by Julian May
Toting the little lace-trimmed cushion upon which the wedding rings would rest during the procession, I descended in the elevator with Jack, Paul, and the groomsmen and went to the Roosevelt Parlor on the garden level where Denis and Lucille were waiting with the priest and the rest of the bridal party. Only Dorothée herself was missing, and I was still skittish enough to be alarmed.
“Where’s the bride?” I whispered to Marie Remillard. “She’s all right, isn’t she?”
Mentally, Ti-Jean’s sister indicated an inner door of the parlor and said: Of course she’s all right. It’s an old tradition for the bride not to let the groom see her just before the ceremony. She’s waiting in the next room with Malama. Praying, actually! I certainly would under the circumstances …
We were a decorative bunch. Except for Ian and Kyle Macdonald—who wore full Scottish fig, including Balmoral bonnets with rakish feathers, kilts, fancy shirts with lacy jabots at the neck, and black velvet Prince Charlie coatees with square jeweled buttons—the gents were a muted symphony in dove gray. Ti-Jean’s suit was a bit darker than those of the others, and he was the only one wearing a silver brocade waistcoat. The priest, a genial Jesuit named George Duval, who had been Jack’s favorite teacher at Brebeuf Academy, had managed to find an antique black cassock, one of those funny little clerical hats with a pompon on top, and a white linen surplice edged with fine old lace. He had been talking with Denis when the groom’s party arrived, and now he took a minute or two to shrive us all so our souls would be squeaky clean for the upcoming ceremony. All I had on my conscience were a few venial sins of frivolous fornication, plus an uncharitable wish to do Marc and Luc grievous bodily harm because of the cruel way they’d sobered me up.
The ladies were a pastel chorus of Gibson Girls, swanning grandly about in the latest mode of 1905. I discovered (not by peeking: see below!) that none of them went so far as to wear authentic corsetry—which would have compressed their waists to near-lethal waspishness—but otherwise their outfits were typical of the romantic Edwardian Era, and amazingly attractive. Because the wearers were still self-conscious about the impression they’d make, their minds involuntarily leaked subliminal details of couture that were fairly easy to pick up. I found it amusing to do so, rather than listen to Lucille’s hectoring as she organized the procession.
The three bridesmaids were Dorothée’s foster sister Ellen Gunn, an old school chum named Cicely Duncan, and Jack’s elder sister Marie. They wore high-collared princess gowns of fine batiste linen, formfitting to the hips, with swinging gored skirts and long, narrow sleeves. The lightweight fabric had multitudinous tucks, simulated hand-embroidery, and innumerable inserts of white Point de Paris and Cluny lace. Marie and Cicely were in pale apple-blossom pink, while young Ellen Gunn, the nonborn maid of honor, had a gown of dusty rose. Their hair was upswept, augmented with wiglets, and crowned with huge mushroom-shaped straw hats gussied up with ribbons and masses of pink and white flowers.
The bride and groom had chosen to have their grandparents, as well as their surviving parents, as part of the procession. Masha MacGregor-Gawrys, Dorothée’s formidable Rebel grandmother, wore a dress and semifitted coat of pale apricot linen, edged and inserted with natural Point de Venise lace. Her auburn hair was topped by a hat heaped with silken daisies, wallflowers, and poppies.
Lucille, the self-appointed mistress of ceremonies, was awesomely chic in a gown and fitted Directoire jacket of réséda green silk with tiny gold buttons. A dark, softly curled wig replaced her usual French bob and bangs, and she wore a towering chapeau wound about with folds of ecru and moss-green chiffon and decked with satin foliage, silk mignonettes, velvet pansies, and a single enormous lavender rose. She carried a folded green parasol, which she used like a marshal’s baton as she got us all properly lined up.
The bride’s stepmother, Ian’s second wife Janet Finlay, had chosen a rather simple honey-colored batiste princess dress in a style similar to that of the bridesmaids, with champagne lace inserts and trim. Her hat, in contrast, was a huge confection piled with creamy ostrich plumes and fake aigrettes. Over her shoulder she wore a taffeta sash of the Farquharson tartan (Finlay being a sept of that clan), fastened with a canary diamond brooch handmade by the bride.
