Seven

Here is no water but only rock.

She pressed the length of her side against the column. Cool, yes. Cool was good. Cool, but not moist. Not moist at all. Because—

Here is no water but only rock.

Yes. Because of that.

There was something in her mouth, something thick, rough, flavorless, dry, like a terry-cloth towel shoved deep in her throat. She was gagging on it (gagging? Wait, did they really gag me? But how? And why? And...and when? When could they have—), retching helplessly, trying to vomit it up, to spit it out—although, of course, that wasn’t happening anymore, was it, spitting, because she had no more spittle left: no spit, no sweat, no salt, no tears, no blood, no oil, no—

Mountains. Yes. Mountains, high in the air, clean, cool, clear. Clairmont. A road, winding above among—  A road on which one traveled. Traveling. She had to remember that. Travelers. Not the destination, but the destinating. The journey, not the journey's end; the road and not the—

But, but, but.

But.

Which are mountains of rock without water.

Yes. But.

If there were only water amongst the rock

If only.

Choking. Choking on it, on this thing in her mouth, and why couldn’t she just vomit it up, void it out, empty it, the way she had emptied everything else? The way that everything else had been emptied? Why? How, why...

If there were water we should stop and drink

She raised her hands to her mouth, even though people who are handcuffed don’t have the use of their— Yes, well. But. There they were, her hands, and—and how did she keep doing that? And, and, and, and—and why? If it only happens when you aren't looking, then what happens if you look? But she couldn’t look, couldn’t seem to reason it out, because—

Amongst the rock one cannot stop or think

Yes. Because of that.

She rose her hands to her mouth, and the smell of them, God, the stench, as if they’d been—what had they— The awful stench only made the gagging worse, as she began to heave, trying to get rid of it, of this thing, this giant thing in her mouth, gagging her—dry-heaving, of course, of course it would be dry now, everything was dry now, because—

Here is no water but only—

Yes. Because of that.

The smell made it worse, but all the same, all the same, she reached into her mouth and felt for the thing that was in there, rough under her clumsy fingers, pulled at it, tried to tug it free, but it wouldn’t come out; it couldn’t, because it was, it was—

It was her tongue.

Oh God, Brittany moaned, although she made not a sound, not a sound. Oh God no.

•

Oh God, she thought. Please. Please. I need water. I need it. I’ll die without it. I—

All of that water. All of that water, wasted. All of the blood, and the sweat, and the piss, and the—why did I waste it like that? How could I have wasted so much of it? I wept. I actually wept. How could I have done that? Didn’t I realize that I would need it? Didn’t I realize that I should have saved it for later?

—I did try to warn you, said Janis.

I know.

—You should have listened.

I should have. I know. I’m sorry.

—You ought to be ashamed.

I am ashamed. So very ashamed.

—You shouldn’t have been drinking so much. Especially given what you drink. You ought to be ashamed.

I am.

—You ought to be ashamed, Janis told her. To look so antique.

I…what? But I...that’s...I can’t help that. That’s—

•

“Wrong,” said the prompter. “Wrong line. Try it again.”

•

—You ought to be ashamed, Janis told her. To look so antique.

I can’t help it. It’s them pills I took to bring it off. The chemist said it would be alright, but I‘ve never been the same.

—The same as what?

I don’t know. It only happens when I’m not looking. You know. Like the elephant-thing.

—The elephant-thing?

Yes. The elephant-thing. I need to forgive, to forgive the elephant-thing.

•

“Wrong,” said the prompter. “‘Think of poor Albert.’ That’s your line. ‘Think of poor Albert.’ Get it right.”

•

Think of poor Albert.

—That’s my line, said Janis. You really are in a sorry state, aren’t you?

I can’t help it. The prompter led me astray. I need a new prompter.

•

Oh, God, thought Brittany. This is...I can connect nothing with nothing. I can connect nothing with nothing. How could I have wasted all that water? How could I have—

By the waters of Leman I sat down and wept...

“It’s all right, Brittany,” Christian told her. “I caught it all, you know. I caught it all, and I have not spilled a single drop.”

“Christian?” She looked up, and there he was, pale and haggard-looking, emerging from the trees on the other side of the clearing. She leaned her back up against the column. Cool. “Oh, God, Christian,” she gasped. “Please. Please help me. Limestone. There’s...there’s water under that rock, isn’t there? Isn’t there? Isn’t there?”

“And voices singing,” he told her, smiling. “Out of empty cisterns and exhausted wells.”

She closed her eyes, feeling them burn with the tears she no longer had to shed.

“My...” she began. “My nerves are bad tonight. Yes, bad. Stay with me.”

“I’ll read you some poetry, shall I?”

“Yes, please. Read me...read me some sloppy Victorian tripe, Christian.”

“The sea was calm...” he began.

