Chapter 6:
Kneaded Fire


"Shortest is the distance,
From jealousy to hell."


She dreamt.

The landscape was lush, though not familiar; and dew-drops clung to the hay stacked, neatly and not too far-off, in a corner of the terrain. A path that was paved stone - flanked, on each side, by flowers with pretty heads - led up to the door of a small house, whose windows stood wide open, in the stone-white of its walls.

There were birds in the background, and their twitter was lovely – it resounded in her ears like the sound of a childhood lullaby that had lent her sleep in the most sleepless of nights, and she paused a moment, to enjoy it in its fullness, its complete harmony.

Then, picking up her pace, she reached the door of the house, and knocked twice. No response came, so she knocked again, at which moment a bird paused its song to inspect her. She laughed at the gesture, and then the door had opened, and a woman in what was a sunflower-yellow apron, peeked out. Her hands were smudged with flour, and she smiled at the person who had knocked.

“Hello, Guinevere!”

The woman who had knocked, smiled. “Hullo, Atara!” She had a homely voice, and was rather plump, while the woman who had opened the door – Atara, by name, it became clear now – was slimmer, with bright, brown eyes and hair that cascaded into a gorgeous waterfall of soft, brown curls. “I wondered if I could borrow a pound of kneaded flour, neighbour -- my bread is never as good as yours, Atara, your skill in the kitchen stuns me.” The compliment sounded merry, like it came right from the heart; and most would have thanked her for it.

Atara, however, did not. She laughed, a happy sort of laughter, but did not immediately consent to the loan. “Why do you need it, this time, Guinevere?” she asked, curiously. “I wonder what the occasion is.”

“Nothing special,” Guinevere said; but, even as she spoke, she knew that the event was, indeed, of great value, if only to her. “Al Keith comes to pay his respect to my parents, this evening. You know he has been away on a long journey, and they raised him when his mother was too sick to look after him. He can never forget the little kindness.”

“Al Keith?” Atara asked, as she struggled not to narrow her eyes, though Guinevere did not know this.

A blush of red fought to creep up Guinevere’s cheek, but she stemmed its spread. “Yes,” she answered, in her most casual tones but, in her heart of hearts, she knew that this was the one man she had loved in her sixty years of life, the one man she wanted to wed and spend the rest of her life with. It would be difficult, if not impossible, to attain this goal; but she could at least try to capture her dreams – she did not, at least, want to live in the regret that she had not tried.

“I see,” Atara said, her heart beating faster than usual. “Well, good Guinevere, I have run out of flour, today – I only have enough to cook a meal for myself. I am sorry I can not be of help, at the moment.”

Guinevere’s face fell – she knew Al Keith loved the dish of bread-and-rice that was her specialty, and had been very sure Atara would have some flour to spare - that would have made her dish, even more delicious. “That is alright,” she said. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Atara said, with a big smile that Guinever did not know - never would, perhaps - was entirely forced, and then she had shut the door, right in the other woman's face, without any further attempts at conversation.

The birds had not ceased to twitter or make music, their wings spread merrily against the thick, azure of the morning sky, but Guinevere’s heart beat in sad, little strokes of disappointment, as walked down the steps that led, away from Atara's house, and headed for the pathway that was the route back to her own home.

-- There was a flash of fire, a muffled yelp – Guinevere screamed as hands gripped her throat; soft, white hands that she knew better than any other, and then a dagger had been slashed across her front. Its point was silver, she remembered, sharpened against – perhaps – some sorcery, for the pain that shot up her spine seemed like black-red fire, twisted into unnatural shapes and reminiscent of the most bitter memories of her short life.

She fought to keep her attacker at bay, but it was of no use, and then the dagger came down again in a merciless stroke, and a choke of nothingness escaped her throat. She was going to die, she knew, but she did not want to die. She could not, she –

Ginny Weasley screamed, and her eyelids flew open.