Paul’s sister Catherine was standing in for Jack’s deceased mother, Teresa Kendall. Cat was also a close friend of Dorothée, who had been her student at the Metapsychic Institute. Her tailleur (which went wonderfully well with her blonde hair) was periwinkle-blue silk with a lace-trimmed cutaway coat, embroidered in ivory and navy. The saucy brim of her hat was upturned on one side, confining a mass of light blue plumes and azure satin rosettes.
I gawked at the monumental assemblage of historically correct feminine headgear and asked Lucille, “Aren’t those big hats awfully heavy?”
“Of course not,” she snapped. “Do you think the women of 1905 held their chins up with psychokinesis?” She raked me with her eyes from top hat to spats. “Well, you seem to be compos mentis and properly dressed. Do you have the rings?”
I fished out a tiny white velvet box, opened it, and showed her two starkly plain golden bands about half a cent in width. “Good.” She made me hold out the pillow, then poked a depression in its center and tipped the rings into it. “See that you don’t drop them, and stay close to Marc when it’s time for him to pass them over … Oh, by the way. Brother Duval’s wife the deaconess couldn’t make it, so you’ll be assisting him as acolyte during the mass.”
I opened my mouth to protest. After all, the last time I’d been an altar boy was in 1957! But Lucille turned to the others and announced, “We’re almost ready, everyone. I’ll just go out in the garden for a final check and cue the musicians and then we’ll begin.” She was off in a swirl of long petticoats and embroidered silk hosiery.
I peeked outside with my farsight and saw that most of the four hundred guests were in their seats—the humans and the exotics, the Edwardian and the Galactic, the friends and relatives of the bride and groom happily mingled in the modern casual fashion, leaving only the front rows empty for the wedding party.
Lucille reappeared, the orchestra struck up the solemn “Trumpet Voluntary” by Angus Hayakawa MacGillivray, and the slow parade began. Brother Duval led the way. Then came the grandparents, Kyle and Masha, Denis and Lucille; the groomsmen, Luc Remillard and Kenneth Macdonald; Marc, the best man, walking alone (as was symbolically apropos). The groom stepped out next, Paul on his left hand and sweet-faced Catherine on his right.
When Jack was safely on his way up the aisle and the bridesmaids were poised to begin their march, Janet Finlay opened the mystery door and out came Malama with Dorothea Macdonald.
All brides are beautiful, but this one was smashing. She’d designed the outfit herself and would have stitched it up as well if the press of her official duties hadn’t made it impossible. The gown was shining white silk with a high neck. The skirt had no train, but it clung to her narrow hips and flared widely at the bottom like a calla lily, making her petite form seem taller. The lace that covered the bodice and was appliquéd over the sleeves and skirt had been lavishly reembroidered with Caledonian seed pearls; tiny diamonds from that planet flashed among them. Over the bride’s left shoulder, fastened by a pearl brooch with a single huge central diamond she had cut and faceted herself, was a long sash of Macdonald of the Isles tartan, matching her father’s kilt. Dorothée’s veil was almost like a Spanish mantilla, densely figured white lace that hid her entire face and extended nearly to the floor behind her. Over it she wore a narrow tiara of pearls. Her bouquet was small white roses with satin ribbons.
Ian, stiff and solemn, offered his right arm to his daughter and Janet took her place on Dorothée’s other side. The bridesmaids, walking single file, had already gone out, followed by Malama with the bridal leis of maile leaves. Then it was my turn. I ceased my mental eavesdropping, settled my top hat, and hurried into the late-afternoon sunshine.
Jack and his best man were alr
eady standing in front of the little table-altar with the priest, toppers doffed. An enormous bank of multihued blossoms was behind them, and beyond that loomed the profile of the White Mountains. I marched down the aisle, bearing my cushion before me. The aether brimmed with amiable vibrations, and the air was filled with music and the perfume of flowers. Hardly anyone looked at me; all eyes (except my own) were on the gorgeously dressed bride and her father and stepmother following behind me.
Surreptitiously, I searched the grounds for Hydra.
