The sarcophagus itself was an unbearable brilliance, reflecting the light of devotional candles, which filled the room but for the narrow walkway around the resting place of Mipacanthus. Five of the six pilgrims within were in shadow at the far end of the vault. I saw the other one lean to place a candle amid the sea of flickering light. She was dressed all in dark, rich peacock blue; a mist of translucent veils that covered her entirely. As she leaned forward, a slim, brown arm came out of the folds to place a lighted candle. With her other hand, she brushed back the veils, and just for a moment, I could see her face. Such a face. Her profile was exquisite and noble. A single coil of black hair fell down her cheek. Her visible eye slanted upwards like the eyes of the women in the carvings on the wall. My heart, I think, stopped for a beat or two, and yet, though I was thrilled, I was strangely dismayed. It was a feeling almost impossible to describe. Then a bell chimed to advise the pilgrims they must leave the chamber, and a voice came from the shadows at the far end of the vault. Her name must have been spoken, though I could not catch it. She looked round towards the sound and, as her body swung, the corners of the veil wafted up and I could see the sea of candles through it, their flames rendered blue by the colour of the fabric. On light feet, she moved towards the shadows and disappeared from my sight.
By my side, Moomi, who had also been looking, uttered a soft hiss, that essentially feminine sound of disapproval. She muttered something in her own language and I remember I said, ‘What?’
‘Blue flame,’ she answered, and made a complicated gesture with her fingers against brow and chest. She shook her head, making the coins across her face swing and chime. ‘Her air, it change de hue o de flame.’
I laughed and my father looked round at us, holding out the candles. Before I could question Moomi further, we were ushered into the inner chamber.
Moomi seemed on edge as, together with three other pilgrims, we negotiated our way along the narrow walkway between the tomb and the sea of little flames. Her initial reluctance, however, was soon forgotten. The sarcophagus was every bit as magnificent, as we had hoped and expected. Constructed of crystal and gold, its quarters were guarded by sphinx-goddesses and gryphon gods, each bearing diamonds for eyes and gilden thread for hair. We had learned from the pamphlets that the jewels allowed the guardians a clear sight between the domain of earth and the realm of the unseen. Through diamonds, they observed each pilgrim that passed the tomb. Golden saints pressed their backs against the sides of the sarcophagus, but their eyes were blank and staring. Their human origin meant that, in death, they could only gaze inwards upon the spirit realm, and not out upon the earth.
In the event, it was difficult to see the body of Mipacanthus in any great detail, owing to the opulent embellishments of the tomb. We all stood on tiptoe to get a glimpse, though all I saw through the crystal plate, scattered with petals, was an indistinct pale face wreathed in what appeared to be fresh flowers. It was impossible to tell whether that face was beautiful or not, whether it exuded serenity or was merely blank. This undefined appearance actually lent the body an air of authenticity. I felt that had it been a carving or a waxwork, as I’d suspected, it would have been more visible, more obviously displayed. This unnerved me. Moomi made soft noises of adoration, while my father’s lips worked silently in a personal prayer. Presently, the bell chimed, and we were obliged to move on, out of the inner chamber into the prayer rooms beyond, where ropes of miniature lilies and other adjuncts to devotion could be purchased.
As we walked back to our hostel, I spoke to Moomi about the girl we had seen, she of the blue veils. Moomi made further sounds of disapproval. ‘De place attract dem,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘De air, de very air, it call dem.’
‘Calls what?’ I asked her, intrigued.
She turned her masked face towards me, and I felt the stab of her attention. ‘No ask,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘Not for you, young innocent. No.’
‘What is it, Alexi?’ my father enquired, distracted from his beatific silence by our conversation.
‘Nutting,’ said Moomi, and it was left at that.
