The Redemption of Cordelia Risewell

Inferno

She had always been strong, but that night was the first time I was overpowered. Perhaps I shouldn’t have given her a name. I gave her a very pretty name, mind you, so that she might realize I am her friend. So that, perhaps, we might build some level of rapport. But I suppose it was a mistake. I’d tried to show her kindness in other ways but she never seemed to understand. 

I spent many hours in Father’s study hunched over dusty volumes and crumbling scrolls searching for a name. I wanted it to be delicate and beautiful and, most importantly, I wanted it to have such profound meaning that perhaps it would spur her into better behavior. The name I chose was Eudaimonia. Lovely isn’t it? It comes from the Greeks and means “good soul”. I was quite thrilled when it practically leapt off the page into my lap. She was a nocturnal creature, so I waited eagerly for nightfall. 

Darkness descended and I could sense her waking up. Before she could begin her mischief I announced her name. With much pride I declared “Sweet creature, whose soul I know to be good, as we are all divinely created in the image of our God who is the highest good, your name henceforth shall be Eudaimonia!”

I fear she didn’t like her name. She let out a groan which quickly amplified to an ear splitting scream, bursting two of my bedroom windows with her voice alone and causing the flames of my candles to shoot up much taller than they ought to have. I began my fight to subdue her—which the doctors called my “fits'' only because they couldn’t see her—but the struggle was much different this time. Sprawled flat as parchment upon the ground, as she always was, she snaked one dark arm down to where our feet joined, and she ripped her foot from mine. Then she ripped the other, and rose up, materializing before me. She was no longer the dark shape I cast upon the ground. She was flesh and blood and bone. 

Her eyes were wide and wild, her skin was as grey as a storm cloud, and she had spiderwebs—yes, spiderwebs—tangled throughout her mass of ink black hair. Oh dear, I thought, but before I could act she flung my bedroom door open and took to the halls. I chased after her with all of the speed I could muster, trying desperately to keep up. I flung myself at her feet, gripping one ankle and knocking her to the floor. With her foot still in hand I tried to join it back to my own, which seemed to work for a fleeting moment. She hissed, baring teeth that seemed more fit for the mouth of a crocodile, and tugged free of my grasp reclaiming the foot that had begun melting into mine. Then she was off down the hallway again. I scrambled to my feet and pursued her once more. 

She had taken a candle from the wall and moved with such haste that eventually I was chasing after a flickering light in the distance rather than a distinct body. I lost sight of the soft orange glow as Eudiamonia dipped around a corner. I rounded the corner shortly after and, to my horror, saw her standing in father’s study holding her flame to the very book I extracted her name from. The book ignited violently and she tossed it onto father’s desk which erupted into flames as if it were made of brimstone. My mind was reeling; the kitchen tap was too far to fetch a bucket of water, and there were no blankets in view to smother the fire. Thinking on my toes, I rushed into the room and hoisted the ornate gold and teal rug from the floor and threw it atop the blaze. This, unfortunately, only fed the fire which was then burning completely out of my control. I ran back into the hall shouting to wake my parents and our servants, warning them to get out of the house.

We were fortunate enough to have had a wonderful home insurance agreement that allowed us access to the London Fire Engine Establishment. Real firefighters, can you believe it? Gone were the days of relying on bucket brigades and pleading with God for a miracle. Actual firefighters showed up at our estate with water-spewing contraptions which doused the fire before it was able to spread much beyond Father’s study. The study was lost but the majority of the house was saved, and for that I rejoiced. My relief was snuffed out by alarm when I saw the way Mother was approaching me, like a bull approaching one of those Spanish matadors holding a red cloth. 

“You wretched girl,” she spat. Before I could interject she continued, “if I had it my way, you’d have been locked away in the looney bin years ago! You aren’t fit for civilized life, you monster!”

Her harsh words stung a bit, but I forgave her because I knew she didn’t understand. I sucked in a breath of air, held a deadpan expression, and began to explain the best I could. 

“Mother dearest, please allow me to describe the events that unfolded last night before you speak again so that you may know the story in full before passing judgment. May I begin?” She looked a bit dumbfounded by my request but didn’t object, so I began.

