by John Crowley
Since all this was happening as Auberon was coming into consciousness, it only seemed to him that his grandfather’s powers were growing surer, his ear more keen. When, on one of their long walks together through the woods, Doc at last stopped pretending that what he heard the animals say was made up, and admitted that he was passing on conversations he heard, they both felt a lot better. Auberon never much liked let’s-pretend, and Doc had hated lying to the child. The science of it escaped him, he said; maybe it was only a result of his long devotion; anyway, it was only certain animals he could understand, small ones, the ones he knew best. Bears, moose, the scarce and fabulous cats, the solitary, long-winged predators he knew nothing of. They disdained him, or couldn’t discourse, or had no use for small talk—he couldn’t tell.
“And insects and bugs?” Auberon asked him.
“Some, but not all,” Doc answered.
“Ants?”
“Oh, yes, ants,” Doc said, “sure.”
And taking his grandson’s hands where they knelt together beside a new yellow hill, he gratefully translated for him the mindless shoptalk of the ants within.
George Mouse Goes on Overhearing
Auberon was asleep now, on the bursting loveseat, curled beneath a blanket, as who would not be who had risen as early and come as far in as many ways as he had today; but George Mouse, subject to tics and exulting on the giddy chutes and ladders of High Thought, kept watch over the boy and continued to overhear his adventures.
When, oatmeal untasted but coffee finished, he went out the great front door, Smoky’s hand paternally on his shoulder though it was higher than his own, Auberon saw that he wasn’t to make his getaway without goodbyes. His sisters, all three, had come to see him off; Lily and Lucy were walking up the drive arm-in-arm, Lily bearing her twins fore-and-aft in canvas carriers, and Tacey was just turning in at the end of the drive on her bike.
He might have known, but hadn’t wished this sendoff, wished it less than anything because of the formal finality his sisters’ presence always lent to whatever partings or arrivals or conjunctions they attended. How the hell anyway had they known this was to be the morning? He had only told Smoky late last night, and sworn him to secrecy. A certain familiar rage rose in him whose name he didn’t know was rage. “Hi, hi,” he said.
“We came to say goodbye,” Lily said. Lucy shifted the front twin and added, “And give you some things.”
“Yeah? Well.” Tacey turned her bike neatly at the porch stairs and dismounted. “Hi, hi,” Auberon said again. “Did you bring along the whole county?” But of course they hadn’t brought anyone else; no one else’s presence was necessary, as theirs was.
Perhaps because their names were so similar, or because so often in the community they appeared and acted together, but people around Edgewood always found it hard to distinguish among Tacey, Lily, and Lucy. In fact they were very different. Tacey and Lily were descendants of their mother and her mother, long, big-boned and coltish, though Lily had inherited from somewhere a head of fine straight blond hair, straw spun into gold as the princess in the story spun it, where Tacey’s was curly reddish-gold like Alice’s. Lucy, though, was all Smoky’s; shorter than her sisters, with Smoky’s dark curls and Smoky’s cheerful bemused face and even something of Smoky’s congenital anonymity in her round eyes. But in another sense it was Lucy and Lily who were a pair: the sort of sisters who can finish one another’s sentences, and feel even at a distance one another’s pains. For years the two of them kept up a running series of seemingly pointless jokes; one would ask, in a serious tone, a silly question, and the other would just as seriously give an even sillier answer, and then they would (never cracking a smile) give the joke a number. The numbers ran into the hundreds. Tacey, perhaps because she was the oldest, was remote from their games; she was a naturally regal and private person who cultivated intensely a number of passions, for the alto recorder, for raising rabbits, for fast bikes. On the other hand, in all complots, plans, and ceremonies that dealt with grownups and their affairs, it had always been Tacey who was priestess, and the younger two her acolytes.
(In one thing all three were alike: they each had only one eyebrow, running over their noses from outer eye-corner to outer eye-corner without a break. Of Smoky and Alice’s children, only Auberon was without it.)