After we left the Pyramid, I wanted to wander off alone. We all agreed to meet later at the plaza within the Great Library, where an open air eating place could be found. My father suggested I should visit the library and search for documents concerning the history of Elanen. He was curious about such things. I was not. Once free of my companions, I went looking for the girl. Often, I caught glimpses of that aching blue through the crowd, and hurried towards it, only for it to elude me. Probably it was someone else every time, though I did not like to think of the girl as a simple pilgrim mesmerised by the prophet’s cult. Rather, I imagined her as a scholar, disdainfully studying the phenomenon of Mipacanthus who would scorn his mindless followers. After having seen the body of the prophet myself, I was more disposed to understand his enduring fascination, but I was of that age when it is preferable to be different, set apart from the common herd. Also, my instincts had awoken, focusing on the unknown female, and the mystery that seemed to surround her.
At the end of the afternoon, as my feet mounted the hundred steps to the frontal columns of the Great Library, I had invested my phantom female with a full personality and history. Despite the disappointments of my afternoon’s search, I had no doubt that I would see her again, and in that, I was not wrong. Some things are simply meant to be; sometimes we are marked by the mordant wit of Fate.
I found the plaza very quickly for it was well sign-posted, but Moomi and my father had not yet arrived. After scuffing my feet for a few minutes, wondering whether to purchase a drink while I waited, I decided I might as well investigate the nearest chambers of the Library. The gloom of the great vaults seemed to draw me in and, once I stepped across the threshold into shadow, the outside world might as well have disappeared. The atmosphere was stern and forbidding, as if to foreshadow the arcana it would never divulge. Stylised portraits of Mipacanthus and his family adorned the soaring walls of the endless corridors. Sometimes the boy-king was represented as limpid, effeminate; a fragile creature doomed to early death. In others, I perceived a steel in his gaze, as if when he had modelled for the portrait he had been aware of the virtual immortality he would enjoy, and was cynically amused by it. As a prophet, he had no doubt foreseen his own future. He had apparently been very beautiful in life, but perhaps the portraits flattered him. There was, I thought, something inhuman about the absolute, slanting symmetry of his face.
I went into one book room after another, stifled by the density of the air that came at me like furred fists, almost knocking the breath from my lungs. Robed scholars pored over open tomes around enormous tables, their reverent fingers gloved in black silk as they handled the ancient pages. All the book-cases around them were caged and locked. I went into a smaller room, where an ancient man worked alone at a high desk. He did not notice my entrance, as all his concentration was centred on the book before him. His toothless mouth worked silently as he studied the words on the page; there was a repugnant intensity about him. He almost slavered as he read. This, I thought, was the true tomb of Mipacanthus. Here were his remains truly preserved, and the pawing scholars were dissectionists, peering at the inner workings of the corpse. A wave of nausea passed over me and I turned away, set on returning to the plaza.
A flash of blue registered in the corner of my eye as I stepped back into the corridor. I caught an impression of swift, invisible passage, and then, some way further down from me, I saw a trail of blue floating stuff disappearing into a doorway, following whoever wore it. Knowing at once it was the girl from the Pyramid, I almost ran down the corridor in pursuit. What I would say when I confronted her I had no idea, but the need to present myself was too compelling to ignore. As I ran, the first sounds to break the breathing silence of the Library careered from wall to wall above my head: the eerie echoes of a recital. I recognised the quatrain:
This will come... The great tails spread their eyes against the st
ars, and through them shall men see themselves as gods of wisdom, and women see themselves as beasts who have understandings beyond that of gods or men...
Cairus had interpreted this as meaning that once clear sight (enlightenment) had been achieved by humanity (the tail of the peacock), men would recognise their true spiritual state, based on intellect and learning, while women would reclaim their earthy powers, their own spirituality based on instinct and intuition. Another interpretation suggested that the spreading tails represented humanity’s vanity, and that men believed themselves (wrongly) to be gods, while women were vicious creatures, no better than demons. I had picked up quite a lot without realising it during the voyage up-river.
I stepped into the room.
