Little, Big

by John Crowley

  That was a ruse, in a way, for she waited, hoping to catch a glimpse. Another cat appeared. But Brownie stayed within. She rose then, and stretching, started back toward the Folding Bedroom. Morning had come to the Farm, foggy and soft, not so cold after all. She stopped a moment, in the center of the high-walled City garden, feeling sweetly blessed. Princess. Hmp. Under her dirty goat-girl clothes were only yesterday’s underwear. Soon she’s have to think about getting a job, making some plans, getting her story under way again. But for this moment, in love and safe, chores done, she felt she needn’t go anywhere at all, or do anything else, and her story would unfold anyway, clearly and happily.

  And endlessly. She knew, for a moment, that her story was endless: more endless than any kid’s fairy-tale, more endless than “A World Elsewhere” and all its complications. Endless. Somehow. She strode across the Farm, hugging herself, breathing in the farm’s rich animal and vegetable exhalations, and smiling.

  From deep within his house, Brownie watched her go, smiling too. He took, with his long hands and without a sound, the jar of milk and the egg from the shelf where Sylvie had put them; he drew them within his house, he drank the milk, he sucked the egg, he blessed his queen with all his heart.

  A Banquet

  She undressed as quickly as she had dressed, leaving only her panties, as Auberon, awaking, watched from within the bedclothes; then she hurried, making small cries, to climb in with him, climb down into warmth, warmth she deserved (she felt) as no other did, warmth where she ought always to be. Auberon retreated, laughing, from her cold hands and feet that sought him, sought his sleep-soft and helpless flesh, but then surrendered; she pressed her cold nose into the crook of his neck to warm it, moaning like a dove, as his hands took hold of her panties’ elastic.

  At Edgewood, Sophie laid one card on another, knight of wands on queen of cups.

  Later Sylvie said: “Do you have thoughts?”

  “Hm?” said Auberon. His nakedness draped in his overcoat, he was building a fire.

  “Thoughts,” Sylvie said. “Then. I mean during then. I have lots, almost like a story.”

  He saw what she meant, and laughed. “Oh, thoughts,” he said. “Then. Sure. Crazy thoughts.” He built the fire hurriedly, heedlessly throwing in most of the wood left in the woodbox. He wanted it hot in the Folding Bedroom, hot enough to draw Sylvie out from the blankets she sheltered beneath. He wanted to see her.

  “Like now,” she said. “This time. I was wandering.”

  “Yes,” he said, for he had been too.

  “Children,” she said. “Babies, or baby animals. Dozens, all sizes and colors.”

  “Yes,” he said. He’d seen them too. “Lilac,” he said.

  “Who?”

  He blushed, and stabbed the fire with a golf club that was kept there for that purpose. “A friend,” he said. “A little girl. An imaginary friend.”

  Sylvie said nothing, only wandered in thought, still not quite returned. Then, “Who again?” she said.

  Auberon explained.

  At Edgewood, Sophie turned down a trump, the Knot. She was looking, not having chosen to look but once again looking, for a lost child of George Mouse’s and her fate, but couldn’t find them. Instead she found, and the more she looked the more she went on finding, another girl, and not lost; not lost now, but searching. Past her the kings and queens marched, rank on rank, speaking each his message: I am Hope, I am Regret, I am Idleness, I am Unlooked-for Love. Armed and mounted, solemn and minatory, they went on progress through the dark wood of the trumps; but apart from them, unseen by them, glimpsed only by Sophie, moving brightly amid dark dangers, a princess none of them knew. But where was Lilac? She turned down the next card: it was the Banquet.

  “So whatever happened to her?” Sylvie asked. The fire was hot, and the room warming.

  “Just what I told you,” Auberon said, parting the skirts of his coat to warm his buttocks. “I never saw her again after that day, at the picnic …”

  “Not her,” Sylvie said. “Not the made-up one. The real one. The baby.”

  “Oh.” He seemed to have been propelled forward several centuries since his arrival in the City; trying to remember Edgewood at all now was an effort, but to search in childhood was to dig up Troy. “You know, I don’t really know. I mean I don’t think I was ever told the whole story.”