Auberon’s memories of his sisters would always be of their playing at the mysteries, birth, marriage, love, and death. He had been their Baby when he was very young, chivvied around from imaginary bath to imaginary hospital endlessly, a living doll. Later he was compelled to be Bridegroom, and finally Departed when he was old enough to be pleased simply to lie there while they ministered to him. And it was not only play; as they grew older, all three seemed to develop an instinctive grasp of the scenes and acts of quotidian life, of the curtains rising and rung down in the lives around them. No one remembered telling them (they were aged four, six, and eight then) that the youngest of the Bird girls was to be married to Jim Jay over in Plainfield, but they appeared at the church in jeans with bunches of wildflowers in their hands and knelt decorously on the church steps while inside the bride and groom took their vows. (The wedding photographer, waiting outside for the couple to appear, took a whimsical picture of the three darlings which later won a prize in a photo contest. It looked posed. In a sense, it was.)
From an early age, they had all three learned needlework, becoming more skilled and taking up in turn more difficult and esoteric branches of it as they got older, tatting, silk embroidery, crewel-work; what Tacey learned first from Great-aunt Cloud and her grandmother she taught to Lily, and Lily to Lucy; and as they sat together expertly doing and undoing with thread (often in the many-sided music room where the sun came in at all seasons) they kept up among themselves a constant calendar of the passings, pledges, partings, parturitions expected (announced or not) among the people they knew. They made knots, they snipped threads, they knew all; it came to pass that no sad or glad occasion was unknown to them, and few went forward without the three of them present. Those that did seemed incomplete, unsanctioned. Their only brother’s departure for his appointment with destiny and lawyers was not to be one of those.
“Here,” said Tacey, plucking from her bike’s basket a small package done up in ice-blue paper, “take this, and open it when you get to the City.” She kissed him lightly.
“Take this,” Lily said, giving him one wrapped in minty-green, “and open it when you think of it.”
“Take this,” Lucy said. Hers was wrapped in white. “Open it when you want to come home again.”
He gathered these together, nodding, embarrassed, and put them in his duffle. The girls said nothing more about them, only sat for a while with him and Smoky on the porch, across which dead leaves blew unswept, gathering up under the seats of wicker chairs (which ought to go in the basement, Smoky thought; an old chore of Auberon’s; he felt a chill of foreboding, or loss, but thought it to be the somber November gloaming only). Auberon, who was young and solitary enough to think that he might have escaped his house without anyone being the wiser, that no one paid much attention to his movements, sat constrainedly with them watching dawn grow; then he slapped his knees, rose, shook his father’s hand, kissed his sisters, promised to write, and at last stepped off southward into the sounding sea of leaves, striking for the crossroads where a bus could be hailed; he didn’t look back at the four who watched him go.
“Well,” Smoky said, remembering his own journey to the City at an age near Auberon’s, “he’ll have adventures.”
“Lots,” Tacey said.
“It’ll be fun,” Smoky said, “probably, possibly. I remember …”
“Fun for a while,” Lily said.
“Not much fun,” Lucy said. “Fun first, though, at least.”
“Dad,” said Tacey, seeing him trembling, “you shouldn’t sit out here in your ‘jammies, for God’s sake.”
He rose, pulling his bathrobe around him. This afternoon he would hav
e to get in the porch furniture, before snow piled absurdly in its summery seats.
A Friend of the Doctor’s
Shifting focus, George Mouse watched from a niche in the Old Stone Fence as Auberon came across the Old Pasture, short-cutting his way toward Meadowbrook. The Meadow Mouse in that niche, grass blade between his teeth and gloomy thoughts in his mind, watched the human come toward him, crunching great twigs and dead leaves by the hundreds beneath his boots. Ah, the great and clumsy feet of them! The shod feet, larger and harder even than the Brown Bear’s of ancient memory! Only the fact that they had only two each, and came around rarely and singly near his home, allowed the Meadow Mouse to feel somewhat more kindly toward them than toward the house-wrecking Cow, his personal behemoth. As Auberon came closer, passing indeed very close to the niche where he huddled, the Meadow Mouse had a surprise. This was the boy—grown huge—who had once come with the Doctor who was the Meadow Mouse’s great-great-grandfather’s friend; the very same boy that the Meadow Mouse as a tiny mousling had once observed, hands on his bare and scabby knees peering intently into the familial home as the Doctor took down Great-great-grandfather’s memoirs, which were so famous now not only among generations of Meadow Mice but throughout the Great World as well! His natural timidity overcome by a rush of family feeling, the Meadow Mouse put his nose out of the niche in the wall and attempted a greeting: “My great-great-grandfather knew the Doctor,” he called out. But the fellow went right on.