“I named my shadow last night in an effort to tame her but, regrettably, she did not like her name. She broke free of me completely in a way she never has before, and she acted out in a fit of unfettered rage. She tore down the hallway, candle in hand, and set fire to father’s study. I tried with all of my might to stop her but she’s very strong, you know. I managed to trip her to the floor once, but she wrestled herself free. I threw Father’s rug onto the fire to smother it, but it only fueled the flames. Then, realizing I was no match for the inferno, I shouted and screamed to get you all out of the burning house safely. You see Mother, I am the hero in this story!” And with that, she lunged at me like a ferocious jungle beast, all claws and teeth. She clutched a handful of my hair as she struck my face. I defended myself the best I knew how, but in all honesty, I was thoroughly clobbered by the time Father pulled her off of me. 

Father always understood me. If a commoner had been dealt my affliction, they would have been stowed away in an asylum, locked up in prison, or perhaps murdered by some misguided witch-fearing vigilante. I, however, was the daughter of a duke and he saw to it that I was well protected. While my older sisters, Hazeltine and Lorraine, got to venture off to boarding school, I had to remain at home where harm could not befall me.

Many people may consider my life boring or restrictive, but I feel I have more freedom than the lot of them. I fill my days reading fantasy novels in our exotic flower gardens, painting, drawing, sipping the finest sweet mint tea, and of course, sneaking away to visit my dear friend Hattie O'Shea, the fattest prostitute in all of England. 

After Mother assaulted me, I ran away from our home to find solace in Hattie’s presence. I arrived at her townhouse, which was quite lavish considering her occupation. As it turns out, men—especially the aristocrats and members of parliament—love fat women so long as no one is looking. Hattie answered the door in nothing but a corset and silky skirt. Her strawberry blonde hair was done up in a curly beehive, her eyelashes were lengthened with soot, and her lips were as red as a strawberry. She was obviously expecting one of her clients, but looked glad to see me anyway.

“Cordelia, honey, come in,” she said, her voice as sweet as a songbird’s, “I’ll put the kettle on, you make yourself snug on the couch.” I did as she said, nestling into the corner of her purple velvet couch. I pulled a blanket over my legs and waited for my drink.

“You look absolutely batty-fanged, deary. Didja get mugged on your way here?” she asked, as she handed me a steaming cup of lavender tea. She always showed such genuine concern for my well-being.

“No, nothing that exciting Hattie,” I responded, “these bumps and bruises came from Mother. She got all worked up over a silly little house fire.” I let out a sigh and took a long drink of my tea. 

“A house fire you say?” Hattie’s eyes were wide in surprise and her jaw was practically on the floor, as if house fires were some extraordinary occurrence.

“Yes, a small one. My shadow started it. Remember when I said she was in need of a proper name?”

“I remember.”

“Well I gave her one, and she didn’t like it.”

“Oh that’s a shame,” Hattie nodded solemnly. “What name did you settle on?”

“Eudaimonia,” I answered matter-of-factly. 

“Oh. I’m not sure I’d be pleased with a name like that either,” she countered. 

“What’s wrong with it? It’s a charming name and it means ‘good soul’ if you ask the Greeks!”

“It’s a bit of a mouthful. A bit harsh on the ears, words like ‘die’ and ‘moan’ woven in it. As far as the meaning, well, I wouldn’t want anyone to take it upon themselves to dictate the nature of my soul. It’s a tad presumptuous, don’t you think? A bit arrogant.”

“I suppose I never thought of it that way. You’re like a loaded gun, you know, only instead of bullets it’s bits of wisdom in your chamber.” I downed the rest of my tea. “If you were a sentient shadow being, what sort of name would you like from your host?” 

She took a long pause to consider my question deeply. “I wouldn’t want a name from my host. Rather, I would want my host to put forth some effort to learn the name that is already mine. I think that’s only polite.”

“Oh Hattie I could just kiss you, that’s a wonderful idea!”

“Any time Cordie, but if you want a kiss it’ll cost you a penny,” she laughed. 

As I headed back home to begin laying my plans to find my dark passenger’s true name, I took note of the long shadow stretched out beside me, cast by the low morning sun. 

“Don’t fret,” I said to her, “your name will be unearthed.”

Ritual

With Father’s study reduced to ash, I was forced to take a more creative approach to my research. I had a pamphlet tucked away on my bookshelf that I’d snagged from the postman before Mother could toss it in the rubbish bin. It advertised a seance that would be taking place at the estate of a Mr. Glendon Belvoir and by a stroke of luck—or perhaps divine intervention—it was taking place that very evening. The invitation was obviously meant for Father, but it seemed rational to think there would be so many people in attendance that no one would notice if I showed up in his place.

