Ethel knew it was an egg. It had come to her in a dream from God. The world, egg-shaped with holes poked in it, held children inside. The bright light of Heaven shone through those holes, ever out of reach, though she prayed to see it one day. The world was many things to Ethel when she prayed: strange, wonderful, terrible, divine. Sometimes demons appeared and she had to resist them. They would tell her about the delights of men, violence, or gold, none of which she needed. God the Father was her protector, and Christ the Son her lover, and the wealth of his Spirit exceeded All.

Her sisters in the Abbey sometimes received visions, but none so expressive as hers. Ethel’s connection to the Lord was special. And while it made her life more challenging, that was only a sign of His love. God had loved Job, too, had He not? The challenge is proof of His Love, Ethel would whisper to herself. It had become a prayer she held onto as her life became exceedingly difficult. So difficult indeed, that she had decided to devote her life to the divine and become an Anchoress. There were no other options left for her.

The village church did not yet have an Anchoress. It was an honour to be chosen for such a spiritual position: the local advisor, a womb of wisdom. The prospect was somewhat frightening, certainly. She would be walled into a room attached to the church, officially declared dead, and she would remain there in devotion for the rest of her undead life. Like a chick that would never hatch, contained within her very own egg. She would never delight again in the touch of a friend’s hand in hers, or the sensation of bare feet in the grass in springtime. She would never again feel the warmth of the sun upon her face.

But it was the only way to discern her visions from what was real — no, blasphemy! — to discern the divine from the earthly, material world. Locked in that room, Ether would be assured her body was kept safe. And all that she saw that did not belong in the room, in her world, would be a vision from either God or the Devil. And in that knowledge, she would find peace.

Joanna came to visit on the morning of the walling-in ceremony. Feeling nervous, Ethel had retreated into a room to lie down, even though the bell had already rung. After one decisive knock, Joanna opened the door without waiting for an answer.

She poked her head through the crack. “Ethel, dear? I brought a pie of pears from Gibson’s orchard.”

Joanna was some twenty years older than her and had lived in the Abbey most of her life. Earthly luxuries like pear pie were not usually condoned by the Abbess, but Joanna had a way of breaking the rules in such a loving way that disobedience somehow made her resemble Mother Mary. The scent of warm, sweet dough and caramelised fruit filled the room. Ethel breathed in deeply through her nose and thought of her childhood, the first time she had tasted a pastry. A cynical voice sneered, it’s your Last Supper. As if it were a tragedy that she would become an Anchoress, and not a celebration.

Ethel turned her head to face Joanna, but did not rise. “Sister. Enjoying food outside of official hours again?”

“You must. I insist you have at least a quarter of this pie.” Joanna sat down at her bedside, as if Ethel were ill and needed consolation. Her face was full and rosy, but engraved in it were the deep grooves made by a lifetime of laughter. She had been a beauty once, that was easy to see. Nobody knew why she had chosen monastic life over marriage, whether it had been a thirst for knowledge and a connection to God, or perhaps a flight from the men who wanted her.

Ethel accepted Joanna’s kindness, even if it was breaking the rules. She knew that God approved of kindness more than He disapproved of pear pie.

“That’s better, isn’t it?” said Joanna.

Ethel quietly chewed and felt rather moved as the sweetness and warmth of delight rushed through her body.

“I came here with some advice,” said Joanna.

Ethel shot her a dark look. “Do not tell me to reconsider becoming an Anchoress.”

“It is my advice as your elder. Take it from me, Ethel, do not bury yourself alive. I know why you chose this, and it is for the wrong reasons entirely. Your motivations are not to recluse yourself to a quiet life with God.”

“They are,” Ethel said indignantly. “Because He has shown me that this is the only way to-”

“To what, sister? To escape our plight? To escape the pains we must all endure?”

“I am tormented in a way you could never understand.”

Joanna laughed bitterly, and it was not a sound Ethel had ever heard her make. “You are not the only one who is tormented. I have seen them.”

A dread crept up Ethel’s spine. “Seen what?” she asked, already knowing. Not even the daylight could illuminate the corners of the room,  The immediacy of desire the corners of the room, which seemed to grow darker as Joanna spoke.

“Call it what you will. They come at noon or midnight. Silver shadows, illuminated with a strange darkness, bearing horns or heathens’ crowns. They must be the Devil’s. But they sing so beautifully, so divinely, and they inspire revelations such as I never knew before. The Holy Spirit, all around, an intense pleasure, basking in light — so they must be of God. The world shifts when these shadows pass by.”