The guests all seemed to be kosher, as were the musicians in the orchestra. My seekersense roved to the adjacent marquee over on the left where the food and drink were going to be served after the ceremony. Most of the waitrons were standing quietly outside, watching the spectacle.
He was right in the midst of them, arms folded across his burly chest, a triumphant smile on his face.
I saw him for only an instant before I was forced to wheel about and take my place with the other attendants. As the priest spoke his first words of greeting and Ian Macdonald gave his daughter’s arm to Jack, I farspoke Marc on the intimate mode, nearly incoherent with fear and desperation:
He’sHEREhe’sHEREthegoddambastardis RIGHT HERE!
Rogi you sillyoldfool—
No Marco listen it’s Parnell HYDRA he’s here one of the waiters overthere by the tents lookforyourself LOOK!
… I’ve scanned the lot NONEofthem have Hydra sig you’re batshit if you fuck up Jack’s wedding I’ll wring your scrawny neck NOW PULL YOURSELF TOGETHER!!!
I’m not drunk I’m not imagining things he’s THERE [image] the big guy right in middle of pack—
There’s no one like that standing there. Every one of those waitrons is nonoperant&harmless.
Marco—
SHUT UP! Or I’ll zap your brain to oatmeal I swear UncleRogi and work you like a puppet.
I’ll ask Malama to help me.
No you won’t t’es frappadingue espèce d’oeuf toi and you won’t harass Jack&Dorothea either I’m putting a BLOCK into you there now for God’s sake behave yourself!
He’d muted my farspeech with his paramount coercion. The block would dissolve all by itself eventually, but until it did I would be unable to converse telepathically with anyone except him.
Softer music was playing. Ian and Janet had withdrawn to their seats, along with Paul and Catherine. The attendants now also moved back, leaving Jack and Dorothée side by side on a prie-dieu as Brother Duval began the nuptial mass. Marc’s coercion forced me over to the left side of the outdoor sanctuary, where there was a little kneeler for the server and a stand with carafes of water and red wine and a crystal bowl of unconsecrated communion wafers. I sank down, numb and resigned to my fate. With my back to the marquee I’d be spared the sight of Hydra waiting for me with that damned grin on his face.
Fortunately, there was nothing for me to do in the first part of the ceremony. The priest concluded the brief opening rites and began the Liturgy of the Word with a powerful quotation from the Song of Songs.
My Beloved lifts up his voice and says to me:
“Come then, my love, my lovely one, come.
For lo, the winter is past, the rains are over and gone,
the flowers are all in bloom,
and the voice of the turtledove is heard in our land.
My little bird, hiding in the clefts of the rock,
show me your face and let me hear your voice,
for your speech is sweet and your face is beautiful.
Your eyes behind your veil are soft,
your breasts are two fawns that feed among the lilies.
Till the day break and the shadows flee away
I will go unto the mountain of myrrh,
To the hill of frankincense.”
[Thus says the Bride:] My Beloved is mine and I am his!
Awake, north wind; come, wind of the south,
Breathe over my garden and scatter its fragrance,
welcome my Beloved and let him taste its precious fruits.
My Beloved is radiant and bright,
he stands out among thousands.
His locks are black as the raven,
his eyes are like doves beside running waters,
his lips are red blossoms,
his body carved ivory adorned with sapphires.
Such is my Beloved, and such my friend.
And he says to me:
“Set me like a seal on your heart,
for love is strong as death
and jealousy relentless as hell.
The brilliance of love is a flash of fire,
aflame of the Lord himself:
this love that no flood can quench,
that no torrent can drown.”
This is the Word of the Lord.
We all stood for the familiar Gospel According to John:
Jesus said to his disciples:
“As the Father has loved me, so I have loved you.
Remain in my love. If you keep my commandments
you will remain in my love, just as I have kept
my Father’s commandments and remain in his love.
“I have told you this so that my own joy may be in you
and your joy complete. This is my commandment:
Love one another, as I have loved you.
No persons have a greater love
than those who lay down their lives for their friends.”
Ça ira, ça ira! Saint Jean le Désincarné, Sainte Dorothée Masque-des-Diamants, priez pour nous.