The Doctor could talk with the animals, but the boy, apparently, could not.
A Shepherd in the Bronx
When Auberon was standing by the crossroads ankle-deep in golden leaves, and Smoky was standing abstracted before his tribe who puzzled that he had fallen silent, chalk to board, between noun and predicate, Daily Alice beneath her figured quilt (yes! George Mouse gasped at the breadth and length of his own Mental Sympathies) dreamed that her son Auberon, who lived in the City now, had telephoned to tell her how he was getting on.
“For a while I was a shepherd in the Bronx,” the disembodied and still secretive voice was saying, “but when November came, I sold the flock;” and as he told her of it, she could see the Bronx he spoke of: its green, cropped sea-hills, a space of clean, windy air between those hills and the low wet clouds. It was as though she had been there herself when he shepherded, and had followed the delicate prints and black droppings along the rutted ways to pasturage, her ears full of their complainings, nose full of the smell of their wet wool on misty mornings. Vivid! She could see her son when (as he told her) he would stand staff in hand on a promontory there and look off to the sea, and to the west from where the weather came, and to the south across the river, to the dark wood that covered the sea-island there, and wonder …
In the fall then he changed his leathers and gaiters for a decent suit of black and his crook for a walking-stick, and though he had never decided on it in so many words, he and the dog Spark (a good sheepdog whom Auberon could have sold with the flock but couldn’t part with) set out along the Harlem River till they came to a place where they could cross (near 137th Street). The aged, aged ferryman had a beautiful great-grandaughter brown as a berry and a gray, flat, knocking, groaning boat; Auberon stood up in the bows as the ferry drifted along its line downstream to a mooring on the opposite side. He paid, the dog Spark leapt out before him, and he stepped off into the Wild Wood without looking back. It was late afternoon; the sun (he could glimpse it now and then, a dull yellow glow behind gray clouds) seemed so cold and cheerless he almost wished for night.
Deeper in, he retracted this wish. Somehow he had turned the wrong way between St. Nicholas Park and Cathedral Parkway, and found himself climbing stony uplands written on by lichen. The great trees clinging to the rocky places with their knuckled toes groaned and chuckled at him as he passed, and made bole-faces in the twilight. Panting on a high rock, he saw between the trees the gray sun go out. He knew he was still far uptown, and now night had come; he was cold, and how many warnings had he always had about night in this place? He felt small. In fact he was growing small. Spark noticed it, but made no remark.
The night as it will do brought forth creatures. Auberon began foolishly to hurry, which made him stumble, which caused the creatures to come close, thousand-eyed in the complex darkness all around. Auberon collected himself. Mustn’t show them your fear. He took a grip on his stick. Looking neither right nor left, he toiled downtown; he walked, didn’t walk as appropriate. Once or twice he caught himself gawking up at the immense trees scraping the night sky (for sure he had grown much smaller) but lowered his eyes quickly; he didn’t want to appear a stranger here or someone who didn’t know what was what; he couldn’t keep, though, from glancing around himself at those who, grinning or knowing or indifferent, glanced at him as he passed.
Where was Spark, he wondered as he pulled himself from a tangled deadfall into which he had sunk hip-deep. Now he could have climbed onto the dog’s back and gotten on much faster. But Spark had developed a contempt for his newly-small master and had gone off in the direction of Washington Heights to try his fortune alone.
