Little, Big

Twenty-five years passed.

On a night late in the autumn, George Mouse stepped out the window of what had been the third-floor library of his townhouse and through a small covered bridge, which connected his window with the window of what had once been a kitchen in a tenement that adjoined his building. The ex-kitchen was dark and cold; George Mouse’s breath was manifest in the light of his lantern. As he walked, rats or mice moved away from him and his light, he heard their scratches and rustlings but saw nothing. Without opening a door (there hadn’t been a door for years) he went out into the hallway and started carefully down the stairs, carefully because the stairs were rotten and loose where they weren’t missing altogether.

Keeping People Out

On the floor below there were light and laughter; people greeted him as they went in and out of apartments with the makings of a communal dinner; children chased along the halls. But the first floor was dark again, unused now except for storage. George, holding his lantern aloft, peered down along the dark hall to the outer door, and could see its great bar in place, its chains and locks secure. He went around the stairs to the door which led to the basement, taking Out as he went an enormous bunch of keys. One, specially marked, dark as an old penny, unlocked the ancient Segal lock of the basement.

Every time he opened the basement door, George fretted over whether he shouldn’t put a nice new padlock on it; this old lock was a toy by now, an elder’s grip, anyone could break it. He always decided that a new lock would only make people wonder, and a shoulder against the door would satisfy curiosity, new padlock or no.

Oh, they had all grown very circumspect in this matter of keeping people out.

Down, the stairs, even more carefully, God knew what lived down here amid the rusted pipe and old boilers and fabulous detritus, he had once stepped on something large, soft and dead and nearly broken his neck. At the bottom of the stairs he hung up his lantern, went to a corner, and maneuvered an old trunk so that he could stand on it and reach a high, ratproof shelf.

He had had the gift, predicted long ago by Great-aunt Cloud (left him by a stranger, and not money), for a long time before he learned how he could have come by it. Even before he learned, he was in his Mouse way secretive about it, the result of growing up on the street and youngest in a nosy family. Everyone admired the potent, musky hashish George seemed always to be provided with, and all desired to have some; but he would not (could not) introduce them to his dealer (who was long dead). He kept everyone happy with free bits, and the pipe was always full at his place; but though sometimes, after a few pipes of it, he would look around at his stupefied company and feel guilt for his gloating, and his great, his hilarious, his astonishing secret would burn within him to be spilt, he never told, not a soul.

It was Smoky who, inadvertently, revealed to George the source of his great good fortune. “I read somewhere,” Smoky said (his usual entry into conversation), “that oh fifty or sixty years ago, your neighborhood was a Middle Eastern neighborhood. Lots of Lebanese. And the little candy stores and places like that sold hashish, right out in the open. You know, along with the toffee and halvah. For a nickel, you could buy a lot. Big hunks. Like chocolate bars.”

And indeed they were very much like chocolate bars… George had felt like a cartoon mouse suddenly struck over the head with the great, well-worn mallet of Revelation.

Ever afterward, when he went down to take from his hoard, he had imagined himself a goat-bearded Levantine, hooknosed and skull-capped, a secret pederast who gave free baklava to the olive boys of the streets. Fussily he would arrange the old trunk and climb on it (lifting the frayed skirts of an imaginary dressing gown) and lift the lid of the wooden crate stenciled with curling letters.

Not much left. Time to reorder soon.

Beneath a thick covering of silvered paper, layer upon layer of lay. The layers were separated by yellow oiled paper. The bars themselves were wrapped tightly too in a third sort of oily paper. He took out two, considered a moment, and put one reluctantly back. It would not, though he had exclaimed so in awe many years ago when he had discovered what it was, last forever. He replaced the layer of oiled paper and then the layer of silvered paper; he drew back on the stout lid, and pushed in place the ancient shapeless nails; he blew across it to resettle the dust. He got down, and studied the bar in the lantern’s light as he had the very first by electric light. He peeled away its paper carefully. It was as black as chocolate, and about the size of a playing card, an eighth of an inch thin. It bore on it a convolute impress: A trademark? Tax stamp? Mystic sign? He had never decided.

He pushed the trunk he had used for a stepladder back into its place in the corner, took up the lantern and started up the stairs. In his cardigan pocket was a piece of hashish something like a hundred years old, and, George Mouse had long ago decided, not reduced in potency by age at all. Improved, perhaps, like vintage port.

News from Home

He was relocking the cellar door when there came a pounding at the street door, so sudden and unexpected that he cried out. He waited a moment, hoping it was some madman’s momentary whim and wouldn’t come again. But it did. He went to the door, listened at it without speaking, and heard frustrated cursing outside. Then, with a growl, the someone grabbed at the bars and began to shake them.

“That’s no use, that’s no use,” George called. The shaking stopped.

“Well, open the door.”

“What?” It was a habit of George’s, when stuck for an answer, to act as though he hadn’t heard the question.

“Open the door!”

“Now, you know I can’t just open the door, man. You know what it’s like.”

“Well, listen. Can you tell me which of these buildings is number two-twenty-two?”

“Who wants to know?”

“Why does everybody in this city answer everything with a question?”

“Huh?”

“Why can’t you open the door and talk to me like a god DAMN human being?”

Silence. The horrid depths of frustration in that outcry touched George’s heart, and he listened at the door to see if there would be more; he tingled secretly at the safety he felt behind the door’s fastness.

“Can you tell me,” the someone began, and George could hear his rage strangled down into politeness, “please, where I can find, or if you know, the Mouse house or George Mouse?”

“Yes,” George said. “I am him.” That was risky, but surely even the most desperate bill-collectors and process-servers weren’t abroad this late. “Who are you?”

“My name is Auberon Barnable. My father…” But already the clankings and scrapings of locks and shootings of bolts drowned him out. George reached into the darkness and pulled the person standing on the threshold into the hall. With quick skill he reslammed and barred and bolted the door, and then raised his lamp to look at his cousin.

“So you’re the baby,” he said, noting with perverse pleasure how ill this remark sat on the tall youth. The moving lantern made his expression changeful, but it wasn’t really a changeful face; it was narrow and tight; in fact the whole of him, slim and neat as a pen in pipe-rack black clothes that fit him well, was somewhat rigid and aloof. Just pissed off, George thought. He laughed, and patted his arm. “Hey, how’s the folks? How’s Elsie, Lacy, and Tilly, whatever their names are? What brings you here?”

“Dad wrote,” Auberon said, as though unwilling to waste effort answering all this if it had already been done.

“Oh yeah? Well, you know how the mail’s been. Look, look. Come on. We don’t have to stand in the hall. Colder than a witch’s tit here. Coffee and something?”

Smoky’s son shrugged shortly. “Be careful on the stairs,” George said, and the lamplight threaded them both back through the tenement and over the little bridge till they stood together on the threadbare rug where Auberon’s parents had first met.

Somewhere along their route, George had picked up an old three-and-a-half-legged kitchen chair. “Did you run away from home? Have a seat,” he said, motioning Auberon to a tattered wingback.

“My father and mother know I left, if that’s what you mean,” Auberon said, a bit haughtily, which was understandable, George thought. Then he shrank back in the chair: George had with a grunt and a wild look raised the broken chair over his head, and, his face twisted with exertion, brought it down on the stone hearth. It fell clattering to pieces. “Did they approve?” George asked, tossing the chair-parts into the fire.

“Of course.” Auberon crossed his legs and plucked at his trouser-knee. “He wrote. I told you. He said to look you up.”

“Oh, yeah. Did you walk?”

“No.” With some contempt.

“And you came to the City to…”

“To seek my fortune.”

“Aha.” George hung a kettle over the fire and took down a precious can of contraband coffee from a bookshelf. “Any glimpse yet what form it might take?”

“No, not exactly. Only…” George mmm-hmmm’d encouragingly as he prepared the coffeepot and set out mismatched cups. “I wanted, I want to write, or be a writer.” George raised his eyebrows. Auberon was twisted around in the wing-back chair as though these admissions were escaping him against his will, and he were trying to hold them in. “I thought television.”

“Wrong coast.”

“What?”

“They do all that television out on the Sunny, the Golden, the West Coast.” Auberon locked his right foot behind his left calf and declined to answer this. George, searching for something in the bookshelves and drawers and beating his many pockets, wondered how that antique desire could have made its way to Edgewood. Odd how the young take to these dying trades so hopefully. When he was young, when the last poets were prattling incommunicado, glowworms gone out in their dells of dew, boys of twenty-one set out to be poets… At length he found what he was looking for: a gift-shop dagger-shaped letter-opener chased with enamel which he had found years ago in an abandoned apartment and sharpened to a fine edge. “Takes a lot of ambition, that television,” he said, “and drive, and the failures are many.” He poured water into the coffeepot.

“How would you know?” his cousin said swiftly, as though he had heard that adult wisdom often before.

“Because,” George said, “I haven’t got those qualities, and I haven’t failed in that field cause I don’t, to wit, QED. Coffee’s running through.” The boy didn’t crack a smile. George put the coffeepot on a trivet that bore a joke in Pennsylvania Dutch argot, and broke out a tin box of cookies, mostly broken. He also took from his cardigan pocket the brown square of hashish. “Like a taste?” he said, not at all grudgingly, he thought, showing Auberon the square. “Best Lebanese. I think.”

“I don’t use drugs.”

“Oh, aha.”

Judging nicely, George cut off a corner with his Florentine instrument, pierced the fragment with its point, and dunked it in his cup. He sat turning the knife in the cup and looking at his cousin, who was blowing on his coffee with single-minded intensity. Ah, it was lovely to be old and gray, and to have learned to ask neither for too much nor too little. “So,” he said. He lifted the knife from his coffee to see that the fragment had nearly dissolved. “Tell us your history.”

Auberon was mum.

“Come on, let’s have it.” He slurped the fragrant brew eagerly. “News from home.”

It took a deal of questioning, but as the night wore down, Auberon did speak phrases, yield anecdotes. It was enough for George; his laced coffee finished, he heard a whole life in Auberon’s sentences, complete with amusing detail and odd conjunctions; pathos, even magic, even. He found himself looking into his cousin’s closed heart as into the halved shell of a coiled and chambered nautilus.

What George Mouse Heard

He’d left Edgewood early, awakening just before dawn, as he’d intended to—it was an ability he shared with his mother, that he could wake when he chose. He lit a lamp; it would be another hour or two before Smoky shuffled down to the basement to start up the generator. There was a trembling tightness around his diaphragm, as though something struggled for release or escape there. He knew the phrase “butterflies in your stomach,” but is one of those people to whom phrases like that communicate nothing. He has had butterflies in his stomach as he’d had the willies, and the jitters; more than once he has been beside himself; but has always thought these experiences were his alone, and never knew they were so common as to have names. His ignorance allowed him to compose poetry about the weird feelings he felt, a handful of typewritten pages which as soon as he was dressed in the neat black suit he put carefully into the green canvas knapsack along with his other clothes, his toothbrush, what else? An antique Gillette, four bars of soap, a copy of Brother North-wind’s Secret, and the testamentary stuff for the lawyers.

He walked through the sleeping house for what he solemnly imagined was the last time, on his way to an unknown destiny. The house seemed in fact to be quite restless, tossing and turning in an unquiet half-dream, opening its eyes, startled, as he passed. A watery, wintery light lay along the corridors; the imaginary rooms and halls were real in the gloom.

“You look as though you hadn’t shaved,” Smoky said uncertainly when Auberon came into the kitchen. “You want some oatmeal?”

“I didn’t want to wake up everybody, running the water and everything. I don’t think I can eat.”

Smoky went on fussing with the old wood stove anyway. It always amazed Auberon as a child to see his father go to bed at night in this house and then appear at his desk in the schoolhouse next morning as though translated, or as though there were two of him. The first time he got up early enough to catch his father with frowzy hair and a plaid robe, on his way between sleep and school, it was as though he had caught out a conjurer; but in fact Smoky always made his own breakfast, and though for years the glossy white electric range has stood cold and useless in the corner, like a proud old housekeeper unwillingly retired, and Smoky was as unhandy with fires as he was about most things, he went on doing it; it only meant he had to get up earlier to begin.

Auberon, growing impatient with his father’s patience, bent down before the stove and got it angrily flaming in a moment; Smoky stood behind him, hands in his robe pockets, admiring; and in a while they sat opposite each other with bowls of oatmeal, and coffee too, a gift from George Mouse in the City.

They sat for a moment, hands in laps, looking not into each other’s eyes but into the brown Brazilian eyes of the two coffee cups together; and then Smoky, with an apologetic cough, got up and got the brandy bottle from a high shelf. “It’s a long walk,” he said, and spiked the coffee.

Smoky?

Yes; George could see that there could well have grown in him in the last years a sort of constriction of feeling sometimes that a nip can untangle. No problem really; just a nip, so he can begin to ask Auberon if he’s sure he has enough money, if he’s got Grandpa’s agents’ address and George Mouse’s address and all the legal instruments and so on about the inheritance and so on. And yes he does.

Even after Doc died, his stories continued to be published in the City’s evening paper—George read them even before he read the funnies. Besides these posthumous stories squirreled away like winter nuts, Doc left a mess of affairs as thick and entangling as any briar patch; lawyers and agents pursued his intentions there, and might for years. Auberon had a special interest in these thorny matters because Doc had specified a bequest to him, enough to live for a year or so and write unhampered. Doc had hoped, actually—though he was too shy to say so—that his grandson and the best friend of his last years might take up the little adventures, though Auberon was at a disadvantage there—he would have to make them up, unlike Doc, who for years had been getting them firsthand.

There’s a certain embarrassment, George could easily imagine, in learning that you can talk to animals. No one knew how long Doc’s conviction was in growing, though some of the grown-ups could remember his first claiming it was so, shyly, tentatively, as a joke they supposed, a lame sort of joke, but then Doc’s jokes weren’t ever very funny except to millions of children. It took later the form of a metaphor or puzzle: he recounted his conversations with salamanders and chickadees with a cryptic smile, as though inviting his family to guess why he spoke so. In the end, he ceased trying to hide it: what he heard from his correspondents was just too interesting not to recount.

Since all this was happening as Auberon was coming into consciousness, it only seemed to him that his grandfather’s powers were growing surer, his ear more keen. When, on one of their long walks together through the woods, Doc at last stopped pretending that what he heard the animals say was made up, and admitted that he was passing on conversations he heard, they both felt a lot better. Auberon never much liked let’s-pretend, and Doc had hated lying to the child. The science of it escaped him, he said; maybe it was only a result of his long devotion; anyway, it was only certain animals he could understand, small ones, the ones he knew best. Bears, moose, the scarce and fabulous cats, the solitary, long-winged predators he knew nothing of. They disdained him, or couldn’t discourse, or had no use for small talk—he couldn’t tell.

“And insects and bugs?” Auberon asked him.

“Some, but not all,” Doc answered.

“Ants?”

“Oh, yes, ants,” Doc said, “sure.”

And taking his grandson’s hands where they knelt together beside a new yellow hill, he gratefully translated for him the mindless shoptalk of the ants within.

George Mouse Goes on Overhearing

Auberon was asleep now, on the bursting loveseat, curled beneath a blanket, as who would not be who had risen as early and come as far in as many ways as he had today; but George Mouse, subject to tics and exulting on the giddy chutes and ladders of High Thought, kept watch over the boy and continued to overhear his adventures.

When, oatmeal untasted but coffee finished, he went out the great front door, Smoky’s hand paternally on his shoulder though it was higher than his own, Auberon saw that he wasn’t to make his getaway without goodbyes. His sisters, all three, had come to see him off; Lily and Lucy were walking up the drive arm-in-arm, Lily bearing her twins fore-and-aft in canvas carriers, and Tacey was just turning in at the end of the drive on her bike.

He might have known, but hadn’t wished this sendoff, wished it less than anything because of the formal finality his sisters’ presence always lent to whatever partings or arrivals or conjunctions they attended. How the hell anyway had they known this was to be the morning? He had only told Smoky late last night, and sworn him to secrecy. A certain familiar rage rose in him whose name he didn’t know was rage. “Hi, hi,” he said.

“We came to say goodbye,” Lily said. Lucy shifted the front twin and added, “And give you some things.”

“Yeah? Well.” Tacey turned her bike neatly at the porch stairs and dismounted. “Hi, hi,” Auberon said again. “Did you bring along the whole county?” But of course they hadn’t brought anyone else; no one else’s presence was necessary, as theirs was.

Perhaps because their names were so similar, or because so often in the community they appeared and acted together, but people around Edgewood always found it hard to distinguish among Tacey, Lily, and Lucy. In fact they were very different. Tacey and Lily were descendants of their mother and her mother, long, bigboned and coltish, though Lily had inherited from somewhere a head of fine straight blond hair, straw spun into gold as the princess in the story spun it, where Tacey’s was curly reddish-gold like Alice’s. Lucy, though, was all Smoky’s; shorter than her sisters, with Smoky’s dark curls and Smoky’s cheerful bemused face and even something of Smoky’s congenital anonymity in her round eyes. But in another sense it was Lucy and Lily who were a pair: the sort of sisters who can finish one another’s sentences, and feel even at a distance one another’s pains. For years the two of them kept up a running series of seemingly pointless jokes; one would ask, in a serious tone, a silly question, and the other would just as seriously give an even sillier answer, and then they would (never cracking a smile) give the joke a number. The numbers ran into the hundreds. Tacey, perhaps because she was the oldest, was remote from their games; she was a naturally regal and private person who cultivated intensely a number of passions, for the alto recorder, for raising rabbits, for fast bikes. On the other hand, in all complots, plans, and ceremonies that dealt with grownups and their affairs, it had always been Tacey who was priestess, and the younger two her acolytes.

(In one thing all three were alike: they each had only one eyebrow, running over their noses from outer eye-corner to outer eye-corner without a break. Of Smoky and Alice’s children, only Auberon was without it.)

Auberon’s memories of his sisters would always be of their playing at the mysteries, birth, marriage, love, and death. He had been their Baby when he was very young, chivvied around from imaginary bath to imaginary hospital endlessly, a living doll. Later he was compelled to be Bridegroom, and finally Departed when he was old enough to be pleased simply to lie there while they ministered to him. And it was not only play; as they grew older, all three seemed to develop an instinctive grasp of the scenes and acts of quotidian life, of the curtains rising and rung down in the lives around them. No one remembered telling them (they were aged four, six, and eight then) that the youngest of the Bird girls was to be married to Jim Jay over in Plainfield, but they appeared at the church in jeans with bunches of wildflowers in their hands and knelt decorously on the church steps while inside the bride and groom took their vows. (The wedding photographer, waiting outside for the couple to appear, took a whimsical picture of the three darlings which later won a prize in a photo contest. It looked posed. In a sense, it was.)

From an early age, they had all three learned needlework, becoming more skilled and taking up in turn more difficult and esoteric branches of it as they got older, tatting, silk embroidery, crewel-work; what Tacey learned first from Great-aunt Cloud and her grandmother she taught to Lily, and Lily to Lucy; and as they sat together expertly doing and undoing with thread (often in the many-sided music room where the sun came in at all seasons) they kept up among themselves a constant calendar of the passings, pledges, partings, parturitions expected (announced or not) among the people they knew. They made knots, they snipped threads, they knew all; it came to pass that no sad or glad occasion was unknown to them, and few went forward without the three of them present. Those that did seemed incomplete, unsanctioned. Their only brother’s departure for his appointment with destiny and lawyers was not to be one of those.

“Here,” said Tacey, plucking from her bike’s basket a small package done up in ice-blue paper, “take this, and open it when you get to the City.” She kissed him lightly.

“Take this,” Lily said, giving him one wrapped in mintygreen, “and open it when you think of it.”

“Take this,” Lucy said. Hers was wrapped in white. “Open it when you want to come home again.”