I had only attended one seance prior to Mr. Belvoir’s gathering. A decade earlier, I was seven years old and Mother had requested I accompany her. It was around the time that my “fits” had started, and Mother was hoping for answers from the great beyond. We entered the extravagant ballroom of some wealthy dignitary whose name I can’t be bothered to remember. The polished marble floors reflected a brilliant array of light from the crystal chandeliers hanging above us, creating a shimmering, otherworldly sort of ambiance. Every accent of the room was gold and glittering; the statues, the tables, the food trays that the servants toted around.

When all of the guests were seated, the lights were dimmed and the room went deathly quiet. The medium, a middle aged man who wore a ridiculous green turban, asked us all to join hands. His eyes rolled back in his head and he began to speak in tongues. He shook violently, still gripping the hands of the guests to either side of him, and the table began to shake along with him. The lights flickered on and off and wailing could be heard all around us, though no source of the sound could be seen. It was thrilling and terrifying, wonderful and awful. Suddenly, the table shot up into the air and we heard a loud snap. One side of the table dropped down, and then it just hung there. A tilted table suspended in the air, swinging back and forth. The lights came on and it was soon apparent to the guests that they had been duped.

The table was lifted by strings and pulleys, not some grand incorporeal force. Some local boys confessed to being employed to hide around the room and wail at predetermined times. The seance was nothing more than an elaborate parlor trick.

I wasn’t sure what to expect from Mr. Belvoir's soiree, given my lousy initial experience with such means of paranormal communication. One thing I was sure of, however, was that the medium may be another fraud, but my shadow was very real—and this gathering would be taking place during her more… active hours. I considered the destruction she’d caused the night before and wondered if it were a wise choice to potentially unleash her fury upon someone else’s home. In the end, I decided that I may not find myself with another opportunity like this, and therefore it was a calculated risk that I simply had to take. She wanted me to discover her name—surely she would understand my intentions and support this endeavor.

I arrived at Mr. Belvoir’s manor before sundown, and presented my invitation at the door. There were fewer guests than I was expecting. I counted a total of thirteen heads around the table, including myself, Mr. Glendon Belvoir, and Madame Sylvia who was our esteemed guide to the spirit realm for the evening. 

We joined hands, just as we had at the faux-seance, but there was a tangible difference in the air this time around, something similar to the static your fingers produce after you shuffle your feet across a rug. The sun had dipped below the horizon and I could feel the prickling of my shadow beginning to stir. Instead of quelling her as I usually did, I urged her to speak, to allow the medium to channel her voice so that she might simply tell me her name. I should have realized that nothing came simply with her. 

Madame Sylvia had been humming and swaying to induce her trance, but the moment I relinquished control over my shadow, she stopped abruptly. Her eyes shot up, locking onto mine as I watched the color drain from them.

“What have you brought here?” she asked, her voice quivering. My heart raced and I could feel sweat begin to bead above my brow.

“Can you tell me her name?” I meant to ask this question with some conviction, but my nerves betrayed me, allowing it to escape only as a whisper.

“WHAT HAVE YOU BR-” she began to yell, but her voice was overtaken by another. A deep, growling, inhuman cackle gurgled up from her throat, causing my blood to run cold. 

“Cordelia,” the unholy voice called, “go to the woman by the sea.”

“The woman? What woman?” was all I managed.

“In the grotto!” she barked.

“What grotto? Where? Please, I don’t understand” I stammered.

“THE GROTTO! THE GROTTO! FIND THE GROTTO, THE WOMAN BY THE SEA, THE WOMAN IN THE GROTTO” it began chanting. The others in attendance exhibited a mixture of terror, confusion, and fascination. We were instructed before the ritual began that we were not to break the circle under any circumstances—no matter how uncomfortable or dramatic the session became. We remained seated, joined hand in hand as Madame Sylvia let out a sudden gasp and collapsed forward onto the table. We stared anxiously at one another  across the table, waiting with bated breath, none of us daring to release our grips.

It felt like an eternity before she lifted her head, still in a sort of daze. Before she could speak, my shadow materialized behind her smiling with those grotesque crocodile teeth I’d seen the night before. She reached out to hold Sylvia’s head between her hands and in one swift motion she snapped her neck with a sickening wet pop. Her body went limp and the room exploded into chaos. Guests were screaming and scrambling toward the door, chairs were knocked over, one woman was frozen in her seat wailing like a banshee, unable to tear her gaze away from the creature I’d unleashed.  

“You wretched girl,” I could hear Mother’s words thundering in my mind, only now they rang true. Madame Sylvia’s death was my fault. I had to escape before the repercussions could catch up to me, before the witnesses could come to their senses, hunt me down, and see me hung. I kicked off my boots knowing the heels would slow me down, and I ran. 

