Thursday, January 1, 2015

14. The departure


[Return to Introduction]

As soon as the King began to speak, every apprehension and doubt that might have lingered among the onlookers was lifted at once, as they responded with unstinting hearts to the gentleness and sureness of a voice they had heard so many times before.

“My friends,” he began, “the time has come for the obsequies of my brother, whom most of you have long held in dread, but whom some among us also once held dear. Duty and old love alike guide us, and direct our hearts to give honor and proper rites to one who has caused us much sorrow and would have surely spurned the trouble we now take. Just as some things can not be remedied, there are offices that must be performed, loath as we may be to perform them. The state of this kingdom has been disordered for too long, and with these actions we will set it once again aright.

“Scratch away the surface of any of us and there is no telling what you will find beneath. My brother was seized by a hatred and a madness that I can not begin to explain or fathom, but which I must never deny or seek to extenuate. It was not always so. Before many of you were born he was a golden child, full of the joy and promise of youth, but as sometimes happens he turned away from love, from the love of his fellows and the love of this world, and the farther away he turned the more bitter his heart grew, until all that remained alive inside it was the fury and cruelty of which many who are here tonight have suffered or witnessed the terrible consequences. I am sorry on his behalf, and sorry for his sake as well.

“I would be remiss in my obligations, both as sovereign of this realm and as a host, if I did not address a word to the one who is responsible for our deliverance.” At these words Oren tensed. He felt a flickering impulse to steal away, but as no one seemed to be paying him the least attention the notion quickly evaporated. “Do not mistake our grief for ingratitude. Our pain is of ancient standing, and is ours alone. You were an instrument, no more to blame than the head of the lance or the air through which it passed in its fatal course. You have our benediction and our thanks, and our welcome, always.

“The stain of violence may be, perhaps, the mark of our fallen nature, but so too is the ability to love, to give, to nourish, and to feel and attend to the suffering of others. Let no one from this day raise a hand against another, and let the time of killing come to an end. Let the fire purify the body of my brother and release his spirit to the stars to which that spirit is kin, and let us each put away our private sorrows as much as we can, and live without bitterness or fear, and find in our hearts a way to forgive one who has done great harm but who will never stand among us again.”

Saying this, he took in his hand a burning brand and touched it to the bottom of the pile. It ignited quickly and flared, and soon the body of the great Swan was totally engulfed. The fire roared up, radiating a brilliant light across the terrace and beyond, even as its ferocious heat forced everyone who was near it to back well away. The King tossed the brand over the parapet of the terrace; he watched it fall through the darkness and break up into a thousand dying sparks as it struck the ground.

As soon as the fire peaked the crowd began to break up. Mira, who had been lost in thought watching the blaze, turned her back on it and took Oren's hand. She did not hurry him but waited until he too, turned and was ready to go. When they were one again within the walls of the palace they walked along the corridor by the windows for a while, now and then looking over at the fire, which continued to burn on the now deserted terrace for as long as they could see it. By the time they were out of sight of it they were alone in the galleries again. He let her lead the way, not minding if they walked all night, until at last they returned together to his room.

In the morning he was the first to wake. The lamp shone dimly, and a line of grey light, enough to see by, was coming under the door. He got up and dressed while Mira slept on, poured a cup of water from the carafe to slake his thirst, and sat on the edge of the bed until she stirred. He moved closer to her. She smiled up at him drowsily and took his hand, then closed her eyes again and remained still for a long while. He might well have sat there, exactly like that, for hours, had it not been for a muffled knock on the door. Untangling his hand from her fingers he got up to see who was there.

Lying at the cheetah's feet was a small knapsack, as much, Oren figured, as she could have carried in her teeth. “Whenever you're ready,” she said, neutrally.

“Who is it?” came Mira's sleepy voice from within. He looked back through the doorway.

“It's Lucinda.”

“Tell her I'll be ready in a few.”

The cat nodded and sat back. Oren returned to the room and shut the door behind him. Mira was just rising, without haste, and embraced him when he approached. He kissed her once, on the side of her neck, then left her alone while she gathered her things.

When they opened the door Lucinda gave Mira a perfunctory nod, then waited until Oren slung on the knapsack and signaled his readiness. The cat led the way, remaining several yards ahead of them as she walked, at a little less than her normal pace, without ever looking behind. In the morning light the halls of the palace were deserted once more. Hand in hand with Mira, Oren barely looked around him as they passed out of the building, down the steps, and onto the plaza beyond.

Later, at midday, they spied the silhouettes of the three dogs sitting at rest, waiting for them in the road.

Finis.

July 26, 2007

Copyright © 2007 Chris Kearin. All rights reserved.

13. The palace (VIII)


Oren stood guard over the bird for a moment until the company began to collect, cautiously emerging from where they had taken whatever shelter they had been able to find behind the rubble of chairs and overturned tables. They regarded the dead Swan uncertainly. All but ignoring Oren, who stepped away to let them approach, they encircled the body, drawing back briefly when its weight shifted and one of the great wings settled to rest, until it was clear that the Swan no longer posed any danger. One young woman let out a gasp of shock — or was it grief? — covered her mouth with her hand, and made a swift exit from the room; two or three of her fellows quickly went after her. The older woman, the one who had been struck by the bird's wing, was beginning to come around, and at last someone noticed her and went to her aid. Too shaken to speak, she remained where she had fallen, but Oren saw that her eyes were alert and fixed on the fallen bird.

Others were making for the door by now, and as they left Oren heard shouts in the corridor beyond. It struck him that they didn't particularly sound like shouts of celebration; in fact, he couldn't really tell what he thought they sounded like shouts of, although the urgency in the voices was unmistakable. In the room, two young men — Oren thought they were the heralds who had preceded the bearer of the lance, though he wasn't sure — were slowly beginning to pick things up, straightening chairs and setting the heavy wooden tables back on their feet. As he watched them, Oren felt something brush against the back of his legs, and turned.

“You will do things the hard way, won't you?” Lucinda curled around him. He thought he caught a fleeting glimpse of a smirk on her face; he was quite sure he saw no trace of surprise there at all. He stared at her, and only after an instant did he realize that, although she was taking evident pains to conceal it, she was beaming with pride and pleasure. He put a hand out and felt with his fingertips the gentle, even vibration of the cat's throat beneath her fur.

Summoned from other parts of the palace by the commotion, a crowd was gathering. Once or twice someone stole a glance at him, catching his eye with an indecipherable but apparently not hostile gaze before looking away. A strong rope was procured, and several men set about the task of securing one end of it to the body of the Swan. This undertaking required multiple attempts before it was at last accomplished; then, the path to the door having been cleared, and the bird having been swaddled in a carpet — no doubt to keep it from leaving a trail of blood in its wake — the company began the heavy chore of heaving the corpse into the hall. Oren and Lucinda stepped from the room as well; they watched the slow procession down the gallery until, at a right-hand bend, it lost momentum and came to a halt. More hands arrived; taking up the ropes, or setting their shoulders behind to push, they managed to get the bundle in motion once more and soon disappeared around the corner.

“We'll give them some time to prepare, and then join them later for the funeral.” Lucinda had turned to face him, in time to catch the baffled expression these words produced.

“A funeral? What funeral?” Oren blurted out.

“The Swan's, naturally,” she replied, and as this only seemed to increase his confusion, she added, lowering her voice just a whisker, “after all, he was the King's brother.”

This last confidence left Oren standing stock-still, even as Lucinda broke away from him and began to pad away. She took a few steps before looking over her shoulder. Oren hesitated, then caught up with her. She waited for him to pursue the matter further, but he was too bewildered to speak. Before resuming her course she cocked her head jauntily and lifted one eyebrow.

“Cat got your tongue,” she declared, half under her breath, and left it at that.

They walked for some time. There was more activity than usual in the halls of the palace; people bustled through, nodding briefly at Oren and Lucinda but not lingering to chat. A few carried parcels or papers or armfuls of dry branches and tinder. After a while Oren realized that the coming and going of the traffic was no longer random but was converging somewhere in front of them. A crowd was assembling, and he and the cat were forced to slow their pace and get in step with the rest. As they jostled forward a cool breeze — an outside breeze — began to ripple over them from ahead.

The congregants at last fanned out onto a broad circular terrace, open to the stars and the night air. Craning his neck, Oren saw that surmounting the outward edge of the terrace was a platform piled with branches, and that upon it the lifeless body of the Swan had been draped. In the passage through the palace its head and neck had become brutally wrenched out of position, and a young woman — Oren thought it might be Mira, but he couldn't be sure — had climbed up and was carefully — tenderly even — attempting to set it back into a more natural pose. After a moment she stepped down, and almost immediately a hush came over the onlookers, who began to back away from the platform, making space for someone who was coming through. When all had settled again Oren looked forward and saw a lone figure climbing up beside the Swan. It was the King. He seemed older now, grave and worn, but there was no doubting the commanding effect his appearance had upon everyone present. Not a whisper was heard, and all eyes were turned forward to await his words. Just as he began to speak Oren felt someone squeeze his arm and looked over: it was Mira. As she leaned her head on his shoulder he saw that her eyes were filled with tears.

