by Adam Roberts
‘Yes sir,’ said Nestor, with the faintest colour of doubting in his voice.
‘We need to confine her,’ said Stom. ‘Confine her. Confinement is natural to womankind, you see?’ (He had only a vague notion of what ‘confinement’ involved, except that it was a condition into which women sometimes entered.) ‘We’ll lock her in the Yellow Room – yes?’
‘As you wish, sir,’ said Nestor. Stom caught a momentary glimpse of something in his servant then, like a fish coming up through water almost to the surface and visible from the air, something of Nestor’s own personality; his preciseness; of his minuscule discomfort at this stratagem, his distant coolness, of the impeccably structured and timetabled life he led. But then the fish sank away again into the indistinguishable grey depths, and Nestor was just a servant again.
Little insights like this, Stom often thought with regard to himself, were the hallmark of a poet.
When the day came, Polystom brought in one of the underbutlers – a tall, frothy-haired woman – to stand behind Nestor. This party of three came upon Beeswing in the Main Library. She was squatting behind a mauve settee, reading a book with the almost feral intensity of a child devouring a sweetmeat. She looked up, almost startled, as the three shapes appeared over her. ‘My love,’ said Stom, his heart thumping hard, ‘there’s something I’d like to show you in the Yellow Room.’
‘The Yellow Room?’ she repeated in her limpid, little-girl’s voice.
‘The view,’ he said, extemporising. ‘I’ve fitted a fountain pump in the lake and you can see the effect best from the Yellow Room.’
She showed no suspicion at all at this unprecedented and rather implausible statement. She got to her feet and walked beside him, still carrying her book, out of the library, up the stairs, along the turf-soft carpeting of the upper corridor. She stepped blithely through into the Yellow Room. Polystom did not accompany her; he paused at the door as she stepped sleepily into the mustard-coloured space. Then, softly, almost like one trying not to disturb a light sleeper, he reached in, and tweaked the edge of the door so that it turned silently on its hinges towards him.
It closed with a click like a tongue popping against the roof of the mouth. Stom turned the key once and the bolt slid across with a deeper click, like a sombre echo of the former.
It was as simple as that.
For a moment he stood there, holding his breath. He didn’t know whether he was waiting for her to cry out, to shout in outrage, to pummel the door with her fists. But there was only silence.
He wanted, urgently, suddenly, to be out of the house – out altogether. He was at the front door in seconds, pausing only to fit on his out-boots, and then he was marching briskly away. He walked over the lawn, towards the orchards. Trying to push out of his head the thought of what he’d done, perhaps.
Outside, fresh air. One step after the other, and he was at the blossomy rows of fruit trees before he knew it.
Focusing himself. It was the best for her, that was why he had acted. Best not dwell on it, not think of it. But it was the best thing for her. He’d keep her in there a few days, that was all. Have Nestor put food on a tray. And a commode. A few days, or maybe a week.
The orchard was possessed by a positive blizzard of butterflies, blue as shards of sapphire. They crowded the air between the plumapple trees, all the way down to the greenhouses on the seaward side. Walking through them, all Polystom’s senses were taken up with their brief, seasonal joy – the dazzling sight of them, the sound of their papery burr as they flapped, even the feel of them bumping harmlessly against his face. On the edges of his vision he caught the ghostly bouncing shapes of nets, as servants harvested the swarm. But walking through the midst of it he was completely wrapped up in a vividly deep blue.
Best to put his mind somewhere else. Best not to think of his wife at all.
Soon enough he was out the far side. Skirting the green-houses, their roofs neon-bright in the sunshine to his left, he wandered into the forest proper, the fir woodland. The butterflies did not come here. They craved plumapple blossom, perhaps were even repelled by the resinous perfume of the pines, so that only one or two stragglers moved, lost and meandering like torn-up pieces of evening sky, through the shadows.
