February
15, 2002
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Ruth Barrett, Toronto,
Ontario -- Stepsisters
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We no longer have a record
of the other winners -- sorry!
FIRST PLACE SHORT
STORY
Stepsisters
By Ruth Barrett
Toronto, Ontario
I am blind. I stumble, and the pain
of my ruined foot causes me to cry out at every
step.
Oh, my sister...
At first, I’d felt her limping at my side, weeping bloody tears as I had,
her clutching fingernails tearing my flesh in desperation not to lose me. Now,
as my arm grows numb from cold, I feel nothing. My sister has fallen silent.
I had felt relieved that her wailing had subsided, but now I’m fearful
as her silence lengthens. I hear only the moaning wind, bare tree branches
scraping together above my head, the crunching squeak of snow as my feet grope
homeward. I want Cynthia to speak, cry... anything. Just make a sound.
I move to touch her hand and instead my frozen fingers graze my own arm. I
swing my reach out further and find nothing. How long I’ve been struggling
alone along the path, I cannot tell. Complete isolation invites mounting terror
to take full possession. I flail about, screaming for Cynthia, willing vision
through my torn sockets, but all around me is empty darkness and cold. I smash
my mutilated foot into a sharp rock. The intense new agony snatches me from
myself and I give in, sinking into the black.
* * * * *
We had set out to be forgiven.
It’d been my stepfather’s idea. His fault, all of this. His pride
and cruelty had murdered his first bride. The manor where our mother had taken
the dead wife’s place was joyless and hollow of spirit. His only child— a
girl— had been neglected by him and lived abandoned amongst the servants.
Our stepsister Ella had refused speech ever since her mother’s death.
If threatened with her father’s presence, she’d wordlessly shriek
and lash out at any hands that sought to contain her outrage.
Ella was beautiful, with waves of golden hair and pink, perfect lips. The curves
of new womanhood showed lush promise beneath her ragged, dirty clothing. Most
striking were her eyes of a heart-melting blue— but behind them, she was
dead. Ella was exquisite, and yet so empty that she seemed otherworldly. She
never spoke, and cared for nothing but the household’s birds. She did
not have her own bedchamber as we had, preferring to sleep before the kitchen
hearth on a rough pallet. Cinder dust and soot coated her fair skin and garments.
I was afraid of her strangeness, and shunned being in her company, but my younger
sister Cynthia found delight in tormenting the mad child. Cynthia would lie
in wait and step out to block the footpath which led between the kitchens and
the cluster of sheds where Ella tended to the geese and hens, the flocks of
messenger pigeons, and her father’s hooded hunting falcons. Ella would
halt, basket of eggs in hand, and wait for Cynthia to move aside. As she stared
ahead expressionless as a cow, inside the hen houses and coops the birds would
become agitated. They’d beat their wings in a frenzy, screeching to their
keeper in their dozens of bird languages. The peacocks above all the others
would scream like damned souls.
When it became clear to Cynthia that Ella would not weep or back away, she’d
grow weary of the stand-off and step aside to allow Ella to pass.
“Bird-girl!” she’d taunt. “Mud-eyes! Cinder-Ella!”
In the midwinter of our second year at the manor, news came that the Crown
Prince was to hold a masked ball at his nearby hunting residence. Royalty!
And rumour had it that he was in search of a bride. I dared not imagine it,
but Cynthia took on a glow of ambition at the idea that she could attain a
suitable station: a stage for her act with a perfect script.
Stepfather had his own ambitions. Chronic gambling had brought him to the brink
of ruin, and the marriage of a daughter into the inner circle of the royal
family would solve his problems without the burden of providing a dowry. The
household buzzed for weeks in preparation. At fifteen and seventeen, my sister
and I were considered beautiful and of prime age for marriage, and our stepfather’s
family was of high rank. All hopes ran high.
Ella was more forgotten than ever amid the fuss. She haunted the shadows, drinking
in the progress as our gowns were sewn and our masks fitted. No one took much
note of her uncharacteristic interest in our goings-on. Even Cynthia was too
distracted to tease the deranged maiden.
The night of the masked ball, Cynthia and I descended the grand staircase and
were swept up in the confusion of the crowd. All about us swished the satins
and silks of our rivals, thousands of candles glowed, the court musicians’ instruments
sang. At the centre of it all stood the Prince— poised, elegant. His eyes
roved the room of hopeful girls, taking in their figures, guessing at the beauty
behind the masks, but never did his gaze linger long on any one.
Then, she made her entrance.
There was a break in the music. I heard my stepfather gasp from his vantage
point on the sidelines. Cynthia and I turned as one to follow his stare.
Ella.
She posed at the top of the staircase, waiting until all eyes were drawn to
her beauty. Her lovely face shone like porcelain, her long tresses tumbled
loose over her shoulders. She wore a magnificent gown of indigo blue silk embroidered
with thread of silver and gold. Her half-mask was of midnight velvet and crowned
with peacock plumes. Most shocking to us as her family was the fact that her
rosy lips were curved upwards in the first smile we had ever seen on her mouth.
No one else present could know who she was.
