7. The palace (II)

It took several moments for the apparition to resolve itself into the form of a young woman, dressed in white and bearing a lantern as she advanced quickly towards them. When at last she stood before him, he saw that she was quite pretty, but this impression did not contradict the simultaneous realization that she was also entirely ordinary, in fact that she might have been, in appearance, the most perfectly plain young woman he had ever seen. There was nothing remote or forbidding about her looks, and her loveliness, if loveliness she could be said to have, did not result from the presence of strikingly beautiful features, but from their complete absence, in a face that seemed as natural and effortless as a swallow in flight or the last hour of summer. She had straight, shoulder-length dark brown hair, and brown eyes, he thought, though it was hard to be sure in the poor light. In any case, her unforced smile and relaxed demeanor, as she paused a moment before speaking, conveyed her benign intentions.

“Good evening, Lucinda,” she said, looking, however, at him rather than her.

“Good evening, Miranda,” the cat replied, with what he thought might have been the barest detectable hint of mockery. “Miranda, this is Oren.“

“Yes,” was her only answer, and Oren could not decide from her tone whether in doing so she meant to indicate foreknowledge or simply her acceptance of Lucinda's information.

“Oren,” the cat continued, punctiliously, “this is Miranda.”

“Such formality, Lucinda. It's Mira,” she confided, addressing him, “that's what everyone calls me.”

“Pleased to meet you, Mira.” Though these were the first words he had spoken, he instantly felt at ease in her presence, as if a friendly alliance between them — and perhaps in some way against the cat — had already been cemented.

“There's a room ready. It's not far.”

Already she had done an about-face, and the three of them were continuing along the gallery, Lucinda and the young woman flanking him on either side. They passed another deserted corridor on the right in silence, but upon the appearance of another Mira gestured in that direction and they changed course. After another few minutes, and another bend to the right, they arrived at an unmarked wooden door in an otherwise featureless hallway. Mira grasped the knob, turned it, and ushered him in, though she herself remained on the outside, holding the lantern aloft so he could see.

The room was small, but didn't feel uncomfortably so, in part because there was so little in it. To one side was a simple pinewood bed with a single pillow, a blanket and sheet, both of which were neatly turned down, and a nightstand with an unlit lantern, a cut-glass carafe of water, a single glass cup, and — to his joy — a silver tray bearing a round loaf of dark bread, a wedge of cheese, a knife, and a bowl of grapes. In the far corner of the room, in an alcove that lay mostly in shadow, he could see a towel, a basin of water, and a water-closet. There were no windows.

He stood just inside the doorway, mute, until Mira stepped into the room, lit the dark lantern — he could not tell exactly how — and exited again. The lantern cast a faint but sufficient light, illuminating a pale, greenish wallpaper with an almost imperceptible geometric print.

“Do you need anything else?” she asked hospitably, seeing that he still hesitated. He shook his head, having to admit to himself that the room, as far as he could see, appeared to lack for nothing that mattered at that particular moment.

“Goodnight, then,” she said, brushed past him out into the hall, and stood by Lucinda, who had been peeking into the room but had not crossed its threshold.

“What about you? Where are you sleeping?”

“I won't be sleeping just yet. There are some matters that require my attention, but our paths will meet again soon, I promise. Perhaps not in the morning, but soon. Mira will look after you.”

The young woman's smile and nod of agreement only partly relieved the anxiety he felt as the pair of them began to walk away. He watched them until he could no longer make out their shadows or the swaying halo of their lantern, then he retreated inside and shut the door. For a moment he simply sat on the edge of the bed, too exhausted and overwhelmed to think or move, until hunger and thirst got the better of him; then he reached for the carafe, filled the cup, drank, and began, determinedly but without hurry, to devour every morsel of the food that had been left for him.

When he had finished he washed it all down with another long drink, then sank onto the bed, not bothering to undress or climb under the covers. He took a brief stab at making sense of the day's events, which, he was sure, ought to provide ample material for reflection, but he soon found that it was all drifting away, that his waning consciousness was only capable of holding one thought, namely how to extinguish the lantern that shone a few inches from his face. Just as he fell asleep he became dimly aware that it had flickered out on its own.

May 28, 2007

Copyright © 2007 Chris Kearin. All rights reserved.