The company’s house-carriage stood on its six wheels in a cleared square of street, walls unfolded to make a stage. As Albin and Dora crawled down the pile and came closer, Dora saw that the interior was decorated to look like a run-down room in the city: overturned chairs, a shattered mirror on the wall, a small dining table on which stood the remains of an abandoned meal. In the middle of the room, Nestor was dressed in a gray uniform adorned with silver. He was clean-shaven, a distinguished man approaching old age. Journeyman stood next to him, dressed in the same style. He was wearing a black helmet and held something that looked like a branch but must have been a weapon.
In front of them stood Director, in a torn dress and headscarf. Her face was riddled with scars. She held her hands out in supplication.
“Have mercy, sir,” she said in a broken alto. “There’s nothing left of me. You promised to leave me alone, and yet you invaded my lands. You murdered my children. You burned my forests and razed my cities. Now everything is yours and nothing mine. Please leave us in peace. Let us live.”
Nestor’s voice boomed through the ruins. “You forced my hand!” He swept his hand to indicate the destruction. “Such a promising land it was, its people beautiful and pure. But you harbored a plague, and that plague must be cured.”
“We have suffered enough,” Director said.
“Then bow,” said Nestor, “and give the rest of your children to me.”
“Never,” Director replied.
“This might work,” Albin whispered to Dora where they sat in the rubble.
“What?” Dora asked, but Albin hushed her.
Onstage, Nestor smiled and pointed at Director. Journeyman lifted the black branch in his hands. A crack echoed through the city. Director slumped into a heap. Nestor turned outward.
“I am a just lord, with a just cause. My only wish is to better this world, to purify it of its ills. And so I have, once more.” He stepped back into the shadows.
Journeyman stepped to the front of the stage and faltered. He drew a small square of paper from his breast pocket and looked at it. Then he said, “The Child of the Motherland is supposed to show up now and convince me to rise up against the General.”
Director sat up and threw her hands out. “Well. We don’t have an actor to do that.”
Albin grabbed Dora’s hand and squeezed it so hard it almost hurt.
“But if we end the play here, then…” Journeyman trailed off.
“Then it will be a tragedy and not a story of hope in the face of destruction,” Director filled in. “Yes. But what’s our alternative? Nestor can’t play a child. We need an Apprentice.”
Journeyman raised his hands and let them drop again. “All right,” he said, and cleared his throat.
Albin’s hand left Dora’s, and before she could react she saw him careening down the slope.
Journeyman began: “Here ends the tale of—”
“No!” Albin shouted, halfway down the slope. “Wait!”
Journeyman and Director stared at him, incredulous.
Albin reached the ground and stumbled, skinning his knees. He got up so quickly that he almost fell over again, and ran to the stage. “I’ll be your Apprentice! I’ll do it,” he panted. “I’ll do it.”
There was a long moment of silence.
“You,” Director eventually said.
“Please,” Albin said. “I can’t stand to watch this.”
As Albin and Director stared at each other, Dora made her way down, and Journeyman spotted her. He hopped down from the stage and ran over to wrap his arms around her. He smelled of himself and acrid dust and sweat. Dora raised a hand and put it on his back. She could feel his heart hammering at his ribs.
“You came back,” he said.
Director clapped her hands. “No time to waste,” she said. “Explanations later. We have to finish this play. Now. Journeyman, give the boy the manuscript.”
Journeyman let go of Dora and held out the square of paper to Albin. Albin looked it over and nodded.
“I can do this.”
“What are you doing out there?” Nestor said from the back of the stage. He walked outside, still in his uniform. He took a look at Dora and Albin, raised his eyebrows, and let out a short “Ah.”
“I made an executive decision,” Director said. “This is the Child of the Motherland.”
“Very well,” Nestor said. “Shall I do the last line again?”
“Please do,” Director said, and lay down on the stage.
Journeyman climbed back up and held out a hand for Albin to join him.
Dora watched from the ground as Albin put on the role of the Child of the Motherland, effortlessly convincing the Soldier to rise up against the General. The Soldier shot the General, and confetti fell from the rafters as he cast his weapon down and held hands with the Child. By the time they were done, the entire troupe was crying. So was Albin. But they were smiling, too. Dora clapped her hands enthusiastically.
“Well,” Nestor said when they were done. “We will need an explanation.”
The troupe turned their heads toward Albin, who stood between Journeyman and Director.
“Apprentice died in a rockslide,” Dora said from the ground. “I buried her on the mountain. That’s all.”
The troupe turned to Dora as one.
“How exactly did she die?” Nestor asked.
“She played her flute, and stones fell on her,” Dora replied.
“Stupid girl,” Director mumbled.
“We felt it, you see,” Nestor said. “We just couldn’t see what had happened. It never appeared in the playbook.”
Director raised her eyes and gave Albin a stare that made him shrink back. “You lured her with you,” Director said. “You must have convinced her. Made promises.”
