Arm of the Sphinx (Books of Babel Book 2)

by Josiah Bancroft

  “Just,” Edith said, turning on the bench. “Come in, Byron.”

  Sticking his head in a little further, the stag politely gazed at a corner of the ceiling rather than the women in their nightclothes. “I’m glad to see you’re up and about.”

  “Yes, you can go tell the Sphinx he hasn’t killed me yet.”

  “That’s not why I’m here. The Sphinx went to collect Senlin. He’ll be on an elevator shortly. I anticipate you will have your captain back within the hour.”

  Edith closed her eyes to better enjoy the swelling sense of relief.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake. He would have to come back in the middle of the night,” Voleta said, setting her fists to her hips. “Byron, would you please make some tea? I’ll try to wake Iren. Mister Winters, it’s not my place to say, sir, but perhaps there’s time for a bath?”

  Edith sniffed her hair, made a dour face, and then with some of her old spirit said, “All right, everyone out.”

  Iren had not gone to sleep, though she had briefly collapsed on top of the bedding. She hadn’t even the energy to take off her clothes.

  Caring for the sedated first mate had turned out to be rather easy; it was Voleta’s version of nervous pacing that had really tired Iren out. The girl chased her squirrel about the room incessantly. She climbed the mantle and walked it like a beam. She performed the most ambitious tumbles, to the peril of every lamp, vase, and mirror in the room.

  After two days of this, Iren nearly regretted discouraging Voleta from taking her exercise with the Sphinx. At least she knew the girl was safe.

  Iren had just nodded off when she was awoken by the certainty that someone else was in her room. Calm as an early riser, she sat up and switched on the lamp at her bedside.

  The Sphinx stood by the chamber door: a long shadow under a little spur of reflected light. “What do you want?” The Sphinx’s voice was a tinny whisper.

  “What do I want?” Iren said, standing.

  “I heard you tell Voleta you wanted to speak to me. Here I am. What do you want?” The Sphinx moved across the ancient rug, his long robe dragging like a brush full of ink.

  Iren did her utmost to appear neither imposing nor unhappy, which was difficult given the preference of her features. The resulting expression was not quite civil, but it was as close as she would ever come. “Something’s wrong with me. I’d like you to fix it.”

  “Sit down on the bed, please.” The amazon complied, and the Sphinx stood so close, his cloak brushed her knees. “Now,” he continued, feeling the glands under her jaw. Iren found the hands disturbing. They were too small, almost childish, and yet hard as rock. “Tell me what needs ‘fixing,’ as you say.”

  Iren squinted at her own face stretched across the mirror mask. “Are you a doctor?”

  The Sphinx paused a moment. “No, I’m much better than that. Are you sleeping well?”

  Iren decided at once that she would answer the Sphinx’s questions without any deliberation. She wanted to be honest; she wanted to seem honest. “Sometimes. I have bad dreams.”

  “Do you find that you flush more often, or do you ever wake in a sweat?”

  “Yes.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Fifty-five, I think. I don’t know.”

  “That’s all right. Birthdays are dreadful things. I haven’t celebrated one in a century at least.” The Sphinx turned the amazon’s head and peered into her ear. “What else?”

  “I can’t control my temper. I get furious, and then very sad.”

  “Are you usually an emotional person?” The Sphinx pulled down one of her eyelids, and inspected the vascular web.

  Iren sniffed. “No.”

  The Sphinx stood back. “Open your mouth. Stick out your tongue. Good. Now, say ‘ah.’ Excellent. Excellent. Let me ask you, when did you start to feel this way? Was it when you left the Port of Goll, perhaps?”

  Iren tilted her head. “I think so.”

  “Before that, did you have many friends? Did you socialize regularly or have any strong family ties?”

  “I played with Finn Goll’s children.”

  “Often? Whenever you wanted?”

  “No. Just when he let me. Just once in a while.”

  “As if it were a reward? That doesn’t sound very friendly. Was there no one else?”

  “Not until Senlin started to tutor me.”

