The End of All Songs

13. The Honour of an Underwood

"I am still uncertain. Perhaps if we began again?"

Amiably, Jherek disintegrated the west wing.

They were rebuilding his ranch. The Bromley-Gothic redbrick villa had vanished. In its place stood something altogether larger, considerably lighter, having more in common with the true Gothic of medieval France and Belgium, with fluted towers and delicately fashioned windows.

"It is all, I think, a trifle too magnificent," she said. She fingered her fine chin. "And yet, it would only seem grandiose in Bromley, as it were. Here, it is almost simple."

"If you will try your own amethyst power-ring…" he murmured.

"I have still to trust these things…" But she twisted and thought at the same time.

A fairy-tale tower, the ideal of her girlhood, stood there. She could not bring herself to disseminate it.

He was delighted, admiring its slender hundred-and twenty-feet, topped by twin turrets with red conical roofs. It glittered. It was white. There were tiny windows.

"Such an elegant example of typical Dawn Age architecture!" he complimented her.

"You do not find it too fanciful?" She was shy of her achievement, but pleased.

"A model of utility!"

"Scarcely that…" She blushed. Her own imagination, made concrete, astonished her.

"More! You must make more!"

The ring was turned again and another tower sprang up, connected to its fellow by a little marble bridge. With some hesitation she disseminated the original building he had made at her request, replacing it with a main hall and living apartments above. She gave her attention to the landscape around. A moat appeared, fed by a sparkling river. Formal gardens, geometric, filled with her favourite flowers, stretched into the distance, giving place to rose bowers and undulating lawns, a lake, with cypresses and poplars and willows. The sky was changed to a pale blue and the small clouds in it were never whiter; then she added subtle colours, pinks and yellows, as of the beginnings of a sunset. All was as she had once dreamed of, not as a respectable Bromley housewife, but as a little girl, who had read fairy stories with a sense that she consulted forbidden texts. Her face shone as she contemplated her handiwork. A new innocence bloomed there. Jherek watched, and revelled in her pleasure.

"Oh, I should not…"

A unicorn now grazed upon the lawn. It looked up, its eyes mild and intelligent. Its golden horn caught the sunlight.

"It is everything I was told could never be. My mother admonished me, I remember, for entertaining silly fancies. She said no good would come of them."

"And so you still think, do you not?"

She glanced his way. "So I should think, I suppose."

He said nothing.

"My mother argued that little girls who believed in fairy tales grew up to be shallow, vain and, ultimately, disappointed, Mr. Carnelian. The world, I was told, was harsh and terrible and we were put into it in order that we should be tested for our worthiness to dwell in Heaven."

"It is a reasonable belief. Though unrewarding, I should have thought, in the long run. Limiting, at least."

"Limitations were regarded as being good for one. I have expressed that opinion myself."

"So you have."

"Yet there are no more cruelties here than there were in my world."

"Cruelties?"

"Your menageries."

"Of course."

"But you do not, I now understand, realize that you are cruel. You are not hypocrites in that particular way."

He was euphoric. He was enjoying listening to her voice as he might enjoy the peaceful buzz of an insect. He spoke only to encourage her to continue.

"We keep more prisoners in my society, when you think of it," she said. "How many wives are prisoners of their homes, their husbands?" She paused. "I should not dare think such radical ideas at home, much less utter them!"

"Why not?"

"Because I would offend others. Disturb my friends. There are social checks to one's behaviour, far greater than any legal or moral ones. Have you learned that, yet, from my world, Mr. Carnelian?"

"I have learned something, but not a great deal. You must continue to teach me."

"I saw the prisons, when you were incarcerated. How many prisoners are there through no fault of their own? Victims of poverty. And poverty enslaves so many more millions than you could ever contain in your menageries. Oh, I know. I know. You could have argued that, and I should not have been able to deny it."

"Ah?"

"You are kind to humour me, Mr. Carnelian." Her voice grew vague as she looked again upon her first creation. "Oh, it is so beautiful!"

He came to stand beside her and when he put an arm about her shoulder, she did not resist.