He gathered these together, nodding, embarrassed, and put them in his duffle. The girls said nothing more about them, only sat for a while with him and Smoky on the porch, across which dead leaves blew unswept, gathering up under the seats of wicker chairs (whith ought to go in the basement, Smoky thought; an old chore of Auberon’s; he felt a chill of foreboding, or loss, but thought it to be the somber November gloaming only). Auberon, who was young and solitary enough to think that he might have escaped his house without anyone being the wiser, that no one paid much attention to his movements, sat constrainedly with them watching dawn grow; then he slapped his knees, rose, shook his father’s hand, kissed his sisters, promised to write, and at last stepped off southward into the sounding sea of leaves, striking for the crossroads where a bus could be hailed; he didn’t look back at the four who watched him go.

“Well,” Smoky said, remembering his own journey to the City at an age near Auberon’s, “he’ll have adventures.”

“Lots,” Tacey said.

“It’ll be fun,” Smoky said, “probably, possibly. I remember…”

“Fun for a while,” Lily said.

“Not much fun,” Lucy said. “Fun first, though, at least.”

“Dad,” said Tacey, seeing him trembling, “you shouldn’t sit out here in your ’jammies, for God’s sake.”

He rose, pulling his bathrobe around him. This afternoon he would have to get in the porch furniture, before snow piled absurdly in its summery seats.

A Friend of the Doctor’s

Shifting focus, George Mouse watched from a niche in the Old Stone Fence as Auberon came across the Old Pasture, short-cutting his way toward Meadowbrook. The Meadow Mouse in that niche, grass blade between his teeth and gloomy thoughts in his mind, watched the human come toward him, crunching great twigs and dead leaves by the hundreds beneath his boots. Ah, the great and clumsy feet of them! The shod feet, larger and harder even than the Brown Bear’s of ancient memory! Only the fact that they had only two each, and came around rarely and singly near his home, allowed the Meadow Mouse to feel somewhat more kindly toward them than toward the house-wrecking Cow, his personal behemoth. As Auberon came closer, passing indeed very close to the niche where he huddled, the Meadow Mouse had a surprise. This was the boy—grown huge—who had once come with the Doctor who was the Meadow Mouse’s great-great-grandfather’s friend; the very same boy that the Meadow Mouse as a tiny mousling had once observed, hands on his bare and scabby knees peering intently into the familial home as the Doctor took down Great-great-grandfather’s memoirs, which were so famous now not only among generations of Meadow Mice but throughout the Great World as well! His natural timidity overcome by a rush of family feeling, the Meadow Mouse put his nose out of the niche in the wall and attempted a greeting: “My great-great-grandfather knew the Doctor,” he called out. But the fellow went right on.

The Doctor could talk with the animals, but the boy, apparently, could not.

A Shepherd in the Bronx

When Auberon was standing by the crossroads ankle-deep in golden leaves, and Smoky was standing abstracted before his tribe who puzzled that he had fallen silent, chalk to board, between noun and predicate, Daily Alice beneath her figured quilt (yes! George Mouse gasped at the breadth and length of his own Mental Sympathies) dreamed that her son Auberon, who lived in the City now, had telephoned to tell her how he was getting on.

“For a while I was a shepherd in the Bronx,” the disembodied and still secretive voice was saying, “but when November came, I sold the flock;” and as he told her of it, she could see the Bronx he spoke of: its green, cropped sea-hills, a space of clean, windy air between those hills and the low wet clouds. It was as though she had been there herself when he shepherded, and had followed the delicate prints and black droppings along the rutted ways to pasturage, her ears full of their complainings, nose full of the smell of their wet wool on misty mornings. Vivid! She could see her son when (as he told her) he would stand staff in hand on a promontory there and look off to the sea, and to the west from where the weather came, and to the south across the river, to the dark wood that covered the sea-island there, and wonder…

In the fall then he changed his leathers and gaiters for a decent suit of black and his crook for a walking-stick, and though he had never decided on it in so many words, he and the dog Spark (a good sheepdog whom Auberon could have sold with the flock but couldn’t part with) set out along the Harlem River till they came to a place where they could cross (near 137^th Street). The aged, aged ferryman had a beautiful great-grandaughter brown as a berry and a gray, flat, knocking, groaning boat; Auberon stood up in the bows as the ferry drifted along its line downstream to a mooring on the opposite side. He paid, the dog Spark leapt out before him, and he stepped off into the Wild Wood without looking back. It was late afternoon; the sun (he could glimpse it now and then, a dull yellow glow behind gray clouds) seemed so cold and cheerless he almost wished for night.

Deeper in, he retracted this wish. Somehow he had turned the wrong way between St. Nicholas Park and Cathedral Parkway, and found himself climbing stony uplands written on by lichen. The great trees clinging to the rocky places with their knuckled toes groaned and chuckled at him as he passed, and made bole-faces in the twilight. Panting on a high rock, he saw between the trees the gray sun go out. He knew he was still far uptown, and now night had come; he was cold, and how many warnings had he always had about night in this place? He felt small. In fact he was growing small. Spark noticed it, but made no remark.

The night as it will do brought forth creatures. Auberon began foolishly to hurry, which made him stumble, which caused the creatures to come close, thousand-eyed in the complex darkness all around. Auberon collected himself. Mustn’t show them your fear. He took a grip on his stick. Looking neither right nor left, he toiled downtown; he walked, didn’t walk as appropriate. Once or twice he caught himself gawking up at the immense trees scraping the night sky (for sure he had grown much smaller) but lowered his eyes quickly; he didn’t want to appear a stranger here or someone who didn’t know what was what; he couldn’t keep, though, from glancing around himself at those who, grinning or knowing or indifferent, glanced at him as he passed.

Where was Spark, he wondered as he pulled himself from a tangled deadfall into which he had sunk hip-deep. Now he could have climbed onto the dog’s back and gotten on much faster. But Spark had developed a contempt for his newly-small master and had gone off in the direction of Washington Heights to try his fortune alone.

Alone. Auberon remembered the three gifts his sisters had given him. He took from his canvas knapsack the one Tacey had given him and tore its ice-blue wrapping with trembling fingers.

It was a combination pen and flashlight, one end to see by and the other to write with. Handy. It even had its little battery: he pressed its button, and it burned. A few snowflakes drifted in the beam; a few faces that had come close withdrew. And by the light he saw that he stood before a tiny door in the woods; his journey was done. He knocked, and knocked again.

Look at the Time

George Mouse shuddered vastly. The effort of Mental Sympathy and the wearing off of his dose had him feeling a little ashen. It had been fun, but good Lord, look at the time! In a few hours he would have to be up again for milking. For sure Sylvie (brown as a berry, but not home yet, unless he missed his guess) wouldn’t be up for it. Gathering up his hash-dispersed limbs, which ached with pleasant tiredness (long trip), he stitched them back roughly where they belonged on his consciousness and rose. Getting too old for this. He made certain his cousin had blankets enough, raked up the fire, and (already forgetting in the main what he had perceived behind his cousin’s dark and shapely lids) took up the lamp and made his way to his own cluttered bedroom, yawning uncontrollably.

The Club Meets

Some city blocks away at that hour, before the narrow townhouse of Ariel Hawksquill which faced a small park, large and silent cars of another era one by one drew up and let out each a single passenger, and drove away to where cars like that await their masters. Each of the visitors rang Hawksquill’s bell and was admitted; each must take off his gloves finger by finger, so well they fitted; each gave them to the servant inside his hat, and some had white scarves that whistled faintly as they drew them from their necks. They gathered in Hawksquill’s parlor floor which was chiefly library; each crossed his legs as he sat. They exchanged a few words in low voices.

When Hawksquill at last entered, they rose for her (though she motioned that they shouldn’t) and sat again, each tugging at his trouser-knee as he recrossed his legs.

“I guess we can say,” one said, “that this meeting of the Noisy Bridge Rod and Gun Club is now open. For new business.”

Ariel Hawksquill awaited their questions. She was in this year nearing the height of her powers, her figure angular, hair iron-gray, manner sharp and deliberate as a cockatoo’s. She was imposing, if not quite the intimidating figure she would become; and everything about her, from dun shoes to ringed fingers, suggested powers—powers the Noisy Bridge Rod and Gun Club at least was well aware she possessed.

“The new business, of course,” another member said, smiling toward Hawksquill, “being the matter of Russell Eigenblick. The Lecturer.”

“What,” a third asked Hawksquill, “do you think now? What are your impressions?”

She put her fingertips together, like Holmes. “He is and is not what he seems,” she said in a voice as precise and dry as a parchment page. “More clever than he appears on television, though not so large. The enthusiasm he arouses is genuine, but, I can’t help thinking, evanescent. He has five planets in Scorpio; so did Martin Luther. His favorite color is billiard-cloth green. He has large, moist, falsely sympathetic brown eyes, like a cow. His voice is amplified by miniature devices concealed in his clothing, which is expensive but doesn’t fit well. He wears, beneath his pants, boots to his knees.”

They absorbed this.

“His character?” one asked.

“Contemptible.”

“His manners?”

“Well…”

“His ambitions?”

This she was for a moment unable to answer, yet it was this question which the puissant bankers, board chairmen, bureaucratic plenipotentiaries and retired generals who met under the aegis of the Noisy Bridge Rod and Gun Club most wanted answered. As the secret guardians of a touchy, wilful, aging republic suffering in the more or less permanent grip of social and economic depression, they were minutely sensitive to any attractive man, preacher, soldier, adventurer, thinker, thug. Hawksquill was well aware that her insights had led to the putting away of more than one such. “He has no interest in being President,” she said.

One of the members made a noise that indicated: if he does not, he could not have any other ambition that could truly alarm us; and if he does, he is helpless, because for some years the regular succession of shadowy presidents has been solely the concern of the Club, whatever the people or the Presidents may have thought. It was a brief noise, made in the throat.

“It’s difficult to describe precisely,” Hawksquill said. “On the one hand his self-importance seems ludicrous, and his aims so huge as to be dismissable entirely, like God’s. On the other hand… He claims, for instance, often and with a particular expression that seems to hint at large secrets, to be ‘in the cards.’ An old catch phrase: and yet Somehow (I’m afraid I can’t say quite how) I think his words are exact, and that he is in the cards, in some cards, only I don’t know which ones.” She looked over her slow-nodding listeners, and felt sorry to puzzle them, but she was puzzled herself. She had spent weeks with Russell Eigenblick on the road, in hotels, on planes, transparently disguised as a journalist (the hard-faced paladins who surrounded Eigenblick saw easily through the disguise, but could see nothing within); but she was less able now to offer a suggestion as to the disposition of his case than when she had first heard his name, and laughed.

Fingertips on her temples, she walked carefully through the perfectly-ordered new wing which she had added over the last weeks to her memory mansion to contain her investigation of Russell Eigenblick. She knew at what turnings he himself should appear, at the head of which staircases, at the nexus of which vistas. He would not appear. She could picture him with the ordinary or Natural Memory. She could see him against the rain-streaked window of a local train, talking indefatigably, his red beard wagging and his curling eyebrows ascending and descending like a ventriloquist’s dummy’s. She could see him haranguing the vast ecstatic dove-moaning audiences, real tears in his eyes and real love poured forth from them to him; she could see him rattling a blue teacup and saucer on his knee at a women’s club meeting after another interminable lecture, with his steely disciples, each holding his own cup and saucer and cake, around him. The Lecturer: it was they who insisted on his being called that. They arrived first and made arrangements for the Lecturer’s appearance. The Lecturer will stand here. No one must use this room but the Lecturer. There must be a car for the Lecturer. And their eyes never filled with tears as they sat behind his lectern, faces as composed and expressionless as their black-socked ankles. All this she had quarried from Natural Memory and by artifice constructed into a fine Palladian wing of her memory mansion, where it ought all to make a new and subtle sense; she expected to be able to turn a marble corner and find him there, framed in a vista, suddenly revealed and revealing what he was, which she had known all along but had not known she knew. That was how it was intended to work, how it had always worked in the past. But now the Club waited, silent and unstirring, for her disposition; and between the pillars and on the belvederes there stood the disciples, neatly dressed, holding each the emblem to identify himself which she had given him— train-ticket stub, golf club, purple mimeo sheets, dead body. They were clear enough. But he would not appear. And yet the whole wing was, yes, for sure, him; and it was chill, and pregnant.

“What about these lectures?” a member said, interrupting her survey.

She looked at him coldly. “God,” she said. “You have transcripts of them all. Is that what I’m to concern myself with? Can you read?” She paused then, wondering whether her contempt was merely a mask for her own failure to encompass her quarry. “When he speaks,” she said more graciously, “they listen. What he says you know. The old amalgam designed to touch every heart. Hope, a limitless hope. Common sense, or what passes for it. Wit that releases. He can draw tears. But many can. I think…”It was as close as she could come now to a definition, and was not close: “I think he is less or more than a man. I think we are Somehow dealing not with a man but with a geography.”

“I see,” said a member, brushing a moustache pearly-gray like his tie.

“You do not,” Hawksquill said, “because I do not.”

“Snuff him out,” another said.

“His message,” said another, drawing from his supple case a sheaf of papers, “is not one we object to, though. Stability. Vigilance. Acceptance. Love.”

“Love,” said another. “All things degenerate. Nothing works any more, everything misfires.” There was a desperate quaver in his voice. “There is no force left on earth found stronger than love.” He burst into strange sobs.

“Do I see, Hawksquill,” someone said calmly, “decanters on your sideboard there?”

“One is cut-glass, and has brandy,” Hawksquill said. “The other is not, and has rye.”

They calmed their associate with a taste of brandy, and declared the meeting closed, sine die, with Hawksquill’s commission continued and the new business unresolved; and left her house in greater puzzlement than they had felt since the society whose secret pillars they were had first begun perversely to sicken and waste.

Pictured Heavens

When she had shown them out, Hawksquill’s servant stood in the hall, gloomily contemplating what seemed to be a pale stain of dawn showing in the barred glass of the door, and complaining inwardly of her state, her subservience, her brief glows of nighttime consciousness worse almost than having none at all. All this while the gray light grew, and seemed to stain the unmoving servant, to subtract the living light from her eyes. She raised a hand in an Egyptian gesture of blessing or dismissal; her lips sealed. When Hawksquill passed her on her way upward, day had come, and the Maid of Stone (as Hawksquill named this ancient statue) was all marmoreal again.

Hawksquill climbed up within the tall, narrow house, four long flights (a daily exercise that would keep her strong heart beating till great old age) and arrived at a small door at the very top of the house, where the stairs narrowed sharply and ran out. She could hear the steady noise of the great mechanism beyond the door, the drop of heavy weights inch by inch, the hollow clicks of catchments and escapements, and felt her mind already soothed. She opened the door. Daylight, many-colored and faint, poured out; the music of the spheres, like soft-soughing wind among clicking bare branches, became distinct. She glanced at her old, square-faced wristwatch, and bent to enter.

That this City house was one of only three in the world equipped with a complete Patent Cosmo-Opticon or Theatrum Mundi in more-or-less working order, Hawksquill had known before she bought it. It had amused her to think that her house would be capped by such an enormous and iron-bound talisman of her mind’s heavens. She had been prepared, though, neither for its great beauty, nor—when it had been set in motion, and she had adjusted it in certain long-thought-out ways—for its usefulness. She had been unable to learn much about the Cosmo-Opticon’s designer, so she couldn’t tell what he had conceived its function to be—entertainment only, probably—but what he hadn’t known she supplied, and so now when she bent to enter the tiny door she entered not only a stained-glass-and-wrought-iron Cosmos exquisitely detailed and moving with spanking exactness in its clockwork rounds, but one which presented to Hawksquill the actual moment of the World-Age that was passing as she entered.

In fact, though Hawksquill had corrected the Cosmo-Opticon so that it accurately reflected the state of the real heavens outside it, it was still not quite exact. Even if its maker had been aware of it, there was no way to build into a machine of cogs and gears as gross as this one the slow, the vast fall of the Cosmos backward through the Zodiac, the so-called precession of the equinoxes—that unimaginably stately grand tour which would take some twenty thousand years longer, until once again the spring equinox coincided with the first degrees of Aries: where conventional astrology for convenience’s sake assumes it always to be, and where Hawksquill had found it fixed in her Cosmo-Opticon when she had first aquired the thing. No: the only true pictures of time were the changeful heavens themselves, and their perfect reflection within the powerful consciousness of Ariel Hawksquill, who knew what time it was: this engine around her was in the end a crude caricature, though pretty enough. Indeed, she thought, taking the green plush seat in the center of the universe, very pretty.

She relaxed in the warm pour of winter sun (by noon it would be hot as hell inside this glass egg, something else its designer hadn’t apparently taken into account) and gazed upwards. Blue Venus trine with blood-orange Jupiter, each blown-glass figured sphere borne between the Tropics on its own band; the mirrorsurfaced Moon just declining below the horizon, and tiny ringed Saturn, milky-gray, just rising. Saturn in the ascendant house, proper for the sort of meditation she must now make. Click: the Zodiac turned a degree, lady Libra (looking a little like Bernhardt in her finely-leaded art-nouveau draperies, and weighing something in her scales that had always seemed to Hawksquill to be a bunch of lush Malaga grapes) lifted her toes out of the austral waters. The real Sol burned so hotly through her that her features were obscured. As they of course were in the blank blue sky of day, burned out entirely and invisible, but still of course there behind his brightness, of course, of course… Already she felt her thoughts becoming ordered as the undifferentiated light of heaven was ordered by the colors and marked degrees of the Cosmo-Opticon; she felt her own Theatrum Mundi within open its doors, and the stage manager strike the stage three times with his staff to signal the curtain rising. The enormous engine, star-founded, of her Artificial Memory began to lay out for her once again the parts of the problem of Russell Eigenblick. And she felt, sharp-set for the work, that there had not ever been among all the strange tasks her powers had been bent upon a task as strange as this one, or one which was more important to her herself; or one that would require her to go as far, dive as deep, see as widely, or think as hard.

In the cards. Well. She would see.

Auberon was awakened first by the crying of a cat.

“An abandoned child,” he thought, and went back to sleep. Then the bleating of goats, and the raucous, strangled reveille of a cock. “Damn animals,” he said aloud, and was again returning to sleep when he remembered where he was. Had he really heard goats and chickens? No. A dream; or some City noise transformed by sleep. But then cockcrow came again. Pulling the blanket around him (it was deathly cold in the library, the fire long since out) he went to the mullioned window and looked down into the yard. George Mouse was just returning from the milking, in high black rubber boots, carrying steaming milk-pail. From a shed roof a scrawny Rhode Island Red lifted his clipped wings and gave the cry again. Auberon was looking down on Old Law Farm.

Old Law Farm

Of all George Mouse’s fantastic schemes, Old Law Farm had had the virtue of necessity. These dark days, if you wanted fresh eggs, milk, butter, at less than ruinous prices, there was nothing for it but to supply them yourself. And the square of long-empty buildings was uninhabitable anyway, so its outside windows were blinded with tin or blackened plywood, its doors stopped with cinder block, arid it became the hollow castle wall around a farm. Chickens now roosted in the degraded interiors, goats laughed and bewailed in the garden apartments and ate orts from claw-foot bathtubs. The nude brown vegetable garden which Auberon looked out on from the library windows and which took up much of the old backyards within the block was rimy this morning; orange pumpkins showed beneath the remains of corn and cabbage. Someone, small and dark, was going carefully up and down the wrought-iron fire escapes and in and out of frameless windows. Chickens squawked. She wore a sequined evening gown, and shivered as she collected eggs in a gold lamé purse. She looked disgusted, and when she called out something to George Mouse he only pulled his wide hat down further over his face and galoshed away. She came down into the yard, stepping amid the mud and garden detritus on fragile high heels. She shouted a word after George, flinging up an arm, then tugged her fringed shawl angrily around her shoulders. The lamé purse over her arm just then gave way under its load of eggs, and one by one they began to fall out as though laid. At first she didn’t notice, then cried out—“Oh! Oh! Yike!”—and turned to prevent more from falling; turned her ankle as a heel gave way; and burst into laughter. She laughed as the eggs fell through her fingers, laughed bent over, slipped in egg-slime and nearly fell, and laughed harder. She covered her mouth, delicately; but he could hear the laugh—deep and raucous. He laughed too.

