Anoria - Legend - Saga

ANORIA'S
LEGENDARY SAGA - PART III

Nearly a millenium passed, and the world changed immensely, more immensely than could possibly be imagined.

Northreed changed comparatively little until very late in history, and even then only minimally.

No one was there in those days to ask if Keliwyr had kept his promise.

And then...

She returned on an early autumn toward twilight; those few close to her, who had been allowed to remain at the little castle for extended periods of time, had known that this was her favorite time of day and season. How she had spent the elapsing centuries she would never let any human being know. Whether she had left, and returned; whether in her time on earth she had lived out her willing suffering virtually alone with one keeper or knelt at the feet of many; these things would not be known.

But when she returned she was more than a bit of a local legend; a piece of lore and color for the district. Her image, or an image thought to be hers, was on the door of the tavern she had once stayed in, and transmitted by seeming magic across little screens accessible across the globe. The brocade dress she had arrived in and the tattered, whip-torn black dress she had left in were replicated at masquerades and subculture gatherings in the town for years. Girls and effeminate young men took renditions of her name as persona monickers.

For a time she had been the rage among certain sets in London and Glasgow, to be replaced by her more openly bloodthirsty sisters in legend, Elizabeth Bathory, Lucrezia Borgia, the nonexistent Countess Dracula. The tiny Anoria Museum was a must-see to cult followers and literary students aspiring to see their name on shelves beside the masters of the macabre.

No one was the wiser for her entrance into the town. She arrived this time at the tiny Victorian-gingerbread Northreed station, still dressed in black and still with a head of thick rich undyed black tresses. She carried a man's black knapsack with bits of fabric and metal visible through the gaps. The low wide leather belt over her long skirt had wide loops in it. Many passed through Northreed dressed so; the enormous amounts of carved silver metal and amulets were the regalia of many who flocked to the quaint little town with its bit of history.

"Where can one get a bit to drink here?" she asked the stationmaster, turning strong clear eyes on him. But she was already stepping away, headed in the right direction for Anoria Tavern.

"Order Anoria's Blood, it's the best drink in the north country," the stationmaster called as he headed back toward the train that would connect with another and another and another to get him back to "civilization."

"Oh, please," she said, laughing outright. It sounded strong and clear on the air, as though her laughter had been contained and forcedly soft for many years. She allowed it again, just for an instant, as though to hear its sound fully.

It rose again as she saw the portrait of what was supposed to be her. She stood in front of it for several minutes, and her hand lifted toward the glass of the tavern. It was mounted on an antique-looking easel, but appeared to be executed digitally. She looked thoughtful, as though there was a great deal she had experienced from a distance and needed to partake of firsthand. After a moment she rested her hand gently on the very ancient doorknob.

And after another moment she let it swing open.

The woman behind the counter was strong, earthy, familiar. She looked a bit more health-conscious than her predecessor of so many centuries before, but the fierce androgyny was still there. Not an anomaly in her own time like the innkeeper who had first greeted Anoria, this woman had fitted into a mold, with black denim and a black leather jacket. The customers at the bar looked similar; the character of the place had established over time. There were other vivid differences: imitation Tiffany lamps hanging from the oak beams; a green-topped, worn billiards table; machines for games, some with metal balls and some with screen images in motion.

A back room had been added, evidently during the Edwardian era, with elaborate scrollwork and a small version of a sweeping staircase. Miniature opulence. It was early, but a few young people in varying shades of black and varying degrees of jewelry ornamentation, some with intricate black eye paint swirled up past their brows, sat at the tables in the newer room. Small bright screens sat on a few tables against the wall. The ones not in use shone out the windowfront imaginary-image of Anoria on their desktop.

Heads turned, but no more than they would for any attractive woman walking alone through the door. The imaginary Anoria was vastly different from the real one. Anoria had never worn dragon images, or had hair to her ankles, or painted her face. And no one would have reason to think that the ancient pact had only recently been seen to its completion.

"Are you staying for the Dark Castle tonight?" asked the bartender as she poured cherry brandy into a snifter and added some sort of fruit combination. Odd for a biker barkeep, but Anoria's Blood was the house special. Anoria paid, the humor not lost on her, but obviously concentrating on the currency as though it were unfamiliar. The bartender, lighting a miniature cigar, did not seem to notice.

"That's every Saturday, our regular event. Band called Heart of Darkness and our house deejay tonight. Starts picking up around eleven." Unasked, the bartender refilled Anoria's glass.

"I'll come back. I wanted to see the museum. It's in the old castle?" Anoria asked casually, too casually. Now the bartender looked more closely, putting her beer bottle back on the counter. She was not sure why.

"Sure it is, everybody knows that. It's closed for the day, though," she said. She stepped closer, examining the newcomer in the light of the inaccurate pseudo-Tiffany.

"That is fine. I will come back. Thank you," said Anoria. She was a bit more cavalier with the currency the second time, and the bartender openly stared.

"You are welcome at any time," she said, watching her swift exit.

Dusk was falling in earnest as the dark-haired woman took the now cobblestoned footpath up to the little castle of which she once had been the self-appointed chatelaine. Pavement had been a necessity, but Northreed would never see asphalt. It would have taken away from their attraction and charm, and perhaps more than that. Perhaps desecrated something.

The door, with its neo-neo-Euro-Gothic sign depicting white figures on a black background in various stages of coffin-raising, courtship and bloodletting, was securely locked. Anoria, without hesitation, drew out the key. The key which had long been out of her possession, but which still, apparently, felt natural in her hand.

The museum would not be open until the following afternoon at one. It should have been deathly quiet, with the few tiny burglarproof lights illuminating the few authentic pieces and many reproductions of racks, pillories, and spikeless, headless "iron maidens." It should have been utterly still, and an alarm should have sounded, piercing the air in a way it had rarely been pierced before.

But a youthful, male voice said, "Welcome, lady." And it seemed a thousand voices echoed after that. In the twilit greyness behind the door, her face took on a soft radiance for a moment. Then she closed the door after her, softly.

She did not return for the Saturday night event, nor to the tavern again the next day. The museum opened the following day, the young people and literary eccentrics flooded through the doors, and the day went on as usual. If there was a heightened sense of excitement in the atmosphere, rather more intense passion than usual during the dancing, it was put down to the stars, the phases of the moon.

Except by the bartender, who would always wonder.

Someone noticed the alarm had not been put on at the castle. But they paid it little attention, knowing crime was unheard of even today in Northreed. If asked, none of the guests at the tavern would have remembered Anoria.

But there was a great deal of money in the cash register. And she had left behind her knapsack.

Filled with exotic, ancient fabric. Carved chalices and daggers.

And a coiled snake whip.

THE END

SAGA by Magdelana....
If you like her story - please let her know
e-mail - tess130@rocketmail.com

The Saga Continues..............

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