He walked a long circle, as far as the western foothills, and slowly back. Beeswing, in his mind, was a sort of blank. He did think of her, he couldn’t help himself, but he imagined her standing in the Yellow Room as motionless and empty as a stone statue. He thought of her looking out over the vista, through the window, mannequin-like. And vaguely, half-subconsciously, he imagined her mental processes, her brain ticking around its route like a clockwork device, until the trigger arm was finally reached and flipped and she saw, she understood how foolish she had been. Vaguely, Stom thought of her enormous remorse, her penitence, her humility and love for him gushing through her at that moment like an ecstasy, forcing out sighs and tears with the sheer pressure of the passage, consummating her revelation as a sort of sexual climax.
Back at the house, Nestor was waiting by the front door.
‘My mistress,’ he said, giving the phrase a vaguely faded tone as if he used it only because a more accurate was unavailable, ‘has been, sir, calling out, and shouting.’
‘Calling out?’ repeated Stom, the unfocused mental image of his wife in an orgasmic intensity of remorse still swilling through the lower vesicles of his consciousness.
‘Screaming, I should say, sir. And banging.’
‘Banging?’
‘Hitting the door. Kicking it I’d say, sir, to judge by the sound she’s been making. It echoed through the whole house.’
Polystom kicked off his boots and went up the stairs, with Nestor behind him. ‘I can’t hear anything,’ he said as he ascended.
‘She stopped, perhaps half an hour ago. We weren’t sure whether to open the door, sir, but decided to wait until you returned.’
Stom reached the door of the Yellow Room. The place seemed as silent as he had left it, but the quietness seemed an oddly accusatory one. Something wrong, some joint not right in its socket. Polystom’s mouth was dry. Feeling the ridiculousness of his action, he knocked at the door. ‘Beeswing?’ he called out. ‘My darling?’
Nothing.
Gingerly, he unlocked the door and opened it. The collapsed mess of an old dress on the floor, topped with a sprawl of glossy black silk, was Beeswing’s supine body. Stom stepped over to her, and then stood, uncertain what to do. Behind him, the door swung shut with a small groan, an uncanny and mournful noise. Its inside was spattered with blood. Polystom turned his wife’s body over with his hand to see her hair clogged with her own plasticky half-dried blood, and pour-marks and spots of red over her face.
They moved her to another bedroom, and called for a doctor, who came flying over the Western Mountains that same afternoon.
‘A terrible mix-up,’ Stom explained. ‘She got into some sort of fugue state in the Yellow Room. Couldn’t open the door, and became hysterical – ran at the door head down.’
‘Not once,’ said the doctor, ‘but several times. This sort of concussion is a serious business, of course, but probably not fatal. Have a servant watch her as she comes round; tell her not to move about too much. Bed-rest for her until the swelling around the temples goes down. A week at least, probably two.’
In the dark hallway outside, as Nestor sorted out the matter of fee, the doctor beckoned to Stom. ‘My dear fellow,’ he said. ‘I wanted to tell you. There’s a clinic, extremely well appointed, charming views over an ice-lake, on the moon of Rhum. Heated centrally throughout by means of hot-water piping,’ he added, folding his payment into his pocketbook, as if this architectural detail were particularly important. ‘I’ve referred a couple of hysterical wives and daughters there. I don’t say send her straight off, you understand, but keep it in mind. Eh?’
‘I will,’ said Stom softly. He went through the ritual of bidding the doctor farewell at the front door like a drugged man
. He felt as stunned as if it had been he who had banged his head against the door. Of course the clinic was out of the question; it would be an unacceptable blow to his status, to his pride, if he were compelled to take that course, and if it became widely known. And anyway, her episode had been a one-off. Surely it had been a one-off.
He left a woman in Beeswing’s room, and went to his snug. It took several drinks before he began to feel more like himself. How could she do it? Why would she do such a thing? It passed beyond his comprehension. He tried to imagine himself, poet-like, into her body, but the effort was greater than his imagination could make. To put one’s head down, as if bowing, as if in homage to something, and then sprint as fast as one could, to build up as much acceleration as was possible in the small space, knowing that one was about to thunder head-first into a solid wooden door? It was almost monstrous, the willpower required.
