In Goldenpor, there lives a good wife. She knows she is good because she can feel the nail sticking out of the hole in the nape of her neck. The nail tells her she is good and so she must be.
When the traders came, they brought with them ships full of tea and finery, and the good wife bought up a larder full of teas and foreign ingredients for baking. It is in this way that she keeps her husband happy. She has been keeping him happy for as long as she can remember, and the rounded mound beneath her dress tells her that she is happy too.
She is different to her neighbors’ wives, her skin is not the same rich gold as theirs and her curves are not curves really, besides the one in her belly on which she places her hand. It whispers to her, Soon.
It has been whispering Soon for as long as she can remember.
When she sleeps she is a bird, and she visits girls with golden skin. She can feel their pulses slow as she drinks them; oh, how she loves the shallow rise and fall of their chests towards the end. She strokes them soft as a feather and all is still forever.
But she is a good wife and good wives do not dream of golden women, so she forgets the dream and instead goes about her chores. She makes pretty the beds and mends her husband’s clothing. When the mending is done, the good wife ventures out into the garden to pick potatoes and fresh vegetables—her husband is fond of hearty meals. She watches as he eats them and warmth swells in her chest. Her own plate is always empty but she does not hunger for food, for she is a good wife and her only hunger is to make her husband happy. The neighbors, dressed in their finery and with blushing cheeks and smiling faces, do not look at the good wife when they leave their house and board the grand carriage that waits for them. She does not envy their leaving, for she is a good wife and a good wife wants nothing more than a home and a husband. The nail in her neck tells her it is so, and so it must be.
When the neighbors’ daughter with her dark eyes and her golden skin pulls the carriage curtain just so and gazes timid across to the good wife, the good wife feels a tremor in her chest. When the neighbors’ daughter with her dark eyes and her golden skin closes her eyes, long eyelashes casting long shadows across her cheek, the good wife remembers her sleeping—the way her mouth hangs open, just a little, the way her chest rises.
No, the nail in the nape of her neck tells her. You do not know the hidden places of her for you are a good wife and a good wife thinks only of her husband. The nail in her neck tells her it is so, and so it must be.
In the morning, she wakes her husband with a pot of black tea as rich and flavorsome as his soul (which must be rich and flavorsome because she wants nothing more than to keep him happy). He drinks deeply and tells her that she is a good wife, and she will always be his good wife. The good wife breathes deep and is happy. Her womb whispers, Soon.
As he leaves, she kisses his cheek and promises she will wait—right here—until he returns. The good wife places her hands on her stomach, arranges them gently, prettily, and waits. Her husband shuts the door behind him and the good wife watches him leave.
She is still by the door, hands crossed about her belly, when the neighbors’ daughter comes slow up the garden path. The good wife sees her through the window and her palms grow damp. It has been hours since her husband left and will be hours still until he returns—but she told him she would wait, and so she must.
The neighbors’ daughter, dark-eyed and golden-skinned, dithers in front of the door. She raises her hand to knock three separate times but her knuckles never quite meet the wood. The neighbors’ daughter shakes herself and looks up then. She jumps when her eyes meet the good wife’s, who is standing so still and so solemn that she might be a statue—carved for her husband’s pleasure.
The good wife swallows, wets her lips, but the other woman, with her dark eyes wide, flees back down the path and does not look back.
When her husband returns in the afternoon, the good wife serves cream tea with cakes and scones fresh from her oven. She makes them like the traders tell her and they come out warm and soft. She takes a crumb from the plate and it melts in her mouth first, and then it burns her—she spits it out because it is her husband’s and she is a good wife and good wives do not steal from their husbands.
He eats it all up and licks his lips after. He tells her she is a good wife and that she will always be his good wife. The good wife is happy because her husband is happy, and guilt pools thick in her belly—she should not have taken the crumb, and she should not think of dark eyes and soft golden skin.
As her husband reads in his study, the good wife stands behind him. She cups her belly and her womb whispers, Soon.
The good wife is happy with her husband. She places a hand on his shoulder and her husband looks up at her through thick eyelashes—she feels the look heavy in her stomach and knows that she is wanted.
Before bed, the good wife gifts her husband with a thick, rich tea of chocolate and cinnamon. He drinks, and drinks, and his eyes warm. He tells her that she is a beautiful wife and that she will always be his beautiful wife.
He takes her in his arms and she is filled with him. The good wife does not know where he ends and she begins, and this tells her that she is happy—when she is so full with her husband, the good wife does not think of dark eyes and golden skin. The good wife thinks only of her husband, his long fingers and his large hands.
