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I am halfway down the hall, running late to the council meeting when I notice the sentry standing guard at Jude’s door. Usually the sentries leave when the rooms are unoccupied. Unless she’s given additional instructions to guard an empty room, I assume she is still inside, getting ready to leave.
It’s unlike her to be late.
I nod to the guard and knock politely on the door. A moment passes, so I knock again. This time a muffled response sounds through the thick wood. While it doesn’t sound exactly inviting, I certainly can’t conclude that she’s telling me to leave. Lack of clarity has never stopped me before, so I let myself in.
“Fair Jude,” I call mockingly, “I do believe you are about to be late to a pivotal council meeting.” I enter, expecting to see her at her desk, scanning some last minute messages or preparing a map for the strategy planning. Instead I find the sitting room empty. The bedroom beyond looks dark, but I can see a lump in the bed.
“Still in bed at this hour?” I gasp dramatically, “How very unlike you.” The lump rolls over and it appears she has placed a pillow over her head.
“Come now,” I say, continuing my charade of mock chastising and enter the bedroom. I clap my hands together, “Awake and make haste, the realm is waiting for your guidance.” The lump lets out a frustrated sound that I could take as either vile cursing or amusement.
I choose the latter and then promptly fall onto the bed, spreading out on top of the blankets beside her and stretching to get comfortable. The lump rolls away and this time I receive a verbal response, “Get out of here,” she grumbles in her ‘I’m not angry yet but it’s coming soon’ voice. I can judge this with accuracy because I know from experience.
“Hmm, no,” I shrug and fluff up a pillow to better support my head. “If you don’t have to go to the meeting, I’m certainly not attending.” Then I look to the foot of the bed and notice an odd plastic bag, one of the thin, one-time use bags that mortals receive when they purchase an item while shopping in a store. It appears to be full of something, although I cannot see the contents.
“Jude,” I drop my theatrical voice and ask honestly, “did you receive unpleasant tidings?”
She lets out another muffled sound that comes closer to a moan and now I am worried. I’ve yet to see her face, as she’s keeping it covered with the pillow. I notice that the room is rather warm and, once I’ve tuned into my senses, I can smell a very faintly elevated level of iron. It’s a metallic smell, like that of human blood.
“Are you well?” I sit up and lean towards her. I realize at this moment that I don't actually know for sure that it’s her under the blankets. I could be lying next to an axe murderer – although Jude may still fit this description. Still, worry for our mutual well-being wins over and I pull the covers back with no warning.
The sight beneath them is alarming if only because I’ve never seen Jude in such a state before. She is huddle into a ball, arms around her stomach, laying her side. She’s wearing a plain black top and a pair of flannel shorts that I recognize from other slumber-time encounters. Her hair is unkempt and her skin is blemished. She looks miserable.
She squeals – squeals! Imagine, from Jude! – and pulls the covers back over her head, rolling away from me. A gentle tug from my hand is met with her iron grip, although I have a scary suspicion that her strength is lacking this evening. I decide to give up on removing the blankets but I must know what is going on.
I sit up fully and cross my legs, trying to be a calm presence behind her, but not touching her. “Jude,” I try again, “please tell me what is troubling you. I’ve never seen you like this.” The ball-shaped lump curls inward on itself, becoming smaller. The smell of blood returns to my sensitive olfactory. I didn’t see any blood on her. Where is this smell coming from? It’s faint; I wouldn’t have noticed it if I wasn’t trying to find clues about her current situation.
Feeling like a fool I glance around the room, searching for signs of violence or bloodshed. Perhaps she recently committed murder – the night is young – and has hidden the body. Maybe that’s why she was late in leaving for the council meeting. I find myself running through a list of the most likely victims and quickly realize that most of them are already dead. It would be reckless to doubt Jude’s skills but I can’t imagine she’s found a way to lure Orlagh out of the sea and into her bedchambers.
With a start I realize that the body could very well be in the bed with us. This is a massive bed and Jude always seems to make a mess of the covers. Anything could be hidden under this many layers. Cautiously I lean to my side, planning to lift a wool blanket when my hand slides under the nearest sheet and connects with something soft and gooey. I pull my hand back quickly to find it smeared with a cakey brown substance. With a start I fitfully toss the sheet aside and find what looks likes a half-melted dessert of some kind, sticking out of a plastic wrapper that is mostly brown with blue and white lettering.
