Once upon a time, on the longest night of the year, Zayanya stepped out from the woods. She is one of the few creatures to survive the isolation of death. All that can be seen is her black hooded cape as she makes her way through the darkness, careful to avoid the light of the full moon. Her time of existence is only the twelve beats of midnight, measured in the silence of a clock that no longer works. The silence she walks in is deafening; not even the leaves she steps on give off any sound. Crossing the meadow, she is a soft wind blowing through the wild grass. The old castle she approaches is under the blue blanket of an aerie mist. Looking across the dry moat, she sees a closed draw bridge offering false security for a treasure long spent. On a dark wind she passes through the planks of defiance, like liquid shadow she regains her form. Zayanya casually walks past empty armor and rusted swords, a sarcastic grin across lips a shade lighter then congealed blood. Reaching the palace steps she looks up at her destination. A chill of animated memory forces her to cross her arms; she closes her cape to her breast. The 1st stroke of midnight has passed.
Halfway up the palace steps Zayanya utters her first words of the night, “Cinderella you pathetic bitch.” With that she releases a demoniac cackle that shatters the granite step in half. “Let this drama begin!” she commands, and with that she throws up her cape into the heavy wind. Her cape takes flight as it mutates into a raven; with a screeched, “Ach! Ach!” and a flash of lightning, he soars up to the highest tower. Zayanya looks down at the step; her memories flooded with the images of a palace ball where she was not welcomed. It was an enchanted evening, a night when fairies, godmothers, and the undead where allowed to make use of a few spells. Zayanya decided that it would be charming to dance among the unliving. She rode up in a coach the dark purple color of rapunzul. When she walked into the ballroom, solitude her date, commanded the room to fall silent. As she approached the royal family, she heard each whisper as if spoken into her ear. The hateful words filled the room with an odor of pungent fear. As she curtsied before the prince, she could not help think what a delicious bedtime morsel he would be. When the prince kissed the black pearl ring on her right hand, he sealed his doom. “But No.” Zayanya though out loud, “Cinderella had to show up and ruined everything.” Her head filled with the idea she spit out; “I hate innocence!” Like acid the words fell and began to eat their way through the ballroom floor. (In her heart, a delicate web of lies, resting on them a contented spider). She recalled the music of silence as the Prince danced with Cinderella. She focused her powers on their heart; still the illusion was greater. When they shared whispers of love under the moon, she was listening from the shadows. Strange that she should be such a part of their love, absorbed in each other they are unaware of the hunger that lurked in their mist. Zayanya recalled being on the palace steps that night, after all, on the last stroke of midnight her spell ended too. Who should come running down the steps with gown in hand? Cinderella. “It wasn’t that she denied me the taste of blue blood. It’s not even that she filled the castle with the stomach-turning stench of innocence. No, I stuck out my cane and tripped her because of the noise she made as she ran across the floor. How was I to know that she would lose one of those dammed glass slippers and live happily ever after?” she thought as she looked back into the ballroom. With a taint of regret, she added, “I didn’t anticipate that I’d always be referred to as ‘pitch on the palace steps.”
“Enough of this idle thought, I’m here with purpose” with that, Zayanya allowed her dark purple gown to slither down to the floor. Her naked body stepped out from the coiled serpent, and began to make her way to the queens secret chamber. Entering the library, she looked over thousands of books too delicate to be touched. Near the cold dead fireplace, she found what she was seeking. She pulled on Faust, Vol. I, releasing the door to a hidden chamber. She made her way up a spiral staircase, passing through cobwebs and over rat droppings, not disturbing a speck of dust. At the end of the 3rd silent chime Zayanya pushed open the queen’s bedroom door.
The queen’s chambers are round; on the marble floor is a huge extravagant pentagram, on the ceiling: a detailed mural of Lord Satanas sitting in final judgment. There are no windows; only a large balcony used to call on the stars. (In the day, the heavy drapes shield out the most hopeful ray). Zayanya walked over to the drapes and with little effort she pulls down the moth eaten remains. The blue light of the moon stop’s at the threshold, creating shadows where there was perfect nothing. Zayanya steps into the center of the pentagram, lifting her arms above her head the room begins to move around her, in a language that no man could understand, she calls out:
“Mirror, Mirror on the wall
Who is the biggest hypocrite of all?