Some time went by. She furnished their palace with simple, comfortable furniture, refusing to clutter the rooms. She made tapestries and brocades for floors and walls. She re-introduced a strict pattern of day and night. She created two large, long-haired black and white cats, and the parklands around the palace became populated with deer, as well as unicorns. She longed for books, but he could find her none, so in the end she began to write one for herself and found this almost as satisfactory as reading. Yet, still, he must court her. Still she refused the fullest expression of her affections. When he proposed marriage, as he continued to do, frequently, she would reply that she had given an oath in a ceremony to remain loyal to Mr. Underwood until death should part them.

He returned, time after time, to the reasonable logic that indeed Mr. Underwood was dead, had been dead for many millennia, that she was free. He began to suspect that she did not care a fig for her vows to Mr. Underwood, that she played a game with him, or, failing that, waited for him to take some action. But as to what the action should be, she gave him no clue.

This idyll, pleasurable though it was, was marred not only by his frustration, but also by his concerns for his friend, Lord Jagged of Canaria. He had begun to realize to what extent he had relied on Jagged to guide him in his actions, to explain the world to him, to help him shape his own destiny. His friend's humour, his advice, indeed, his very wisdom, were much missed. Every morning, upon awaking, he hoped to see Lord Jagged's air-car upon the horizon, and every morning he was disappointed.

One morning, however, as he lounged alone upon a balcony, while Mrs. Underwood worked at her book, he saw a visitor arrive, in some kind of Egyptianate vessel of bony and gold, and it was Bishop Castle, his high crown nodding on his handsome head, a tall staff in his left hand, his three golden orbs bobbing at his belt, stepping gracefully from air-car to balcony and kissing him lightly upon the forehead, complimenting him on the white linen suit made for him by Mrs. Underwood.

"Things have settled, since the Duke's party," the bishop informed him. "We return to our old lives with some relief. A great disappointment, Mongrove, didn't you think?"

"The Duke of Queens sets great store by his entertainment value. I cannot think why."

"He is out of touch with everyone else's taste. Scarcely a recommendation in one who desires to be the most popular of hosts."

"It is not," Jherek added, "as if he were himself interested in this alien's prophecies. He probably hoped that Mongrove would have had some adventures on his trip through the universe — something with a reasonable amount of sensation in it. Yet Mongrove may be relied upon to ruin even the best anecdote."

"It is why we love him."

"To be sure."

Mrs. Underwood, in rose-pink and yellow, entered the room behind the balcony. She extended a hand. "Dear Bishop Castle. How pleasant to see you. You will stay for lunch?"

"If I do not inconvenience you, Mrs. Underwood." It was plain that he had done much research.

"Of course not."

"And what of my mother, the Iron Orchid?" asked Jherek. "Have you seen her of late?"

Bishop Castle scratched his nose with his crook. "You had not heard, then? She seeks to rival you, Jherek, I am sure. She somehow inveigled Brannart Morphail into allowing her the use of one of his precious time-craft. She has gone!"

"Through time?"

"No less. She told Brannart that she would return with proof of his theories, evidence that you manufactured the tales you told him! I am surprised no one has yet informed you." Bishop Castle laughed. "She is so original, your beautiful mother!"

"But she may be killed," said Mrs. Underwood. "Is she aware of the risks?"

"Fully, I gather."

"Oh!" cried Jherek. "Mother!" He put his hand to his lips; he bit the lower one. "It is you, Amelia, she seeks to rival. She thinks she is outdone by you!"

"She spoke of a time for her return?" Mrs. Underwood asked Bishop Castle.

"Not really. Brannart might know. He controls the experiment."

"Controls! Ha!" Jherek put his head in his hands.

"We may only pray — excuse me — hope — that she returns safely," said Mrs. Underwood.

"Time cannot defeat the Iron Orchid!" Bishop Castle laughed. "You are too gloomy. She will be back soon — doubtless with news of exploits to rival yours — which is what she hopes for, I am sure."

"It was luck, only, that saved us both from death," Mrs. Underwood told him.

"Then the same luck will come to her aid."

"You are probably right," said Jherek. He was despondent. First his best friend gone, and now his mother. He looked at Mrs. Underwood, as if she would once again vanish before his eyes, as she had done before, when he had first tried to kiss her, so long ago.