July 18, 2007

Copyright © 2007 Chris Kearin. All rights reserved.

12. The palace (VII)


Night had already fallen by the time Oren reached the steps leading up to the corner of the palace. Inside, there was no indication of anything amiss; the lanterns were lit, and the galleries remained as desolate and silent as the night he had arrived. Not knowing how far he might have to walk to find Mira he paced himself, neither resting nor running, until he came to the domed chamber and began to climb the narrow stairs. By the time he was halfway up he was sweating heavily and his knees were beginning to buckle; the effect of his exertions, and of too many days with little water or food, was taking its toll. Grim-faced, he slowed his climb but kept on until at last he reached the uppermost floor.

He managed to find his room again. The bed had been made and the previous night's tray had been removed, but of course Mira was not there. He didn't linger but immediately set off again, not knowing where to turn but certain that he must continue searching until he found her. He wandered the corridors for an hour or more until he heard, from somewhere not far off, a familiar clattering, the meaning of which he understood at once.

In the banquet room the guests were already seated and beginning their meal. All was exactly as it had been the first time he had entered the room, except that the king's chair was now empty. The tiny owl, crouching on its perch, swiveled its head to regard Oren as he entered the room and took the only other vacant seat, the same one he had occupied two nights before. The woman seated on his right — of course it was not Mira — handed him a basket of bread with a perfunctory nod. He broke off part of a loaf but set it on his plate untasted, then lifted the glass of wine to his lips to slake his thirst. Around him the company ate, this time in total silence, while Oren hesitated, debating whether to stay or go or speak. He looked up and saw that the owl's gaze remained fixed upon him.

All at once, and before he knew he was going to do it, he rose furiously to his feet, nearly knocking over the chair behind him in the process. The commotion froze the room; every eye was on him as the words rushed furiously out:

“What is the meaning of this?” he cried, and pounded on the table. “Who are you all? And where is the king?”

For a moment no one answered, though Oren noticed that the owl had suddenly spread its wings and ruffled them in excitement. He was about to leave in disgust when a woman he had taken no previous notice of called him back.

“Wait — don't go,” she began. Oren turned to face her; she was a woman somewhat past her middle years, but still hale and sturdy. Her bearing was solemn, and she spoke slowly and evenly, making sure he caught the full weight of each word she spoke.

“The king, for reasons you well know, is in hiding, to answer the simplest of your questions. For the rest, let me first say that no one holds you to blame for not breaking your silence two nights ago, though we had desperately hoped that you would do so. It's true that your silence has had consequences — terrible consequences, in fact — but you acted as you did out of an ignorance for which you are in no way responsible, an ignorance which, moreover, we were strictly enjoined not to dispel. That injunction has now been abrogated. I will explain everything, but it will take some time, so I suggest you sit down.”

She waited before continuing. Oren did not immediately obey — in fact he was not particularly inclined to do so at all, and was just about to turn his back on her and resume his search for Mira, when two men paraded into the room, followed, as before, by the bearer of the bloody lance. The woman turned her gaze from Oren and watched them cross the room. Oren, for his part, lingered just inside the doorway, watching the procession with a mix of fascination and scorn. It was not until he felt himself roughly thrown to the floor that he realized that a great furious form was rushing past him into the room.

Amid screams of confusion and dismay, Oren staggered to his feet, bleeding from a gash on his chin. The Swan knocked the table in front of him away as if it had been a matchstick; diners, chairs, and dishes flew in all directions. It raised its head above the terrified crowd and emitted a shrill and livid cry that chilled Oren to his bones; then, raising a wing — the underside white, the topside black to match its head and back — it violently swatted aside the nearest human form — it was the woman who had begun the accounting of the mysteries of the palace — sending her insensate against the wall of the room.

A few of the company, those nearest the exits, managed to dart from the room, shouting and raising the alarm, but the Swan's outspread wings had trapped the greater number between the center of the room and the deserted dais. Men and women alike fell to the floor, cowering for cover as best they could, fearing the bird's terrible beak; in the meantime the owl had flown swiftly and silently from its perch and flitted through a doorway. Only Oren remained standing, a few yards away, apparently unnoticed by the terrible bird.

He was barely aware of his own movements as, all at once, he unfroze and strode across the room to the dais. He seized hold of the lance where it had fallen on the floor, and without reflection, without hesitation, stepped towards the Swan and, catching its eye at last, drove the lance viciously, deeply into its heart.

The bird let out a tremendous bellow and thrashed about wildly, the lance still fixed in its breast. Then it toppled, heavily, and settled onto the floor, blood pouring from the wound. Oren approached warily, weaponless now, but as soon as he saw the Swan's opalescent, lifeless eye he knew that it would never rise again.

July 10, 2007

Copyright © 2007 Chris Kearin. All rights reserved.

11. The palace (VI)


When he awoke she was standing at the end of the bed, collecting her clothes. She must have turned the lantern on a moment before; in its soft light she appeared smaller and more delicate than he knew her to be. When she saw that his eyes were open she smiled and whispered “hi”; she seemed unembarrassed by her nakedness and dressed without haste, sitting down again on the edge of the mattress to put on her shoes. Watching her, he did not at first realize that she was dressing to leave.

“Where are you going?” he asked, sitting up.

She came over to him, kissed him briefly but with unmistakable ardor on the lips, hugged him, then let go.

“I have to work, silly,” she said quietly.

Approaching the lantern she inspected her clothing, smoothed it down with a hand, picked off a hair, and seemed satisfied.

“Where will we meet? Can I come with you? The Black Swan — ”

For a moment this last seemed to catch her by surprise. “Who told you — ?” At once she answered her own question. “Oh, Lucinda, of course. It's all right; it's daylight now, there's no danger until nightfall. I'll find you before then.” She made for the door.

“Mira, wait — ” She turned and stood patiently as he rose and pulled on his pants. He stepped over to her and encircled her in his arms. She let him kiss her cheek and neck, which he did with a degree of tenderness and affection that surprised him more than it did her. After a moment she gently broke away from him and grabbed hold of the doorknob to let herself out. He stood in the doorway, blinking in the sunlight, as she made to go, then he thought of something and called her back.

“Is it true? — the Swan — that it killed a man last night?”

Her face darkened. She hesitated before answering.

“Yes, it's true,” she said gravely. They stared blankly at each other for a moment, neither of them knowing what to say, or what to ask. A grim smile flickered across her face just before she lowered her eyes and walked away.

Oren watched her, mute, until she was out of sight, then retreated to his room for the rest of his clothes. When he was fully dressed he started down the gallery in the direction he had seen Mira depart, but he quickly realized that tracing her steps would be an impossibility; in the empty, featureless maze of corridors she could have taken any number of paths. Instead, he let himself wander without conscious plan or direction, veering left or right or continuing on ahead as the whim struck him. He met no one. At length he came to the top of one of the spiraling staircases, and began to descend, as much to break the pattern as with any thought of finding Mira, or Lucinda, or — what was increasingly foremost in his mind — something to eat. Halfway down he became careless and slipped, but he caught himself at once, having suffered nothing worse than a lightly bruised knee and an affront to his dignity, fortunately unwitnessed.

When the stairs at last opened out, into a desolate white chamber that might or might not have been the one he had passed through with Lucinda the night of his arrival, he stood for a moment gazing upwards at the summit of the dome, trying to fathom its utter blankness, until an unexpected footfall startled him and caused him to withdraw hastily up the steps again, just far enough to allow him to peer into the room without being seen. As soon as he had done so he saw a young man stride into the room. Not noticing Oren, who began to re-emerge from his hiding place, he would have quickly passed through and out of sight had Oren not called to him, at the last moment, his shout reverberating unnervingly in the vaulted chamber. The man halted, looked at Oren with a measure of curiosity but without hostility, and waited for Oren to approach.

“The garden — I mean the plaza — which way is it?” Oren inquired, not completely sure of either his intended destination or what to call it.

The young man apparently found nothing unusual in this request, and without hesitating or inquiring the identity of his interlocutor gave Oren directions — to his relief, they were uncomplicated ones. Oren thanked him; the man simply nodded and continued on his way.

He came, in short order, to an exit onto the plaza, though not, he decided, the one through which he and Lucinda had passed on their arrival. It was a pleasant morning, bright but still cool, and as he stepped outside he felt, unexpectedly, as if a weight had lifted off his shoulders. For all his thoughts of Mira, he realized that the strange succession of events of the previous days, and the labyrinthine immensity of the palace, had cast a terrible pall over him, one that instantly began to dissipate as he emerged from the building's shadow and descended to the sunlit plaza below.

