by Tanith Lee
“And so you knew it was a Night, and you wanted to be able to go with the town, to see the fish and the mermaid—to get free.”
Kays didn’t say, How do you know? You, of all people, how can you know?
His face was so white it looked clean. It was clean, after all, clean of all the rubbish of life, through which somehow he had so courageously and savagely fought his way, and so reached the Wonder—only to lose it through the actions of a pair of selfish blind fools—
“Did you know—did you know this was the last chance, the last Night?”
The boy had stopped crying for a minute. He said, “It could have been, any Night. Any Night could have been the last chance.”
Oh God, when we dead awaken—the last trump sounded and the gate of Paradise was flung wide—and we kept him from it. Just because we, she and I, and all the rest, have always missed our chance, or not seen it, or turned from it, despising. She slept like a stone, but he, my son, he Woke. And I’ve robbed him of it forever.
“Kays... “ Gregeris faltered.
The boy began to cry again, messily, excessively, but still staring up at Gregeris, as if through heavy rain.
He wasn’t crying for Marthe, how could he be? But for Paradise, lost.
“I’m so sorry,” said Gregeris. Such stupid words.
But the child, who saw Truth, his child, who was Awake, knew what Gregeris had actually said. He came to Gregeris and clung to him, ruining his coat, weeping, as if weeping for all the sleeping world, and Gregeris held him tight.
Xoanon
It is a bleak village for sure, held there in that arm of the land, against the acres of the cold, grey sea. Stones on that beach as great as the pale seals that swim by in summer. Hills behind, worn bare through their grass that has no colour. Not a tree to be seen, for they cannot withstand the winter gales. And the little houses, brown and white, with their little narrow windows, and the winding street where now and then some cart goes up and down, pulled by a dark and steadfast horse. And, on the slope, the white church, with its pointed roof and thick wooden door. No stained glass in its walls, but that is not what the stranger comes seeking. It is the carvings you visit.
The village lives by the fish, and has done so for three or four hundred years, and maybe longer. Along the shore, the boats are drawn up, painted with their names that cannot be read, unless you speak the language of this place. But some of the boats are painted not with words but pictures. They do not all read and write here. They do not find much use for it, even now when there are books and newspapers to be had on the mainland. Nor do you find a television anywhere, and only two or three radios that give a poor reception—the sea and the sky are between them and all things, and the weather. But in the pub there is a gramophone with a horn, and three hundred records.
Crossing over is best done in the summer, or on a calm day of late spring. You arrive in a black boat painted with a girl in a long blue dress, with a wreath of shells on her yellow hair. The boat is called The Girl in the Blue Dress. Old Aelin hands you out, courteous and unspeaking. His face is like hard driftwood, brown and grey and torn in wrinkles, and his teeth are black. But he smells cleanly of the sea, and his eyes, where the driftwood has been opened to reveal them, are the blue of the girl’s dress, clear and sane and strange and old. The eyes of a good man, or perhaps a woman, for they have here no manner of the coarse old men you will meet elsewhere, the men who think women are betrayers and fools, useful only by a crib or stove. And indeed, the women of the village are not of that sort, and the men are none of them of the coarser sort. They sing and tell stories, and in these fluid tales you will hear of the pitiful sweet mermaids who have gifted human lovers of both genders with immortal life beneath the water, of men who have died for their women, and women who have died for their men, of the true love of man for man and woman for woman, of the value of daughters, and the virtues of gentleness, and how the seals have their own tongue, which may be learned, and that in the world beyond death, all are equal forever, and sometimes they call God She, and sometimes He, and sometimes They, or It. But they speak of God, as of all things, with respect, and interest. You learn, before you come, of Japanese visitors and black students, who have been unnerved that no one noticed, in the village, or so it seemed, their physical differences, in which they rightly took pride.
There was also a woman, once, who pointed out that the value the village set on animals was flawed, for they live by fishing the seas and eating the fish. But the villagers nodded politely to this woman, and since she could not speak their language, and they only a little of hers, she did not hear of their service, which is held twice a year, in which they bless the fish and ask pardon of them, as too they do when they catch them. In the service, the priest explains that the world is, in some ways, not well made, which is not the fault of God, since She, He, They and It did not construct all the world’s laws, in fact only those laws which are benign, tidy and pleasing to everyone. Through their own fault, or error, man and beast must sustain themselves, and cannot always do so without meat in some form. Until a new world is made, this cannot be put right. In truth, most of what the village catches is taken to the mainland, and before the winter closes the sea, the seals are fed a catch to assist them on their journey.
Most visitors leave The Girl in the Blue Dress tired from the hour’s crossing, which can be a discomfort even in summer, and go up the street to the public house, which has a painted sign of a strong, handsome man with the tail of a shark. This pub is called The Guest.
Here they serve you local drink, white whisky with the scent of turf, a thimbleful powered like any triple measure elsewhere, and a milder pale yellow ale. Or there is tea to be had. On broad plates they will bring you golden loaves whose dark inner flesh tastes of nuts, pickled apples from the village orchard tucked behind the houses, trees crooked and little, that produce a sharp red fruit, cheeses like the best of Northern France, and, if asked, flakes of smoked fish with whipped fried eggs.
