The Figure

The rough stone work was weathered and rough, the raw hewn stone was jagged. Chunks were missing. As the masked figure, swathed in the deepest of scarlet, climbed the wall, all that could be seen were white gloved fingers. It was dark so the figures features remained a mystery, if indeed there were any onlookers.

With a careful precision, the strong fingers were moved up the wall into the nearest slip in the mortar. On hand then the other. A rhythmic procession that slowed at a rate that was almost beyond the edge of perception. The blocks slowly grew smaller, the diameter of the round tower shrunk as the figure skirted windows and continued climbing.

When the ground was barely visible, the figure rolled into the loftiest window, between gossamer curtains. The figure lay with panting gasps beside the huge for poster bed, adorned in turquoise fabrics and skilled embroidery. When minutes had passed, the girl, for indeed, that is what was hidden under the cowls of the robe, rose and in front of an encrusted mirror pulled back her hood and righted herself.

After a minute she assumed an air of complete composure and sat daintily on the edge of the bed. With a strong brush in one hand, she proceeded to plat her dark flowing locks in exotic patterns.

After a while she began to sing deeply and sweetly. If a bard of yester-year had heard, the tongue would have described the sound as that of the sweetest of nightingales. She sang of fair love to come and tragedy befallen.

A strong but tentative knock on the door, and a handsome and parsing pleasant man entered. They lay and slumbered that night and life continued as normal in the castle. Where had our lady, our shrouded figure, been that fateful night? It is a long and troubling story that none save the bravest of minstrals dare devolge. Alas, this minstral is not I. (For Angela)