Marnie had gotten to know her neighbour much better in the time they'd been neighbours, between television promotion and fan conventions. She still didn't know if she was a witch; when she'd asked, Mari had choked on her cigarette with laughter. But she wasn't human, Marnie was sure. There was something strange about how she felt around her. Sometimes in the right mood, painting her house or working in the garden, Mari would stand up and wipe mud or paint from her hands. A glazed look would come into her eye and she would begin to tell a story. Usually she spoke about strange things, old things, adventures, sorrows. Sometimes a little piece of Marnie would recognise the scenery, recognise herself. Once she had thought she'd seen the other one, with her long white hair, her face locked in anger and had herself felt a tremendous hatred for Mari boiling up through her throat. She had been shaken after, terrified. Inclined to blame it on Mari. But Mari had just stared at her and shrugged, apathetic.
Mari was sprawled in the back garden when she took the walk over, a cat on her lap. They were both of them enjoying the sun, the rare heat of English summer. "Welcome," Mari said when she waved; Marnie sat beside her carefully, unwilling to get grass stains on her new summer dress. Cautiously, she hovered her hand over the cat and then stroked it. Mari's animals tended to bite at first touch, but this one only stared.
There were lots of cats now, broken little ex-soldiers, beasts fresh from the war. A ripped ear here; a permanent limp there; the one currently on her lap had only one eye, the other one having been torn from its socket in some monstrous fight. It glared at Marnie with its good eye, its legs slung over Mari's. "Good boy," Marnie murmured.
"Not often."
"It's nice out here, isn't it?"
"The sun's out," Mari pointed to the windowsill. "There's a carrot cake cupcake there for you if you want it."
"Thank you," Marnie said. "You didn't make only the one again, did you?"
Mari shrugged which meant, Yes.
Thank you she said again, stood up, collected the cake. It was nice, but small. The last time she had protested that she couldn't possibly eat all of it, she was on a diet, perhaps that was why. When she peered in through the window she could see boxes, open, sealed. "Are you moving?"
"No," Mari lifted her cat and brought it with her to look at what Marnie was looking at. "No. I'm just sorting out my storage room."
Marnie had been in the room only once before. The door to Mari's house was always open, to make it easier for her cats to come and go. It made it easy for Marnie to drop in too, for tea, to talk to her strange neighbour. This particular time she had found no sign of Mari, but the door leading to the little cabin's basement was wide open and so she had entered it, in search. Mari had not been in there, but instead Marnie had found a well looked after, dry and safe storage space. It had made her wonder if Mari was an art collector; one wall was filled with portraits, painted, photographed, stills from the age of film without sound. The other contained physical objects, elderly books, wooden statues, letters, toys. The room smelled of the vanilla of decaying paper. But none of those paintings had been of any historical figure Marnie could recognise, and she had been very good at history in school. What use would an art collector have in images of completely ordinary people? It was only lifting the oldest ones that she felt something inside stir, some recognition; a boy with red hair; a city scape dominated by two large buildings; an ink portrait of a girl around her age, with full lips and curves, a pregnant belly, her wrists bound in chains; a jeering crowd about her as she stared ahead, her eyes fixed in fury at the horizon. 'The Fallen Occia' was written on the back and once again she had felt inside of her, the wrath she sometimes felt. It passed. It was only when Marnie reached for a decaying book and flipped open the first page to read "Mari verch Llewelyn's ledger" that Mari had made herself known with a quiet cough, a quiet, That's enough for today.
Marnie did not know how long she had been there, how angry she was for having her privacy broken, but when she had plucked up the courage to come back Mari had said nothing about it. At the end of the visit she had pressed a book of poetry from what had been the old country of Balfour pre-fall into her hand; tucked inside was a photocopy of more ink pictures by the same artist as 'The Fallen Occia.' This one showed The Occia once more, a man with long white hair at her side. Peace, written on the back. This one was of The Occia with a tall, dark, menacing man in a mask. He pointed a knife to her, threatened. Silence, written on the back. This one of a thin girl, with ears that stuck out and cloven hooves, at a crossroads, pointing The Occia towards a dark road; the other road was brighter, with Cita at the end, but The Occia had turned towards the darker path at the girl's prompts. Corrupted By The Other read the title of this one. When she looked them up she found they had been commissioned by a Golden Hour historian, some years after Occia Eveline's ascendancy to commemorate her predecessor. Mari didn't talk about the pictures. Marnie noticed after that that Mari had big ears that stuck out awkwardly from the side of her head. But her feet were very human; she had seen her barefoot in the grass, her toes wriggling, pink in the green.