In winter, the fire burns in the huge fireplace of the pub, but in summer the dense stone walls keep out a blistering heat. The rafters are low enough to stun you, if you should be more than short, and they have hung about them long ribbons that check you, should you forget, and so save you a headache. Almost no one in the village is more than five and a half feet tall, it is true. But they are formed all in proportion, on a smaller scale. Aelin is probably the tallest of them, for he is five feet ten inches, and in the pub he walks bent over.
When you have dined and rested, you can go through the village, and up the slope of the first hill, towards the church. On this slope, it seems you must look back, and down below, the village is, and the huge sea beyond. There comes the sense of immensity, as when you gaze up into the sky, perhaps the sky of night with all its million, billion stars. How small is the village, the land itself, and from that vast firmament of silver water, what may not come?
When you resume your climb, you may think how bare the church is, so stark and white, and inside you anticipate few ornaments, and you are correct to do this, for there is almost nothing at all. The windows are narrow and plain, and have shutters against the storms. Though there is an altar it has on it only ever a bare white cloth. There is no crucifix, though—once you have grasped their language—you will hear them speak of Jesus Christ, and as if He were well known among them, the son perhaps of some grandmother a couple of generations gone. But they speak too of others, and it may occur to you to wonder how they have heard here, cut off as they are, uninvolved as they are in television and telephone, of Mohammed and Buddha. And then again there are names they will speak you will not recognise, probably. And besides you may mistake these names for those of their forefathers, these sons of grandmothers, until maybe there is mention of what might be termed a miracle—conception without intercourse, ascents to heaven, transformations and healings, resurrection and rebirth. All these matters are apparently as normal to the villagers as the boiling of a kettle or t
he turning tides of the sea. The only way indeed you may be sure that they are speaking of some great one, some One who has come from God, is by the tone of pride in their voices. For they are proud of Mohammed and Jesus and Buddha, and all the others. They smile as they speak, as if they told you instead how rich and powerful and beautiful their ancestors have been.
On the altar, however, there is a cup made of iron, and from this they drink water during the services, a sort of communion, perhaps. The stranger too, if he or she is present and so wishes, may join in the ritual. But the services are held irregularly, you cannot be sure you will arrive at the right time.
Usually the church stands empty and unlocked, full of light, cool in summer, frozen cold in spring. You look about, and so regard the nine long pews, which are all that are ever needed here, though once, there were more. The wooden carvings are placed one at the left or south end of each pew. Finding them, it may be you are surprised that they are so small. You may need to bend close, to put on spectacles, or produce a magnifying glass.
Then you will see that the carvings are, in their own manner, very simple, although perhaps attractive to the eye. Perhaps they will seem at once mystical, imbued with all that is provoking and inexplicable. Or sinister; they might seem to be that. Or, you may be disappointed. Having come so far and so uncomfortably to this pared spot, despite the good food and drink you may have taken, and the looks of the villagers, their kindness, their glowing stained glass eyes.
Yes, you may think. Well, and is this all? This little curved fish creature that has something about it of the whale, and which symbolizes the sea, for on its back it carries a tiny carven boat. And, moving forward up the aisle, to the west, there is the carving of a goblet, not unlike that which stands on the altar, but upturned, so some visitors have asked if it was not wrongly attached. Beyond the upturned cup is a carved sun, emblematic, an image seen very often and in many areas, even on the wrapping paper sold for birthdays. At the end of the fourth pew a tiny man and woman stand embracing, and a tinier child clings to the woman’s long skirt. From their costume, these three, the carvings can be dated, to some mid-point of the 1700’s, as the villagers do date them. At the end of the fifth pew is a skull, Spare and universal as the previous sun. And at the end of the sixth, something more complex, an angel, apparently, a winged being. Its face is so small it has no features but a suggestion of eyes, although minutely the feathers are scored into the wings. On the seventh pew is another fish, this one roaring like a lion. On the eighth pew a presentation that may defeat even the youngest eye, the strongest spectacles, and the magnifying glass. After much study, if you have the patience, you may behold an amalgam of things, cows and sheep, fish and cats, snakes, dogs, men and women, and countless other icons, most not decipherable. In the scramble of shapes it will eventually come to be seen that everything here is winged. On the ninth pew however, there is no use in study. This carving, it seems, is an abstract pattern, something not often demonstrated at that era, conceivably the invention of a broken mind. This final woodwork is disturbing, insulting to some, like a cheat. To come so far and find only these little things, and this last thing, so meaningless, therefore unimportant. Besides, have you not seen all this already in the pamphlet on the mainland, or reproduced in some glossy book that deals with the carvings of churches? Why then did you come? But, yes, there is still the ultimate bizarre object.
Out from the church then you go, an hour or five minutes after you entered it, and walking on the path that they have shown you from the village pub, you ascend the rest of the barren hill, and the white church falls behind.