“Are you eating in bed?” I ask disgusted, “What in the skies is going on here?!”
Jude’s form appears to straighten slightly and she responds with a hearty, “Fuck off!”
With nothing more to go on I lean down, avoiding the offensive half melted goo and reach for the plastic bag. Perhaps its contents can enlighten the situation. The moment my hand connects with the plastic it rustles and Jude shoots up from her cocoon and snatches the bag out of my reach. She promptly stashes it away, under the blankets and then retreats beneath them herself.
“What’s in the bag, Jude?” I demand, using all of my kingly authority. This has never worked on Jude before and it certainly doesn’t work now. I can see her head shake beneath the covers. We’re back to silent answers.
“If you don’t tell me, I will bring in the guards for questioning.” I get no response this time and by now I am fed up. Jude has either been placed under some sort of glamour, rendering her as petulant as a toddler child, or she is irrationally angry with me for a grievous misdeed I remain unaware of. Either way, I am bored with this charade.
“So be it, I shall call the guards and assemble the Living Council in your sitting chambers. You can shout your opinions from this bed,” the indignity of that should terrify her enough. I pause for just a moment, giving her one last opportunity to engage and try a different angle. “Did you have a visitor?” I demand, running through a mental list of people I’ve recently seen in the palace.
“My aunt,” she says, sounding justly defeated.
“Your aunt?” I did not know that Jude had any living relatives besides her sisters.
“Yes, my Aunt Flow,” her voice has a slightly sarcastic edge to it that seems out of place given the circumstances.
“Flow?” I test out the word. “That is a strange name, even for a human.”
Slowly, she turns and peeks her head out above the covers. Her eyes search mine and she appears to be analyzing me with intrigued scrutiny. I am honestly perplexed.
“Aunt Flow,” Jude repeats. And finally I’m getting some information, “She visits every month, with about one week’s notice.” Jude sits up and leans forwards, keeping eye contact as though she is telling a story around an evening fire. An odd grin stretches across her face. “Every time she comes, she rips my insides apart and punches me in the stomach, repeatedly, so hard that blood and gore and slime spill out from between my legs. My stomach cramps, my breasts get sore, and my ability to endure the stupidity of others is severely diminished!”
By the end of her outburst she is kneeling in front of me, using her height to appropriate an air of menace. Her face is livid and I find myself in a stare down I cannot break, for fear of what may follow.
Yet, like a coward, I blink. “You have an aunt who visits faerie once a month to assault you?” The incredulity builds until I am unable to contain myself, “Why have you told no one?”
Her eyebrows rise and the menacing air evaporates. She sits back on her heels and cocks her head to one side, studying me. I feel as though there is a piece to this puzzle that is missing, although I have no clue what that is or even what puzzle I am trying to solve. Jude is even more irritatingly difficult to understand than usual.
“I have my period, Cardan,” she finally states and flops back down on the bed, this time resting her head in the pillows. Her voice suggests that I am a dunce for not coming to this conclusion. Although what conclusion has been drawn I am still unsure.
“You have… the punctuation at the end of a sentence?” I ask slowly. I cannot say why, but something about our conversation has suddenly become delicate. I am a bit worried for Jude’s mental state.
She looks up with an accusation on her face, “Are you trolling me?” anger is clearly present in her voice. What have I done now?
“Do I currently resemble a troll?” I ask, more than a little offended. I’ve never been compared to a troll in my life. “There’s no need for name-calling.”
She throws her hands up to cover her face and nearly whines, “Oh my godddd,” and sighs in frustration. Without removing her hands she tells me, “Cardan, I am menstruating.”
I purse my lips in thoughts. The term is vaguely familiar although I cannot quite place it. I imagine if this ‘menstruating’ is something that Jude does regularly, she must be quite good at it, so I’m not sure why it’s caused her to curl up in bed. Also, any regular habit of Jude’s is sure to include blood in some form, so that explains the smell. But what she just said about her aunt and the cramps in her stomach –
Ahh. Menstruating. Yes, that does ring a bell. Images of women and moons and blooming flowers slowly come to mind.
She must see the recognition pass over my face. Through the cracks between her fingers I can just about distinguish her embarrassment. When she lowers her hands something quite close to humiliation is also present in her facial features, although it is a humiliation far different from the kind I used to cause her.
