Perfidy

When I was eleven years old, my grandmother decided to die. “I’ll tell you a secret,” she told me as I stood next to the crisp white hospital bed. Her skin didn’t quite fit, and it sloughed a little over the bones in her hand as I held it. The air in the little room smelled strange, sweet from the limp yellow flowers my mother had brought earlier, but also heavy. I had to breathe hard, in and out, to get enough.

“I’ll tell you my secret, the only one that is still mine alone. My newest secret. I will tell you it because I am old and you are young, because I am nothing and you are everything. Because it is all I have left to give you. My secret is this: there is a woman that lives in the clay by the river behind my house. I found her one month ago today, and I want you to visit her. Tell her about me, so she’ll understand.”

Her face got very old when she told me, and then crumpled in on itself as she began to cry. Her hands looked like claws when she curled them up in the starched white sheets, closing her eyes and making wet little gasping noises.

That night I had a dream. I dreamt of the warm, red clay of the riverbank, and the gushing water. Out of the earth, I could see a clammy, white hand sticking up. It was my grandmother’s hand, and as I watched the skin began to melt, dripping off the tips of her fingers and seeping into the clay.

They moved her the next day. I wasn’t there, but when I next saw my grandmother, her mouth was stretched into a smile and painted, and her thin, white arms were crossed over her chest. Her face gleamed unnaturally, and she had brought the thick, sickly air with her from the hospital room. She didn’t move. I felt sick, and didn’t want to look.

The river was fat, and strong, and choked with the red clay from its banks. When a piece of sunlight hit it, the water would sparkle like tinted, liquid glass, and I used to sit and watch it for hours. I was crying now as I ran towards it, and I tripped and landed on my knees in the warm, reddish clay beside the gurgling water. I sank my hands into the earth, feeling the dirt pushing up underneath my fingernails. I felt hollowed out, sick and empty. I scooped the clay up with both hands, and pressed it against my chest as if I could fill the growing hole, line it with the soft, watery silt.

I heard the woman sigh before I saw her. It was a deep, luxurious sound that crept towards me from every direction. Wiping my eyes on my sleeve, I stared around at the emptiness, trying to stop the sharp gasping noises I was still making. My face was wet, sticky, and partially covered with clay, and I had lowered my head to try and wipe some of it off when I saw her.

Little more than a suggestion of features, but put together they formed a woman’s face. Delicate valleys where they eyes would be, a slender ridge for her nose, and the softest swells as cheeks. I leaned closer, and she spoke.

“Where is she?”

Her mouth, full lips like the shards of a shattered clay bowl, actually moved. The voice I heard was rich and loamy, and she spoke with a strange, eager rhythm. Her words fell over each other, tumbling out unsteadily. I was mesmerized, watching the delicate shifting of earth, little peaks curling up and then flattening out again as her lips moved.

“Where is she?” she asked again, the outline of her face continuing to shift and melt.

“She… she’s gone. Dead. She told me about you.”

The woman’s mouth opened wide, and she sank slowly into the riverbank. Though I didn’t hear any noise, I could feel her screaming, vibrations trembling up from where my knees met the earth.

“Come back!” I screamed at the clay, leaning forward and planting my palms around where her face had been. “Wait wait wait!”

She didn’t, and I finally left when it began to get dark. The next day I saw nothing but her face. She seemed beautiful to me then, liquid and graceful, and all mine. The next afternoon, as soon as my chores were done, I ran down to the river.

“Lady?” I called uncertainly, wondering if she had a name. “Please come back now.”

Slowly, fluidly, the clay a few feet to my left began to shift. She watched me impassively, the soft curls of her lips pressed together. I spoke quickly, falling to my knees beside her.

“Don’t leave me, lady. Please. You’re beautiful.”

She laughed at that, and the soft, burbling sound made me laugh too. I lay on my stomach in the wet clay, head resting on my hands, and stared at her for a long time. While I was there, watching the lady in the riverbank, I forgot about my family. I forgot about my little sister, coughing up blood into pretty, white handkerchiefs. Forgot about my parents, screaming in raw, angry voices at each other in the night. Mostly, I forgot about my grandmother, oily and cold in the long, black box.

It was late that night when my mother found me. As soon as she felt footsteps, the lady smiled at me and sank back into the clay. I reached out for her, but my mother’s strong arms were wrapped around my waist, dragging me away from the lady and from the cool, moist earth on my stomach. When the river’s little noises had died away, my ears filled with a sucking, roaring noise. The house felt too small for my breathing.

