Morphine & Thorns:
An Edwardian Fairytale

November 20

He came again last night.

That strange creature with the eyes like melted opals, waifish, pale. With an outstretched hand, an impish grin like Peter Pan from the children’s bedtime stories.

She had been taking the chloral hydrate and morphine concoctions diligently—just what the doctor prescribed—for a week now. The first night it had seemed peculiar, unnatural; she was never one for medication of any sort, and it had frightened her when the doctor made such a strict point of precise dosage, somehow excluding to mention what exactly would happen if she failed to exercise caution. She had protested, indeed, when her husband dragged her there, exasperated by her nervous outbreaks, her incessant insomnia. But what else was to be done? She was driving herself mad with the constant fidgeting, staring at the ceiling as the night passed, thinking of nothing, not daring to think. And so she had agreed to this regimen of teaspoons and tinctures, albeit unwillingly.

Then, him.

Sleeping, as she hadn’t slept in ever so long, walking down a dank dream corridor of vast proportions, and then a man had stepped out from the side as though he were a part of the wall, unmolding from the dark stones as wax dissolves from an artist’s cast. Ivory and opals, his hair a mess of ragged black curls springing with the enthusiasm of thistledown in a hundred different directions. Eerily beautiful, like a poisonous butterfly: admire me but do not touch.

And that had been the end of it. She had awoken, confused and gasping, to the diffuse golden light of a morning in late autumn. All day, the image had haunted her—as she put the children to play in the nursery, as she presided over the specifics of a proper Sunday dinner (so much more absent-minded than usual that even she sensed the hostility of the cooks toward her incoherent interference), as she made ready to take her dosage for the evening. All day, pushing that wraith’s face from her mind, until she actually longed for sleep even while she feared the dreams that it might bring.

Fortunately, the second night had been dreamless, like falling into a deep well from whence no rescue was expected or desired. But on the third night he had returned with his ever-reaching hand and his gracious Puck-like grin, as if to say, Why not? Nothing more, just the strange man waiting for hours on end for her to accept his slim hand. And she had refused, crumpling into a fetal huddle on the corridor’s damp floor, trying to blend in with the corners, wishing she were as talented at melding with the walls as the dark-eyed man.

Then nothing. Nothing for three blessed days. Until last night, when the man had spoken to her for the first time.

She had grown tired of hiding from him and thus taken to sitting on the ground beside his booted feet. (Riding boots? What on earth did he need riding boots for in this labyrinth?) The quiet was beginning to gnaw at her; she longed to break the stalemate. Finally, she did.

“What is it you want exactly?” she inquired, head tilted, almost coquettish, as in the not-so-distant days of her youth.

“What do you want?” he asked back.

“I asked you first.”

“And I’m answering you.”

“That’s entirely not fair!” she shouted, surprised by the anger in her own voice, all the while sputtering internally at the nerve of dream creatures, always repeating back precisely what one has already said. How cliché! You would think that a man so extraordinary-looking would have a little originality, but no! Just like any other dream…

Somehow, the man looked as though he had heard everything her irate mind was spitting at him.

“I’m sorry, love,” he said, “but that’s the only honest answer I can give.”

November 21

The next night the man did not come. She wandered the same dark corridor for hours, pretending that she was not looking for him, that she did not care if he were there or not, but she could not delude herself so much as to think that she did not miss him. Although he unnerved her, he was certainly not unpleasant to look upon, and she could not help but crave a bit of beauty in her housebound life.

November 22

A woman was waiting for her when she wandered into the corridor on the ninth night, an old, wizened creature with a face like folded linen and a peaked cap. She was talking to something in the wall, but the younger woman could not quite see what it was.

“And they came upon a clearing which housed a troupe of young warriors, strange and pale, with dark eyes and hair that did not seem to obey the laws of earth. And they danced with the young men until one maiden made so bold as to venture a kiss. ‘Beware!’ cried her sisters. But she did not heed their warnings.

“She began to grow hot from the dance, and removed her cloak. And there upon her arms, drops of blood like sweat were made visible.

“ ‘What is it?’ she cried.

“ ‘Kiss and pay in turn,’ the warriors said only, and left the girl to bleed in the snow.

“The next morning, when the townspeople rushed to the clearing at the behest of the frightened sisters, no trace remained of the men, only a girl drained white on a bed of crimson snow.”

The old woman fell silent, staring intently at the wall, as though she were terribly interested in its opinion.

“Were they vampires?” asked the younger woman, oddly bemused.

“Oh, heavens no,” said the old woman, turning to face her for the first time. “Don’t you know?”