He thought then—seeing those eggs break—that he would find out where breakfast was happening. He tugged his wrinkled and spiralled suit into something like its right shape; he screwed his knuckles into his eyes, and ran his hand through his proud hair—an Irish comb, Rudy Flood always called that. But then he had to choose the door, or the window he had come in by. He remembered passing somewhere where food was cooking on his way into the library, and so he took up his bag—didn’t want it inspected or stolen—and crept out onto the rickety bridge, shaking his head at the ridiculous crouch he must make. The boards groaned underhim and drab light came in through the cracks. Like an impossible passageway in a dream. What if it fell under him, dropping him down the airshaft. And the window at the other end might he locked. God this was stupid. What a stupid way to get from one place to another. He tore his jacket on a protruding nail and hunkered furiously back the way he had come.

Out with ruffled dignity and smutty hands through the solid old doors of the library and down the winding stairs. In a statue-niche at a turning a pinch-faced silent-butler in a pillbox hat stood, holding out a corroded ashtray. At the bottom of the stairs, a hole had been knocked in the wall, a brick-toothed rent that led into the next building, perhaps the building George had originally admitted him to, or was he disoriented now? He went through the hole, into a building of another kind, not faded elegance but aged poverty. The number of coats of paint these stamped-tin ceilings had had, the layers of linoleum one over another on these floors: it was impressive, almost archaeological. A single dim bulb burned in the hall. There was a door whose many locks were all open, and music coming from within, and laughter and odors of cooking; Auberon approached it, but was overcome by shyness. How did you approach the people of this place? He would have to learn; he who had rarely seen around him a face he hadn’t known since babyhood was surrounded now by no one but strangers, millions of them.

But he didn’t feel like going in that door just now.

Angry at himself but unable to change his mind, he wandered away down the hall. Daylight showed through the opaque glass imbedded with chicken wire of a door at the hall’s end, and he shot its bolt and opened it; he found himself looking out over the farmyard in the middle of the block. In the buildings around it were dozens of doors, each different, each obstructed by a different sort of barrier, rusted gates, chains, wire fencing, bars, locks, or all of those, and yet looking fragile and openable. What was behind them? Some stood wide, and through one he glimpsed goats. There came out from it then a small, a very small man, a bandy-legged black man with enormously strong arms, who carried on his back a great burlap sack. He hurried across the yard at a quick pace despite his short legs (he was no bigger than a child) and Auberon called out to him: “Excuse me!”

He didn’t stop. Deaf? Auberon set out after him. Was he naked? Or wearing some coverall the same color as himself? “Hey,” Auberon called, and this stopped the man. He turned his big dark flat head to Auberon, and grinned widely; his eyes were mere slits above his broad nose. Boy, the people here get positively medieval, Auberon thought; effects of poverty? He was about to frame a question, sure now the man was idiotic and wouldn’t understand, when with a long black sharp-nailed finger the man pointed behind Auberon.

He turned to look. George Mouse had just opened a door there, releasing three cats; he shut it again before Auberon could call him. He started for that door, tripping in the ruts of the garden, and turned back to wave thanks to the little black man, but he was gone.

At the end of the hall to which the door led him he paused, smelling cooking, and listened. Inside he could hear what sounded like an argument, the clash and rattle of pots and dishes, a baby crying. He pushed on the door, and it swung open.

The Bee or the Sea

The girl he had seen dropping eggs stood at the stove, still in her golden gown. A child of almost visionary beauty, its face streaked with dirty tears, sat near her on the floor. George Mouse presided at a large circular dining table, beneath which his muddy boots took up a lot of room. “Hey,” he said. “Grits, my man. Sleep well?” He rapped with his knuckles at the place next to his. The baby, only momentarily intrigued by Auberon, prepared himself for another round of crying by sputtering tiny bubbles from his angelic lips. He tugged at the girl’s gown.

“Ay, coño, man,” she said mildly, “take it easy,” just as she might have to a grown-up; the kid looked up at her as she looked down, and they seemed to come to an understanding. He didn’t cry again. She rapidly stirred a pot with a long wooden spoon, an action she did with her whole body, making her gold-clad bottom snap neatly back and forth. Auberon was watching this closely when George spoke again.

“This is Sylvie, my man. Sylvie, say hello to Auberon Barnable, who’s come to the City to seek his fortune.”

Her smile was instant and unfeigned, sun bursting from clouds. Auberon bowed stiffly, aware of the blear in his eye and the shadow on his cheek. “You want some breakfast?” she said.

“Sure he does. Sittee downee, cousin.”

She turned back to the stove, plucking from the little ceramic auto where they rode one of two top-hatted figures labeled Mr. Salty and Mr. Peppy, and shook him vigorously over the pot. Auberon sat down, and folded his hands in front of him. This kitchen looked out through diamond-paned windows at the farmyard, where now someone, not the strange man Auberon had seen, was driving the goats amid the decaying vegetation—with a yardstick, Auberon noted. “Do you,” he asked his cousin, “have a lot of tenants here?”

“Well, they’re not exactly tenants,” George said.

“He takes them in,” Sylvie said, looking fondly at George. “They got no place else to go. People like me. Because he has a good heart.” She laughed, stirring. “Little lost squirrels and stuff.”

“I sort of met someone,” Auberon said, “a black guy sort of, out in the yard…” He saw that Sylvie had stopped her stirring, and had turned to him. “Very short,” Auberon said, surprised at the silence he’d made.

“Brownie,” Sylvie said. “That was Brownie. You saw Brownie?”

“I guess,” Auberon said. “Who…”

“Yeah, old Brownie,” George said. “He’s kind of private. Like a hermit. Does a lot of work around the place.” He looked at Auberon curiously. “I hope you didn’t…”

“I don’t think he understood me. He went off.”

“Aw,” Sylvie said gently. “Brownie.”

“Did you, well, take him in too?” Auberon asked George.

“Hm? Who? Brownie?” George said, having fallen into thought. “Nah, old Brownie’s always been here, I guess, who the hell knows. So listen,” he said, definitely changing the subject, “what are you up to today? Negocio?”

From an inside pocket Auberon took out a card. It said PETTY, SMILODON & RUTH, Attorneys-at-law, and gave an address and phone number. “My grandfather’s lawyers. I’ve got to see about this inheritance. Can you tell me how to get there?”

George puzzled over this, reading the address aloud slowly as though it were esoteric. Sylvie, hiking her shawl over her shoulder, brought a battered, steaming pot to the table. “Take the bee or the sea,” she said. “Here’s your nasties.” She banged the pot down. George inhaled the steam gratefully. “She don’t eat oatmeal,” he said to Auberon, with a wink.

She had turned away, her face, her whole body in fact, showing aversion very graphically, and (changing utterly in an instant) picked up with easy grace the child, who was in the process of sword-swallowing a ball-point pen. “Que jodiendo! Look at this implement. C’mere, you, look at these fat cheeks, so cute, don’t they make you want to bite ’em? Mmmp.” She sucked his fat brown cheeks avidly as he struggled to escape, eyes screwed tight. She sat him down in a rickety high-chair whose decals of bear and rabbit were all but worn away, and set food before him. She helped him eat, opening her mouth when he did, closing it around an imaginary spoon, cleaning the excess neatly from his face. Watching her, Auberon caught himself opening his own mouth in assistance. He snapped it shut.

“Hey, sport model,” George said to Sylvie as she finished with the baby. “You going to eat or what?”

“Eat?” As though he had made an indecent suggestion. “I just got here. I’m going to bed, man, and I’m going to sleep.” She stretched, she yawned, she offered herself wholeheartedly to Morpheus; she scratched her stomach lazily with long painted nails. The gold gown showed a small shadowed hollow where her navel was. Auberon felt that her brown body, however perfect, was too small to contain her; she shot out from it all over in flashes and spikes of intelligence and feeling; even her impersonation now of exhaustion and debility exploded from her like a brilliance.

“The bee or the sea?” he said.

A Wingéd Messenger

Riding racketing uptown on the B train underground, Auberon—with no experience at all of such things to guide him—tried to puzzle out what relation there might be between George and Sylvie. He was old enough to be her father, and Auberon was young enough to find the possibility of that kind of May-December coupling unlikely and repellent. Yet she had been making breakfast for him. What bed did she go to, when she went to bed? He wished, well, he didn’t know quite what he wished, and just then an emergency occurred on the train which threw all that out of his mind. The train began shaking violently to and fro; it screamed as though tormented; it was apparently about to burst apart. Auberon leapt up. Loud metallic knockings beat on his ears, and the lights shuddered and went out. Clutching a cold pole, Auberon waited for the imminent collision or derailment. Then he noticed that no one on the train seemed the least concerned; stony-faced, they read foreign-language newspapers or rocked baby carriages or rooted in shopping bags or chewed gum placidly, my God those asleep didn’t even stir. The only thing they seemed to find odd was his own leaping up, and this they only glanced at furtively. But here was the disaster! Outside the almost comically filthy windows he saw another train, on a parallel track, sweeping toward them, whistles and iron shrieks, they were about to sideswipe, the yellow windows (all that was visible) of the other train rushed at them like eyes aghast. At the last possible instant the two trains shifted minutely and resumed their furious parallel, inches from one another’s flanks, racing madly. In the other train Auberon could see placid overcoated riders reading foreign newspapers and rooting in shopping bags. He sat down.

An aged black man in ancient clothes, who through all of this had been lightly holding a pole in the middle of the car, was saying as the noise diminished, “Now don’t get me wrong—don’t get me wrong,” holding out a long, gray-palmed hand to the passengers in general, whom, studiously ignoring him, he was reassuring. “Don’t get me wrong. A well-dressed woman’s sumpm to see, now, y’know, y’know, a thing of beauty’s, yunnastan, a joy fevvah; what I’m talkin ’bout’s a woman who wears a fuh. Now don’t get me wrong—” a deprecatory shake of the head to forestall criticism “—but y’see a woman who wears a fuh takes on the propensities of that animal. Y’see. Takes on the propensities of the animal of whose fuh she wears. Thass right.” He struck a casual, raconteur’s pose and glanced around at his hearers with benign intimacy. As he pushed aside his unspeakable overcoat to place his knuckles on his hip, Auberon saw the heavy swing of a bottle in the pocket. “Now I was in Saks Fiff Avenue thutha day,” he said, “and there was ladies pricin’ a coat made from the fuh of the sable.” He shook his head to think of it. “Now, now, of all th’animals in God’s creation the sable animal has got to be the lowest. The sable animal, my friends, will eat its own children. Y’hear what I’m sayin’? Thass right. The sable is the dirtiest, low-downest, meanest—the sable is a meaner and a lower thing than a mink, people, than a mink, and surely you know where the mink is at. Well! And here was these nice ladies, wouldn’t hurt a fly, feelin’ up this coat made of the sable animal, yas yas, ain’t it fine—” He laughed, delicately, unable to check his amusement any longer. “Yas, yas, the propensities of the animal, no doubt about it…” His yellow eyes fell on Auberon, the only one there who’d followed him with any attention, wondering if he were right. “Mmm-mmm-mmm,” he said, absently, his discourse done, a half-smile on his face; his eyes, wise, humorous, and reptilian at once, seemed to find something amusing in Auberon. The train just then turned a shrieking corner, propelling the man forward down the car. He gavotted away neatly, never falling, though without balance, the bottleweighted pocket clanking on the poles. As he passed, Auberon heard him say “Fans and furred robes hide all.” He was brought up by the train’s coming to a halt, began to dance backward; the doors slid open, and a final lurch of the train tossed him out. Just in time, Auberon recognized his own stop, and leapt out also.

Clamor and acrid smoke, urgent announcements that were a garble of static and drowned anyway by the metal roar of trains and the constant echo and re-echo. Auberon, utterly disoriented, followed herds of riders upward along stairs, ramps, and escalators, and found himself still apparently underground. At a turning, he caught a glimpse of the black man’s overcoat; at the next—which seemed intent on leading him downward again—he was beside him. He seemed now preoccupied, walking aimlessly; the garrulousness he had shown in the train was gone. An actor offstage, with troubles of his own.

“Excuse me,” Auberon said, fishing in his pocket. The black man, with no surprise, held out a hand to receive what Auberon would offer, and with no surprise withdrew the hand when Auberon came up with only the card of Petty, Smilodon & Ruth. “Can you help me find this address?” He read it. The black man looked doubtful.

“A tricky one,” he said. “Seems to mean one thing, but it don’t. Oh, tricky. Take some findin’.” He shuffled off, bent and dreaming, but his hand down at his side motioned with a quick motion that Auberon should follow. “Ever’man I will go with thee,” he muttered, “and be thy guide, in thy mose need to be by thy side.”

“Thanks,” Auberon said, though not quite sure this was meant for him. He grew less sure as the man (whose gait was quicker than it looked, and who gave no warning at turnings) led him through dark tunnels reeking of urine, where rainwater dripped as though in a cave, and along echoing passages, and up into a vast basilica (the old terminal), and further upward by shining stairs into marble halls, he seeming to grow shabbier and smell stronger as they ascended into clean public places.

“Lemme see that again one time,” he said as they stood before a rank of swiftly-revolving doors, glass and steel, through which a continual stream of people passed. Auberon and his guide stood directly in their path, the black man unconscious of them as he studied the little card, and the people flowed around them neatly, their faces fixed in angry looks, though whether because of this obstruction or for reasons of their own Auberon couldn’t tell.

“Maybe I could ask someone else,” Auberon said.

“No,” said the black man without rancor. “You got the one. Y’see I’m a messenger.” He looked up at Auberon, his snake eyes full of unreadable meaning. “A messenger. Fred Savage is my name, Wingéd Messenger Service, I only am escaped to tell thee.” With quick grace he entered the threshing blades of the door. Auberon, hesitating, nearly lost him, threw himself into an empty segment, and was spun out rapidly into a thin cold rain, outdoors at least, and stepped rapidly to catch up with Fred Savage. “My man Duke, y’know,” he was saying, “met the Duke ’bout midnight in a lane behind of the churchyard, with the leg of a man over his shoulder. I says hey, Duke, my man. Said he was a woof—only difference was, a woof is hairy on the outside, y’see, and he was hairy on the inside—said I could rip up his skin and try…”

Auberon dodged after him through the well-drilled march and press of people, doubly afraid of losing him now since Fred Savage hadn’t given back the lawyers’ card. But still he was distracted, his eye drawn upward to heights of buildings, some lost in the rainy clouds, so chaste and noble at the tops and, at their bases, so ignoble, stuffed with shops, lettered, scarred, imposed upon, overlaid like mammoth oaks on which generations have carved hearts and nailed horseshoes. He felt a tug at his sleeve.

“Don’t be gawking upward,” Fred Savage said, amused. “Good way to get your pocket picked. Besides”—his grin was wide, either his teeth were extraordinarily perfect or these were dentures of the cheapest kind—“they’re not for lookin’ up at anyway by the likes of you, y’know, no, they’re for lookin’ out of by the type of folks inside, yunnastan. You’ll learn that, heehee.” He drew Auberon with him around a corner and along a street where trucks contested with one another and with taxis and people. “Now if you look close,” Fred Savage said, “you see this ad-dress seems to be on the avenue, but thass a fake. It’s on thisere street, though they don’t want you to guess it.”

Cries and warnings from above. Out of a second-story window, an enormous ormolu mirror was being extruded, hung on guy-ropes and tackle. On the street below were desks, chairs, filing cabinets, an office in the street, people had to step out into the loathsome gutter to get around it; only just then trucks clogged the street, the warnings increased—“Watcha back, watcha back!”—and no one could move. The mirror swung free out into the air, its face which had before reflected only quiet interiors now filled with shuddering, madly-swinging City. It looked ravished, aghast. It descended slowly, rotating, flinging buildings and backward-reading signs to and fro within it. The people stood gaping, waiting for their own selves, overcoated and umbrella’d, to be revealed.

“C’mon,” Fred said, and took Auberon’s hand in a strong grip. He dodged amid the furniture, drawing Auberon after him. Shouts of horror and anger from the mirror’s attendants. Something was wrong: the ropes suddenly paid out, the mirror tilted madly only feet above the street, a groan from the watchers, worlds came and went as it righted itself. Fred shuffled beneath it, his hat-crown grazing its gilding. There was the briefest moment when Auberon, though looking into the street behind him, felt himself to be looking into the street ahead, a street from which or into which Fred Savage had disappeared. The he crouched and passed under.

On the other side, still followed by the curses of the mirror men, and by some kind of thunder as well from somewhere, Fred led Auberon up the vast arched entrance to a building. “Be prepared is my motto,” he said, pleased with himself, “be sure you’re right then go ahead.” He pointed out the number of the building, which was indeed an avenue number, and handed back the little card; he patted Auberon’s back to encourage him in.

“Hey, thanks,” Auberon said, and, bethinking himself, dug in his pocket, and came up with a crumpled dollar.

“The service is free,” Fred Savage said, but took the dollar anyway delicately in thumb and index. There was a rich history incised in his palm. “Now go ahead. Be sure you’re right, then go ahead.” He propelled Auberon toward the brass-bound glass doors. As he entered, Auberon heard the thunder, or felt the bombblast, or whatever it was, again, only much huger; it made him duck, a long tearing roll as though the world, starting at one corner, were being bisected. As it rolled away, there came a gasp, a groan from many throats together, with high-shrieking feminine overtones; and Auheron braced himself against the unmistakable noise of an enormous, a great glass smashing—unmistakable though Auberon had never before heard a piece that size shivered.

Now how many years’ bad luck is that for someone, he thought, wondering if he had escaped something.

A Folding Bedroom

“I’m putting you in the folding bedroom,” George said as he led Auberon by flashlight through the mostly empty warren of buildings that surrounded Old Law Farm. “It’s got a fireplace at least. Watch that stuff there. Up we go.”

Auberon followed, shivering, carrying his bag and a bottle of Doña Mariposa rum. A sleety rain had caught him on his way downtown, slicing cleanly through his overcoat and, so it felt, through his skinny flesh as well to chill his heart. He had hidden from it for a while in a little liquor store whose red sign—LIQUOR—went on and off in the puddles outside the door. Feeling intensely the shopkeeper’s impatience at his free use of a place of business for profitless shelter, Auberon had begun staring at the various bottles, and at last bought the rum because the girl on its label, in a peasant blouse, arms full of green cane-stalks, reminded him of Sylvie; or rather seemed to him what Sylvie would look like if she were imaginary.

George took out his bunch of keys and began hunting through them abstractedly. His manner since Auberon had returned had been glum, distracted, unaccommodating. He talked ramblingly about the difficulties of life. Auberon had questions to ask him, but felt he would get no answers to them from George in this state of mind, so he only followed silently.

The folding bedroom was double-locked, and George was some time opening it. There was electric light inside though, a lamp that on its cylindrical shade carried a panorama, a country scene through which a train moved, its locomotive almost devouring its caboose, like the Worm. George looked around the room, finger to his lips, as though long ago he had lost something here. “Now the thing is,” he said, and then nothing more. He gazed at the spines of a shelf of paperbacks. The locomotive on the lampshade began to travel slowly through the landscape, caused to move by the heat of the bulb. “See, we all pull together here,” George said. “Everybody does his part. You can dig that. I mean the work’s never done and all. So. This is all right, I guess. That john’s the closet, the other way around I mean. The stove and stuff is off, but eat with us, everybody chips in. Well. Listen.” He counted his keys again, and Auberon had the feeling he was about to be locked in; but George slipped three from the ring and gave them to him. “Don’t for God’s sake lose them.” He managed a bleak smile. “Hey, welcome to Big-town, man, and don’t take any wooden nickels.”

Wooden nickels? It seemed to Auberon as he closed the door that his cousin’s speech was as full of antique rubbish and battered ornament as his Farm. A card, maybe he’d call himself. Well: a peculiarity felt more than perceived about this folding bedroom became clear to him as he looked around: there was no bed in it. There was a wine-red velvet boudoir chair, and a creaky wicker one with pillows tied on; there was a shabby rug, and an enormous wardrobe or something of glossy wood, with a bevelled looking-glass on its front and drawers with brass pulls at the bottom; this he couldn’t figure out how to open. But there was no bed. From a wooden apricot crate (Golden Dreams) he took wood and paper and made a fire with trembling fingers, contemplating a night on the chairs; for sure he wasn’t going to try threading his way back through Old Law Farm to complain.

