornly refused to give one. I had guessed as much. I just felt incredibly uncomfortable and unwilling to talk about it. In fact, what I wanted to do was run from this strange room and Mother's anger with my tail between my legs.
'You've been fighting again! Haven't you?' she asked whilst I remained silent, judging it best to be so. I knew what line Mother took when it came to physical violence.
She grabbed my chin with a little too much force, clamping down on it between her forefinger and thumb so that my face was rather comically puckered up like a fish. I tried to shy away from her but she held me steadily, her eyes seemingly aflame. It was like staring into the dark depths of Hell in all its burning fury.
Not that I was allowed to believe in such things.
'Haven't you?!' she repeated, her tone taking on a strange, higher octave. I nodded mutely, unable to resist the forceful question.
A million excuses ricocheted through my mind, but I did not think that any would suffice. I knew that Mother would accept none of them. Even if it were self defence. She would rather I curled up helplessly and take a beating than protect myself.
She believed in the power of words.
Not everyone was as well as she when it came to arguing their case though. I was living proof of this fact.
I wouldn't have time to formulate my 'but he started it' defence anyway. I was already bent over the kitchen table, my nose crushed against the worn oak painfully. That pain was nothing to what followed though. A hot searing sting whipped against the back of my thighs as Mother continued to pin me to the table, using that spatula as an offensive weapon to teach me a lesson against violence.
When I was righted once more with hot, brimming tears in my eyes, Mother pulled me into a tight, floral embrace and proclaimed sternly,
'That hurt me more than it hurt you.'
My raw, throbbing thighs begged to differ.
'I love you.'
I did not speak, feeling betrayed somehow.
'Hannah? Did you hear me? I said 'I love you.''
I grimaced.
'I love you too, Mum.'
She smiled in satisfaction.
'Now go bag up the mushrooms like a good girl.'
I left without another word, tears clouding my vision.