Thursday, January 1, 2015

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.

No comments :

Post a Comment