The Prince was riveted. In a commanding motion, Ella held out her hand to him
and he instantly bounded up the steps and led her down to the dance floor.
She took daintily floating steps at his side, her silver slippers flashing
in the candlelight.
Where had she found such garments as these? I drew close to my stepfather as
he whispered to my mother, his face ghastly pale with shock.
“It’s my first wife’s... her wedding gown. Ella must have found
it in the attic.”
Cynthia had pressed her full lips into a thin white line as her eyes filled
with hatred. The evening belonged to the transformed Cinder-Ella.
No one danced but the Prince and our stepsister. Every gaze focused on their
whirling figures, drinking in the perfection of their movements. Near midnight,
the Prince made a sweeping gesture and the musicians ceased to play. We held
our breaths in expectation that the royal bride had been found. As the Prince
stood before Ella and raised his hands to remove her peacock mask, she ducked
away and tore up the stairs and out of the door so quickly that no one recovered
their surprise in time to give chase. The Prince was the first to find his
legs and took the stairs three at a tine, but she was gone. He returned, and
bent down to retrieve something from the red carpet. The only sound in the
immense ballroom was the clock bells chiming midnight.
As the final toll died away, the Prince lifted the gleaming object high over
his head and announced to us all in a voice trembling with emotion- “I
will search the county for the maiden whose foot can fit inside this tiny slipper.
She is to be my bride and queen.”
Ours was the final household in the quest, and the Prince’s only hope.
The slipper was brought to my chamber on a silk cushion for me to fit on in
private.
The royal entourage waited in the great hall below, for it is unseemly for
a girl to expose her bare foot to strange men. My stepfather watched my struggles
from the doorway, his face twisted in desperation. I could not force it: my
toes were too wide. In a heartbeat he was kneeling at my side, grabbing my
ankle in his rough hands. I saw a flash of metal. My mother’s hands pressed
hard over my mouth to muffle my shrieks as two toes were severed from each
foot. Stepfather stuffed my feet into the slippers and shoved me towards the
stairs to meet the Prince.
I needed not descend in order to be dismissed. The royal gaze took in my tall
stature, my auburn hair. I do not know if he saw my agony or if he cared.
“This is not my bride,” he said.
“No... “came a voice behind me. “I am.”
I turned to see Cynthia. Her flinty eyes showed she cared not for me, only
for her own desire to become a princess. The Prince visibly warmed at her pale
beauty and her golden locks, carefully brushed to fall as Ella’s had the
night of the ball.
“You may try.”
I leaned on my mother’s arm as we retreated to Cynthia’s chamber.
The slipper was pulled from me and she gleefully thrust in her foot, heedless
of my blood. Even her tiny foot proved too long, and her heel protruded. Biting
down on a shawl to deaden her screams, she yielded her flesh to the blade.
Cynthia was a fine actress. Walking carefully on her toes, she concealed her
pain. The Prince took her hand and began to lead her outside to his coach.
Ella stood waiting in her dead mother’s gown, her bare foot resting expectantly
on the step. Silently, she pointed to Cynthia’s feet where there was a
widening pool of our commingled blood.
Stepfather still needed to solve his penury, and forced Cynthia and I to attend
the wedding feast and ask forgiveness for our attempted fraud. We made the
journey alone on our mangled feet to prove our humility. The forest path was
dark and thick with snow. I stopped my ears to Cynthia’s tearful complaints,
for we had no choice.
Approaching the residence, I saw Ella standing at the window of a grand room.
She smiled down in recognition. I rose my hand to her in a hopeful wave.
Ella threw open the window and sang a sweet, solitary high note. Other than
an occasional shriek at the sight of her father, it was the only sound we had
ever heard her make.
“Listen,” whispered Cynthia. I held my breath, expecting more of Ella’s
song. Instead, I heard the beating of wings and the cries of a hundred birds
as they swooped to attack with sharp beaks and outstretched talons.
* * * * *
I wake with no idea how long I’ve been lying here. There’s no pain;
only the sensual wet embrace of the snow drift where I lie. This will be my
shroud.
I listen for Cynthia. I can hear music from the distant wedding feast, and
think the strains ugly when they so utterly exclude me. Why was I not struck
deaf rather than blind? Then I could have some measure of control— I could
see what I wish, and close my eyes to shut out what I despise. I could be beautiful
at the feast table with no bloody face, my feet hidden under my skirts. I would
not hear the endless praise and ceremony for Ella, and yet still smile sweetly
at any admirers.
And I would never have heard my sister’s agony. I must call to her—
Cynthia.
I’ve only mouthed it. No sound. Oh God, please... “Cynthia...”
I hear a voice. A strange moaning cry. Peaking. Fading. “Cynthia...?”
The moan answers, closer. Is she able to move? “I am here, Cynthia.”
I hear the moan again, but it is no moan. A wolf has come. Her howl carries
and is answered by her own sister. I feel her watching, feel her heat as she
moves in close to sniff the blood.
I am not afraid.
I feel the wolf’s hot breath on my face.
Oh, my sister...
Copyright
(c) 2004 for the author, all rights reserved.