“Yes. Oh, God, yes. But...” She opened her eyes in irritation. “But you have it wrong, Christian. The sea is calm tonight. Is. 'The sea is calm tonight. The tide is full, the moon lies fair—'”

“It was calm, Brittany.” He gazed reproachfully at her. “I took your advice, you know. I finally got around to taking your advice.” He smiled then, and somehow it wasn’t a very nice smile anymore, and...and...was he actually wearing black?

“I’ve been reading the moderns,” he said.

“No,” she whispered. “No, Christian, please. The sea is calm tonight—”

“The sea was calm. The sea was calm, your heart would have responded gaily, when invited, beating obedient to controlling hands.'"

“No. Please. No.”

•

“‘The sea was calm,’” Christian quoted, “‘Your heart would have responded Gaily, when invited, beating obedient To controlling hands.’”

“Oh, honestly, Christian.” Brittany sighed, rolling her eyes. “You can’t really imagine that I wouldn’t know that one, can you? It’s only one of my favorite poems. T.S. Eliot. The Waste Land. Damyata, darling.”

“The Waste Land it is,” he agreed. “The score stands at Ten-Love.”

“Love,” she repeated, and then smiled, a hard lean smile. “‘Love,’” she quoted, biting out each word. “‘Love. A score of zero. In tennis.’”

Christian frowned.

“You’ve got me there, Brittany,” he admitted, after a long moment’s thought. “I don’t think that I know that one.”

“It’s...” She blinked, her smile faltering. “It’s...” Her brow furrowed. She looked up, eyes wide. “I’m...Christian, I…I don’t seem to be able to concentrate very well at the moment…”

“Well, if you can’t give the citation either, Brittany...”

“But I can. I can. Or I could. If only, if only I weren’t so very, so very thirsty. And if only it weren’t so hard to think. Amongst the rock one cannot stop and think.” She squeezed her eyes shut. “It’s just on the tip of my tongue,” she said, “but my tongue is...my tongue is...”

“Ten All, Brittany.”

“No. No, wait. I can—”

“Ten All.”

“Oh, come on, Christian!” she cried. “I’m dying here. You can just give me the point, can’t you? Just this once? Humor me, can’t you? Any humor you please, one or two or even all four of them. Just...just let me win. Please. Just let me win.”

“Well, sure, Brittany,” he said, and shrugged. “If it really means that much to you, then all right. You win.”

“Thank you,” she whispered, closing her eyes. “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.”

When lovely woman stoops to conquer...

She opened her eyes. The moon was dark over the crossroads in the blue of the twilight hour.

“Tiresias?” she croaked.

“I, Tiresias,” he agreed, stepping forward, old man, old woman both, with wrinkled dugs. “I Tiresias, though blind, throbbing between two lives...I too awaited the expected guest.” He leaned heavily on his stick and began to sing in a quavering high voice: “When lovely woman stoops to conquer…”

“No.” Brittany shook her head. “No, that’s wrong, darling. Wrong line. It’s folly. When lovely woman stoops to folly.”

“Conquer is what I said, girl, and conquer is what I meant. Because that’s always been your game, hasn’t it? Stoop to conquer. Lose to win.”

“I—” she began, then tensed as she felt it, its cold will to do her harm, running lightly along her thigh.

“Oh, my dear, my dear,” the Trivium sighed. “You aren’t really still worried about this Blade, are you? Don’t be ridiculous, Brittany. Only those who live by the sword need worry about dying by the sword, you know, and you, now—well!” He sniggered. “You’ve always lived your life by a somewhat different principle. Haven’t you.”

“I don’t know what you—”

“Yes,” Tiresias agreed. “She has. Stooping to conquer. Losing to win. Assuming the position. Changing the rules.”

“If you can’t be a poet,” the Trivium said. “Then why not be a critic?”

“If you can’t create, then why not imitate?

“If you can’t initiate, then why not respond?”

“If you can’t impress, then why not parody?”

“If you can’t write,” the Trivium suggested, and tittered. “If you can’t write, my dear, then you may as well learn to parrot. If you can’t write, then by all means. Memorize quotations.”

“If you can’t win, then why not cheat?”

“If you can’t be an athlete, then why not be an athletic supporter?”

“Please!” objected Brittany.

“Not aggressive-passive, but passive-aggressive.”

“Not destroying through becoming, but becoming through destroying.”

“Not pushing it in, but pulling it out.”

“Not thoughtlessness, but cruelty—cruelty and compassion.”

“If you can’t kill with authority, then why not kill with kindness?”

“If you can’t be the paterfamilias, then why not provide the mother-love?”

“Damn you,” she whispered. “Damn you, mother.”

“If you can’t stab,” the Trivium said. “Then why on earth not subsume?” He leaned in close to her, and she wasn’t even certain any longer whether the cold she felt came from him, or merely from the blade he carried. “You claimed once that you could bear anyone’s cruelty,” he reminded her. “But, oh, my dear, my dear. Compassion!”

“He who lives by the sword dies by the sword, Brittany.”

