Goblin Knot
Chapter Ten: In Which Sarah Has Several Unpleasant Revelations.
Forsaking the glossy brochures scattered across the living room floor, Sarah shed her coffee-stained clothes and pulled on her flannelette pyjamas. They were warm and slightly stiff- smelling strongly of sweet laundry detergent and sunshine. She hadn't remembered washing them. Perhaps her mother had, on one of those rare occasions when she felt like she should be taking better care of her children.
Emptying her pockets of clumped tissues, Sarah chafed her cold hands together and sought out the digital thermostat in the dining room. No-one rebuked her for cranking the central heating up to near-tropical temperatures. No-one was home. With a sigh she locked the front door, switched on the veranda lights for her returning family, and settled in her bedroom to soak in the growing warmth.
Huddled beneath her quilt, her hands held a book she wasn't interested in reading. She already knew it backwards and upside down. The book that had put her in this delightful, wretched mess in the first place. Labyrinth. Sarah found it tonight hiding amongst her carved pine bookshelves, falsely reeking of meek innocence. For all its terrible wrongs, Sarah could not hate it completely. There was a time, not many years ago, when it had been her solitary friend. It indulged her silly little delusions and put-up with being run over rough-shod in school bags and crammed into pockets. It forgave her when she briefly flirted with Victorian romantic literature, silk bustles and (apparently useless) aristocracy, tossed aside for familiar dark woods, dark characters, and dark deeds.
The red linen bindings were worn and soft. She felt the loose spine rub against the fraying, stitched pages with each flex of her fingertips. It was trying very hard to be comforting, she knew that. Not cutesy like a plush toy or bumbling adorable like a little brother, but reassuring in its own fashion. It reminded her of murky light, the rustling of dry leaves across stone, and the impossible, fantastic castle gardens beyond the Goblin City. It gently reproached her for discarding its characters, those few she fantasised of meeting and befriending.
How many times had she batted her eyelashes when he strutted across the page? That silly enamoured smile would always catch her face- crinkling the corners of her mouth and eyes pleasantly. Yet when he sauntered into the sharp focus of reality- itching for her attention, all but begging for her affection, her beloved apparition became unstuck. This version of Jareth was ill-tempered. Crueller. Unbending. It was as if all of his flaws had been extracted, distilled, and magnified. If it weren't for his agreeable looks, Sarah would have called him ugly.
Stretching out beneath the quilt as the heater warmed her room, Sarah traced a publisher's embossed insignia on the cover of Labyrinth. If someone had told him what she was like before they met, would he too have been disappointed? What if he had been fed stories of her charm, beauty, and grace- only to find her severely lacking in all three? Sarah placed a cool hand between her burning cheek and the pillow. It's not my fault I've already been stamped as something I'm not, she thought angrily. Who decided I should flounce about after an egotistical, self-proclaimed Goblin King?
Tucked beside her knee she felt the book's solid weight. A voice in the back of her head- her own voice, sounding stupidly apologetic told her the answer. She had decided this years ago. Braiding her long dark hair with ribbons, she read. Tearing the skirts of her summer dress as she climbed trees, she read. She had pored over each and every page of Labyrinth, so much the faded fabric of her dress may have been paper and the dark tendrils of her hair ink, bleeding words together until they were an indecipherable mess.
She had wanted so much to be there. To see the kind of shadow he cast. To hear him laugh. When the impossible sent him careening meteor-like towards her, she was suddenly afraid. Afraid of being overwhelmed and burnt-up, leaving nothing but a crater and scattered cinders. With frustration, she pummelled the pillow, flipped it over, and buried her face in its cool side.
Everything had gone wrong. She had deviated from the plot and now lay in unfamiliar territory. She was supposed to forget about him once the thirteenth hour had expired. He was supposed to try harder in keeping her Underground. They were supposed to have very different storybook endings.
………
The smell returned. It made Sarah think her nice clean pyjamas had been dragged through a mud-puddle, the way they plastered themselves to her clammy skin. Her limbs felt heavy, divorcing all other feelings from the rest of her body. With a sense of impending finality, she waited for the dislodged dirt to fall across her face so she could realise she had been given over to the attentions of coffin beetles.
A hand touched her face. Her own was lying wooden and useless by her side.
Sarah, a voice murmured. Pretty Sarah, silly Sarah, what are you doing here all by yourself? Sarah caught the brief flash of a silver-grey frock-coat in the widening gloom.
If I knew, I wouldn't be here, she thought sullenly.
Where would you rather be? the voice asked. Somewhere different? It paused. Somewhere fun?
From a corner of the nothingness that surrounded her, Sarah heard faint tinny strains of a harpsichord, repeating the same three bars of music over and over. She saw a young couple dancing in the distance, giddy in a whirl of silks and ribbons, and long glossy hair. They didn't seem to notice her watching their steps. The were encased within their own shimmering bubble of forever.
Doesn't she look beautiful? Doesn't she look happy? the voice invited slyly. Sarah agreed. The lady did look happy, albeit slightly oblivious. She let herself be spun and dipped by her partner with fluid movements- apparently careless that he might drop her at any moment. She seemed confident he would never let her fall or spin too far out of reach.
Why don't you say it? A smooth fingertip ran along her eyebrow, stopping at the temple. Don't you want to drown in raptures? Nothing can touch them, you know- over there. Not dark nor light nor time. Not even the things that slink about unnoticed in the wildest woods of the Underground. Sarah heard the soft trickle of dirt but could not feel it on her face. There was nothing but that smooth, cold fingertip above her eye.
Say it, the voice muttered. SAY IT, the voice growled.
"Jareth," Sarah said. The name fell from her mouth and fled, quickly swallowed by the looping chords of an invisible harpsichord.
a/n: Chapter Ten! Late, yes, but earlier than my delayed publish date. :D Don't we all love a cheap trade-off? Thank-you all for your splendid reviews last chapter.
Goth Angel UK: thanks for that punctuation reminder. I'll go back and fix the earlier chapters when I get a chance. 'It's' and 'its' have been enemies of mine for years. Luckily I found my dusty editing books and have now beat that particular rule into short-term memory. Huzzah!
Thanks again to everyone leaving such great comments and reviews! (The literary comparisons and random trivia are delightfully entertaining.)
It'd be fun to hear your thoughts again for this chapter (new and old readers alike). Have a good weekend guys- cheers!