With no immediate plan, he simply turned his back on the palace and walked away, not looking behind. He found a small footbridge that forded the encircling stream, and walked for a quarter of an hour or more through the dappled light of a plantation of young trees, aspens and sweetgum at first, then apple trees and pear, until he came to a clearing at a crossing of paths, and a little cabin from which a plume of grey smoke was rising into the wisps of fog that still lingered in the orchard. As he approached, an old woman came around the corner of the building, bearing kindling in her arms. At the sight of him she seemed startled at first, but quickly caught herself and smiled.

“Out for a walk, are you?”

Oren nodded.

“I'm just making journey cakes, if you're hungry.”

He could not deny that he was. He followed her through the open doorway into the cabin's interior, which was bare and simple but tidy and swept clean. There were two stools on either side of an open hearth; the cakes were browning on a large iron skillet, and their aroma, savory and warm, filled the cabin. He sat down without waiting to be invited. She turned the cakes once, spooned them onto a two wooden plates, then filled two white china cups with tea. They ate in silence, with their fingers, he so hungry that he burned his fingertips; he thought that nothing had ever tasted better. When they were done he set down his plate. The old woman rose, took it, poured water onto the griddle, and scraped the two plates and the griddle with the spoon as the steam hissed and rose to the rafters. When she was done she put the plates to one side and sat down again, nestling her teacup in her hands. She blew gently into the cup, rippling the amber liquid; he watched her and then did the same.

They sipped the tea slowly as it cooled. When his cup was empty she began to fill it again, but he shook his head and, thanking her, made to rise. She seized hold of his wrist; the strength of her grip surprised him and he froze.

“Stay, and I'll tell you a story,” she entreated. He hesitated, then sat down again. She filled the cup and handed it back to him, and as she did so she began first to hum and then to sing, in a voice barely above a whisper, a strange, slow air whose words he could not make out, though the language sounded very ancient to his ears. As she sang he felt all concern, every trace of weariness, fall away, until he was aware only of her singing, the warmth of the fire, and the fragrance of the tea.

He wasn't sure at what point he fell asleep — or if he even fell asleep at all — but after a while he realized that he could no longer hear the old woman's voice, that in fact she not been singing for some time. The teacup, drained of its contents, lay on the fireplace by his side, and the woman, her back turned to him, was sweeping the earth floor of the cabin with a broom.

When she saw that he was awake she stopped sweeping and rested the broom in a corner. She prodded the fire's declining embers, added a log no thicker than her forearm, then indicated the doorway with a nod.

“It will be dark soon,” she advised.

At once he stood and strode to the door to look out. The sun had reached the summits of the distant hills, and through the orchard in front of him the lengthening shadows of the trees stretched towards the cabin's front wall. Quickly taking leave of the old woman, he turned and began to run, as fast as he could, back along the path that led to the palace.

July 6, 2007

Copyright © 2007 Chris Kearin. All rights reserved.

10. The palace (V)


When Oren could run no longer he stumbled to his knees, gasping for breath, but fear quickly forced him back on his feet. Blindly he felt for the wall on his right, found it, and walked on, tapping with his fingertips to keep himself on course. He continued walking until something up ahead — the slightest ripple in the texture of the darkness — made him draw to a halt. He had come to the opposite side of the building; one of the great windows was directly before him, and looking through it he could see faint points of starlight above the now completely invisible landscape.

A night breeze, chilly and strong, was flowing soundlessly through the perimeter gallery. He walked slowly in the direction of its source; in a few moments he found himself in a circular lookout, ringed with open windows where it projected from the palace walls. Stepping to the window and looking out he realized that he had come to one corner of the building, though he was no longer certain that he knew which corner it might be.

He had been standing there for some time when he felt something heavy brush against his leg. He started and drew back several steps, and was preparing to run when the sound of a husky, unmistakably feline expiration of breath froze him in his tracks.

“Lucinda?” he inquired tentatively.

“Yes, it's me,” came the cheetah's reply. “Come, it isn't safe here. Put your hand on my back.” Her words were calm but firm, and he promptly complied. But as they began to walk away from the turret he hesitated.

“Mira — ”

“She's safe, little thanks to you.”

The unexpected reproof felt struck him like a slap. He lifted his hand from Lucinda's pelt and stepped away.

“Me? What did I do?” “More, what you didn't do.” Then, instantly, her tone softened. “Never mind; I suppose you knew no better. Come. Remove your shoes — they make too much noise.”

In utter confusion he did as he was told. As Lucinda said nothing more it was left to Oren to break the silence.

“That thing — that bird —” he began.

“It was the Black Swan, looking for the king. An old enemy. He has a hatred for the king that knows neither bounds nor reason. A story too long to explain, I'm afraid.”

“And the king — is he all right?”

“He is hiding. There are rooms in this palace that only he knows. He will remain in one of them until the danger is past, in the morning. The Swan could be anywhere, looking for him, searching gallery after gallery. That is why the lamps have been put out, and why we are not safe, out in the open.” She paused, but then added: “He has killed a man tonight.”

“The Swan?”

“The Swan. It's not the first time.”

Oren pondered this information silently as they walked. He would not have been able to trace their labyrinthine route, but Lucinda seemed certain of her course. They met no one and heard not a sound, not even a distant echo. Eventually they reached a stairwell and began to climb. When they reached the upper storey she led him to his door and waited while he stumbled his way into the dark room and found the bed. He turned towards her.

“Are you leaving?” he whispered.

“I'm needed elsewhere. You're in no danger as long as you stay in your room.”

With a few all but inaudible footfalls she was gone. He undressed and got into bed, his thoughts racing, trying to concentrate on listening for noises in the hall, but none came. He had been sleeping for some time when he realized that the door to the room had been silently opened, and that someone had stepped in and then shut the door again behind. In his half-conscious confusion he hadn't had time to reflect on what new terror this might portend, when that someone — or something — quietly drew back the sheets and climbed into bed beside him.

“Mira —?”

June 27, 2007

Copyright © 2007 Chris Kearin. All rights reserved.

9. The palace (IV)


By the time he stepped out of the room his dinner companions were already well dispersed. He took a few steps as if to follow the laggards who could still be seen retreating down the hall, but then decided they were already too far off and reversed course, just in time to see a lone figure veer into a distant side gallery and disappear. By the time he turned his head again there was no one in sight in either direction. He glanced into the banquet room; the owl, lance, and tablecloth had vanished, and even the cups and wine bottles had been silently removed.

He began to walk, without haste and without fixed heading, choosing or ignoring branching galleries at whim. Deep in thought, head down, he did not notice Mira's approach until she spoke to him.

“Lose something?” He looked up, startled. She smiled.

“No,” he said, and lacking a better explanation he told her the truth: “I'm just wandering.”

“So I see.” He resumed walking, and she fell in step alongside him. “I've been looking for you, actually.”

“Really?” he replied, concluding that she must after all be right, as she had found him.

“I thought you might like a look around. A tour, I mean.”

The notion seemed at once so obvious and so unexpected, after so many circumstances that had come and gone without explanation, that he stood momentarily befuddled, until she looked at him quizzically and asked “Would that be all right?”

He came to. “Yes, of course. I mean, thank you.”

“Good, then. We'll go this way, for starters.” She indicated an intersection leading to the right, and quickened her pace a bit as she turned. “Did you sleep well?”

Again it took him a moment to reply. “Yes,” he finally allowed. Embarrassed by his torpor, and struggling to recapture his rusty conversational skills, he repeated himself: “Thank you, yes.”

“Well, that's good,” she said, with a half chuckle, a bit, it seemed to him, in the manner in which one might praise a small child or a lapdog who had just performed some actually quite ordinary trick. Or perhaps not quite in that manner, after all; he was still learning to read her reactions, and he wasn't at all sure of his success.

They walked the rest of the way in silence. At last he saw sunlight up ahead, and to his surprise they soon emerged into open air, coming to a halt on a high balcony overlooking a great long interior courtyard or cloister a half-dozen stories below. The sun had already passed beyond the rim of the roof above, leaving the depths of the courtyard largely in shadow. A small stream, neatly channeled, ran its length, paralleling a flagstone path and shaded by a number of tiny trees, barely taller than a man. Every hundred feet or so a little bridge crossed the stream, and at the midpoint between each pair of bridges, in a break in the trees, there was a terrace surmounted by a fountain and ringed by stone benches. The overall effect was delightfully peaceful and cool, notwithstanding the fact that the courtyard was bustling with pedestrians, alone or in twos and threes, hurrying along on unknown errands or stopping to converse with acquaintances. Their muffled voices rose up to him, but except for stray words he could make nothing out.

He leaned on the railing of the balcony for a long time, absorbed in the scene and feeling a light breeze pass pleasantly over the back of his neck. She watched as well, in silence, until finally he realized that she had turned her body to face him, and was waiting for him to see her again. He straightened, looked at her, and returned her patient smile.

