Sword Stone Table

by Sword Stone Table- Old Legends, New Voices (retail) (epub)

  Jack found himself holding his breath again and nodded. “Brad,” he managed to say.

  “Brad. Yes. I believe I know that. Or knew it….” Jack couldn’t begin to think of how that could be the case, but it was yet another in a string of bewildering things this magician had uttered, so Jack chose not to say anything. “And you, young man,” Merlin continued, “you are Jack, yes?” Jack nodded. “Brad and Jack. Or is it Jack and Brad?”

  “I don’t…I don’t know….”

  Merlin patted Jack’s knee. “It is no matter.” He paused, then leaned forward and spoke with a quiet, tender intensity. “I must say, my dear boy, that it is not due to my admittedly unusual—although sadly severely lacking—abilities that I am able to see the care you and Brad have for each other. No, no, I tell you that any sort of person, with any sort of perceptive abilities whatsoever, would be able to notice this. It is really something to behold. Powerful, and true, and eternal. And I am so very touched by it, in no small part because it reminds me of the feelings a friend I once had—or that I have—or that I will have…Which is it…? Time can be so confounding, forgive me….”

  Jack watched, again utterly confused, as Merlin lost himself in his thoughts, chewing on his bushy mustache, his eyes dancing as he worked out whatever mysterious problem it was that he was facing. Suddenly he clapped his hands together and laughed. “Of course! I always forget! Confounded Time has been playing its dastardly tricks on me again! It is both! It is both had and have!”

  “I don’t understand….”

  “No, no, no. No need to, my dear boy, no need. Never mind that. Terribly unimportant, really.” Merlin dismissed the subject with a wave and began afresh, with a renewed, ardent energy. “The point being—the important point, the point that matters—is that my dear friend Arthur had—has—had—such feelings, such strong feelings of care and affection as those that you have for Brad and that Brad has for you, not for Jenny, no, not really, although he certainly appreciated—appreciates—Jenny’s company, to be sure. Jenny, dear Jenny….” Merlin briefly trailed off, shaking his head, and then waved away his thoughts again. “No, my dear boy, no, no, no, never mind that. The important point is that any sort of person can—and could—see that the feelings of care and affection Arthur has—and had—are—and were—almost entirely so—these feelings are—and were—so very strong, for one person and one person alone: for Lance. And the same is—and was—true of Lance, for Arthur. But—ah! I shall never understand this. Neither man has ever been able to say to the other, ‘I am yours, and you are mine.’ So many things would be made so much simpler if they could just do this—if they could just have done this….” Merlin stared into his hands, chewing his mustache once more.

  Jack continued to find himself at a loss in trying to follow this bizarre relay of information. He sat for a long moment in silence, feeling almost mesmerized as he waited for Merlin to emerge from his reverie. “It’s not…” Jack offered, and hesitated. He didn’t know why he was saying anything at all, except that something was stirring in him, and he couldn’t stop himself. He plowed ahead. “It’s not always…so easy for everyone.”

  Merlin looked up at Jack, his rheumy eyes mournful. “No, no, no, you are quite right, my dear boy. Quite right. It is not so easy at all, not at all. And what can one do? What can one do?”

  “I don’t know,” Jack said. Quite suddenly, his chest tightened, his breath caught, and he buried his face in his hands. “I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know. I don’t know what to do….I don’t know….” He tried to stifle a sob, but that only seemed to make it louder. The sounds coming out of him…

  He felt a hand on his shoulder, squeezing both gently and firmly. He felt this but couldn’t bring himself to lift his face out of his hands, couldn’t begin to stop the cries that racked his body.

  “Ah, yes,” Merlin said. “Ah, yes. What are we to do? What ever are we to do?” He maintained his gently firm squeezing of Jack’s shoulder as Jack continued to sob and sob. Until, finally, Jack was spent.

  “I’m sorry,” Jack said into his hands, his voice a croak that he couldn’t begin to recognize as his own.

  “No, my dear boy, I will not allow you to apologize. No. That most assuredly will not do. No.”