Muriel had taken her by the scruff of the neck, in an attempt to bring her back to Planet Earth, and the Great-Aunt's eyes were most dispassionate. Ginny blinked back tears – within her, writhed hurt, for the pain of the dream felt, not emotional, but physical – and her eyes were as round as galleons, as she regained her senses, and took in the world that stretched in front her, uncurling from the beginnings of her vision into an expanse of fancy beauty, the likes of which she had never known before.

“Where am I?” she gasped.

“My house at Paris,” Aunt Muriel replied, rather testily. “But that is quite besides the point, Ginevra – what do you think you are doing, young woman? I would be certain you were a banshee, if your red hair did not dash my hopes! I understand side-long apparition can tend to be unpleasant, but to scream like a chicken who can not lay eggs any more –”

Despite the wreck that she was, Ginny had to blush at the comparison - trust Aunt Muriel to say something like that, at the worst possible time. “I did not scream,” she said, a little fierily.

Aunt Muriel gave her a most incredulous look. “Do you think I will believe that lie, when you nearly killed my ear, with your antics? That was most unla – why are you crying, girl, why the HECK are you crying?” She actually took a step forward, as if to grab Ginny by the collar, once more, and shake some sense or wit into the redhead.

“I am not,” Ginny snapped but, even as she spoke, she suddenly became aware that the tears in her eyes were real. The realization stunned her, for a second - then the dream seemed to grow on her, a thick, concentrated sort of reality that would not let go of the iron-like grip it had on her, and her world tilted, seemed to crash into a tatter of curling fires that laughed in loud, harsh voices. “Stop looking at me like that!”

Aunt Muriel sighed, but seemed to decide further inquiry would do no good - Ginevra, she was now sure, needed very careful handling. “Come with me, then!” she said, still very testily. “You have ruined your fist look of my magnificent mansion, and I can not forget that!”

“Oh bother,” Ginny muttered, but she kept her voice low so that the Great-Aunt would not hear and, to her relief, the old lady did not – she was too immersed in the admiration of her own place to pay any further attention to her great-niece. Ginny shook her head at this -- and then she had looked in front of her, and her breath caught in her throat

For, no matter how much of a pain in the neck Aunt Muriel might be, it was clear she owned a house - not house, Ginny reminded herself, but mansion - that few could outmatch. The turrets curled into frosted shapes of beauty, and the windows were more than picturesque, studded with glass as clear as the light of morn on the dawn of a pretty, summer’s day. A fine, well-polished path led up to the door, an item of polished oak into which an elegantly-shaped knocker was embedded.

Inside the mansion, magical lights had been switched on in some of the rooms, and they peered out through the silently-chilled windows, their faint yellow-orange like the first ray of sunshine in bitter cold. To the right of the main door stretched a garden, well-kept – Ginny was certain – by the efforts of, not her Great-Aunt, but several gardeners she could easily afford; and quite a company of flowers ran round it, despite the onset of the tranquil start of winter.

“It’s beautiful!” Ginny exclaimed, unable to help herself. It did not matter that this place belonged to someone who could probably compete for - and win - some sort of award for 'Crankiest Person Ever on Planet Earth' –- what mattered was that, aesthetically, it pleased Ginny more than she could explain in words.

As the sun drew higher, it wrapped the mansion in its golden arms, and the place glowed in a glory it certainly deserved.

“I know,” Aunt Muriel said, very loftily. “This is my mansion, not your little house, Ginevra - not that the Burrow can even be called a house, when compared to Ethereal Heights. Come now, your mother will have sent your trunk by now. You must unpack quickly, I need to go on my daily walk. I missed it, while at your place!"

“Yeah, because you were too busy snooping around the Burrow to find evidence that might implicate Fred and George in some serious crime, to take a walk, when in my little house,” Ginny muttered, darkly. “You must sorely miss it.”

