The Autumn Castle

by Kim Wilkins

  I stood in front of the Bone Wife, my hands unable to find a solution. The screaming grew louder. It broke my heart, but I knew I couldn’t keep these bones. A grand sculpture is not much use if it screams like a hurt child. I reached for the saw and began to saw away at the join, knocking off the portion of the sculpture made of Octave’s bones and bagging it quickly to muffle the shrieking.

  But worse was to come. Magic spreads between bones. I knew this and counted on it to enchant the whole sculpture. Almost as soon as I returned to the sculpture, other bones started ringing, gathering volume.

  I took the saw and cut off another layer.

  The screams collected themselves lower down.

  I sawed again, despairing now. Was my whole sculpture infected? I sawed lower down, right through her thighs, hoping by this sacrifice of painful inches to save the whole sculpture.

  And I did save her, but not before she had been reduced almost to her knees. I lost years of work. Damn Octave, damn him. I could weep just remembering it. My Wife is built to the waist once more now, but if it were not for Octave I may very well have been planning a graceful throat for her, and growing excited over what kind of face I might give her (it’s my plan to give her my mother’s face, but with the hard lines removed).

  The bones kept screaming, and had to be driven miles away to a wood near the border of Poland for burial. For all I know, they’re still screaming in the rough sack two feet below the ground. Maybe some day someone will find them and be completely puzzled by it all. Or perhaps Octave has had his revenge and is now happy to rest in a peace he doesn’t deserve.

  I am very tired. Reminiscing isn’t helping to take my mind off the problem at hand. It has been a very long two weeks. Miranda is still here and I cannot get my hands on her, and I cannot get her out of my mind, and it’s torturing me. I see her darting past the gallery—like the others, she thinks I haven’t noticed, that I haven’t seen the flash of movement out of the corner of my eye—but I can’t touch her because she’s with Christine or with Gerda or with a gray-faced woman I don’t recognize.

  What a life she’s leading! A faery, Germanic if the pronunciation of her (very weak) German is anything to go by, let loose on Berlin with some magically bottomless credit account to buy herself an endless procession of lace and brocade and velvet outfits, some in colors so bright I can almost see them. She sometimes takes plain little Christine Starlight with her, and brings the poor girl back dressed in a coat or a pair of boots that seem oversized and showy and make me feel embarrassed for her. Sometimes I hear her and Gerda giggling through the front door, returning from a beery lunch and no doubt making plans not to be heard or seen by horrible me. I even imagine sometimes that everyone else in Hotel Mandy-Z knows what she is, and that they believe it secret from me.

  Most distressing of all, I think she may be a more important faery than I originally believed. Last Friday, when she and Gerda were out, I went into Gerda’s apartment (I have keys to every apartment) and searched for some of her things to examine. The clothes were mostly new, but I found in the bottom of a drawer a dress woven through with fine bronze thread. Such craftsmanship speaks of faery nobility, maybe even royalty. She certainly isn’t a common village faery. I pressed the dress to my face and sniffed it, drawing the faintest smell of her bones from between the threads. It was barely there. I bit a hole in the material in frustration, and almost decided to come back here at night while Gerda slept, and bludgeon Miranda and drag her up the stairs and cut her to pieces and pull out her bones and forget all consequences.

  But I will not forget consequences. Miranda is known to too many people. I cannot spend my great fortune in prison. I cannot sculpt in prison.

  Patience, now. I must have patience and wait for my chance. It will come. It must come.

  As the leaves fell down along Unter-den-Linden and Christmas decorations went up in stores, as the sky grew paler and the city grew grayer, Christine became increasingly fond of Mayfridh. It wasn’t just her artless warmth, her childish affection, or her bottomless credit card that made her good company. It was also her rapidly returning memories of their shared childhood. Halfway through a sentence, Mayfridh would often interrupt herself and say, “Ooh, remember when Alfa cooked those scones with salt instead of sugar?” or “Didn’t Finn have a coat exactly that color?” Christine hadn’t realized how many memories of her parents she had buried with them; now Mayfridh was warming her cold afternoons with sunny recollections.