  “Do you still like him? Even now? Even knowing about the weakness he hid from you?”

  Iren’s expression narrowed, her thin eyes all but disappearing. “We all have weaknesses. Not everyone has strengths.”

  “I suppose. All right, I have a diagnosis for you. This is not like a stab wound: a local injury with radiating effects. It is almost the opposite of that, in fact. I think you are experiencing the onset of the cessation.”

  Iren blinked, thinking for a moment that the Sphinx had said “assassination,” but that wasn’t what he had said. “What’s that?”

  The Sphinx slid back, his shadow shrinking upon the papered wall. He looked almost approachable. “The cessation is what happens at the end of your child-bearing years. For some, it affects their moods. It can interrupt the cycle of sleep or result in sudden changes in body temperature. It’s all quite natural, though often unpleasant.”

  “But I keep losing my nerve. I never lost my nerve before. Is that the… cessation?”

  “No, I think it’s shock, my dear. When you worked for Goll, you were an enforcer, were you not? You were Goll’s personal hammer, which is physically taxing, but doesn’t require a lot of consideration of others, or deliberation over consequences, or emotional attachment. Things are different now. You have friends. Not borrowed friends, but friends of your own. And as wonderful as that is, it’s terribly complicating. For the first time, you are confronted by feelings you can neither grasp nor throttle. You finally have something to lose, and it frightens you.”

  “No, something else is wrong,” Iren said in deep frustration. She wanted to strangle this shadow of a man, to flatten him against the wall. “I feel different. I can’t explain it. I pulled a muscle in my back doing sit-ups.”

  The Sphinx laughed, the sound like a jailor jangling his keys. He patted Iren’s scarred cheek, and she scowled. “You’re just getting older, my dear. There really is nothing to be done about that.”

  “What do you mean nothing? I’ll take a new spine! I’ll take a new arm! Give me a foot. Give me a thumb. I’ll take anything!”

  The great oval of the Sphinx’s face rotated through a ponderous shake. “There’s nothing wrong with you. Physically, you’re in fine shape. You may even have another decade of brutish behavior to look forward to, if that’s what you want. Now, you’ll have to excuse me. I have to look in on your captain.”

  Iren hung her head. She could not recall a time when she had felt more dejected.

  “Chin up, Iren. You have a part to play, yet, and it’s going to be quite an interesting challenge for you. Less hammer, more heart.”

  Voleta found Iren sitting on the edge of her bed, her elbows on her knees, her face pointed at the carpet. She looked as still and pensive as a statue in a park.

  “You’re awake. Mister Winters is up. Byron says the captain is coming home. Everything is going to be fine.” When Iren did not raise her head or show any sign to acknowledge this good news, Voleta’s gaiety shifted to concern. “Are you feeling all right?”

  “Do you know what the cessation is?”

  Voleta crossed the room nearly on tiptoe, as if she could somehow make the moment less delicate. “I do.”

  “I didn’t,” Iren said in a hush. She looked up, her face bereft of emotion. “I won’t have anyone. I’ll be alone.”

  “Oh, no, Iren. No, please don’t say that. You poor thing,” Voleta put her arms around Iren’s mountainous shoulders. “I love you. The Captain loves you; Winters loves you, and you know how much Adam admired you. He followed you around like a puppy. I’m sure he’s going to miss you terribly
. But I promise you, I’m not going anywhere. Me and you are as thick as thieves.”

  The amazon took a breath so deep it carried Voleta from her feet. She exhaled in a long, weakening stream and said, “I love you, too.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  “Myth is the story of what we do not understand in ourselves.”

  - The Myth of the Sphinx: A Historical Analysis by Saavedra

  There was no way around it. The reunion would be awkward. For one thing, the event would take place in the pink canyon, amid its agoraphobic sprawl and numbing repetitions, which was not an especially warm or auspicious spot. For another, Byron and the crew arrived several minutes before the Captain’s car arrived. They waited uncomfortably before a door that opened upon a closed elevator.

