by Paula Guran
She watched a little television that evening, and had an early night.
On Tuesday the postman called. Mrs. Whitaker was up in the box-room at the top of the house, doing a spot of tidying, and, taking each step slowly and carefully, she didn’t make it downstairs in time. The postman had left her a message which said that he’d tried to deliver a packet, but no one was home.
Mrs. Whitaker sighed.
She put the message into her handbag and went down to the post office.
The package was from her niece Shirelle in Sydney, Australia. It contained photographs of her husband, Wallace, and her two daughters. Dixie and Violet, and a conch shell packed in cotton wool.
Mrs. Whitaker had a number of ornamental shells in her bedroom. Her favorite had a view of the Bahamas done on it in enamel. It had been a gift from her sister, Ethel, who had died in 1983.
She put the shell and the photographs in her shopping bag. Then, seeing that she was in the area, she stopped in at the Oxfam Shop on her way home.
“Hullo, Mrs. W.,” said Marie.
Mrs. Whitaker stared at her. Marie was wearing lipstick (possibly not the best shade for her, nor particularly expertly applied, but, thought Mrs. Whitaker, that would come with time) and a rather smart skirt. It was a great improvement.
“Oh. Hello, dear,” said Mrs. Whitaker.
“There was a man in here last week, asking about that thing you bought. The little metal cup thing. I told him where to find you. You don’t mind, do you?”
“No, dear,” said Mrs. Whitaker. “He found me.”
“He was really dreamy. Really, really dreamy,” sighed Marie wistfully. “I could of gone for him.
“And he had a big white horse and all,” Marie concluded. She was standing up straighter as well, Mrs. Whitaker noted approvingly.
On the bookshelf Mrs. Whitaker found a new Mills & Boon novel—Her Majestic Passion—although she hadn’t yet finished the two she had bought on her last visit.
She picked up the copy of Romance and Legend of Chivalry and opened it. It smelled musty. EX LIBRIS FISHER was neatly handwritten at the top of the first page in red ink.
She put it down where she had found it.
When she got home, Galaad was waiting for her. He was giving the neighborhood children rides on Grizzel’s back, up and down the street.
“I’m glad you’re here,” she said. “I’ve got some cases that need moving.”
She showed him up to the boxroom in the top of the house. He moved all the old suitcases for her, so she could get to the cupboard at the back.
It was very dusty up there.
She kept him up there most of the afternoon, moving things around while she dusted.
Galaad had a cut on his cheek, and he held one arm a little stiffly.
They talked a little while she dusted and tidied. Mrs. Whitaker told him about her late husband, Henry; and how the life insurance had paid the house off; and how she had all these things, but no one really to leave them to, no one but Ronald really and his wife only liked modern things. She told him how she had met Henry during the war, when he was in the ARP and she hadn’t closed the kitchen blackout curtains all the way; and about the sixpenny dances they went to in the town; and how they’d gone to London when the war had ended, and she’d had her first drink of wine.
Galaad told Mrs. Whitaker about his mother Elaine, who was flighty and no better than she should have been and something of a witch to boot; and his grandfather, King Pelles, who was well-meaning although at best a little vague; and of his youth in the Castle of Bliant on the Joyous Isle; and his father, whom he knew as “Le Chevalier Mal Fet,” who was more or less completely mad, and was in reality Lancelot du Lac, greatest of knights, in disguise and bereft of his wits; and of Galaad’s days as a young squire in Camelot.
At five o’clock Mrs. Whitaker surveyed the boxroom and decided that it met with her approval; then she opened the window so the room could air, and they went downstairs to the kitchen, where she put on the kettle.
Galaad sat down at the kitchen table.
He opened the leather purse at his waist and took out a round white stone. It was about the size of a cricket ball.
“My lady,” he said, “This is for you, an you give me the Sangrail.”
Mrs. Whitaker picked up the stone, which was heavier than it looked, and held it up to the light. It was milkily translucent, and deep inside it flecks of silver glittered and glinted in the late-afternoon sunlight. It was warm to the touch.