  “Well, what happened, though.” She moved luxuriously within the sheets, warming too. “I mean did she die?”

  “I don’t think so,” Auberon said, shocked at this notion. For a moment he saw the whole story through Sylvie’s eyes, and it seemed grotesque. How could his family have lost a baby? Or if it hadn’t been lost, if the explanation were simple (adoption, death even) then how could it be that he didn’t know it? In Sylvie’s family history there were several lost babies, in Homes or fostered; all were minutely remembered, all mourned. If he had been capable just then of any emotion other than that directed toward Sylvie and his plans for her in the next moments, he would have felt anger at his ignorance. Well, it didn’t matter. “It doesn’t matter,” he said, glad to know it didn’t. “I give up on it all.”

  She yawned hugely, and tried to speak at the same time, and laughed. “I said so you’re not going back?”

  “No.”

  “Even after you find your fortune?”

  He didn’t say I’ve found it, though it was true; he’d known it since they’d become lovers. Become lovers: like a wizardry, like frogs become princes.

  “You don’t want me to go back?” he said, doffing the overcoat and climbing on the bed.

  “I’d follow you,” she said. “I would.”

  “Warm?” he said, drawing down the quilt that covered her.

  “Hey,” she said. “Ay, que grande.”

  “Warm,” he said, and took the neck and shoulders he had revealed by turns between his lips, sucking and munching like a cannibal. Flesh. But all alive, all alive. “I’m melting,” she said. He entwined her in him as though his long body could swallow hers, a morsel but endless. He bent to her nakedness, a banquet. “In fact I’m cooking,” she said, and she was, her warmth and comfort deep as it was heated further and made more perfect by the incandescent jewel within her; she watched him for a moment, amazed and gratified, watched him swallow her endlessly toward his hollow heart; then she went wandering, and he too, both again in the same realm (later they would speak of it, and compare the places they had been, and find them the same); a realm where they were led, so Auberon thought, by Lilac; coupled, not walking, but still wandering, they were led down concave weed-spined lanes in an endless land, down the twists and turns of a long, long story, a boundless and-then, toward a place something like the place Sophie at Edgewood contemplated in the dark-etched trump called the Banquet: a long table clothed in just-unfolded linen, its claw-feet absurd in the flowers beneath twisted and knotty trees, the tall compote overflowing, the symmetrical candelabra, the many places set, all empty.

  BOOK FOUR: THE WILD WOOD

  CHAPTER ONE

  They neither work nor weep;

  in their shape is their reason.

  —Virginia Woolf

  The years after baby Lilac was rapt from her sleeping mother’s arms were the busiest Mrs. Underhill could remember in a long (in fact as-good-as-eternal) life. Not only was there Lilac’s education to attend to, and a watch kept just as ever on the rest of them, but there were as well all the councils, meetings, consultations and celebrations, multiplying as the events they had all so long nursed into being came more and more rapidly to pass; and all this in addition to her usual tasks, each composed of countless details no one of which could be skimped or scamped.

  A Time and a Tour

  But look how she had succeeded! On a day in November a year after the boy Auberon followed imaginary Lilac into the dark of the woods, and lost her, Mrs. Underhill quite otherwhere measured the real Lilac’s golden length with a practiced eye. She was, at just past eleven years old, as tall
as bent Mrs. Underhill; her chicory-blue eyes, clear as brook water, were level with the old ones which studied her. “Very good,” she said. “Very, very good.” She circled Lilac’s slim wrists with her fingers. She tilted up Lilac’s chin and held a buttercup beneath it. She measured with thumb and forefinger the span from aureole to aureole, and Lilac laughed, tickled. Mrs. Underhill laughed too, pleased with herself and with Lilac. There wasn’t a tinge of green to her biscuity skin, not a trace of absence in her eyes. So often Mrs. Underhill had seen these things go wrong, seen changelings grow dim and marrowless, become at Lilac’s age attenuated pieces of vague longing and good for nothing ever after. Mrs. Underhill was glad she had taken on the hand-rearing of Lilac. What if it had worn her to a raveling? It had succeeded, and there would be aeons in which to rest soon enough.

