While I sat at his feet our younger sister Lalichë ran to him and jumped into his lap. The scene was so purely touching that I was surprised when Dore failed to laugh in his usual delighted way. Lalichë noticed it too. She looked up at his face, her own nose wrinkled among the freckles.
"Dore," she said, "why don't you put a pine cone on your stick that you walk with?"
Lalichë was five years old and enjoyed Dore's special favor. But that day his mind was on his journey. He did not answer her.
"Why would he want a pine cone on his staff?" I asked.
"Because Dionysus did," she said. She jumped to the ground again and ran away, laughing and singing and cursing.
"Yes," I said somberly, "you're much more Orphic than anything else."
"It does not matter, Seyt. I have been waiting for a sign. I knew that if I waited here long enough my bird, that tarishawk that rests here each day, I knew that he would come. Our Mother said that if he flew from the right, then I would have good fortune. If he came from the left, my journey would be disastrous for me, and it would bear no positive fruits for you."
"And the hawk? Which way did it come? Did it come from the left?"
Dore smiled once more; his smile was always the most cheerless aspect of him. "The hawk has not come at all," he said. He fell silent, resting his head in his hands. I nodded, though he could not see me; I got to my feet and walked to the house as quietly as I could.
Dore's journey would not become dangerous for two or three days. We all knew that he could stay with the lower families for the first few nights. We had no worries for him until he left the small growth of humanity behind and entered into the healthy, wild skin of the planet that is our Home.
We were wrong. Our Mother told us that he had encountered treachery on his second night away.
Beyond the keep of the Fourth family the estates rapidly fell off in quality. When Dore bid farewell to that king and court he followed the dusty trace leading to his beloved forest. As the sun climbed behind the gritty white clouds he walked to his doom, whistling. In his place I would have sung, and most of the girls would have prayed. But, as Our Mother said on many occasions, it takes all sorts of people to make a world, and that is what made our family great.
The road was unpaved (I have never in my life seen real pavement), rutted deep by the wooden carts of the lower families whose castles and cabins stood to the sides. Roads have played an important role, not only in the entire and majestic history of the human race, but also in the endless procession of literature. Consider the part of the road in Waiting for Godot or in the tales of Chaucer. If the road in this history has a lesser importance, it is only because our road is the shorter.
About suppertime Dore stopped his march under a tall, slender pine tree. He opened his wallet and took out the bread and cheese that he had insisted on bringing. Our sister Vaelluin, who had done kitchen duty on the day of Dore's departure, had prepared a compact kit of dried rations in boilable plastic bags, but Dore said that hard bread and stiff cheddar were more in keeping with his quest. It was a poor meal, but Dore had never been used to luxury. He ate quickly, finishing only part of the day's share and saving the remainder for an extra-large breakfast. He packed his wallet and continued his walking, planning to find a place to spend the night in the hour or so before the evening rains.
About two miles farther down the road he arrived at the elaborate mailbox of the Thirtyfourth family. It was a salute to bad taste, combining Doric columns with bastardized Corinthian ornament, a Greco-Roman frieze and imitation Khmer temple statuary. Art Nouveau lettering, and obscenely ornate French Empire neoclassicism on top of Rococo scrollwork. In all, with portico, porch, piazza, and stoa, it stood over eighteen feet tall.
Dore followed the pebble drive up to the front of the building. The path split and went on in opposite directions, making right angles around a rectangular lawn. In the middle of the grass was a statue; Dore knew that it was actually a fountain, but it was turned off during the day. It rather graphically depicted the rape of Proserpina: when it was activated after the raintime, colored lights played on the spray that emanated from an indelicately situated marble orifice.
A heavy iron door was set into the front of the mailbox. The door was decorated with heads of Cerberus and bulls from the Ishtar Gate of Babylon. Across two panels in the middle was a faded reproduction of The Last Supper by Dali. A little balcony stood over the doorway, shading it. At the foot of one of its supporting columns was a tall urn filled with white sand and a few crushed cigarette butts. At the base of the other was a cast-iron Negro coachboy, holding a lantern and grinning servilely. On the lantern, as in about a dozen other places, was written Mr. & Mrs. Walter G. Thirtyfour. Dore lifted the heavy brass doorknocker and pounded it in place.