When the fire was hot he began to feel somewhat less sorry for himself; in fact as his clothes dried he felt almost an elation. Kind Mr. Petty of Petty, Smilodon & Ruth had been oddly evasive about the status of his inheritance, but they had willingly advanced him a sum against it. He had it in his pocket. He had come to the City and not died or been beaten; he had money, and the prospect of more; real life was beginning. The long, long ambiguity of Edgewood, the stifling sense of mysteries continually propounded, never solved, the endless waiting for purposes to be made clear and directions pointed out—all over. He had taken charge. A free agent, he would make a million, win love, and never go home at bedtime any more. He went to the tiny kitchen attached to the folding bedroom, where the dead stove and a lumpish refrigerator presumably also dead shared the floor with a tub and a sink; he dug up a white coffee mug all crazed, wiped the husk of a bug from it, and got out his bottle of Doña Mariposa rum.

He was holding a mugful of this in his lap, looking into the fire with a grin on his face, when there came a knocking at the door.

Sylvie and Destiny

It took him a moment to see that the dark shy girl at his door was the same he had seen breaking eggs in a golden gown. Dressed now in jeans faded and soft as homespun, and clutching herself so tightly against the cold that her multiform earrings shook, she looked far less large; that is, she was just as small, but she had hidden the energy that had made her seem so large before under the bushel of her compact shape.

“Sylvie,” he said.

“Yah.” She looked away down the dark hall, and then back at him, in some kind of hurry, or in some annoyance, or something; what? “I didn’t know anybody was in here. I thought it was empty.”

He so obviously filled the doorway that there was no answer he could make to this.

“Okay,” she said. She allowed one cold hand out from where it hid in her armpit, so it could press her lip against her teeth to be bitten, and glanced away again, as though he were compelling her to stay here and she were impatient to get away.

“Did you leave something here?” She didn’t respond. “How’s your son?” At this the hand that had been pressing her lip covered her mouth altogether, and she seemed to weep, or laugh, or both, still looking away though it was obvious she had no place to go; at last he saw that. “Come in,” he said, and motioned her in, stepping aside so she could enter and nodding encouragement.

“Sometimes I come here,” she said as she came in, “when I want to be, you know, alone.” She looked around her with what Auberon supposed was a justified air of grievance. He was the intruder. He wondered if he should yield it to her, and go sleep in the street. Instead he said: “Would you like some rum?”

She appeared not to hear. “So listen,” she said, and then nothing more. It would be some time before Auberon realized that these words were often as not a mere vocable in City speech, and not intended to roughly command his attention, as they seemed. He listened. She sat on the little velvet chair and said at last, as though to herself, “It’s cozy here.”

“Mm.”

“Nice fire. What are you drinking?”

“Rum. Would you like some?”

“Sure.”

There was, it appeared, only the one cup, so she and he passed it back and forth between them. “He’s not my son,” Sylvie said.

“I’m sorry if I…”

“He’s my brother’s kid. I got a crazy brother. Named Bruno. Like the kid.” She pondered, staring into the fire. “What a kid. So sweet. And smart. And bad?” She smiled. “Just like his papo.” She gripped herself more tightly, drawing her knees up almost to her breasts, and he could see she wept inwardly, and only by this constant pressure against herself kept it from spilling out.

“You and he seemed to get along well,” Auberon said, nodding in what he realized was an absurdly solemn fashion. “I thought you were his mother.”

“Oh, his mother, man,” with a look of pure disdain touched only faintly with pity, “she’s sad. She’s a sad case. Pitiful.” She brooded. “The way they treat him, man. He’s going to turn out just like his father.”

This was apparently not a good thing. Auberon wished he could think of a question that would draw the whole story from her. “Well, sons do turn out like their fathers,” he said, wondering if it would ever seem true of him. “After all, they’re around them a lot.”

She snorted in disgust. “Shit, Bruno hasn’t seen this kid in a year. Now he shows up and says, ‘Hey, my son,’ and all this. Just because he got religion.”

“Hm.”

“Not religion. But this guy he works for. Or follows. Russell—what is it, I don’t know—I go blank. Anyway, he says, love, family, blahblahblah. So here he is on the doorstep.”

“Hm.”

“They’ll kill that lad.” Tears did gather in her eyes, but she blinked them away, none fell. “Damn George Mouse. How could he be so dumb?”

“What did he do?”

“He says he was drunk. Had a knife.”

“Oh.” There being no reflexive in the language Sylvie had to speak here, Auberon was soon lost among the “he”s and had no idea who had a knife or who said whd was drunk. He would have to hear the story twice more in the next days before he sorted out that brother Bruno had come drunk to Old Law Farm and, under the press of his new faith or philosophy, demanded nephew Bruno from George Mouse, who in Sylvie’s absence and after a prolonged debate which had threatened to turn violent, had yielded him up. And that nephew Bruno was now in the hands of bedeviling and loving and deeply stupid female relatives (brother Bruno wouldn’t stay, she was sure of that) who would raise him just as her brother had been raised after his father’s desertion, to vanity, and wildness, a touchy ungovemability and a sweet selfishness no woman could resist, and few men for that matter; and that (even if the child avoided being put in a Home) Sylvie’s plan to rescue him had failed: George had forbidden the Farm to her relatives, he had enough troubles.

“So I can’t live with him any more,” she said—George this time, doubtless.

A strange hope rose in Auberon.

“I mean it’s not his fault,” she said. “Not his fault, really. I just couldn’t any more. I’d always think of it. And anyway.” She pressed her temples, pressing in the thing there. “Shit. If I had the nerve to tell them off. All of them.” Her grief and bedevilment were reaching a climax. “I never want to see them again myself. Never. Never never.” She almost laughed. “And that’s really stupid, ’cause if I leave here I got no place else to go. No place else.”

She wouldn’t weep. She hadn’t, and the moment was past now; now blank despair was in her face as she looked into the fire, both cheeks in her hands.

Auberon clasped his hands behind him, studied an offhand, neighborly tone, and said, “Well of course you can stay here, you’re welcome to,” and realized he was offering her a place which was much more hers than his, and flushed. “I mean of course you can stay here, if you don’t mind my staying too.”

She looked at him, warily he thought, which was proper considering a certain bass obbligato in his feelings just then which he was in fact trying to conceal. “Really?” she said. She smiled. “I wouldn’t take up much room.”

“Well, there’s not much room to take up.” Become host, he looked the place over thoughtfully. “I don’t know how we’d arrange it, but there’s the chair, and, well, there’s my overcoat almost dry, you could use that for a blanket…” He saw that he himself, curled up in a corner, would probably not sleep at all. Now, though, her face had closed somewhat at these cheerless arrangements. He couldn’t think what else to yield up to her.

“I couldn’t,” she said, “have just a corner of the bed? Like down at the foot? I’ll curl up real small.”

“Bed?”

“The bed!” she said, growing impatient.

“What bed?”

Suddenly getting it, she laughed aloud. “Oh wow,” she said, “oh no, you were going to sleep on the flaw—I don’t believe it!” She went to the massy wardrobe or highboy which stood against one wall, and, reaching up along its hidden side, she turned a knob or pulled a lever, and enormously pleased, let down the whole tall front of the thing. Counterweighted (the dummy drawers held lead weights), it swung gently, dreamily down; the mirror reflected floor, and then was gone; brass knobs at each upper corner extruded themselves, slipping out as the front came down, and became legs, locking in place by a gravity-worked mechanism whose ingenuity he would later marvel at. It was a bed. It had a carved headboard; the top of it, as wardrobe, had become the footboard, as bed; it had a mattress, bedclothes, and two plump pillows.

He laughed with her. Displayed, the bed took up most the room. The folding bed room.

“Isn’t it great?” she said.

“Great.”

“Room enough for two, isn’t there?”

“Oh sure. In fact…” He was about to offer the whole of it to her; that was only right, and he would instantly have done so in the first place if he’d known it to be hidden there. But he saw that she assumed he was ungentlemanly enough to assume that she would be grateful for half, and assumed that he assumed that she… A sudden cunning shut his mouth.

“You’re sure you don’t mind?” she asked.

“Oh no. If you’re sure you don’t mind.”

“Nah. I’ve always slept with people. My granny and I slept together for years, usually with my sister too.” She sat on the bed—it was so plumply high she had to hoist herself up with her hands, and her feet didn’t reach the floor from it—and smiled at him, and he smiled back. “So,” she said.

The room transformed was the rest of his life transformed, everything not already metamorphosed by the departure and the bus and the City and the lawyers and the rain. Nothing now would ever be the same again. He realized he had been staring wildly at her, and that she had lowered her eyes. “Well,” he said, holding up the cup, “how about a little more of this?”

“Okay.” While he was pouring it, she said, “So how come you came to the City, by the way?”

“To seek my fortune.”

“Huh?”

“Well, I want to be a writer.” Rum and intimacy made it easy to say. “I’m going to look for a job writing. Something. Maybe television.”

“Hey, great. Big bucks.”

“Mm.”

“You could write, like, ‘A World Elsewhere’?”

“What’s that?”

“You know. The show.”

He didn’t. An absurdity in his ambitions became clear to him when they bounced back, as it were, from Sylvie, instead of (as they always had before) paying out endlessly into futurity. “Actually, we never had a television set,” he said.

“Really? Well, I’ll be.” She sipped the rum he gave her. “Couldn’t afford one? George told me you guys were real rich. Oops.”

“Well, ‘rich’. I don’t know about ‘rich’…” Well! There was an inflection like Smoky’s, which Auberon heard for the first time in his own voice—that putting of imaginary doubt-quotes around a word. Was he growing old? “We could have bought a TV, certainly… What’s this show like?”

“ ‘A World Elsewhere’? It’s a daytime drama.”

“Oh.”

“The endless kind. You just get over one problem and another starts. Mostly dumb. But you get hooked.” She had begun to tremble again, and drew her feet up on the bed; she pulled down the quilt and wrapped it around her legs. Auberon busied himself with the fire. “There’s a girl on it who reminds me of me.” She said it with a self-deprecating laugh. “Boy has she got problems. She’s supposed to be Italian, but she’s played by a P.R. And she’s beautiful.” She said this as though she said She has one leg, and is like me in that. “And she has a Destiny. She knows it. All these terrible problems, but she has a Destiny, and sometimes they show her just looking out mistyeyed while these voices sing in the background—aa-aa-aaah—and you know she’s thinking of her Destiny.”

“Hm.” All the wood in the woodbox was scrap, most of it parts of furniture, though there were pieces that bore lettering too. The varnish on fluted and turned wood sizzled and blistered. Auberon felt an exhilaration: he was part of a community of strangers, burning unbeknown to them their furniture and belongings, just as they not knowing him took his money at change-booths and made room for him on buses. “A Destiny, huh.”

“Yah.” She looked at the locomotive on the lampshade, turning through its little landscape. “I have a Destiny,” she said.

“You do?”

“Yah.” She said this syllable in a way and with an attitude of face and arms that meant Yes, it’s true, and a long story, and while possibly to my credit is something I have nothing to do with, and is even a little embarrassing, like a halo. She studied a silver ring on her finger.

“How does somebody know,” he asked, “that they have a Destiny?” The bed was so large that to sit in the little velvet chair at its foot would place him absurdly low; so—gingerly—he got up on the bed beside her. She made room. They took up opposite corners, resting in the wings which protruded from the headboard.

“An espiritista read mine,” Sylvie said. “A long time ago.”

“A who?”

“An espiritista. A lady with powers. You know. Reads cards, and does stuff with stuff from the botanica; a bruja sort of, you know?”

“Oh.”

“This one was sort of an aunt of mine, well not really mine, I forget whose aunt she was; we called her Tití, but everybody called her La Negra. She scared the shit out of me. Her apartment, way uptown, always had candles lit on these little altars, and the curtains drawn, and these crazy smells; and out on the fire escape she kept a couple of chickens, man, I don’t know what she did with those chickens and I don’t want to know. She was big—not fat, but with these long strong gorilla arms and a little head, and black, Sort of blue-black, you know? She couldn’t have really been in my family. So when I was a little kid I got malnutritioned real bad—wouldn’t eat—Mami couldn’t make me—I got so skinny, like this—” she held up a red-nailed pinkie. “The doctor said I was supposed to eat liver. Liver! Can you imagine? Anyway, Granny decided that somebody was maybe doing a number on me, you know? Brujeria. From a distance.” She waggled her fingers like a stage hypnotist. “Like revenge or something. Mami was living with somebody else’s husband then. So maybe his wife had got an espiritista to do revenge on her by making me sick. Anyway, anyway…” She touched his arm lightly, because he had looked away. In fact she touched his arm every time he looked away, which had begun somewhat to annoy him, his attention couldn’t have been more riveted; he thought this must be a bad habit of hers, until much later he saw that the men who played dominoes on the street and the women who watched children and gossiped on stoops did it too: a racial, not a personal habit, maintain the contact. “Anyway. She took me to La Negra to get it wiped out or whatever. Man I was never so scared in my life. She started pressing me and feeling me up with these big black hands, and sort of groaning or singing, and talking this stuff, and her eyeballs rolled back in her head and her eyelids fluttered—creepy. Then she dashes over to this little burner and throws some stuff on it, powder or something, and this real strong perfume comes out, and she rushes back—sort of dances—and feels me some more. She did some other stuff too that I forget. Then she drops all that, and gets real regular, like, you know, a day’s work, all done, like at the dentist; and she told Granny, no, nobody had a spell on me, I was just skinny and ought to eat more. Granny was so relieved. So—” again the brief wrist-touch, he had stared into the mug for a moment “—so they’re sitting around drinking coffee and Granny’s paying, and La Negra just kept looking at me. Just looking. Man I was freaking out. What’s she looking at? She could see right through you, she could see your heart. Your heart of hearts. Then she goes like this—” Sylvie motioned with a slow large black bruja hand for the child to come close “—and starts talking to me, real slow, about what dreams I had, and other stuff I forget; and it’s like she was thinking real hard. Then she gets out this deck of cards, real old and worn out; and she puts my hand on them and her hand over mine; and her eyes roll up again, and she’s like in a trance.” Sylvie took the cup from Auberon, who’d been gripping it, in a trance himself. “Oh,” she said. “No more?”

“Lots more.” He went to get some.

“So listen, listen. She lays out these cards—thanks—” She sipped, her eyes rising, looking for a moment like the child she was telling of. “And she starts reading them for me. That was when she saw my Destiny.”

“And what was it?” He sat again beside her on the bed. “A big one.”

“The biggest,” she said, mimicking a confidential, hotnews tone. “The very biggest.” She laughed. “She couldn’t believe it. This skinny, malnutritioned kid in a homemade dress. This big Destiny. She stared and stared. She stared at the cards, she stared at me. My eyes got big, and I thought I was going to cry, and Granny’s praying, and La Negra’s making noises, and I just wanted out…”

“But what,” Auberon said, “was the Destiny? Exactly.”

“Well, exactly she didn’t know.” She laughed, the whole thing had become silly. “That’s the only trouble. She said a Destiny, and a biggie. But not what. A movie stah. A queen. Queen of the World, man. Anything.” As quickly as she had laughed, she grew thoughtful. “It sure ain’t come true yet,” she said. “I used to picture it, though. Like in the future, coming true. I had this picture. There was this table, in the woods? Like a long banquet table. With a white cloth. And all these goodies on it. End to end, heaped up. But in the woods. Trees and stuff around. And there was an empty place at the middle of the table.”

“And?”

“That’s all. I just saw it. I thought about it.” She glanced over at him. “I bet you never knew anybody who had any big Destiny before,” she said, grinning.

He didn’t want to say that he had hardly known anyone who didn’t. Destiny had been like a shameful secret shared among all of them at Edgewood, which none of them would exactly admit to except in the most veiled terms and only at great need. He had fled his. He had outrun it, he was sure, like the geese outrunning Brother North-wind on strong wings: it couldn’t freeze him here. If he wanted a Destiny now, it would be one of his own choosing. He’d like, for instance, for a single simple instance, to have Sylvie’s: to be Sylvie’s. “Is it fun?” he asked. “Having a Destiny?”

“Not much,” she said. She had begun to clutch herself again, though the fire had heated the little room well. “When I was a kid, they all made fun of me for it. Except Granny. But she couldn’t resist going around telling everybody about it. And La Negra told. And I was still just a bad skinny kid who didn’t do shit that was wonderful.” She wiggled within the bedclothes, embarrassed, and turned the silver ring on her finger. “Sylvie’s big Destiny. There was a lot of jokes. Once—” she looked away “—once this real old Gypsy guy came around. Mami didn’t want to let him in, but he said he’d come all the way from Brooklyn to see me. So he comes in. All bent and sweaty, and real fat. And talking this funny Spanish. And they dragged me out, and showed me off. I was eating a chicken wing. And he stared at me a while with these big goggle eyes and his mouth open. Then—oh, man, it was weird—he got down on his knees—it took him a long time, you know?—and he says: Remember me when you come into your kingdom. And he gave me this.” She held up her hand (the palm lined minutely and clearly) and turned it to show the silver ring, back and front. “Then we all had to help him stand up.”

“And then?”

“He went back to Brooklyn.” She paused, remembering him. “Man I didn’t like him.” She laughed. “As he was leaving, I put the chicken wing in his pocket. He didn’t see. In his coat pocket. In exchange for the ring.”

“A wing for a ring.”

“Yeah.” She laughed, but soon ceased. She seemed restless and plagued again. Changeful: as though her weather blew faster, fair to foul to fair again, than most people’s did. “So big deal,” she said. “Forget it.” She drank, quickly and deeply, and then exhaled rapidly and waved her hand before her open mouth to cool the rum-flames. She gave him the cup and dug more deeply into the bedclothes. “What has it ever got me. I can’t even take care of myself. Much less anybody else.” Her voice had grown faint; she turned away, and seemed to be trying to disappear; then she rolled back, and yawned hugely. He could see her mouth’s interior: her arched tongue, even her uvula. Not the pale rosebud color of white people’s interior parts, but a richer color, tinged with coral. He wondered… “That kid was probably lucky,” she said when she was done. “To get away from me.”

“I can’t believe that,” he said. “You got along so well.”

She answered nothing, only stared at her thoughts. “I wish,” she said, but then no more. He wished he could think of something to offer her. Besides everything. “Well,” he said, “you can stay here as long as you want. As long as you want.”

Suddenly she flung off the covers and scrambled across the bed, getting away, and he had a wild impulse to grab her, restrain her. “Pipi,” she said. She climbed over his legs, and down to the floor, and pulled open the door of the closet (it opened only wide enough to admit her before striking the edge of the bed) and turned on a light within.

He heard her unzip. “Wow! That seat is cold!” There was a pause, and then the hollow hiss of number one. She said when she was done: “You’re a nice guy, you know that?” And any answer he might have made to that (he had none to make) was drowned in the roar of waters as she pulled the chain.

Gate of Horn

Preparing for their mutual bed was a lot of laughs (he made a joke about sleeping with a naked sword between them that she thought hilarious, never having heard of the thing before) but when the locomotive was stilled and darkness around them, he heard her weep, softly, smothering her tears, far away on her allotted side of the bed.

He supposed that really neither of them would sleep; but after long search, on this side and then that, after crying out (Ah! Ah!) softly several times as though frightened by her thoughts, Sylvie did find a pathway to the gate of horn; the tears were dry on her black lashes; she was asleep. In her struggle she had wound the bedclothes tortuously around herself, and he didn’t dare extract much (not knowing that once passed to the other side she was as good as dead for hours). For sleeping she wore a T-shirt, intended as a souvenir for tourists’ children, which showed garish and inaccurate pictures of four or five big City attractions, nothing but this and a pair of panties, patches of black silk on an elastic and no bigger than a blindfold. He lay awake next to her for a long time while her breathing grew regular. He slept briefly, and dreamed that her child’s shirt, and her great grief, and the bedclothes twisted protectively around her brown limbs, and the deliberate high sexiness of her nearly nonexistent underwear, were a rebus. He laughed, dreaming, to see the simple puns contained in these items, and the surprising but obvious answer, and his own laugh awoke him.