I ran until my lungs ached and my feet were raw and bleeding from beating against the stony road. I had put a fair amount of distance between myself and the gruesome crime scene, so I felt comfortable enough to slow to a walk. I kept on walking until I came upon a livery stable. Without much forethought—as my rational mind was left behind in Mr. Belvoir's parlor and my only concern was self preservation—I broke in and stole a horse. I rode east, to the sea.

Abyss

I rode for two days, stopping several times to forage berries and dandelions, and once to sleep. I didn’t know where exactly I was going of course, all I knew is that I needed to get there. 

As the sun set on the first night of my expedition, I waited for my shadow to awaken with fervent anticipation… but she did not. Dread gripped my heart, plunging it into the molten depths of my stomach as I wondered if I’d somehow left her behind to continue terrorizing the good people of London. I considered turning back, but quickly pushed the thought from my mind. Her commandment had been clear, and I was in no position to disobey. There was enough blood on my hands already. I wasn’t sure I’d be able to sleep at all that night, but eventually my exhaustion overcame me. I woke in the morning, sore from tossing and turning on the rocky ground. 

When night fell for the second time I dismounted my horse, who I’d named Poppy, and nestled into a particularly lush area of long grass. I was just succumbing to the sleep I desperately needed when I felt a quiet presence alongside me. It was not her usual boisterous energy, but I was soothed nonetheless. As long as she was with me in the coastal wilderness, there were no necks she could snap but my own. I let out a great sigh of relief, mounted my horse, and carried on with my journey telling myself that I would have plenty of time for rest once my quest was complete. 

I reached the sea early the next morning. The sky was painted with gentle strokes of ballet slipper pink, marigold orange, and powder blue. The brilliant hues that only dawn could compose. It was the most peace I’d felt in ages.

I rode aimlessly down the coast line for hours, beginning to question the validity of what I was trying to accomplish, to the point of doubting my own sanity. Perhaps this is all a vicious nightmare, I thought to myself, or perhaps I’m sitting in an asylum at this very moment completely lost in my own mind. But then, I saw it. 

At the end of the beach, I could make out what seemed to be a cave at the edge of the water. A grotto. I urged Poppy from her lackadaisical trot into a full-speed gallop. We raced to the cave and I didn’t even bring her to a full stop before launching myself from her back, hitting the sand rolling. I ran into the mouth of the tunnel, my pulse pounding in my ears. 

“Hello?” I called out breathlessly.

“Hello,” came a raspy answer, echoing against the stone that surrounded us. 

“My name is Cordelia Risewell,” I began, “I was told that you may be able to help me with… something,” I called into the darkness.

“Ah,” the voice replied, “indeed. I’ve helped a great many people with a great many somethings. Come back here where I can see you, Cordelia Risewell.”

I took a step closer, only then realizing how violently my legs were trembling. I took another step, and then another, until I was enveloped in pure, undiluted blackness.

“Closer, mind the bend,” she said.

I pressed forward, until I could make out a faint bluish glow up ahead, off to the right. The tunnel made a sharp turn, and opened into a spacious cavern. It took my eyes a moment to adjust, but then I saw an old - dare I say ancient - looking woman wrapped in a black cloak sitting at a stone table. Some sort of blue luminescent substance coated the walls and hung in strings from the ceiling. She motioned for me to sit on the flat rock across from her. I took my seat, and stared doe-eyed at the woman in front of me, wondering if she was a figment of my imagination.

“What is this something you need help with, child?”

“Well,” I stammered, “I have… an affliction. A darkness, you could say… You see, my shadow is not my own, but a sovereign entity. I love her, but she does terrible things and I don’t know how to help her. I’m sure I just need to know her name but when I asked her, she only told me to find you.”

“I see,” said the woman. She reached into her cloak and pulled out a small burlap sack. She untied the closure, keeping the bag pinched shut with her fingers, and then shook it vigorously. She cast the contents upon the stone table, revealing an eclectic array of bones, coins, stones, and a diamond ring. 

“Interesting,” she muttered as she studied the pieces between us. “Is this entity with us now?”

“Yes,” I answered reluctantly as icy cold fear clawed its way up my throat, the horrid scene from the seance flashing in my mind, “but I do not wish to rouse her.”

“If she brought you here to seek my counsel, I will need to meet her in order to provide it.”

I swallowed hard. My heart beat against my ribs like the feverish fluttering of a hummingbird’s wings. I would have rather chopped off my finger and handed it over for the woman to keep in her bag of bones than to release my shadow again.

