The colonel stared from the doorway. “Some kind of scavenger—”
“Slightly more than that, Colonel. They disarmed a star cruiser. The finest security system in space was breached.”
“They’ll harass the fleet into its grave. They’ll pick us bare.”
“Quite,” said the captain, and went back along the corridor, to the reserve power unit, where his Second had already begun a check. “They overlooked it, sir.”
“Can we fly?”
“We can make rendezvous, Captain, that’s about all. Then we shall have to transfer. The ship is lost.”
The captain rubbed his face wearily, calculating the magnitude of such a loss. Their ships were life to them; nomads could have it no other way. He turned, as the colonel came into the room behind him. “Radio your command, Colonel. Inform them that we’ve learned the single most important fact about this planet.”
“And what is that?”
“That it isn’t worth it.” The captain sent the expeditionary team to their emergency stations and took his position at the controls of the secondary unit. The torn, hanging hatches were pulled shut. The engines fired and the tilted ship righted itself. A second blast lifted it wobbling into the air, and like a tattered turban it rose slowly over the Bronx.
The ship pivoted precariously above the dark city-scape, in the direction of its rendezvous, a radio message already seeking out the distant mother ship that awaited them.
“. . . disastrous encounter . . . ship nearly destroyed . . . request immediate assistance . . .”
The beaten battle wagon accelerated upward, hull shaking loudly. Written upon it in pastel spray paint was an inscription:
THE BALDIES
With a violent shudder the ship, and its inscription, faded into the farther reaches of the night sky.
That Winter
When Prince Borisov
Was Everybody’s
Favorite
The courtiers of the palace of Empress Anna Ivanovna conceived a wonderful plan—the erecting of a palace of ice. The Empress, bored by an especially long winter, thought it a splendid project. Workmen were brought from all over St. Petersburg and its outlying districts.
A large open field on the edge of the city was chosen for the building site. Blocks of snow were formed from the drifts there, and blocks of ice were hewn from the river and carried to the field. The ladies and gentlemen of the court came each day to watch the marvelous fancy take shape. They did not stay long, for the cold was severe. Only workmen continually on the move were able to spend the day there.
The ice palace rose up daily, one wall of blocks atop another. When completed it was a small but striking edifice, a miniature gem of sparkling brilliance, caught by the distant January sun.
“Princess Kutisi, you must come inside,” called Prince Borisov, the young man who first thought of the marvelous palace, and who had contributed most of the money for its construction.
The sun beamed through the windows and the translucent walls were glowing. Princess Kutisi skipped through the fairy-palace, streams of mist leaving her delicate nose and mouth. “How delightful,” she said, whirling in her furs like a fairy-princess. The court was usually so dull. They were indebted to Prince Borisov for his extraordinary idea. “But it’s awfully bare,” she said after touring the rooms.
Prince Borisov rose to the occasion, glowing like the luminous interior of his palace. “We shall have furniture—of ice!”
The German cabinetmaker, Herr Oberhaffen, and his assistant, Brummer, were given the task of furnishing the ice palace.
“Beautiful,” said young Brummer, entering the frozen building.
“The Russian brain,” said Herr Oberhaffen, later, when they were alone, shaping the chair legs of ice, “shrinks in the cold weather.”
Wing chairs, divans, and tables were constructed, and a magnificent bed. Young Brummer shaped the four posts of the bed in the form of nymphs. Herr Oberhaffen remarked that French blood must have tragically inserted itself somewhere in Brummer’s ancestry, but the young man continued to shape figures into the headboard, elves and fairies of ice cavorting above the snow pillows.
Princess Kutisi and the other young women of the court fluttered around the furnished palace, testing the new chairs, but not for long. They certainly did not want to get rheumatism in their lovely hips.
“In summer we shall build a palace beneath the sea, eh?” said the old German as he took the handsome purse of his wages from Prince Borisov.
“Why, yes. What an idea!” exclaimed the Prince, and young Brummer was already decorating in his imagination the undersea bedroom, with mermaids bearing shells of plenty, their tails curled around the bedposts.