With the stealth of one of Daily Alice’s cats trying to find the warmth and not disturb the sleeper, his arm worked its way under the blankets and over her. For a long time he lay that way, still and wary. He half-dreamt again, this time that his arm, through contact with her, was turning slowly to gold. He woke, and found it asleep, heavy and dead. He withdrew it; it sprouted pins and needles; he caressed it, forgetting why it and not the other should appear in his mind as valuable; slept again. Woke again. She had grown greatly heavy beside him, seemed to weight her side of the bed like a treasure, the richer for its compactness, and richer still for being all unconscious of itself.

When at last he slept for real, though, it was of nothing in Old Law Farm that he dreamt, but of his earliest childhood, of Edgewood and of Lilac.

The house Auberon grew up in wasn’t quite the same house his mother had grown up in. As Smoky and Daily Alice had come into possession, the natural directors of a household composed of their children and Alice’s parents, the reins of an old orderliness were loosened. Daily Alice liked cats, as her mother hadn’t, and as Auberon grew up the number of cats in the house grew by geometrical progression. They lay in heaps before the fireplaces, their airborne down coated the furniture and the rugs as though with a dry and permanent hoarfrost, their self-possessed small demon faces looked out at Auberon from the oddest places. There was a calico tiger whose striped pelt made fierce false eyebrows above her eyes, two blacks or three, a white with discrete and complex black patches, like a melting chessboard. On cold nights Auberon would awake oppressed, toss within his bedclothes, and displace two or three compact dense bodies out of a deep enjoyment.

Lilacs and Fireflies

Besides cats, there was the dog Spark. He was descended from a long line of dogs who all looked (so Smoky said) like natural sons of Buster Keaton: light patches above Spark’s eyes gave him the same faintly reproachful, enormously alert, long-nosed face. Spark when fabulously aged impregnated a visiting cousin and fathered three anonymous dogs and another Spark; his lineage assured, he curled up in Doc’s favorite chair before the fire for the rest of his life.

It wasn’t only the animals (and Doc expressed himself clearly enough without ever speaking about his dislike for pets) that pushed Doc and Mom aside. Itwas as though, while losing no dignity or place, they were being silently sailed into the past on a quick and heaping tide of toys, cookie crumbs, birds’ nests, diapers, Band-aids and bunk beds. Mom, since her daughter was a mom too, became Mom Drinkwater, then Mom D., then Momdy, which she couldn’t help feeling was an uncomfortable kind of kicking-upstairs for one who had always served hard and well below. And Somehow over the years the many clocks in the house began to chime unsynchronized, though Doc, usually with one or two children around his knees, used to set them and wind them and peer at their mechanisms often.

The house itself aged, gracefully on the whole and still sound at heart, but sagging here and loosening there; its maintenance was a huge job and never done. At its perimeters, rooms had to be closed off: a tower, an extravagance, a glass orangery whose barley-sugar panes lay scattered amid the flower-pots, fallen square by diamond out of the icing of white wrought iron into which John Drinkwater had puttied them. Of the many gardens and flowerbeds around the place, the kitchen-garden’s was the slowest downfall and the longest decadence. Though whitewash flaked from the pretty cutout porch and the grape-leaves strangled up the ogee arches, though the steps sagged and the flagstone path disappeared under dock and dandelion muscling up through its crevices, still for as long as she was able Great-aunt Cloud tended the flowerbeds and they brought forth blossoms. Three crabapple trees had grown up at the garden’s end, grown old and hale and gnarled; every autumn they scattered their hard fruit on the ground to inebriate the wasps as it rotted. Momdy made jelly of a fraction of it. Later on, when he became a collector of words, the word “crabbed” would bring to Auberon’s mind those puckered orange apples withering in their useless sourness amid the weeds.

Auberon grew up in the kitchen-garden. When at last the spring came when Cloud decided that trying to keep up the garden, her back and legs being as they were, and failing would be more painful than letting it go altogether, then Auberon liked it better: now the flower beds weren’t forbidden him. And as it was abandoned, the garden and its buildings took on some of the attractions of a ruin: the tools in the earth-smelling potting shed were dusty and remote, and spiders spun webs across the openings of watering cans, giving them the fabulous antiquity of casques in a buried hoard. The pump house had always had for him this quality of the remote, the barbaric, with its useless tiny windows and peaked roof and miniature eaves and cornices. It was a heathen shrine, and the iron pump was the long-crested, great-tongued idol. He would stand on tiptoe to raise the pump-handle, raise it and lower it with all his strength while the idol choked hoarsely, until there came a catch in its throat as the handle met some mysterious resistance, and he must pull himself almost off his feet to draw it down, and again, and then with a magical sudden ease and release the water would sluice down the pump’s broad tongue and splash in a continuous smooth clear sheet onto the worn stones.

The garden was huge then to him. Seen from the vast, slightly undulating deck of the porch it went on great as a seascape to the crabapples and then broke in a high surf of overgrown flowers and indomitable weed against the stone wall and the X-gate forever shut in it which led into the Park. It was a sea and a jungle. He alone knew what had become of the flagstone path, because he could go on all fours beneath the overarching leaves where it ran secretly, its stones as cool and gray and smooth as water.

At evening there were fireflies. He was always surprised by them, how one moment there seemed to be none, and then, when evening turned blue and he looked up from some absorbing thing— the making inch by inch of a molehill maybe—they would be alight in the velvet darkness. There was an evening when he decided to sit on the porch as day turned to night, sit and watch only and nothing else, and catch the first one to light itself, and the next and the next: for the sake of some completeness he hankered after—would always hanker after.

The porch steps were that summer just throne height to him, and so he sat, sneakered feet planted firmly, not so rigidly attentive that he didn’t look up at the phoebe’s nest modeled neatly in the porch rafters, or at the silver pen-stroke of an unseen jet’s smoke; he even sang, without a tune, the words a meaningless onomatopoeia of the fading twilight. All the while he kept watch; yet in the end it was Lilac who saw the first firefly.

“There,” she said, in her little gravelly voice; and off amid the jungle of the ferns the light did go on, as though created by her pointing finger. When the next lit, she pointed with a toe.

Lilac wore no shoes, she never did, not even in winter, only a pale blue dress without sleeves or a belt that came midway down her satiny thighs. When he told his mother so, she asked didn’t Lilac ever get cold, and he couldn’t answer; apparently not, she never shivered, it was as though with the blue dress on she was complete, whole, needed no further protection; her dress, unlike his flannel shirts, was part of her, and not put on to cover or disguise.

The whole nation of the fireflies was coming into being. Whenever Lilac pointed and said “there” another one, or many, lit their pale candles, whitey-green like the phosphorescent tip of the light pull in his mother’s closet. When they were all present, the only clarity in a garden grown vague and colorless and massy, Lilac circled her finger in the air and the fireflies began to gather, slowly, by jumps, as though reluctant, in the middle of the air whore Lilac pointed; and when they had gathered they began to wheel there, at the direction of Lilac’s finger, a twinkling circle, a solemn pavane. He could almost hear the music.

“Lilac made the fireflies dance,” he told his mother when at length he came in from the garden. He circled his finger in the air as Lilac had and made a hum.

“Dance?” His mother said. “Don’t you think it’s time for you to go to bed?”

“Lilac stays up,” he said, not comparing himself to her— there were no rules for her—but only associating himself with her: even though he had to go to bed, wrongly, when blue light still suffused the sky and not all the birds were yet asleep, still he knew someone who did not; who would sit up in the garden deep into the night as he lay dreaming, or walk in the Park and see the bats, and never sleep at all if she so chose.

“Ask Sophie to turn on your bath,” his mother said. “Tell her I’ll be up in a minute.”

He stood looking up at her a moment, considering whether to protest. Bathing was another thing Lilac never did, though often she sat on the edge of the tub, studying him, aloof and immaculate. His father rattled his paper and made a noise in his throat, and Auberon went out of the kitchen, a good little soldier.

Smoky put down his paper. Daily Alice had fallen silent at the sink, the dishclout in her hand, her eyes elsewhere.

“A lot of kids have imaginary friends,” Smoky said. “Or brothers or sisters.”

“Lilac,” Alice said. She sighed and picked up a cup; she looked at the tea leaves in it as though to divine from them.

That’s a Secret

Sophie allowed him a duck. It was often easier to earn such favors from her, not because she was necessarily more kindly but because she was less alert than his mother, and seemed not always to be paying much attention. When he was neck-deep in the Gothic bathtub (large enough almost for him to swim in) she unwrapped a duck from its tissue. He could see that there were five still left in the compartmented box.

The ducks were made of Castile soap, Cloud said who had bought them for him, and that’s why they float. Castile soap, she said, is very pure, and doesn’t sting your eyes. The ducks were neatly carved, of a pale lemon yellow which did seem very pure to him, and of a smoothness that inspired a nameless emotion in him, something between reverence and deep sensual pleasure.

“Time to start washing,” Sophie said. He set the duck afloat, brooding on an unrealizable dream: to set all the pale yellow ducks afloat at once, without regard, flotilla of supernal smooth carven purity. “Lilac made the fireflies dance,” he said.

“Oh? Wash behind your ears.”

Why, he wondered or rather did not quite wonder, was he always told to do something or other whenever he mentioned Lilac? Once his mother had suggested to him that it might be better not to say too much about Lilac to Sophie, because it might make her feel bad; but he thought it enough if he was careful to make the distinction: “Not your Lilac.”

“No.”

“Your Lilac is gone.”

“Yes.”

“Before I was born.”

“That’s right.”

Lilac, sitting on the episcopal toilet seat, only looked from one to the other, seemingly unmoved, as though none of this concerned her. There was a host of questions Auberon had about the two Lilacs—or was it three?—and every time Sophie’s came to his mind a new question budded on the complex bush. But he knew there were secrets he would not be told: only as he grew older would he come to resent that.

“Betsy Bird’s getting married,” he said. “Again.”

“How do you know that?”

“Tacey said so. Lily said she’s going to marry Jerry Thome. Lucy said she’s going to have a baby. Already.” He mimicked the intrigued, faintly censorious tone his sisters took.

“Well. First I’ve heard of it,” Sophie said. “Out you come.”

With reluctance he abandoned the duck. Already its sharply-incised features had begun to soften; in future baths it would grow eyeless, then featureless; its broad beak would dwindle to a sparrow’s, then gone; then headless (he would be careful not to break its increasingly skinny neck, not wanting to interfere in its dissolution); at last shapeless, not a duck any more, a duck’s heart only, still pure, still floating.

She toweled him roughly, yawning. Her bedtime was often as not before his. Unlikehis mother, she usually left wet spots, on the backs of his arms, his ankles. “Why don’t you ever get married?” he asked. This would solve one of the difficulties about one of the Lilacs.

“Nobody ever asked me.”

This wasn’t true. “Rudy Flood asked you. When his wife died.”

“I wasn’t in love with Rudy. Where did you hear that, anyway?”

“Tacey told me. Were you ever in love?”

“Once.”

“With who?”

“That’s a secret.”

Books and a Battle

It wasn’t until Auberon was past seven years old that his Lilac went away, though long before that he stopped mentioning her existence to anyone. When he was grown up he would sometimes wonder if most children who have imaginary friends have them for longer than they admit. After a child has stopped insisting that a place be set for his friend at dinner, that people not sit in chairs his friend is sitting in, does he usually go on having some intercourse with him? And does the usual imaginary friend fade only slowly, lingering on more and more spectrally as the real world becomes realer, or is it usually the case that on one specific day he disappears, never to be seen again—as Lilac did? The people he questioned said they remembered nothing about it at all. But Auberon thought they might still be harboring the old small ghosts, perhaps ashamed. Why after all should he alone remember so vividly?

That one specific day was a June day, as clear as water, summer fully clothed, the day of the picnic: the day Auberon grew up.

The morning he spent in the library, stretched out along the chesterfield, the leather cool against the backs of his legs. He was reading: or anyway holding a heavy book on his chest and looking at lines of dense print one by one. There had never been a time when Auberon hadn’t loved reading; the passion had begun long before he could actually read, when he would sit with his father or his sister Tacey by the fire, feet up, turning when they turned the incomprehensible pages of a big picture-poor volume and feeling inexpressibly cozy and at peace. Learning to decipher words had only added to the pleasures of holding spines and turning pages, measuring the journey to the end with a thumb-riffle, poring over frontispieces. Books! Opening with a crackle of old glue, releasing perfume; closing with a solid thump. He liked them big; he liked them old; he liked them best in many volumes, like the thirteen on a low shelf, golden-brown, obscure, of Gregorovius’s Medieval Rome. Those— the big ones, the old ones—held secrets by their very nature; because of his years, though the paragraphs and chapters passed each under his scrutiny (he was no skimmer), he couldn’t quite get at those secrets, prove the book to be (as most books after all are) dull, dated, stupid. They kept their magic, mostly. And there were always more on the burdened shelves, the occult volumes John Drinkwater collected no less compelling to his great-great-grandson than the multivolume stuff he had bought by the yard to fill up the shelves. The one he held at the moment was the last edition of John Drinkwater’s Architecture of Country Houses. Lilac, bored, flitted from corner to corner of the library, taking poses, as though playing Statue Tag with herself.

“Hey,” Smoky said through the open double doors. “What are you doing frowsting in here?” The word was Cloud’s. “Have you been outside? What a day.” He got no response but a slowly turned page. From where he stood Smoky saw only the back of his son’s cropped head (Smoky’s own haircutting) with two pronounced tendons, a vulnerable hollow between them; and the top of the book; and two crossed big-sneakered feet. He didn’t have to look to know Auberon wore a flannel shirt buttoned at the wrists—he never wore any other kind, or unbuttoned the wrists, no matter how hot the weather. He felt a kind of impatient pity for the boy. “Hey,” he said again.

“Dad,” Auberon said, “is this book true?”

“What book is that?”

Auberon held it up, waggling it to show the covers. Smoky felt a dense rush of feeling: it had been a day like this one— perhaps this very day of the year, yes—on which long ago he had opened that book. He hadn’t looked at it since. But he knew its contents very much better now. “Well, ‘true’,” he said, “ ‘true’, I don’t know exactly what you mean by ‘true’.” Each time he said it the invisible doubt-quotes around the word became clearer. “Your great-great-grandfather wrote it, you know,” he said, coming to sit on the end of the sofa. “With some help from your great-great-grandmother—and your great-great-great grandfather.”

“Hm.” This didn’t intrigue Auberon. He read: “ ‘There, is a realm by definition precisely as large as. this one, which should not be—’ ” he stumbled “ ‘—reducible by any expansion, or enlargeable by any contraction, of this one, Here; and yet it must be that inroads have been made on that kingdome of late, that what are called by us Progress, and the growth of Commerce, and the enlargement of the bounds of Reason, have caused a flight further within their borders of that people; so that (though they have—by the nature of things must have—infinite room in which to retreat) their ancient holdings have been reduced by much. Are they angry at this? We cannot tell. Do they plan revenge? Or are they, like the Red Indian, like the African savage, now so debilitated, made so spiritless, so reduced in number, that they will at last be—’ ” another hard one “ ‘—extirpated entirely; not because they have nowhere left to flee, but because the losses, both of place and sovereignity, which our rapacity has inflicted on them are griefs too great to be borne? We cannot tell; not yet…’”

“What a sentence,” Smoky said. Three mystics talking at once made for a thickish prose.

Auberon lowered the book from before his face. “Is it so?” he said.

“Well,” Smoky said, feeling the trapped embarrassment of a parent before a child demanding to be told the facts of sex or death, “I don’t know, really. I don’t know if I really understand it. Anyway, I’m not the one to ask about it…”

“But is it made up,” Auberon insisted. A simple question.

“No,” Smoky said. “No, but there are things in the world that aren’t made up but which aren’t exactly true either, not true like the sky is up and the ground is down, and two and two make four, things like that…” The boy’s eyes regarding him took no comfort from this casuistry, Smoky could see that. “Listen, why don’t you ask your mother or Aunt Cloud? They know a lot more about that stuff than I do.” He grasped Auberon’s ankle. “Hey. You know the big picnic’s today.”

“What’s this?” Auberon said, having discovered the chart or map on onion-skin paper tipped into the back of the book. He began to unfold it—turning it wrongly at first so that an old fold tore—and just for a moment Smoky saw into his son’s consciousness: saw the expectation of revelations which any chart or diagram promises, and this one more than any; saw the greed for clarity and knowledge; saw the apprehension (in all senses) of the strange, the heretofore-hidden, the about-to-be-seen.

Auberon at last had to climb off the couch and put the book down on the floor in order to open the chart fully out. It crackled like a fire. Time had punched tiny holes in it where folds crossed one another. To Smoky it looked far older and fainter than it had looked fifteen or sixteen years ago when he had first seen it, and burdened with figures and features he didn’t remember, complex as it had then seemed to him. But it was (it must he) the same. As he came to kneel beside his son (who was already intently studying it, eyes alight and fingers tracing lines) he saw that he could understand it no better now, though in the intervening years he had learned (had he learned anything else? Oh, much) how best to go about not understanding it.

“I think I know what this is,” Auberon said.

“Oh yes?” Smoky said.

“It’s a battle.”

“Hm.”

In old history books Auberon had studied the maps: the oblong blocks labeled with little flags, disposed across a zebra landscape of topographical lines; gray blocks facing a roughly symmetrical disposition of black blocks (the bad guys). And on another page the same landscape hours later: some of the blocks bent aside, penetrated by the opposing blocks, pierced by the broad-arrow of their advance; others reversed entirely and following the broad-arrow of a retreat; and the diagonally-striped blocks of some belated ally appearing on one side. The great pale chart on the library floor was harder to figure out than those; it was as though the entire course of an immense battle (Positions at Dawn; Positions at 2:30 PM; Positions at Sunset) had been expressed here all at once, retreats superimposed on advances and orderly ranks on broken ones. And the topographical lines not squiggled and bent along the rises and declivities of any battleground but regular, and crossing: so many geometries, subtly altering each other as they interlaced, that the whole shimmered like moire silk and led the eye into mazes of false appraisal: Is this line straight? Is this one curved? Are these nested circles, or a continuous spiral?

“There’s a legend,” Smoky said, feeling weary.

There was. There were also, Auberon saw, blocks of minute type placed explanatorily here and there (lost allies’ regiments), and the hieroglyphs of the planets, and a compass rose, though not of directions, and a scale, though not of miles. The legend said that the thick lines bounded Here, and the thin lines There. But there was no way to be sure which lines on the chart were truly thick, which thin. Below the legend, in italic type underscored to emphasize its importance, was this note: “Circumference = nowhere; center point = everywhere.”

In deep difficulties, and in what suddenly seemed like danger as well, Auberon looked up at his father. He seemed to see in Smoky’s face and downcast eyes (and it was this face of Smoky’s that in after years Auberon would most often see when he dreamt of him) a sad resignation, a kind of disappointment, as though he would say, “Well, I tried to tell you; tried to keep you from going this far, tried to warn you; but you’re free, and I don’t object, only now you know, now you see, now the milk’s spilt and the eggs broken, and it’s partly my fault and mostly yours.”

“What,” Auberon said, feeling a thickness in his throat, “what… what is…” He had to swallow, and found himself then with nothing to say. The chart seemed to make a noise over which he couldn’t hear his own thoughts. Smoky gripped his shoulder and rose.

“Well, listen,” he said. Perhaps Auberon had mistaken his expression: as he stood and brushed rug lint from his trouserknees he looked only bored, perhaps, probably. “I really really don’t think this is the day for this, you know? I mean come on. The picnic’s on.” He thrust his hands in his pockets and bent slightly over his son, taking a different air: “Now maybe you don’t feel terrifically enthusiastic about that, but I think your mother would appreciate a little help, getting things ready. Do you want to go in the car, or bike?”

