Land of the Beautiful Dead

by Smith, R. Lee

  In the kind of inspiration that only being bored and unsupervised can evoke, Lan pushed two tables together and began to pull books off the shelves with the intention of building a little fort. It was harder than it looked. What should have been a simple matter of stacking books evolved into a process of first sorting them into like sizes and then layering them in an overlapping pattern against a stabilizing backdrop of a curtain she had pulled down and draped over the tables, with the largest, heaviest books arranged all along the bottom in a footer to keep the curtain as flat and straight as possible. She was nearly done and already eying the closest end tables for a likely volunteer to be a second story when the doors opened.

  The dead man who entered was dressed neither as a guard nor a servant, just a man in a suit. He wore a tie and had a black leather case in one hand, squarish and hard, not big enough to be terribly useful to Lan’s eye. He looked like a man in an old magazine, the kind who worked at jobs no one had anymore.

  He somehow switched on the overhead lights as he entered, then glanced around and saw Lan. His head cocked. “I say, that’s marvelous,” he said.

  “It’s not finished,” Lan heard herself reply inanely. She looked back at the window where a curtain ought to be hanging and shuffled awkwardly to her feet. “I can put it all back. I mostly remember where it goes.”

  “There’s no hurry, is there?” The dead man put his case down on a table, shrugged out of his jacket and hung it over the back of a chair. Unbuttoning his cuffs, he rolled up his sleeves and came over to join her. “What are we about?”

  “I was…going to put another one on top.”

  “Capital.” The dead man scouted around and lit on a desk. He pointed, raising an eyebrow at her inquiringly.

  “Who are you?”

  “Master Lareow is the name I’ve been given, but I don’t much care for it.” He offered his hand to shake.

  Beginning to feel as though this, too, were a dream, Lan tentatively shook it. His hand was cold and very smooth. “And…sorry, but who are you?”

  “Lareow, which is to say, it isn’t, but that’s the name I’ve been given and I answer to it.”

  “What is it really?”

  “Wickham,” he said after a long, assessing pause. “Master Wickham, if you like. I’m your lessons master. I’ll be tutoring you during your stay. Shall we?”

  He went over to take one end of the desk, more or less forcing Lan to take the other, and between them, they muscled it up and on top of her book-fort. Then he went to the shelves for more bricks and Lan was left to stare after him, trying to make sense of his last words.

  “What sort of lessons?” she asked finally, because all she could think was that she hadn’t done her dollying right and this was some sort of sexual thing, all ‘lick this’ and ‘wiggle that’, and she wasn’t sure whether to be insulted yet or grateful.

  “Well, that’s to be determined. Our first step will be to assess your present level of education and then we’ll work out a curriculum, but I’m very open, as a rule. Have you some interest or area of study on which you’d like to focus?”

  “No. What? No.”

  “You needn’t feel embarrassed to ask. Lord Azrael encourages his companions to develop hobbies. Architecture, perhaps?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Building design.” He gestured at the fort that had somehow become a team effort and began to lay in a row of books around the base of the second story. “It’s one of my own interests, as a matter of fact, and I consider myself quite the amateur authority.”

  It had never occurred to her that the dead might have interests, amateur or otherwise. Lan watched him build walls around the desk, alternating fat books with skinny ones and occasionally setting one of the really big ones in with the cover facing out, like a window. He even knocked up a dormer in front where the desk was open. Last of all, he set a lamp on the very top in the corner for a chimney.

  “Right,” he said, stepping back to admire the end result before gesturing toward the table where he’d left his case. “Shall we have at it?”

  Lan sat and watched curiously as he opened his case and brought out two more books, blank ones. Well, hers was blank. His had handwriting in it, but he flipped through until he came to the blank part. Then he brought out a pen and bottle of ink for himself and a pencil for her, already sharpened. He dipped his nib, wrote a few lines in comfortable silence, then gave her a pleasant smile and said, “Your name?”

  “Lan. Lanachee,” she amended, because this felt very formal. “I don’t have a last name. Bit of a bastard.”