The knock was answered immediately by a dirty-faced young woman. Her clothes were soiled and threadbare, and her nose was weeping for attention. "Mom says to tell you we don't want any, thank you," she said.
Dore loved her for that. He never needed more of a reason. "No," he said, chuckling, "I'm not selling anything. This is a real crown. I am Dore First. I would like to beg your hospitality."
The girl stared in amazement. It is likely that she had never seen any of the First family before. Then she looked at his rich clothing, and at the jeweled scabbard of Battlefriend. "How long," she said, stammering, "how long do you plan to be staying on with us?"
"Just this one night, I think."
"Yes, sir. Fine. Please, sir, if you will sign this book. Do you have any luggage? I can get one of the boys to carry it up to the house. We hope you enjoy your stay with us, and if there's anything you need, anything, don't hesitate."
"Thank you," said Dore, "it'll be all right if you just show me the way to the house."
The young woman led Dore back through the trees to the house. The home of the Thirtyfourth family was little, if any, larger than their mailbox. In fact, it later developed that the mailbox, being otherwise without function on our Post Officeless world, served as guest house and part-time brothel. Dore, as an upper-class visitor, would be quartered in the main house itself. But courtesy demanded that he at least visit the mailbox. He hoped that his first fleeting call would suffice.
His arrival put the household in a state of confusion. The head of the Thirtyfourth family (who insisted on being called Walt) ordered a sumptuous feast. This consisted of four courses of hard, dark bread and fine domestic cheese. Dore was unimpressed, of course, but did his best to show his appreciation to his poorer cousins. He explained about his quest, to the amazement of everyone, and begged to be excused so that he might get a good night's sleep. He planned to be on the road again before dawn.
The family sat in stunned silence as he rose from the table. Dore could not understand their reaction until he recalled that a wealthy guest customarily distributed cash gifts after such a dinner. He decided to pretend ignorance, although the conceit was shallow and transparent to everyone. He went up to bed amid the stony silence, embarrassed and unable to bring himself to explain that he carried no money. "Where I go henceforward," he thought, "I shall go incognito." He slipped between the coarse, yellowed sheets and was soon asleep.
In the darkest part of the night, in the most stilly watch, his door opened. The light from the hallway shone in around the silhouette of the formidable and unclad body of Dolksey Thirtyfour, Mr. and Mrs. Walter G's eldest daughter.
Our Mother tutored us carefully in subjects pertaining to morality, both absolute and relative. This is quite obviously a case of the latter. People have intercourse for a variety of reasons, she taught. As a gesture of affection among siblings, as a reward for valiant deeds, as a plighting of troth, for the acquisition of offspring, or to augment the income: These are but a few of the manifold urgings to "make love." Our Mother always took an ambivalent attitude toward sex. We always figured that was because she surely wasn't getting any on that memorial-like throne of hers. Since Our Father joined the spirit
of the Home that he built, Our Mother had become a passionate but chaste Penelope-symbol of adequate behavior.
Before coming Home, the story goes, Our Father met Our Mother at a well in Pittsburgh. In that city she was known as a woman of easy virtue, and she had a reputation as an all-around mover. Our Father extended his hand in friendship and invited her to "quit her low-down ways." She was taking various sorts of pills at this time. She recognized in her future husband a person of great personal worth and went with him, abandoning her former loose behavior. Now look at her. Dead as Dekker; where does it get you?
None of these thoughts passed through the mind of my older brother Dore as he watched the voluptuous Dolksey undulating toward his bed. He was still half-asleep. He had enough awareness, though, to shove himself over against the wall, giving the girl room to crawl in with him. He was almost asleep again before she did; she spent a good deal of time trying to arouse him by fondling her pendulous, alabaster globes and running her well-formed hands over her flat, sensuous belly. Finally she gave up in favor of closer and more intimate tactics.