“Car,” Auberon said, still looking down, not sure whether he was glad or the reverse that though for a moment, just a moment, his father and he had seemed to venture into strange lands together, they now resumed their distant relations. He waited for his father’s eyes (which he could feel on the back of his head) to turn away, and for his father’s footsteps to sound on the parquet outside the library, before he looked up from the chart (or map) which had grown less compelling though no less confusing, like an answerless riddle. He folded it up again, closed the book, and instead of replacing it in the glass-fronted case with its forebears and cousins, he secreted it beneath the chintz skirts of a plump armchair, where he could retrieve it later.

“But if it’s a battle,” he said, “which side is which?”

“If it’s a battle,” Lilac said, crosslegged in the armchair.

The Old Geography

Tacey had gone on ahead to the place that for some time had been decided on as this year’s picnic grounds, flying down old roads and new paths on her well-kept bike, pursued by Tony Buck for whom she’d begged a guest’s place. Lily and Lucy were coming from another direction, from a morning visit of some importance which Tacey had sent them on. So in the aged station wagon were Alice, at the wheel; Great-aunt Cloud, beside her, and Smoky at the door; in the back Doc and Momdy and Sophie; and yet further back, legs crossed, Auberon, and the dog Spark, who had the habit of pacing back and forth endlessly when the car was in motion (unable to accept, perhaps, scenery flying by his face while his legs did nothing). There was room also for Lilac, who took up none.

“Scarlet tanager,” Auberon said to Doc.

“No, a redstart,” Doc said.

“Black, with a red…”

“No,” Doc said, raising a forefinger, “the tanager is all red, with a black wing. Redstart is mostly black, with red patches…” he patted his own breast pockets.

The station wagon jounced, squeaking protests from every joint, over the roundabout rutted road that led to their chosen site. Daily Alice claimed it was only Spark’s back-and-forth that kept this antiquity in motion at all (as Spark himself also believed), and for certain it had done service in recent years that would have affronted most vehicles its age into silence and immobility. Its wooden sides were as gray as driftwood and its leather seats as wrinkled with fine wrinkles as Aunt Cloud’s face, but its heart was still strong, and Alice had learned its little ways from her father, who knew them (despite what George Mouse thought) as well as he knew the habits of redstarts and red squirrels. She’d had to learn, in order to do the Brobignagian grocery-shoppings her growing family required. No more semi-monthly shopping lists. These had been the days of sixlegged chickens, of cases of this and dozens of that, of giant economy sizes, of ten-pound boxes of Drudge detergent and magnums of oil and jereboams of milk. The station wagon lugged it all, over and over, and bore it about as patiently as Alice herself did.

“Do you think, dear,” Momdy said, “you ought to go much further? Will you be able to get out?”

“Oh, I think we can go a ways yet,” Alice said. It was mostly for Momdy’s arthritis and Cloud’s old legs that they drove at all. In former days… They passed over a rut, and everyone but Spark was lifted somewhat off his seat; they entered a sea of leaf shadow; Alice slowed, almost able to feel the gentle strokings of the shadows over the hood and the top of the car; she forgot about former days in a sweet accession of summer happiness. The first cicada any of them had heard sang its semi-tune. Alice let the car drift to a halt. Spark stopped pacing.

“Can you walk from here, ma?” she asked.

“Oh, sure.”

“Cloud?”

There was no answer. They were all silenced by the silence and the green.

“What? Oh, yes,” Cloud said. “Auberon’ll help me. I’ll bring up the rear.” Auberon chortled, and so did Cloud.

“Isn’t this,” Smoky said when they were on foot in twos and threes down the dirt road, “isn’t this a road,” he shifted his grip on the handle of the wicker basket he carried with Alice, “didn’t we come along this road when…”

“Yes,” Alice said. She glanced sidewise at him with a smile. “That’s right.” She squeezed her handle of the wicker basket as though it was his hand.

“I thought so,” he said. The trees that stood up on the slopes above the gully of the road had grown perceptibly, had become even more noble and huge with arboreal wisdom, more thickly barked, more cloaked in serious garments of ivy; the road, long closed, had fallen into desuetude and was filling up with their offspring. “Around here somewhere,” he said, “was a shortcut to the Woods’.”

“Yup. We took it.”

The Gladstone bag he shared with Alice drew down his left shoulder and made walking difficult. “That shortcut’s gone now, I guess,” he said. Gladstone bag? It was a wicker basket, the same that Momdy had once packed their wedding breakfast in.

“Nobody to keep it open,” Alice said, glancing back at her father, and seeing him glance toward those same woods, “no need to.” Both Amy Woods and her husband Chris were ten years dead in this summer.

“It’s amazing to me,” Smoky said, “how little of this geography I can keep straight.”

“Mmm,” said Alice.

“I had no idea this road ran here.”

“Well,” she said, “maybe it doesn’t.”

One hand around Auberon’s shoulder, the other on a heavy cane, Cloud placed her feet carefully among the stones of the road. She had developed a habit of making a small constant chewing motion with her lips, which if she thought anyone noticed, would have embarrassed her greatly, and so she had convinced herself no one noticed it (since she couldn’t help making it), though in fact everyone did. “Good of you to struggle with your old aunt,” she said.

“Aunt Cloud,” Auberon said, “that book your father and mother wrote—was that your father and mother who wrote it?”

“Which book is that, dear?”

“About architecture, only it’s not, mostly.”

“I thought,” Cloud said, “that those books were locked up with a little key.”

“Well,” Auberon said, ignoring this, “is all that it says, true?”

“All what?”

It was impossible to say all what. “There’s a plan in the back. Is it a plan of a battle?”

“Well! I never thought it was. A battle! Do you think so?”

Her surprise made him less sure. “What did you think it was?”

“I can’t say.”

He waited for at least an opinion, a stab, but she made none, only chewed and toiled along; he was left to interpret her remark to mean not that she was unable to say, but Somehow forbidden. “Is it a secret?”

“A secret! Hm.” Again her surprise, as though she had never given these matters the least thought before. “A secret, you think? Well, well, perhaps that’s just what it is… My, they are getting on ahead, aren’t they?”

Auberon gave it up. The old lady’s hand was heavy on his shoulder. Beyond, where the road rose and then fell away, the towering trees framed a silver-green landscape; they seemed to bend toward it, exhibit it with leafy hands extended, offering it to the walkers. Auberon and Cloud watched the others top the rise and pass through the portals into that place, enter into sunlight, look around themselves, and, walking downwards, disappear.

Hills and Dales

“When I was a girl,” Momdy said, “we used to go back and forth quite a bit.”

The checkered tablecloth around which they were all disposed had been spread in the sun but was now in the shade of the great solitary maple by which they had camped. Great damage had been inflicted on the ham and the fried chicken and a chocolate cake; two bottles lay fallen, and a third canted over, nearly done for. A flying squadron of black ants had just reached the outskirts of the field, and were relaying the message back: great good luck.

“The Hills and the Dales,” Momdy said, “always had connections with the City. Hill is my mother’s name, you know,” she said to Smoky, who did. “Oh, it was fun in the thirties, taking the train in; having lunch; going to see our Hill cousins. Now the Hills hadn’t always lived in the City…”

“Are these the Hills,” Sophie asked from beneath the straw hat she had tilted over her face against the generous sun, “that are still up in Highland?”

“That’s a branch,” Momdy said. “My Hills never had much to do with the Highland Hills. The story is…”

“The story is long,” Doc said. He lifted his wineglass to the sun (he always insisted on real glasses and silverware at picnics, the out-of-doors luxury of them made a picnic a feast) and watched the sun caught in it. “And the Highland Hills get the best of it.”

“Not so,” Momdy said. “How do you know what story the story is?”

“A little bird told me,” Doc said, chuckling, indulging himself. He stretched out, back against the maple, and pulled his panama (as old almost as himself) into snooze position. Momdy’s reminiscences had in recent years got longer, more rambling and repetitious, as her ears had got deafer; but she never minded being apprised of it. She went right on.

“The Hills in the City,” she said to all of them, “were really very splendid. Of course back then it was nothing to have a servant or two, but they had flocks. Nice Irish girls. Marys and Bridgets and Kathleens. They had such stories. Well. The City Hills more or less died out. Some of them went out west, to the Rockies. Except one girl about Nora’s age then who married a Mr. Townes, and they stayed. That was a wonderful wedding. The first where I cried. She wasn’t beautiful, and she was no spring chicken; and she already had a daughter by a previous husband, what was his name, who hadn’t lasted, so this Townes man—what was his first name— was quite a catch, oh dear you can’t talk that way nowadays can you; and all those maids lined up in their starched outfits, congratulations, missus, congratulytions. Her family was so happy for her…”

“All the Hills,” Smoky said, “danced for joy.”

“… and it was their daughter or rather her daughter, Phyllis, you see, who later on, about the time I got married, met Stanley Mouse, which is how that family and my family get connected in a roundabout way. Phyllis. Who was a Hill on her mother’s side. George and Franz’s mother.”

“Parturient montes,” Smoky quipped into the void, “et nascetur ridiculus mus.”

Momdy nodded thoughtfully. “Ireland in those days was a dreadfully poor place, of course…”

“Ireland?” Doc said, looking up. “How did we get to Ireland?”

“One of those girls, Bridget I think,” Momdy said, turning to her husband, “was it Bridget, or Mary? later married Jack Hill when his wife died. Now his wife…”

Smoky quietly rolled away from her discourse. Neither Doc nor Great-aunt Cloud were truly listening either, but as long as they stayed in more or less attentive poses, Momdy wouldn’t notice his defection. Auberon sat cross-legged apart from them, preoccupied (Smoky wondered if he had ever seen him otherwise occupied) and tossing an apple up and down in his hand. He was looking sharply at Smoky, and Smoky wondered if he meant to shy the apple at him. Smoky smiled, thought of a joke to make, but since Auberon’s expression didn’t change he decided against it, and, standing up, changed his place again. (In fact Auberon hadn’t been looking at him at all; Lilac sat between him and his father, blocking his view of Smoky, and it was her face he looked at: she wore a peculiar expression, he would have called it sad since he had no better word, and he wondered what it meant.)

He sat down next to Daily Alice. She lay with her head pillowed on a hummock and her fingers interlaced over a full tummy. Smoky drew a sedge from its squeaking new casing and bit down on the pale sweetness. “Can I ask you something?” he said.

“What.” She didn’t quite open her sleepy eyes.

“When we got married,” he said, “that day, you remember?”

“Mm-hm.” She smiled.

“When we were going around, and meeting people. They gave us some presents.”

“Mm-hm.”

“And a lot of them, when they gave us things, said ‘Thank you.’ ” The sedge’s green ear bounced in rhythm to his speech; he could see it. “What I wondered was, why they said ‘Thank you’ to us, instead of us saying ‘Thank you’ to them.”

“We said ‘Thank you.’ ”

“But why did they? That’s what I mean.”

“Well,” she said, and thought. He had asked so few things over the years that when he did ask something she thought hard how to answer him, so that he wouldn’t brood. Not that he tended to brood. She often wondered why he didn’t. “Because,” she said, “the marriage had been promised, sort of.”

“Yeah? So?”

“Well, they were glad that you’d come. And that the promise had come out like it had been promised.”

“Oh.”

“So that everything would go on like it was supposed to, You didn’t have to, after all.” She put a hand on his. “You didn’t have to.”

“I didn’t see it that way,” Smoky said. He thought. “Why would they care so much what was promised? If it was promised to you.”

“Well, you know. A lot of them are relatives, sort of. Part of the family, really. Though you’re not supposed to say it. I mean they’re Daddy’s half-brothers or sisters, or their kids. Or their kids’ kids.”

“Oh yes.”

“August.”

“Oh yes.”

“So. They had an interest.”

“Mm.” It wasn’t precisely the answer he’d been looking for; but Daily Alice said it as though it were.

“It gets very thick around here,” she said.

“Blood’s thicker than water,” Smoky said, though that had always seemed to him among the dumber proverbs. Of course blood was thicker; so what? Who was ever connected by this water that blood was supposed to be thicker than?

“Tangled,” Alice said, her eyes drifting closed. “Lilac, for instance.” A lot of wine and sun, Smoky thought, or she wouldn’t have let that name fall so casually. “A double dose; a double cousin, sort of. Cousin to herself.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, you know, cousins of cousins.”

“I don’t,” Smoky said, puzzled. “You mean by marriage?”

“What?” She opened her eyes. “Oh! No. No, of course not. You’re right. No.” Her eyes closed again. “Forget it.”

He looked down at her. He thought: follow one hare, and for sure you’ll start another; and while you watch that one scamper out of sight, the first one gets away, too. Forget it. He could do that. He stretched himself beside her, propping his head on one arm; they were posed like lovers then, head to head nearly, he above looking down, she basking in his regard. They had married young; they were still young. Only old in love. There was a tune: he raised his eyes. On a rock not quite out of earshot, Tacey sat playing her recorder; now and then she stopped to remember notes, and to brush from her face a long curl of blond hair. At her feet Tony Buck sat, with the transfigured look of a convert to some just-revealed religion, unaware that Lily and Lucy a ways off whispered about him, unaware of anything but Tacey. Should girls as skinny as Tacey, Smoky wondered, and with legs as long, wear shorts that short and tight? Her bare toes, already sun-browned, kept the rhythm. Green grow the rushes-o. And all the hills around them danced.

A Getaway Look

Doc meanwhile had also drifted away from his wife’s discourse, leaving her only Sophie (who was asleep) and Great-aunt Cloud (who was also asleep, though Momdy didn’t know it). Doc went with Auberon following the toiling caravan of ants bearing goodies to their hill: a good big new one, when they found it.

“Stocks, supplies, inventory,” Doc translated, a look of quiet absorption in his face and his ear cocked to the little city. “Watch your step, watch your back. Routes, work-loads, chain of command, upper echelons, front-office gossip; drop it, forget it, circular file, pass the buck, wander off, let George do it; back in line, the old salt mines, in harness, in and out, lost and found. Directives, guidelines, grapevine, schedules, check in, knock off, out sick. Much the same.” He chuckled. “Much the same.”

Auberon, hands on his knees, watched the miniature armored vehicles (driver and vehicle in one, and radio antenna too) tumble in and out. He imagined the congress within: endless busyness in the dark. Then he half-saw something, as though there were a darkness or a brightness in the corner of his vision, gathering until it was large enough for him to notice. He looked up and around.

What he had seen or noticed was not something, but something missing. Lilac was gone.

“Now up, or down, at the Queen’s, that’s very different,” Doc said.

“Yeah, I see,” Auberon said, looking around. Where? Where was she? Though there were often long periods when he didn’t exactly notice her presence, he had always been aware of her, had always sensed she was there by him somewhere. Now she was gone.

“This is very interesting,” Doc said.

Auberon caught sight of her, down the hill, just going around a group of trees antechamber to the woods. She looked back for a moment, and (seeing that he saw her) hurried out of sight. “Yes,” Auberon said, sidling away.

“Up at the Queen’s,” Doc said. “What is it?”

“Yes,” Auberon said, and ran, racing toward the place where Lilac had disappeared, apprehension in his heart.

He didn’t see her when he entered that stand of trees. He had no idea which way to follow further, and a panic seized him: that look she had given him as she turned away into the woods had been a getaway look. He heard his grandfather’s voice calling him. He stepped carefully. The beechwood he stood in, smooth-floored and regular as a pillared hall, showed him a dozen vistas down which she could have fled…

He saw her. She stepped out from behind a tree, quite calmly, she even had what appeared to be a bunch of dog-tooth violets in her hand, and seemed to be looking around herself for more. She didn’t look back at him, and he stood confused, knowing deeply that she had run away from him, though she didn’t look now like she had, and then she was gone again, she’d tricked him with the bouquet into standing still one moment too long. He raced to the place she’d disappeared, knowing even as he ran that she was gone for goodnow, but calling: “Don’t go, Lilac!”

The woods into which she had escaped were various, dense and briary, dark as a church, and showed him no prospects. He plunged in blindly, stumbling, torn at. Very quickly he found himself deeper in The Wood than he had ever been, as though he had shot through a door without noticing that it opened on a flight of cellar stairs to pitch him headlong down. “Don’t,” he called out, lost. “Don’t go.” An imperious voice, such as he had never used to her before, such as he had never had to, such as she could not conceivably have refused. But nothing answered him. “Don’t go,” he said again, not imperiously, afraid in the dark of the wood and more bereft more suddenly than his young soul could have conceived possible. “Don’t go. Please, Lilac. Don’t go, you’re the only secret I ever had!”

Gigantic, aloof, not much disturbed but quite interested, old ones looked down like trees at the small one who had so suddenly and fiercely come in among them. Hands spread on their enormous knees, they considered him, insofar as they could consider someone or something so minute. One put his finger to his lips; silently they watched him stumble amid their toes; they cupped huge hands behind their ears, and with eavesdroppers’ slight smiles they heard his cry and his grief, though Lilac could not.

Two Beautiful Sisters

“Dear Parents,” Auberon in the Folding Bedroom wrote (typing featly with two fingers on an old, old machine he had discovered there), “Well! A winter here in the City is going to be quite an experience! I’m glad it won’t last forever. Though today temp. is 25, and it snowed again yesterday. No doubt it’s worse where you are, ha ha!” He paused, having made this gay exclamation carefully out of the single-quote mark and the period. “I’ve been twice now to see Mr. Petty at Petty, Smilodon & Ruth, Grandpa’s lawyers as you know, and they’ve been kind enough to advance me a little more against the settlement, but not much, and they can’t say when the darn thing will be straightened out at last. Well Im sure everything will turn out fine.” He was not sure, he raged, he had shouted at Mr. Petty’s automaton of a secretary and nearly balled up the paltry check and thrown it at her; but the persona whacking out this letter, tongue between teeth and searching fingers tense, didn’t make admissions like that. Everything was fine at Edgewood; everything was fine here too, Everything was fine. He made a new paragraph. “I’ve already about worn out the shoes I came in. Hard City streets! As you know, things have got very expensive here and the quality is no good. I wonder if you could send the pair of tall lace-up ones in my closet. Theyre not very dressy but anyway I’ll be spending most of my time working here at the Farm. Now that winters here theres a lot to do, cleaning up, stableing the animals and so on. George is pretty funny in his galoshes. But hes been very good to me and I appreciate it even if I do get blisters. And there are other nice people who live here.” He stopped, as before a precipice he was about to tumble over, his finger hovering above the S. The machine’s ribbon was old and brownish, the pale letters staggered drunkenly above and below the line they should be walking. But Auberon didn’t want to display his school hand to Smoky; it had degenerated, he had lately taken up ball-points and other vices; what now about Sylvie? “Among them are:” He ran down in his mind the current occupancy of Old Law Farm. He wished he hadn’t taken this route. “Two sisters, who are Puerto Rican and very beautiful.” Now what the hell had he done that for? An old secret-agent obfuscation inhabiting his fingers. Tell them nothing. He sat back, unwilling to go on; and at that moment, there was a knock at the door of the Folding Bedroom, and he drew the page out, finish it later (though he never did) and went—two steps across the floor was all it took his long legs—to admit the two beautiful Puerto Rican sisters, wrapped into one and all his, all his.

But it was George Mouse who stood on the threshold. (Auberon would soon learn not to mistake anyone else at the door for Sylvie, because Sylvie instead of knocking always scratched or drummed at the door with her nails; it was the sound of a small animal wanting admission.) George had an old fur coat over his arm, an antique lady’s peau-de-soi black hat on his head, and two shopping bags in his hands. “Sylvie not here?” he said.

“No, not just now.” With all the practiced skills of a secretive nature Auberon had managed to avoid George Mouse for a week in his own farm, coming and going with a mouse’s forethought and haste. But now here he was. Never had Auberon experienced such embarrassment, such a terrible caught-out feeling, such an awful sense that no common remark he could make would not carry a load of hurt and rejection for another, and that no pose, solemn, facetious, offhand, could mitigate that. And his host! His cousin! Old enough to be his father! Usually not at all intensely aware of the reality of others or of others’ feelings, Auberon just then felt what his cousin must feel as though he inhabited him. “She went out. I don’t know where.”

