WHEN THE MUSIC FADES

This idea came to me one day while my mind was wandering in a dull Prosecution lecture. I think it has promise: one day I should write it up in more detail and make it a novel.

ELLA OF THE CINDERS

(Or: Tegence turns a Grimm Fairytale Grimmer)

Once upon a time, in a kingdom far far away, there lived a beautiful little girl named Ella. She lived in a manor on the outskirts of the kingdom with her mother and father, and their lives were happy, for they loved each other dearly.

Alas, there came a dark day when her mother caught the plague, which was going around in those days, and died, her beautiful body eaten away by the ravages of that dreadful disease. Grieving, her father buried her, and mourned at her tomb with his daughter.

A year passed, and her father decided it was not good for a young girl to be without a mother. He thus remarried, taking as his bride a rich baroness who had two daughters of her own. Ella and her father thus welcomed the new members of their family, inviting them to stay in their lovely manor, which had enough rooms and stables for all of them.

And for a while, things were good. Until the day Ella’s father died. It came as a tragic shock: he was found at his study, frothing at the mouth, a strange bottle beside him. His pupils had turned white and there were dark green stains all over his clothing.

It appeared that in the dark of the night, he had mistaken a flask of rat poison for wine, and had accidentally poisoned himself. His last act before death had been to write up a will, bequeathing all his property to his new wife the baroness.

Ella found the will, and her father’s sudden death to be suspicious: her father was not a drinker. Indeed, he rarely allowed anything stronger than water to touch his lips. And the thought of him drinking rat poison? Ridiculous! But the magistrate found for the baroness, and there was little she could do about it. Ella suspected a bribe had been involved. But alas, she had no proof.

Her life took a turn for the worse after that. For the Baroness, who had treated her civilly when her father was around, now looked upon Ella as more than a slave in his absence. She forced Ella to do all manner of chores, waking her up at the crack of dawn and not letting her rest till the last stroke of midnight, finding fault with her over the littlest mistakes she made. Ella’s stepsisters were no better: constantly mocking and demeaning her, stealing her things and carrying tales to their mother.

Life was hell for Ella, and this was made worse by the Baroness’s resentment for her beauty and grace. Ella’s lovely golden hair and smooth skin were all the talk of the men of the town, and it was no secret that many of them made trips to the manor just to see her, many even hoping they would get to chance to flirt with this lovely maid.
The relative plainness of her own two daughters, one who had too-large front teeth and the other a long crooked nose, infuriated the Baroness beyond measure.

One day, the wicked stepmother decided to take matters into her own hands.

It was on a cold winter’s night, that the Baroness ordered Ella to fetch kindling for the hearth. Ever obedient, Ella obeyed, bringing twigs and branches from the woods nearby to bring light and warmth to the manor.

It was just as she was tossing the kindling in the fire that the Baroness, sly as a serpent, snuck up from behind her and pushed her into the flames.

Oh, what a shock for poor Ella! How she screamed as the flames lapped at her flesh like the tongues of hounds! How she cried as the hearth ate away at her skin, her face, her hands! To be baked alive! How she suffered as her lovely dress, her fair skin, her golden hair, all fell victim to this cruel hearth! How much agony, the intensity of a blazing fire, like the heart of a dragon, all consuming, all destroying, all ruining!

Ella tried to get free of the flames, but her stepmother restrained her, pushing her back into the hearth every time she tried to escape. It would have been the end of her then, had it not been for a local constable knocking at the door, concerned about the screams and the noxious scent of burning flesh. Her stepmother passed it off as an accident, pretending to be shocked as she did so.

Life took a turn for the worse for poor Ella after that. From an object of love and devotion, she rapidly became a figure of terror, the flames having reduced her to an extreme grotesqueness so harsh not even Lucifer would bestow it upon his minions. Her hair had been burnt away by the flames, and what was left of her skin was covered in hideous disfiguring burns, which gave her intense pain, especially when she held a mop or broom to do her work. For did you think her stepmother would excuse her from her tasks because of her injuries? Not likely.

Men no longer came to visit her. Indeed, she was a figure of fun now, the common example tossed around by drunks at the tavern every time they made jokes about monsters or terribly undesirable women. Mothers used her as a boogeyman, a bugbear to scare their children to behave: “eat your greens or the Burnt Woman will eat you.” The rowdier youth enjoyed taunting her every time they chanced upon Ella walking to the market, throwing stones and calling her cruel names such as Peeled Apple, No-Skin, Wraith Maid, and most hurtful of all, Cinder Ella, a reference to the flaking skin on her hands.

The last straw came when the Baroness and her daughters received an invitation to the Grand King’s Masquerade Ball at the Royal Palace. The Prince of the country was of marriageable age, and all eligible women were encouraged to come to the ball so the Prince could take his pick.