“Well, what do you think?,” she asked. “Do you like it? It's one of my favorite places.”

“I think it's wonderful,“ was all he could say, and it was the exact truth.

“Come, we'll go down and walk around — I mean, if you'd like to.”

There was nothing he could like more, and he told her so. To his surprise — but he would not have said to his displeasure — she took his hand and led him along the balcony until they reached an open stairway. They descended, flight after flight, until they reached the courtyard. Joining the long path, they began to walk slowly along the stream. Now and then a passing figure would nod or say hello, as much to him as to her, he thought, but no one broke stride to engage them in conversation. He felt sufficiently emboldened to inquire.

“Who are all these people?”

“They have different jobs. Messengers, or artisans, most of them. Some are going home, or just walking. Like us.”

He didn't follow up, as another question had suddenly popped into his head. “The king, is he your father?” he blurted out.

She stopped walking, dropped his hand, and looked at him with astonishment, then began to giggle, though she quickly caught herself. “The king? Goodness, no. Of course not.” As he had quickly fallen into a rather abashed silence, she herself picked up the thread.

“What do you know about the king?” she asked, peering at him inquisitively.

“Nothing — I mean, I don't know. I may have seen him.”

She was all ears, no longer smiling, as she asked him to explain. While they resumed walking he told her about the banquet, about the old man, the procession, and the lance. She listened intently, but was careful neither to interrupt nor to react as he spoke.

By the time he had finished they were sitting on a bench in a little garden, where the courtyard widened out into a plaza that was sheltered within a square of stone porticoes. They had left the crowd behind, and were alone; the courtyard was darkening as night approached. Gravely she heard the end of his story, waiting a moment to make sure he was done.

“Was that the king?” he asked tentatively.

She nodded, but at once offered her own question. “When you were in the room, when the lance was brought in, what did you say?”

“Say?” He hesitated. “Nothing. I mean — no, I didn't say anything. Should I have —?”

She cut him off, seized hold of his forearm, and pressed the point. “Did you ask anything?”

He allowed as he had not. She considered this for moment, averting her eyes away from him towards the upper storeys of the palace, though she did not appear to be looking for anything in that direction.

“Did I do something wrong?” he asked uncertainly.

“No,” she assured him, but then she seemed to think better of it, and corrected herself. “I mean, I don't know anything about it,” she said rather flatly.

She remained lost in thought for several minutes, then her mood suddenly brightened. She stood, told him to wait for her, and darted off before he could ask where she was going. He sat alone, listening to the faint washing of the stream along its banks, at first confused by the turn in the conversation, until the surroundings and the pleasant night air put him at his ease. Soon he saw a single lantern approaching him; in a moment Mira stepped from behind its glow and set it on the stone bench opposite them, then set down a bottle of wine and a basket of bread, cheese, and grapes beside him.

“I've brought us something to eat,” she declared cheerily.

“So I see.”

They shared their meal, largely in silence. Above them, through the windows of the great palace on either side, a faint glow shone, but not enough to disturb their seclusion. When they had drained the last of the wine she stood up, waited for him to do the same, and hand in hand they began a long, slow circuit of the garden. At last they paused and stood facing each other. He reached for her hand, which she made no move to pull away, and was just gently pressing his lips upon hers, when he heard a muffled whoosh from high above. As he glanced up he noticed that the stars that should have been directly overhead were strangely absent, and that in fact the extent of this unexpected blackness was growing rapidly in diameter, until it filled the whole of what sky appeared between the sheltered enclosure of the palace walls. With furious speed some immense creature collided with them and knocked them both to the ground, then without hesitating brushed over them, beating great dark wings as it vanished from the courtyard into the interior of the palace.

He scrambled to his feet and immediately went to her aid. She was stunned and frightened, but unhurt. He looked around, shielding her in his arms, but the creature was gone.

“What the hell was that?”

She didn't answer, and still seemed too terrified to talk. But at once she collected herself, broke away from him, and began to run desperately out of the garden. He began to follow, but as soon as he did so she stopped short, pushed him back with a firmly extended arm, and sternly commanded him to stop. He stepped back, astonished.

“No, you can't come with me! I have to raise the alarm. Go, run into the palace — go as far as you can! Go!” Before he had time to react she had sprinted off down the courtyard path and disappeared into the darkness. He stood panicked for a second, then ran inside, choosing the opposite wing of the palace from the one into which their mysterious assailant had fled. As he raced down the gallery every single one of the pale lanterns that lined the walls flickered out at once, and he continued running in terror and in absolute darkness.

June 18, 2007

Copyright © 2007 Chris Kearin. All rights reserved.

8. The palace (III)


He awoke slowly from a dreamless sleep, disoriented by the darkness in the room and by the fact that he could not at first remember where he was or how he had come to be there. As his eyes made out, in the gray light seeping under the door, the contours of the room where he lay, his memory began to retrieve scattered fragments of the events of the day before, but for some time the pieces refused to gather themselves into anything resembling a coherent whole. For the time being, owing no doubt to his residual grogginess and exhaustion, this failure did not bother him much. He might well have drifted off again, had it not been for the discomfort of a severely parched throat and mouth, which at last drove him to sit up and locate the carafe. When he had drained the contents he rose, made his way to the water-closet, returned to the bed to lace on his shoes, and opened the door into the hall.

Though there were no windows in the vicinity of the room it was evident that it was day; from somewhere far off a muffled echo of sunlight was penetrating the gallery. The lanterns had all gone out, or been extinguished, while he slept. With no one in sight and no sound other than the dull reverberation of his footfalls, he began to walk, reversing the course he had taken the night before, undoing turns until he came to the long gallery on the building's perimeter. Here the full glare of the day shone upon him through the great arrays of windows. He looked out and saw that he was much higher up than he had imagined. Far below him, neat rows of trees paralleled the building in either direction; further out there was a narrow canal, another plantation of trees, and then green cropland, perfectly level and broken only by a rigorous geometry of irrigation trenches which receded from his eye to a vanishing point unseen. The distant mountains, now largely obscured by haze, loomed well beyond it all. From the angle of the sun he judged that it was already midday.

He walked along beneath the windows, passing one deserted branching gallery after another, until he heard sounds coming from somewhere ahead, something like furniture being scraped along a floor, and doors being opened and shut. He veered to the right, following the sound, then to the left, and soon found himself at the entrance to a large room, in which some thirty or so men and women were seated around a long table made of dark, highly polished wood, chatting amongst themselves and sharing a plain but abundant spread of bread, fowl, and greens, washed down with the contents of unmarked glass bottles of wine. To the right, on a raised platform, was a smaller dais, placed perpendicularly to the rest of the room. A lone figure, elderly but still to all appearances hale, was seated behind it, surveying the room in silence and picking halfheartedly at his plate. On a perch behind him, unteathered and alert, was a tiny, immaculate white owl no bigger than a man's hand.

He saw no sign of Mira, but at his approach one of the men broke off his conversation, rose, greeted Oren briefly, and ushered him to a seat. A plate and cutlery were in place in front of him; Oren poured himself a glass of wine, heaped his plate with a little of whatever was in reach, and began to eat without hurry, looking around the room at the company that surrounded him. Aside from an occasional nod or glance in his direction they continued as before and paid no particular heed to his presence. Much of their banter he could make no sense of — it seemed to be in a tongue he didn't speak — and what he could understand was evidently concerned with trivialities, or at any rate he could find no great consequence in the mingled threads of conversation that reached his ears. All present, including the older man whom he took for his host, were dressed in like fashion, in unadorned but well-made clothing similar in style to the simple frock that Mira had worn the night before.

When all the diners had finished eating, a crew of children — boys and girls, ten or twelve years in age — swept in and cleared the table, efficiently and in silence, leaving only the wine, then just as swiftly vanished from the room. The conversation dimmed at first to whispers, then to an expectant hush, as all eyes now turned towards the end of the room furthest from the dais, the presiding host, and the diminutive bird of prey. All at once, unheralded, two young men entered the room, strode abruptly to the dais, and came to a halt before the old man, who regarded them impassively. As soon as they had both snapped to attention a third figure appeared through the same doorway, carrying with both hands a long lance fashioned from gleaming and lethal steel. As he crossed through the room Oren saw that the head of the lance was covered in what appeared to be fresh blood, and in fact as the young man passed in front of Oren a single drop fell from it and burst upon the marble floor.

When he reached the dais the bearer of the lance took his place between his fellows, directly in front of the old man, and held the weapon out before him in the upturned palms of his hands. The old man stared at him intently but gave no command. When this standoff had lasted for a minute or more the young man suddenly stepped forward sharply, laid the lance on the white tablecloth of the dais, then stepped back. Immediately all three young men turned to one side and strode away, exiting where they had entered. No one except Oren watched them go.