Alone. Auberon remembered the three gifts his sisters had given him. He took from his canvas knapsack the one Tacey had given him and tore its ice-blue wrapping with trembling fingers.
It was a combination pen and flashlight, one end to see by and the other to write with. Handy. It even had its little battery: he pressed its button, and it burned. A few snowflakes drifted in the beam; a few faces that had come close withdrew. And by the light he saw that he stood before a tiny door in the woods; his journey was done. He knocked, and knocked again.
Look at the Time
George Mouse shuddered vastly. The effort of Mental Sympathy and the wearing off of his dose had him feeling a little ashen. It had been fun, but good Lord, look at the time! In a few hours he would have to be up again for milking. For sure Sylvie (brown as a berry, but not home yet, unless he missed his guess) wouldn’t be up for it. Gathering up his hash-dispersed limbs, which ached with pleasant tiredness (long trip), he stitched them back roughly where they belonged on his consciousness and rose. Getting too old for this. He made certain his cousin had blankets enough, raked up the fire, and (already forgetting in the main what he had perceived behind his cousin’s dark and shapely lids) took up the lamp and made his way to his own cluttered bedroom, yawning uncontrollably.
The Club Meets
Some city blocks away at that hour, before the narrow townhouse of Ariel Hawksquill which faced a small park, large and silent cars of another era one by one drew up and let out each a single passenger, and drove away to where cars like that await their masters. Each of the visitors rang Hawksquill’s bell and was admitted; each must take off his gloves finger by finger, so well they fitted; each gave them to the servant inside his hat, and some had white scarves that whistled faintly as they drew them from their necks. They gathered in Hawksquill’s parlor floor which was chiefly library; each crossed his legs as he sat. They exchanged a few words in low voices.
When Hawksquill at last entered, they rose for her (though she motioned that they shouldn’t) and sat again, each tugging at his trouser-knee as he recrossed his legs.
“I guess we can say,” one said, “that this meeting of the Noisy Bridge Rod and Gun Club is now open. For new business.”
Ariel Hawksquill awaited their questions. She was in this year nearing the height of her powers, her figure angular, hair iron-gray, manner sharp and deliberate as a cockatoo’s. She was imposing, if not quite the intimidating figure she would become; and everything about her, from dun shoes to ringed fingers, suggested powers—powers the Noisy Bridge Rod and Gun Club at least was well aware she possessed.
“The new business, of course,” another member said, smiling toward Hawksquill, “being the matter of Russell Eigenblick. The Lecturer.”
“What,” a third asked Hawksquill, “do you think now? What are your impressions?”
She put her fingertips
together, like Holmes. “He is and is not what he seems,” she said in a voice as precise and dry as a parchment page. “More clever than he appears on television, though not so large. The enthusiasm he arouses is genuine, but, I can’t help thinking, evanescent. He has five planets in Scorpio; so did Martin Luther. His favorite color is billiard-cloth green. He has large, moist, falsely sympathetic brown eyes, like a cow. His voice is amplified by miniature devices concealed in his clothing, which is expensive but doesn’t fit well. He wears, beneath his pants, boots to his knees.”
They absorbed this.
“His character?” one asked.
“Contemptible.”
“His manners?”
“Well …”
“His ambitions?”
This she was for a moment unable to answer, yet it was this question which the puissant bankers, board chairmen, bureaucratic plenipotentiaries and retired generals who met under the aegis of the Noisy Bridge Rod and Gun Club most wanted answered. As the secret guardians of a touchy, wilful, aging republic suffering in the more or less permanent grip of social and economic depression, they were minutely sensitive to any attractive man, preacher, soldier, adventurer, thinker, thug. Hawksquill was well aware that her insights had led to the putting away of more than one such. “He has no interest in being President,” she said.
One of the members made a noise that indicated: if he does not, he could not have any other ambition that could truly alarm us; and if he does, he is helpless, because for some years the regular succession of shadowy presidents has been solely the concern of the Club, whatever the people or the Presidents may have thought. It was a brief noise, made in the throat.