“But you have never lived by the sword.”

“Do you wish to know what to fear?”

“Fear what you have lived by.”

“A hammerhead is a hammerhead,” Tiresias told her. “By any other name.”

“Fear what you have lived by,” repeated the Trivium. “And whatever you do, don’t look.”

“It only happens,” said Tiresias, his voice fading away into the distance. “It only happens when you aren’t looking.”

The blade lay itself cold on her cheek, far too close to her eye, and she drew in a sharp breath.

“It cuts both ways, my dear,” the Trivium whispered in her ear. “Did you know that? The gaze does penetrate, does it not? Despite your distaste for post-modernism,” he said, and snickered, “I think that you do know that, really. Don’t you.”

He leaned in still closer to her, the cold radiating off of him in waves. “But how vulnerable the eyes are,” he whispered. “To what they might see. To what might enter them. They are. Aren’t they?”

“Yes,” she whispered, eyes squeezed tightly shut. “Yes.”

He jerked the blade away abruptly. She flinched, then sagged in relief.

“When you look into the abyss, my dear,” he cautioned her. “You know. If you look,” he told her, his voice now fading as well, receding into the humming buzzing haze, "then it can’t happen. It only happens when you aren’t looking.”

“But what only happens?” Brittany called after them. “What only happens? Is it like the elephant-thing? Oh, is it? Is it just like that elephant-thing?”

•

A door opened somewhere, and at the sound of it her bladder gave way instantly. She felt a hot burning sensation down there, but nothing else. Hot, yes. Hot, but not moist. Not moist at all. She had none of that left. She had nothing left to give.

•

—You ought to be ashamed, said Janis.

I’m not ashamed. It’s what they want. It’s what they want. Why should I be ashamed?

—You ought to be ashamed, said Janis. You ought to be ashamed, to look so antique

I can’t help it. It’s them pills I took to bring it off. The chemist said it would be alright, but I’ve never been the same.

—You are a proper fool, said Janis, then sneezed. She had a bad cold, but nevertheless was known to be the wisest woman in Europe, with a wicked pack of cards.

Brittany gazed across the small round table at Madame Sosostris’ deck, which sat there before her waiting. Like a predator. Or a lover.

“What do your cards say?” she asked softly. Janis began to flip them over, one by one by one.

“Here is Belladonna, the Lady of the Rocks. The lady of situations.”

“Oh, yes,” said Brittany. “Yes.”

“Here is the man with three staves, and here the Wheel.”

“Yes.”

“And here is the one-eyed merchant. And this card, which is blank, is something he carries on his back.”

“A monkey,” she whispered. “He has a monkey on his back.”

“No.” Janis shook her head emphatically. “No. It is something else. Something which I am forbidden to see.”

“Forbidden to see? You mean like the elephant-thing?”

It only happens when we’re not looking.
So what happens if we look?

“What is it with you and that elephant-thing?” Janis frowned at her. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, do you know nothing?” cried Brittany.

Oh God, she moaned. I can connect nothing with nothing.

•

She writhed and whimpered under the blows, and they were hot. Hot and burning, and not cool. Not cool at all.

•

To Carthage then I came

Burning burning burning burning
O Lord Thou pluckest me out
O Lord Thou pluckest

burning
 

•

“It’s so cold in here,” Christian told her. “It’s freezing, Brittany. And yet you’re sweating.” The hand he placed on her forehead was cool to the touch.

“Sweating,” she croaked. “Sweating oil and tar...”

“Or you were,” he said. “But not any more, I don’t think. No. Not any more.”

“Burning. Dip...” She tried to open her eyes to look at him, but all that was there was a red and pulsing haze. “Dip your finger in the water. Please, Christian. Come and cool...and cool. My tongue. For—”

“I think it’s almost over now, you know,” he told her kindly. “Almost—”

“Dry,” she said.

“Yes. Almost over. Almost—”

“Dry.”

“Yes. Almost dry.”

“Dry. All sucked dry. Down to the very last dregs. He drank, he drank me down, he drank me down to the—”

Yes, oh please yes, my blood, my life, please...

She couldn’t see his face. She could never see his face, except for that one brief glimpse that just hadn’t been enough, not enough. She moved her lips soundlessly, lost in the warm ruddy haze, unable even to hear the useless hissing of her severed throat anymore, knowing anyway that it was futile. Even if he could hear her, he would never save her. After all, why on earth would he? Why on earth should he? How could she even hope for such a thing? Why, how...

Mercy, she sobbed. Have mercy. Please. I know...I know that I don’t deserve it. I know that I am foul. I see my sin. And I am ashamed. So very ashamed. So very ashamed to look so antique.

“My child.”

I am vile. And thirsty. Please.

“God is merciful.” The haze receded somewhat. Christian was stroking her hair, her blood still wet and sticky on his lips. But of course it was him. It must have been him all along. “God is merciful,” he assured her. “I have caught it all. And I have not spilled a single drop.”