It was in dimness, a tall, narrow box of a place, with a single table in its centre and the familiar lofty bookcases all around. A slender thread of light came in from a narrow window high in the left hand wall, snaring her in its radiance. She stood with her back to me, leaning on the table with stiff arms, but there was no book before her. If anything she seemed angry, as if she had paused for a moment to catch her breath and calm herself. The veils hung over her completely; they seemed almost cumbersome, yet I had seen her float along in them like a mist. The sight of her taut spine, which actually seemed to stick out through the thin layers of delicate fabric, filled me with an intense longing and also a sudden fear. I was afraid that should she turn to me, and throw back the veils, something hideous would be revealed. Perhaps the experience with Moomi the previous night had affected me more than I realised.
‘Go away! It isn’t here!’ she said. Her voice was clear and low-pitched; melodious, yet unusual in a woman.
I was so surprised, I took a step backwards towards the door. I must have muttered something for she turned round in a billowing of blue, her posture stooped and predatory. I could not see her face, although there seemed to be twin darknesses behind the veils where her eyes might be. It was obvious I was not whom she had expected to see.
‘Oh!’ she said in surprise, and uncoiled herself into an upright posture.
I presented my hands reflexively. ‘I saw you at the pyramid earlier...’
The words were pathetically lame. I sensed her studying me, assessing me, wondering, no doubt, how to escape me.
‘What a good memory you have,’ she said. Her tone was sharp, but the words did not suggest immediate flight.
I smiled; probably an awkward grimace. ‘I don’t mean to be importunate, but when I saw you coming in here... Well, I’m on my own, and I thought...’
‘Yes, you don’t have to tell me what you thought,’ she interrupted. ‘Sadly, I did not notice you earlier on.’
A wave of embarrassment shattered against my heart. I felt young and stupid. This was no local girl in the markets of Elanen, who might welcome a forced introduction; this was a stranger of whom I knew nothing, romantic fancies aside. I was making a fool of myself. I backed away, uttering apologies.
‘There is no need for that,’ she snapped. ‘If you want my company, you shall have it. I have finished here. We can go to the plaza while I wait for my companion, and you can attempt to interest me, if you are so inclined.’
Her forthright manner did not comply with the image I had created for her, an image which leaned more towards evasiveness and mystery. Still, I had found her, and she had not dismissed me outright. And it seemed I might have been right about her being a scholar, at least.
She slipped past me into the corridor, the edges of her veils wafting out to touch my clothes and hands. She carried with her a strange perfume, sweet yet salty. I wasn’t sure whether or not I liked it. Intrigued yet wary, I walked beside her. We were about the same height. ‘Are you studying here?’ I enquired politely.
‘No, hunting,’ she replied. ‘You, of course, are a tourist.’
I objected to her tone. ‘Not really. I’m here with my father, who is a devotee of the prophet. He needed company for the journey, so I agreed to come.’
‘How charitable of you.’
‘Charidotis is fascinating. I don’t look on it as a wasted trip. What are you hunting? A particular book?’
‘What else would you look for in a library?’
We walked out into the sunlight, and the girl chose a table and sat down. She made no move to order food or drink, and her air suggested she was waiting for me to see to that. Rather nettled, I went to the catering tables and purchased the cheapest items available, a small bread slab, spiced meat pate, and a flagon of iced water. She made no comment upon my choice when I returned to the table, nor thanked me, but simply broke off a piece of bread, secreted it beneath her veils and presumably chewed it.
‘I’m due to meet my father here,’ I said, looking round to see if I could spot him or Moomi.
‘Oh, he will be delighted to find you with me!’ Her voice was bitter.
‘I don’t think he’ll be bothered,’ I answered. ‘He’s not that sort of man.’
She laughed coarsely. ‘You don’t know what kind of woman I am.’
‘Indeed not. Perhaps we should begin with your name.’
‘Ast,’ she replied. ‘It’s short and sensible.’
‘Where are you from?’
‘Down-river. A dull place. You won’t know it.’
‘I’m Alexi,’ I said. She seemed not in the least bit interested, but I forged on painfully. ‘We come from Elanen. Perhaps you know it.’