“Know what?”

But the woman had trundled off into the wall with no sign of returning.

November 23

And yet the old woman was there again the next night, scrunched beside the wall in cobwebby rags and the same peaked hat, spinning stories to whatever it was that lived within. Or perhaps the wall itself. It was difficult to tell.

“Janet returned to Caterhaugh and plucked a second rose, pricking her finger upon its wicked thorns. And young Tam Lin, summoned by the intrusion upon his garden and the blood of Janet, appeared at the gate.

“ ‘Alas, sweet Janet,’ he said, ‘but you have come at a dreadful hour. Hell requires that the Queen pay a tithe every seven years. And I fear, sweet Janet, that the tithe is me.’

“ ‘What can I do?’ asked Janet.

“ ‘Go to Miles Cross tomorrow, the day of All Hallow’s Eve, and there the folk shall ride in ceremony. Pay no mind to the other horses, but when you see the white horse pass, tear down the rider, for the rider is me. And though the Queen may turn me into all manner of beasts and devils, hold tight, for in the end, I shall return to my true form.’

“And so Janet went to Miles Cross on Halloween, and held the young knight fast as the Queen of Faeries turned him into all manner of beasts and devils, and thus it was that sweet Janet won her Thomas as a mortal man again.

“But as she left, the enraged Queen spat out a curse of ill and early death…”

The old woman stopped, almost in the middle of her sentence, to gaze with steady grey eyes at the young woman listening to her.

“What happened to Janet?” asked the younger woman.

And again, the old woman disappeared into the wall.

November 26

The chloral hydrate was beginning to wear off too soon, and although she feared the dangers, she started to increase it, drop by drop, along with the morphine.

November 28

She dreamed that she had found a courtyard hidden amidst the winding stone halls of the labyrinth. Several varicolored briars grew along its perimeter, vines intermingling with the cold, speckled rock. And although she knew that something must result from her boldness, she knelt to pick a rose the color of sunrise. A thorn jammed violently into her thumb.

A single drop of blood fell to the floor, and where it touched there grew a carmine rose.

She was not surprised, and even less surprised when a beast of considerable height, with a leonine mane and curved horns, emerged from behind a pillar.

“Why are you picking my roses?” it whimpered.

“La Belle et la Bête,” she murmured to herself. “Aren’t you French?”

“I suppose.”

“But I’m English. International amnesty, you know.”

The Beast crossed its arms behind its back and gazed sheepishly at the ground. “Well, that is a trifle embarrassing.”

“Don’t worry,” she said brightly, patting it upon the elbow, since she couldn’t quite reach its shoulder. “I was expecting either you or Tam Lin anyhow, given the circumstances. And just between you and me, I think I prefer you.”

The dark-eyed man chose this highly inopportune moment to step through the wall.

“You’d prefer him, would you?”

“Well, you’re hardly Tam Lin,” she retorted, realizing just how much she had grown used to this other world, “so it’s no offense to you. I looked it up after the old woman told her story. He had grey eyes, not black, according to the ballad. And he returned to a mortal life hundreds of years ago. He’s undoubtedly dead by now.”

“You have to admit, I make a pretty decent substitute.”

“But you were never mortal, I think. Lacks the romance.”

“How astute of you, love.”

“You don’t have a soul then, do you?”

The dark-eyed man looked uncomfortable. “That’s hardly polite.”

“What about me?” moaned the Beast, suddenly smaller and clinging to her leg.

“You’re very sweet,” she said, and began to scratch him gently between the ears.

The dark-eyed man delicately withdrew the carmine rose from the rockwork at her feet and curved its vines about her throat like a necklace.

“Alone am I
to ward against danger
but never do I falter.”

“You?” she inquired.

“No,” he said. “The rose.”

November 29

She woke the next morning to find a thorn stabbing at her neck, embedded in the collar of her nightgown. And although she knew that she ought to be frightened, a little smile played about her lips that hadn’t been there in ages.

December 2

“What on earth is wrong with her?”

“She sleeps half the day now.”

“And daydreams the other half.”

“At least she’s not a nuisance about the house like she used to be. Scatter-brained twit. Couldn’t even take care of those silly little blond brats of hers.”

“For the best then.”

“Stays out of the kitchen.”

“Thank God.”

“Ought to file a motion in Britain, they ought. Keep everyone’s mistresses doped up on morphine. Servants would have it a hell of a lot better then.”

December 4

The old woman was back again.