“I see,” I reply, in what I hope is a neutral voice. “And this… menstruating is difficult for you?”
Her gaze is sharp on mine and all semblance of embarrassment falls right off, “Get out,” she says without preamble.
“But – “ I try to intervene.
“Out!” she shakes her head and points towards the door. Her movement has at least brought her to a sitting position and now we can speak face to face. But her face is looming larger and all the more angry – and scary – as she reaches one hand under the nearest pillow, probably to find a hidden knife.
“Would you allow a moment for –“ as I recoil and lean out of her swipe range, my hand moves backwards to the strange sticky object and I once again have brown goo smeared across my fingers. “What is this infernal substance?” I shout in frustration.
At my outburst, Jude pauses in her rummaging. She glances between the smooshed wrapper on the bed and my hand, covered in who knows what. I think she is about to tackle me or stab me or both. Instead she does something completely unexpected.
She laughs. Even in these most bizarre circumstances her laugh is a beautiful sound to behold.
“Chocolate,” she wheezes between giggles. “It’s chocolate.”
I frown at the substance on my fingers. I’ve heard of chocolate before. It’s a sugary mixture that mortals like to eat. I’ve only had the natural version, cacao from trees, sent to the court by faeries from the far south. I’ve never tried this chemically enhanced mortal fare before.
“You have no idea what’s going on, do you?” Jude smiles and asks, in a voice that is tired but softened from laughter.
“Not in the least,” I shake my head and return the smile. Then, partially because I think Jude expects this of me and partially because I am curious, I hesitantly stick a chocolate-covered finger in my mouth. The taste is strong and the rush of sugar is immediate. “Hmm,” I search for words, “so this is mortal chocolate.” I reach under the blanket and pull out the wrapper with the remaining chocolate inside.
“That is a Snicker’s bar,” Jude corrects, “It’s a brand of chocolate, with peanuts and caramel.”
“Well,” I say, chewing on what I hope is one of the peanuts, “It’s not the worst thing I’ve tasted.” That earns me another laugh. When I am done chewing I settle myself on the bed, cross-legged, facing Jude with the remaining Snickers balanced on my knee. “Is there a connection between this Snickers and menstruating, or do you often eat chocolate in bed?”
She frowns and begins to form a question, “Did you receive any… sex education while in the gentry school?” she asks. It’s clear that she is not sure if she chose her words correctly.
I allow a grin to spread across my face and flutter my lashes to say, “I assure you, I received only the finest sexual education.” A pillow smacks me upside the head.
“Cool it,” she admonishes. She takes the pillow and cradles it against her lower abdomen. “I mean, do they ever teach faeries, or male faeries, I suppose, about the inner workings of … women’s reproductive systems?”
I lose my train of thought for a moment. So many images are evoked by Jude’s words. I know I should be focusing on what she’s saying, it’s clearly of interest to her, but I’m sidetracked by visions of feminine forms and coupling. I have to clear my throat to clear my head.
“Yes,” I answer, although it sounds like a question.
She sighs. “Well, it’s different for humans,” she begins. “Mortal women menstruate every month.”
My blank stare is enough indication that I am not following a word she says. I am still unclear on this word menstruate. “Could you be more specific?” I ask in what I think is a polite voice.
She runs a hand through her hair and the movement makes her breast lift ever so slightly. I don’t think she’s wearing the usual mortal under garments I’ve seen her in. Good, I think, the upper undergarment looked quite uncomfortable, although I admit it did create a pleasing shape.
“I swear if you make me regret this later, you will pay for it,” she threatens. Hugging the pillow tighter and frowning for a moment, she begins, “Menstruating is when a women’s body discharges blood and … other material… from the lining of the uterus.”
I nod. I don’t get it.
“The uterus is the womb,” she explains, “where babies are formed.”
“Ah, yes, I’ve heard of babies,” I assure her. She gives me a look and I shut up.
“Basically every month the uterus is preparing for pregnancy. One of the two fallopian tubes pops out an egg. The egg gets nestled inside the uterus with blood and cushy membranes and all that stuff. Then, a few days later, if the egg is not fertilized, it comes out…in a flow.”
I am trying very hard not to allow my face to twist into discomfort. It’s true I have never given much thought to the scientific side of reproduction. My interests rest solely among the carnal pleasures.