“What a pity that no one lives here,” said Princess Kutisi, when she and the Prince were once again outside, beneath the gleaming walls of ice, which had been sprayed with water to solidify the seams.
“Well, then, someone shall live here,” said Prince Borisov.
That night the throne room of the Empress was filled with a strange topic—the marriage feast next day of two serfs; but it was no ordinary marriage and Empress Anna remarked to the Prince that it was charming of him to have given the young couple the ice palace to live in.
The couple was a clownish pair—Yar Passock, stableboy of Prince Borisov, and Katris, a servant girl from the retinue of Princess Kutisi. In clothes of great splendor, such as they had never worn, nor ever dreamed of wearing—a brocade suit and cape for the stableboy, a gown of fine, intricate lace for the servant girl—the couple was led to the altar of the cathedral of St. Petersburg, and with the entire court of the Empress Anna Ivanovna in attendance, they were solemnly wed by a patriarch of the Church.
Court gossip was that this peasant union was but the shadow of an impending marriage between Prince Borisov and Princess Kutisi, and so all were in an intoxicated mood when the newlyweds were carried in gilded coach, seated on silk cushions, to their marriage palace, which stood glistening in the moonlight.
“Oh, Yar,” said the excited servant girl as they drew near, “it is so thrilling.”
“Yes,” said the stableboy, “our master and mistress believe in sharing good things.”
“We are very lucky,” said Katris, cuddling next to her husband. What strange fate to have been cast up so high, so suddenly, when but a day ago she was carrying hot water to her mistress’s bath. Now I am a mistress myself, of a palace! Who would have dreamed that the place which had been the center of every eye in St. Petersburg for a month would be hers!
The coach stopped. The stableboy opened the door, helping his wife down the steps, taking care she did not stumble in her vast, unfamiliar gown.
“My boy,” called the coachman, old Fonviz, who’d taught young Passock all he knew about horses.
Passock answered with only half-attention, for drawing near were the coaches of all the courtiers of the Empress, blazing with lamps, loud with voices.
“This place—” said the coachman, pointing with his whip to the fairy-palace, but the stableboy was not listening. Prince Borisov was beside him, filled with merriment, placing his hand on the boy’s shoulder, as one gentleman to another.
“Such a night as this brings many rewards,” said the Prince as they walked toward the silver-shining doorway. “First, you have won the greatest treasure—” He bowed his head toward the bride, who glowed with warmth beneath her white fur wraps. “And to it has been added your freedom, my son,” said the Prince in a fatherly tone, though he was not much older than his stableboy. “I have arranged for this field, on which your palace sits, to become rightfully yours at dawn. When summer comes you might wish to begin blacksmith work, and I shall see to it you have a few gold pieces to start you off.”
“My Prince,” said the stableboy, his eyes brimming with tears.
“Well, now, look sharp, the Empress has come!” The Prince and his blissful couple turned in the doorway, toward the clatter of royal hoofbeats, as the coach of t
he sovereign came down the road, between the rows of halted carriages, and itself halted, directly in front of the ice palace of Yar Passock.
The door of the carriage opened. The Empress placed her foot on its step.
“All hail!” cried Prince Borisov, and a cheer from the courtiers set the mood of the evening, of rollicking fun.
The tables of ice were loaded with food, and lamps were hung in every room, turning the walls of ice into magic shadow-shows. When the music began, the Empress enjoyed a waltz, but her feet grew too cold to finish and she left the dance floor to the more youthful revelers, whose fiery spirit could not be chilled, and of these Yar Passock and his wife, Katris of the snow-white veil, were most indefatigable, for they were free—free as the wind!
Princess Kutisi was unusually lovely that evening, in lengths of wild furs, her cheeks glowing, her shoes skipping over the ice floor as she waltzed with Prince Borisov, himself as striking as an emperor, possessing the tall, strong figure of his family, high cheekbones, dark, flashing eyes. And this night was his doing—a colorful celebration indeed. All knew he was the favorite of the Empress this winter, and a gift of some desirable acreage would be his, no doubt, with a fine palace upon it.