  “Quite all right, I don’t have a first name,” he replied. “Bit of dead. Spell it out for me, please?”

  She did nothing. There was nothing she knew to do.

  After a moment, he looked up from his book and tapped at hers. “Please,” he said again.

  Slowly, Lan picked up her pencil. She touched it to the page, near the top. When he merely sat there smiling at her, she bent her neck and stared at the paper. After a while, she made a few lines and looked at him. His smile was unchanged. She made a few more. Added a loop. Put a full stop at the end. And put her pencil down.

  “All right,” he said gently and wrote another line or two in his own book. “How are you at sums?”

  “Some of what?”

  “If I have two pencils and you give me three more, how many pencils do I have?”

  “Five,” replied Lan. “But I don’t know what you think I’d be doing with so many bloody pencils lying about.”

  “The wall of a certain greenhouse is made from glass panels—”

  “They all are, mate.”

  “I believe you’ve mispronounced ‘Master Wickham’ there, but that’s all right. Our lord has arranged for someone else to help you with your elocution. Now. This particular wall is four panels tall and twelve panels long. How many panels are needed to create an entire wall?”

  “Vents or doors?”

  “Not in this case.”

  “Forty-eight.”

  “The greenhouse can hold six rows of ten plots each. You can plant four beans on each plot or one marrow. If you plant sixteen marrows, how many beans do you plant?”

  Lan peered at him. “You don’t know much about farming, do you? You plant them both together with a sprout of corn. The beans climb the corn and the marrow grows on the bottom.”

  “Tomatoes and marrow, then.”

  Lan did the figuring. “A hundred and…say fifty to be sure. They won’t all take.”

  He wrote in his book. “What are clouds made of?”

  Lan shrugged. “Weather?”

  “What is the surface of the moon like?”

  “Snowy, I reckon. Looks snowy.”

  “Name a component of the circulatory system.”

  “I don’t know. Circles?”

  “Sheep are to wool as hens are to what?”

  “Eggs and feathers.”

  “Explain?”

  “Sheep are covered in wool and hens are covered in feathers. Sheep give wool and hens give eggs.”

  He wrote and then closed his book and smiled at her. “That’s enough for now. I’ll need a few days to design a lesson plan and then I’ll be back.”

  “For what?”

  “To begin with, I’ll be teaching you to read.”

  “What in the hell for?” Lan sputtered. “I don’t need to know reading!”

  “No? Why not?”

  She didn’t know how to answer, but only because the reason seemed so self-evident. It wasn’t that reading itself was pointless. She could see the sense of it, but only in the same way she could see the sense of glazing or smithing; it was a useful skill for a community to possess, not an individual, much less many individuals in the same community. The very fact that there was someone whose sole function was to teach reading made it completely unnecessary for anyone else to learn.

  But although these thoughts were clear enough in her head, Lan couldn’t find the words
and had to settle for the profoundly inadequate: “Because.”

  “I see. Once you learn to read,” he went on, repacking his case, “we can begin a proper course of studies. We’ll be meeting here every morning after breakfast, concluding at six o’clock on full days, one o’clock on half days. You may address me as Master Wickham or as Sir, but you needn’t apply honorifics every time you speak. I’m not overly strict about such things. Shall I call you Lan or Lanachee?”

  “Why do I have to have lessons at all? You know I’m just his dolly, right?”

  His polite smile softened. “You’re alive, Lan,” he said. “You’re not ‘his’ anything.” And as she stared at him, he rose and put out his hand for her to shake again.

  Again, she shook it.

  “It was a pleasure meeting you,” he said and left. “All yours,” she heard him say and in through the door came a dead woman pushing a trolley. On the trolley was a coffee service and no sooner did Lan clap eyes to it than the smell hit.

  She hopped up eagerly, in spite of that nagging twinge that tried to tell her it might be poison, and the dead woman snapped, “Sit down.”

  Lan sat.

  “Don’t plop. Do it again.”

  “Do what again?”

  “Stand up. Keep your back straight.”

  Slowly, Lan stood.

  “Now sit.”

  “Lady, make up your mind.”