Then, as she held it, a strange feeling crept over her: Deep inside she felt stillness and a sort of peace. Serenity, that was the word for it; she felt serene.
Reluctantly she put the stone back on the table.
“It’s very nice,” she said.
“That is the Philosopher’s Stone, which our forefather Noah hung in the Ark to give light when there was no light; it can transform base metals into gold; and it has certain other properties,” Galaad told her proudly. “And that isn’t all. There’s more. Here.” From the leather bag he took an egg and handed it to her.
It was the size of a goose egg and was a shiny black color, mottled with scarlet and white. When Mrs. Whitaker touched it, the hairs on the back of her neck prickled. Her immediate impression was one of incredible heat and freedom. She heard the crackling of distant fires, and for a fraction of a second she seemed to feel herself far above the world, swooping and diving on wings of flame.
She put the egg down on the table, next to the Philosopher’s Stone.
“That is the Egg of the Phoenix,” said Galaad. “From far Araby it comes. One day it will hatch out into the Phoenix Bird itself; and when its time comes, the bird will build a nest of flame, lay its egg, and die, to be reborn in flame in a later age of the world.”
“I thought that was what it was,” said Mrs. Whitaker.
“And, last of all, lady,” said Galaad, “I have brought you this.”
He drew it from his pouch, and gave it to her. It was an apple, apparently carved from a single ruby, on an amber stem.
A little nervously, she picked it up. It was soft to the touch—deceptively so: Her fingers bruised it, and ruby-colored juice from the apple ran down Mrs. Whitaker’s hand.
The kitchen filled—almost imperceptibly, magically—with the smell of summer fruit, of raspberries and peaches and strawberries and red currants. As if from a great way away she heard distant voices raised in song and far music on the air.
“It is one of the apples of the Hesperides,” said Galaad, quietly. “One bite from it will heal any illness or wound, no matter how deep; a second bite restores youth and beauty; and a third bite is said to grant eternal life.” Mrs. Whitaker licked the sticky juice from her hand. It tasted like fine wine.
There was a moment, then, when it all came back to her—how it was to be young: to have a firm, slim body that would do whatever she wanted it to do; to run down a country lane for the simple unladylike joy of running; to have men smile at her just because she was herself and happy about it.
Mrs. Whitaker looked at Sir Galaad, most comely of all knights, sitting fair and noble in her small kitchen.
She caught her breath.
“And that’s all I have brought for you,” said Galaad. “They weren’t easy to get, either.”
Mrs. Whitaker put the ruby fruit down on her kitchen table. She looked at the Philosopher’s Stone, and the Egg of the Phoenix, and the Apple of Life.
Then she walked into her parlor and looked at the mantelpiece: at the little china basset hound, and the Holy Grail, and the photograph of her late husband Henry, shirtless, smiling and eating an ice cream in black and white, almost forty years away.
She went back into the kitchen. The kettle had begun to whistle. She poured a little steaming water into the teapot, swirled it around, and poured it out. Then she added two spoonfuls of tea and one for the pot and poured in the rest of the water. All this she did in silence.
She turned to Galaad the
n, and she looked at him.
“Put that apple away,” she told Galaad, firmly. “You shouldn’t offer things like that to old ladies. It isn’t proper.”
She paused, then. “But I’ll take the other two,” she continued, after a moment’s thought. “They’ll look nice on the mantelpiece. And two for one’s fair, or I don’t know what is.” Galaad beamed. He put the ruby apple into his leather pouch. Then he went down on one knee, and kissed Mrs. Whitaker’s hand.
“Stop that,” said Mrs. Whitaker. She poured them both cups of tea, after getting out the very best china, which was only for special occasions.
They sat in silence, drinking their tea.
When they had finished their tea they went into the parlor.
Galaad crossed himself, and picked up the Grail.
Mrs. Whitaker arranged the Egg and the Stone where the Grail had been. The Egg kept tipping on one side, and she propped it up against the little china dog.