  Jack heaved a trembling breath and did his best to wipe his face clean of tears and snot. At last he slowly sat up but still was not able to meet Merlin’s eyes. He stared at the sidewalk for a long time.

  “He’s not getting out of there,” Jack said quietly.

  “No. No, he is definitely not getting out of there. He does not have too much longer, I am afraid. It is such a terrible shame.”

  Jack nodded. “Yes….”

  “Ah!” Jack flinched as Merlin suddenly and shockingly smacked his hand on the bench, exclaiming, “That bastard, confounded Time, is once again our mortal enemy!”

  The outburst jolted Jack out of the worst of his shame, and he was at last able to look at Merlin. “What do you mean…?”

  “My dear boy, this awful Plague has not always been—no, that is not correct, not in this case. No. It will not always be—and this I know—yes, this is clear to me, I have seen this—I have seen that it will be true.”

  “You’re not…you’re not making sense….”

  “Ah, yes, I have forgotten, you truly do not know who I am! How delightful, really! And so rare! Ah, yes, but it is difficult to explain….I have seen, and I will see, yes, that is how it is. I have seen, and I will see, and both are true….” He waved his hand again. “But no matter! You must believe me when I say this—and I realize that it may bring precious little comfort to you, right now, in this moment, but you must know it nonetheless: the Plague will change, it will. It will not be the dreaded messenger of Death for all of Time. No. And no, I understand, I do, that this is not true for your dear beloved Brad, no. Not for Brad. I am afraid that Time—and Time’s dread companion, Death—have indeed confounded us there. And, no, there is nothing to be done about it for your poor, dear, lovely, beloved Brad. But, oh! For so many others, yes, for so very many others, it will be so very different. And this—yes, I know! This will be soon. And it will be forever.”

  Jack would never be able to say to anyone why, but as he listened to the magician speak, as Jack heard the passionate certainty, the unwavering conviction, in Merlin’s voice—even as Jack struggled to follow the circles within circles in Merlin’s sentences, the logic that contained no logic—even then, Jack found himself believing that what this strange old man said was true.

  * * *

  —

  In something of a daze, Jack made his way home, to the apartment he and Brad shared, the same studio apartment Brad had been living in when they met. Jack felt as if he were moving through vapor as he walked up the familiar four flights, let himself in, and deposited his coat onto the kitchen table. He took off his shoes but didn’t remove any of his other clothes, and collapsed onto the couch. He hadn’t been able to sleep in their bed since Brad had left for St. Vincent’s.

  He closed his eyes, and slept.

  He was on a boat. The air was thick, impossibly so, with a humidity that squeezed into him. But he was shivering. He was on a wide, slow-moving river. There was no one else on the boat. There were no other boats on the river, which was strange, because he realized he was on the Chao Phraya, in Bangkok, a river that was a thoroughfare and always jammed with all kinds of boat traffic.

  He sat and shivered and struggled to breathe the thick, sultry air.

  “Perhaps this will help?”

  Jack turned to his left, where Merlin sat. The magician was holding the glowing crystal out to him, his eyes twinkling.

  “Thank you,” Jack said, and took the crystal. He clutched it to his chest, but the shivers wouldn’t dissipate.

  “Give it time,” Merlin said, and tossed a dove in his direction
. It flew past Jack. Jack followed it with his eyes to see the dove alight on Brad’s shoulder. Brad was sitting next to him, radiant, grinning.

  “Hi,” Brad said. He put his arm around Jack and leaned into him. “I’m so glad I finally got to come here.”

  “But…” Jack said.

  “It’s beautiful, look!” Brad was pointing to the ancient, ornate Wat Arun glowing in the sunlight on the bank of the river. Brad lifted the dove onto his finger and held it out in the direction of the temple. The dove flew toward it, gracefully darting through the air, then burst into sparkles.

  “So beautiful!” Brad said.

  Jack leaned into Brad, who leaned into him. He felt the weight of Brad, solid and warm. He realized he had stopped shivering.

  “Songwittana.” Brad kissed his cheek. “I love you.”

  They leaned into each other. The humid air pressed into them.

