by Kage Baker
“It’s slowed,” said the Saint of the World. “Within this garden, it will always be a moment or so in the past. As inviolate as memory, my lord.”
“Nice to know he paid attention to his lessons,” said the Master of the Mountain, narrowing his eyes. Two little boys ran past him at knee level, screaming like whistles for no good reason, and one child tripped over a little girl who was sprawled on the grass pretending to be a mermaid.
“You see what he can do when he applies himself?” said the Saint, lifting the howling boy and soothing him.
“He still cheated,” said the Master of the Mountain.
***
It was well after noon when Lord Ermenwyr consented to rise and grace the house with his conscious presence, and by then all the servants knew. He nodded to them as he strolled the black halls, happily aware that his personal legend had just enlarged. Now, when they gathered in the servant’s halls around the balefires, and served out well-earned kraters of black wine at the end of a long day, now they would have something more edifying over which to exclaim than the number of childhood diseases he had narrowly survived or his current paternity suit.
“By the Blue Pit of Hasrahkhin, it was a miracle! A whole garden, trees and all, in the worst place imaginable to put one, and it had to be secret and secure—and the boy did it in just one night!” That was what they’d say, surely.
So it was with a spring in his step that nearly overbalanced him on his five-inch heels that the lordling came to his father’s accounting chamber, and rapped briskly for admission.
The doorman ushered him in to his father’s presence with deeper than usual obeisances, or so he fancied. The Master of the Mountain glanced up from the scroll he studied, and nodded at Lord Ermenwyr.
“Yes, my son?”
“I suppose you’ve visited the nursery this morning?” Lord Ermenwyr threw himself into a chair, excruciatingly casual in manner.
“I have, as a matter of fact,” replied his lord father. “I’m impressed, boy. Your mother and I are proud of you.”
“Thank you.” Lord Ermenwyr drew out his long smoking-tube and lit it with a positive jet of flame. He inhaled deeply, exhaled a cloud that writhed about his head, and fixed bright eyes upon the Master of the Mountain. “Would this be an auspicious time to discuss increasing an allowance, o my most justly feared sire?”
“It would not,” said the Master of the Mountain. “Bloody hell, boy! A genius like you ought to be able to come up with his own pocket money.”
***
Lord Ermenwyr stalked the black halls, brooding on the unfairness of life in general and fathers in especial.
“Clever enough to come up with my own pocket money, am I?” he fumed. “I’ll show him.”
He paused on a terrace and looked out again in the direction of the cities on the plain, and sighed with longing.
The back of his neck prickled, just as he heard the soft footfall behind him.
He whirled around and kicked, hard, but his boot sank into something that squelched. Looking up into the yawning, dripping maw of a horror out of legend, he snarled and said:
“Stop it, you moron! Slug-Hoggoth hasn’t scared me since I was six.”
“It has too,” said a voice, plaintive in its disappointment. “Remember when you were twelve, and I hid behind the door of your bedroom? You screamed and screamed.”
“No, I didn’t,” said Lord Ermenwyr, extricating his boot.
“Yes, you did, you screamed just like a girl,” gloated the creature. “Eeeek!”
“Shut up.”
“Make me, midget.” The creature’s outline blurred and shimmered; dwindled and firmed, resolving into a young man.
He was head and shoulders taller than Lord Ermenwyr, slender and beautiful as a beardless god, and stark naked except for a great deal of gold and silver jewelry. That having been said, there was an undeniable resemblance between the two men.
“Idiot,” muttered Lord Ermenwyr.
“But prettier than you,” said the other, throwing out his arms. “Gorgeous, aren’t I? What do you think of my new pectoral? Thirty black pearls! And the bracelets match, look!”
Lord Ermenwyr considered his brother’s jewelry with a thoughtful expression.
“Superb,” he admitted. “You robbed a caravan, I suppose. How are you, Eyrdway?”
“I’m always in splendid health,” said Lord Eyrdway. “Not like you, eh?”