"You're not getting rid of your paintings, are you?"
"No," Mari said. "But I've a lot. Sometimes I lend them to museums. I'm just sorting out with Oxford which ones to send over there. They're doing an exhibit on daily life in late renaissance France."
"Wow," Marnie said, and meant it. "That's impressive."
"Thank you," Mari said after a moment, as though she wasn't sure how to respond. She opened and closed her mouth, looked away, at the boxes. "Still have work to do."
"Of course," Marnie said, voice indulgent. There was a one eared cat butting her calf and she was smiling down at him as she spoke, the tone meant for him.
Fucker had come running over at the sight of her, pretending he was starved of affection, even though she'd quite often seen Mari give him little kisses as she passed him, dance with him to Sunday Girl, let him curl up on her chest and obstruct her so much that she had to ask Marnie to fetch her tea, if that was what they were drinking. She picked the little cat up and stroked his fur, heard his rumbling purr. Mari was pretending not to look; she put the one-eyed cat down, whispered, Traitor, to the one eared cat and opened her front door. "Tea?"
"Oh gosh, not right now," Marnie was startled up, out of her thoughts. "No, I'm only here to talk to you quickly."
Mari raised her eyebrows, leaned against the wall. "What is my lady's pleasure?" Her tone seemed as though it would be teasing from anyone else, but Mari was soft, straight faced.
"Don't be silly," Marnie said and smiled, mirroring Mari's lean. "I've been asked to perform in a play."
"Whereabouts?"
"London."
"Oh," Mari's eyebrows had raised. "That's quite a way away from here. Not as many trees. Only royal parks."
"True, but I quite like the city." She enjoyed being stopped by viewers, asked for autographs. "I'm looking forward to the crowds. Going to be renting a flat with some of the other actors during the play's duration," She smiled and touched Mari's hand. "I wanted to invite you over. For opening night. I have some seats reserved, you see - I thought you could be in one of them."
Mari's face had gone from relaxed to tight and there was a fixed smile on her face that seemed to indicate internal screaming. Marnie vaguely recalled that Mari did not like crowds, cities, or gatherings of people larger than two. People in general. "Okay," the other one struggled out after a moment.
"You don't have to." Marnie, suddenly alarmed at her face, her expression.
"I know."
"Alright," she squeezed Mari's arm gently. "I'll look out for you on opening night."
"Okay," Mari said again and then she went inside. Marnie waited for her to come out again, but after a while it became clear that she did not plan to and so she relinquished her hold on Fucker the cat and left, her last image of the other girl with her head bowed, stepping into the house to where Marnie could not - would not - follow.
She put that image out of her head as rehearsals began. She had a big part, the lead role in a story about a girl coming to terms with her brother's death. She did pretty well at it, she knew. She brought depth to the role that no other actress her age could. Mari could come and see how well she did, or she could go to Hell; those were the options.
When the curtain rose to her first audience, Marnie had thought of looking at the seats she had reserved to see who had turned up; but she had not reckoned on how caught up in the play she would become, how much of it would live in her. By the end of the third act she was exhausted, and had not looked at the seats. When it came time to do her bow she braved a glance; only her parents were there. The third seat was empty.
So be it, she thought. And went into her dressing room to change, went to the stage door to sign autographs, came back, prepared to go home. When she left this time, it was late and dark, but there was someone there, outside, in the shadows. "Mari?"
"Hi."
She found herself indignant. Mari was slouched against a wall in the dark, hands behind her back; too casual for someone who had missed something so important. She put her hands on her hips. "Did you even see it?"
"Yes."
"You weren't there when I came on for my bow."
"I left before then. I didn't want to get caught in the crowd." Mari got anxious in crowds. She couldn't hear, she said, though it had to be more than that. Why would deafness strike such terror into a person?
Marnie softened a bit, came close. Mari looked uncomfortable, smaller than she really was; when she leaned at such angles she was Marnie's height. Marnie touched her cheek and for a moment they were close: sisters, friends. More. Mari looked away, stepped away. She took her hands out from behind her. She was holding out a rose, red, thorned. "You were good," she said and then hesitated. "I'm proud of you."
"You're proud of me?" Marnie laughed at the quaintness. Mari stepped back again, her smile so small and tremulous and brittle that it seemed it might shatter at a touch.