  Jack looked at Brad. “I know I’m dreaming.”

  Brad smiled at Jack. “So? I know that, too. Doesn’t mean it’s not real.”

  * * *

  —

  Jack’s eyes opened. He lay there for a minute, trying to hold on to the wisps of the dream. He breathed deeply.

  He slowly sat up, rubbed his eyes, and shuffled toward the bed that hadn’t been slept in for weeks. He stripped off his clothes, climbed in, and curled himself around Brad’s pillow. He inhaled Brad’s scent. And slept again.

  * * *

  —

  The next day, Jack stood next to Brad’s bed for hours, holding his hand, watching him sleep, leaning down every now and then to kiss him on the cheek or the forehead or both. Brad barely stirred.

  “I love you,” Jack said again and again, quietly, but willing Brad to hear him. “I love you I love you I love you.”

  At one point, Brad’s eyes opened, swam in his head a little, and then alighted on Jack.

  “Hello,” Jack said. “Hello. You don’t need to say anything if you can’t. It’s okay, my love. It’s okay.” Brad slowly blinked at Jack. “I’m here. I’m right here. It’s okay.” Brad’s eyes held his for a long moment and then closed.

  “It’s okay. It’s okay, my love. It’s okay.”

  The Quay Stone

  S. Zainab Williams

  When Mom says things like “Nenive is nothing but a girl gone wild on holiday,” I recall when she told me, so many years ago, that the Merlion is as mythical as a souvenir key chain.

  I had looked up from my children’s book of legends to ask about the myth. I’d read every story in this book dozens of times, and now I wanted one that belonged to me. The alabaster imprint of Singapore’s mascot emerged fresh from the recent memory of my first visit, throwing its lion’s head and flexing its fish’s tail like a promise ready to be made.

  Mom had sighed as she told me the Merlion was actually British-designed branding, like someone had to strip wonder from my eyes, so it might as well be her.

  But when Nenive takes my hand to pull me away from Nani’s apartment, the pair of us pushing through the hot, thick air, she feels like that magical, elusive creature: a guide, a friend. I slow down, breathing in the baked thunder and flora odor of the island. I risk stopping long enough to fan the heat from my face, to wave away the memory of Mom’s disappointment. But Nenive is slipping off, so I gather myself, and then the slap of my sandals accompanies the sharp click of her heels again as we speed down the stairs.

  I hope you understand. I want to make Mom happy, but mostly I want Mom to be happy I have Nenive now.

  * * *

  —

  We had our first argument—Mom and I—back in the cab a few hours ago on the way to Nani’s. We sped down tidy streets, passing under the stippled shadows of rain trees and then between the glaring glass storefronts with signs advertising skin-lightening creams, showcasing designer bags and the season’s prêt-à-porter looks. We warred in silence.

  In a different situation, maybe I’d have been proud to finally experience this rite of passage that had happened to everyone except me. But Mom and I have counted on each other ever since the divorce. When I chose to stay with Mom, Dad got a job on a ship and left us both. The two of us knew we couldn’t afford any more friction, and we wouldn’t have broken our streak by battling it out in the cab to Nani’s if she had loosened her grip and let me live a little.

  Instead, Mom said, “Why don’t you give your cousins a chance—talk to them. You act like they don’t speak English.”

  “I know they speak English.” The words had to fight their way out.

  I’ve never been good at speaking up and I wonder at people who are. How do you find the right words, release them, and sit back without worrying if they’ll take? Mom thinks I should be able to plop myself in the middle of a group of strangers, pick up the thread, and run with it, no problem. I’ve been herded into the cousinly fold how many times now, sitting in a big group in one of numerous glossy living rooms while my cousins talk about friends and boyfriends. They share gossip, they slip in and out of Malay, and I hunch on the outskirts, as clueless as the three-year-old jamming up her mouth with Nani’s kueh tat but a lot less carefree.

  We spent the rest of that ride in a very different kind of silence, and I ended up with a crick in my neck from keeping my head turned away from Mom.