The silent interval that followed must have lasted, by Oren's reckoning, a good ten minutes. Save for the owl, which shifted restlessly on its perch, blinking and swiveling its head to regard first one side of the room and then the other, no one moved, and all eyes remained on the dais and the bloody lance. He was getting a bit tired of this when at last the old man rose stiffly from his chair and raised his hands in a gesture that might have been one of resignation or dismissal. The company evidently took it for the latter, for at once they rose and departed, alone or in twos and threes, ignoring Oren as they left. The old man had stepped into the crowd and Oren did not see him go out.

He remained in his chair until he was alone; then he got up and made to leave, but at the last moment he changed his mind, turned, and approached the dais. He could see that the blood from the lance had seeped onto the tablecloth, staining it a violent red. The owl looked blankly at him as if awaiting an inquiry, but Oren said nothing.

June 12, 2007

Copyright © 2007 Chris Kearin. All rights reserved.

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.

6. The palace (I)


At the approach of dusk the road entered a long plantation of aspens. The air was noticeably cooler now, and a bit of wind was rustling the leaves. On their left, burnished by the declining sun, a broad muddy stream was churning past, as if urging them to quicken their pace. They crossed over a little stone bridge, beneath which a narrow channel separated itself from the stream, heading off to the right and out of the grove, into what appeared, in the distance, to be ripening fields of wheat. He saw no sign of anyone working the fields or heading homewards after a day's labor; but a kingfisher, perched on a low outlying branch at streamside, regarded them — rather balefully he thought — as they came over the bridge.

Lucinda plodded on, a stride ahead of him. For the first time she looked weary; her head had sunk down to the level of her shoulders, and she took no interest in the terrain along the road. Though it was, he reflected, rather late in the game to begin asking where they were going, he was emboldened to inquire where they would spend the night.

“We're almost there,” was all she would let on.

In fact it was not long before he detected the outline of an immense form looming ahead of them in the last twilight. A few moments later they emerged out of the grove into a clearing, and stood at one corner of a vast structure, intricately but harmoniously wrought from stone and glass, whose full extent he could not at that hour determine. Surrounded by a wide, empty plaza, palisades of thick marble columns supported a high balcony that encircled the building, sheltering an open portico beneath. Above the balcony, great walls of stone, interrupted by tall and slender windows, rose another hundred feet or more into the air, until they came to an end at the lowest reach of the gently curving copper roof whose summit he could not see. At the corner, immediately before them, a series of wide steps, made from a lighter marble than the building walls, rose to an arched entranceway that was weakly lit by the orange glow of a pair of bell-shaped lamps on either side.

The cat rested quietly at his side as he stood open-mouthed for several minutes, looking down first one long wall and then the other, craning his neck to gaze up at the heights. Here and there, in a regular pattern, pale light seemed to be shining through some of the windows, though it provided scant illumination to the plaza beyond. Other than the whispering of the aspen leaves and the faint murmur of the encircling stream, there was no sound.

When the time came he did not need Lucinda's prompting to begin the ascent of the steps. She let him go first, but remained closely at his heels. Though his weariness from their two days' journey had largely dissipated as he stood in the cool of the plaza, he found the brief climb surprisingly strenuous. When he reached the top he turned and looked down at the dimly lit grove and the blackness beyond. She waited by his side until he was ready to go in. As he stepped through the doorway — there was no door — he glanced at the great glass lamps, and was perplexed to find that he could see no obvious source to explain their faint but steady glow.

Once inside, he peered in semi-darkness down a long, deserted gallery, intermittently lit by the receding halos of a series of smaller lamps, set in niches built into the walls, whose light was insufficient to permit him to see as far as the gallery's end. The arched ceiling, twenty feet above, was decorated in an intricate, apparently abstract pattern, the details of which he could not clearly make out. The slight chill he had felt on the plaza fell away, as the air inside the gallery was noticeably warmer than outside, and in fact seemed to be flowing in a slow current through the doorway behind them. The murmurs from the grove were entirely hushed, and except for his footfalls (the cat's made no sound in any case) there was utter silence.

They began to walk slowly. Lucinda, for the moment, allowing him to set their pace. After thirty steps or so, as they passed along the rows of windows on their left, a second corridor opened to their right, perpendicular to their own and indistinguishable from it in form; a further fifty paces brought another. The length of the building remained impossible to gauge, as darkness continued to obscure the distant depths of the gallery, but the astonishing regularity and harmony with which it was constructed were already evident. For all its incalculable size, there was nothing oppressive or ponderous about the architecture that enveloped them; every chamber, every window, was proportionate to the whole, but intimate and sufficient in its own space. Even the absolute blackness of night visible through the windowpanes seemed to form part of the composition.

“What is this place?” he asked the cheetah, at last.

“It is the palace of the King of Night, and we are his guests.”

She offered no more, and he decided it was enough of an answer for the moment. They continued for some time, without further conversation, until a slight increase in the surrounding illumination drew his attention to the approach of yet another passageway leading to their right. The intersecting gallery was wider and higher than the one they were walking along, and as he peered down it he saw that it almost immediately opened out into a large chamber of white marble. At a nod from the cat, he turned in this direction.

The chamber was deserted and utterly bare of any adornment or furnishing. The vaulted ceiling, luminous and austere above them, displayed no element of the elaborate motif that had, until that point, looked down on them during their passage through the palace. His footsteps muffled by the dome, Oren strode to the center.

In each of the four corners of the room a dozen steps curved to a landing, from which another stairway spiraled above into spaces unseen. Choosing the exit to the left, nearest to the point where they had come in, they climbed the steps, turned, then climbed again. The light in the stairwell was dim, as the only illumination came from a single small lamp at each level. As they rose from summit to summit, Oren and even Lucinda began to labor under the effort, and it seemed to him that the unaccustomed confinement within the narrow space was not much to her liking. He judged that they had ascended three stories, and perhaps a fourth, when they at last emerged into another vaulted room, distinguishable from the one below only by the downward direction of its outlets. They found the windowed gallery along the outside wall, shook off their fatigue as best they could, and resumed their original heading. The disappointment of having to traverse yet another apparently endless and empty corridor was just beginning to slow his steps, and to dull his senses, when he noticed a faint moving light coming towards them through the darkness ahead.

May 23, 2007

Copyright © 2007 Chris Kearin. All rights reserved.

5. The road (III)


They travelled until the last remnant of twilight was extinguished and it was no longer possible for him, or even the dogs, to make out the cat's pale fur just a few yards ahead. Sensing that they were lagging behind, she halted and let them approach. She seemed lost in thought for a moment, but then made her decision:

“Well, we'll have to stop here.”

There was no shelter, and no question of a fire this time. They stepped off the causeway onto the softer grass bordering the lake and sat down, the dogs a little restlessly at first until exhaustion got the better of them and they stretched out, yawning and shifting about in search of the least uncomfortable position. Oren lay down on his back, knees raised, head turned to the waterside, where the occasional rising and rolling of unseen fish produced the only sound other than the dogs' gentle and regular respiration. As his lids began to close he felt Lucinda settle at his side.

“Tomorrow you'll sleep in a proper bed,” he heard, though he could not say if it was her voice speaking to him or his own thoughts as he fell into the embrace of sleep.

He awoke shivering in a foggy dawn, caressing the ear of Wawet, who was gazing up at him beatifically from where she lay nestled against him. The other two dogs were huddled around him as well; their mingled odors were not a bit pleasant but they were bearable at least in the open air. There was no sign of Lucinda, at first. It was only after Marta had risen from the pile, shaking herself off and attempting to set an example of canine aloofness, that the cheetah appeared out of the mist, walking towards them along the shore, a sizable carp gripped between her teeth. The dogs licked their chops in excitement but held back until she let her catch slide onto the ground at their feet; then they rushed at it greedily and ripped it apart in an instant, snarling as they fought for the tastiest morsels. Lucinda shook her head, but her disapproval quickly gave way to resignation.

“Their table manners are frightening,” she said, “but I suppose they can plead hunger. I can catch one for you as well, if you're interested.”

He might well have been, had it not been for the sight of Marta crunching up the bloody remains of the carp's forlorn head, slobbering and spraying bits of half-chewed fish as she bared her teeth at an encroaching Pharos. Lucinda drew the correct interpretation from his silence.

“No, well, I can't say I blame you. I daresay you'll survive; I have, and believe me I've gone many a day without a meal. We should get going, as soon as our friends are finished with their carnage.”

The dogs ignored her. They wolfed down every visible speck, bones and all, then avidly licked the bent-down grass where the carp had been butchered. Finally they pitched their bodies forward onto the spot, grunting and writhing on their backs. Lucinda was already walking away. Oren followed, glancing back to see the dogs at last rising heavily to their feet, intoxicated by their own gluttony. Marta snapped viciously at Wawet once more for the road, then cantered ahead to catch up.