The nuptial rite itself began. The witnessing attendants (including me) left their places and stood on either side of the bride and groom, who had joined hands. Malama draped the long strands of fragrant maile leaves around their necks. The priest made a little speech that began with “Dearly Beloved.” Then Ti-Jean and Dorothée began to pronounce their vows.
Marc said to me: NOW. The rings dammit! To me!
I proffered the pillow. Marc handed one ring to his brother and gave the other to the bride. Faintly, I heard the couple speaking.
“Dorothea, my wife, take this ring as a sign of my love and fidelity …”
“Jon, my husband, take this ring as a sign of my love and fidelity …”
Both of them prayed together. “Father of Light, you brought us together, you helped our love grow, and at this moment you are with us in a special way. We ask that you stay by our side in the days to come. Protect us from harm and give us courage to face whatever difficulties lie ahead of us.”
I no longer heard them. Stupefied with fear, I had barricaded myself inside my own cranium. Like a robot, I went through the proper motions as the witnesses once again withdrew and the priest celebrated the Liturgy of the Eucharist with my wooden assistance. In my battened-down state all my farsenses were useless. Several times I attempted to peer over my shoulder at the marquee to see if the monster was still there, but my neck muscles refused to obey me.
After the consecration the bride and groom recited the Lord’s Prayer and the priest delivered the nuptial blessing, ending with, “Let us offer each other the sign of peace and love.”
Jack lifted Dorothée’s veil to kiss her.
I heard a soft gasp from the operants present, drowned almost instantly by the orchestra beginning “Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring.” The diamond mask was gone and the promise of the Song of Songs was fulfilled momentarily in the bride’s face. Jack kissed Dorothée on the lips, then lowered her veil again. Brother Duval, a nonoperant who had not been privy to the transfiguration, came forward beaming. He embraced the couple, shook hands with me, and went down to the seats to extend the sign of peace to the wedding party.
Marc (or somebody) made certain that I performed the rest of my altar-boy duties with precision. I even assisted the priest in giving communion to all the guests—exotics included. Weird, isn’t it, that bread is the one foodstuff that all entities in the Galactic Milieu can extract nourishment from?
All entities wi
th bodies, that is.
The mass was nearly over. Brother Duval blessed the bride and groom and all the people, who responded with loud applause. I was expecting a recessional march from the orchestra (and so was almost everyone else), but something entirely different was on tap. Ian Macdonald seemed to materialize out of nowhere, splendid and barbaric in his Highland garb, playing a rousing bagpipe tune from the “Orkney Wedding and Sunrise” by Sir Peter Maxwell Davies. The big Caledonian led the recession with the priest close behind him, and then came Jack and Dorothée. She had thrown her veil back and the lower part of her face was a blaze of diamonds. Malama and I followed the newly weds. I had my little satin pillow clutched in one hand and a glassy smile on my chops.
Marc said: That wasn’t so bad was it Uncle Rogi? I’ve farscanned the entire hotel grounds and there’s no Hydra here. I know its mental signature and I’m absolutely positive.
I said: Did you try scanning out your Cousin Parnell?
No. But—
Fact is you don’t even know Parni’s adult sig! Nor your sister Maddy’s for that matter. Last time you touched minds with them they were little kids now they’re both Grand Masters maybe even paramount in some of their faculties like you and they’re SAFE even from Dorothée or Ti-Jean none of you can do an MP ident unless they combine in Hydra metaconcert and they’re not stupid enough to do that anymore!
Marc said: Rogi you’re acting like a nutcase there’s no danger.
I laughed out loud.
We’d reached the big terrace behind the chairs, just outside the door of the Roosevelt Parlor. Guests were already leaving their seats and surging toward us. Lucille bustled about trying to organize a receiving line, an effort that wasn’t helped at all by Ian continuing to play the bagpipes at a lusty fortissimo. The bride and groom were right in front of him, doing some kind of stately Scottish minuet while Janet and Kyle and Masha and Davy MacGregor and a bunch of others clapped in rhythm. Marc was nearly ten meters away from me, still encumbered with his recession partner, Ellen Gunn. The young maid of honor clutched his arm in a steely grip and gazed up at him in adoration. Having the Human Polity’s most eligible bachelor in hand, even momentarily, she was not about to give him up meekly.