Hands which travel to her face, close upon her neck. His fingers graze the nail but he does not notice, she is his and it is in this way that she makes him happy—and he is very happy.
Again, his hand finds the nail and he does not notice, he is close and she is happy. But the good wife wants to be closer, wants to pull her husband up inside herself and hold him in her swollen belly like a babe. In this way, they will both be happy.
One last time his fingers hit the nail and it slips from the hole with a liquid thump.
The good wife pales, her fingers sharpen and she feels as if she might once have been a bird. She looks down at her husband and he is happy.
Her fingers move to his stomach and press deep until the red wells up, it is in this way that she makes him unhappy. The once good wife remembers the hammer and nail, the look on her husband’s face when he caught her—not yet a husband then but a boy, hungry and wanting.
The once good wife remembers feathers and golden women with soft, soft skin—her neighbors’ daughter in the carriage, her neighbors’ daughter on the path, her neighbors’ daughter at the door, her neighbors’ daughter in her bed with her mouth hung open.
The once good wife pulls her fingers from his navel and up. She knows she is not a wife and she is not good because the hole in the back of her neck is empty. The hole in the back of her neck tells her that she is not a wife and so she must not be.
She remembers the taste of metal and salt when she looks down at her husband. She has been keeping him happy for as long as she can remember, his hair is peppered with grey, no longer the young man who caught her and held her down and hammered the nail into her nape—the iron biting and taming and cold. The mound beneath her dress is still, too still, and tells her that she was never happy.
She is different to her neighbors’ wives, her skin is not the same rich gold as theirs, her curves are not curves besides the one in her belly on which she places her hand.
It stays silent.
It has been silent for a long, long time. Her skin is not the same rich gold as her neighbors’ wives and her curves are not curves; her curves are joints, skin pulled tight over them, her still veins painting her bones with map-lines. Her eyes are not like their eyes.
When it is night, she is a bird and she visits girls with golden skin. She can feel their pulses slow as she drinks them; oh, how she loves the shallow rise and fall of their chests towards the end. She strokes them soft as a feather and all is still forever.
She drinks them up and leaves them tucked into their beds where she found them.
But her neighbors’ daughter is special—her neighbors’ daughter looks at the once good wife, meets her eyes with wonder. The once good wife drinks her too, but not fully, just enough—the once good wife remembers now.
It is in this way that she knows she is happy.
In the morning, she wakes to her husband with a pot of tea as black as her hair (which is more black than her neighbors’ wives’ and brittle to the touch). She drinks deeply and places a hand down into his stomach. When she pulls it out again, she has in her hand his kidney and she tells him he was never her husband and that she will never have a husband. She leaves the kidney on the bed and is happy.
When she returns to him in the evening, she sips cream tea and melts cake crumbs in her mouth. She does not spit them out because they are hers and he was never her husband.
The once good wife reaches a hand into his stomach and pulls out his liver. She tells him that he was never her husband and that she will never have a husband. She looks to his face and sees that he is unhappy. She is glad she ate the crumbs.
Before bed, the once good wife drinks deep of chocolate tea and cinnamon. She drinks, and drinks, and her eyes grow cold. She tells him of their neighbors’ daughter and her soft golden skin, and how when she drinks her she doesn’t know where she ends and the daughter begins and how it tells her she is happy.
She tells him he was never her husband. The once good wife feels in his chest and removes his heart; she tells him she will never have a husband. The once good wife takes the nail from the floor and pokes it through—the heart lets out a faint hiss.
In Goldenpor, there lives a woman no one looks at, a woman without a husband. Ran away in the night, they say, and left her there alone. She has a hole in her neck and it tells them to steer clear of her. It is in this way they keep her happy.
In Goldenpor, there lives a golden girl who tastes just like vanilla. She knows she is good because she dreams that a bird visits her while she is sleeping. The bird tells her she is good so she must be.
| Elou Carroll is a graphic designer and freelance photographer who writes. Her work appears or is forthcoming in The Deadlands, Baffling Magazine, If There’s Anyone Left (Volume 3), In Somnio: A Collection of Modern Gothic Horror (Tenebrous Press), Spirit Machine (Air and Nothingness Press), Ghostlore (Alternative Stories Podcast) and others. When she’s not whispering with ghosts, she can be found editing Crow & Cross Keys, publishing all things dark and lovely, and spending far too much time on twitter (@keychild). She keeps a catalogue of her weird little wordcreatures on www.eloucarroll.com. |  |