The day's journey was without event. Though Oren glanced across now and then, no other travellers appeared on the far shore. They were approaching the end of the lake now, and the reeds had spread out into a great expanse on both sides of the causeway. A solitary white egret, standing motionless in the marsh, was the only witness to their passage. At midday Lucinda allowed them to rest and relieve their thirst. Marta took a long drink, then waded quietly out, froze, and lunged. She lowered her snout into the water and produced a wriggling brown crayfish. She brought it ashore, dropped it onto the causeway, held it down with one paw, and dispatched her prize in three noisy gulps, spitting out fragments of shell. At this Pharos and Wawet charged noisily into the water, hunting and thrashing frantically to no avail.

“Idiots,” Marta snapped at them, “you'll scare away everything that breathes. Get out.”

After the other dogs had sheepishly retreated to the causeway, Marta stepped into the marsh, cocked her head, leaned slowly to one side, and pounced again. She devoured her new prize with an icy glare of contempt towards the others, who were salivating a safe distance away, then returned for a third and a fourth after that. At last she let them back into the waters to try again. They had learned their lesson, and this time stalked the shallows patiently until they saw what they were looking for. Pharos struck, missed, then lunged desperately and hit the mark; he stepped cockily onto the causeway, let the crayfish drop, then yelped painfully as it nipped his paw. He seized it with fury, flung it hard on the ground, then scooped it up and crunched down hard, severing the creature in the middle and swallowing it with a grimace. He limped off a few yards to be by himself, trying to preserve the remaining shreds of his dignity.

Wawet, in the meantime, had emerged, wet and miserable and smelling even worse than usual. His efforts had only managed to muddy the water thoroughly, precluding further hunting for the present. He shook himself off, nosed up a broken fragment of carapace that Marta had discarded, licked out the scent with his pink tongue, then sat down alone, awkward and morose. Oren took pity on him, walked over, and laid a consoling hand on the dog's head; Wawet looked up gratefully and wagged his tail.

They walked on, mostly in silence, until late afternoon, when Oren looked behind him and saw that the dogs had stopped a few yards behind, Marta and Wawet resting on their haunches, Pharos standing alone a little off to one side. As Lucinda showed no sign of slowing, he caught up to her and asked what was wrong.

“It's as far as they go,” was her only explanation. As she did not break stride Oren walked alongside her for a few seconds, then jogged back.

“You're not coming?” he asked.

Wawet and Pharos avoided his glance, but Marta stared back at him and shook her head.

He stood there for a moment, reluctant to leave them, until the cat called his name. He caressed the brow of each dog in turn, and said “thank you,” though he couldn't have said for what.

When he had rejoined Lucinda again he looked back. The dogs remained in the same position, watching him, until they were swallowed by the horizon.

May 14, 2007

Copyright © 2007 Chris Kearin. All rights reserved.

4. The road (II)


The cheetah absented herself for a bit, he supposed to do her business, and when she returned let it be known that it was time to move on. She made no objection when the dogs, without waiting to be invited, shook off the dust and followed close behind. They gamboled about between Oren's strides, first one then another taking the lead, though Marta would now and then lunge and snap at her companions testily to make it clear who was boss. They had set out in the direction of the near shore of the lake, an opaque muddy green expanse in the morning sun. In daylight, as they descended from the knoll, he could see now that this body of water was much longer than it was across, and that a wide plain in fact separated it from the peaks that had appeared, in twilight, to descend right to its far edge. As they came onto level ground the lake disappeared from view for a time; in the otherwise featureless terrain he could tell, from the angle of their approach to the summits beyond, that they were continuing on the same course, though he didn't know whether the cat was taking her bearing by the same method or from other signs in the landscape that were unrecognizable to him.

After a half-hour's walk there was a subtle change in vegetation, the dry and brittle grass mixing with a low, loose tangle of waxy green vines that his feet shredded as they swung through. There was a new sound as well, the hoarse rasping and creaking of a numberless host of grasshoppers that flew up at the approach of the travellers and then settled again, a few yards away, to resume their song. The dogs slowed, peering intently into the weeds, and the cheetah, looking behind, cut her pace as well. First Pharos, then Marta, then finally Wawet pounced, then pounced again, until each had seized a struggling insect in their teeth. With a few quick crunches and grimaces they devoured their prey, then immediately began to stalk another.

Lucinda sat, watching the dogs, but made no move to share their repast. Oren stood, amused by the comical disproportion between the dogs' ferocious leaps and the size of their catch, until Pharos paused a moment in his hunting and suggested he join them.

“They say they're not bad, actually,” Lucinda chimed in. “You might as well. There'll be no other food today, in any case.”

His reservations overcome by hunger, he took up the chase, clumsily to begin with, until he seized hold of his first prize. He held the wriggling body up to his face, regarding it for a moment creature to creature, then closed his eyes as he popped the grasshopper between his teeth, crunching rapidly to suppress its furious motions. To his surprise, the taste was not nearly as repellant as he expected. The extremities were unpleasantly scratchy and dry, but he soon perfected a technique of nabbing an insect, severing its head with a quick bite, then removing the unpalatable wings and legs with his fingers at leisure before consuming the rest.

They slowly made headway as they hunted, the dogs and Oren joking and laughing as they crashed through the weeds and filled their bellies, until the cat began to draw ahead of them and they hastened to catch up. The lake was not far off now. The near shallows were lined, in both directions as far as he could see, with slender reeds whose tips were nodding in a halfhearted breeze. There a few small islands far out, a hundred yards long at most, and beyond them, near the opposite shore, a few waterfowl were floating on the waves. As they reached the water's edge, the dogs barrelled joyfully through the reeds, sending up great sheets of water, then paddled out and swam parallel to the shore for several minutes before emerging, exhausted, satisfied, and shaking water off their backs, to recline in the grass and dry in the sun. Lucinda took no part in their play, but did step down to the water for a long drink. He joined her, removing his shoes and wading in the soft mud nearby.

It was soon midday. Even along the water the sun was becoming intense and oppressive, but Lucinda did not let them rest for long. They skirted the reeds, heading north along what he was surprised to discover was a broad straight causeway that paralleled the shore. Here and there he saw wheeltracks in the dirt, but they were not new and already tiny spikes of grass were rising from the ruts where the earth had been scraped bare. The dogs were quieter now; they had fallen back a few yards and were travelling with heads lowered, panting in the heat. Now and then they would break off, cool themselves in the lake for a moment, then trot ahead until they had caught up again. The cheetah didn't bother, and kept to an even pace that Oren found he could manage as well, as long as he kept his mind focused on their journey and not on the heat.

In late afternoon, as the glare of the day began to cede to a hazy sunset, he caught sight of something moving towards them along the opposite shore, heading south. It was some time before he could make out what it was, or what it appeared to be: a great beast of burden, of a kind he had never before encountered, bearing a half dozen or so shrouded human figures on its back. The animal belonged to no order of quadruped known to him. Entirely coated in long, dark fur, it was several times the length of a horse, but of no greater girth. It moved with a ponderous, halting gait, though on account of the great length of its spindly legs it nevertheless covered ground quickly. The most peculiar thing about it was its long, whiskered head, which seemed equal parts rodent, canine, and bird, and bore an expression — as far as he could judge from the distance — of both fathomless sorrow and utter stupidity.

He tried to hail the riders, but it was impossible; no sound could travel across the lake's breadth, and they showed no sign of spying him and his companions. The dogs regarded the strange party with evident interest, but did not break stride. Lucinda, on the other hand, never gave them so much as a glance, and before long beast and riders had disappeared into the distance and the onrushing dark.

May 12, 2007

Copyright © 2007 Chris Kearin. All rights reserved.

3. The road (I)


A small runnel, no more than a few inches across, drained out of the pool. It quickly disappeared beneath the accumulated rubble on the canyon floor, but re-emerged, wider now, a hundred yards on. The cheetah stepped carefully around it, more fastidious than he about wetting her feet. For him the sensation of his shoes slapping on wet sand was a welcome relief after the hard miles of bruising stone. The first saplings appeared, anchored in cavities in the canyon walls where sudden flood waters could never reach, and little colonies of liverworts and moss hung on just above the waterline. A few gnats spiraled in the air, interrupting their frenzied dance as the man and the cat passed through, then resuming it again as soon as they were gone.

It took them most of what daylight hours remained to reach the bottom of the canyon. They were now walking on a broad grassy path, descending gently along a quick and shallow stream a yard across. The air was pleasantly cool and the walking easy enough, though he was worn down from the journey and lack of sustenance. Lucinda had slackened her pace measurably, keeping barely a stride ahead. She had not spoken again, nor had he, not even when they had rested, briefly, to take up water again. At length they were on level ground. The stream soon bent away from them and vanished through the late afternoon shadows into a copse of aspen, catkins bobbing on its surface. When they emerged from the woods, just at dusk, they came to a halt at the edge of a great uninterrupted grassland. Far in the distance ahead of them the sun was setting over dark high mountains. Judging from the reflection there seemed to be a body of water in their shadow, but it was impossible to tell its extent. Not a single tree or rooftop broke the plains; the prospect was terrible but also immensely beautiful.