There was no invitation for Ella.

She could only watch as her stepmother and stepsisters dressed up nicely for the ball, putting on rouge and powder and forcing themselves into tight, uncomfortable dresses, each confident they would catch the prince’s heart. Ella forced herself not to cry as they mocked her, as they always did, rubbing into her face how much fun they would have at this ball she was not invited to.

It was all too much to bear for her. After her stepmother and stepsisters left for the ball, she sat in a corner and wept profusely, before rising to get a rope. She strung one end to the high rafters, and tied the other end in a noose.

“There is no point in going on,” she wept, as she raised the noose over her head.

It was just then she heard a voice from behind her, and she turned to see a beautiful woman with raven hair and a glittering dress of grey standing at the doorway.

“Who are you?” Ella asked.

“I am the Queen Mother of the Faerie Gods,” the woman said. Her voice was both harsh and kindly at the same time. “I am the Lady of Crossroads, the Watcher in Silence, the Patron of Suicides, the Blade of Vengeance. I am of a kind both higher than men, yet lower, and the ways of men and angels do not apply to me. My dominion is over all those souls in torment that wish for retribution.”

“I have heard your cries, my daughter. So do not despair. I am here to help grant your deepest wishes.”

Crying, but out of joy this time, Ella told the Queen Mother her desire to go to the ball.

“That I can do,” the woman said. “I ask only one thing in return.”

“Name your price.”

“Your soul.”

Ella thought for a moment, but hesitated little. “Yes,” she said. “A thousand times yes.”

The woman nodded. Her dark eyes flashed, and in an instant, Ella found the rags she was wearing disappeared, to be replaced by a beautiful black dress made of a material so soft, so comfortable, it appeared to be woven from the shadows themselves. Glass slippers appeared on her feet. A stunning lace mask, black with silver highlights, appeared on her face. Most magical of all, to her delight, her skin healed, and her hair grew back, until she was back to the Ella she was before the fire, the beautiful girl with golden hair and smooth skin as white as porcelain.

The woman beckoned Ella outside, and gestured: in a flash, the earth shook, and a long jagged crack snaked across the ground outside the manor. Out of the crack, leapt six black horses, harnessed to the most magnificent coach she had ever seen. It was encrusted in jewels, with wheels that gleamed in the darkness, and elaborate carvings on its side depicting ancient myths and legends. The horses were just as mysterious: sleek and wild-looking, with dark crimson eyes, wiry manes with bristling hair like flame. They were tame to Ella’s touch, but she knew, without a doubt that they would be ferocious if provoked. These were no ordinary steeds, no, they were literal nightmares.

The woman raised her hands again.

Now in the graveyard close to the manor, there was a tomb in the centre, where rested the bodies of a pair of beautiful young boys, both victims of the plague. As the woman raised her hands, the grave shuddered, and spat out its dead: the corpses of the boys quickly regenerated, turning from their hideous corpse-forms to their fair state before death. They too were given masks and suits made from shadow, called by the Queen Mother to serve as footmen to Ella.

Most wonderful of all, the Queen Mother raised her hands again, and another grave gave up its dead. And Ella cried for joy as this happened. For the corpse she had raised was her old father, who had died years ago, was now called back to serve as coachman to her. There was a tearful reunion: the estranged father and daughter embraced, shedding tears both of joy at being reunited, and of sorrow of their sad fates.

The Queen Mother bid them all take their places, and bid them leave for the ball. “Remember,” she told Ella. “My magic is giving you a night at the Ball, no more, no less. At the last stroke of midnight, all my spells will be undone, and your soul will be mine.”

With that, she bid them goodbye, and stirred the horses on.

The Grand Masquerade Ball was truly a fantastic occasion. All the young men and women of the town were there, dressed in their absolute best, in frocks of the finest silk and waistcoats of the best satin. Everyone wore masks: the women in dainty, elegant ones made of lace and velvet, decorated with bows and tassels, while the men wore terrifying, hideous masks; made up to look like beasts and demons and all manner of horrors.

But as fair and lovely as everyone was, no-one stood out more than fair Ella. Her restored radiance, further enhanced by supernatural magic, made all who saw her stop in their tracks, their mouths agape for awhile, unable to take in such beauty.

Men tripped and fell mid-dance. The seven piece orchestra lost its place and played sour notes. Waiters and serving maids dropped trays and smashed china. All sorts of havoc ensued in the path of this lovely maid, dressed in black with a silvery mask.

All the men, from the richest lords to the humblest pages, went out of their way to dance with this lovely maiden, who graciously obliged them all. Despite her unearthly good looks, she proved to be a friendly, cordial soul, hardly arrogant at all, taking the time to dance with all of them.