  Rest! She drew herself up. There must be strength for the end. “Now, child,” she said. “What was it you learned from the bears?”

  “Sleep,” Lilac said, looking doubtful.

  “Sleep indeed,” said Mrs. Underhill. “Now …”

  “I don’t want to sleep,” Lilac said. “Please.”

  “Well, how do you know till you’ve tried it? The bears were comfortable enough.”

  Lilac, pouting, overturned a darkling beetle which was just then crossing her instep, and righted it again. She thought of the bears in their warm cave, oblivious as snow. Mrs. Underhill (who knew the names of many creatures, as every naturalist should) introduced them to her: Joe, Pat, Martha, John, Kathy, Josie, and Nora. But they made no response, only drew breath all together, and let it out, and drew it again. Lilac, who had never closed her eyes except to blink or play hide-and-seek since the night she woke in Mrs. Underhill’s dark house, stood bored and repelled by the seven sleepers, like seven sofas in their lumpish indifference. But she took her lesson from them; and when Mrs. Underhill came for her in the spring, she had learned it well, and for a reward Mrs. Underhill showed her sea-lions asleep in northern waters bobbing in the waves, and albatrosses in southern skies asleep on the wing; still she hadn’t slept, but at least she knew how.

  But now the time had come.

  “Please,” Lilac said, “I will if I must, only …”

  “No ifs, ands, or buts,” Mrs. Underhill said. “There are times that just go by, and times that come. This time’s come.”

  “Well,” Lilac said, desperate, “can I kiss everyone goodnight?”

  “That would take years.”

  “There are bedtime stories,” Lilac said, her voice rising. “I want one.”

  “All the ones I know are in this one, and in this one it’s now the time you fall asleep.” The child before her crossed her arms slowly, still thinking; a dark cast came over her face; she would fight this one out. And like all grannies faced with intransigence, Mrs. Underhill bethought her how she might give in—with dignity, so as not to spoil the child. “Very well,” she said. “I haven’t time to argue. There’s a tour I was to take, and if you’ll promise to be good, and after take your nap, I’ll take you too. It might be educational….”

  “Oh yes!”

  “And education after all was all the point….” “It was!”

  “Well then.” Seeing her excitement, Mrs. Underhill felt for the first time something like pity for the child, how she would be long bound up in the vines and tendrils of sleep, as quiescent as the dead. She rose. “Listen now! Hold tight to me, great thing though you’ve become, and nor eat nor touch a single thing you see….” Lilac had leapt up, her nakedness pale and alight as a wax candle in Mrs. Underhill’s old house. “Wear this,” she said, taking a tiny green three-clawed leaf from within her clothes, licking it with a pink tongue, and sticking it to Lilac’s forehead, “and you’ll see what I say you’ll see. And I think …” There was a heavy beating of wings outside, and a long broken shadow passed over the windows. “I think we can go. I needn’t tell you,” she said, raising a warning finger, “that no matter what you’re not to speak to anyone you see, not anyone,” and Lilac nodded solemnly.

  Rainy-day Wonder

  The stork they rode flew high and fast over swift-unfolding brown and gray November landscapes, but still perhaps Somehow within other borders, for Lilac naked on her back felt neither warm nor cold. She held tight to folds of Mrs. Underhill’s thick clothing, and clutched the stork’s heaving shoulders with her knees, the smooth oiled feathers beneath her thighs soft and slippery. With taps of a stick, here, there, Mrs. Underhill guided the stork up, down, right and left.

  “Where do we go first?” Lilac asked.

  “Out,” Mrs. Underhill said, and the stork dove and twisted; beneath, far off but coming closer, a large and complex house appeared.

  Since babyhood, Lilac had seen this house many times in dreams (how it could be she dreamt but didn’t sleep she never thought about; there was much that Lilac, raised the way she had been, had never thought about, knowing no different way the world and selfhood might be organized, just as Auberon never wondered why three times a day he sat at a table and put food into his face). She didn’t know, though, that when she dreamt she walked the long halls of that house, touching the papered walls hung with pictures and thinking What? What could this be?, that then her mother and her grandmother and her cousins dreamt—not of her, but of someone like her, somewhere else. She laughed when, now, from the stork’s back, she saw the house entire and recognized it instantly: as when the blindfold was lifted from her in a game of blindman’s-bluff and the mysterious features she had been touching, the nameless garments, were revealed to be those of someone well-known, someone smiling.