“Thank you for that detailed description,” I dip my head in mock gratitude. “This fertilization you speak of, that is the part where – “
“You know that part, Cardan,” she stops me before I can continue. “And don’t even get me started on the severe inequality in terms of what is required of your body and what is required of mine.”
“You’re right, let’s skip that discussion for now,” although I make a mental note to ponder it on my own some time. “This process of flow is unpleasant?”
“It’s the worst!” she groans and clutches the pillow. “I can’t even begin to – wait,” she pauses to look at me, “Do you really want to hear this?”
My honest internal reaction is a resounding no, no I don’t. But out loud I say, “If it is important to you, Jude, please tell me.”
She contemplates me for a long moment. In general I feel that Jude and I have gotten better at communicating but this is one of those moments when I find myself wishing that I could read her thoughts. Or at least, ask for her thoughts and receive nothing but truth in response.
I fear I have not passed her test of scrutiny, but then she reaches forward and takes the Snicker’s bar, tearing off a big bite and resettles the remaining chocolate on my knee. She begins, “Most of the time I’m active and strong and athletic, right?”
“Certainly,” I respond quickly and easily. One of Jude’s main defining traits is her physical prowess.
“So, when I’m on my… period… my body kind of revolts for a bit,” she says slowly. I wonder why she feels the need to pause before the word period. Is she embarrassed to speak it out loud? To everyone? Or just to me?
“What do you mean by revolt?” I ask, although the pieces are falling in to place: Jude, still in bed and late for a council meeting; Jude huddled in a defensive position; Jude resorting to human junk food for sustenance. This is certainly not typical behavior.
“I’m tired a lot and my stomach hurts,” she explains. “My breasts are sore and my muscles give out more quickly,” she continues. “All of this makes running drills and general cardio more difficult.” She pauses, “I hate feeling weak.”
Ah, this is crux of her predicament. Weakness is Jude’s biggest fear and her greatest enemy. I imagine it is difficult to feel like her own body is betraying her on this front. Especially when she expends so much time and effort into maintaining a superior body. A very superior body.
My mind wanders again.
Fortunately Jude does not notice my mental absence. She reaches for the chocolate bar again and the brief brushing of her fingers against my knee brings me back to the present. “Then of course, there’s the blood,” she rolls her eyes and takes another bite of the chocolate.
“Right,” I nod, trying to sound informed, except - “where is this blood exactly?” It’s an honest question, out of my mouth before I can process the words and only my ears are prepared to sound the alarm.
I realize quickly that I should not have asked this out loud. Her eyes pop open wide and she stops chewing. She looks at me with raised eyebrows. She is seated cross-legged before me, having discarded the pillow. I attempt every form of muscle control I can muster but still my eyes drop down, down to the space between her legs. She sees the direction of my gaze and for the first time in my life I think I may know what blushing feels like.
“Cardan,” she snaps. My gaze flies back up and I am looking anywhere but at her womb area. The ceiling of her room is a lovely color.
“Are you serious?” she says, replacing the Snicker’s bar and leaning forward this time, closer to me instead of farther away, which is where I’d rather be. I swallow hard and I’m sure she can see the anxiety on my face. I don’t know how to answer this question. Every response seems sure to invoke her wrath.
It may be the death of me but I chose truth, “Yes. Truly, I’ve wondered how women…collect the product of these menstruations.” I have to cough and look away at the end but I’m oddly proud of myself for voicing an incredibly awkward and probably equally idiotic question.
I’m thankful that Jude finally looks away as well. She runs her hands through her hair. I stare pointedly not at her breasts. She clears her throat and says, “We don’t collect it. It’s not exactly something we’re interested in keeping.”
I can’t stop myself, “Yes, but where does it go? Does it all come out at once? How can you possibly plan for that?” I chance a quick glance back to her face. That she looks just as uncomfortable as me is, surprisingly, a comfort.
“Most women use rags to absorb it,” she says. “In the human world they have disposable rags called pads, or a different option called tampons.”
I’m fiddling with the Snicker’s bar, wondering if I’m allowed to have another bite. I can see Jude eying it and I decide it’s best left there for her. “What is a tampon?” I ask instead.
Jude bites her lip for a moment and then reaches beneath the sheets and retrieves the plastic shopping bag. From inside she plucks out a small item, also wrapped in some form of plastic – humans all but worship this material. It’s about the length of her finger and the wrapping is decorated with pink swirls and flowers. It’s an odd design to associate with Jude.