“Yeah? Well, this stuff is hers.” He put down the shopping bags and plucked the hat from his head. It left his gray hair standing upright. “There’s some more. She can come get it. Well, a load off my mind.” He tossed the fur coat over the velvet chair. “Hey. Take it easy. Don’t hit me, man. Nothing to do with me.”

Auberon realized he had taken a rigid stance in a corner of the room, face set, unable to find an expression to suit the circumstance. What he wanted to do was to tell George he was sorry; but he had just enough wit to see that nothing could be more insulting. And besides, he wasn’t sorry, not really.

“Well, she’s quite a girl,” George said, looking around (Sylvie’s panties were draped over the kitchen chair, her unguents and toothbrush were at the sink). “Quite a girl. I hope yiz are very happy.” He punched Auberon’s shoulder, and pinched his cheek, unpleasantly hard. “You son of a bitch.” He was smiling, but there was a mad light in his eye.

“She thinks you’re terrific,” Auberon said.

“Izzat a fact.”

“She said she doesn’t know what she would have done without you. Without your letting her stay here.”

“Yeah. She said that to me too.”

“She thinks of you like a father. Only better.”

“Like a father, huh?” George burned him with his coaly eyes, and without looking away began to laugh. “Like a father.” He laughed louder, a wild staccato laugh.

“Why are you laughing?” Auberon asked, not certain he was meant to join, or whether it was he who was being laughed at.

“Why?” George laughed all the harder. “Why? What the hell do you want me to do? Cry?” He threw back his head, showing white teeth, and roared. Auberon couldn’t help joining in then, though tentatively, and when George saw that, his own laugh diminished. It went on in chuckles, like small waves following a breaker. “Like a father, huh. That’s rich.” He went to the window and stared out at the iron day. A last chuckle escaped him; he clasped his hands behind his back and sighed. “Well, she’s a hell of a girl. Too much for an old fart like me to keep up with.” He glanced over his shoulder at Auberon. “You know she’s got a Destiny?”

“That’s what she said.”

“Yeah.” His hands opened and closed behind him. “Well, it looks like I ain’t in it. Okay by me. Cause there’s a brother in it, too, with a knife, and a grandmother and a crazy mother… And some babies.” He was silent awhile. Auberon almost wept for him. “Old George,” George said. “Always left with the babies. Here, George, do something with this. Blow it up, give it away.” He laughed again. “And do I get credit? Damn right I do. You son of a bitch, George, you blew up my baby.”

What was he talking about? Had he slipped into madness under the pressure of grief? Would losing Sylvie be like that, would it be so awful? A week ago he wouldn’t have thought so. With a sudden chill he remembered that the last time Great-aunt Cloud had read the cards for him, she had predicted a dark girl for him; a dark girl, who would love him for no virtue he had, and leave him through no fault of his own. He had dismissed it then, as he was in the process of dismissing all of Edgewood and its prophecies and secrets. He dismissed it now again, with horror.

“Well, you know how it is,” George said. He pulled a tiny spiral notebook from his pocket and peered in it. “You’re on for the milking this week. Right?”

“Right.”

“Right.” He put away the book. “Hey listen. You want some advice?”

He didn’t, any more than he wanted prophecy. He stood to receive it. George looked at him closely, and then around the room. “Fix the place up,” he said. He winked at Auberon. “She likes it nice. You know? Nice.” He began to be caught by a fit of laughing again, which burbled at the back of his throat as he took a handful of jewelry from one pocket and gave it to Auberon, and a handful of change from another and gave him that too. “And keep clean,” he said. “She thinks us white people are a little on the foul side most of the time.” He headed for the door. “A word to the wise,” he said, and chuckling, left. Auberon stood with jewels in one hand and money in the other, hearing, down the hall, Sylvie pass George on her way up; he heard them greet each other in a volley of wisecracks and kisses.

Ariel Hawksquill, greatest mage of this age of the world (and a match, she was not too modest to think, of many great ones of the so-called past, with whom she now and then discoursed), possessed no crystal ball; judicial astrology she knew to be a fraud, though she had uses for the old pictured heavens; she disdained spells and geomancies of all kinds, except at great need, and the sleeping dead and their secrets she let sleep. Her one Great Art, and it was all she needed, was the highest Art of all, and required no vulgar tools, no Book, no Wand, no Word. It could be practiced (as, on a certain rainy afternoon of the winter in which Auberon came to Old Law Farm, she was practicing it) before the fire, with feet up, and tea and toast at hand. It required nothing but the interior of her skull: that and a concentration and an acceptance of impossibility which saints would have found admirable and chess masters difficult.

The Art of Memory, as it is described by ancient writers, is a method by which the Natural Memory we are born with can be improved tremendously, beyond recognition in fact. The ancients agreed that vivid pictures in a strict order were the most easily remembered. Therefore, in order to construct an Artificial Memory of great power, the first step (Quintillian and other authorities agree on this, though they diverge at other points) is to choose a Place: a temple, for instance, or a city street of shops and doorways, or the interior of a house—any place that has parts which occur in a regular order. This Place is committed to memory carefully and well, so well that the rememberer can scurry around it backwards, forwards, any which way at will. The next step is to create vivid symbols or images for the things one wishes to remember—the more shocking and highly-colored the better, according to the experts: a ravished nun, say, for the idea of Sacrilege, or a cloaked figure with a bomb for Revolution. These symbols are then cast onto the various parts of the memory Place, its doors, niches, forecourts, windows, closets, and other spaces; and then the rememberer has simply to go around his memory Place, in any order he wishes, and take from each spot the Thing which symbolizes the Notion which he wishes to remember. The more one wishes to remember, of course, the larger the house of memory must be; it usually ceases to be an actual place, as actual places tend to be too plain and incommodious, and becomes an imaginary place, as large and varied as the rememberer can make it. Wings can be added at will (and with practice); architectural styles can vary with the subject-matter they are meant to contain. There were even refinements of the system whereby not Notions but actual words were to be remembered by complex symbols, and finally individual letters: so that a collection of sickle, millstone, and hacksaw instantly brings the word God to mind when gathered from the appropriate mental nook. The whole process was immensely complicated and tedious and was for the most part rendered obsolete by the invention of the filing-cabinet.

The Art of Memory

But the greatest practitioners of the old art discovered some odd things about their memory houses the longer they lived in them, and modern practitioners (or practitioner, really, there being only one of any skill, and she keeps it to herself) have improved on and even further complicated the system for reasons of their own.

It was discovered, for instance, that the symbolic figures with vivid expressions, once installed in their proper places, are subject to subtle change as they stand waiting to be called forth. That ravished nun who meant Sacrilege might, when one passes her again, have acquired a depraved air about the mouth and eyes one hadn’t thought he had bestowed on her, and something wanton about her deshabille that looks Somehow purposeful rather than forced: and Sacrilege changes to Hypocrisy, or at least borrows some of its aspects, and thus the memory she symbolizes alters perhaps in instructive ways. Also: as a memory house grows, it makes conjunctions and vistas that its builder can’t conceive of beforehand. When out of necessity he throws up a new wing, it must abut the original place in some way; so a door in the original house that previously opened on a weedy garden might suddenly blow open in a draught and show its astonished owner his grand new gallery full of just-installed memories from the backside, so to speak, at a left-hand turning, facing in the wrong direction—also instructive; and that new gallery might also turn out to be a shortcut to the ice-house where he had put a distant winter once and then forgot.

Yes, forgot: because another thing about a memory house is that its builder and occupier can lose things in it just as you can in any house—the ball of string which you were certain you kept either with the stamps and the tape in the desk-drawer or in the hall closet with the tackhammer and the picture-wire, but which isn’t in either place when you go to look for it. In the ordinary or Natural Memory such things can simply vanish; you don’t even remember you forgot them. The advantage of a memory house is that you know it’s in there somewhere.

So it was that Ariel Hawksquill was rooting around in one of the oldest attics of her memory mansions, looking for something she had forgotten but knew was there.

She had been re-reading an ars memorativa of Giordano Bruno’s called De umbris idearum, a huge treatise on symbols and seals and signs to be used in the highest forms of the art. Her first-edition copy had marginal notes in a neat Italic hand, often illuminating but more often puzzling. On a page where Bruno treats of the various orders of symbols one might use for various purposes, the commentator had noted: “As in ye cartes of ye returne of R.C. are iiiij Personnes, Places, Thynges &c., which emblemes or cartes are for remembering or foretelling, and discoverie of smalle worldes.” Now this “R.C.” could stand for “Roman Church”, or—just possibly— “Rosicrucian.” But it was the persons and places and things that had rung a distant bell: a bell here, she thought, where she had stored her distant childhood long ago.

She moved carefully but with increasing impatience through the miscellany there, her dog Spark, a trip to Rockaway, her first kiss; she became intrigued with the contents of chests and went off down useless corridors of reminiscence. In one place she had put a battered cowbell, why she at first had no idea. Then she rang it tentatively. It was the bell she had heard, and instantly she remembered her grandfather (whom the cowbell was—of course !—to represent, since he had been a farm laborer in England till he emigrated to this vast and cowless city). She saw him distinctly now, where she had put him, below the mantel with the Toby jugs on it which resembled him, in a battered armchair; he turned the cowbell in his hands as he had used to turn his pipe.

“Did you,” she questioned him, “tell me once about cards, with persons and places and things?”

“I might have.”

“In what connection?”

Silence. “Well, small worlds then.”

It grew clearer in that attic, lit with a past sun, and she sat at Grandpa’s feet in the old apartment. “It was the only thing I ever found had any value, like,” he said, “and I threw it away on a silly girl. Would’ve brought twenty bob in any dealer’s, I can tell you that, they were that old and fine. I found them in an old cottage that the squire wanted pulled down. And she was a girl who said she saw fairies and pixies and such, and her father was another like her. Violet her name was. And I said, ‘Tell my fortune then with these if you can.’ And she like riffled through them—there were pictures on them of persons and places and things—and she laughed and said I’d die a lonely old man on a fourth storey. And wouldn’t give me back the cards I’d found.”

There it was then. She put the cowbell back in its place in the order of her childhood (put it next to a well-thumbed deck of Old Maid cards from the same year, just to keep the connection clear) and shut up that room.

Small worlds, she thought, staring out the rain-crazed window of her parlor. To discover small worlds. In no other connection had she ever heard of these cards. The persons and places and things were reminiscent of the Art of Memory, in which a place is established, and a vivid person imagined, holding his emblematic things. And “the return of R. C.”: if that meant the “Brother R. C.” of the Rosicrucians, it would place the cards in the first flush of Rosicrucian enthusiasms; which—she pushed away the tray of tea and toast, and wiped her fingers—might make some sense of the small worlds, too. The arcane thought of those years knew of many.

The athenor of the alchemists, for instance, the Philosopher’s Egg within which the transformation from base to gold took place—was it not a microcosm, a small world? When the black-books said that the Work was to be begun in the sign of Aquarius and completed in Scorpio, they meant not those signs as they occurred in the heavens, but as they occurred in the universe of the world-shaped, world-containing Egg itself. The Work was not other than Genesis; the Red Man and the White Lady, when they appeared, microscopic in the Egg, were the soul of the Philosopher himself, as an object of the Philosopher’s thought, itself a product of his soul, and so on, regressus ad infinitum, and in both directions too. And the Art of Memory: had not the Art introjected into the finite circle of her, Hawksquill’s, skull the mighty circles of the heavens? And did not that cosmic engine within then order her memory, thus her perception, of things sublunar, celestial, and infinite? The immense laughter of Bruno when he understood that Copernicus had inverted the universe—what was it but joy in the confirmation of his knowledge that Mind, in the center of all, contains within it all that it is the center of? If the Earth, the old center, now was seen truly to revolve somewhere halfway between the center and the outside; and the Sun, which before had revolved on a path halfway to the outside, were now the center, then a half-turn like that in a Mbbius strip was thrown into the belt of the stars: and what then became of the old circumference? It was, strictly, unimaginable: the Universe exploded into infinitude, a circle of which Mind, the center, was everywhere and the circumference nowhere. The trick-mirror of finitude was smashed, Bruno laughed, the starry realms were a jewelled bracelet in the hand.

Well, all that was old. Every schoolboy (in the schools that had schooled Hawksquill) knew small worlds were great. If these cards were in her hands, she had no doubt she could quickly learn just what small worlds they were intended to discover: had little doubt that she herself had traveled in them. But were these cards the cards her grandfather had found and lost? And were they as well the cards Russell Eigenblick claimed to be in? A coincidence of that magnitude didn’t seem inherently unlikely to Hawksquill; there was no chance in her universe. But she had no idea how further to search for them, and learn. In fact that alley seemed just at the moment so blind that she decided to walk no further up it. Eigenblick was no Roman Catholic, and the Rosicrucians, as everybody knows, were invisible—and whatever else Russell Eigenblick was, he was very visible. “The hell with it,” she was saying under her breath when the doorbell rang.

She consulted her watch. The Maid of Stone still slept, though the day was already as dark as night. She went to the hall, took a heavy stick from the umbrella-stand, and opened the door.

Overcoated and broad-hatted, windblown and rainswept, the black figure on her doorstep momentarily frightened her.

“Wingéd Messenger Service,” he said. “Hello, lady.”

“Hello, Fred,” Hawksquill said. “You gave me a start.” For the first time she had understood the pejorative “spook.” “Come in, come in.”

He would come no further than the vestibule, because he dripped; he stood dripping while Hawksquill fetched him a wine-glass of whiskey.

“Dark days,” he said, taking it.

“St. Lucy’s,” Hawksquill said. “Darkest of all.”

He chuckled, knowing very well she knew he meant more than the weather. He drained his glass at a gulp, and drew from his plastic-sheathed carrier a thick envelope for her. It bore no sender’s address. She signed Fred Savage’s book.

“Bad day to be working,” she said.

“Neither rain nor sleet nor snow,” said Fred, “and the owl for all his feathers was a-cold.”

“You won’t stay a moment?” she said. “The fire’s lit.”

“If I stayed a moment,” Fred Savage said, leaning to one side, “I’d stay an hour,” leaning to the other side, rain running from his hat; “and thad be that.” He straightened, and bowed out.

No man more faithful, when he was working, which wasn’t often. Hawksquill shut the door on him (thinking of him as a dark shuttle or bobbin stitching up the rainy City) and returned to her parlor.

The fat envelope contained a deck of new bills in large denominations, and a brief note on the stationery of the Noisy Bridge Rod and Gun Club: “Payment per agreement in the matter of R. E. Have you come to any conclusions?” It was unsigned.

She dropped this note on the open folio of Bruno she had been studying, and was going back to the fire, counting her huge and as yet unearned fee, when a lurking connection was made within her consciousness. She went to the table, turned on a strong light, and looked closely at the marginal note which had originally stoked this long train of thought, a train which had just been shunted by the note from the Club.

The Italic hand is notable for its legibility. Yet now and then the swash capitals, if written quickly, can confuse. And yes: looked at closely there was no doubt that what she had read as “the return of R. C.” should be read “the return of R. E.”.

Where on earth, if on earth at all, were those cards?

A Geography

As she grew older, Nora Cloud seemed to those around her to take on greater mass and solidity. To herself also—though she gained no physical weight—she seemed to grow great. As her age reached toward three digits and she moved slowly through Edgewood on two canes to support her massy years, she bent—so it seemed—less from weakness than to accommodate herself in the narrow corridors of the house.

She came with four-footed deliberateness down from her room toward the drum-table in the many-sided music-room, where beneath a brass and green glass lamp the cards in their bag in their box waited for her—and where Sophie, these several years her student, waited too.

Cloud let herself down into her chair, her sticks rattling and the bones of her knees popping. She lit a brown cigarette and placed it in a saucer beside her, where its smoke rose ribbony and curling like thought. “What’s our question?” she asked.

“Like yesterday,” Sophie said. “Just to continue.”

“No question,” Cloud said. “All right.”

They were silent awhile together. A moment of silent prayer, Cloud had been delighted and surprised to hear Smoky describe this as; a moment for considering the question, or no question, as today.

Sophie with her long soft hand over her eyes thought of no question. She thought of the cards, dark in their bag in their box. She didn’t think of them as units, as individual pieces of paper, could no longer think of them that way even if she chose to. She didn’t think of them either as notions, as persons, places, things. She thought of them as one thing, like a story or an interior, something made of space and time, lengthy and vast but compact; jointed, dimensional, ever-unfolding.

“Well,” Cloud said with gentle finality. Her brownspotted hand hovered over the box. “Shall I lay out a Rose?”

“May I?” Sophie asked. Cloud withdrew her hand before it touched the box, which might spoil Sophie’s control. Attempting Cloud’s wasteless gestures, her calm attention, Sophie laid out a Rose.

Six of cups and four of wands, the Knot, the Sportsman, ace of cups, the Cousin, four of coins and queen of coins. The Rose grew out across the drum-table with an iron yet an organic force. If there was no question, as today, the question always was: what is this Rose the answer to? Sophie laid down the central card.

“The Fool again,” Cloud said.

“Contention with the Cousin,” Sophie said.

“Yes,” Cloud said. “But whose cousin? His own, or ours?”

The Fool card in the center of the Rose showed a full-bearded man in armor crossing a brook. Like the White Knight he was in the act of pitching head-first and straight-legged from his brawny horse. His expression was mild, and he looked not into the shallow stream he fell toward, but outward at the viewer, as though what he was doing were intentional, a trick, or possibly an example of something: gravity? In one hand he held a scallop-shell; in the other, some links of sausage.

Before interpretation of any fall could be considered, Cloud had taught Sophie, they must decide how the cards themselves must at this moment be construed. “You can think of them as a story, and then you must find the beginning, middle, and end; or a sentence, and you must parse it; or a piece of music, and you must find the tonic and signature; or anything at all that has parts and makes sense.”

“It may be,” she said, looking down now at this Rose with a Fool in the middle, “that what we have here isn’t a story or an interior, but a Geography.”

Sophie asked her what she meant by that, and Cloud said she wasn’t at all sure. Her cheek was in her hand. Not a map, or a view, but a Geography. Sophie’s cheek was in her hand too, and for a long time she gazed down at the Rose she had made and only wondered; she thought, a Geography, and wondered if it might be that here, that this, that—but then she closed her eyes and paused a moment, no, there was no question today, please, and not that question of any one.

Wakings-up

Life—her own life anyway, Sophie had come to think, as it grew longer—was like one of those many-storied houses of dreams she had once been able to build, where the dreamer, with a slow or sudden rush of understanding like a wash of cool water, knows himself to have been merely asleep and dreaming, to have merely invented the pointless task, the grim hotel, the flight of stairs; they go away, tattered and unreal; the dreamer awakes relieved in his own bed (though the bed for a reason he can’t quite remember is laid in a busy street or afloat in a calm sea), and rises yawning, and has odd adventures, which go on until (with a slow or sudden rush of understanding) he awakes, he had only fallen asleep here in this desert place (Oh I remember) or (Oh I see) in this palace antechamber, and it’s time to be up and about life’s business; and so on and on: her life had been of that kind.

There had been a dream about Lilac, that she had been real, and Sophie’s. Then she had awakened, and Lilac wasn’t Lilac at all: she came to see that, came to see that something dreadful had happened, for no reason she could imagine or remember, and Lilac was neither Lilac nor hers, but something else instead. That dream—one of the awful kind, the kind where something terrible and irrevocable has happened, something that oppresses the soul with a special, unrelievable grief—had gone on for nearly two years, and had not truly ended on the night (the night she could still not think about without shudders and involuntary moans, no, not after twenty years) when in desperation, telling no one, she had brought the false thing to George Mouse: and the fireplace: and the blasts, and the phosphorescence, and the rain and the stars and the sirens.

But anyway, awake or not, she had no more Lilac then at all; her dream was another kind then, the Endless Search, that one where some goal recedes forever, or changes when it is approached, leaving you always with further work to do and, though pressing always on your attention, is never nearer to completion. It was then that she had begun to seek for answers from Cloud and her cards: not only Why, but also How; Who, she supposed she knew, but not Where; and, most important of all, would she ever see, have, hold her real daughter again, and When? Cloud, try as she might, could give no clear answers to these questions, though she held that still the answers must be in the deck and its conjunctions somewhere; and so Sophie began to study their falls herself, feeling that the intensity of her desire might allow her to discover what Cloud could not. But no answer came for her either, and soon she gave it up, and took to her bed again.

