“The far past was a time of monstrosities accepted as commonality. Factories that devoured our children. Armies that devoured far nations. Hells of stone and iron called prisons, where we buried the poor and weak alive. Fat princes and degraded lords ruled over us with fee and musket, till every man must bow head in submission, else have it cut from his neck.”
I began pacing back and forth, waving sword and skull. So many words to shout. What of schools, hospitals, labor laws? The freedom to shout ‘down with the King’? Determination to see the rich pay fair share for citizenship in the society that engendered their prosperity. Social contracts, just representation, forest savages…
I weighted that last. No concept but a woman, leaning against a faux marble pillar at the crowd’s back. Ironic, sardonic, and yet kindly smiling, lips red as the devil’s short red dress. I turned eye from her to the approaching troop of blue-clad watchmen chanting into their electricalities. Best sum up. Sheath sword. Talk fast.
“People, you remember the past correctly. But take this reminder from those sad, mad, bad times. Beyond all monsters, princes and fairies, let it be remembered that we still loved. Loved without limit or condition, whenever we were wisest. Good people of the wise future, see that you do the same.”
***
Within the fair, another fair. A secret one, for all that it did not hide from the mundane world. Amidst the costumed clay-folk walked those who wore no costume but their own daily cloth, and yet seemed beings garbed in mystery, robed in fantasy. They bore no masks. Why should they? Those faces were the very visions that carnival masks sought to capture.
These secret folk gathered in a place of flowers and fountains. The sign upon the arch declaring the holy purpose: ‘The Wedding Court’. Open to evening sky. Open to birds, to stars, to visitors from other times. From other dreams, perhaps. I no longer sought to understand how these folk moved across the world, across the years, across dreams. The family were gossips and romantics, endlessly curious of the doings of their cousinry. The wedding of the last of the Blade Clan with a mysterious angel would draw them across the seas, down from clouds and up from caves. Across time, though they lay centuries dead.
Some faces were familiar. Billy River, Mattie Horse. Cousin Coils. Others I knew by the cloth pattern of their clan. Whether scarlet, or moon blue and silver, yellow and black diamonds, and not a few kilts in clock-circle patterns. Serpent-scaled kilts, and cloths and robes of dream-clans with no label I could give save fantasy.
Father Bright in Harlequin kilt and clerical collar, presiding. And outsider though I was, I knew this toleration of his tartan as tense allowance. The Decoursey were returned from exile, but far from trusted by their cousin clans. So Bright spoke quick and simple, with a sermon citing not St. Paul, but St. Shakespeare.
“Love is not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks within his bending sickle's compass come. Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, but bears it out even to the edge of doom.”
I stood as best man to Chatterton, as he’d done for me. I never saw the fellow look so young. Lank form twitching, eyes shining, mouth grinning. I realized only then I had never before seen him happy. And yet as guest to my house, he’d endured the daily spectacle of Lalena and me smiling, laughing, purring our marital bliss. Hard not to ask how that tormented his heart. No wonder he carved my table tops.
Therefore if any man can shew any just cause, why they may not lawfully be joined together, let him now speak, or else hereafter forever hold his peace.
Tense silence at that. One pictured a revived Espadas clan leaping the courtyard walls, flashing sabers and mad smiles. Else an Abomination or three, burbling objections none could refute, for none could follow. Not a soul dared stir till Bright continued.
“- to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love, cherish, and to obey, till death us do part…”
Kariel the bride wore no wings, but simple white and a look of defiance. Her pressed lips hinted anger, as if this whole business were an imposition, perhaps a trick. Ah, but observe the tiny hand reach to Chat’s, not just to grasp, but to caress. Her right hand, his left, began the honeymoon early. The fingers entwining in passion and position to scandalize the audience.
“With this Ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow.”
Lalena to bride’s left, matron of honor. Lady Lilly Anna Elena Mac Sanglair had forsaken forest rags for the blood kilt of the Sanglair. Wearing chaste lace bonnet to cover her rainbow-gutter locks. Behold a lady of dignity, glowing for joy. Lalena cared much for her cousin Chat. Saw him as a being like to herself. I eyed her sideways. Was she happy for the ring on her own finger? I felt she was. Why else rejoice for this ceremony? For all that she and I kept going in and out of rooms wondering where the other’s heart lay.
Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honor, and keep her in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?
The Lamp Maiden stood behind the bride, in role of flower girl. Long hair freed from bonnet, revealing locks dark as Time’s hall must be without her tending of the lights. Every so often she’d bend down, whisper commentary to the kitten perched in her basket of roses and daisies. The thing stared wide-eyed at all, and yet not a bit puzzled. All seemed exact and right to that creature. Surely all then was exact and right.
There followed two ‘I do’s. Kariel’s the louder, Chat’s the firmer. Came pronouncement and done. Sealed and delivered one to another, unto death. Last and final ritual: the kiss. A quick one, theirs. Ha. Mine and Lalena’s had lasted long as the Glocken’s dark hall could lead a soul to march. But these two gave each other brief peck, then stood staring into one another’s eyes. And we waited silent, knowing a ceremony occurred for which we were observers, not participants. And if we’d all wandered back to the fair they’d not have noticed till the dawn, if then.
But the last of evening light faded. The Lamp Maiden set down basket, raised hands high. And of a sudden we did not sit in twilight, but ten thousand tiny flickering firefly-fairy lights, set into the trees, the garden wall. As though the night-stars had swept down like birds, settled in the wedding court for the night. The Lamp Maiden laughed in joy, twirled, arms extended to conduct this magic electricality.
The newlyweds ended their silent gaze, collected themselves. Strode down the aisle through the flowered gate, the arch of fairy lights. Alas, we could give them no promenade beneath raised swords. The blue-clad watchmen of the fair had confiscated every last rapier, saber, spadera ropera and foil. And enough knives to win every knife-toss prize from a thousand outraged barkers.
And at last, at holy last, I sat to my first real meal since dawn of my obituary. Knife and fork and steak and bread, cup and wine before me, and neither clock nor bell dared cry halt. Music came to sooth the savage beasts, for all that the violinist wore head of an ox. The oboist a graceful, matronly fox. Candle shine and fairy light upon the crystal glasses, in the eyes of guests.
Lalena looked up, turning to the entrance of the wedding court. I followed her gaze. There stood Edgar and Emily, holding hands, shy as two children wishing to join some game upon the green. Mattie Horse and Billy River rose. Donning polite and sharp-toothed grins, they approached the two. Espada and Sanglair greeted one another with familial warmth and wary threat. At length Billy River cast glance to Lalena. She bit white teeth to lip, then nodded. The last of the Espada passed into the wedding court.
Lalena stood, signaled to seats across from us both. Wanting to keep eye upon the two, no doubt. Edgar took seat meek as lamb, Emily beside him. Deprived of green paint, Edgar’s scarred face looked worn, bruised. Emily’s as well, with arm still within sling. I considered their eyes. Despairing, and resigned to that despair. One sees children in war-leveled villages with just that weary, wary look. Of a sudden I felt pity. And worse: the certainty of what would come. Or if you wish, of what
had long ago passed.
“Cousins, be at peace,” said Lalena. “Bell has rung, war has ended.” She poured them Utopian wine. Set the cups before them. The drink sparkled untouched, unsipped.
I stood. Taking my own glass, raising it to Chatterton and his bride. A toast was called for. A quote were best, and nothing political. The fairy lights inspired my mind, as did the wine, as did my wife, for all her slaughtered locks.
“Now, until the break of day,
Through this court each fairy stray.
To the best bride-bed will we,
Which by us shall blessed be;
And the issue there create
Ever shall be fortunate.
So shall all the couples three.
Laughter at that last line. Lalena clapped hands.
“With this wine consecrate,
Every fairy take his gait;
And each separate couple bless,
Through the fair, with sweet peace;
Trip away; make no stay;
We meet again by break of day.”
I sat. Em and Ed nodded, smiled, and still they took not bite nor sip. I exchanged glance with Chatterton across the long table. His face had put away youth’s joy. But not returned to sleepy indifference. He looked of a sudden ancient as the Glocken, face worn by years of blood and storm.