  “Sit!”

  Lan sat.

  “No slouching! Keep your back straight. Do it again!”

  Lan eyed the coffee and the assortment of covered dishes accompanying it and heaved herself grudgingly to her feet. She opened her arms in a broad happy now? gesture and sat for the third bloody time.

  The dead woman sniffed and began to set things out on the table. There was a lot of silverware. Since it looked like she’d be at it for a while, Lan reached for the coffee and immediately got her hand slapped. She had to watch as the trolley was entirely unpacked onto the table and all she could do about it was stand up and sit down a half-dozen times more because she kept fidgeting.

  “Now,” the dead woman began, taking the last item off the trolley—a long, thin switch—and holding it ominously over Lan. “I will be instructing you in etiquette—”

  “What’s that?”

  Swwwap, went the switch, laying a stinging stripe across Lan’s back, just below her shoulder blades. She leapt up with a howl and the dead woman brought the switch down again, this time with a barked, “Sit!”

  Lan sat, both hands gripping her back as far as she could reach, which was not far enough to touch the pain, not that she was sure she wanted to. She stared up with wide eyes as the dead woman folded her arms and sniffed at her, the tip of the switch twitching like the tail of a hunting cat.

  “Etiquette is another word for manners. Manners,” she added with undisguised snideness, “are polite behaviors separating civilized societies from those like yours, such as the behavior of not interrupting when someone is speaking. Sit up straight and close your mouth. Keep your hands folded in your lap unless you are eating. When you eat, you may rest your wrists on the table.”

  “Can I learn this from the other bloke?”

  Swwwap, went the switch. Lan let out a yell, earning herself another stripe, but she managed to keep her seat and spare herself a third.

  “Napkins,” announced the dead woman. “Napkins are not ornamental. You must use your napkin at every meal. When presented with a napkin ring, remove it and place it to the left of your plate. If it is presented folded, unfold it in a smooth motion without,” she stressed, glaring at Lan, “snapping or shaking it. Now. Pick up your napkin.”

  Lan obeyed, fussing it open in a distinctly unsmooth motion. She held it tensely in her fist, watching the switch.

  “Now set it on the table to the right of your plate. Never use your napkin to wipe or rub at your face, but only in a blotting motion. Blot your lips before drinking to avoid leaving lipstick on your cup.” The dead woman poured Lan a cup of coffee and set that firmly before her. “Drink.”

  Lan eyed the cream and sugar, then the switch. She picked the cup up.

  “Wrong!” barked the dead woman. “What did I just say to you?”

  “You said drink!”

  “I said blot your lips before you drink!”

  “I’m not wearing bloody lipstick, am I?”

  Swwwap, went the switch. “Ladies do not say bloody and they do not raise their voices at the table! Now drink!”

  Lan snatched up her napkin, slapped it against her mouth a few times, then grabbed her cup and gulped it dry.

  The dead woman pinched the bridge of her nose for a second or two, then suddenly pulled out the tutor’s chair and sat down. She kept her back straight. “My job,” she said tightly, “is to teach my lord’s whores to comport themselves like ladies. This is my job because he has raised me to this purpose and to no other. One can only assume he did this because he has no desire for the company of whores who act like mannerless swine, such as yourself.”

  As she said this, and without taking her eyes from Lan’s, she reached across the table and poured Lan another cup of coffee. “I can only teach,” she said, placing the cup back on its saucer. “I cannot force you to learn. My place in Haven is assured either way. Yours is dependent upon our lord’s favor. I have seen dozens like you, who think they have only to open their legs and close their eyes and make no other effort. I have seen them turned out, begging with every breath for another chance. Our lord gives no second chances. Drink.”

  Lan picked up the napkin and patted at her lips, then picked up the cup and sipped through her clenched jaws.

  “We will meet here every other day at two o’clock until four o’clock. You will learn how to walk, how to sit and stand, how and when to speak, how to eat and, if our lord desires you to learn, how to dance.” The dead woman gestured to a bowl of breads. “Take a roll and place it on the smaller dish to the left of your plate.”