Ethel’s mouth felt dry as Joanna lay her darkest secret naked on display.

“Then the visions come,” Joanna continued. “Walls move, trees dance, the very stars in the sky seem to approach and move away from me, all at once. Circles pulsate, light flashes. I smell all kinds of fruit, spices, and wine, and I am happy, which is when it overtakes me: the urge to die and stay in Heaven. For it must be Heaven that I witness. An escape from this world, a way to the stars.”

“Yes,” Ethel breathed out, because she could not restrain herself.

Joanna shot her a dark look. “Yet the temptations suggest it might be the Devil’s work. I know that if I were to give in to the shadows, they would take me somewhere. But I suspect it is a test from God and that I must resist. You feel that too, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Ethel said.

“It is hard to admit, even to oneself,” Joanna sighed. “But I resist. Even though I feel trapped, and I long to move to that next world so dearly, I resist. I fight the urge to throw myself off the bell tower and splatter my insides all over the pavilion. Or to stab my heart that I might feel the warm blood run over my hands as I lose consciousness. Because, of course, doing so would take any chances away that I might ever reach the gate of Heaven. So I resist, and I pray, until the shadows are gone and all is the same as it was before.”

Ethel nodded quietly. “You do understand, then. So what is your point?”

Joanna gestured up to the ceiling. “Is this not God testing us, asking if we would escape this world of His creation for another? And is this not precisely what you are planning to do, Ethel? To escape our Abbey, our own world, and enter entirely into a cocoon of your own visions, into your own mind, so that you might enjoy the shadows without witnesses? Without shame?”

Ethel put down the slice of pear pie. She’d lost her appetite. “My visions come from God. They bring me closer to the truth, Joanna, not further away.”

Joanna thought for a moment. “Do you really think that truth is meant for us?”

To this, Ethel said nothing. Joanna left her with the rest of the pie.

Ethel’s heart pounded in her throat as the mason laid the final brick to seal the door-opening, like her voice was walled in, too, and her heartbeat was a knock on a door that would never open.

She still tasted the sticky fruit sugar of Joanna’s pear pie on her bottom lip. Nobody would ever enter her room again when she felt sad or ill; nobody would sit at her bedside to nurse her back to health; there wouldn’t be a warm hand holding hers or a soft kiss on her forehead. Loneliness had replaced temptation as a threat, but Ethel remembered God: she was never alone. Indeed, something was always watching over her. But now that it was silent, she could no longer pretend she trusted this feeling of eyes prying in her back. Was it God, or Joanna’s shadows? The book she read on Anchorites had recommended she get a cat.

“I will have a cat,” she said, despite the pointlessness of the sound.

The first morning, Ethel watched the mass through her small window which looked out into the Church. She looked at the priest in his ornate garments and listened to the singing of the Psalms. She imagined that his voice was her voice, and she was there on the pews singing along. So this is what it is to be a spirit, she thought.

The echoes of song and prayer from that little window held her through the days. People came to visit her, at first to congratulate her on her position, then to ask her advice. Joanna didn’t come. When the busy day was done at twilight, silence fell. And after Ethel blew out her reading candle, they would come. Not the shadows. The mice.

They were back again tonight, on their tippy toes, racing from wall to wall like the icky little thieves they were. Peevish bastards with their pink grabby hands. Who was to say they didn’t crawl over her in her sleep? Who was to say they didn’t search her bed, looking for crumbs? On soft footing, they were silent as the grave. Only on the wood or stone could you hear their filthy nails, lightly scratching their way across the room. Who was to say they hadn’t tried a bite? A nibble off the dead skin around her fingernails? With their chompy little teeth? They turned the nights from a little death into something strangely festive, and Ethel felt it the strongest in those moments, the prying glares — but she refused to open her eyes and look for the silver, the stars, the waves. If God had a message, He could reach her in her sleep.

Yet He did not. Ethel twisted in her linen and caught herself having blasphemous thoughts: if Paradise was eternal, she did not want it. Days crept by like false eternities. Ethel had requested a cat and held on to the prospect of its arrival like a child holding on to their mother’s hand, though she did not know when it would come. She was horrified at the notion of an immortal soul. Her body burned with desire for salt and sweetness, for human touch, and violence — where was that cat — why had God forsaken her? Who was she to advise others when she needed guidance herself? The book had said that Christ would be like her lover, her guardian, her husband. Had He not wanted her to become an Anchoress? Or was the lack of divine visions yet another challenge He had given her, proving His love?

The mice’s feet stopped scratching, and silence came. A dread crept up Ethel’s spine. The moon could not illuminate the corners of the room. The immediacy of desire was palpable.