“No indeed,” said Lord Ermenwyr with a sigh. “I’m a wreck. Too much fast life down there amongst the Children of the Sun. Wining, wenching, burning my candle at both ends! I’m certain I’ll be dead before I’m twenty-two, but what memories I’ll have.”
“Wenching?” Lord Eyrdway’s eyes widened.
“It’s like looting and raping, but nobody rushes you,” explained his brother. “And sometimes the ladies even make breakfast for you afterward.”
“I know perfectly well what wenching is,” said Lord Eyrdway indignantly. “What’s burning your candle at both ends?”
“Ahhh.” Lord Ermenwyr lit up his smoking tube. “Let’s go order a couple of bottles of wine, and I’ll explain.”
***
Several bottles and several hours later, they sat in the little garden just outside Lord Ermenwyr’s private chamber. Lord Ermenwyr was refilling his brother’s glass.
“…so then I said to her, ‘Well, madam, if you insist, but I really ought to have another apple first,’ and that was the exact moment they broke in the terrace doors!” he said.
“Bunch of nonsense. You can’t do that with an apple,” Lord Eyrdway slurred.
“Maybe it was an apricot,” said Lord Ermenwyr. “Anyway, the best part of it was, I got out the window with both the bag and the jewel case. Wasn’t that lucky?”
“It sounds like a lot of fun,” said Lord Eyrdway wistfully, and drank deep.
“Oh, it was. So then I went round to the Black Veil Club—but of course you know what goes on in those places!” Lord Ermenwyr pretended to sip his wine.
“’Course I do,” said his brother. “Only maybe I’ve forgot. You tell me again, all right?”
Lord Ermenwyr smiled. Leaning forward, lowering his voice, he explained about all the outré delights to be had at a Black Veil Club. Lord Eyrdway began to drool. Wiping it away absentmindedly, he said at last:
“You see—you see—that’s what’s so awful unflair. Unfair. All this fun you get to have. ’Cause you’re totally worthless and nobody cares if you go down the mountain. You aren’t the damn Heir to the Black Halls. Like me. I’m so really important Daddy won’t let me go.”
“Poor old Way-Way, it isn’t fair at all, is it?” said Lord Ermenwyr. “Have another glass of wine.”
“I mean, I’d just love to go t’Deliatitatita, have some fun,” said Lord Eyrdway, holding out his glass to be refilled, “But, you know, Daddy just puts his hand on my shoulder n’ says, ‘When you’re older, son,’ but I’m older’n you by four years, right? Though of course who cares if you go, right? No big loss to the Family if you get an arrow through your liver.”
“No indeed,” said Lord Ermenwyr, leaning back. “Tell me something, my brother. Would you say I could do great things with my life if I only applied myself?”
“What?” Lord Eyrdway tried to focus on him. “You? No! I can see three of you right now, an’ not one of ’em’s worth a damn.” He began to snicker. “Good one, eh? Three of you, get it? Oh, I’m sleepy. Just going to put my head down for a minute, right?”
He lay his head down and was promptly unconscious. When Lord Ermenwyr saw his brother blur and soften at the edges, as though he were a waxwork figure that had been left too near the fire, he rose and began to divest him of his jewelry.
“Eyrdway, I truly love you,” he said.
***
The express caravan came through next dawn, rattling along at its best speed in hopes of being well down off the mountain by evening. The caravan master spotted the slight figure by the s
ide of the road well in advance, and gave the signal to stop. The lead keyman threw the brake; sparks flew as the wheels slowed, and stopped.
Lord Ermenwyr, bright-eyed, hopped down from his trunks and approached the caravan master.
“Hello! Will this buy me passage on your splendid conveyance?” He held forth his hand. The caravan master squinted at it suspiciously. Then his eyes widened.
“Keymen! Load his trunks!” he bawled. “Lord, sir, with a pearl like that you could ride the whole route three times around. Where shall we take you? Deliantiba?”
Lord Ermenwyr considered, putting his head on one side.
“No…not Deliantiba, I think. I want to go somewhere there’s a lot of trouble, of the proper sort for a gentleman. If you understand me?”
