“Thank you,” the girl says again, not much louder than before.
“You’re welcome,” the woman says to the girl, and as the sun rises the witch’s path takes her back into the store and the girl’s path takes her somewhere else. The bell above the door chimes over their parting.
Inside, the witch picks up the girl’s mug, its star facing toward her palm. She doesn’t have to read it but she’s curious and mildly concerned with the girl’s well-being, out on the streets alone.
The images come quick and clear, clearer than what is typical for an object held for only a few minutes. More pictures, more people, more places, and more things than should fit in a single girl. Then the witch sees herself. Sees the cardboard moving boxes and the hurricane on the television and the white farmhouse surrounded by trees.
The empty mug falls to the floor, knocking into a table leg but it does not break.
Madame Love Rawlins walks outside, the bell above the door chiming again. She looks first down the quiet street and then around the corner down the alley toward the painted door, not yet dry.
But the girl herself has vanished.
Once there was a merchant who traveled far and wide, selling stars.
This merchant sold all manner of stars. Fallen stars and lost stars and vials of stardust. Delicate pieces of stars strung on fine chains to be worn around necks and spectacular specimens fit to display under glass. Fragments of stars were procured to be given as gifts for lovers. Stardust was purchased to sprinkle at sacred sites or to bake into cakes for spells.
The stars in the merchant’s inventory were carried from place to place in a large sack embroidered with constellations.
The prices for the merchant’s wares were high but often negotiable. Stars could be acquired in exchange for coins or favors or secrets, saved by wishful dreamers in hopes that the star merchant might cross their path.
Occasionally the star merchant traded stars for accommodations or transport while traveling from place to place. Stars were traded for nights spent in inns with company or without.
One dark night on the road the star merchant stopped at a tavern to while away the time before the sun returned. The merchant sat by the fire drinking wine and struck up a conversation with a traveler who was also staying the night at the tavern, though their paths would take them in different directions come morning.
“To Seeking,” the star merchant said as their wine was refilled.
“To Finding,” came the traditional response. “What is it that you sell?” the traveler asked, tilting a cup toward the constellation-covered sack. This was a topic they had not yet discussed.
“Stars,” the star merchant answered. “Would you care to peruse? I shall offer you a discount for being good company. I might even show you the pieces I keep in reserve for distinguished customers.”
“I do not care for stars,” the traveler said.
The merchant laughed. “Everyone wants the stars. Everyone wishes to grasp that which exists out of reach. To hold the extraordinary in their hands and keep the remarkable in their pockets.”
There was a pause here, filled by the crackling of the fire.
“Let me tell you a story,” the traveler said, after the pause.
“Of course,” the star merchant said, gesturing for their wine to be replenished once again.
“Once, very long ago,” the traveler began, “Time fell in love with Fate. Passionately, deeply in love. The stars watched them from the heavens, worrying that the flow of time would be disrupted or the strings of fortune tangled into knots.”
The fire hissed and popped anxiously, punctuating the traveler’s words.
“The stars conspired and separated the two. Afterward they breathed easier. Time continued to flow as it always had, Fate wove together the paths that were meant to intertwine, and eventually Fate and Time found each other again—”
“Of course they did,” the star merchant interrupted. “Fate always gets what Fate wants.”
“Yet the stars would not accept defeat,” the traveler continued. “They pestered the moon with concerns and complaints until she agreed to call upon the parliament of owls.”
Here the star merchant frowned. The parliament of owls was an old myth, invoked as a curse in the land where the merchant had lived as a child, far from this place. Falter on your path and the parliament of owls will come for you. The merchant listened carefully as the tale continued.
“The parliament of owls concluded that one of the elements should be removed. They chose to keep the one they felt more important. The stars rejoiced as Fate was pulled apart. Ripped into pieces by beaks and talons.”
“Did no one try to stop them?” the star merchant asked.
“The moon would have, certainly, had she been there. They chose a night with no moon for the sacrifice. No one dared intervene save for a mouse who took Fate’s heart and kept it safe,” the traveler said, then paused to take a sip of wine. “The owls did not notice the mouse as they feasted. The owl who consumed Fate’s eyes gained great sight and was crowned the Owl King.”
There was a sound then, outside in the night, that might have been wind or might have been wings.
The traveler waited for the sound to cease before resuming the story.
“The stars rested, smugly, in their heavens. They watched as Time passed in broken-hearted despair and eventually they questioned all that they once thought indisputable truth. They saw the crown of the Owl King passed one to another like a blessing or a curse, as no mortal creature should have such sight. They twinkle in their uncertainty, still, even now as we sit here below them.”
The traveler paused to finish the last of the wine, the story ended.
“As I said, I do not care for stars. Stars are made of spite and regret.”
The star merchant said nothing. The constellation-covered bag rested heavily by the fire.
The traveler thanked the star merchant for the wine and for the company and the merchant returned the sentiments. Before retiring the traveler leaned in and whispered in the merchant’s ear.