  Christine still felt insecurities over Jude, but he gave her no reason for them to grow: if anything, he was offhand with Mayfridh, or ignored her. If Christine mentioned her, Jude would raise his hands defensively, claim he couldn’t get his head around the fact that she was a faery; it was easier not to think of it. Christine reminded herself that he had painted Mayfridh out; been attracted to her colors, then obliterated them for the monochrome he was more comfortable with. No couple went through life together, she supposed, without jealousies. Christine refused to let hers interfere with the sweet moments she and Mayfridh shared.

  “What now?” Mayfridh said as they stepped out of the heated department store on Kurfürstendamm and into the autumn chill. “Do you want more clothes?”

  “Um . . . no. I’m fine for clothes.” Christine had already accepted too many presents from Mayfridh that she knew she would never wear. “Sorry, I know I’m not as much fun to shop with as Gerda.”

  “That’s not true. Gerda gets bossy,” Mayfridh said. “As for my mum . . . you’ve never seen someone take so long to make up her mind about a pair of shoes.”

  “Let’s get coffee. I know a good cafe near where I work. I can stop in and check my roster.”

  They walked through the bustling crowds, past shiny shop fronts and shedding trees, down side streets to an Italian cafe. Its outdoor tables drowned in yellow and red maple leaves. Christine ordered while Mayfridh considered her from across the table.

  “What?” Christine asked as the waiter returned inside. “Too cold for you out here?”

  “No, I like the fresh air.”

  “Why the frown?”

  “I saw you wince as we sat down. Your back’s hurting.”

  “It’s always hurting.”

  “It’s hurting more than usual today. I’m tiring you out.”

  Christine smiled. “It’s not you. It’s just a bad-back day. I get them from time to time.”

  “So why don’t you go to Ewigkreis?”

  Christine hung her head, watching her hair trail over her shoulders. “I don’t know . . .”

  “You haven’t been for ages. Not since the night I told Jude and the others. Is something wrong? Did Eisengrimm offend you in some way?”

  “No, no. I like Eisengrimm, he makes me feel . . . safe.”

  Mayfridh pushed a crimson curl behind her ear. “Then what is it?”

  Christine bit her lip. “I kind of got afraid.”

  “Afraid?”

  “You say that when the last leaf falls the worlds change.”

  “Yes.”

  “What if I’m stuck there?”

  Mayfridh reached across the table for her hand. “Christine, the last leaf won’t fall until December . . . almost Christmas.”

  “But you know time in your world and mine is different. What if I misjudge?” Christine pointed at Mayfridh. “What if you misjudge? Will you be stuck here?”

  “No, I’ll be pulled back through the passage.”

  “But if I was in Ewigkreis and the worlds changed?”

  “You’d be stuck, yes. The passage only anchors and retrieves faeries.”

  Their coffees arrived and both fell silent until the waiter left.

  “See? I’d be stuck.”

  “But that’s not going to happen for ages. It’s barely November.”

  Christine stirred sugar into her coffee. “I don’t know . . .”

  “Is there something else?”

  “Jude doesn’t want me to go.”

  May
fridh lifted her eyebrows. “Jude? But surely he wants what’s best for you?”

  “He’s worried I’ll never come back. He doesn’t know what it’s like and . . . hey, can I take him with me?”

  Mayfridh was shaking her head before the question was out of Christine’s mouth. “Eisengrimm would have a fit if I brought another human through.”

  “But you’re the queen.”

  “I’m a queen who takes good counsel. Having more than one human at a time in Ewigkreis starts to upset the rhythms of our world, the balance of the seasons.” Mayfridh smiled brightly. “He could come through alone. Eisengrimm could show him around. Or I could go back for a day or two.” The smile turned to a frown. “Lord knows, Eisengrimm’s probably wondering where I am.”

  “Jude would say no,” Christine said. “I think the whole concept frightens him.”

  A chill breeze swept down the street, driving a flurry of spinning leaves in front of it. Christine pulled her scarf tighter.

  “Christine,” Mayfridh said, “how well do you know Jude?”

