Read Online Princess Ben by Catherine Gilbert Murdock - Free Book Online
Authors: Catherine Gilbert Murdock
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I craved sleep. But even if my fingers had worked, I could not have removed the constricting and obstinate garb in which I had been clad.
Utterly defeated, I lay my head against the cold stone wall of my prison and sobbed anew. Moonlight cast a daunting sliver of shadow across the floor, but I paid it no heed. I craved only resolution. Even death, harsh as this may sound, seemed apt. Then I might join my mother in the afterlife. I lay my aching hands on the wall, intent to push off, to move to the window and leap out. And then—
The wall beneath my left hand gave way. It did not collapse, should that image come to mind. Instead, it simply, in that instant, abandoned all pretext of solidity.
In the many years since this one unforgettable moment, I have struggled to explain this experience, how best to convey its utterly terrifying
foreignness.
Imagine descending a staircase. Arriving at the bottom, you confidently stride
forward—but you have miscalculated. Another step remains, and instead of touching solid floor you flail through the air for a life-saving handhold. And though you fall only two hand breadths at most, the terror of that one helpless moment remains, poisoning your consciousness, for some time afterward.
Such was my sensation. Moreover, I did not suffer it on a staircase, where one has experience with such momentary crises, but against a solid rock wall.
I leapt back in horror, my heart in my throat. What had I felt? In the moonlight I could perceive clearly the wall's rough stones, with the same mass and substance as the mountain itself. In fact, in the nocturnal illumination their origin was obvious, for Ancienne stone always glitters slightly.
I must be mad. My hands were damaged, obviously. I knew not what I felt.
Sheepishly I stepped forward. I touched the spot where my head had rested. In the most literal sense, it was rock solid. My right hand continued along the wall. Inflamed as my fingers were, the rock registered in unique and painful ways, all of them substantial. With great care, I reached out my left hand, still throbbing from the beating. I touched rock
...rock again ... and then before my disbelieving eyes, my arm plunged to the elbow into the stone.
Again I leapt back. I examined my arm. Except for the beating, it appeared normal. But hands do not penetrate rock!
Determined now, I slapped the masonry. But my fingers touched nothing—perhaps at best the skimming effect of silk; certainly not stone. Again my arm disappeared to the elbow. With enormous control, panting with effort, I held it there in place, suppressing panic at the sight of my absent limb. Deliberately I moved my arm. It moved—it moved as an arm should move. The space, solid as it appeared,
felt
empty. I brought my right hand over and slipped it in until my other arm, too, was elbow-deep in solid stone.
Not daring to breathe, I dragged both arms to one side. Almost at once they hit a vertical barrier, undetectable to my eyes. My fingers slipped down this smooth impediment, which felt for all the world like a doorjamb. Up I continued, until standing on my toes I felt a "lintel" (so I dubbed it) above my head. No visible sign, however—rock and masonry had no relation to this smooth, tactile solidity. Dizzy with confusion and exhilaration, I ran my rock-bound arms along this lintel, swirling them about. Almost at once I located the other side of the doorjamb. There. I had found
three sides of a doorway, as cleverly disguised as a moth on a tree. I stood, a swollen hand out of sight on each side of this mysterious and baffling portal.
My pulse rang in my ears. Cautiously, as a swimmer tests the waters, I extended my foot, still in its beribboned dinner slipper. The stone engulfed my shoe and ankle, the hem of my gown disappearing into the stone.
The ground on the other side felt solid.
What had I to lose? Who would miss me, should this end in tragedy?
With a deep breath, I stepped through.
Part Two
I N WHICH I
Utterly defeated, I lay my head against the cold stone wall of my prison and sobbed anew. Moonlight cast a daunting sliver of shadow across the floor, but I paid it no heed. I craved only resolution. Even death, harsh as this may sound, seemed apt. Then I might join my mother in the afterlife. I lay my aching hands on the wall, intent to push off, to move to the window and leap out. And then—
The wall beneath my left hand gave way. It did not collapse, should that image come to mind. Instead, it simply, in that instant, abandoned all pretext of solidity.
In the many years since this one unforgettable moment, I have struggled to explain this experience, how best to convey its utterly terrifying
foreignness.
Imagine descending a staircase. Arriving at the bottom, you confidently stride
forward—but you have miscalculated. Another step remains, and instead of touching solid floor you flail through the air for a life-saving handhold. And though you fall only two hand breadths at most, the terror of that one helpless moment remains, poisoning your consciousness, for some time afterward.
Such was my sensation. Moreover, I did not suffer it on a staircase, where one has experience with such momentary crises, but against a solid rock wall.
I leapt back in horror, my heart in my throat. What had I felt? In the moonlight I could perceive clearly the wall's rough stones, with the same mass and substance as the mountain itself. In fact, in the nocturnal illumination their origin was obvious, for Ancienne stone always glitters slightly.
I must be mad. My hands were damaged, obviously. I knew not what I felt.
Sheepishly I stepped forward. I touched the spot where my head had rested. In the most literal sense, it was rock solid. My right hand continued along the wall. Inflamed as my fingers were, the rock registered in unique and painful ways, all of them substantial. With great care, I reached out my left hand, still throbbing from the beating. I touched rock
...rock again ... and then before my disbelieving eyes, my arm plunged to the elbow into the stone.
Again I leapt back. I examined my arm. Except for the beating, it appeared normal. But hands do not penetrate rock!
Determined now, I slapped the masonry. But my fingers touched nothing—perhaps at best the skimming effect of silk; certainly not stone. Again my arm disappeared to the elbow. With enormous control, panting with effort, I held it there in place, suppressing panic at the sight of my absent limb. Deliberately I moved my arm. It moved—it moved as an arm should move. The space, solid as it appeared,
felt
empty. I brought my right hand over and slipped it in until my other arm, too, was elbow-deep in solid stone.
Not daring to breathe, I dragged both arms to one side. Almost at once they hit a vertical barrier, undetectable to my eyes. My fingers slipped down this smooth impediment, which felt for all the world like a doorjamb. Up I continued, until standing on my toes I felt a "lintel" (so I dubbed it) above my head. No visible sign, however—rock and masonry had no relation to this smooth, tactile solidity. Dizzy with confusion and exhilaration, I ran my rock-bound arms along this lintel, swirling them about. Almost at once I located the other side of the doorjamb. There. I had found
three sides of a doorway, as cleverly disguised as a moth on a tree. I stood, a swollen hand out of sight on each side of this mysterious and baffling portal.
My pulse rang in my ears. Cautiously, as a swimmer tests the waters, I extended my foot, still in its beribboned dinner slipper. The stone engulfed my shoe and ankle, the hem of my gown disappearing into the stone.
The ground on the other side felt solid.
What had I to lose? Who would miss me, should this end in tragedy?
With a deep breath, I stepped through.
Part Two
I N WHICH I
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