He slipped one hand behind her neck, helping to support her nervelessly lolling head, and it was cool, so cool, cool to the touch.

“God is forgiving,” he told her. “What he takes away, he will also give back.” He raised his other hand, and she could see the nails still piercing his wrist; he drew their points slowly across his throat, leaving there three thin lines of seeping red.

“Drink,” he said gently. “For this is my blood.”

She choked out something that might have been a sob and leaned forward as he pulled her in close to him, parched lips parted, eager, desperate, yes, oh please yes, my blood, my life, please...

“Drink, my dear,” he told her. “And enjoy.”

Cool. So cool. Or warm. Warm or cool or thick or clear or ruddy or blue, no matter, no matter; she moaned in helpless gratitude, barely able to swallow it fast enough, feeling it trickle warm down the sides of her mouth and...but...but, but, but—

But wait.

“But, but, but,” she spluttered, pulling away, spitting, gagging, retching. “But this isn’t mine! It’s not mine at all. This is...what are you doing to me?”

•

“Here is your card!” Madame Sosostris announced, flipping it over on the table with a barely concealed air of triumph. “The drowned Phoenician Sailor.”

“Drowned? But—”

She looked down at the card lying on the table. A dove descended from the heavens, bearing the sacrament, about to deposit it into the bowl of the great chalice, the bowl from which streams of water poured, rushing to meet the sea.

(Those are pearls that were his eyes. Look!)

“But—”

“Fear death by water.”

•

"—But this isn’t mine, Christian! You’ve done something to it, changed it somehow. This isn’t what I asked you for, it isn’t what I begged you for, it isn't what I need. What I need, what I need is—”

What you need is a good kick in the ass. That’s what you need.

“—is my blood. Not yours. Mine.”

“Oh, but it is yours, Brittany.” He smiled, and his fangs glinted in the light. “It really is. I caught it all, and I have not spilled a drop. I just made it a little bit better, that’s all. It’s been improved now. Refined. Purified. Cleansed.”

“But it’s not—”

“And besides,” he said, and he smiled kindly at her. “You can’t really know what you need, can you? I mean, surely you must understand that? That we know these things better than you possibly ever could?”

She drew back, her eyes narrowing.

“Who’s we?” she demanded.

“And now it will all be returned to you. God is loving. What he takes, he also gives back. All will be returned to you. All, and more.”

“But,” she stammered. “But, but...but I don’t want more. I mean, I want what I had in the first...it isn’t even really mine anymore. Is it?"

“But of course it is. My blood is your blood. It’s you. It’s you, but better. It’s you, but refined. It’s you, but improved. Purified. Cleansed. It is not only you,” he told her. “It is the very essence of you. More you than you could ever have hoped to be. Wouldn’t you like that?”

She looked up, and she could see it there now, hovering in front of her, glistening with moisture. A single drop coalesced from the condensation on its bowl and wended its way slowly down the stem, across its foot. It hung there suspended, quivering, just ready to fall. Her entire body groaned for it.

“Oh God yes,” she whispered. “Yes, please. I would like that.”

Fear death by water...  Janis’ voice, faint in the distance. Oh, Brittany, be careful. Be careful. There is a fly, there is a fly. . . .There is a fly in the balm of Gilead. Fear death by water...

She drew back, troubled.

“Will I drown, Christian?” she cried. “If I drink that? Will I drown? You aren’t...you aren’t sacrificing me to anything here, are you? Are you? Are you?”

“Don’t be silly, Brittany. It isn’t the water that kills, you know. It’s the lack of oxygen. And besides,” and he smiled sadly at her. “You didn’t really want to be such a filthy mess. Did you?”

•

“Here is your card!” Janis announced, flipping it over on the table with a barely concealed air of triumph. “The drowned Phoenician Sailor.”

“Drowned? But—”

She looked down at the card lying on the table. A dove descended from the heavens, bearing the sacrament, about to deposit it into the bowl of the great chalice, the bowl from which streams of water poured, rushing to meet the sea.

(Those are pearls that were his eyes. Look!)

“But—”

“Fear death by water.”

“But…“ She shook her head. “But...no. No. That’s a symbol of, of rebirth. Of transformation. Not of death, not really. It’s a, it’s a crucible, a...”

But Janis was shaking her head slowly from side to side.

“Purified,” Brittany insisted. “Please. Refined, cleansed, distilled. Cured. Please. Made better. Improved. Not death. Not death at all. Initiation. Please.”

Janis continued to shake her head.

“I do not find the Hanged Man,” she said.

“Redeemed,” Brittany whispered. “Redeemed. Please.”

Janis looked across the table at her, and her eyes were very sad.

“I’m sorry, Brittany,” she said. “I do not find the Hanged Man.”

“But—”

“I do not find the Hanged Man. Fear death by water.”