The impulse to leave the house was strong upon him again. Maybe it would be better for him to go. Fly away; visit his uncle. Cleonicles had not been able to attend the wedding, and Stom hadn’t seen him since. Maybe a few days on the moon would be the best thing. Maybe he could return from such a little away-trip to a calmer, clearer sense of things between the two of them. The rightness of the idea seized him, with its deeper promise of removal from a source of pain, and he leapt up. He rushed through to his own bedroom, and started packing a satchel to carry with him. Uncle Cleonicles would have some advice for him, some guidance on how to resolve this sorry situation.
A serving girl was at his doorway. ‘Mistress is awake, sir,’ she said in a small voice.
‘Oh,’ said Stom, still thinking he could dash out. But it would be better to see her first. Better to let her know that he was going away, going partly to give her time to think through her own foolishness.
He traipsed through to the little bedroom where his wife lay, her head grown huge with bandages, inflated. She lay perfectly still, her arms straight at her sides, her eyes looking directly ahead.
Stom moved into her line of sight. ‘Hello,’ he said, forcing a goofy smile. ‘How you feeling, my dear?’
She breathed in, and released the air in one short sentence: ‘You locked me in.’
A hissy voice, snake-like. Stom almost stepped back, alarmed at the malicious power this tiny woman appeared to possess, almost scared by his own wife. Why should he feel bad? She was the one who’d surrendered herself to insanity.
‘You went a little crazy, I think,’ he said, forcing the smile again. ‘Why would you do such a thing, my darling? We were just on the other side of the door.’
Another indrawn breath. ‘Don’t lock me up.’
‘It was a simple misunderstanding,’ said Stom. ‘You didn’t need to act the way you did! That wasn’t normal.’
Beeswing’s expression was enough, without words, to convey her contempt.
‘Don’t look at me that way!’ Stom barked. ‘You’re the mad thing. Bashing your head half in – it’s crazy.’
The serving girl was looking extremely uncomfortable, blushing. She couldn’t leave because Stom hadn’t dismissed her. He stood up, ready to go himself. ‘I’m going away for a few days,’ he said, pulling down the front of his waistcoat with dignity. ‘Think about what you did,’ he said to her, as to a child. The words sounded hollow and bizarre in his voice, but they were the right sort of thing to say, surely. That was the point, wasn’t it? He almost added and I hope you’re sorry for everything, but decided against it.
He paused. Beeswing was looking straight ahead, looking now at the level of his midriff. She didn’t say anything else.
He flew to the moon, arriving at Cleonicles’ in time for supper, and greeted his uncle heartily. It felt so good to feel the wind over his face, to cruise the enormity of space, to be able to reach his arm out of the cockpit and feel the interplanetary ether slipping through his fingers. For an hour or so this mood buoyed him up, and he joined his uncle for wine and metaphysical discussion. Then he found himself crying. It was the sort of thing that, had anybody else seen his weakness, would have been unbearable; but his uncle had seen him cry before, and wasn’t fazed by it. He didn’t rush to offer pointless condolence, but sat and allowed his nephew to cry out the worst of it. Once the initial pressure was voided, and Stom could speak, only then did Cleonicles offer tactful questions, as another man might offer a handkerchief. Under this loving application of wine and sympathy, Polystom unspooled the whole story. Beeswing’s flight, her recapture, his decision to lock her up until she saw sense. Her running headlong at the closed door, not once but several times, until she had all but brained herself.
‘What shall I do, Uncle?’ Stom asked. ‘I don’t know what to do.’
Cleonicles didn’t hurry his advice. He sat and swilled the last mouthful of wine around the bottom of his wineglass. The sky outside was purple-black now, stained by the blue and green earthlight; the night calls of the stork-boars made mournful glupping whistles in the darkness.
‘You are Steward,’ he said eventually. ‘There’s no point in disputing the fact, it’s a feature of the natural world, as solid as a mountain. If an underling disputes it we think that disgraceful. But just because a person is married to a Steward – that doesn’t give them the right to dispute that fact either. All are bound by the great structure, high and low. Or else,’ he said, with an almost tripping gloominess in his voice, ‘or else everything crumbles.’ He downed his wine. ‘Being of a proper family, being close to the power, makes insurrection worse, not more creditable. At least some pitiable servant may excuse himself on the grounds of ignorance. A Steward’s wife has no such defence.’