A footstep behind me. I turned to find a tall woman, hair white as paper for all the young skin of her face. Dema of the Scalen, a kindly creature. Danced with me at my own wedding. While doing so, she’d advised me to flee the vampiric marriage bed. Now she smiled, offering hand for another dance.
Lalena laughed, brushed fingers at me to say ‘do as you wish’. Our eyes met. My wife wore her girl’s smile. But what dark thought turned her eyes so black? I feared I knew. She nodded, I nodded. Cousin Coils led me to the courtyard center, where some few others danced. We put palm to palm, circled about slowly, seeking the rhythm of one another’s steps. Bellow’s bow drew quick melody that flirted and kissed with Vixen’s oboe. Coils leaned close, whispered.
“Will ye trust me now, mad fellow?”
I nodded. Of course I nodded.
She laughed as though we’d traded jests, twirling and turning as the music led. When next we stepped close she pressed to me something cold and metal. A knife. I let it disappear into my own sleeve. Difficult to dance without dropping it to the floor.
“One thing more,” she whispered. “When the Scalen offers cup, drink deep.”
How very mysterious. How very family. I sighed, backed away, bowed to my partner, returned to the table. A chime of tension had set the candles flickering. It recalled the brightening of the lamps when the dragon appeared, a similar high vibration. I took my seat, waiting for what dragon must come.
Edgar debated softly with his cousins. Voice rasping as though it hurt to breathe. For sure he’d taken a blow to throat.
“We shall be going far way, in years and leagues,” he whispered.
“Flee to world’s end and time’s edge, cuz,” declared Vixen Mac Tier. Voice sad for wisdom dearly bought. “Distance matters not. There is no escaping the death-madness devouring the hearts of our folk. It must be faced. Best you stay, and we shall face it together.”
Em and Ed shared a long glance. The long table of their family kept breaths held. Ed hesitated, near wavering… then shook head.
“We are the last of the Blade clan. We have duty to start it anew.”
“Start yourselves anew, cousins,” replied Billy River. “Let spilt blood be forgiven, be forgot.”
“Passed chance for either,” sighed Edgar, glancing sideways to me. And I smiled, for I was learning the rhythm of time’s dance steps, and understood why he could never return to peace with his cousins. Most particularly Lalena. There came silence. Perhaps others at the table foresaw the same. Wherefore not; we were all outside our time.
Silence, till Edgar shook head to reject late memory and last regret. Sat upright, done with remorse. “And how do you speak of starting anew?” he demanded. Loud, so that all the court stones echoed. “Em and I have naught to repent. Not blood spilt, nor what shall pour. The death curse of the Rivalry lies less upon Clan Espada than it does upon the bloody Sanglair, the beast Mac Tier. And every last mad Harlequin.”
Emily turned wan face up, proud for her man’s defiance, sad for quarrel and farewell. He leaned to her as if to kiss. Reached into her sling, pulled forth a pistol small as that which Elspeth used to shoot me from her window. Behold Utopia’s brave new gun. I sighed at the sight, giving over half my hopes for a sane future. What long years’ study of death did that toy’s perfection proclaim. Edgar stood.
“Cousins, did you think the Espada would call halt to the Tempering for the clanging of a bell? The clans are become overmuch romantics. Time you faced tempering yourselves.” He turned towards the end of the table, where Chatterton now stood.
I considered all the ways a weapon from the future might kill. Shoot flames? Else a beam of black light to whither the flesh. Perhaps it emitted steel bees that swarmed upon their target. And yet, my confidence in Chatterton remained. He’d dodge death, leap upon Edgar and break his neck. Killing his cousin before the bride that gave hand for promise of abstaining from kin strife. Chatterton must now lose life or wife. No possible victory for my friend in battle with his cousin.
Edgar and I were clockwork creatures. He saw no path but that set him by folk long dead. I saw no choice but my duty. And so I put Coil’s knife into Edgar’s left eye. All the surer for the day’s practice.
Edgar stood a long second puzzling what beam was of a sudden in his eye. He sought to brush the knife away, to speak proud words, to aim again. But Billy River was over the table and upon him, grabbing the weapon. Em sought to seize it first. They tussled, cursing. Only then came shots and shouts.
