Mari To Be Continued... (for hannah)

Wash your hands, put on your nightgown; look not so
pale.—
Macbeth, Act V S I


As Mari sat by the stream, she now had time in pocket to wonder what had led her there in the first place. The water reflected opaque green swirls into Mari’s eyes, as it spiralled over pebbles and gurgled into tiny waterfalls. She watched it make its busy way past her, feeling its way over every surface, streaming away into shady bushes.
She dipped the backs of her hands into the water, holding them out in front of her to watch little whorls of water cross her palms, dissolving the ink that stained her hands, and, she thought, her life.

She was a deep-thinking little girl, and was never quite sure if they meant it when they told her she was like ‘an old women’ with her furrowed brow and hazy thoughts. Perhaps she was – old, that is. Sometimes she felt very old.

Yet there was no one here to listen in except the stream, and the chirruping little songbirds hidden in the leaves’ shadows. She squatted very still on the soles of her feet, her elbows on her knees, her eyes in her palms. The sounds tinkled together to make uneven music which sometimes caught chords and often did not.

She was thinking, deeply again, washing back and forth over her mind, dissolving bits, and letting bits stay dry, as water and memory tended to do… wondering at why she was sitting here, cold and alone, unsure as to the time of day, and covered in ink.

Whilst these ink splodges had led her to washing them off, she thought, perhaps it had been the little hole, that gap in the curtain’s folds which had started everything in the first place. Yes – now she came to think of it, it was the hole in things that got her here, not spilt ink.

She had been lying in bed awake, watching the breeze gently push her bedroom curtain. She liked to imagine birds flying in the sky beyond. Staring absently, she had noticed a black mark. She had wondered what it had been- a spider, a shadow, or maybe a burn or stain. The harder she stared at it the less like anything it looked, and she wondered if it was there at all.

Curiosity over came her, and she made her way slowly to the curtain, thinking with each step that yet the next one would reveal what she was looking at. She edged forwards, her eyes blurring in perspective as she got closer- the colour of the fabric spreading to the outreaches of her vision. Her eyes did not falter to correct her focus. Heavy navy silk seeped into every corner, yet still that spot remained. Without noticing, she had become so close to the curtain that her eyelashes brushed the fabric. And the indefinite dot had turned out to be a little hole. She stepped back and blinked focus back to her eyes, bewildered at what she’d seen. As she had done so, the curtains swung open before her to display a huge circus ring and rolling spotlights which paced and swung about a dusty floor. A very keen-looking little man came rushing over to her, with a big moustache and coat tails which she imagined trailed right to the other side of the ring. He handed her a bunch of enormous feathers as though they were a huge bouquet, and bowed graciously away from her. These feathers had been like nothing she had ever seen before, and she tried to remember what kind of bird might make feathers like this. They were almost peacock-like, with fine soft spindles of silvery white plumage decorating the edges of a teardrop shape, humming around a dark centre pool of black and navy that looked out like a pupil.



Looking down at her hands, newly adorned with such fantastic objects, she saw that she was wearing different clothes, with tight fitting embroidered blue sleeves which reflected her face back to her from the tiny stitched-on mirrors white framed their wrists. She saw that her head was adorned with feathers and sequins, and her face was painted for the performance.

‘Aaand, now… Madame…. Oieseau….!!’ He shouted, to an audience in the darkness beyond the edge of the ring. He had winked at her, and made a juggling motion with his hands, before disappearing beyond the circle of light that now flooded her eyes.

Music riddled away in the background, happily repetitive, running circles through the air. Alone, and looking up at the black and blue striped dome above her, she found herself throwing. The feathers, incredibly light, soared up through the air, the quill arrowed upwards until the feather lost its speed and caught the weight of the air, performing an arabesque sideways slice, and twisting back down vertically. The weight of the quill somehow carried it back to her hands, after a pause in which each looked as though it would never drop and just float away. Her hands were throwing and catching and throwing as though it were the simplest thing in the world, and she watched the air above her, amazed at the beautiful twisting patterns.

Forgetting that she was juggling, Mari had sat down to find some paper in her bag- she wanted to make a note of how this was happening, of how beautiful it looked, try and draw the snaking twist of these weightless streams of white. She found her ink well and unscrewed the lid, and found a scrap of paper which she placed on her knees, while she dipped the quill into the ink pot. Four feathers had come floating down around her, but Mari hadn’t noticed. She looked back up, but there was nothing there, only stars.
For a moment, she continued watching the sky, nib poised. She decided to try and write it down anyway.

Heavy soft feathers swished their slow way back down around her, and cats watched, silver-toothed from the alleyways as the remnants of an incredible bird dusted to the ground and settled. The only sign of life was the plumage, ruffled very slightly by a warm breeze which curved smoothly through the streets. Nothing moved, and the stale glow of yellow street lamps distorted her face to a deadly opacity. Mask on, she looked up, her eyes blacker than before.


She smiled toothily at her new surroundings, strangely confident, strangely possessed. She gave a dangerous and strange smile inwardly to herself, as if she were simultaneously comforting and threatening her little self, tempting it with the mask, the night, the purring which glowed at the seams, beyond the black cardboard cut-out of this backlit scene.



It made her jump. A face, appeared in hers. A frowning face, formed only by the shadows which met the light that shone on it, made her jump and drop her smile. It was topped by a long black hat which stretched into the sky, and she lost her balance. Her heart beat faster and the grey and black lips asked her accusingly ‘white hawk…’ an elecuted voice pronounced, as if from elsewhere, ‘do you know… do you know where…’

She shook her head. ‘I ain’t asked yet!’ it snapped into her, nipping her already shaken edges, and making her jump. ‘Do you know, where…’ it returned to its question, politely. He looked around as if for inspiration, one eye twitching, seeming to sniff the air. She was cornered. She felt in a spot light, huddled on a step in a doorway. The face leant over her and seemed to look at her through the stale breath which she could feel around her cheeks, chocking her throat. Her limbs twitched, looking for a way out. And out of the corner of her eye, she saw a white rabbit dash into the night. That was what she needed to do-

‘No, sorry, I don’t!’ this time her smile was eager and nervous and she jumped up quickly, making polite excuses and trotting away, heart banging in her ears, as he shouted after her
‘White ‘awk! Do you know the WHITE AWK?!’

Cure her of that.
Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased,
Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow,
Raze out the written troubles of the brain
And with some sweet oblivious antidote
Cleanse the stuff'd bosom of that perilous stuff
Which weighs upon the heart?
Macbeth, Act V S III