  It grew smaller as they grew closer. It shrank, as though running away. If that goes on, Lilac thought, by the time we’re close enough to look in its windows, one of my eyes only will be able to see in at a time, and won’t they be surprised inside as we go by, darkening the windows like a stormcloud! “Well, yes,” Mrs. Underhill said, “if it were one and the same; but it’s not, and what they’ll see, or rather not see (I should think), is stork, woman and child about a midge’s size or smaller, and never pay it the least never-mind.”

  “I can’t,” said the stork beneath them, “quite feature that.”

  “Neither can I,” Lilac said laughing.

  “Doesn’t matter,” Mrs. Underhill said. “See now as I see, and it’s all one for the purpose.”

  Even as she spoke, Lilac’s eyes seemed to cross, then right themselves; the house rushed greatly toward them, rose up house-sized to their stork’s size (though she and Mrs. Underhill were smaller—another thing for Lilac not to think to ask about). From on high they sailed down to Edgewood, and its towers round and square bloomed like sudden mushrooms, bowing neatly before them as they flew over, and the walls, weedy drives, porte-cocheres and shingled wings altered smoothly in perspective too, each according to its own geometries.

  At a touch of Mrs. Underhill’s stick the stork tipped its wings and fell sharply to starboard like a fighter plane. The house changed faces as they swooped, Queen Anne, French Gothic, American, but Lilac didn’t notice; her breath was snatched away; she saw the house’s trees and angles uptilt and right themselves as the stork pulled out of her dive, saw the eaves rush up, then closed her eyes, clinging tighter. When her maneuver was completed and the stork was steady again, Lilac opened her eyes to see they were in the shadow of the house, circling to perch on a flinty belvedere outcropping on the house’s most Novembery side.

  “Look,” Mrs. Underhill said when the stork had folded her wings. Her stick like a knuckly finger indicated a narrow ogive window, casements ajar, kitty-corner to where they stood. “Sophie asleep.”

  Lilac could see her mother’s hair, very like her own, displayed on the pillow, and her mother’s nose peeking from under the coverlet. Asleep … Lilac’s bringing-up had trained her to pleasure (and to purpose, though she didn’t know it), not to affection and attachments; rainy days could bring tears to her clear eyes, but wonder, not love, shook her young soul mo
st. So for a long time as she looked within the dim bedroom at her motionless mother, a chain of feelings was knitted within her for which she had no name. Rainy-day wonder. Often they had told her, laughing, how her hands had gripped her mother’s hair, and how with scissors they had cut the hair to free her, and she’d laughed too; now she wondered what it would be like to be laid against that person; down within those covers, her cheek on that cheek, her fingers in that hair, asleep. “Can we,” she said, “go closer to her?”

  “Hm,” said Mrs. Underhill. “I wonder.”

  “If we’re small as you say,” the stork said, “why not?”

  “Why not?” Mrs. Underhill said. “We’ll try.”

  They fell from the belvedere, the stork laboring under her load to rise, neck straining, feet climbing. The casements ahead grew big as though they came closer, but for a long time they came no closer; then, “Now,” said Mrs. Underhill, and tapped with her stick, and they swooped in a vertiginous arc through the open casement and into Sophie’s bedroom. As they flew between floor and ceiling toward the bed, they would have appeared to an observer (if such a one were possible) to be the size of the bird one makes of two linked hands waving.

  “How did that work?” Lilac asked.

  “Don’t ask me how,” Mrs. Underhill said. “Anywhere but here it wouldn’t.” She added thoughtfully, as they circled the bedpost: “And that’s the point, about the house, isn’t it?”

  Sophie’s flushed cheek was a hill, and her open mouth a cave; her head was forested in golden curls. Her breathing was as slow and low a sound as a whole day makes together. The stork stalled at the bed’s head and turned to coast back toward the arable lands of the patchwork quilt. “What if she woke?” Lilac said.