“But,” she said. “But that’s—

•

"—a symbol,” said Christian. “An idea. That there is more to life than stabbing. Or being stabbed. There is also—“

—also drowning. And being drowned. Smothering. And being smothered. Dissolving. And being dissolved. Subsuming. And being subsumed—

“—love, Brittany.” He smiled. “There is also love.”

“But that isn’t...” She shook her head weakly. “That's not love.”

“But of course it is.” He kissed her lightly on the forehead and his lips were cool. “I caught it all, and I did not spill a single drop. Every drop was caught, every drop taken. Every drop went into the crucible. Because I love you. Not for yourself, but for what you might be. Not for what you make of yourself, but for what you might be made. Not for the spirit, but for the soul. Not for you, but for us. Not for the persona. Not for the persona at all. Not for the persona, but for the person. That’s the purest type of love that there is. Didn’t you know that?”

“No,” she whispered. “That isn’t love. That’s not love at all. The persona is the person.”

“No, Brittany. It’s not. Haven’t you ever read the Bible? The language of God, you know,” he said. “The language of God has no vowels. No vowels at all.”

“Please,” she said. “Christian, please, I—”

“I know,” he told her sympathetically. “I know, I know. It hurts. But there’s no other way, Brittany. There really isn’t. Haven’t you ever peeled an onion? First you have to get rid of all of that dead scaly stuff on the outside, and then there’s that thick toe-nail layer? And then the layer after that, and the layer after that, and it just gets wetter and wetter the further you go in, until the tears are running down your face. It really can just make you cry, can’t it? But all the same. You have to do it. You have to do it, if you want to get to the heart of it.”

She gritted her teeth and took a deep breath. Then laughed delicately.

“Oh, honestly, Christian,” she told him. “That really is a terribly amusing conceit. Really, it is. But it’s just absurd, you know. Too, too absurd. Christian, if you peel an onion until you’ve removed every last layer, then what you have left isn’t an onion anymore at all. It isn’t even the heart of an onion. It’s nothing. All that you are going to have left,” she told him, trembling. “All that you are going to be left with, if you do that, are tears running down your face and a truly appalling aroma clinging to your fingers.”

He gazed sorrowfully at her.

“What you have left isn’t nothing, Brittany,” he said. “It’s not nothing. It’s negative space. Not the river, but the sea. Not the part, but the whole. Not communion, but union. The whole of the moon, Brittany. The Oneness and the All.”

She closed her eyes, wanting only to drink and drink and drink and drink—

But.

“But whose Oneness?” she demanded. “Whose all? No.” She shook her head wildly. “No. No, no, no. Take,” she said, and took a deep breath.

“Take this cup away from me.”

He blinked.

“Well, all right, Brittany.” He shrugged. “Sure. If it really means that much to you, then okay. You win.”

“Thank you,” she whispered. “Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you. Thank you.”

When she opened her eyes again, he was walking slowly away.

“No!” she called. “No, wait! Wait, please. Please come back. Please. I’m…” She stared at his retreating back.

“Christian, please,” she screamed. “I’m so fucking thirsty!” She collapsed against the column. It wasn’t even all that cool anymore.

“Well!” the Trivium commented. “How very well-played! But don’t you think, my dear, that your victory there might have been just a tad, well, Pyrrhic?” He tilted his head to one side, regarding her. “Or perhaps,” he mused. “Perhaps what I should say is Fabian, hmmm? Not a victory at all, but merely a tactic?”

“Go away,” she said.

“You’re running out of time, Brittany. Because you really hadn’t, you know. You never really had.”

“Never really had?” Her brow furrowed. “Never really had what?”

“Why, all the time in the world, of course. All the time in the world. You never had. And you knew that, surely? That you couldn’t keep this up indefinitely? Toast and tea is nearly served, my dear. Time to prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet.”

She hugged the column and shut her eyes.

“Hurry up, please,” he told her. “It’s time.”

•

•

She moaned somewhere deep in her throat and pressed the thick rough thing protruding from her mouth hard against the column. Hot, yes. Hot, but not moist. It had been moist, once, but now...

Not moist at all.

•

“I really do think, you know, darling,” Brittany told her, her magnified eyes darting apologetically behind her thick glasses. “That I’m going to have to pack this in. It’s just too beastly, don’t you know. Too, too horrid.”

—No. Don’t leave me.

“I’m...” Brittany laughed shakily. “I’m just not made for this sort of thing, I’m afraid. It’s not my milieu, darling.”

—You’re adaptable. It will be okay. We can do this. Please.

“Oh, darling, it is nice of you to say so. But I’m not, you know. I’m really not. You’re the one who’s adaptable. I’m...well!” She laughed nervously. “I’m actually rather brittle, when it comes right down to it. Positively frangible, in fact.” Her eyes swiveled reproachfully to meet her own. “Really, I do sometimes wish that you’d made me just a tad more robust. It’s really not very nice, darling, now, is it? Being so very frangible?”

