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The house welcomed the air with open arms; it was as cold as a frostbit morning most days, but not quite as vast, not quite as fascinating. The child knew the house like the back of their hand - every musky room, every corner that exploded into a cloud of dust when touched, every painting that adorned the damp, wooden walls. A long line of barons and baronesses that used to own this godforsaken place. From centuries before, up until the present day.
The baroness had painted it herself. The portrait showed her, eyes hollow and hair long and flowing over her face, gripping the shoulders of the child, whose silvery stare was full of life and hope.
Beneath it, upon the plaque, read:
Enaïs and Cleménte, by the Grace of the Bellringer
Cleménte stared at the depiction of themself from long ago. Did their eyes still hold that hope?
The house was stifling, suffocating in more ways than one. It may have been draughty, but it could never compare to the air beyond the fence, sharp and lively, warmed with the rays of a shameless sun.
How they craved the taste of the wind, sometimes gentle, sometimes harsh, embracing them with its chill. How they dreamt of the sweet scent of flowers and grass, never wilted, never dry. How they craved the damp of rain falling upon their hair, frizzing their curls until they resembled the dandelions that danced in the fields of the future.
It pulled them forward, that taste of freedom, but they were yanked back each time by the gloved hands of the baroness.
“What lies beyond the fence?” they would ask each time, gazing out of moss-stained windows that blurred the beauty of outside.
The baroness’s tone would change, her face contorted into a strange expression, one that furrowed her brows and pursed her mouth, but paled her face into a colour akin to the sheets of snow that fell in the depths of winter.
“Why do you ask?” would be her cold response, stiff and unwelcoming, her stare locked upon the puppets that she made. Her father had taught her how to make them, many many years ago.
Cleménte, despite this, would persist.
“I am curious,” they would continue. “It seems so very beautiful out there, and I have only ever seen the outside from the confines of this house. Lovely though it may be, it does not seem to be quite the same.”
Her eyes would flash upwards at the child. “What is wrong with here that would make you want to leave so badly?”
Their heart would begin to beat harder now, and they’d avoid the baroness’s glare. “I don’t want to leave.”
The baroness would interrupt their sheepish admission. “Well, that is the end of that, Dearie.”
“But I am still curious,” they would insist. “It calls to me, like the birds within the trees.”
“It is very dangerous out there,” her eyes would narrow. “What is wrong with here that would make you want to risk your life?”
“Nothing is-”
“Do you not love me, Cleménte?”
Taken aback by the sudden tears in the baroness’s eyes, they would fall silent.
“I have cared for you since you came, Dearie,” she’d plough on. “You are safe here; you are loved. Eyes of silver, locks of gold, but you are far more precious than any metal or jewel upon this earth.”
“But what is the use of these silver eyes if I cannot see what is beyond?”
“You can use those eyes to read. There are worlds hidden within books that can never be seen beyond the fence.”
Cleménte would sigh when it got to this, and they would give up. Piles upon piles of books were perched precariously in their room, but they had already read them from cover to cover, and memorised every detail of the pictures upon the pages. Even if they could have new books, the smell of paper could not compare to the smell of fallen rain, nor to the smell of pine, nor to the smell of the dirt that housed the young plants that yearned for the air above.
Just like them.
The baroness would lead them, each and every time they had this conversation, to the birdcage that sat in the centre of the stairway. It was painted blue and yellow, like the sun and the sky.
It held no bird.
“What is a cage to you, Dearworth?”
Her tone would be sharp, steely, seconds away from a shout, sending shivers down the child’s spine.
“Something that traps you,” they’d whisper. “Just like this old, stuffy house.”
She’d chuckle at this, and their shoulders would relax.
“A birdcage isn’t a trap,” she’d say. “It is something to keep you safe.”
Cleménte would not reply, but would simply stare between the bars.
Enaïs would always continue her speech.
“You are fed, you are clothed and you are safe. All you have is your family, and your family all lie within these walls, not beyond the fence.”
“There is nobody else but you here.”
“Precisely.”
A lump would rise in their throat, their eyes burning, doing everything in their power to prevent the tears from falling.
The baroness would leave them after this, telling them to go to bed. They were safe in their bed, she would say. Nothing could hurt them.
They were safe everywhere but here.
Cleménte would stare in the centre of the birdcage, the birdcage that caged no bird. Instead, it caged a puppet.