  “I’ve known him for four years. We’ve lived together for three. Why?” What a weird question, and something about the guarded way Mayfridh asked it unsettled her.

  “I’m not implying anything,” Mayfridh said, blue eyes wide-open innocent. “You don’t have to snap.”

  “Did I snap?”

  “You did.”

  “Sorry. It’s just a strange thing to ask me.”

  “Anyway, after four years I suppose you would know everything about someone, wouldn’t you?” Mayfridh finished.

  “Maybe, maybe not.” Christine drained the last of her coffee. “Do you think you know everything about Eisengrimm?”

  “Yes, of course. He’s my closest friend in Ewigkreis.”

  Christine felt a strange shift in her stomach. Mayfridh didn’t know Eisengrimm’s secret; Christine could be equally oblivious to some mystery of Jude’s heart. Was that why she always felt he didn’t really love her? Or were those feelings just the clumsy imaginings of a girl who knew her lover was far more beautiful than she?

  Christine!”

  Jude’s voice reverberated around the apartment, the door slammed behind him. Christine emerged from the bedroom, sheets in hand ready to take to the laundry.

  “What’s up?” she asked.

  He brandished a sheaf of papers in front of her. His cheeks were flushed. “How would you like to go to Australia?”

  “Um . . .”

  “Come here, look.” He laid the papers on the table and beckoned her over.

  She rolled the sheets into a ball under her arm and approached warily.

  “Pete gave it to me. It’s a fellowship with the National Gallery in Melbourne. They want an overseas artist to come spend a year there, from June next year. I’m perfect for this one, I know it. And it starts right after this fellowship finishes. I tell you, it’s meant to be.”

  “Australia?”

  “Yeah, Melbourne. It’s where Pete lives. Better than Berlin. We’ll know the language and have someone to show us round.”

  “At least Berlin’s in the same hemisphere as home. Don’t you want to go home?”

  “We’ve got plenty of time to go home when we’re old and gray. Come on, Christine, what do you say? Can I apply?”

  Christine stared at the application form as though it could provide her answer. Jude was a painter, he had a gift. It wasn’t her place to hold him back, even if it did mean following him to the other end of the planet. “I suppose you should.”

  Jude grabbed her in a quick hug. “Yes! I knew you’d say yes.” He turned his attention back to the forms. “This closing date is very soon. Christine, can you ring the post office and see how long their express air to Australia takes? My German’s not good enough.”

  Christine dumped the sheets on the sofa and did as he asked. The answer wasn’t encouraging.

  “Basically,” she said, returning to the table where Jude was already filling in blanks, “if you want it there by the due date we’ll have to post it today. This afternoon.”

  “Today!”

  “Can you fax it?”

  “No, look . . .” He pointed to a bold-type line on top of the form. “Faxed applications not accepted.”

  “Maybe you can call them and—”

  “No, I’ll just get it done today.” He was out of his chair now, rummaging in the drawer under the bookcase. “I think I’ve got photos somewhere.”

  “Photos?”

  “My paintings. They have to see my paintings.” Old letters, travel documents, and bank statements were dumped on the floor. “Damn! I can’t find them. Only these.” He flung out a handful of photos that looked perfectly fine to Christine.

  “What’s wrong with these?”

  “The light’s bad, the color’s all wrong.”

  “Do you want me to—”

  “Mandy,” he said, suddenly whirling around. “Mandy will have my best photos from my application for this fellowship.”

  “You sent Mandy your best photos? He’s color-blind.”

  “I didn’t know that at the time.” His eyes darted from the photos on the floor, to the application form at the table, and then to Christine. “Christine, would you mind going up and asking him for them? I’ve got to write this entire application in, like, two hours.”

  Christine cringed. She still hadn’t forgotten Gerda’s description of Mandy’s unexpectedly naked body: molded by preschoolers out of old dough and copper wire. But Jude was looking at her with pleading eyes. “Yeah, okay,” she said

  “Thanks. Thanks so much.” He returned to the table, his head bent over the forms, his brow furrowed with concentration. Christine left the apartment and headed up the stairs. The lamp in the stairwell was out, and Mandy’s door waited in dim gray light. She raised her fist and knocked sharply. Please let him have clothes on. She had never been to Mandy’s apartment before. He had a monthly meeting for his artists—where they drank champagne and ate expensive hors d’oeuvres—to which she had never been invited. Artists Only. Very Important Artists’ Business.