Finally, she opened her eyes to look at the shadows.

There he was. Her vision. The Fairy King, more handsome than any man she had ever seen. He wore an illustrious silk gown, and his hair, long and straight, flowed down as a woman’s might. But then his tall figure, the sharpness of his jaw, the piercing of his eyes, and his strong shoulders proved that this was a noble man, a warrior. Yes, he was everything she had never allowed herself to admire, divine in his beauty, an Angel, and so God must have sent him — though Lucifer had been handsome, once, before Michael cast him down. Indeed, there was something terrifying about the way he held the corners of his mouth. A would-be smile that told her she would never find home again.

“Have you come to abduct me?” Ethel breathed. She knew that certain folk believed in another realm where the fae lived, lavish and promiscuous creatures. These were pagan stories, most likely a trick of the Devil. And yet, feasting her eyes upon her vision, she hoped that it was real. Self-loathing was quick to follow. “I beg you, leave me in peace, demon! I am a Christian woman.” Her voice sounded unconvincing, even to herself.

The Fairy King shook his head once. “Your youthful beauty is unmatched,” he said, his voice like honey. “Come noon to-morrow, I will take you away to my palace.”

Ethel blinked twice and found herself alone in the dark.

By noon the next day, Ethel had done nothing. She had not touched her food, nor completed her morning prayers. She had not even gotten up to look at the mass through her window. After the Fairy King’s visit, she had promised herself to pray for her own safety; that the strange and beautiful King would not take her away; that he was just an illusion, and nothing would happen at noon. But come first light, Ethel did not pray. Why bother? As if she could hide her true desires from God! The twelfth chime coursed through her as if she were the bell. Her entire body shuddered.

Then, in broad daylight, the mice came out. Just the one at first, no doubt smelling Ethel’s untouched breakfast platter. Then it was two. The sudden movement in her dead room startled her. She let out a shriek like a banshee. It did not chase them away. A third mouse climbed the table, then a fourth jumped up the chair. Her heart started pounding wildly.

“Shoo!” she yelled, clapping her hands.

They did not flee. Ethel stood with her mouth half-open. Why did they not flee? More came in, ever more, until the floor swirled with little grey balls, and the sound of their tiny nails on the hardwood grew incessant.

This was impossible. Ethel knew it to be impossible. Still, it was happening right before her eyes. The mice did not feel like a vision. Especially not when their numbers grew so high that they started brushing past her legs and over her feet.

“Shoo!” she yelled, but she could hardly hear herself over their squeaking and scratching. Perhaps if she squished one into a bloody pulp, the others would grow frightened of her. Exasperated, she lifted a foot and stomped down as hard as she could. But when her foot came down on the little creatures, she didn’t even bruise them. Rather, the moving mass below her heel brought her off balance, and Ethel fell backwards, on top of the swirling floor of mice.

She felt them move in unison below her, towards her bed and then under it. She watched the underside of her bed cover her with darkness.

It was entirely impossible. The mice carried her away, into a hole in the wall.

Ethel awoke on the shore of a land drenched in sunlight. She squinted into the sky, blue as lapis lazuli. She could not find the sun, and there were no stars. Still, bright sunlight reflected off the water and the beach. Sluggishly, Ethel realised it was not a stone beach she found herself on, but one made entirely of jewels. There were amethysts, diamonds, rubies, and emeralds, fool’s gold and tiger’s eye, and glass-clear crystals she could not name. The beach stretched out endlessly to her left. To her right, there was a clover-green meadow.

Maiden-white unicorns grazing on a hillock, their muscles firm, their mane luscious, their horns long and thick. This could not be Heaven, for she had not died, and if she had, Ethel doubted she would have been allowed to pass through the Golden Gates. It was a different kind of Paradise. In the distance, not a day’s walk away, stood a royal castle taller than any tower she had ever seen.

“I am very ill,” Ethel said aloud. For a while, just to make sure her surroundings were not one of her visions, she stayed on the jewel beach and yelled for help. If the church members did not come to help her, calling her name or asking what was the matter, it meant that they could not hear her. It meant that her body had truly been transported to this strange land.

“What am I supposed to do here?” she yelled. No one answered.

At a loss, Ethel started walking towards the Fairy castle. The trees on the horizon seemed to recede as she walked forward. One of the unicorns eyed her with caution. She stared back, knowing that this was the most beautiful creature she would ever see. Yet because part of her was not convinced that she was really seeing it — this part of her expected to bump into the wall of her room soon, or wake up to find herself suffering from some horrible fever — she felt strangely calm.