“Occasionally, Fate pulls itself together again and Time is always waiting.”
The traveler left the star merchant alone, sitting and drinking and watching the fire.
In the morning when the stars had fled under the watchful eye of the sun the star merchant inquired whether the traveler had departed, if there might be time to bid a proper farewell.
The star merchant was politely informed that there had been no other guests.
ZACHARY EZRA RAWLINS sits on a velvet bench in the fanciest elevator he has ever occupied wondering if it is not an elevator at all but rather a stationary room rigged to feel like an elevator because he has been sitting in it for what feels like a very, very long time.
He wonders if it’s possible to have sudden-onset claustrophobia and his contact lenses are reminding him why he rarely wears his contact lenses. The probably-elevator hums and occasionally makes a shuddering movement accompanied by a scraping sound, so it is likely moving and his stomach feels as though he is falling at a polite rate in a gilded cage, or maybe he is more drunk than he thinks he is. Delayed-reaction cocktailing.
The chandelier hanging above him shakes and shimmers, throwing fragmented light over the slightly baroque interior, gold walls and maroon velvet mostly worn of their respective shine and fuzziness. The bee/key/sword motif is repeated on the interior doors but there is nothing else adorning anything, no numerical information, no floor indicator, not even a button. Apparently there is one place to go and they haven’t reached it yet. The paint along his back and arm has started to dry, metallic flakes of it clinging to his coat and hair, itching along his neck, and stuck underneath his fingernails.
Zachary feels too awake yet extremely tired. Everything buzzes, from his head to his toes, and he can’t tell
if it’s the elevator or the alcohol or something else. He stands and paces, as much as he can pace in an elevator, no more than two steps in any given direction.
Maybe it’s the fact that you finally walked through a painted door and didn’t end up where you expected to, the voice in his head suggests.
Did I know what I expected? Zachary asks himself.
He pauses his pacing and faces the elevator doors. He reaches out to touch them, his hand falling on the key motif. It vibrates beneath his fingers.
For a moment he feels like an eleven-year-old boy in an alleyway, the door beneath his fingers paint instead of metal but reverberating and the jazz music from the party is stuck in his head, looping, layering a dancing spin over everything and suddenly it feels like the elevator is moving much, much faster.
Abruptly, it stops. The chandelier jumps in surprise, sending down a shower of twinkling light as the doors open.
Zachary’s suspicions that he wasn’t actually traveling anywhere were unfounded, as the room he is looking out toward is not the cave-like space he started in. This is a luminous room with a curved paneled ceiling. It reminds him of the atrium from the university library but smaller, with honey-colored marble walls, opaque and varied in tone, but translucent and glowing, covering everything except for the stone floor and the elevator and another door on the other side of the room. He suspects he actually is as far underground as the length and speed of the elevator ride suggested, even though the voice in his head keeps insisting that such things are impossible. It is too quiet. There is a heaviness in the air, the feel of weight above him.
Zachary steps out of the elevator and the doors close behind him. The clanking sound resumes, the elevator returning to somewhere else. Above its doors is a half-moon indicator with no numbers, only a gold arrow moving slowly upward.
Zachary walks to the door on the other side of the room. It’s a large door with a golden doorknob that reminds him of his original painted door, only bigger, as though it has grown along with him, and this one is not painted but real carved wood, its gilded embellishments fading in places but the bee and the key and the sword remain distinct.
Zachary takes a breath and reaches for the doorknob. It is warm and solid and when he tries to turn it, it does not budge. He tries again, but the door is locked.
“Seriously?” he says aloud. He sighs and takes a step back. The door has a keyhole and, feeling silly about it, Zachary bends down to look through it. There is a room beyond, that much is obvious, but other than an irregular movement to the light, he cannot discern anything else.
Zachary sits on the floor, which is polished stone and not very comfortable. He can tell from this angle that the stone is worn down in the center of the doorway. Many people have walked here before him.
Wake up, the voice in his head says. You’re usually good at this sort of thing.
Zachary stands, leaving flakes of gold paint behind him, and goes to inspect the rest of the room.
There is a button near the elevator, half concealed in marble and whatever brassy metal the marble panels are connected with. Zachary pushes the button, not expecting a result, and gets precisely that. The button remains unlit, the elevator silent.
He tries the other doorless walls next and finds them more cooperative.
In the middle of the first wall is an alcove set at window height. It vanishes from view even a few steps away, lost in the glow of the marble. Inside, there is a bowl-like depression, a basin, as though it is a wall fountain with no water, the sides curving inward to a flat spot on the bottom.
In the center sits a small black bag.
Zachary picks up the bag. It has a familiar weight in his hand. The lifting of the bag reveals a single word carved into the stone beneath it.
Roll
“You have got to be kidding,” Zachary says as he turns the contents of the bag onto his palm.
Six dice of the classic six-sided variety, carved from dark stone. Each side has a symbol rather than numbers or dots, engraved and accented with gold. He turns one over so he can identify all of the symbols. The bee and the key and the sword are familiar but there are more. A crown. A heart. A feather.