“They do look very nice,” said Mrs. Whitaker.
“Yes,” agreed Galaad. “They look very nice.”
“Can I give you anything to eat before you go back?” she asked.
He shook his head.
“Some fruitcake,” she said. “You may not think you want any now, but you’ll be glad of it in a few hours’ time. And you should probably use the facilities. Now, give me that, and I’ll wrap it up for you.”
She directed him to the small toilet at the end of the hall, and went into the kitchen, holding the Grail. She had some old Christmas wrapping paper in the pantry, and she wrapped the Grail in it, and tied the package with twine. Then she cut a large slice of fruitcake and put it in a brown paper bag, along with a banana and a slice of processed cheese in silver foil.
Galaad came back from the toilet. She gave him the paper bag, and the Holy Grail. Then she went up on tiptoes and kissed him on the cheek.
“You’re a nice boy,” she said. “You take care of yourself.”
He hugged her, and she shooed him out of the kitchen, and out of the back door, and she shut the door behind him.
She poured herself another cup of tea, and cried quietly into a Kleenex, while the sound of hoofbeats echoed down Hawthorne Crescent.
On Wednesday Mrs. Whitaker stayed in all day.
On Thursday she went down to the post office to collect her pension. Then she stopped in at the Oxfam Shop.
The woman on the till was new to her. “Where’s Marie?” asked Mrs. Whitaker.
The woman on the till, who had blue-rinsed gray hair and blue spectacles that went up into diamante points, shook her head and shrugged her shoulders. “She went off with a young man,” she said. “On a horse. Tch. I ask you. I’m meant to be down in the Heathfield shop this afternoon. I had to get my Johnny to run me up here, while we find someone else.”
“Oh,” said Mrs. Whitaker. “Well, it’s nice that she’s found herself a young man.”
“Nice for her, maybe,” said the lady on the till, “But some of us were meant to be in Heathfield this afternoon.”
On a shelf near the back of the shop Mrs. Whitaker found a tarnished old silver container with a long spout. It had been priced at sixty pence, according to the little paper label stuck to the side. It looked a little like a flattened, elongated teapot.
She picked out a Mills & Boon novel she hadn’t read before. It was called Her Singular Love. She took the book and the silver container up to the woman on the till.
“Sixty-five pee, dear,” said the woman, picking up the silver object, staring at it. “Funny old thing, isn’t it? Came in this morning.” It had writing carved along the side in blocky old Chinese characters and an elegant arching handle. “Some kind of oil can, I suppose.”
“No, it’s not an oil can,” said Mrs. Whitaker, who knew exactly what it was. “It’s a lamp.” There was a small metal finger ring, unornamented, tied to the handle of the lamp with brown twine.
“Actually,” said Mrs. Whitaker, “on second thoughts, I think I’ll just have the book.”
She paid her five pence for the novel, and put the lamp back where she had found it, in the back of the shop. After all, Mrs. Whitaker reflected, as she walked home, it wasn’t as if she had anywhere to put it.
“THE GOD OF AU”
ANN LECKIE
The Fleet of the Godless came to the waters around Au by chance. It was an odd assortment of the refugees of the world; some had deliberately renounced all gods, some had offended one god in particular. A few were some god’s favorites that another, rival god had cursed. But most were merely the descendants of the original unfortunates and had never lived any other way.
There were six double-hulled boats, named, in various languages, Bird of the Waves, Water Knife, O Gods Take Pity, Breath of Starlight, Righteous Vengeance, and Neither Land Nor Water. (This last was the home of a man whose divine enemy had pronounced that henceforth he should live on neither land nor water. Its two shallow hulls and the deck between them were carefully lined with soil, so that as it floated on the waves it would be precisely what its name declared.) For long years they had wandered the world, pursued by their enemies, allies of no one. Who would shelter them and risk the anger of gods? Who, even had they wished to, could protect them?