“To the bride!” cried Prince Borisov at midnight, leading the salute.
“To the groom!” Princess Kutisi signaled the final fanfare of the evening, and the last dance was played. The bride and groom waltzed alone, like a fairy-king and -queen, in their enchanted domain. The dance ended, Yar Passock bowed to his former chief, Prince Borisov, and stood at the doorway of the palace with his wife as his guests departed, one by one, the most noble faces in Petersburg, his guests!
The noise of the carriages diminished, the laughter faded, until there was only the wind, blowing through the cracks in the door and through the shutters of the windows. The couple went to the kitchen, where piles of food still remained on the tables. Yar Passock selected a finger of sausage and put it to his lips.
“Frozen already,” he said with a laugh, putting it back. “Well, it will keep all the better.”
“I’m cold,” said Katris, “now that everyone has gone.”
“Why, then, we shall cover you with furs,” said the lord of the frozen manor, and he led his wife to their bedroom, and the bed of ice, on which lay a pile of fine furs. “You just slip into these,” said the new husband solicitously, “and I shall bring all the lamps into this room. They shall throw a good heat.”
The girl crawled into the pile of furs, and curled herself into a tight ball. It was all so strange, like a story she’d heard as a child, but could not quite remember, about a princess, and something dreadful, but it turned out all right in the end. It always did.
Yar Passock entered with a string of lanterns in each hand, which he placed on ice tables at either side of the bed, so that the bedroom was lit up like a throne room, and the nymphs on the bedposts danced in the flickering light.
Katris curled herself deeper in the covers. “Please come now,” she said, “and hold me.”
“Yes,” said Yar Passock, “yes, dear wife.” He had drunk much wine, and he had warmth enough for both of them, warmth and plenty, a little shop of his own in springtime.
“Hold me,” she begged, shivering.
He held her, intimately as he could through their many furs. Katris was in there somewhere, her soft body his very own, for the taking, for the keeping.
“Just hold me,” she said.
“Yes,” he said. “We’ll warm up soon. One gets used to the cold. The blood thickens. All will be fine. Tomorrow we are free, and many stories will be told about us after this night, you’ll see. I wager we will enjoy the inside of the Empress’s palace. Yes, I’m certain of it!”
She felt warmer now that he was here. Such a strange wedding day, hard to believe, like a fairy tale. It was right on the edge of her memory, the princess goes to live with a young prince, but his castle is haunted—was that it? She could almost see the gay princess dancing. Grandmother had told her that story. I am so tired from all my dancing. And then she was asleep and dreamt the story and it did turn out fine in the end and they danced round and round.
Yar Passock’s own dream was of a splendor fitting for a man who has just gained his freedom. He and his wife were taken to the palace of the Empress. It was more fantastic than he’d imagined, with enormous ceilings, gold everywhere, tremendous music, and the Empress herself, radiant as an icon, was seated on her throne. How strange it should be made of ice, and her face was that of his own wife, Katris!
Prince Borisov and Princess Kutisi were the first of the courtiers to arrive next morning, after late breakfast. They were horribly surprised to find Yar Passock and his wife frozen in the embrace of death, and it was a whole day before the bodies were thawed enough to separate into different caskets.
In spite of this unusual end to the celebrated marriage, Prince Borisov received, as everyone had predicted, a large tract of land from the Empress, with a lovely summer palace on it, overlooking the sea. Plans for an undersea palace were discussed, but set aside for lack of experienced divers.
Fana
Al-nujum attached himself to a caravan, for he’d been alone long enough beneath the silent orbit of the stars. Now once again he might enjoy the voices of other drivers in the night.
Zahir, owner of the caravan, was an old acquaintance, whose throat Al-nujum had saved during an attack by the bandit known as Uncomfortable Hump. Al-nujum had crossed weapons with Uncomfortable Hump and smiled into the bandit’s filthy beard, which smelled so bad men often gagged in its presence. Zahir was thus ever ready to employ Al-nujum and to receive him into his tent, as he did now, at evening, calling for khalifati sweets and wine to be placed before himself and his guest.