  They had not, as a crew, really broached the subject of the Captain’s habit or whether he was fit to lead, and now it seemed they never would unless he broke the uneasy silence. They hoped this would be the case, but of course, it all depended upon what version of the man emerged from the bowels of the Sphinx’s library.

  The Captain’s state of mind was not their only worry. Edith found the idea of having to explain where Adam was absolutely nauseating. Never mind the fact that the Sphinx was keeping the Red Hand alive. Never mind her monstrous arm, which had already torn one shirt and gouged two doorways. She half expected the elevator doors to open and for Tom to shriek at the sight of her.

  Though she knew he wouldn’t. As much as she dreaded the inevitable conversations, she was looking forward to seeing him. Befuddled or not, he had always been on her side.

  By the time the elevator pinged and the doors slid back, they were all huddled in and staring like a family of owls.

  To their relief, the Captain was smiling and demonstrative, embracing each of them in turn, even the scandalized stag, who Senlin shook by the shoulders and told, “Thank you for the chocolate!”

  He looked like a castaway: his trousers were shredded, his coat was a tatters, and his chin and cheeks were buried under half an inch of whiskers. He seemed thinner, almost gaunt, but his spirits were high and his eyes were clear and bright.

  Their joy was only half expressed before he asked where Adam was. His shock at the answer was tempered by Voleta’s assurance that Adam was, even as they spoke, conning the cloudy men right out of their cloudy houses. When Senlin raised the question of a rescue, Edith shook her head and stammered negatives. He retracted the idea at once, saying he was sure there was more to the story, and there would be time enough for full explanations later. For now, he was just pleased to see them and to know Adam was safe, at least to the satisfaction of his sister.

  Senlin of course noticed Edith’s new arm at once, but he saw in her bearing, the way she held it a little apart from her side, that she did not like it, and so he only briefly remarked that it was good to see her whole again. She looked, he said, very well indeed.

  As they waited for the elevating hall to carry them back to the apartment, Voleta boasted that she’d been playing with the Sphinx at night, which surprised Senlin, though the news did not seem to alarm anyone else.

  It dawned upon him that as transformative as the past ten days had been for him, their experience had been no less exciting and fraught. How much had changed in less than a fortnight! He wondered what a year’s separation would do to two people.

  It was a lot to absorb, but all of it was suffused with the glow of their company, which Senlin said, again and again, was what he had missed the most during his days in the library.

  He recounted a few parts of his own adventure over tea in their apartment: the dead knight caught in a terrible trap, the unstable tunnel of books, and the abysmal biscuits. Voleta served him a plate of cold chicken, which he declared the most delicious bird he’d ever tasted. She gave the librarian a bit of lamb to work upon, a display that she found delightful and worthy of narration.

  “I am not the man I was,” Senlin said abruptly, as if he were afraid to delay the confession any longer. His friends around the table looked to him expectantly. This would be the apology then, and knowing Senlin it would be long-winded, roundabout, and obscure. They collectively braced themselves for the oration. “I tried to be my old self while living the life of the new, this life with you. I tried to be there and here, then and now, a headmaster and a captain. I fear I failed on all counts. I am sorry I have been so— ambitiously dishonest. I hope you can forgive me. I would very much appreciate another chance to earn your confidence, your faith. You are all such dear, dear friends.”

  He looked them each in the eye, held their gaze for a second, and then finding nothing further to say, picked up a chicken leg, and took to it like a horse takes the bit.

  Voleta and Edith were caught off guard by the relative brevity of the speech, but Iren was not. She knew exactly what the Captain meant. She raised her teacup and said, “To the life of the new.”

  Senlin set down the chicken leg to return the toast, as did Edith, Voleta, and Byron, one by one, until they were all sure the moment had been pressed into their memories like a seal into wax.

  Then Byron announced that the hour was very late and advised them that it was time for bed. The Sphinx, Byron said, would be paying them all a visit in the morning to make an announcement about the ship. Carrying the librarian in his arms, the stag bid them all goodnight.