"I never heard that much when I was-- I think more people should hear-- I'm not good at saying it," she hesitated, stopped, started again. "I really am proud. You were good out there."
They smiled at each other. Marnie held her rose between loose fingers, looked up and smiled at the other girl. She pressed a kiss to Mari's cheek, near the corner of her mouth. Mari said nothing, but she put her trembling white hand on Marnie's shoulder.
because i enjoy the idea of them being dumb neighbours together
Mari was sprawled in the back garden when she took the walk over, a cat on her lap. They were both of them enjoying the sun, the rare heat of English summer. "Welcome," Mari said when she waved; Marnie sat beside her carefully, unwilling to get grass stains on her new summer dress. Cautiously, she hovered her hand over the cat and then stroked it. Mari's animals tended to bite at first touch, but this one only stared.
There were lots of cats now, broken little ex-soldiers, beasts fresh from the war. A ripped ear here; a permanent limp there; the one currently on her lap had only one eye, the other one having been torn from its socket in some monstrous fight. It glared at Marnie with its good eye, its legs slung over Mari's. "Good boy," Marnie murmured.
"Not often."
"It's nice out here, isn't it?"
"The sun's out," Mari pointed to the windowsill. "There's a carrot cake cupcake there for you if you want it."
"Thank you," Marnie said. "You didn't make only the one again, did you?"
Mari shrugged which meant, Yes.
Thank you she said again, stood up, collected the cake. It was nice, but small. The last time she had protested that she couldn't possibly eat all of it, she was on a diet, perhaps that was why. When she peered in through the window she could see boxes, open, sealed. "Are you moving?"
"No," Mari lifted her cat and brought it with her to look at what Marnie was looking at. "No. I'm just sorting out my storage room."
Marnie had been in the room only once before. The door to Mari's house was always open, to make it easier for her cats to come and go. It made it easy for Marnie to drop in too, for tea, to talk to her strange neighbour. This particular time she had found no sign of Mari, but the door leading to the little cabin's basement was wide open and so she had entered it, in search. Mari had not been in there, but instead Marnie had found a well looked after, dry and safe storage space. It had made her wonder if Mari was an art collector; one wall was filled with portraits, painted, photographed, stills from the age of film without sound. The other contained physical objects, elderly books, wooden statues, letters, toys. The room smelled of the vanilla of decaying paper. But none of those paintings had been of any historical figure Marnie could recognise, and she had been very good at history in school. What use would an art collector have in images of completely ordinary people? It was only lifting the oldest ones that she felt something inside stir, some recognition; a boy with red hair; a city scape dominated by two large buildings; an ink portrait of a girl around her age, with full lips and curves, a pregnant belly, her wrists bound in chains; a jeering crowd about her as she stared ahead, her eyes fixed in fury at the horizon. 'The Fallen Occia' was written on the back and once again she had felt inside of her, the wrath she sometimes felt. It passed. It was only when Marnie reached for a decaying book and flipped open the first page to read "Mari verch Llewelyn's ledger" that Mari had made herself known with a quiet cough, a quiet, That's enough for today.
Marnie did not know how long she had been there, how angry she was for having her privacy broken, but when she had plucked up the courage to come back Mari had said nothing about it. At the end of the visit she had pressed a book of poetry from what had been the old country of Balfour pre-fall into her hand; tucked inside was a photocopy of more ink pictures by the same artist as 'The Fallen Occia.' This one showed The Occia once more, a man with long white hair at her side. Peace, written on the back. This one was of The Occia with a tall, dark, menacing man in a mask. He pointed a knife to her, threatened. Silence, written on the back. This one of a thin girl, with ears that stuck out and cloven hooves, at a crossroads, pointing The Occia towards a dark road; the other road was brighter, with Cita at the end, but The Occia had turned towards the darker path at the girl's prompts. Corrupted By The Other read the title of this one. When she looked them up she found they had been commissioned by a Golden Hour historian, some years after Occia Eveline's ascendancy to commemorate her predecessor. Mari didn't talk about the pictures. Marnie noticed after that that Mari had big ears that stuck out awkwardly from the side of her head. But her feet were very human; she had seen her barefoot in the grass, her toes wriggling, pink in the green.
"You're not getting rid of your paintings, are you?"
"No," Mari said. "But I've a lot. Sometimes I lend them to museums. I'm just sorting out with Oxford which ones to send over there. They're doing an exhibit on daily life in late renaissance France."