The caravan master sized him up. “There’s a lot for a gentleman to do in Karkateen, sir, if his tastes run a certain way. You’ve heard the old song, right, about what their streets are paved with?”
Lord Ermenwyr began to smile. “I have indeed. Karkateen it is, then.”
“Right you are, sir! Please take a seat.”
So with a high heart the lordling vaulted the side of the first free cart, and sprawled back at his ease. The long line of carts started forward, picked up speed, and clattered on down the ruts in the red road. The young sun rose and shone on the young man, and the young man sang as he sped through the glad morning of the world.
What the Tyger Told Her
“You must observe carefully,” said the tyger.
He was an old tyger. He had survived in captivity more years than he might have been expected to, penned in his narrow iron run in such a cold wet country, in all weathers. He was just the color of toast, and white underneath like bread too. His back was double-striped with black streaks and the rippling shadows of the bars as he paced continually, turn and turn again.
The little girl blinked, mildly surprised at being addressed. She had a round face, pale and freckled like a robin’s egg. She had been squatting beside the tyger’s pen for some minutes, fascinated by him. If anyone had seen her crouched there, crumpling the silk brocade of her tiny hooped gown, she’d have been scolded, for the summer dust was thick in the garden. But no one had noticed she was there.
“Power,” said the tyger, “Comes from knowledge, you see. The best way to learn is to watch what happens. The best way to watch is unseen. Now, in my proper place, which is jungle meadow and forest canes, I am very nearly invisible. That,” and he looked with eyes green as beryls at the splendid house rising above the gardens, “is your proper place. Are you invisible there?”
The little girl nodded her head.
“Do you know why you’re invisible?”
She thought about it. “Because John and James were born.”
“Your little brothers, yes. And so nobody sees you now?”
“And because…” The child waved her hand in a gesture that took in the house, the garden, the menagerie and the immense park in which they were set. “There’s so many uncles and people here. Mamma and I used to live in the lodging-house. Papa would come upstairs in his uniform. It was red. He was a poor officer. Then he got sick and lived with us in his nightgown. It was white. He would drink from a bottle and shout, and I would hide behind the chair when he did. And John and James got born. And Papa went to heaven. And Mamma said oh, my dear, whatever shall we do?”
“What did you do?” the tyger prompted.
“I didn’t do anything. But Grandpapa forgave Mamma and sent for us.”
“What had your Mamma done, to be forgiven?”
“She wasn’t supposed to marry Papa because she is,” and the child paused a moment to recollect the big words, “an indigent tradesman’s daughter. Papa used to tell her so when he drank out of the bottle. But when she had John and James, that made it all right again, because they’re the only boys.”
“So they’re important.”
“They will inherit it all,” the child explained, as though she were quoting. “Because Papa died and Uncle John is in India, and Uncle Thomas only has Louise.”
“But they haven’t inherited yet.”
“No. Not until Grandpapa goes to heaven.”
“Something to think about, isn’t it?” said the tyger, lowering his head to lap water from his stone trough.
The little girl thought about it.
“I thought Grandpapa was in heaven when we went to see him,” she said. “We climbed so many stairs. And the bed was so high and white and the pillows like clouds. Grandpapa’s nightgown was white. He has white hair and a long, long beard. He shouted like Papa did. Mamma turned away crying. Mr. Lawyer said It’s only his pain, Mrs. Edgecombe. Uncle Thomas said Dear sister, come and have a glass of cordial. So she did and she was much better.”
“But nobody saw you there, did they?”
“No,” said the child.
“Who’s that coming along the walk?” the tyger inquired.
“That is Uncle Thomas and Aunt Caroline,” the child replied.
“Do you notice that she’s not as pretty as your Mamma?”
“Yes.”
“And quite a bit older.”
“Yes. And she can’t have any children but Cousin Louise.”
“I think perhaps you ought to sit quite still,” advised the tyger.
The woman swept ahead in her anger, long skirts trailing in the tall summer grass at the edge of the walk, white fingers knotting on her lace apron, high curls bobbing with her agitation. The man hurried after her, tottering a little because of the height of his heels, and the skirts of his coat flapped out behind him. He wore bottlegreen silk. His waistcoat was embroidered with little birds, his wig was slightly askew. He looked sullen.