The cat sat for some time sniffing the air and listening, one alert ear and then the other twitching lightly. A cool breeze was coming up, whistling softly through the blades of grass, and unseen insects were beginning their evening descants. Finally she stood, gestured to the right with her head, and said “this way,” moving on without further explanation. They hiked over featureless terrain for an hour or so, until they came to the slightest knoll in the plain. As they approached he caught an acrid whiff of ash, and when they were settled on the summit he saw that there were the remains of a fire there, in a broad bare ring, still hot to the touch. Patiently, he poked dry straws into the embers until the first wisps of smoke emerged. Covering the spot with his hand he fed in handfuls of dry grass. The fire began to glow and catch, then eagerly awoke, devouring fuel as fast as he could scrabble it up. With his feet and fingers he ripped up hunks of sod, which nourished but also slowed the fire. A few minutes of this and the flame was stable. He continued at his labors, heaping a reserve of thatch and sod in a pile to be ready when he needed it, then sat down, feeling the flickering warmth as it slowly began to dispel the evening chill.

Lucinda watched these maneuvers — with approval it seemed to him — and neither interfered nor assisted. She would not come as close as he to the fire, though she gave no sign of fearing it. He suspected she preferred to separate herself a bit from its roar, the better to listen for noises in the night. The smoke and embers drifted up into a moonless, cloudless sky; he looked above him at an immense canopy of stars such as he had never seen, unbearably high above him, incalculably ancient and remote.

When he awoke the fire was nearly extinguished, glowing but giving scant protection from the frigid dawn air. He rolled over and gazed at the last low wavering flames a yard or so in front of him. Feeling an unexpected warmth and weight at his back, he realized that the cheetah had been sleeping at his side, her body heaving gently and evenly with each breath she took. The soreness and strain he felt in every inch of his body told him how fatigued he had been from the previous day's journey, and also how hard had been the ground that he had slept on. He made no move to rise, and began to drift off again, until all at once he felt the cat tense behind him. She lifted her head, sniffing intently, listened, sniffed again, stood, and strode a few yards off, cocking her head to one side. He sat up, looked around in vain for a stone or anything he could use as a cudgel. Hearing nothing himself but the faint crackling of the fire, he watched for her reactions.

“We have visitors,” she concluded at last. “But it's all right, I believe I know them.”

These words were hardly out of her mouth when he heard an explosion of snarling and squabbling. He rose to his feet. The sounds were coming from a little hollow not far off, where the grass was being bent violently this way and that under the effects of some unseen commotion. After several minutes of this there was a single painful yelp, and then complete silence. A moment later the grass began to stir again, but more evenly; he could see patches of reddish-brown fur advancing up the side of the knoll, and now and then a triangular ear emerged above the stalks.

The newcomers were wild curs, the size of jackals, three of the most ragged and forlorn creatures he had ever set eyes on. Their motley coats, where not broken by bare patches and half-healed sores, were matted with burs and clumps of earth. The one in front, whom he immediately took for the leader, looked reasonably well-nourished at least, though she was slobbering in an alarming fashion through a mouth filled with broken and discolored teeth. The other two, including one who was moping sheepishly behind with a nasty, fresh-looking wound to one ear, were fairly well emaciated and showing their ribs. Too ridiculous to be frightening, but far too disreputable for their sudden appearance to be altogether welcome, they bore no sign of belonging to, or having been descended from, any discernible breed that he was familiar with, though he supposed that their miserable ancestors must have survived in the surrounding wastes for centuries beyond counting.

“Look, boys,” said the leader, lowering her head and peering at Lucinda, but remaining carefully out of the range of her formidable claws, “una lonza leggera e presta molto, che di pel macolato è coverta.” At this, the other two burst into sniggers and pounced on each other, snapping their jaws in an absurd pantomime of ferociousness and spilling each other onto the ground.

The cat seemed unimpressed by their antics. “Very funny, Marta. But a cheetah is not a lonza.”

“A cheetah?” said the one with the bloodied ear. “I hear you all mate with your first cousins.“

This prompted another outburst of highjinks, this time taking in the leader as well. The three dogs circled and tussled until Marta's jaws seized firm hold of the face of the one who had spoken, holding him frozen until he looked up at her submissively from one brown eye. She released him with an admonitory growl.

“It is true that our numbers are of late somewhat reduced and that our opportunities in some regards are narrower than they were in times past. We have been forced to make concessions to difficult times. But I still could crush your throats and make a meal of you were I so inclined,” Lucinda said pointedly, “not that I am likely to be, as long as there is more salubrious game afoot and you don't make yourself even more of a nuisance than you have already.”

This silenced the dogs for the moment, and they fell back to a respectful distance. Settling on their haunches, they occupied themselves with gnawing at their coats, whether in search of vermin or out of nervous habit he could not tell. The cat turned towards him.”

“This, as you have heard, is Marta. Her companions are Pharos” — she nodded in his direction — “and that sorry sight with the indentations of Marta's teeth on his snout is Wawet.”

He mumbled a greeting, which they barely acknowledged with nearly inaudible courtesies. The cat seemed content to leave it at that, but after a moment Marta spoke up:

”Lucinda, aren't you going to introduce us to your friend?” she said, with a peculiar emphasis on the last word that he found a trifle unsettling.

”Of course. My apologies,” she said, with as much amusement as condescension. “This is — ” She hesitated, but he interrupted her before she could resume.

“Oren,” he said decisively, surprising even himself. “My name is Oren.”

The cat looked at him rather quizzically, but held her tongue.

“Pleased to meet you, Oren,” Marta responded politely, and her two companions grudgingly echoed her. “Yeah, okay, Oren, nice to meet you.”

May 5, 2007

Copyright © 2007 Chris Kearin. All rights reserved.

2. The desert (II)


The defile through the ravine proved hard going. There was no trail to speak of. Sometime in the past — it might have been a month ago or a thousand years, he couldn't say — a sudden flood, rushing down from the hills in the distance, must have scoured through the sand and rock, leaving a ragged channel of deep pits, exposed boulders, and debris, and stranding here and there the crumbling, half-petrified remains of great dark columns of timber that had been carried from some hidden grove. The cat, on all fours, was more sure-footed and agile than he, and could easily leap over all but the highest obstacles, but even she picked her way slowly. Within an hour he had bruised one knee, twisted an ankle painfully, and scraped the skin from both of his palms. Sweating under the full sun, he was dehydrated and weak from lack of nourishment, but he stumbled and climbed and crawled on in silence, squinting ahead to make sure the cat had not abandoned him. When he slipped and his foot dislodged a stone, exposing an exquisite, tiny blue scorpion nestled beneath, he gave an involuntary shout, but she neither turned nor slowed her pace. He scrambled to his feet and hustled a few steps down the channel. When he looked back he saw that the scorpion had wheeled around to face him, its tail arched high, but it held its ground and made no move to follow.

To his surprise, around midday the air began to feel perceptibly cooler, though still uncomfortably warm given his exertions. They were now in a narrow canyon, partly sheltered from the sun by sandstone cliffs on either side. Here and there his fingers touched patches of darker sand, sheltered beneath an overhanging shelf or tucked behind a boulder, that felt slightly damp to his touch. A few yellow patches of lichen, unexpectedly garish in their colorless surroundings, clung to the rock walls.

When the cat stopped, panting lightly, and turned to await him at the foot of a steep and ragged slope of jagged and broken stone, he did not at first see the tiny pool. In diameter it was no larger than the kind of ornamental fountain one might find in the garden of a modest country cottage; the water, trailing down from the heights in a thin trickle, was no more than a few inches deep. In spite of the great relief this sight provided him, he did not immediately advance to drink. He eyed the cat for a moment, and only after she inclined her head and took in a long draught did he kneel down on the opposite side and attempt to do the same. At first he simply lowered his lips directly onto the water and stuck out his tongue, unconsciously mimicking the cheetah's technique. He immediately realized that this not only made him look ridiculous but that it was also uncomfortable and hopelessly inefficient. He turned his head to the side, lowering one cheek into the pool, but this was hardly better. Finally, blushing a bit in view of what he felt sure was a look of exasperation on the cat's face, he sat back, cupped both hands through the surface of the water, raised them to his lips, and began to slake his thirst. The water was slightly warm and mineraly, but after a few handfuls he began to feel markedly better, and sat back against the damp wall to rest.

“There are easier trails than this one, by the way,” the cat said, “but there is no water on them, and since you have made no provision for desert travel there was no choice but to come this way. You may rest here for a little while, but then we must continue if we are to reach safe camp by nightfall.”