  Iren needed no further encouragement to go to bed, and her snoring could be heard through the door of her room within minutes of her having closed it. Voleta followed shortly thereafter, but not before telling the Captain that she was very glad to see him, but she didn’t particularly care for his beard, a confession which Senlin took in good humor.

  No sooner was he alone with Edith than Senlin became acutely aware of how bedraggled he looked. He was filthy, especially compared to her. She was as scrubbed and combed as he’d ever seen her; her skin shone in pretty contrast with the wide collar of her blue blouse, which just minutes before his arrival had been relieved of one of its sleeves.

  Embarrassed by his state, he expressed his keen interest in continuing their conversation, but asked if they might not do so in the morning. She graciously agreed, and he retired to what had lately been Adam’s room.

  There, he addressed all the tedious rituals of hygiene that no man is superior to, including the eradication of his whiskers, which were, to his annoyance, not free of gray. He selected a shirt and pair of trousers from the room’s stocked wardrobe, and though neither fit very well, he was satisfied they were at least recently laundered.

  At some point in his ablutions he realized he did not intend to go directly to bed. For one thing, he wasn’t the least bit sleepy. For another, he was still feeling very clear-headed, and he wanted to speak to Edith before he lost this feeling.

  Yet, when he found himself standing outside her bedroom with his hair slicked down and the too-few buttons on his too-blousy shirt done up, he did wonder what it was he intended to say. The apartment was still. Shadows rayed from the furniture like the petals of a black flower. The golden stamen of a lamp glowed in the dark. He felt safe and happy and at home.

  He knocked, and there was a long pause before Edith appeared, clutching the collar of her blouse closed. “I can’t button it on my own. These new fingers are so fat and difficult…”

  She stopped, recognizing the expression on his face. It was the alert gaze of a man who had spent the past ten days locked up with his thoughts and a taciturn cat. She had seen the look before. He had come without a clear purpose in mind, which was an errand in itself. She did not believe in idle visits to the pantry, or idle walks down the lane, or idle appearances outside doors in the wee hours of the night. These were not idle things. They were urges too inconvenient or unseemly to admit: they were hunger, they were frustration, they were yearning.

  But understanding his urge did not spare her from experiencing her own. She had suffered so much indignity while he was away, so much self-doubt, yet here he was, looking at her as if
she hadn’t got a rainspout for an arm, as if she were not the Sphinx’s worst lackey, as if they were not standing on the cusp of an adventure that would almost certainly tear them apart. They were like the daily crockery of a public house: they’d been broken and glued back together so many times it was a miracle they retained their shape, a miracle they could still be filled and hold anything inside of them.

  They embraced and shared an impassioned kiss.

  It seemed an ecstatic prelude, like the choral gasp that precedes the first note of an opera. As much as they felt not quite themselves, they seemed a perfect match for each other.

  Separating, they saw in one another’s expression the terror and splendor of what they had done.

  He said goodnight, and she shut the door.

  Neither saw the butterfly flattened to her dressing screen, its wings painted to blend into the heathered silk.

  Early the next morning, Byron rapped like a woodpecker on their bedroom doors, rousing them from various states of insufficient sleep. Insisting there was no time for breakfast, not even a cup of tea, the stag all but chased them from their apartment into the elevating corridor.

  Ferdinand startled them further by sounding his train whistle, apparently out of an excess of excitement. He romped at their heels, unaffected by Byron’s protests. Though when Edith told him to stop, Ferdinand complied at once, to the stag’s great annoyance. Byron recommended that Edith not grow accustomed to the locomotive listening to her because it was surely just a phase.

  Voleta noticed that the Captain and Mister Winters had said good morning to each other twice in the first minute of their walk, both times in a different tone and with a changed expression, as if the words were capable of communicating more than a ho-hum hello, as if they were speaking in some code. She thought it funny and so told Iren good morning several times, raising her eyebrows higher with each repetition. The Captain and mate looked scolded by the joke, and developed a sudden interest in the loamy tatter of carpet underfoot.