“You came here for answers, and I will be terribly disappointed to see you leave without them,” she urged.

She was right. I couldn’t leave that place in the same state that I’d entered it, I couldn’t continue on with my daily life knowing that I carried a murderer at my side who I could not tame. 

“Alright,” I finally conceded. “Brace yourself, please. She’s unpredictable and I cannot control her.”

“If my reading is correct, Cordelia, there’s not a soul on this earth who could. Go on then.”

It wasn’t yet sundown, but she was awake. I felt her the moment we entered the darkness of the grotto. I closed my eyes and loosened my hold. She burst forth with such power that it nearly knocked me from my seat. She was larger than I’d ever seen her, towering over us, and then she sank back into a shadow against the cavern walls. She moved with such speed above us, below us, and all around us that it felt like she was everywhere at once. She began her groaning again, and I began sobbing hysterically, unable to hear myself over the growing roar that filled the cave. The old woman grabbed hold of my arm and pulled me out of the cavern with surprising strength.  

Blinding white sunlight assaulted my vision when we reached the exit, and I collapsed into the hot sand as salty tears and an embarrassing amount of snot ran down my face. 

“Cordelia,” she said softly, rubbing my back ever so gently, “compose yourself. I know your shadow. I’d like to tell you a story.”

I sat up and attempted to wipe my face clean, but instead stuck gritty sand all over it.

“I’m listening,” I choked out between hiccups.

“In the beginning, God created the heaven and the earth. And the earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep…”

“The Book of Genesis, I’m quite familiar,” I interrupted only to realize a split second later why this was the story she wanted to tell me. Dumbfounded, I shut my mouth, and she continued. 

“And God said , Let there be light: and there was light.”

I remained silent as I tried to digest what the haggard old sea witch was suggesting. It couldn’t be possible. 

“You see Cordelia, when your God illuminated this world, he cast out the primordial darkness who dwelled here before him… And that darkness, as you have deduced, has a name.”

“Spit it out then, what is her name?” I snapped, my mind spinning.

“I’m afraid that knowing this name will come at a price. She is bound to you, for a reason beyond my comprehension, and should you utter her name aloud, you will free her in her entirety. I saw the outcome in my reading.”

“I need to know it, please! She wants me to know her name!” I was shouting at this point, pleading with all of my heart and soul. 

“Do you understand what I’m saying to you? The decision is yours but you must understand that the fate of the world we know may very well be resting on your tongue.”

I contemplated the weight of her words. The reality of what she was telling me wrapped around my throat like a thorny tendril. The Darkness wanted me to know her name because she wanted to be free. 

But what would her freedom look like for all of humanity? Would she go quietly into the night? Find a new place to dwell? Would she have a vendetta? Who was I to make this impossible decision? Who was I to deny the freedom of this being who was caged for eons by no fault of her own? Punished for millennia merely for her existence?

Who was I to decide the fate of the world and all who inhabit it? I thought of my father, my mother, my sisters, my beloved Hattie. My, my, my. What a selfish word.  I tried to expand my mind to reach beyond myself. I thought of mothers nursing the freshly born babies they’d prayed for, of a man who finally landed a job to meet the needs of his family, a boy who just got the sweet puppy he’d always wanted, lovers whispering their vows to one another. I thought of the heart shattering beauty of it all. But then, suddenly, it felt insignificant. 

I thought of the wars we’ve waged against one another, the incomprehensible violence, the brutal murder, the  vile atrocities that we as a species have committed since the beginning of time; and I wondered if the Darkness was our savior all along. 

Had she been left untouched, how much suffering would have been prevented?

“Tell me her name,” I said firmly.

A smile teased the corner of the woman’s mouth as she leaned in close to my face and whispered the name into my ear.

“Thank y-” I began to say, but she was gone. Vanished, into thin air. 

I sat there in the sand for hours, watching the sky melt from blue to a fiery blend of yellow, crimson, and orange, until it faded into the dimness of night. 

I felt my shadow’s presence approach from behind, calmly. Stoically. I turned to face her. She stood like a mountain and I had to crane my neck to glimpse her face high above me. I took in the enormity of what she was. It was humbling, to say the least. I didn’t know what awaited us on the other side of my words, but I inhaled the cool night air sharply, and exhaled her name.

“Gissʉhʉl”

And with the utterance of her name, a whisper of a wind blew across the land, taking all of existence along with it, as simply as a candle snuffed out. 

Nothing remained. Nothing but the Darkness and my consciousness floating within it. Everything was lost, but there, in the abyss, my redemption was found.