“That’s not true, and you know it,” Journeyman said. “Apprentice wanted to go ever since she came to us!” He pointed at Dora, then Albin. “And when these two showed up, of course she wanted to run off with them. She wanted to be with people who weren’t us. Do you pay attention to anything that goes on here?”
Nestor and Director looked at each other.
“I don’t…” Director said.
“She wanted to leave,” Journeyman said. “She was bored. This wasn’t the life she wanted.”
“She should have said so.”
“And get out how, exactly?” Journeyman retorted. “You know how often new actors show up.”
Nestor sat down on the stage. He took his cap off and tossed it into the rubble. He rubbed at his chin, studying Albin.
“It’s not our fault, and not theirs either,” Journeyman said. “Apprentice wasn’t cut out for this. She just didn’t know it when she signed on.”
Nestor cleared his throat. “Be that as it may, there is an empty spot that needs to be filled.” He gave Albin and Dora a kindly smile. “You see, children, we can’t put on our plays without an Apprentice. Everything goes wrong. The play you just saw? In the end, the Child of the Motherland comes to sow the Seed of Hope. Life would have sprung up again. That was one of Apprentice’s tasks: hope. Without Apprentice, the world isn’t saved. Yet we must keep putting on our plays. And little by little, the universe slides out of joint. Until now.”
“I will stay,” Albin said.
The others fell silent. Director, Nestor, and Journeyman stared at him. He looked each of them in the eyes.
“I will be Apprentice until you find a new one,” he continued.
“You would?” Director said. “Why?”
Albin wiped at his face. It was still wet. “I found my parents. They’re dead and gone. But this…I could do this. I saved a world. I want to do it again.”
Nestor stroked his chin. “He does have the spark.”
“But this is not a decision to be
made lightly,” Director said.
“I’m not making it lightly,” Albin said.
“What about Dora?” Journeyman asked.
Dora looked at Albin, who gave her a stare. I have a plan, he had said. Dora had to trust him.
“I go where Albin goes,” she said.
“Albin?” Director blinked. “Ah. Your name.”
Nestor nodded. “Good name.”
“That wouldn’t be a problem, would it,” Journeyman said, and moved to stand beside Dora. He looked up at her with a hopeful gleam in his eyes. “Them coming with us.”
Nestor chuckled and shook his head. “It would certainly be a perk for some of us.”
Director twirled the shawl between her fingers. “It’s not a bad plan,” she mused.
“So we are in agreement?” Nestor asked.
Director and Journeyman nodded.
“I see no reason to wait,” Director said. “Nestor, will you do the honors?”
The troupe closed in around Dora and Albin. Journeyman embraced Dora and Albin from behind. Director slid her hand around Albin’s shoulders. Nestor took Albin’s face in his hands. Up close, Dora could see how the creases by Nestor’s eyes were slightly paler than the rest of his face. The inside rims of his eyes were turning outward with age, but the irises were a clear and shifting brown, like leaves at the bottom of a winter puddle. He smelled of old teeth and face paint.
“What is your name?” he asked Albin.
“Albin Jönsson,” Albin replied.
“Then say after me, ‘I, Albin Jönsson, swear to serve as Apprentice until a new Apprentice is found.’ ”
Albin repeated Nestor’s words. Nestor kissed his forehead. Then he took a step back.
“Welcome, my dears, to the Memory Theater,” Director said. “We are going to put on an excellent show.”
* * *
—
Albin slid into his role as Apprentice like hand into silken glove. He brought finesse and emotional presence to his characters. Director said he was a natural. They put on play after play, all fetched from Director’s playbook. Dora watched and applauded.
There were things Albin could not do yet. Sometimes, the plays the company put on were about people who weren’t human-shaped. There were stories about people with hive minds and spindly legs; stories about undulating beings that made Dora’s eyes hurt; stories about people made of sound. Albin bravely put on costumes and imitated the others’ movements and voices. Director said that he would eventually learn other forms, if he stayed.
In his spare time, Albin wrote. He wouldn’t show anyone what it was; he had asked for paper and pen, and said it was a diary. Nestor had patted him on the shoulder and said it was therapeutic. Not even Dora was allowed to know.
This meant she had plenty of time to think. She dreamed about the mountains often: the great silence, the vast spaces, the calm of massive stone. She thought about seeing Grandmother and Grandfather again, about hearing the saajvoe sing.
Journeyman kept close, but not too close; he was waiting for something. Dora thought she knew what it was, but she didn’t want to give it to him, and told him as much. Not ever? Journeyman had asked. Not ever, Dora had replied.
In the mountains, no one would look at her and hope for things. Dora found herself slowing down. Noise and movement became more stressful. She slept longer and longer. Albin said he worried about her. Nestor said that perhaps she was coming into her true nature, whatever that was. What is the word for when you think of where you came from and become sad? she asked Journeyman once. Homesick, he had answered. You’re homesick.