In summer there will be sheep out on the hills, and three or four cows, brown cows with heavy heads bearing each the white crescent of the moon. The sheep are shaggy, and they have been described as pink. Their colour is old and washed by rain, but their faces, like those of the cows, are profound. They graze placidly, and let you by without fear or sullenness. If you should like animals and wish to touch them, they will come up to you at a call. Sometimes the horses from the carts are there also, and they gallop, but again they are careful not to alarm, or so you may think, and let you caress their rough electric manes. Under or upon the stones on the hills you might see a spotted snake, harmless. You may stroke these as easily as the cats in the village street, if you care for snakes or cats. You may have heard that the seals too will let you approach them, though only the villagers feed them by hand. It is the same with the birds, and with everything wild that lives thereabouts. Do not be amazed that a fox trots to you out of the bushes, sniffs at your foot or knee. The rabbits that feed in the low fields between the hills never run away, unless by accident you almost tread on one.
Over the third hill, and you will be glad of your walking shoes, you find the last curiosity of your trip. To some this has more value, to others less, than the carvings attached to the pews in the church.
Much has been said of it, the ruin of the boat. Firstly, that it is a ship and not a boat at all, with the bone of her strong mast still sticking up, formed of the wood that must come from far away, where the gales do not reach, formed of that wood which made the carvings. Her shell is intact, though the weather has leached it all to a grey that is almost white. But there are holes in the flanks of her and in the deck, and the cabin amidships has mostly fallen down. The metal on the wheel is red with rust bright as flowers.
Of course, reason tells you, that they brought her here, the villagers, though for what purpose? Perhaps straightforwardly to abet their peculiar story. In the story, the ship or boat fell down from the sky, fell slowly enough that many saw her, and, when she met the earth, slowly enough she did not entirely shatter to bits.
On the side no mark remains, but you will know that, like the boat of Aelin, this one was also called The Girl in the Blue Dress, and so painted. In those days of the eighteenth century, not one man or woman in the village could read or write.
The spar, or part of the spar, remains, and perhaps a gull or greenfinch will perch there. It will watch you as you circle round the boat, look at the places where they hauled in their nets heavy with fish, at the wreck of the planking. Before the bird flies off, probably you will be weary of the ship that is a boat, but you will sit on the warm hillside if it is summer, to rest before returning to the village. In spring even you may rest. It is a hard walk, going and coming down.
No one in the village will tell you the story of the carvings and the boat, unless you ask, and then Aelin will return and tell you. You will discover then that Aelin has a blind dog that can nevertheless somehow see, or seem to, for it knows everywhere so well. It will sit by his side, but if you wish it, it will sit by you, and you will comb its coarse silk with your fingers, should you want to, and maybe buy it a dish of the yellow ale, as you will doubtless want to buy some drink for Aelin. The prices in the pub called The Guest are absurdly cheap, and they employ the currency of the mainland. You may notice that the locals do not seem to pay, but maybe an account is kept. If it happened, as once it did, that you had lost your wallet or your purse, neither would you pay anything, and some money would be found in your pocket or under your glass, when you came back from the clean little pub latrine, with its cracked white enamel wash-basin, and the large cake of amber soap. Even if you had lied, they would do this. They would not care that you had lied.
Aelin will tell you, quietly and mildly, in your own language, whatever that is, the tale of the boat and the carvings, which is in the books, but there is no reason you should not hear it twice, and he will tell it the best.
Two hundred years and more ago, the boats went out each day, the five or six or seven of them, out to reap the fishes from the sea. And sometimes it would be that a boat would not come back. The women would wait upon the shore, wrapped in their shawls, cold even in summer, looking to see if the boat their man was in would reappear at last. There were some five men to each boat, and so the lost boat meant five lost men, and five families of women, and too their child
ren often enough, standing there at the edge of the water. They would weep, or not, but the salt sea is made of tears.
One summer the water was calm as blue silk, and the boats went out at dawn, and all came back at sunfall but one, that boat called The Girl in the Blue Dress.
It had been a long day, for the days are long here in the summer, but down to the beach the five women came, and with them four children, two with one woman, and one each with two of the other women, while two women walked alone. They stopped at the fringes of the sea that now was half red, as the sun burned out inland, and half the dark blue the eastern sky was going.
Who has seen beyond the shore at night, where no lamp or light can reach it, however bright, knows that it becomes finally one with the sky, and then it cannot be found, the end of one, the commencement of the other. Only the land is different from them both. But then the moon rose, and made a silver road upon the sea, yet nothing moved on that road. And when the moon had gone over, it left again the darkness, which was void. Later came the sun, like a golden beast rising out of the water. But the sun brought nothing either, though its passing was longer.
Some days and nights the five women waited on the shore. Now and then other women brought them a little food, or took the children away to sleep. At the entering and retreat of the tides, the women moved back or forward like figures on a clock. One or two might lie to sleep an hour on the stones, while the others watched. After about seven days, the men came, and the priest, and took them softly back into the village. There they cried and railed their anger and bitterness and pain. Others comforted them who had themselves lamented in the same way, and others who understood that they too might one day so lament. Presently they got up, the five widows, from the rock of their grief, and took on their empty lives, where every moment is like every other and, as before the passage of God, there is no sundering of day from night.