—Glass shines brighter when it’s broken. And...and...and...and the mirror, the broken mirror. The broken mirror doesn’t just reflect. It doesn’t just reflect. It can also...what? What else can it do? I almost, I almost had it there. The broken mirror…the broken mirror…

Brittany took a step backward and tilted her head to one side, her eyes narrowed behind her glasses. Then she shook her head.

“No,” she said firmly. “I’m sure that it’s a fascinating riddle, but I’ve had quite enough of riddle games. Quite, quite enough.” She bent down to pick up her suitcases.

—No. No, please. Please don’t go. Please don’t leave me here, all on my own. Please.

“Don’t grovel, darling. It’s unattractive. And really, now! It’s not as if I’m an actual person, you know. I’m nothing but bits and pieces. Shreds and patches, even. You cobbled me together yourself, don’t you remember? Out of elocution tapes and old Gilligan’s Island re-runs. It’s really rather sad, darling, don’t you think?”

—If you say so. You're the one who would know. I’ve never known what’s sad. It takes...you need to buy the vowels. You need to buy the vowels. To know what’s sad.

“Vowels!” Brittany rolled her eyes. “Darling, vowels are for people who can speak. And you can’t even do that anymore, can you?” She shook her head. “I hardly think,” she said, “that you’re in any position to afford a vowel right now. Do you?” She straightened, bag in each hand. “Do send a postcard,” she said. “When you find work.”

She leaned back hard against the dry dry column.

—Be well, Brittany. Be well.

She watched herself walk slowly away, one bag in each hand, then blinked.

—Wait!

Brittany paused, her back rigid. She did not turn around.

—Wait! What...Brittany, what do you have in those bags? Please. It’s important. What is it that you carry in those bags? Who is the third who walks always beside you? When I turn to look...when I turn to look, there’s no one there. Is it the elephant-thing? Is it a blank card? Is it something which I am forbidden to see?

It was a long time before she answered.

“Darling, please,” she said. “When has there ever been anything that you were forbidden to see? Which bag would you like to look at? The left one, or the right one?”

—Does it matter?

“I suppose not,” said Brittany. “It’s nothing but fragments anyway. Bits and pieces and shreds and patches. We’re all just making this up as we go along, you know. It’s just too pathetic.”

“The deck is stacked, my dear,” whispered the Trivium. “It’s been stacked since before you were born. Negative principles, Brittany. Negative space. Knife or chalice? Left hand or right? Male or female? Light or Dark? It’s all the same, you know, in the end. All of the hands are ours. We hold all the cards.”

“The problem isn’t seeing, darling,” Brittany told her, fading, receding, drifting off into the haze. “The problem is what you see. And you just can’t help that, I’m afraid. You’re far too human, you know. Too, too human.”

And this card, which is blank...
Something that I am forbidden to see...
Do you see nothing? Do you know nothing? Do you remember nothing?

They hold all the cards. But what if we don’t look at them? What if we don’t look? What if we refuse to look, not ever, not ever to look?

•

What happens if we look away?

•

What happens if we remove the pearls from our eyes?

•

•

Everything will be all right, Brittany thought, if only I don’t look don’t look don’t look don’t look don't look

•

I cannot speak, and my eyes fail. I am neither living nor dead, and I know nothing, looking into the heart of the light, the silence.

•

The blows rained down upon her, and she did not flinch.

She no longer felt them.

•

She sat upon the shore, fishing, with the arid plain behind her.

“Just finish the poem now, Brittany,” a voice told her. “You know that you’re far too tired to do anything else.”

She looked down at the book resting open on her lap. The last three words of the poem stared back up at her.

“Finish the poem, Brittany. You’re too tired to do anything else. Too tired. Too thirsty. Too hurt. Too weak. And too human. Far too human.”

These fragments, she thought. These fragments I have shored against my ruins.

“Finish the poem. And leave the rest in our hands.”

“They’re all our hands.”

“You don’t have any real choice in the matter, you know.”

“You never did.”

“You have no alternatives.”

“You never had.”

“There are no alternatives.”

She did not look down at the book again. She knew the words by heart. She closed her eyes.

Shantih, she thought.

shantih   shantih   shantih

Her hand dropped to her side, as someone gently took the book away.

•

Eight

Norbert blinked through the falling snow, trying to figure out what strange refractory trick of the light could possibly be causing this optical illusion. Something to do with the snow, perhaps, or the angle of illumination from the houses beyond the trees, or the exact degree of moisture in the air. Or, most likely, some combination thereof. Herschel would have known. It must be a relative of a sundog, he thought, or a glory, or any of those other odd effects one could sometimes see at the very tops of mountains, when all of the conditions were just perfectly right.

I’m coming to meet myself.

