A Message from God

by Alesha Polles

A shaft of moonlight fell across my bed, rousing me from my restless sleep and awakening me to the reality of my broken heart.

            My chamber was too close; the moon beckoned to me.  I somehow located my cloak and shoes and found my way through the dark silence of the palace corridors, pierced only by the quiet roar and flaming glow of wall-mounted torches.  Once outside, the brittle air of the February night caressed my face with icy fingers, but I could breathe again.  And there, resting mockingly amidst the stars, was my tormentor, the merry witness of lovers’ trysts, and beholder of the pain of betrayal.  It teased me with the beauty of the winter landscape, painting the gardens and river with a silver-gilt brush, as ephemeral as bliss itself.

            My feet retraced the paths of memory without conscious aid, reminiscing on the vows exchanged in the summer bower, now bare and cold and dead with winter, chased by whispers of the secrets traded in the turnings of the labyrinth.  How empty those promises were, from that cur Tom, who led my heart to the center of the maze and left it with no thread to follow out!

            How lucky I thought I was, when that young godling first cast eyes upon me!  And how eagerly I devoured the lies he fed me.  That he loved me alone.  That his attentions to the Queen, whom I served, were for naught but to be near to me.

            How naïve I was.

            How did I believe him?

            I suppose I wanted to believe, to live the dream I envisioned for myself.  For surely only in dreams would Tom Culpeper love me over Catherine, the Queen.

             My delusion began to unravel after the investigations commenced.  At first, I managed a fragile construct, in which the allegations were untrue, or at least in which Tom was simply serving his Queen, and felt nothing about it. 

            Then my world shattered.  Tom received word from a friend that he was to be arrested the next day, and came to me.  He said he wished to clear his conscience before facing his God, and confessed to me the impurity of his love.  I gave him anger and harsh words, and banished him before succumbing to my tears.  And I never saw him again, to tell him that despite my fury and jealousy I still loved him.  My heart, impossibly, was torn asunder by the axe that severed his head.

            My heart bled again when Catherine followed him to the block, for now in Heaven he is with her, and surely they are happy.  Death did no justice, for here am I, alone. 

            The moon, perhaps in shame at seeing my pain, shrouded itself in clouds, hiding its face from the world.  It would offer me no help.  I shivered with cold, and thought to turn to the great comforter, He who can heal all wounds.

            The chapel in the Long Gallery was scarcely warmer than the air out-of-doors, and lit with but a single candle.  God dwelt somewhere in the shadows of the ceiling, and I addressed my prayers to Him, feeling the words with my lips, my breath white in the frigid air.  I begged that He release my heart from such an unworthy man, that I be freed of my torment.

            As I addressed my requests to the shadows, a draft of winter air, perceptibly colder than the rest, began to blow about me, surrounding me in an icy embrace.  The embrace grew tighter, the wind more powerful, until the chapel door unlatched and swung heavily against the wall.  The single candle on the altar burned with a blue flame for a moment – longer than a heartbeat, but shorter than a breath – before being extinguished in the onslaught of heretical air.

            I knew not whether I shook from cold or fear, but unsteadily rose to my feet and crept to the chapel door.  There I was witness to the sort of spectacle to which no human being should be privy.  For the demonic, unearthly figure, moving without perceptible methods of motion, wailing and screaming with the pain of a thousand deaths, and with traces of hell-fire still clinging to its mouth and eyes, was one I recognized.  God had answered me with the Devil, and the message was clear: those who had wronged had received their due.

            The figure was soon consumed by its own intensity, leaving cold, dark, and silence in its wake.

            From that point, until I was found laying prone upon the floor-rushes by an early-risen menial, I knew no more.  Those who took me to my bed presumed I had taken ill during the night, and I offered no further explanation.

            However, though I was pale as the living dead, and nearly as weak, I knew I was much further along a path to recovery than others thought.  For now I knew what Tom had done, and loved him no more, and my heart was free.