Dore realized that he wasn't going to be allowed to go back to sleep. He sighed; then he reached out and grabbed the moaning woman. She responded instantly. She kissed, and scratched, and rubbed, and tickled, and bit. Dore was so distracted by her ministrations that he was unable to gain entrance. Finally, as she trailed her tongue down the tufted hairs of his stomach and massaged his lower back he shoved her away.
"Look," he said, "knock it off. Why don't you just lie there and we'll get this over with."
Still, he found her pleasant company. Sometime later he was able to get back to sleep, but he was glad that he had made the detour.
She was still there in the morning. She woke him with her elbow. "Come with me," she said.
"We already did that. Let me sleep."
"No, we must away. To my room."
"I was just getting very comfortable here."
"You don't understand," she said, her tongue flicking into his ear between words. "My father mustn't find us here. It would be my head."
"How would he find us here? He wouldn't be looking unless you've been dropping hints."
"Never mind. If he finds us in my room it will look like simple rape, and that's all right. You're a First."
"I see. Why don't you go back by yourself?"
She demonstrated her reasons, and soon she had shown him enough to warrant his accompanying her to her boudoir. Several minutes later, at one of a series of critical points, Dore heard a chamber door slam shut. Then he heard shouts. Someone pounded on Dolksey's door. "Okay, you imposter in there," a voice bellowed, "that's enough. Get out of there before we come in and slice your real identity to ribbons." Then he heard more doors slamming.
Dolksey looked worried. "You must leave. Father mustn't catch us together."
"Yes, I've heard. Let me get my breeches —"
"Wait. No, go. We have no time. You must fly, my love."
Dore stood beside the bed, naked and confused. Dolksey pushed him to the door. She paused before he departed, looking by turns expectant, disappointed, and angry. Finally she grabbed him and kissed him fiercely. "Flee, my lion," she said, breathing warmly and moistly into his ear. Dore grasped the brass dryad knob and opened the door. Dolksey lunged and caught his hand. She brought it to her lips and kissed the fingers.
"You're really weird," he said, and stepped out into the hallway.
The door slammed shut behind him. He heard the click of the lock.
Dore hurried down the hall to his room. The door was locked and no one answered his frantic knocking. He went back to Dolksey. Of course, her door was locked fast. At last she answered his pounding, whispering to him through the heavy micha planks of her door. "Hurry, my heart. All the rooms are secured. No one may hide you. You must go before my father and brothers come again. They will let you escape if you go now. But if you tarry, for my sake, they will find and kill you. Our love is doomed; I know how your heart is breaking, even as is mine. But go, save yourself."
"Wait a minute!" Dore screamed. "You got my clothes in there! And my room's locked, too. I'm not leaving here without that sword!" He got no further answer. In the stillness he heard the tramping of feet on the front stairs. He hurried, undressed and unarmed, to the back stairway. He checked for guards: There were none. He ran down the stairs and out the back way. He did not stop running until he was across the overgrown yard and safely in the trees behind the house.
Chapter Two
Next: The Radishes of Doom
The reviews are in! What a luxurious feeling it is to get up and know that you've become a celebrity overnight. Outside the door to my tiny chamber was my copy of the Home Times-Register, a little local newsletter done on offset by Yord, an older brother of distressing cheerfulness. It is distributed free of charge to members of our family, but it is also available at a nominal cost to foreign households as well. On the third page I was gratified to see a two column-inch critique of my first chapter. The byline read "The Trunk-maker," but we are all aware that it is our sister Mylvelane who hides behind the allusion. She began by demonstrating her sympathy for my difficult assignment, and says that I have made an auspicious beginning, blending a compassionate portrait of Dore with an incisive view of our family life. The only negative thing she had to say was that I displayed a tendency to exaggerate facts for the sake of interesting reading. That is something that I'll have to watch.
But, nevertheless, I was greeted with a tremendous round of applause when I entered the cafeteria. My chapter was a hit. I am on my way to stardom. Tere himself came over to my table to congratulate me. "It's very much better than ever I might have hoped," he said.