“Oh, you have a heart of stone,” cried Aunt Caroline. “Your own child to be left a pauper! It’s too unjust. Is this the reward of filial duty?”
“Louise is not an especially dutiful girl,” muttered Uncle Thomas.
“I meant your filial duty! One is reminded of the Prodigal Son. You have obeyed his every wish, while he thundered up there. Wretched old paralytic! And Robert disgraces himself, and dies like a dog in a ditch with that strumpet, but all’s forgiven because of the twins. Are all our hopes to be dashed forever?”
“Now, Caroline, patience,” said Uncle Thomas. “Consider: life’s uncertain.”
“That’s true.” Aunt Caroline pulled up short, looking speculative. “Any childish illness might carry off the brats. Oh, I could drown them like puppies myself!”
Uncle Thomas winced. He glared at Aunt Caroline’s back a moment before drawing abreast of her, by which time he was smiling.
“You’ll oblige me by doing nothing so rash. Robert was never strong; we can pray they’ve inherited his constitution. And after all it would be just as convenient, my dear, if the wench were to die instead. I would be guardian of John and James, the estate in my hands; what should we have to worry about then?”
They walked on together. The little girl stared after them.
“Do you think they’re going to drown my Mamma?” she asked uneasily.
“Did you see the way your uncle looked at your aunt behind her back?” replied the tyger. “I don’t think he cares for her, particularly. What do you think?”
***
There were fruit trees espaliered all along the menagerie wall, heavy now in apricots and cherries, and when the chimpanzee had been alive it had been driven nearly frantic in summers by the sight and the smell of the fruit. Now stuffed with straw, it stared sadly from a glass-fronted cabinet, through a fine layer of dust.
The little girl, having discovered the fruit was there, wasted no time in filling her apron with all she could reach and retiring to the shade under the plum tree. The largest, ripest apricot she bowled carefully into the tyger’s cage. The others she ate in methodical fashion, making a small mound of neatly stacked pits and cherry stones.
The tyger paused in his relentless stride just long enough to sniff th
e apricot, turning it over with his white-bearded chin.
“Your baby brothers have not died,” he said.
“No,” the little girl affirmed, biting into a cherry.
“However, your Aunt Caroline has been suffering acute stomach pains, especially after dinner. That’s interesting.”
“She has a glass of port wine to make it better,” said the child. “But it doesn’t get better.”
“And that’s your Mamma coming along the walk now, I see,” said the tyger. “With Uncle Thomas.”
The child concealed the rest of the fruit with her apron and sat still. She needn’t have worried: neither her mother nor her uncle noticed her.
Like her daughter, Mamma had a pale freckled face but was otherwise quite attractive, and the black broadcloth of her mourning made her look slender and gave her a dignity she needed, for she was very young. She was being drawn along by Uncle Thomas, who had her by the arm.
“We ought never to question the will of the Almighty,” Uncle Thomas was saying pleasantly. “It never pleased Him that Caroline should bear me sons, and certainly that’s been a grief to me; but then, without boys of my own, how ready am I to do a father’s duty by dear little John and James! All that I might have done for my sons, I may do for yours. Have no fear on that account, dear Lavinia.”
“It’s very kind of you, brother Thomas,” said Mamma breathlessly. “For, sure we have been so poor, I was at my wit’s end—and father Edgecombe is so severe.”
“But Robert was his favorite,” said Uncle Thomas. “The very reason he disowned him, I think; Father couldn’t brook disobedience in one he loved above all. If Henry or I had eloped, he’d have scarcely noticed. And Randall does what he likes, of course. Father was too hard on Robert, alas.”
“Oh, sir, I wish someone had said so whiles he lived,” said Mamma. “He often wept that he had no friends.”
“Alas! I meant to write to him, but duty forbid.” Uncle Thomas shook his head. “It is too bad. I must endeavor to redress it, Lavinia.”