My parents made worried noises through the walls after putting my in bed. It turned into fighting noises, the sharp, spiteful hiss of domestic anger. Usually, when they fought, my sister and I would lie in bed for hours and talk, talk, talk about anything and everything to drown out the noise. This time, when I heard her footsteps, her soft, plaintive voice, I pretended to be asleep. My eyes were closed, but I lay awake for several hours.

When I woke, it was barely light. The world outside my window seemed cool and fresh, sparkling a little from the dew. The air tasted good, felt good on my face. Instantly, I thought of the lady. I slid out through my window, and crept, barefoot, down to the river. She was already there, and her lips curled into a smile when she saw me. We talked a little, as I sat out there for the next few hours, but mostly I was content to just stare at her, watch the delicate, shifting lines of her face.

She disappeared without warning, and a felt a stab of fear. I dropped onto the piece of earth where her face had been, digging frantically to try and catch up. My fingers hit a rock, and I saw a few drops of blood swell and fall. The damp earth swallowed them up greedily, almost hungrily, and I thought I saw the faintest curl of a pair of lips. My mother made angry noises when she found me, and pulled me back into the house.

I began to lose interest in things. Eating. Sleeping. Everywhere I looked, I saw the lady’s beautiful, shifting, liquid face. My mother wouldn’t let me go down to the river during the day, but each night I snuck out and sat for hours, watching the moonlight frosting over her smooth features.

I got sick, and was confined to bed for almost a month. Every waking moment I thought about the lady, saw her face hovering in front of mine. My fever got worse. When I didn’t dream about her, I dreamed that the house was on fire. I could see the blackening, curling wallpaper around me, feel the flickering, oppressive heat.

Sometimes I couldn’t think clearly for days. I sank in and out of a hot, jagged world, a million miles from the cool, watery clay on the riverbank. I saw the woman often in my dreams, but she was made of fire, not earth, and when she kissed me my skin began to bubble and melt where her lips had touched my face.

When the heat finally let up, I was in a small, windowless white room that I had never seen before. The floor was cool on my feet, and I immediately fell on it, pressing my face, my hands, my chest against the cold, white tile. When I eventually sat up and looked around, I saw the pictures. There were at least fifty of them, and each one featured the lady. Her features were delicate, as beautiful as I remembered, and I eagerly began to grab at the nearest of them. As soon as the frames touched my hands, however, the pictures oozed and changed, the face melting into something misshapen, twisted and evil. Her eyes were sunken, gaunt, and her soft lips were curled into an ugly snarl.

I dropped the pictures, my hands tingling. As soon as they lost contact with me, the faces smiled beautifully at me again. I spun around, suddenly terrified of the smiling, delicate clay faces. I saw my blood sinking into the moist earth, swallowed greedily, over and over again, and I began to panic. Then, on a little white stand off in one corner, I saw another picture. The glass was cracked and dusty, and I rubbed it clean to see the picture underneath. It was of my family, mother, father, sister smiling at me from the rough, handmade frame. I caught it up in one hand, pressing the cool glass against my cheek. The room began to stretch and fade, and finally disappeared completely.

When I woke up, the fever had broken. In my nightgown, oblivious to the early hour and cool, clinging dew, I slipped out of my window. I was still weak, and the walk down to the river seemed longer than I remembered. I stumbled, staggered down to the red clay of the riverbank. She appeared an instant later, her beautiful face forming itself out of the wet earth. I felt sick, dizzy, and I started to fall forward. As I hit the ground, my hands shot out and pressed against her face. My nails curled into her cheeks, and she slowly melted into something else. Her raw, jagged mouth closed over my hand, and the earth began to pull me into itself. I tore my hand away, digging a handful of clay out of her face and throwing it as far as I could. Crawling forward, I felt her wrapping around my ankles, pulling me towards her. My knees gave out just as I touched the grass, and I wrapped both my hands around the slender blades.

The clay began to burn my skin, and I tore myself free, wrapping my arms around both legs. I began to cry, violently, and the tears slid down and soothed the burns left on my ankles and knees. Slowly, the red mud began to dissolve, sliding back into the riverbanks and disappearing. I saw her face, beautiful, staring at me. Only her eyes weren’t hidden, jagged shards, as she melted slowly back into the red clay of the riverbank.