I say you,
You say me,
either way we disagree.”
From the wall a brilliant light does away with all shadows in the room except for the umbra Zayanya’s presence holds. In the silver light Zayanya’s opaque skin is engaged in a dance of ecstasy. With a shrieking triumphant laugh Zayanya demands the light back into the mirror. She crosses the room and walks up three steps where the full length mirror hangs on the tower wall. Where the mirror stands, he reflects the balcony directly across the room. He is the almond-shape of a mandorla. His frame is made of rich mahogany; the color of sun-dried blood. The wood is shaped into a thorn bush; at the top, an eagle struggling to break free.
Zayanya looking into the black mirror, says, “A thousand eternity’s have passed since the last time we spoke.”
The mirror looking out into the empty room replies. “I’m okay with that.” The 7th stroke of midnight has passed.
After pressing her cold lips to the cool surface of the mirror, she replies, “I’ve missed you too.” “Tell me,” she continues, "how much do you miss your queen?"
"I only reflected her beauty, I cannot miss what was never mine.” he replied.
Did you love her? She asked, already knowing his defense.
The mirror spoke, “I told her all that she wanted to hear, my queen was the fairest in the land.”
Digging her palms with the thorn frame, she licked the surface of the mirror, then whispered, “Then why did you take her life?”
Sensing the flesh eating stench left across his reflection he replied, “Snow White.”
Covering the giggle with the tips of her fingers, she then responds, “So you destroyed them both.”
Looking past her, he answered, “How was I to know that some prince would dislodge the poison from her throat and that she would live happily ever after .”
With a howl of laughter she twirls around and shouts.
Mirror, Mirror on the wall
Tell me dear,
Whose essence is most putrid of all?
Don’t say me -- because it’s plain to see
That you hide in semblance filled with fear.
“Go away Zayanya, leave me to suffer my existence.”
Mirror, if you could see me it would be clear, I love you!”
Love Zayanya? What do you think you know of love? It’s true I do not see you, how can I reflect what is dead?
“Your truth of death is a lie. You have spent way to may years reflecting the unliving, your ability to perceive is just a bit twisted. I pity that you can’t see the beauty that stands before you. Your limitations will not allow you to see me cup my breast, or tast from my nipple the sweet drop of nectar.”
“You self-satisfied leach, what you call nectar, would kill a thousand armies. Even if I could reflect your image, I wouldn’t want to.” Those words brought in the 9th chime.
Zayanya walks over to the mirror, horrible rage piercing from her eyes; she slashes into the mirror like talons into flesh. The mirror hangs there giving off a perfect refection of the room, unaffected by her outburst.
“Damn your apathy, you cold and shallow creature,” she spits.
“You continue to torture yourself Zayanya, go away and let me be.”
It’s not that easy; for you are something that I need. Allow yourself to see, and together we can welcome the morning sun. Break this spell of time, I beg you! Please say that you will be mine.
At the beginning of the 12th stroke, the Mirror answered, “I will not.”
With a pain filled scream and to the core of her hate, Zayanya utters her last words of the morning. You fool; you have damned us both. I have no more time to play with your stubbornness. If you will not break this spell, then I curse you to be the door to my next dominion. As the last reverberations of the 12th chime echo, Zayanya jumps head first into the black mirror. After crossing over, the mirror explodes out into thousands of pieces spread across the marble floor. The room is absorbed by the silence of night. A new day has been born. In the black immature hours of the morning, the mirror continues to float down from the air and creates a fine dust across the penatagram.
The morning gives way to the dawn. Over the mountains, that surround the woods, the first rays of illuminating light cross over the highest peak. As if directed, it shines into the queens' chambers. The light is reflected from each grain of the mirror, and it illuminates the mural above; revealing a cracked and faded illusion. A winged shadow disrupts the light as the Raven flies into the room. He circles three times before landing in the center of the pentagram. “Ach!” “Ach!” He brings a message from Zayanya, “Take pleasure in your brooding, I will not bother you again. Know that where I exist, I will remain dead happily ever after.
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