  Mandy didn’t answer the door. She knew his apartment was large, extending up into the attic. She rapped harder, thought about going back to Jude empty-handed, and decided she couldn’t. She tried the door; it opened inward. She stepped inside and called out, “Hello? Mandy? Are you here?”

  Mandy’s apartment was lavishly furnished in such an array of mismatching colors that Christine almost laughed. He had no idea that he’d thrown an orange rug over a blue sofa on a green carpet. She imagined for a moment what this room must look like to him: black and white. How sad that somebody who loved art so much couldn’t appreciate color. The heavy scent of sandalwood hung in the air. A set of stairs led up to the next floor. Perhaps that was where he was, so involved in sculpting something that he couldn’t hear her.

  “Mandy?” She took the stairs slowly, feeling guilty and apprehensive and strangely curious. But he must be home, or at least not far away, because he’d left the door open. “Mandy, are you around?” She found herself standing in his working studio. Half-finished sculptures leaned unevenly on each other around the walls. A large mahogany desk sat under the window. In the center of the room, one particular sculpture caught her eye. She approached, forgetting momentarily about Jude’s photos as she admired the work.

  It was the bottom half of a woman, so exquisitely carved Christine felt certain that if she touched it, it would feel like warm flesh. But, no, it was cool and smooth. What was it carved from? It was neither stone nor plaster. The substance gleamed like nothing she had ever seen before. For an instant, all her aversion toward Mandy disappeared. It was unbelievable that he could carve something so beautiful and delicate from a hard substance. Christine knew nothing about art, especially not Jude’s abstracts, or Gerda’s bewildering “installations,” or Pete’s videos, or even Fabiyan’s distorted clay nudes. Mandy’s work was different: sheer beauty, pure perfected craft. Christine f
ound herself tracing the contours of the woman’s knee with her fingers, before realizing that Mandy wasn’t here.

  “Mandy?” she called again. She looked around her. A narrow door faced her, painted with black glossy enamel. Two lights—one red, one green—hung above it. Three deadlocks lined its edge. She tried it anyway. Of course it was locked. Where did it go? To the attic? If so, why did it have three deadlocks on it? Was he keeping his billions in barrels up there? She ran her fingers over the edge of the door.

  A creak from downstairs startled her. Mandy. And here she was snooping around his apartment. She dashed to the stairs and started down, only to find Jude standing in the doorway.

  “I wondered where you’d got to,” Jude said, holding up a handful of photos. “I found them.”

  “Mandy’s not here.”

  “Then what are you doing up there?” Jude smiled his wicked smile.

  “Poking around. Come on, we should get out of here.”

  They were halfway down the stairs to their own apartment when they ran into Mandy heading in the other direction.

  “Hello, Jude, Christine. Were you looking for me?”

  “We were, but we’re okay now,” Jude said.

  Christine couldn’t meet his eye. What had come over her, snooping like an eight-year-old? His eccentricity didn’t preclude his right to privacy.

  “I’m sorry that I wasn’t home for you,” Mandy replied with a nod of his head. “I was downstairs in the laundry.” Then he continued up the stairs.

  “See, you should have just let me wash the sheets. I would have found him anyway,” Christine said as they let themselves into the apartment.

  “Then you wouldn’t have got a chance to see inside his place,” Jude said, flinging the photos on the table. “I’ve never been up to his studio, what’s it like?”

  “Like a big room full of sculpture. He does nice work, doesn’t he?”

  “Not particularly adventurous,” Jude said dismissively. “He’s not an explorer, he follows well-worn paths.”

  “Oh . . . well, I like his stuff. Maybe I’m not an explorer either.” Jude wasn’t listening; he was arranging his photos and Christine found herself wondering again where that narrow black door in Mandy’s apartment led.