He shambled along through the snow, one leg dragging slightly, one arm hanging limp and useless at his side, clothed in the shreds and tatters of what had once been an exquisitely tailored suit. And there, ahead of him, he was as well, shambling towards himself, one leg dragging, one arm limp, the suit hanging in shreds from his battered frame, just exactly as if someone had blocked the entire road with an enormous invisible mirror.

It was not until his reflection had very nearly caught up with him that Norbert realized that it wasn’t an optical illusion at all. Somebody really was coming to meet him, some other unfortunate soul stumbling down this forsaken road on foot in the middle of the night.

The snow blew in thick swirling gusts about them as they approached one another. Norbert could barely see the other man, but he could smell him, could smell the sharp acrid tangs of pain-sweat, of fear-sweat, the iron scent of blood, all unpleasantly mingled with the stale reeks of cheap whisky and old vomit and dried urine. Some derelict, it seemed, who had been set upon by a gang of bored youths. Someone who would not be missed. Safe, just as safe as they came, and as the safest of them always were, thoroughly unappetizing. Norbert felt profoundly grateful that he was no longer hungry.

They passed one another in silence, the other man—an old man, Norbert thought—ducking his head somewhat as he passed, raising his hand to lift his lapel, as if to shield himself from the wind...

Norbert stopped. Then, very slowly, he turned around. He half-expected there to be nothing behind him at all, for the apparition to have vanished, but no, there he was, his back moving away at a slightly faster pace through the whirling gusts of snowfall, his head ducked low, hand up and shielding his face. Norbert frowned.

“Hey,” he said quietly.

Yes, the old guy was definitely trying to pick up the pace now, and he was only pretending not to have heard. Even over the smell of the snow and all of the blood on his suit, Norbert could taste the man’s fear at the back of his throat.

“Hey,” he said again. The man broke into a kind of shambling trot, then stumbled and fell to his knees in the snow. Norbert was beside him in an instant.

“Wow,” he said. “Are you okay?” The old guy had been lavishly beaten: his face was puffy and bruised, one eye swollen shut, lips broken and bleeding. His right arm was taped into a makeshift splint, and he was clutching a plastic bag protectively to his chest. Norbert blinked at him, tense, tense. There was something very not right about this person, something off-kilter, some wrongness to him that even his poor condition didn’t account for. He took hold of the man’s good arm to help him to his feet, and his nerves screamed.

The old man lurched to his feet and stared at Norbert out of his one good eye. He made a small strangled noise in the back of his throat. Norbert gazed back at him. It was ridiculous even to think of trying this, of course; the kid had scraped the bottom of his barrel back there; he didn’t know what he was thinking—but all the same, he looked straight into the man’s eyes and said:

“Hey.”

The old man gasped, convulsing; his entire body went rigid and his head snapped back. His eyes fluttered madly, then rolled all the way back into his skull. Norbert’s jaw dropped.

I don’t believe it, he thought. I do not believe it. This guy’s a horse. He’s a genuine horse.

You ran into one of these people so rarely, maybe a few times a decade. Someone was finally, it seemed, deciding to cut him just a little bit of slack. About time, really.

“Hey!” he exclaimed, both startled and pleased. The horse shuddered helplessly, then said, his voice thick and slow:

“Command me, Master.”

Oh, man, that feels good, thought Norbert. It’s been years since anyone’s called me that.

“Yeah, okay,” he said. “That’s just fine. You’re doing great, so why don’t you just relax, okay? Kind of a bad night to be out walking, don’t you think?” He glanced down at the plastic bag the man was still clutching, knuckles white and trembling, to his chest. “What’s in the bag?” he asked, just making conversation, really. “Let’s see it.”

The horse shuddered again, then held out the bag. Norbert took it from him. It was heavy but soft, felt like there was some fabric in there, probably just the poor old geezer’s only other set of clothing. He turned it in his hands, then frowned. The horse’s fear was spiking madly: adrenaline was pouring through his system, and he was doing his damnedest to fight him off. Not that a horse’s damnedest was ever very much, of course, but still, Norbert could feel him struggling—feeble, weak, like a moth fluttering about somewhere in his mind. Weird, that. Horses didn’t ordinarily do that. They didn’t usually try to fight you at all.

“Hey, now,” he said reprovingly. “Didn’t I tell you to relax?” The moth subsided.

He unfolded the plastic bag and peeled its mouth back, revealing some soiled towels, hospital towels, they looked like…

The moth returned, fluttering harder this time, and he looked up, eyebrow raised in some irritation. The horse had his mouth open now; he was making strangled noises deep down in his throat. Trying to say something? Why didn’t he just—

Oh. Right. Horses. You always had to give them explicit permission to—

“Speak,” Norbert told him.

“Ajax,” gasped the horse. “Ajax, please, for mercy’s sake, I claim protection under the Law...”

“Aw, fuck!” Norbert released the man’s will instantly, feeling less as if he were relinquishing it than throwing it, hurling it away from him into the snow. The old man barely seemed to notice, though. He was reciting the formula, claiming all of his freedoms and protections in a rapid monotone, the words tumbling over themselves as if they had taken on a life of their own, even as his body sagged and his eyes slammed shut.