‘Probably. I travel a lot. All towns and cities are the same essentially; full of people and their noise and stench.’
‘You prefer the countryside?’
‘Not really.’ She took a long drink of water, ignoring the cups I had brought and taking it straight from the flagon. I had a feeling of distaste, thinking I did not want to drink any of the water myself now that she had touched it with her lips. She drank through her veils, leaving a dark stain upon them. Was she really beautiful beneath the tissues of her disguise, or had just I imagined it in the dancing candlelight of the Pyramid? Her poise, however, did not suggest a plain or ill-favoured woman.
‘So tell me about the book you’re looking for,’ I said. ‘I hope it’s not another interpretation of the quatrains. I’ve had my fill of them on the way here!’
‘Ah, so you’re an expert,’ she said.
I ignored the sarcasm. ‘No, and nor do I want to be. You can read what you like into the prophecies. There are as many interpretations as there are interpreters.’
She nodded, and her tone, when she spoke, was not so sharp. ‘Yes, that’s right. It’s a case of finding the one interpretation that’s pertinent to yourself.’
‘I prefer to create my own philosophies.’
She shrugged. ‘That’s reasonable, although perhaps ignorant.’
I affected a scornful laugh. ‘I have no wish to become part of some mindless adulation for a long-dead poet. I prefer to look forward. The past is dead.’
‘In some ways, your views are refreshing,’ Ast conceded. ‘Still, you are in no position to criticise something you know so little about. I agree that the majority of people who come here are uninformed and sheeplike. Still, there are mysteries to be penetrated, if a person has the inclination to peer above the bowed heads of the masses.’
‘You speak with some authority.’ I hoped to draw her out, intrigued.
She was utterly still for a moment. ‘You would be surprised. The blind worship of Mipacanthus, and the continuing interpretation of his words - which become ever more esoteric and divorced from his original intentions as the years pass - are a screen for what is essentially a simple truth. Mipacanthus was unparalleled, but perhaps not in the way most people think. They are blind and lazy. He has been deified and now they worship him, perhaps because he was pleasing to the eye...’
‘He was also incredibly prolific,’ I said, wishing to contribute to her remarks. There’s enough of his writings to keep a whole world busy interpreting for centuries. However, I think you can read what you like into
the quatrains. Most of the interpretations are verified only in retrospect.’
Ast nodded again. ‘Mmm. I don’t dispute that. The book I am searching for does not attempt to foretell the future, but simply to explain the past.’ She leaned towards me a little. ‘Do you know anything about Mipacanthus?’
I shrugged. ‘Not really. Only that he was young when he died, and he wrote a lot.’
Ast laughed. ‘Your inexperience is pleasing! You are like an uninterpreted quatrain, aren’t you. Nobody’s had their paws on you!’
I was embarrassed by her remarks, not least because she had divined a certain truth about me.
‘Let me tell you a little,’ she continued. ‘While Mipacanthus lived, he had a retinue of priestesses who cared for him. No others were allowed near him. They were appointed by his mother on the day of his birth. In some books, you will find it written that she was a sorceress, who had commerce with demons. It is said the priestesses kept a terrible secret about the boy, that he was not entirely human, though that is probably propaganda. There is no proof that Mipacanthus’ father was not the king! The books that make the most interesting reading are the least reliable. Unfortunately!’
I smiled. ‘Is your book like that, the one you’re looking for?’
Ast ignored the question. ‘When Mipacanthus died - and he was not that young, about twenty-nine - the priestesses embalmed his body themselves, and it was sealed into the gold and crystal catafalque. The secret, if there was one, is now hidden for eternity.’
‘Unless someone breaks open the tomb.’
‘Or recognises the knowledge in one of the books. Mipacanthus wrote more about himself than people realise. They find global-scale pronouncements in what are clearly simple observations on his own life. I, and my companions, are scholars. We come regularly to Charidotis to study in the Library - for as long as our funds will sustain us.’
Thorn Boy and Other Dreams of Dark Desire Page 32