Since when did her awe and reverence for things depend on their realness? Ethel took in the sight of the beast, and it was magnificent, more stately and divine than any human could ever paint. Yet it felt entirely flat. What did it matter, she wondered, that she saw something beautiful?

The air, too, smelled divine. Here a hint of red wine and clove with cinnamon, there a breeze of vanilla. Sweet and creamy. Ethel remembered pastries and pies and waited for the longing. But her mouth did not water as it should have. She frowned. What was this? Did she really miss the game of denying herself and allowing herself? The game of sin and repentance? Was this what the afterlife would be like, wanting for nothing? Was that what she had strived toward her entire life? No, no — it was all wrong, but she did not panic; there was no terror, no clamour, no palpitation in the heart. Only a sinking feeling. She desired desire, and felt nothing.

“I am ill,” she repeated, and kept on walking.

A mouse walked over her bare foot ← no it didn’t! The grass tickled her heels, you idiot, and the bridge was down, and the gate was raised, as if the castle was a prowling beast that had opened its mouth in advance. Sunset had not and would not come; Ethel had not found a sun in the sky that could sink. She was neither tired nor hungry. The land merely lay there, as if it were a paper model of itself that you could pick up and crumple in your fist.

Ethel found herself in front of two tall golden doors. Who would not want to enter those! With an overwhelming sense of glee, she started to push. The doors were heavy, and her palms left steam imprints on the metal. When she had managed to push them ajar, and the gap was just wide enough to wiggle through, she pressed herself into the castle.

She found herself in a long hallway. The hallway was also a throne room where the Fairy King awaited, the pretty bastard. There he sat, like a woman who was a man, in a dress and a silver leaf crown on his head. His long hair shone like the eyes of a night predator. She saw the wickedness of joy on his lips. He’d sent those mice to abduct her, and now he had the audacity to smile!

But he wasn’t the only one. Dozens of people had gathered on either side of the room to watch her arrival. They watched her walk down the aisle as if she were marrying the Fairy King — no, that was just her imagination running wild. This was merely an audience.

The audience was cheering and clapping. The sound did not really match their movements, and their eyes were not really filled with soul. They might have been human once, but not anymore.

Still, Ethel felt unafraid; she felt entirely un, so she kept walking until she reached the throne. It was just a wooden chair, but a very large one. She meant to ask the King to release her, or at least, she knew that she ought to ask him. But before she said anything, the Fairy King extended his hand and offered her a golden egg.

How she loved those! She had never eaten one before. Ethel eagerly bent forward and took a bite of the egg, straight from the Fairy King’s hand. It was soft-boiled and burst in her mouth, an explosion of salt and sticky summer. This was it, she knew, now all the feelings would flood back, and she would have it all — the love and the hate and the fear and the pride and the pleasure, the terror and the curiosity and the anger and the amusement, she would have it all, but she would have it here, where there was room. So much room. All around her there was room. The room surrounded her. It did, it truly did, there was only one room, and it surrounded her completely.

Ethel blinked. The four familiar walls stood there, unblinking. She smelled something mouldy, and she no longer tasted the yolk. “No,” she started to moan. “No, no, no!” She blinked again, trying to conjure the large throne room and the cheering audience. Their shouts were gone too. “This is a trick,” she said. Ethel ran her fingers across the coarse cobblestone wall and started to cry. It had been the damn food that gave her this vision, an illusion like she was back in the Anchoress room, waiting for a cat and waiting for God. She had heard about the tricks of the fae from the other world. Once you ate their food, you would be stuck in a dream forever.

“Wake up,” She started to hit herself on her cheek. “Wake up,” she said, and slapped herself, and pinched herself until she drew blood. But she could not escape the illusion.

This wasn’t real. If it were, then the churchgoers would have heard her cries and come to her aid, and there was nobody. Her real body was in the Fairy King’s throne room. No doubt that he’d turned her into one of the soulless cheering members of the audience, and her true body was there, clapping and smiling.

“I’m going back,” she said aloud, and she repeated it like a prayer. Ethel went to her fake bedside and got down on her fake knees. She lay down on her fake belly and shoved herself underneath the fake bed, against the fake wall. It had a fake hole in it that fit one of her fake big toes, and she crammed her toe into the wall. Into the hole, poked through the edge of this world into the next. There, she waited to be released into reality.

“In so far as one denies what is, one is possessed by what is not, the compulsions, the fantasies, the terrors that flock to fill the void.”

― Ursula K. Le Guin, The Lathe of Heaven