  Lan obeyed. “Where is Azrael? Will I see him today?”

  “It is none of your concern. When he desires your company, he will send for you. This is your breadknife. Pick it up and hold it between your thumb and forefinger. Under no circumstance should you hold any utensil in your fist. Using your breadknife, take some butter and place it on your bread plate. Never butter your bread directly from the butter dish.”

  “Is he all right?”

  “Our lord is eternal.”

  “But when you saw him, did he look all right?”

  It seemed to Lan that the dead woman hesitated and that her cool tone was touched by the thinnest crack of resentment when she said, “I do not speak directly with our lord. His orders were carried to me.”

  “By who?”

  “Whom.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “By whom, you illiterate—! By Deimos, captain of the Revenant Guard. Pay attention! Break off small portions of bread when you wish to eat them and butter them individually with your breadknife. Under no circumstances are you to butter your entire roll and, my God!” she cried suddenly, switching Lan’s hand three times in rapid succession. “Never lick your knife!”

  “Ouch! Fine! Buggering fuck! Leave off with that beshitted thing!”

  The dead woman let out a sound like the chirping of a bird, staring at her with an indignation that was nearly horror. “Ladies,” she sputtered at last. “Ladies do not say bugger or fuck!”

  “But beshitted’s all right?” Lan asked cautiously.

  “No, it is not!”

  “You know, I may not be as mannered-up as you are, but in Norwood, it’s rude to yell at the table.”

  The dead woman actually hung her mouth open for a second or two before snapping it shut. Lips tightly pressed together, she uncovered a bowl of porridge and set it on the plate before Lan. “Pick up your spoon,” she said tersely. “Always taste your food before adding salt, spices or sweeteners, so as not to insult the cook or the host.”

  “Ca
n I talk to Deimos?” Lan asked, taking a healthy bite of porridge.

  “May I. The question is not whether you can, but whether you may.”

  “Whatever! Can I talk to him or not—ow!”

  “One does not reach for things across the table,” the dead woman informed her as Lan shook the sting out of her switched hand. “One asks for objects to be passed.”

  “Pass the bloody honey! Ow!”

  “Ladies do not say bloody. If you wish to speak with the captain,” the dead woman continued, passing the pot of honey, “I will send him word after our lesson, if and only if I am satisfied with your performance. Whether or not he chooses to meet with you is none of my affair. Shall we proceed?”

  Lan looked at the table, where half a dozen covered dishes and at least as many untouched utensils remained, each one a trap armed with switches. How badly did she want to know about Azrael? For that matter, how badly did she want to eat?

  “Please pass the cream,” she said sullenly.

  “Keep your back straight and chin up. Smile. A lady must be pleasing to others in attitude and in appearance at all times.” The dead woman picked up the cream and held it. “Again.”

  Lan pasted on a fierce grin. “Please pass the—” Bloody. “—cream.”

  The dead woman passed it. “And now we say…?”

  Lan considered her options, still smiling. “Thank you.”

  “Good.” The dead woman took both cream and honey back and placed them out of Lan’s reach. “Now do it again.”

  * * *

  The day passed. The rain came and went, sometimes in noisy gusts against the colored glass and sometimes drip by lingering drip off the eaves. In the greenhouses, Azrael’s workers went back and forth about their business regardless of the weather. Sometimes Lan stood at the windows and watched them. Sometimes she sat in her fort and looked at books.

  The servants came and went inside as well. They brought tea and biscuits at one point, which Lan ate without any bloody manners at all. They took away her chamberpot and replaced it with a clean one twice. They brought dinner on a tray and a bottle of wine when the sun got low and came back at full dark to clear her mess away. They brought a fresh dress and laid it out for the morning. They brought a pitcher of water and a clean glass in case she got thirsty in the night. They ignored Lan save to answer only those questions it was their job to answer, like, “What is that?” (it was creamed spinach) and “Can I go to the toilet?” (no), but if they could answer with a nod or a shake of the head, they did. If they didn’t have to look directly at her, they didn’t. If she stepped in front of them, they went around.