Having said this, and before he had time to answer, she leaped away from him further down the canyon and quickly vanished from sight beyond a turn in the rock. He felt a sudden terror and confusion at being thus abandoned, but he was too exhausted to ponder the question of whether the cheetah's sudden disappearance rightly ought to disturb him or not. There being nothing he could do in any case to ensure her return, he had little choice but to trust that she would. He drank another few handfuls of water, nestled himself as best he could in the shade at the bottom of the cliff, and almost immediately fell asleep.

He awoke to the sound of footprints on sand. He wasn't sure how long he had dozed, but the shadows down the canyon had crossed over to the other wall, and he was now sweating in the sun's full glare. Lucinda stood over him; when he glanced up at her he was startled to find that her muzzle was streaked with blood. He sat up in alarm, but when he put his hand down for support he felt something small and soft beside him that had not been there before. It was a tiny gazelle, a yearling perhaps, no bigger than a lamb. Its neck had been broken by the cat's teeth, no doubt with a single, efficient bite; its head was splayed back awkwardly in a position that in life would have been impossible. Its back legs were gone, and the flesh on its lower back was exposed and caked with blood and sand.

“I've already eaten. The rest is yours. Eat what you want quickly, for we'll need to make up some ground.”

He stared dumbly at the delicate body, then touched one foreleg. It was still warm, though barely, and not a bit stiff; he could have bent and moved the joints as easily as if the gazelle were still cantering across the savannah. The idea of actually consuming what remained of it seemed, at first, inconceivable, but then he reflected on the emptiness in his belly and on what an opportunity, perhaps an irreplaceable one, was now at hand to relieve his hunger. One obstacle remained, however; he had no way of starting a fire, nor any timber to sustain one. His meal would be the raw carrion at his fingertips or there would be no meal at all.

Lucinda stood a few yards off and waited, wordlessly, her long tail flicking now and then. He could not disjoint the carcass with his hands, and so he knelt alongside it, raised what remained of its hindquarters in the air with both hands, and lowered his mouth to the exposed flesh. He hesitated, then realized that the only way to do what had to be done was to attack it ferociously, all at once, and gnaw off a piece before he had time to think about what he was doing. With a sudden movement he closed his eyes and snapped his jaws shut, but even as he did so the sensation and flavor of the raw flesh overwhelmed him with horror and disgust. He spat out the meager scraps his teeth had torn loose, heaved violently, and lunged to the water, trying vainly to wash away the taste, rubbing his teeth frantically with his fingers to scour away every trace that remained.

The cat watched him sidelong, then exhaled and turned her back on him, preparing to continue the day's march. He stood up, still feeling receding ripples of nausea, and prepared to follow, then hesitated and looked down at the remains of the gazelle.

“Leave it,” she said, barely looking back. “You'll go hungry, is all. It's of no use to me.”

April 30, 2007

Copyright © 2007 Chris Kearin. All rights reserved.

1. The desert (I)


The first thing he felt, as he found himself emerging from a slumber he could not recall having begun, was the cold. He knew at once that it wasn't the kind of fierce cold one might die of; it was instead a steady, thorough chill, one that seemed to be coming as much from inside as out. Shivering lightly, he tried hunching the covers closer around him, then realized that there weren't any. He drew up his knees and bent his head down, and was surprised to find that this caused a burning sensation to be produced along the side of his face. His touched the spot and felt grit between his fingers. He puzzled at this for a moment, eyes closed, even as he became aware that the same substance, whatever it was, was adhering to his lips and had worked its way between his teeth and gums. Trying to recall whether he should know what this substance might be, and whether he ought to be alarmed, he stretched out the fingers of a still numb hand and realized that there was a quantity of whatever it was right alongside him, that in fact he appeared to be actually lying atop a considerable pile of it. He now attempted to open his eyes, but immediately he did so he felt an unexpected sharp pain in both. He rolled onto his stomach and raised himself up on all fours, then sat back, rubbing the sand from his tearing eyes.

It was another minute or two before he was able to stagger to his feet and look around a bit, eyelids half-raised and flickering shut as stray grains continued to drift across his cornea. When at last he was able to fully open his eyes he found that doing did not immediately clarify his situation; the sun must have just risen, as the light was grey and thin, and a lingering mist of windblown dust and sand kept him from seeing more than a few yards in any direction. There were a few bare tufts of grass here and there around him, but nothing more. Still feeling the lingering cold, he sat back down, then shifted on his haunches so that he could reach into his pants pockets. He wasn't sure what he hoped to find in them, but in any case they were empty. The same proved to be the case with the single pocket of his denim shirt and the pockets of his thin tan windbreaker.

Putting his hand to his jaw he saw that it had been several days since he had shaved, the stubble prickly against his fingers. He was starting to feel a bit thirsty, not uncomfortably so but enough to make him concerned about his predicament should there be no source of potable water nearby. He felt no hunger, on the other hand, just the slightest awareness that he hadn't as yet eaten anything that morning.

It took a while for the wind to drop and the sun to burn through the remaining haze of sediment that still swirled in the air. The coolness of the morning dissipated almost at once, and he felt the first stirrings of what would undoubtedly be a torrid midday. When he could finally see he beheld a prospect of undulating terrain in all directions, but with a high, smoothly descending slope at his back. Whichever way he looked there was nothing but sand, weathered and crumbling stones, and sparse grass. Not a single shrub or even a twig lay in sight. He saw a few solitary large red ants climbing laboriously over the sand; they were the only things that moved. The view was not without its harsh beauty — it might even be called sublime — but it was also appalling. Clearly, he realized, he would not be able to survive long in this environment.

“Where the hell am I?” he asked aloud.

To his surprise, he was almost immediately answered. The voice that came was unmistakably feminine, but it was not a woman's voice by any means. It had a throaty, resonant quality like no other voice he had heard. The tone was soft and pure, but not particularly soothing. It said simply:

“You are nowhere.”

He spun around and immediately, instinctively, froze in terror. It was some kind of large cat, roughly his own dimensions but no doubt a bit lighter in weight in view of the length of its slender, athletic legs, a formidable beast in any case, to take on unarmed. It came into his head that it was probably a cheetah, though he had never before seen one in the flesh. The cat was watching him, without apparent eagerness, from a seated position a few yards behind him. He was sure she had not been there just a moment ago, but no doubt the creature was stealthy and quiet afoot. He thought about running, then realized this was idiotic; tried to pick up a stone, but could not scrabble up one small enough to wield. The cat ignored his efforts, stood up, and walked over to him without hurry.

“You are not excessively removed from other places, however, provided you are prepared for a hike. I don't suppose you have brought any water?”

An answer being superfluous, he said nothing; he was, anyway, too stupefied to speak. The cat began to walk away from him, headed down the slope in the direction of a small ravine. When he failed to follow she stopped and looked back.

“Try to keep up with my pace, if you can. I'm willing to make some allowance for you, but there are limits. You may call me Lucinda, by the way; it's as good a name as any other.”

He collected his wits sufficiently to decide that following her, as uncertain a prospect as it seemed, was in all likelihood his only option. Some fleeting memory of social grace suggested to him that he ought to respond in kind to her introduction. He was about to open his mouth and tell her his name, but his mind came up blank. Since she showed no inclination to await a response, and was already padding steadily away from him, he let it go for the moment and stumbled along behind her as best he could.

April 22, 2007

Copyright © 2007 Chris Kearin. All rights reserved.

Introduction



In the spring and summer of 2007 I wrote a narrative entitled The Palace of the King of Night, described in its subtitle as "a novella, or folly." Later, when I phased out the website where I had originally posted it, I elected not to transfer it over to my current blog. Not being inclined to revise or or even re-read it at that particular moment, I suspected that the length and likely artistic shortcomings of the piece would render it a distraction from what I was interested in doing at my new address. For whatever it's worth, I have decided to make it available now, in installments, but spun off onto a separate blog.

The novella originated, as does much of the (relatively little) fiction that I write, in a dream or half-dream, and the opening scene and perhaps a little more derive directly from that source. Once the story got going, however, I more or less consciously steered it according to a preconceived plan, and it became a kind of ersatz Grail legend, set not in a forest, as is traditional, but in an arid landscape that perhaps was also a kind of underworld or land of the dead. The peculiar artwork of Charles-Frédéric Soehnée (see above) was a partial inspiration, at least for atmosphere, and their were faint traces of what I knew about ancient Egyptian mythology, which was (and remains) very little.

I am far happier composing shorter forms (a few paragraphs) and so the writing of the novella was both exhilarating and grueling. I'm afraid its deficiencies will be all too evident, but perhaps something of what impelled me to keep at it will come across. I dislike reading long texts on a screen, and ideally I would print this up as a chapbook, give the copies away to the twenty or so people who would be polite enough to pretend to read it, and leave it at that. Until I get around to doing so, here it is, warts and all.