Mrs. Underwood spoke rather more cheerfully, in Jherek's view, than the situation demanded. "Your mother is not one to perish, Mr. Carnelian. For all you know, it was merely a facsimile that was sent through time. The original could still be here."

"I am not sure that is possible," he said. "There is something to do with the life essence. I have never properly understood the theory concerning transmigration. But I do not think you can send a doppelganger through time, not without accompanying it."

"She'll be back," said Bishop Castle with a smile.

But Jherek, worrying for Lord Jagged, becoming convinced that he had perished, lapsed into silence and was a poor host during lunch.

Several more days passed, without incident, with the occasional visit from My Lady Charlotina or the Duke of Queens or Bishop Castle, again. The conversation turned often to speculation as to the fate of the Iron Orchid, as was inevitable, but if Brannart Morphail had news of her he had passed none of it on, even to My Lady Charlotina who still chose to play patron to him and give him his laboratories in her own vast domicile at Below-the-Lake. Neither would Brannart tell anyone the Iron Orchid's original destination.

In the meanwhile, Jherek continued to pay court to Amelia Underwood. He learned the poems of Wheldrake (or at least, those she could remember) from her and found that they could be interpreted in reference to their own situation — " So close these lovers were, yet was their union sundered by the world " — " Cruel Fortune did dictate that they / Should ever singly pass that way ", and so on — until she professed a lack of interest in he who had been her favourite poet. But it seemed to Jherek Carnelian that Amelia Underwood began to warm to him a little more. The occasional sisterly kiss became more frequent, the pressure of a hand, the quality of a smile, all spoke of a thaw in her resolve. He took heart. Indeed, so settled had become their domestic routine, that it was almost as if they were married. He hoped that she might slip, almost accidentally, into consummation, given time.

Life flowed smooth and, save for the nagging fear at the back of his mind that his mother and Lord Jagged might never return, he experienced a tranquillity he had not enjoyed since he and Mrs. Underwood had first shared a house together; and he refused to remember that whenever he had come to accept such peace, it had always been interrupted by some new drama. But, as the uneventful days continued, his sense of inevitable expectation increased, until he began to wish that whatever it was that was going to happen would happen as soon as possible. He even identified the source of the next blow — it would be delivered by the Iron Orchid, returning with sensational information, or else by Jagged, to tell them that they must go back to the Palaeozoic to complete some overlooked task.

The blow did come. It came one morning, about three weeks after they had settled in their new home. It came as a loud and repetitive knocking on the main door. Jherek stumbled from his bed and went to stand on his balcony, leaning over to see who was disturbing them in this peculiar manner (no one he knew ever used that door). On the bijou drawbridge was grouped a party of men all of whom were familiar. The person knocking on the main door was Inspector Springer, wearing a new suit of clothes and a new bowler hat indistinguishable from his previous ones; gathered around him was a party of burly police officers, some ten or twelve; behind the police officers, looking self-important but a little wild-eyed, stood none other than Mr. Harold Underwood, his pince-nez on his nose, his hay-coloured hair neatly parted in the middle, wearing a suit of good, dark worsted, an extremely stiff, white collar and cuffs, a tightly knotted tie and black, polished boots. In his hand he held a hat, similar to Inspector Springer's. Behind this party, a short distance away, in the ornamental garden, there buzzed a huge contraption consisting of a number of inter-connected wheels, ratchets, crystalline rods and what seemed to be padded benches — an open, box-like structure, but bearing a close similarity to the machine Jherek had first seen in the Palaeozoic. At the controls sat the bearded man in plus-fours and Norfolk jacket who had given them his hamper. He was the first to see Jherek. He waved a greeting.

From a nearby balcony there came a stifled shriek: "Harold!"

Mr. Underwood looked up and fixed a cold eye upon his wife, in negligee and slippers of a sort not normally associated with a Bromley housewife.

"Ha!" he said, his worst fears confirmed. Now he saw Jherek, peering down at him. "Ha!"

"Why are you here?" croaked Jherek, before he realized he would not be understood.

Inspector Springer began to clear his throat, but Harold Underwood spoke first.

"Igrie gazer," he seemed to say. "Rijika batterob honour!"

"We had better let them in, Mr. Carnelian," said Mrs. Underwood in a faint voice.