“The rune of Thorn,” she said to the wall, “Is the third of the Anglo-Saxon and Icelandic alphabets. In Scandinavia, it is associated with the giants, the Thursor, and with hammers and the mighty Thor. But here, in quiet England, we see it for what it sounds, as both defense and destruction. A briar holds in those whom it must protect, and serves as a warning to those whom it must keep out.

“And thus we have our legend of Briar Rose, sleeping for all eternity in guarded seclusion. For a thorn may also serve as a source of entrapment. Poison may be concealed in hollowed thorns, in thorn-like spindles,” with a meaningful glance at her dreaming watcher, “in hypodermic needles…”

“It’s an oral solution,” protested the younger woman. “Much less concentrated.”

“Say as you will, Briar Rose.”

December 10

The corridor walls had begun to sprout thorns on thin green tendrils. Sometimes, if she held out a hand long enough while listening to the old woman’s stories, they would twine about her fingertips and she would wake with small red dots in spirals down her fingers.

December 12

“Thorns are entrapment,” she said to the Beast, his shaggy head upon her lap. “I wonder, was there something in that rose the enchantress offered you, all those years ago?”

“I wouldn’t know,” said the Beast. “It all happened so fast. Just a little further to the left, would you?” It twisted its neck to allow her better access. “Ah, yes, that’s it.”

December 14

The pale man with dark eyes appeared again one night, after she had greeted the Beast in his usual garden. He had been gone for some time now.

“You made this, didn’t you?” she queried, crouched among the roses.

“Some of it,” he said. Then paused, as if he were slightly uncomfortable. “Why don’t you just join me? You obviously like it here.”

“I have obligations. Children. A husband.”

“Well, you’ve hardly been tending to those for a while.” The man crossed his arms petulantly. “Do you really care about them? I mean, really? All they’ve ever been to you are nooses—round your wrists, your ankles, your waist, your pretty neck. Holding you back, strangling the life out of you. You didn’t marry for love. Don’t try to tell me different. And those children; think of the pain they’ve caused you. I mean—do you even remember their names?”

“I did. Once. I haven’t had much cause to address them lately, I suppose.”

“And why is that? Why—is—that?” He spoke slowly, harshly, accentuating every syllable with a malevolent frankness. “Because you’ve been too busy here.”

“But I… But…” Her shoulders slumped forward in defeat. “You’re perfectly right.”

“I’ll give you some more time to consider,” he said, bending to her level by the briars. “But now you have to wake up.”

When he kissed her, her eyes fluttered open and it was day again.

She began to cry.

December 16

The labyrinth was fast becoming a hedge maze, the stones replaced by thorny branches twining serpentine into the dark sky above. She would have liked the change from cold stone had the thorns not been so malicious, always stabbing at her arms with their ragged claws, leaving marks like stings upon her fragile skin.

December 20

Then one night she grasped it all like a sudden flash of lightning through her skull as she gazed at the old woman weaving her tales for the briar walls and saw at last how the old gray creature in her peaked cap looked so similar to the thorns beside her. Defense and destruction.

“You conjured these briars, didn’t you?” she asked.

The old woman smiled genially for the first time. “He made this labyrinth, though. I merely improvised a few additions.”

“To protect me. To warn me. Like all those stories of the bad faerie folk, the horrible things they can do to you. You made this with your stories, didn’t you?”

“They have no souls, dear, no conscience. I may be but a humble Thorn who dares to guard her Rose more thoroughly than most, but I have principles. They, however, do not.”

“I don’t care,” said the younger woman, the words springing unbidden from her throat with a force that shocked her and a meaning she only grasped when the thorn-woman’s face fell like cloth being dropped from a great height.

“But..”

“I don’t care,” she said again, and the words felt absolutely delicious in her mouth. “I know you only meant for the best, but I really do like it here.”

Leaving the old woman to stare in horror, she turned and began to force her way through the hedge, disregarding the barbs ripping cruelly at her dress, her arms, her long blond hair. She emerged on the other side, bleeding in a thousand tiny places, thin trails like molten ruby running down her limbs to puddle upon the floor.

This was what she had been missing all along. She gasped with pleasure.

The dark-eyed man erased her wounds with one slow swipe of his perfect hand.

December 21

The following evening, she gulped down the bottle of chloral hydrate—twenty times the level her doctor had prescribed against—and finished off the morphine, what little there was left of it. Her hair spread shining across the pillow, arms crossed, hand to shoulder, shoulder to hand, like a sculpture upon some martyr’s tomb, she closed her eyes and smiled one last eternal smile of profound pleasure.

For in that sleep of death what dreams may come.