"Thank you," I said, not quite knowing how to take his meaning. I've been writing for years.
"Yes," he said, "and if you ever need any technical assistance, why, feel free to drop by. I was very close to Dore, you know." His smile widened during the invitation, until by Dore's name it was practically a gloat. He may have been close to Dore, but Dore was never anywhere near him.
"Thank you," I said flatly, "I appreciate it very much."
"Nothing at all," said Tere, putting his plump pink hand on mine. "Well, I have to get back to work. Uneasy rests the head, you know." I can imagine.
And now I, too, have to get back to work. I have yesterday's chapter before me, and I believe that I will stop admiring it and get on with entangling Dore. Lalichë told me that she's worried about him already. I just smiled and patted her head. "There, there," I said, "he'll be all right. He's a Holy Pilgrim."
"Like Dante?" she asked hopefully.
"Yes, I suppose. He has all the trappings."
"But he's already lost his sword. How could he lose an enchanted sword?"
"It happens," I said.
Perhaps that is where I should begin today. Dore hid in the dense growth that fringed the clearing of the Thirtyfourth family. He was naked, but the warm sun of the late morning kept him from feeling uncomfortable. He did feel mightily insecure, though, for without clothes he was helpless and unfit for whatever social situations he might meet along his journey. He was of course without his Battlefriend, and he knew that facing the unknown terrors of Home unarmed was pure folly. Either he could try recovering his belongings or return, naked, to our house to make another start. He thought for a long time, while the branches scratched his bare skin and the thirsty insects had their way. He considered each possibility, and none seemed to him to have any good points at all. The sun reached and passed its noontime height, and began to slide down the other side of the bowl, arousing the white sky toward the evening rain. Still Dore pondered his dilemma, and could achieve no satisfying solution.
"Are these yours?" asked a voice behind Dore. Our brother was startled, and his nakedness magnified his sense of vulnerability.
"Who are you?" said Dore. It was a strange man, surely not a member of the Thirtyfourth household nor any other with which Dore was familiar. H
e was holding Dore's captured clothing and, most wonderfully, Battlefriend in its richly wrought scabbard. "Yes, those are my things. How did you get them?"
The stranger smiled and held the clothes and sword out to Dore. "My name is Glorian," he said, "and I have my ways." Once dressed, again Dore examined his benefactor. The man was tall and slender, his skin tanned dark over a well-muscled frame. When he smiled, which he did readily, his teeth were white and strong. His hair was blond and cut very short. Dore was fascinated by the man's eyes, which were the brown of the River after the evening's rain. Glorian's gaze was magnetic, and Dore at last decided that it was because of the clever use of the eyebrows, which were in constant motion. Perhaps the stranger wanted to appear sensitive and aware.
"So tell me about yourself," said Dore. "Where are you from?"
Glorian smiled again. "I have the Knowledge of the working of things. I have come from far away, but I have been with you always. I will be a mystery to you until you discover the simplicity of yourself. I have a strong back, and I love children and parties. Today I wear a ruby on my forehead; this may change as circumstances require. Today I like daffodils, marigolds, and common garden mint. But that will vary, too."
"You said your name was Glorian?" asked Dore.
"Yes. Why do you ask?"
"Nothing," said Dore, shaking his head skeptically.
"I will be of great service to you on your quest," said Glorian.
"What do you know of my journey?" asked Dore, suddenly suspicious.
"Everything."
"Oh," said Dore. There was an uncomfortable silence. "Thank you for finding my clothes."
"Nothing at all. Let's get going."
I have a regular gallery today. Standing behind me are my brothers Jelt, Wole, and Niln, and my sisters Aniatrese, Lalichë, Ateichál, and Dúnilaea. They follow my pen across the page like the spectators at a very slow tennis match. Only Lalichë will disturb me, interrupting at times to clarify some point. A little while ago she asked if Glorian was going to be a symbol. I told her to wait and see.
What Entropy Means to Me Page 2