More than any other people in the world, they were attuned to the presence and moods of gods—they would hardly have survived so long had they not been—and even before they came in sight of the line of small islands that stretched southward from the larger island of Au they had felt a curious lifelessness in the atmosphere. It was unlike anything they had ever met before. They sailed ahead, cautiously, watched and waited, and after a few days their leader, a man named Steq, captain of Righteous Vengeance, ordered the most neutral of prayers and a small sacrifice to whoever the local gods of the waters might be.
Shortly afterwards, twelve people disappeared in the night and were never seen again. The remaining Godless knew a sign when they saw one, and their six captains met together on Neither Land Nor Water to consult.
The six ships rode near a small island, sheer-sided black stone, white seabirds nesting in the crags, and a crown of green grass at the top. The breeze was cold, and the sun, though bright in a cloudless, intensely blue sky, seemed warmthless, and so they huddled around the firebox on the deck between the two hulls.
“What shall we do?” Steq asked the other five when they had all settled. He was, like the other Godless, all wiry muscle and no fat. Years of exposure had bleached his dark hair reddish, and whatever color his skin had been at his birth, it had been darkened yet further by the sun. His eyes were brown, and seemed somehow vague until he spoke, when all hints of diffusion or dreaminess disappeared. “I have some thoughts on the matter myself, but it would be best to consider all our options.”
“We should leave here,” said the captain of O Gods Take Pity, a broad-shouldered man with one eye and one hand, and skin like leather. He was older than any of the other captains. “The god in question is clearly capricious.”
“What god isn’t?” asked another captain. “Let’s make up a sacrifice. A good one, with plenty of food, a feast on all six boats. Let us invoke the god who punished us for our recent offense. In this way perhaps we can at least mollify it.”
“Your thought is a good one,” said Steq. “It has crossed my mind as well. Though I am undecided which I think better—a feast, or some ascetic act of penitence.”
“Why not both?” suggested another. “First the penitence, and then a feast.”
“This would seem to cover all eventualities,” said Steq. The others were agreed, except for the captain of O Gods Take Pity.
“This god is tricky and greedy. More so than others. Best we should take our chances elsewhere.” And he would not participate in the debate over the safest wording and form of the rites, but closed his one eye and leaned closer to the firebox.
When the meeting was done and the captains were departing for their own boats, Steq took him aside. “Why do you say
this god is greedier and trickier than most?”
“Why do you ask me this when the meeting is finished?” asked the other captain, narrowing his one eye. Steq only looked at him. “Very well. Ask yourself this question—where are the other gods? There is not an infant in the fleet that does not feel the difference between these waters and the ones we’ve left. This is a god that has driven out or destroyed all others, a god who resents sacrifices meant for any other. And that being the case, why wait for us to make the mistake? Why not send warning first, and thus be assured of our obedience? It pleased the god that we should lose those twelve people, make no mistake. You would be a fool not to see it, and I never took you for a fool.”
“I see it,” said Steq. He had not risen to a position of authority without an even temper, and considerable intelligence. “I also see that we could do worse than win favor with a god powerful enough to drive any other out of its territory.”
“At what cost, Steq?”
“There has never been a time we have not paid for dealing with gods,” said Steq. “And there has never been a time that we have not been compelled to deal with them. We are all sick at heart over this loss, but we cannot afford to pass by any advantage that may offer itself.”
“I left my own son to drown because I could not go back without endangering my boat and everyone in it. Do not think I speak out of sentiment.” Both men were silent a moment. “I will not challenge your authority, but I tell you, this is a mistake that may well cost us our lives.”
“I value your counsel,” Steq told him, and he put his hand on the other captain’s shoulder. “Do not be silent, I beg you, but tell me all your misgivings, now and in the future.” And with that they parted, each to their own boat.
A thousand years before, in the village of Ilu on the island of Au, there were two brothers, Etoje and Ekuba. They had been born on the same day and when their father died it was unclear how his possessions should be divided.
The brothers took their dispute to the god of a cave near Ilu. This cave was a hollow in the mountainside that led down to a steaming, sulfur-smelling well, and the god there had often given good advice in the past.