“What did you say?” Aunt Muriel snapped. She had only heard Fred and George's names, but the mention of the twins was enough to drive her into a state of perpetual crankiness – it was clear to any who knew her even a little, that she did not enjoy - or even want to think of - the company of her identical great-nephews, and would do anything to keep them at bay.

-- Of course, this only gave the twins further incentive to play all sorts of tricks on her.

“Nothing,” Ginny said quickly. If she was going to spend some time here, she did not want to upset Aunt Muriel too much. “In fact, I might even have said that we should hurry. Maybe you can show me my room.”

“Of course,” Muriel said, tones back to the haughty-lofty that they often were, and she grabbed Ginny’s arm – the girl twitched, but resisted the giant urge to pull away – and began to steer her away from the path, and towards the house. The door opened of its own accords – “It recognizes its owner”,” Aunt Muriel said in a rather snotty voice – and when they walked through, Ginny was quite impressed: the interiors were, if possible, grander than what was visible, outside.

Well-lit and high-ceilinged, the mansion was clearly as old as it was well-maintained; and the hall they had stepped in bore lightly-painted walls. Ginny wondered at the fortune that the upkeep of such a place might cost. Of course, spells of magic would help but, at the end of the day, a house this big required dough, if every inch of it were to remain as presentable as possible.

“You have a lovely place,” Ginny said, unable – once more – to keep back the praise. For once, Aunt Muriel only nodded in response. The two of them were soon making their way up the velvet-carpeted staircase, and Muriel was ready to show Ginny the bedroom that would be the latter's, for the time she spent here.

It was smaller than the other bedrooms in the house, but Ginny did not know this. The interiors were lovely, well-kept and open to a good bit of fresh air, and thick, purple curtains rose to conceal the tall windows. Ginny pushed one aside, and peeked out – the view was of open land, thick under its wraps of sweet shrubbery - and a small but warm smile crossed her pretty features.

“Thank you, Aunt Muriel – this is a beautiful room.”

“Of course it is!” Aunt Muriel said, animatedly - it was clear she loved talking about her place. “There’s no room in this house that isn’t, Ginevra – you must have realized that, by now. Of course, your school reports indicate that you do not have much of a brain, but –”

“WHAT did you say?” Ginny demanded, whirling around.

“The P in Divination!” Aunt Muriel replied, with a toss of her long, auburn hair. “It amazes me, how little your mother cares that you failed a subject, while at school. Most inappropriate, you know that, Ginevra.”

“That subject is useless,” Ginny said carelessly, even as she noticed the trunk that lay, open, at the foot of her bed. It was welcome, for it was a reminded of home.

But, now that the initial euphoria of the place’s beauty was beginning to wash off her in silent waves, the dream returned and, with it, the crunch of a tilted world, and the silence of sudden thought. “I would like to change now, Aunt," Ginny said, hoping she did not sound too distant, or thoughtful. Aunt Muriel would probably make an issue out of that, too. "If you could please excuse me?”

“Certainly,” Aunt Muriel huffed - it was clear she did not like to be told to leave - and she withdrew in a pose of extreme, but very injured, dignity.

Ginny sat on the bed, once the Great-Aunt had taken her leave, and even the softness of its material could not cease the rise of the dream. Twice, she pulled the dream apart, picking her way into it, examining each word, each expression – as if it were a robot made of Lego blocks that she could pull apart, then piece together, then pull apart again.

How had the dream arrived, so sudden in its coming, so intense in its occurrence, and how – no, why – had she seen through the perspective of Guinevere? That the woman had been killed, Ginny was certain, but why, and by whom? She clasped her hands, her eyes glazed, and she wished she knew, or could at least understand. Something wrong had taken place, she knew by instinct, and she hoped against hope that this was not the beginning of an occurrence she would not wish the world to see.

But she had seen too many things of good and evil to convince herself that all was – or could, right now, be – right.

*

[] Reference:

+ "Shortest is the distance -" - Sri Chinmoy, My Jealousy Is My Madness-Burden.