All stood now. Chairs, tables overturned. Music ceased. Shouting came from beyond the courtyard walls. Well, the blue-clad watchmen of the fair were keeping close eyes upon us. Edgar lay dead upon the courtyard stones. Emily twisted against the iron grasp of Billy River. Till she stopped, gave a sob of a laugh. Looked at me with a scowl, then gave it up for a grin.
I backed away, turned about, knowing what I’d find. An arch of the wall behind me turned darker black than mere night. I sighed for the spoiling of the ceremony, for wedding cake yet uncut. For killing a man before his wife. My own bride issued swift orders for all to disperse, each their separate ways. Easy for me to give her last glance, then turn and walk unnoted into the waiting portal of time.
Chapter 30
Unfortunate Incident in Local Tavern, Concluded
“…perished in the very establishment where first he shed mortal blood. How shall any eye fail to see stern Providence’s hand, when one who so long defied Heaven’s Established Order is brought to Judgement upon the same cursed ground where he first slew another?”
I stood in Keeper’s Tavern again, reciting my obituary. The room appeared not a whit nor whisker changed from when I strode in this morning. Save the light now slanted through the western window. Evening, then, and close of a long day.
I should have said goodbye, I thought. So many good folk had befriended me. I owed each a farewell. But not Lalena. No last goodbyes twixt us. Still, I might have kissed the back of her neck, whispered ‘you’re a pretty lady’ before I left.
“Shall it be coffee, or ale?” asked Edgar. He slouched against the counter, arms across chest. Emily danced about the room, lighting the evening candles. Keeper had abandoned the fireside, no doubt returned to the cellar. I disliked the thought of my old master living so below, without candle or window. For all he was blind. Life should be lived in light, whether we see it or no.
I considered Edgar. Wearing blade now. No bruises yet upon that scarred face. And Emily swung both arms free of sling or hurt. Clearly both stood fresher than at the fair. Still grinning confident that their honeymoon steps would make a pleasant dance of long life. I knew better. At Chat’s wed
ding they’d sat before their cousins looking cursed as Abiram for shed blood. My blood, in particular.
I sighed. Pity I’d exchanged chain mail for lace shirt. But I’d thought this war over. Besides, human flesh cannot wear armor overlong without going mad. It chafes, itches, burns. What vexed more: I held now neither blade nor pistol. Coil’s knife was in Edgar’s eye. Somewhen towards the far future where he lay dead beneath star-lit sky.
Should I mention to Edgar that I’d killed him? Mere hours hence, for Edgar and Emily. Or hundreds of years by world’s clock. At the fair, there’d been a look he’d given more eloquent than obituary. I’m done with you. I killed you dead. No doubt I gave him the same look now. I had no heart to fight Edgar, I’d already ended him. Now he stood reading that truth in my eye, sure as the knife in his eye to come. Still he straightened back, grit teeth, as a man will do to endure hard news.
“I’ll have wine,” I declared, and backed towards Major Dark’s corner. There at the table rested the Glocken, bald pate upon arms, still puffing his dust-wheezing snore. Waiting for the children running through Time’s maze to cease play, so that we might conclude men’s affairs.
The puritanical barwoman stood behind the counter. Melody, Em had named her. Ironic label for a creature so mute. I studied her features. A Scalen, for sure. Kin to Cousin Coils. Less wonder she did not speak. Oft enough they only hissed. She now forsook the mad grimaces of the morning. Stared at me with eyes sane as a banker’s books, and more honest. She reached beneath the bar. Hope came that she’d pull pistol, else a sword. But no, she found a wine bottle. Poured a glass. Putting message for me in her glance. Was the wine poisoned? Then why tell me so? Because she was mad, as were all in the room. Yes, myself as well or I wouldn’t be there now.
Cousin Coil’s cryptic advice came to mind. When the Scalen offers cup, drink deep. Perhaps it made funereal metaphor. To welcome death as Socrates quaffing hemlock. My cup running over, Melody turned, disappeared into the cellar. Emily finished lighting candles, tripped and skipped up to me.
The Clockwork Tartan: Quest of the Five Clans Page 22