* * *
—
One day, Albin came over to her as they were preparing for the sixteenth play, The Great Tragedy of Ossa-Fara. He was dressed in the dun robes of the Penitent Brother, face painted in a white mask.
“I need you to do something,” he said.
“Yes,” Dora said without hesitation.
“I said I had a plan,” Albin continued. “It’s time to make that plan happen.”
He reached into the folds of his robe and drew out a bundle of papers. “Dora,” he said, “I need you to put this in Director’s book while we’re putting on the play. They mustn’t notice.”
“Why?” Dora asked.
“Just trust me, please. Will you do this for me?”
“I will,” Dora replied.
When all the actors were onstage and Director was holding a passionate speech as the great queen Ossa-Fara, stricken by madness and about to obliterate her own lands, Dora snuck behind the curtain and found Director’s playbook where it lay on her dressing table. She lifted the cover, and it was empty. Dora stuck Albin’s bundle of papers in there and went back to her couch in front of the stage.
The great queen Ossa-Fara was assassinated by the Penitent Brother, and the Crone sang her lilting song, and it was over.
“A middling performance,” Nestor muttered as he took off the Crone’s wig.
“You can’t hit all the notes every single time,” Journeyman said. “I thought it was great.”
“Everyone!” Director shouted from behind the stage.
“What?” Nestor shouted back.
Director lifted the curtain and came out, brandishing the playbook. “There’s a new play,” she said.
“So soon?” Nestor said. “Must be urgent.”
“It might be,” Director said. “Just look at the title. I think we need to do it right away.”
“What is it?” Albin asked.
“It seems to have your old enemy in it,” Director said, and grinned.
33
The Fall of the Gardens
PROLOGUE
CHORUS:
Welcome, one and all, into the Gardens,
Where time does not exist, nor night or day,
Where lords and ladies in eternal twilight
Torture children, feast, and dance, and play.
A lady, once cast out, returns to join them
Unwittingly about to seal her fate.
Here, we tell the tale of how Augusta
Brought the Gardens to a tragic end.
SCENE I
A lawn, with small chairs and tables to the side. Two Revelers are playing croquet with a lump of meat. The Lady Mnemosyne watches from a divan. Augusta Prima enters from stage left.
AUGUSTA:
Here I am at last, back from my travels;
The road was long and bloody, full of murder,
For I am a villain with a cause.
Let me see if they have missed my presence.
Augusta takes another step, revealing herself.
AUGUSTA:
I have returned, beloved gentlefolk!
Once cast out, I hope now to be welcomed back.
MNEMOSYNE:
Augusta! I know not of what you speak.
Please take a club and play croquet with us.
REVELER 1:
Yes, Augusta, play a game with us!
REVELER 2:
There is wine and all the birds are singing.
REVELER 1:
We killed a servant and devour’d him.
His kidney makes a perfect croquet ball.
The Revelers take Augusta’s hands. They dance across the stage. Augusta laughs and dances along.
REVELERS:
Sing for youth and beauty, sing for evermore!
Sing for feast and revelry, sing for nature’s gifts!
AUGUSTA:
I think I was elsewhere but have forgotten.
How beautiful this never-ending feast.
Augusta continues to sing and dance, but from her hands, a miasma begins to ooze like black smoke. She walks across the stage, caressing trees,
flowers, and the Revelers. The trees droop, the flowers wilt, and the Revelers’ clothes begin to fray where she has touched them. Augusta dances past Mnemosyne and lightly touches her hand.
Reveler 1 stops and clutches his chest.
REVELER 1:
Zounds! What is this stinging feeling?
’Tis like an arrow in my shriveled heart.
REVELER 2:
I, too, can feel a dreadful shiver inside.
Something is afoot; I sense it coming.
AUGUSTA:
Whatever do you mean, my lovely darlings?
Reveler 1 shudders and slumps to the ground. Reveler 2 coughs up a stream of blood. Mnemosyne holds up her hands and looks at them. As she does so, her gown falls from her shoulders to reveal a skeletal rib cage.
MNEMOSYNE:
What is this awful thing? Is Death a-coming?
We have not invited it to visit.
Reveler 2 sinks to his knees. Mnemosyne stands up and points at Augusta.
MNEMOSYNE:
Augusta, why does your touch bring a rot?
AUGUSTA:
I know not what you mean; I’m merely dancing.
Never would I put my kind in danger.
MNEMOSYNE:
Doom has come to visit and you brought it.
A curse on you, oh foul Lady Augusta!
Mnemosyne falls to the ground and lets out one last breath. Augusta tears at her own shirt; beneath, her flesh is falling apart.
AUGUSTA:
It cannot be! The Gardens are immortal!
What have we done to see this awful fate?
My lady and my fellows are succumbing
To some strange plague, and so am I.
What have I done? What will become of me?
How sad, to end like this, a ruin,
Where once I was a lady of the court.
Vines climb up Augusta’s arms and cover her face. She slumps to the ground and lies still.
The Memory Theater Page 16