“What piece of the Divine Plan, praise be its subtlety, have you discerned since last we met?” Smiling, the merchant extended the dish of sweetmeats to his favored employee.
“Nothing of consequence and yet—”
“Speak, swordsman, your voice cannot utter the inconsequential.”
“I’ve seen no one through months of wandering, speaking only to myself and my steed, and perhaps I have lost touch with what is real—”
“It is there one meets the First Angel of God.”
“Angel or devil, I do not know,” said Al-nujum. “In any case, I have not been quite myself, and on the day of which I shall tell, perhaps I drank more than is wise—”
“Our life is a lonely one, and the path is ever shifting.”
“I came to the three lakes of Uau-en-Namus, whose waters of blue, green, and red are the eyes of Allah, all homage to his beauty.”
“Indeed, we can only stand in awe before it, et cetera,” nodded Zahir.
“As I gazed at the waters of the red pool, an apparition rose before me, of a dancing girl, the loveliest of creatures. I watched her dance and forgot all weariness, self-doubt, and pain. But—” Al-nujum paused, sighing. “— she was a mirage, and I was left with nothing but water in my hands.”
“Yes,” said the merchant, “life is full of fading delights. I myself have spent the past year seeking a temple in the dunes. In my dreams I open it and find within, nestled upon a cushion of red velvet, a snake coiled around an enormous jewel. I steal the snake and leave the jewel. As for dancing girls, I have one with me, the most exquisite either of us has ever seen. I am selling her to Sultan Mahid-din, he-who-abolishes-religion, cursed be his name.”
“And who is this dancing girl?”
“She is called Fana.” The merchant signaled to the servant boy, then turned back to Al-nujum. “The Sultan, may he be overcharged in the bargain, has already given me a substantial down payment, but I myself paid a handsome price for this Moorish beauty, and she is said to possess talents other than the dance.” Old Zahir sighed, for in the past year he had lost the ability to perform at love, and the loss weighed heavily on his soul.
“The musicians, master.” The servant boy held the tent flap fo
r three troubadors who bore with them a three-hosed hookah of shining brass. Of the tribe called Veiled Men of the Sahara, their white face cloth would be lifted only to admit the mouthpiece of the hookah to their faintly smiling lips.
While the musicians tuned their instruments, Al-nujum relaxed upon silken pillows, beneath tent walls embroidered with stars. And then, from outside the tent, he heard the sound of ankle bells.
Fana entered, and Al-nujum rose with a start from his pillow. The adorable creature was the dancing girl of the mirage of Uau-en-Namus! She had risen from the waters of the red lake at morning and her dancing was, he’d thought, a dream. Now, as she came closer and her thin silken pants whispered at her hips, now, in the tent of his friend, Zahir—is Al-nujum still dreaming?
The old merchant leaned toward Al-nujum. “There is a certain bird, have you heard its song? They say a man may listen for a moment only.”
Her hair was shining black, decorated with a band of small sapphires which fastened behind her ears, holding there the knots of her veil, a thin seven-colored fabric through which her lips could be seen, and on them was a smile of aloofness, as if the men before her were the slaves, and not she.
“They have these airs,” Zahir said in a delighted whisper, and reached for another ripe fig bursting from its skin like Fana from her immodest costume.
She stood in the hushed moment before the downbeat of the drum, hand on her hip, the hip jutted out in languid indolence. The drum sounded, joined by flute and twanging strings, and the slave girl began the dance called Secret.
Exquisitely obscene movements rippled her body, and the jewel in her navel winked at Al-nujum. He stared, fascinated, then discovered his teeth were chattering. She turned, hips swiveling hypnotically, and Al-nujum’s body trembled, from a sorcery he could not comprehend; he was no child, he’d seen women dance before. But a goddess had entered Fana. Her profile astonished him, so perfect was its beauty, the eyes holding an understanding no man’s mind could compass. He sank into her magic, and ecstasy filled him. You are a sorceress, he whispered. I am a dancer, she replied, and her dance carried her past him.
Jewel of the Moon: Short Stories Page 10