Stom had never seen his uncle like this before. ‘Insurrection, uncle?’ he said. ‘That’s a strong word.’
‘Oh I dare say, I dare say. Yes, it overstates it a little to call it insurrection. But, then again, what else can you call a struggle against proper authority?’
He refilled his glass.
‘You’re at a crucial point, my boy,’ he said, his lips glistening in the lamplight as he took a long draught. ‘She’s struggling against authority, which is as stupid as banging her head against a wall, if you see what I mean. She’ll either learn this, and her life will settle into a better course; or else she’ll deny herself the chance to grow up.’
Stom nodded. ‘You’re saying,’ he said, ‘that I should stand firm with her.’
‘Yes,’ said Cleonicles. ‘Yes! You must stand firm. This womanly trick of knocking her head against a wooden panel and falling down, this is calculated to prey on a man’s sense of pity and wife-protection. But don’t be taken in! She’s trying to manipulate you, and you – a Steward – must not be manipulated! If I were you, boy, I’d fly home tomorrow. Not that I’m trying to get rid of you; it’s delightful to see you, as ever. But it’s more important that you establish the proper authority at home.’
His uncle’s words sounded very wise to Polystom. They struck a chord of rightness inside him. He flew back the next day, his head muggy with old booze and his headache worse than it might otherwise have been.
He arrived late in the afternoon, with the shadows of the mountains starting to lay great wedges of dark over the forest. As the engine cooled, and he unbuckled his helmet, a servant appeared with a wooden ladder to help him from the cockpit. ‘How is she?’ Polystom asked the man, who blushed and stuttered, lowering his eyes and muttering that he believed the Lady to be taking some supper.
Stom walked round to the conservatory at the back of the south wing, and saw a table laid out in the lawn, just past the shadow cast by the house. There, Beeswing, her head still bandaged, was sitting, attended by a servant. He made his way over, trying consciously to put command and authority into his stride.
‘Hello my dear,’ he said, or announced rather, sitting himself and reaching for one of the little roast zulu-birds. ‘I’m back from Uncle’s. How are you feeling?’
There was no answer to this question, and there seemed to be a certa
in hardness in her eyes as she looked at him. But at least she was feeding herself, at least she was eating something. The servant hovered uneasily behind.
‘You look better,’ he offered.
‘My head hurts,’ she said, in a quiet voice, with that infuriating way she had of suggesting a metaphorical as well as a literal freight for her words – your hurt, Stom wanted to say, is the result of your own ridiculous attitudes. Your problems inside your head are the result of your own wilfulness. But he held his tongue.
Instead he stood up. ‘I’d like a chat,’ he said. ‘I want the two of us to talk. Later. In the Library if you like. You do like the Library, don’t you?’ He left a pause, in case she wanted to drop in a meek ‘yes’, but she said nothing. ‘After you’ve finished eating, of course.’ He was still holding the little spitted zulu-bird, and he took a bite out of its flank, before dropping the remains to the lawn and going inside.
He had a bath, and took some food. He had a fire made up in the library; although it was late in the Spring Year, with Summer Year only months away, nevertheless the nights were surprisingly chilly. He had a bottle of black wine carried in to him, and then he gave instructions that Beeswing’s nurse was to bring her into the Library. He expected her to be wheeled through in a bath-chair, but when she did come she was walking, supported by an arm from her servant. Stom stood up until Beeswing had been settled into one of the mauve chairs.
Stom waved away the nurse-servant. There were several minutes of silence, during which Polystom put his head a little to one side and listened to the snapping noises of the contorting flames in the grate. Like limbs being broken and ligaments twisted out of hard joints, he thought to himself; the crackling and popping of a young fire.
‘You could have done yourself a serious injury,’ he said, without preliminary. ‘How could you be so foolish?’
‘You locked me into that room,’ she replied.
The boldness of her direct statement shocked him, a little. ‘Whether I did or not has nothing to do with it!’ he said. ‘You shouldn’t have . . . hurt yourself, and . . .’