The puppet was one of the baroness’s, intricately sewn together. It had eyes of silver. It had locks of gold. It sat there with a blank, brainless smile, glassy eyes staring back at its lookalike’s.
Only when the baroness left would they allow their tears to fall.
_______________________________________________________
A night fell, one summer’s day, that opened the skies to stars that twinkled like bells and the moon hung like a lantern, illuminating the room that Cleménte slept in.
They were not sleeping at that moment, but they were gazing upon the land that was touched by the moon’s gentle glow. Trees swayed and waltzed with each other in that cool breeze that caressed their face through the open window. What would it be like to dance with them?
When they had visited all of the worlds that the books could grant them, they visited them once more. Time and time again, until they were struck with a soul-crushing boredom. When that stage was reached, they began to create their own worlds. Words would be woven through their mind and they would speak to themself in careful whispers, until they began to mould those words into melodies. Those melodies would echo throughout the halls, in each empty room. In their mind, it brought a smile to the faces trapped within the frames, and it brought a rare smile to their own face too.
How wonderful would it be to sing those melodies to the trees and flowers? To the birds that called out to them? Beneath the sparkling moonlight?
It was as though the Bellringer itself was coaxing them away, unthreading the seams that tied them to this place. Was it more than manners that kept them in this manor? Was it fate pulling them in until it decided to grant them freedom?
The baroness entertained no more candlelight and the house was dark, silent, ghostly. The ghosts of its past seemed to need the child no longer.
Perhaps the child was mad.
But, in their heart, they knew that it was time. It was time they must leave without a word, without a conversation.
They carried nothing more than a promise when they crept down those creaking stairs and the caged puppet stared at them, as it always did. It was odd, but Cleménte could have sworn that there was hope in its eyes, instead of the unyielding emptiness.
Perhaps those eyes simply reflected their own.
The door was a heavy slab of carved mahogany, showing swirling, hypnotising patterns. Oftentimes it scraped against the cold, stone floors when moved but, tonight, it was soundless.
Fresh air grasped their face, clawing at their throat and eyes, pushing their hair behind their ears. Goosebumps rose upon their skin.
They turned back to the house, to the puppet that stared at them through its cage. They felt sorry for it - still trapped, still alone.
“Thank you, Enaïs, for everything,” they murmured through the open door. “Dearest though you are, I am afraid I must leave. I love you, and I shall remember you fondly. I pray you remember me also.”
“Find me in the future, my dear.”
At this, they ran.
_______________________________________________________
Freedom tasted so sweetly on the child’s tongue. It tasted of berries that grew on brambled bushes and of fresh water that ran through the rapidly flowing rivers.
Cleménte sang and twirled and danced, jumping around their new home that expanded as far as the eye could see. They were the majesty of their life, unstrung and uncontrolled. The trees bent towards them as if they were bowing to a monarch, and they befriended the creatures that called this forest home.
They did not know where they would be heading, they did not know if they would return. Why would they return? The puppet was still caged.
Beyond the fence was a world that no storybook could ever grant to them, something that they could never return to the before that lingered in the back of their mind. They left it buried beneath the stone.
But there was a howling that followed them, and no matter how far they ran the howling grew louder, closer.
They prayed to the Bellringer for safety.
But still, the howls came running. They were nothing more than a lamb.
Their screams chimed like a bell from a chapel, though, unlike the chapel’s bell, it called no soul to come to them.
_______________________________________________________
This night, as the rest of them do, crawled beneath the ground to welcome the golden skies that held the sun as it awoke from its slumber. The baroness awoke alongside it as the birds began to sing their morning melodies.
Cleménte, too, would often sing their own melodies at this time.
Perhaps they were tired.
Though, a silence rang throughout the house, and the draught was icier than it should be. It whispered a familiar horror into her ears.
When Enaïs saw the door was open, she fell to her knees and sobbed.
_______________________________________________________
The Bellringer answers no prayers of the past. That is not its business; it keeps to the Yarrow that is its namesake, and only answers the promises of the future.
The baroness was an exception, however.
The woman had been lonely then, so it had granted her a child.
The woman was lonely now, but it did not grant her anything this time. It simply laughed in her face, cackled through her tears.
Enaïs had begged, wept, her laments echoing for all the world to hear. The Bellringer gave her no sympathy, only offered a few cold words.
“You would be a fool to keep the child caged.”