Zachary puts the bag to the side and gives the dice a thorough shake before letting them tumble into the stone basin. When they settle, all of the symbols are the same. Six hearts.
He barely has time to read them before the bottom falls out of the basin and the dice and the bag disappear.
Zachary doesn’t bother checking the door before walking to the opposite wall and he is unsurprised to find a matching alcove.
A tiny stemmed glass rests inside, the type for sipping cordials or liqueurs, with a matching glass lid on top like some of his fancier teacups.
Zachary picks up the glass. Again, a single word is carved underneath.
Drink
The glass contains a small measure of honey-colored liquid, not much more than a sip.
Zachary removes the lid from the glass and sets it down next to the carved instruction. He sniffs the liquid. It has a honey sweetness but it also smells of orange blossom and vanilla and spice.
Zachary recalls innumerable fairy-tale warnings against eating or drinking in underworlds and at the same time realizes he is incredibly thirsty.
He suspects this is the only way forward.
He downs the drink in a single shot and replaces the empty glass on the stone. It tastes of everything he smelled in it and more—apricot and clove and cream—and it has a very, very strong kick of alcohol.
He loses his equilibrium enough to reconsider the relative stupidity of the whole idea but as quickly as the glass falls into its own abyss, it passes. His head, which had been pounding and swimming and sleepy before, feels clearer.
Zachary returns to the door and when he turns the knob it moves, the lock clicking open for him, allowing him through.
The room beyond the door looks like a cathedral, its sweeping high ceilings intricately tiled and buttressed, if buttressed is a word. There are six large columns, also tiled in patterns though some tiles are missing here and there, mostly near the bases, leaving bare stone visible beneath. The floor is covered with tiles worn down to the stone beneath, more so near Zachary’s feet and in a loop around the perimeter of the round space, with heavier wear near the other entrances. There are five entrances not counting the door he has stepped through. Four are archways, leading off in different directions into darkened halls, but directly opposite a large wooden door rests slightly ajar, a soft light beyond.
There are chandeliers, some hanging at irregular, chandelier-inappropriate heights, and others resting on the floor in illuminated piles of metal and crystal, their tiny bulbs dimmed or extinguished entirely.
A larger light above is not a chandelier at all but a cluster of glowing globes hung amongst brass hoops and bars. Craning his neck Zachary can see hands at the end of the bars, human hands cast in gold and pointing outward, the tile above them laid out in a pattern of numbers and stars. In the center, the midpoint of the room, a chain drops from the ceiling, terminating in a pendulum that hangs inches above the floor, slowly swaying in a tight rotation.
Zachary thinks the entire contraption might be a model of the universe or maybe a clock of some sort but he has no idea how to read it.
“Hello?” he calls. From one of the darkened halls there is a creaking sound, like a door opening, but nothing follows. Zachary walks the perimeter of the room, peering down hallways filled with books filed on long curving shelves and stacked on floors. Down one hall he spots a glowing pair of eyes staring back at him but he blinks and the eyes are gone.
Zachary turns his attention back to the maybe-universe, maybe-clock to inspect it from a different angle. One of the smaller bars is moving in time with the pendulum, and as he attempts to discern if any of the globe shapes have moons ther
e is a voice behind him.
“May I be of assistance, sir?”
Zachary turns so quickly he hurts his neck and flinches and is unable to tell whether the man who is regarding him with mild concern is reacting to the action or his presence or both.
Someone else is in this place. This place is actually here.
This is all happening.
Zachary dissolves into instant, near-hysterical laughter. A bubbling giggle that he attempts to stifle and fails. The man’s expression switches from mild concern to moderate.
This man gives an immediate impression of agedness, probably because of his stark white hair, worn long and styled in impressive braids. But Zachary blinks and stares and as his contact lenses reluctantly focus he can tell the man is maybe pushing fifty, or at least not as old as the hair implies. It’s also dotted with pearls strung along the braids, camouflaged when their sheen isn’t caught in the light. His eyebrows and eyelashes are dark, black like his eyes. His skin looks darker in contrast with his hair but is a mid-toned brown. He wears wire-rimmed glasses balanced on an equine nose and reminds Zachary a little bit of his seventh-grade math teacher but with much cooler hair and a deep red, gold-embroidered robe tied with a number of looping cords. On one hand he wears several rings. One ring looks like an owl.
“May I be of assistance, sir?” the man repeats, but Zachary can’t stop laughing. He opens his mouth to say something, anything, but nothing will come. His knees forget how to work and he slumps to the floor in a pile of wool coat and gold paint, finding himself at eye level with a ginger cat who peers around the edges of the man’s robes and stares at him with amber eyes and this somehow makes the whole situation even crazier and he has never laughed himself into a panic attack before but hey, there’s a first time for everything.
The man and the cat wait patiently, as though hysterical paint-covered visitors are commonplace.
The Starless Sea Page 12