“Hey,” Norbert said, alarmed. “Hey, wow. Okay. All right. I didn’t…”

But he wasn’t stopping. He was still reciting, his eyes squeezed tightly shut, “...and freedom from mental dominion. I claim...”

Fuck.

“Hey, calm down, will you? You’re—”

“I claim protection under the Law,” the horse said, now starting it all over again, reciting it once more, from the very top, this time in...Provencal?

Thirteen century Provencal.

He really does know who I am, Norbert thought. Oh, hell.

I’m not really going to have to slap him here, he wondered. Am I?

“Enough,” he snapped. “Pull yourself together.”

The horse stopped mid-sentence and stared at him. He drew in a long shaky breath. And then he simply collapsed, knees buckling beneath him, falling heavily against Norbert, who staggered backwards, slipping in the snow and dropping the plastic bag as he raised his one good arm to try to catch him. His other arm jerked, instinctively trying to make itself of some use, and the pain from his wrenched shoulder shot through his entire nervous system, exploding black starbursts across his vision.

We’re both going to end up sprawled in the snow here, he thought. Oh, beautiful.

But he managed to keep his balance, just, and to hook the old guy, who was clutching madly at the tatters of his jacket, under one arm and to lower him gently to the ground. The man landed heavily on one knee and bent over himself, gasping for breath.

“I...put your head down or something, okay?” Norbert told him. “Gosh. I’m really sorry about that. I had no idea. Take deep breaths.”

“Oh,” the horse said, shaking his head slowly from side to side. “Ohhhh,” he said, a long drawn-out sigh. “Oh, fuuuuuck,” and then burst into weak laughter. Norbert smiled slightly.

“Yeah. Wow. Really scared you there, didn’t I?”

“I thought...” the old man whispered. “I thought...” and then something that Norbert didn’t quite catch. Something about a hall of mirrors. He raised one hand to his temple, wincing.

“Yeah, your head may be bad for while. Sorry about that. You should have said something sooner.”

“You...” The old man shook his head. “You didn’t give me very much opportunity. You…”

“No, I guess I didn’t. Sorry.” Norbert stared at him, thinking. The horse had claimed protection of the law. That probably meant that if Alastair had declared him rogue, then this guy, at least, hadn’t heard about it yet. But he’d also not seemed terribly convinced that he was going to get protection of the law. Which could mean that Alastair had. But…

He shook his head. This was fruitless. The horse knew his name, he knew who he was, and he was obviously just some old wolf, after all, so who could blame him, really, if he hadn’t been sure that... Even Cabot had thought that…

Norbert suddenly wanted very badly to punch something. Instead, he knelt down at the wolf’s side.

“I really am terribly sorry, Wolf,” he said. “Please be at ease. I am a respecter of the Law, and I intended no violation. I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

The wolf’s mouth dropped open. He stared.

“Ajax,” he said. “Did you just...did you...Oh.” He shut his eyes and began laughing again, giggling really. “Oh, lord,” he gasped. “Oh, I...Ajax. Ajax.” He fought it back, barely. “Have you ever,” he asked, a few giggles still trying to escape around the corners. “Ever had a day that was just so absolutely, so impressively, so truly astoundingly horrible—I mean the sort of day that proves to be so perfectly awful in every conceivable way—that you just...you just...” He shook his head helplessly. Norbert smiled in spite of himself.

“It’s the sad fact of the matter, Wolf,” he told the man kindly. “That when you get to be my age, you often find that you have encountered quite a number of those days. If it’s any comfort,” he added. “They rarely fall in immediate succession. Tomorrow will be better.”

Strangely, this seemed to send the wolf off into another giggling fit. He shoved his hand hard against his mouth, shaking silently.

“I’ll...” he gasped, at length. “I’ll try to remember that, Mister Ajax. That’s very kind of you, sir. Thank you.” He stumbled to his feet, wincing audibly as he rose, looking pale and sick and very old in the dim light, then turned as if to continue on his way down the road.

You aren’t just going to let him walk away from you, are you? Ask him who he is. Ask him what he’s doing here. Ask him what the army is doing here. Ask him, ask him…

Norbert stooped, wincing himself, and picked up the plastic bag.

“Hey,” he said. The old man, horse, wolf, whatever he was, turned and then froze, standing perfectly motionless, watching him carefully.

“I think this is yours,” Norbert said and handed it to him.

Slowly, very slowly, head tilted to one side, the man reached out for it. His fingers brushed Norbert’s lightly as he took the bag from him. They felt very warm to the touch.

“Thank you,” he said. “Good night, Ajax.”

"Good night," said Norbert.

The old man smiled slightly and nodded, graciously, to him, and then he turned and disappeared into the swirls of blinding snow.

•

(continued)

•

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