Indeed, there was something magical about the way she danced. There was an unearthly lightness to her steps, a flighty beauty in the way she twirled and quick-stepped on the ballroom. She was like a feather tossed by a breeze, a trout leaping in a stream. There was such a captivating liveliness in the way she moved that moved all who watched to sighs. Her dancing would have made the cruelest demon smile, melt the heart of the most frigid misers.

This was not due to supernatural aid. No, the magic of the Queen Mother had nothing to do with this. Rather, Ella had been so pleased to get her limbs whole again, and be able to move without pain, that she took the opportunity to move about as much as she could, not even caring if she looked foolish. It was this liberation, this freedom of spirit, that was so breathtaking.

Indeed, her dancing soon caught the attention of the prince, who stopped abruptly in his waltz with a dame and made his way to her. He introduced himself, and kissed her hand: and Ella found herself blushing. For he was a handsome man, with kindly eyes, with the nicest of manners.

And the band struck up a foxtrot, and they danced.

All watched the couple dance: among them were Ella’s stepsisters and the wicked Baroness, who once again grew jealous that her daughters were not receiving attention. Indeed, the Baroness felt, there was something oddly familiar about this mysterious woman in the silver mask, and it made her uncomfortable. In anger, she beckoned her daughters to follow her out of the ballroom, eager to cook up a devilish plan.

However, on the way out, they were accosted by the retinue from the mysterious woman’s coach: two masked pageboys, accompanied by a tall coachman. All were devilishly handsome, and spoke to them with such charm and flattery they eventually forgot all about their wicked plans.

Indeed, the stepsisters and stepmother followed their new paramours to the nearby inn, eager for some passion this night. Once again, the Baroness felt a strange feeling about the coachman: she could not shake the feeling she had met him somewhere before, and told him so. But the coachman merely laughed and shook off her suspicions.

Back at the ball, the dancing went on, although it was going to end soon. The Witching hour was here, and most people wanted to go home soon.

The band began to play its last tune: its first bars were punctuated by the chime of the clock, striking midnight.

And Ella realized that soon, it would be time to go.

So she danced her last dance, giving it everything she had. The clock went on chiming, a grim countdown to her departure. The band finished its last tune, a jaunty waltz, and Ella held the prince close to her tightly, relishing the feel of her body against hers as the music began to fade and the night began to die.

Ella soon felt the pain that had tormented her over her last years return, and she looked down at herself to see her dress fading and the flesh on her feet and hands begin to peel. Soon she would be back to what she was, a hideous creature hell itself would turn down. Fortunately the prince had not yet noticed: he was still wrapped up in her.

It was time to end this.

“Goodbye, my love,” Ella said, and she kissed him softly. “You were worth it all.”

And she tore herself away from him, and ran, as the last chime of midnight rang through the hall.

The startled prince gave pursuit, but she was too fast for him. The mysterious girl raced out of the ballroom, and to the stables. Her coach was unattended: her footmen and coachman nowhere to be found. Yet she still raced on, even taking the reins of the horses, and riding the coach away by herself.

Despairing, the prince returned to the palace to grieve at the departure of the love of his life, only to find a clue on the palace steps.

A glass slipper, polished so smoothly it glittered.

And a decapitated, highly burnt foot in it, ripped off at the ankle.

There was a great to-do in the kingdom the next day.

In the inn closest to the palace, the ugly stepsisters awoke, with coquettish smiles on their faces, eager to greet the men with whom they had such a great night before. Their smiles turned to screams, however, as they discovered them to be withered corpses, bloated with plague, hideous smiles on their faces.

The same fate befell the Baroness, who awoke with horror to find she had spent the night with the dead body of her late husband. Gathering her clothes, she tried to run out in fear, but collapsed: there was a wretched pain in her lower body, and her head was swimming. Feeling sick, she rushed to the latrines, where she vomited a familiar green liquid into the cisterns. “Rat poison,” she exclaimed in shock, before collapsing in agony, her body literally being eaten from the inside.

As for the prince, he gathered an army of all the dukes and earls he could muster, and rode across the country, looking for the girl who had captured his heart before. In his hand, he carried the decapitated foot in a sack, his only lead to her. His mother the Queen found it horrifying, suggesting to him he find a more wholesome girl, but he disagreed. “No,” he told her. The girl had made him happy. What mattered he if she was a cripple, or a hunchback, or even a wraith?

But try as he much, there were few one-legged girls in the kingdom, and the few he found were not the woman in the silver mask at the ball.

Indeed, the closest match he had got had been at a manor by the outskirts of the city, which had strangely been abandoned. In it, by the hearth, at a dying fire, was the body of a one-legged girl, who had died recently. Her body was greatly scarred, and covered with terrible burns.

Yet as disfiguring as the burns were, they could not diminish the radiant smile on her face.