"Wow," Marnie said, and meant it. "That's impressive."
"Thank you," Mari said after a moment, as though she wasn't sure how to respond. She opened and closed her mouth, looked away, at the boxes. "Still have work to do."
"Of course," Marnie said, voice indulgent. There was a one eared cat butting her calf and she was smiling down at him as she spoke, the tone meant for him.
Fucker had come running over at the sight of her, pretending he was starved of affection, even though she'd quite often seen Mari give him little kisses as she passed him, dance with him to Sunday Girl, let him curl up on her chest and obstruct her so much that she had to ask Marnie to fetch her tea, if that was what they were drinking. She picked the little cat up and stroked his fur, heard his rumbling purr. Mari was pretending not to look; she put the one-eyed cat down, whispered, Traitor, to the one eared cat and opened her front door. "Tea?"
"Oh gosh, not right now," Marnie was startled up, out of her thoughts. "No, I'm only here to talk to you quickly."
Mari raised her eyebrows, leaned against the wall. "What is my lady's pleasure?" Her tone seemed as though it would be teasing from anyone else, but Mari was soft, straight faced.
"Don't be silly," Marnie said and smiled, mirroring Mari's lean. "I've been asked to perform in a play."
"Whereabouts?"
"London."
"Oh," Mari's eyebrows had raised. "That's quite a way away from here. Not as many trees. Only royal parks."
"True, but I quite like the city." She enjoyed being stopped by viewers, asked for autographs. "I'm looking forward to the crowds. Going to be renting a flat with some of the other actors during the play's duration," She smiled and touched Mari's hand. "I wanted to invite you over. For opening night. I have some seats reserved, you see - I thought you could be in one of them."
Mari's face had gone from relaxed to tight and there was a fixed smile on her face that seemed to indicate internal screaming. Marnie vaguely recalled that Mari did not like crowds, cities, or gatherings of people larger than two. People in general. "Okay," the other one struggled out after a moment.
"You don't have to." Marnie, suddenly alarmed at her face, her expression.
"I know."
"Alright," she squeezed Mari's arm gently. "I'll look out for you on opening night."
"Okay," Mari said again and then she went inside. Marnie waited for her to come out again, but after a while it became clear that she did not plan to and so she relinquished her hold on Fucker the cat and left, her last image of the other girl with her head bowed, stepping into the house to where Marnie could not - would not - follow.
She put that image out of her head as rehearsals began. She had a big part, the lead role in a story about a girl coming to terms with her brother's death. She did pretty well at it, she knew. She brought depth to the role that no other actress her age could. Mari could come and see how well she did, or she could go to Hell; those were the options.
When the curtain rose to her first audience, Marnie had thought of looking at the seats she had reserved to see who had turned up; but she had not reckoned on how caught up in the play she would become, how much of it would live in her. By the end of the third act she was exhausted, and had not looked at the seats. When it came time to do her bow she braved a glance; only her parents were there. The third seat was empty.
So be it, she thought. And went into her dressing room to change, went to the stage door to sign autographs, came back, prepared to go home. When she left this time, it was late and dark, but there was someone there, outside, in the shadows. "Mari?"
"Hi."
She found herself indignant. Mari was slouched against a wall in the dark, hands behind her back; too casual for someone who had missed something so important. She put her hands on her hips. "Did you even see it?"
"Yes."
"You weren't there when I came on for my bow."
"I left before then. I didn't want to get caught in the crowd." Mari got anxious in crowds. She couldn't hear, she said, though it had to be more than that. Why would deafness strike such terror into a person?
Marnie softened a bit, came close. Mari looked uncomfortable, smaller than she really was; when she leaned at such angles she was Marnie's height. Marnie touched her cheek and for a moment they were close: sisters, friends. More. Mari looked away, stepped away. She took her hands out from behind her. She was holding out a rose, red, thorned. "You were good," she said and then hesitated. "I'm proud of you."
"You're proud of me?" Marnie laughed at the quaintness. Mari stepped back again, her smile so small and tremulous and brittle that it seemed it might shatter at a touch.
"I never heard that much when I was-- I think more people should hear-- I'm not good at saying it," she hesitated, stopped, started again. "I really am proud. You were good out there."
They smiled at each other. Marnie held her rose between loose fingers, looked up and smiled at the other girl. She pressed a kiss to Mari's cheek, near the corner of her mouth. Mari said nothing, but she put her trembling white hand on Marnie's shoulder.