She splits the wrapper down one long side and removes a blue shiny object shaped like a tadpole, a braided white string trails from the thinner end. “This is a tampon,” she holds the thicker end with her thumb and middle finger then presses the smaller piece inside it with her index finger. Her lips form a strange smile and she looks up to aim the object at my face. When the two pieces connect an odd, white ball of cotton pops out and hits me on the nose.
Jude laughs. I allow her a moment of amusement and then I pick up the white projectile to examine it. This quiets her quickly. I expect this tampon to feel soft and pliable but it’s actually rather stiff. I suppose the material is absorbent which must mean –
“You put this inside you?” I ask quietly, “to absorb the… flow?” When I look up she nods.
“Just the one?” I should stop asking questions.
Jude snorts, “No, several, every day, for nearly a week.”
I tug on the string gently and roll the cotton wad between my fingers. It starts to open and expand slightly. From the corner of my eye, I can see Jude looking absently at my long fingers as they roll the tampon back and forth. “And it just stays inside you?”
“Yes,” she responds, “for a few hours or until it’s uncomfortable.”
I nod and mutter, “That explains the smell.”
“WHAT?” her raised voice startles me and I drop the tampon. “You can smell it?” Her face is frozen in a sculpture of horror. I wonder if it’s possible to backtrack my way out of this one, but I can’t see how. Jude knows that faeries have a much keener sense of smell than humans. Surely she’s aware that I can smell certain changes in the surrounding environment.
“Only because I was trying,” I assure her. “I couldn’t understand why you were being so secretive. I though you might be hurt, or more likely, I thought you might have hurt someone else.” Judging by her look of increasing disgust, I don’t think my explanations are helping. I try to placate her worries, “I’ve never noticed before.”
She shakes her head as if to rid her mind of this information. “I can’t even,” she mutters and flops down on the bed, this time face first into the pillows. “Never bring up this disgusting conversation ever again,” she says against the pillows, unable to look at me.
“It’s not disgusting,” I say quietly, “It’s your body.” I smile despite myself. “I find your body particularly fascinating.”
She turns her head slightly and squints at me across the pillow. I hope she hears the sincerity in my voice; I mean her no jest. Even when I can’t admit it to myself, I have always found Jude’s body appealing in both simple and complex ways. Appealing and powerful, in more ways than one.
After a moment she whispers, “Okay”. I’m not sure what that means but it sounds like she is accepting my compliment.
After a short moment I lie down beside her, leaving some space between us but not so much, lest she think I find her menstruating body unattractive (I don’t). I roll onto my side, facing her and whisper, “Is there anything I can do to help?”
She turns onto her back and shifts to get comfortable, letting her hand rest quite close to mine. “Distract me,” she suggests. “Tell me a story.”
*
And that is how I came to be in bed with Jude, both of us fully clothed on the evening of a council meeting, telling her a story from childhood about naughty wood nymphs in the royal gardens. It’s not from my childhood; my childhood has no happy stories. It’s from a book I remember reading, but I do not tell her that. We share another Snicker’s bar. There are more in the bag as well as several other human snacks that I surmise Jude only indulges in once a month.
Some time later, I’ve finished the story and I’m about to begin a second rousing tale of hobgoblins ransacking the palace kitchens when Jude sits up and swings her legs over the bed.
“Alright, that’s enough of that,” she declares and stands, “let’s get moving.”
“Pardon?” I sit up, a Snicker’s bar recently opened but forgotten in my hand. “If I recall, you said the cramps and soreness last nearly a week?” I thought I was paying attention during that portion of our impromptu sex education lesson.
“Yea, but the worst part only lasts a few hours or so,” she shrugs, stretching her neck, “now it’s back to business.” She tosses a pillow at my face, “Let’s go, your majesty, you are heinously late for the council meeting.”
I feel a whiplash from the force that is Jude Duarte, going from calm and nearly cuddly one moment to a tornado of ambition the next. I will have to pay closer attention to this cycle she speaks of, if I wish share a moment like this with her again. In a flash so quick that I miss all of the scintillating parts she is out of her nightwear and standing before the bed in a fresh doublet and hose. A second later she is marching towards the door.
I can never hope to keep up.
“And bring that Snicker’s bar!” she shouts back over her shoulder.
But I shall always endeavor to try.