But life is wakings-up, all unexpected, all surprising. On a certain November afternoon, twelve years ago, from a certain nap (why that day? Why that nap?) she had awakened from sleeping: from eyes-closed, blankets-up-to-chin, pillow-sleep Sophie awakened, or had been awakened, for good. As though someone (while she slept) had stolen them, her powers of sleeping and escaping into the small dreams within the large had gone away; and Sophie, startled and lost, had had to dream from then on that she was awake, and that the world was around her, and to think what to do with it. It was only then, because her sleepless mind had to have an Interest, any Interest, that (without any hard question, without any question at all) she had taken up the study of the cards, beginning at the beginning humbly as Cloud’s tutee.

And yet, though we wake, though there is no end to waking and saying Oh I see, not ever (Sophie knew it and was patient), still within the dream in which we find ourselves every other dream is nested, every one we have awakened from. Sophie’s hard first question to the cards had not, precisely, gone without an answer, it had been transmuted into questions about the question. It had branched and rooted like a tree, growing questions like buds, and then at some moment all the questions had become one question: what tree is this? And as her study progressed, as she shifted and shuffled and laid out in geometrical figures the greasy, comerless, speaking cards, the question intrigued her further, involved her, at last absorbed her utterly. What tree is this? And yet always at its base, between its roots, beneath its branches, still unfound and growing unfindable, a lost child lay asleep.

No Going Back Out

Six of cups and four of wands, the Knot, the Sportsman. The queen of coins reversed. The Cousin: contention with the Fool in the middle of the deck. A Geography: not a map, or a view, but a Geography. Sophie looked down at the puzzle of it, shifting her consciousness across it, paying attention without quite paying attention, pricking up the ears of her thought and easing them again as hints of speech proceeded from and then retired back into the gabble of the cards’ alignments.

Then:

“Oh,” Sophie said, and again “Oh,” as though suddenly in receipt of bad news. Cloud looked up at her questioningly, and saw Sophie pale and shocked, eyes wide with surprise and pity—pity for her, Cloud. Cloud looked down again at the Geography, and yes, in a twinkling it had contracted, like those optical illusions where a complex urn becomes without your choosing it two faces regarding each other. Cloud was used to these vagaries, and to this message; Sophie evidently was not yet.

“Yes,” she said softly, and smiled at Sophie, reassuringly she hoped. “You hadn’t seen that before?”

“No,” Sophie said, both in answer and in denial of what was there in the linked gavotte of cards. “No.”

“Oh, I’ve seen it before.” She touched Sophie’s hand. “I don’t think, though, that we need tell the others, do you? Not just yet.” Sophie was weeping, softly, but Cloud chose to ignore it. “It’s the difficult thing, the hard thing, about secrets,” she said, as though in some small annoyance at the fact, but really passing on to Sophie in the only way she could hope to, the last, the only important lesson about reading these cards. “Sometimes you really don’t want to know them. But once you do, there’s no going back out; no unlearning them. Well. Now buck up. There’s still a lot you can learn.”

“Oh. Aunt Cloud.”

“Shall we study our Geography?” Cloud said, and picked up her cigarette, and inhaled smoke gratefully, voluptuously, and breathed it out again.

Slow Fall of Time

Cloud moved crabwise amid the furniture of the house, down three stairs (the note of her sticks changing as she went from wood to stone) and through the puzzle of the imaginary drawing-room where a tapestry on the wall moved in a draft with spooky life. Then the stairs upward.

There were three hundred and sixty-five stairs within Edgewood, her father told her. The left-hand stick, the right-hand foot, right-hand stick, left-hand stick, left-hand foot. There were as well seven chimneys, fifty-two doors, four floors, and twelve—twelve what? There must be twelve of something, he wouldn’t have left that out. Right-hand stick, left-hand foot, and a landing where a lancet window poured a pearly stain of winter light on the dark wood. Smoky had seen an ad in a magazine for a sort of chair-elevator to move old folks up and down stairs; it even tilted up to deposit the aged body at its chosen floor. Smoky pointed this out to Cloud, but she had said nothing. An object of perhaps some abstract interest, but why was he showing it to her? That’s what her silence said.

Upward again, the minute risers—nine inches exactly— growing ever more cliffy no matter how big she was herself, no matter that the banisters shouldered her and the coffered ceiling pressed on her bent neck. It was wrong in her, she thought as she toiled, not to have warned Sophie of what she, Cloud, had for a long time known about, what had become a kind of recurrent obbligato in her recent readings of the cards, a memento mori that could show up in any fall cast for any person; but it was so constant lately that Cloud had really ceased to notice it. She didn’t anyway need, at her huge age, any reminders in her cards of what was obvious to anyone, and most of all to her. It was no secret. She was packed and ready.

Those of her treasures which had not already been distributed were all labeled for the ones they were meant for, the jewelry, Violet’s things, stuff she had never really considered hers anyway. And the cards would of course be Sophie’s; that was a relief. She had made over the house and grounds and rents to Smoky, an unwilling Smoky; he would be caretaker, good conscientious man! Not that the house couldn’t in the main take care of itself. It couldn’t come apart, not anyway until the Tale was all told, if then—but there was no thinking about that, that was no excuse not to execute legal instruments, make wills and make repairs. Alone of them all, Great-aunt Cloud still remembered Violet’s instructions: forget. She had acted so well on those instructions that she supposed that her nieces and nephews and grand- and great-grand-nieces and nephews really had forgotten, or never quite learned, what they must forget or needn’t learn. Perhaps, like Daily Alice, they thought it had all Somehow slipped out of their reach, each generation slipping further from it as the inexorable slow fall of time was consumed to embers, the embers to ashes, the ashes to cold clinkers, each generation losing something of the last’s close connection, or easy access, or quick understanding, the times when Auberon could photograph them or Violet wander in their realms and return with news now the dim fabulous past: and yet (Cloud knew it to be so) each generation in fact grew closer to it, and only ceased to search or bother themselves about it because they felt fewer and fewer distinctions between themselves and it. And, upon a time, there would be no searching at all for a way in. Because there they would be.

The Tale, she thought, would end with them: with Tacey, and Lily, and Lucy; with lost Lilac, wherever she was; with Auberon. Or with their children at the latest. This conviction grew, as she grew older, rather than fading; and that was the clue in these matters that she knew to trust. And it was a shame, a damn shame, she thought, that she had lived nearly to a hundred (at the cost of great effort, and not only on her part) and yet wouldn’t live to see the end.

Last stair. She put her stick on it, one foot, the other stick, the other foot. She stood stock still while the clamor of effort subsided in her body.

A Fool, and a Cousin; a geography, and a death. She had been right, that every fall of the cards was related to every other. If she read a fall for George Mouse and saw a vista of corridors, or for Auberon and saw the dark girl he would love and lose, that was not different from searching for lost Lilac, or glimpsing the dim lineaments of the Tale, or reading the fate of the Great World itself. How that could be, how each secret revealed could encode another, or all others, why behind a fall that showed a grand Geography—empires, frontiers, a final battle—there should appear one old woman’s death, she couldn’t tell; perhaps, probably, it couldn’t be told. Her dismay at this was mitigated by her old resolution, her promise to Violet: that even if she could tell, she wouldn’t.

She looked down the mountain of stairs she had just barely, had almost not conquered; and, weakened and slowed more by sad understanding than by any arthritis, she turned toward her room, certain now she would not ever go down them again.

The next morning Tacey came, packed for a long visit, bringing needlework to pass the time. Lily and the twins were already there. Lucy came at evening, not surprised to find her sisters there, and settled in with them, with her needlework, to help and watch and wait.

Princess

Before anyone else could have perceived morning in the somber air above Old Law Farm, the cock crew and woke Sylvie. Auberon beside her stirred. She was pressed against his long, unconscious warmth, and felt a mystery in being awake next to his sleep. She eontemplated it, rooting gently in the warmth, thinking that it was odd that she knew she was awake and he asleep, and that he knew neither; and in thinking so, she slept again. But the cock called her name.

She rolled over carefully, so as not to enter the colder frontier of the bed’s edge, and put her head out. She should wake him. It was his turn to milk, his last day. But she couldn’t bring herself to do that. How would it be if she did it for him, a gift. She imagined his gratitude, and weighed it against the cold dawn and the stairs downward, the wet farmyard and the labor. The gratitude seemed to win, she could feel it the more intensely, could feel it almost as a gratitude of hers toward him. “Aw,” she said, grateful for her own kindness, and slipped out of bed.

Swearing terribly and softly she took the stool in the closet, not quite putting her flesh against its iciness, and then in a quick, Chinese-stepping crouch, blowing through her chattering teeth, hunted up her clothes and put them on. Her hands shook with cold and hurry as she did up buttons.

A hard life, she thought with pleasure as she breathed the foggy air out on the fire escape, pulling on brown gardener’s gloves; a hard life, this farm-laborer’s life. She went down. Outside the door of George’s kitchen hallway was a bag of selected garbage for the goats, to be mixed with their meal. She shouldered this, and slopped across the yard to the goats’ apartment, hearing them stirring.

“Hi, guys,” she said. The goats—Punchita and Nuni, Blanca and Negrita, Guapo and La Gráni and the unnamed ones (George had never named any of them, and Sylvie’s inspiration hadn’t yet reached two or three, of course they must all have names but the right names)—looked up, clattered on the linoleum, shat, and gave voice. The smell of their garden apartment was vivid. Sylvie wondered if she remembered it from childhood, it seemed to suit her nostrils so well.

She fed them, measuring grain and garbage into the bathtub with a nice eye and mixing it carefully as though it were a child’s formula; she talked to them, criticizing faults and praising virtues even-handedly but reserving special affection for the black kid and for the oldest, La Gráni, a granny indeed, all backbone and shin, “like a bicycle,” Sylvie said. Arms crossed, leaning on the jamb of the bathroom door, she watched them chew with a sidewise motion and raise their heads in rotation to look at her and then down again to their breakfast.

Morning light had begun to enter the apartment. The flowers on the wallpaper awoke, and those on the linoleum, neglected beds and growing indiscernible year by year under dirt, even with all of Brownie’s sweeping and mopping in the night. She yawned widely. Why do animals get up so early? “Up and at ’em, huh,” she said. “Late for work. Dummies.”

She thought, as she prepared for milking: look what love makes me do. And she stopped for a moment, feeling warmth suddenly poured into her heart and loins, for she hadn’t before used the word about her feelings for Auberon. Love, she said again to herself; and yes, there was the feeling, the word was like a swallow of rum. For George Mouse, her buddy for life, no matter what, who had taken her in when she had no place else, she felt deep gratitude and a complex of other feelings, mostly good; but not this heat, like a flame with a jewel held at its heart. The jewel was a word: love. She laughed. Love. Nice to be in love. Love disguised her in a peacoat and brown gloves, love sent her to the goats and warmed her hands in her armpits for the goats’ udders. “Okay, okay, take it easy,” she said, gently, to them and to the love disguised in labor. “Take it easy, we’re coming.”

She stroked Punchita’s udders. “Hey, big tits. Ay mami. Where’d you get them big tits. You find them under a bush?” She worked, thinking of Auberon asleep in his bed, and George asleep in his; she alone awake, and all unknown. Found under a bush: a foundling. Saved from the City, taken within these walls, and put to work. In the stories, the foundling always turns out to be some high type person left for dead or something by mistake; a princess no one knows. Princess: that’s what George always called her. Hey Princess. A lost princess, enchanted and robbed of her memory of being a princess; a goat-girl, but if you tore off the dirty goat-girl clothes, there would be the sign, the jewel, the birthmark, the silver ring, everybody amazed, everybody laughing. Quick streams of milk rang against the bucket, and then hissed in rising foam, left, right, left, right, calming and bemusing her. And then come into her kingdom, after all the work: grateful for the humble shelter, and humbled herself to have found true love there: so all you guys get to be free, and get gold. And the hand of the princess. She leaned her head against Punchita’s hairy warm flank, and her thoughts turned into milk, to wet leaves, baby animals, snails’ shells, faun’s feet.

“Some princess,” Punchita said. “Lots of labor there.”

“Whudjoo say?” Sylvie said, looking up, but Punchita only turned her long face to Sylvie, and went on chewing her endless gum.

Brownie’s House

Out into the yard, with a jar of fresh milk and a new-laid brown egg she had taken from under a hen who nested in the exploded sofa which stood still in the living room of the goats’ apartment. She crossed the humpy vegetable patch to a building on the other side, a building clad in brown vines, with tall sad blind windows and stairs that led up to no door. Behind and below the stairs a tiny damp areaway led to the basement; miscellaneous broken boards and gray slats were nailed up over its entrance and windows; you could peek in, but could see nothing in the darkness. Hearing Sylvie’s approach, there swarmed out from within the basement several mewling cats, some of the Farm’s cat troops, George said sometimes that at his Farm they grew mostly bricks and raised mostly cats. A big, flat-headed, one-eyed thug was king down there; he didn’t deign to appear. But a delicate calico did, hugely pregnant the last time Sylvie had seen her. Not now, though; skinny, depleted, with flaccid stomach and big pink titties. “You got kittens, you?” Sylvie said in reproach. “And didn’t tell nobody? You!” She stroked her, and poured milk for them, and, hunkering down, peered through the slats. “Wish I could see,” she said. “Kitties.”

They roamed around her for a time as she looked in, but she could see only a pair of big yellow eyes: the old guy’s? Or Brownie’s? “Hi, Brownie,” she said, for that was Brownie’s house too, she knew, though no one had ever seen him in it. Leave him alone, George always said, he gets along okay. But Sylvie always said hello. She sealed the jar of milk, half-full, and with the egg put it just inside the basement, on a ledge there. “Okay, Brownie,” she said. “I’m going. Thanks.”

That was a ruse, in a way, for she waited, hoping to catch a glimpse. Another cat appeared. But Brownie stayed within. She rose then, and stretching, started back toward the Folding Bedroom. Morning had come to the Farm, foggy and soft, not so cold after all. She stopped a moment, in the center of the high-walled City garden, feeling sweetly blessed. Princess. Hmp. Under her dirty goat-girl clothes were only yesterday’s underwear. Soon she’s have to think about getting a job, making some plans, getting her story under way again. But for this moment, in love and safe, chores done, she felt she needn’t go anywhere at all, or do anything else, and her story would unfold anyway, clearly and happily.

And endlessly. She knew, for a moment, that her story was endless: more endless than any kid’s fairy-tale, more endless than “A World Elsewhere” and all its complications. Endless. Somehow. She strode across the Farm, hugging herself, breathing in the farm’s rich animal and vegetable exhalations, and smiling.

From deep within his house, Brownie watched her go, smiling too. He took, with his long hands and without a sound, the jar of milk and the egg from the shelf where Sylvie had put them; he drew them within his house, he drank the milk, he sucked the egg, he blessed his queen with all his heart.

A Banquet

She undressed as quickly as she had dressed, leaving only her panties, as Auberon, awaking, watched from within the bedclothes; then she hurried, making small cries, to climb in with him, climb down into warmth, warmth she deserved (she felt) as no other did, warmth where she ought always to be. Auberon retreated, laughing, from her cold hands and feet that sought him, sought his sleep-soft and helpless flesh, but then surrendered; she pressed her cold nose into the crook of his neck to warm it, moaning like a dove, as his hands took hold of her panties’ elastic.

At Edgewood, Sophie laid one card on another, knight of wands on queen of cups.

Later Sylvie said: “Do you have thoughts?”

“Hm?” said Auberon. His nakedness draped in his overcoat, he was building a fire.

“Thoughts,” Sylvie said. “Then. I mean during then. I have lots, almost like a story.”

He saw what she meant, and laughed. “Oh, thoughts,” he said. “Then. Sure. Crazy thoughts.” He built the fire hurriedly, heedlessly throwing in most of the wood left in the woodbox. He wanted it hot in the Folding Bedroom, hot enough to draw Sylvie out from the blankets she sheltered beneath. He wanted to see her.

“Like now,” she said. “This time. I was wandering.”

“Yes,” he said, for he had been too.

“Children,” she said. “Babies, or baby animals. Dozens, all sizes and colors.”

“Yes,” he said. He’d seen them too, “Lilac,” he said.

“Who?”

He blushed, and stabbed the fire with a golf club that was kept there for that purpose. “A friend,” he said. “A little girl. An imaginary friend.”

Sylvie said nothing, only wandered in thought, still not quite returned. Then, “Who again?” she said.

Auberon explained.

At Edgewood, Sophie turned down a trump, the Knot. She was looking, not having chosen to look but once again looking, for a lost child of George Mouse’s and her fate, but couldn’t find them. Instead she found, and the more she looked the more she went on finding, another girl, and not lost; not lost now, but searching. Past her the kings and queens marched, rank on rank, speaking each his message: I am Hope, I am Regret, I am Idleness, I am Unlooked-for Love. Armed and mounted, solemn and minatory, they went on progress through the dark wood of the trumps; but apart from them, unseen by them, glimpsed only by Sophie, moving brightly amid dark dangers, a princess none of them knew. But where was Lilac? She turned down the next card: it was the Banquet.

“So whatever happened to her?” Sylvie asked. The fire was hot, and the room warming.

“Just what I told you,” Auberon said, parting the skirts of his coat to warm his buttocks. “I never saw her again after that day, at the picnic…”

“Not her,” Sylvie said. “Not the made-up one. The real one. The baby.”

“Oh.” He seemed to have been propelled forward several centuries since his arrival in the City; trying to remember Edgewood at all now was an effort, but to search in childhood was to dig up Troy. “You know, I don’t really know. I mean I don’t think I was ever told the whole story.”

“Well, what happened, though.” She moved luxuriously within the sheets, warming too. “I mean did she die?”

“I don’t think so,” Auberon said, shocked at this notion. For a moment he saw the whole story through Sylvie’s eyes, and it seemed grotesque. How could his family have lost a baby? Or if it hadn’t been lost, if the explanation were simple (adoption, death even) then how could it be that he didn’t know it? In Sylvie’s family history there were several lost babies, in Homes or fostered; all were minutely remembered, all mourned. If he had been capable just then of any emotion other than that directed toward Sylvie and his plans for her in the next moments, he would have felt anger at his ignorance. Well, it didn’t matter. “It doesn’t matter,” he said, glad to know it didn’t. “I give up on it all.”

She yawned hugely, and tried to speak at the same time, and laughed. “I said so you’re not going back?”

“No.”

“Even after you find your fortune?”

He didn’t say I’ve found it, though it was true; he’d known it since they’d become lovers. Become lovers: like a wizardry, like frogs become princes.

“You don’t want me to go back?” he said, doffing the overcoat and climbing on the bed.

“I’d follow you,” she said. “I would.”

“Warm?” he said, drawing down the quilt that covered her.

“Hey,” she said. “Ay, que grande.”

“Warm,” he said, and took the neck and shoulders he had revealed by turns between his lips, sucking and munching like a cannibal. Flesh. But all alive, all alive. “I’m melting,” she said. He entwined her in him as though his long body could swallow hers, a morsel but endless. He bent to her nakedness, a banquet. “In fact I’m cooking,” she said, and she was, her warmth and comfort deep as it was heated further and made more perfect by the incandescent jewel within her; she watched him for a moment, amazed and gratified, watched him swallow her endlessly toward his hollow heart; then she went wandering, and he too, both again in the same realm (later they would speak of it, and compare the places they had been, and find them the same); a realm where they were led, so Auberon thought, by Lilac; coupled, not walking, but still wandering, they were led down concave weed-spined lanes in an endless land, down the twists and turns of a long, long story, a boundless and-then, toward a place something like the place Sophie at Edgewood contemplated in the dark-etched trump called the Banquet: a long table clothed in just-unfolded linen, its claw-feet absurd in the flowers beneath twisted and knotty trees, the tall compote overflowing, the symmetrical candelabra, the many places set, all empty.