  * * *

  —

  I’m not the praying type, but I did wear down the linoleum in front of Nani’s window willing time to move faster and open my escape hatch already. Nothing had been resolved, but I wasn’t about to get into it with Mom again. Tomorrow would be another day, and tonight would give me time to think up better words to explain why I needed this. For the moment, however, I could only focus on listening for Nenive’s knocking. Mom and Nani chatting in the kitchen bled into white noise, and I’d long ago stopped trying to identify the spicy, tangy aroma taking over the apartment.

  “Surprise,” a voice shouted from the door. I almost leaped for the exit, but it was only Mamu Jam, jazz hands up as he kicked his shoes into the pile outside the door. “The gang’s all here,” he laughed.

  I froze in the living room, while Mom and Nani hurried into the hallway to greet Mamu Jam and his daughters, whose names I had once again forgotten.

  “I brought you some company,” my uncle sang at me in greeting. He clapped a hand on his oldest’s shoulder.

  “I have plans,” I mumbled. A ruthless, but necessary, admission.

  “Your cousins came all the way from KL to see you, and Nani made rendang.” Mom’s smile didn’t reach her eyes, and I knew I was digging myself deeper, but I wasn’t the one who forced them to come down unannounced. Anyway, I’m sure they made the drive from Kuala Lumpur because Mamu Jam wanted to catch up with Mom. My absence wouldn’t ruin their plans. My cousins hung back, looking wiped out from a full day of living their actual lives before their dad dragged them across the border to entertain their American cousin. Anyone could see they’d be happier left to their own devices.

  They rested their hopes and their gaze on Nani, who had shuffled over to the TV to find something for us to watch. She lingered over an old Bollywood film as the music accompanying the lovestruck protagonist swelled. I couldn’t understand the song or the captions. Nani and the cousins, meanwhile, were spellbound.

  “Why don’t you and the girls catch up in the living room?” Mom said. My cousins dutifully made their way to the couch. Normally, I’d be trailing behind them, but not this time.

  “You said I could go,” I reminded Mom under my breath.

  “She made friends with this girl,” Mom apologized to Mamu Jam, eyes still locked on mine. “But she’s here to see the family.”

  “Eat first, then go,” Nani urged, leaving the remote in my cousins’ care to touch her sparrow-light hand to my arm. I looked at the clock, and my stomach sank. I couldn’t make Nenive wait.

&nbs
p; “If she wants to go, let her go lah,” said Mamu Jam. He turned to Mom. “Kids want to run around. She’s just like you—jalan-jalan all day long.”

  Mamu Jam was teasing her, but he wasn’t wrong. In fact, Mom hadn’t simply hung out with her friends; she’d habitually snuck out. She often laughed about Nani’s premonition—a threat aimed at her then-teenage daughter—that Mom would be paid back in full with rebellious kids of her own. Mom offered stories of her mischief as a contrast to my model behavior, congratulating me for helping her defy Nani’s wicked hopes, mistaking my gleam of desire for pride.

  Back when Mom and Dad were still in love, she liked to tell me the story of her wildest unapproved escapade and how it took her all the way across the ocean with a Black sailor. Dad. Reborn on the top floor of a downtown office, swaddled in a sharp suit, she tucked her family against a canyon crawling with ivy and oak in a white-stucco, two-story home. I spent my childhood testing our highest balcony, looking at the town below, above it all and alone.

  I could’ve hugged my uncle for reminding Mom of her own history. I hoped the fact that I’d bothered to ask permission, whereas she would’ve slipped out in the night, wasn’t lost on her.

  I was scrabbling at righteousness and at the pendant sticking to the clammy skin below my collarbone when a knock sounded on the door. Grabbing my cardigan from the couch, I ran for it.

  “That’s her,” I called over my shoulder. “Be back later.” I cracked open the door, squeezing myself out and into Nenive’s grip. She held my hand and pulled me along, laughing, always in on the game.

  * * *

  —

  “Is that what you’re wearing?” she asks me now.

  “What?” We’ve stopped at the bottom of the stairs where Nenive’s moss-green eyes take in my linty black cardigan, spaghetti strap tank, shorts, and sandals.