by John Crowley
He hadn’t come to her exactly a virgin, but he may as well have; with no one else had he shared this huge, this necessitous child’s greed, no one had ever lavished hers on him or eaten him up so complacently and with such simple relish. There was no end to it and it was all gratified; if he wanted more (and he discovered in himself astonishing, long-compacted thicknesses of desire to be unfolded) he had more. And what he wanted he was as greedy to give and she as greedy to take. It was all so simple! Not that there were no rules, oh yes there were, they were like the rules of children’s spontaneous games, strictly adhered to but often made up on the spot out of a sudden desire to change the game and please yourself. He remembered Cherry Lake, a dark-browed imperious little girl he had used to play with: she, unlike all the others he played with who said “Let’s pretend,” always used another formula—she said “We must.” We must be bad guys. I must be captured and tied to this tree, and you must rescue me. I must be queen now, and you must be my servant. Must! yes …
Sylvie, it seemed, had always known, had never been in the dark about it all. She told him of certain shames and inhibitions she’d had as a kid where he’d had none, because all that stuff, she knew—kissing, taking off clothes with boys, the rush of feeling—was really for grown-ups, and she would come to it truly only when she was older, and had breasts and high heels and make-up. So there was not in her the division he felt; while he had been told that Mom and Dad had loved each other so much that they had subjected themselves to these childish indignities (so it seemed to him) in order to make babies, and could not connect these reported (and only half-believed-in) acts to the huge lashings of feeling invoked in him by Cherry Lake, by certain photographs, by mad games played naked, Sylvie had all along known the real story. Whatever other terrible problems life put before her, and they were many, that one at least she had solved; or rather she had never felt it to be posed. Romance was real, as real as flesh; love and sex were not even woof and warp in it, they were one indissoluble thing, like the seamless fabric of her scented brown skin.
It was he only, then—though in stark numbers she was not more experienced than he—who was astonished, amazed, that this indulgence like a greedy infant’s turned out to be just what grown-ups do, turned out to be adulthood itself: the solemn bliss of strength and capability as well as the mad infant bliss of self-satisfaction unending. It was manliness, womanliness, certified again and again by the most vivid of seals. Papi she called him in her bliss. Ay Papi yo vengo. Papi! Not daytime papo, but strong nighttime daddy, big as a platano and father of pleasures. He almost skipped to think of it, she pressed to his side, her head just reaching his shoulder; but he kept a steady, long-legged, grown-up pace. Was he right that men sensed his potency as he strode along with her, and deferred to him, was it true that women glanced at him covertly, admiringly? Why didn’t everyone they passed, why didn’t the very bricks and blank white sky bless them?
And so they did: at that moment, as they turned onto the street where Old Law Farm could be entered, between one footfall and another something anyway occurred, something that he thought at first to be within himself, a seizure or a heart attack, but instantly felt all around them: something enormous that was like a sound but wasn’t one, was either a demolition (a whole block of dirty brick and wallpapered interiors gone to powder if it was) or a burst of thunder (breaking the sky at least in two, the sky which remained inexplicably blank winter white above, if it was) or both at once.
They stopped, clutching each other.
“What the hell was that?” Sylvie said.
“I don’t know,” he said. They waited a moment, but no roiling smokes arose from the buildings around them, no sirens wailed, ignited by catastrophe; and still the shoppers and loungers and criminals went their ways, unalarmed, unmoved, their faces filled with private wrongs.
They went on warily to Old Law Farm, holding each other, each feeling that the sudden blow had been meant to separate them (why? how?) and had only barely failed, and might come again at any moment.
What a Tangle
“Tomorrow,” Tacey said, turning her embroidery-frame, “or the next day or the next.”
“Oh,” Lily said. She and Lucy were bent over a crazy-quilt, enriching its surface with different stitcheries, flowers, crosses, bows, esses. “Saturday or Sunday,” Lucy said. At that moment match was put to touch-hole (perhaps by accident, there would be some trouble about it afterwards) and the thing that Sylvie and Auberon in the City heard or felt rolled over Edgewood, booming the windows, rattling knickknacks on etagères, cracking a china figurine in Violet’s old bedroom and making the sisters duck and raise their shoulders to protect themselves.
“What on earth,” Tacey said. They looked at one another.
“Thunder,” Lily said; “midwinter thunder, or maybe not.” “A jet plane,” Tacey said, “breaking the sound barrier. Or maybe not.”
“Dynamite,” Lucy said. “Over at the Interstate. Or maybe not.”
They bent to their work again, silent for a while.
“I wonder,” Tacey said, looking up from her frame half turned back-to-front. “Well,” she said, and chose a different thread.
“Don’t,” said Lucy. “That looks funny,” she said critically, of a stitch Lily was making.
“This is a crazy-quilt,” Lily said. Lucy watched her, and scratched her head, not convinced. “Crazy isn’t funny,” she said.
“Crazy and funny.” She worked. “It’s a big zigzag.”
“Cherry Lake,” Tacey said. She held her needle to the wan light of the window, which had ceased to tremble. “Thought she had two boys in love with her. The other day …” “Was it some Wolf?” Lily asked.
“The other day,” Tacey went on (slipping at the first try a silk thread green as jealousy through the needle’s eye), “the Wolf boy had a terrible fight—with …”
“The rival.”
“A third one; Cherry didn’t even know. In the woods. She is …”
“Three,” Lucy sang, and on the second “three” Lily joined her an octave lower: “Three, three, the rivals; two, two, the lilywhite boys, Clothed all in green-o.”
“She is,” Tacey said, “a cousin of ours, sort of.”
“One is one,” her sisters sang.
“She’ll lose them all,” Tacey said.
“… And all alone, and ever more shall be so.”
“You should use scissors,” Tacey said, seeing Lucy face down on the quilt to bite a thread.
“You should mind your own …”
“Business,” Lily said.
“Beeswax,” Lucy said.
They sang again: Four for the gospel-makers. “Run off,” Tacey said. “All three.” “Never to return.”
“Not soon anyway. As good as never.”
“Auberon …”
“Great-grandfather August.”
“Lilac.”
“Lilac.”
The needles they drew through cloth glittered when they pulled them out to the full extension of the thread; each time they pulled them through the threads grew shorter until they were all worked into the fabric, and must be cut, and others slipped through the needles’ eyes. Their voices were so low that a listener would not have known who said what, or whether they talked at all or only murmured meaninglessly.
“What will be fun,” Lily said, “is to see them all again.”
“All come home again.”
“Clothed all in green-o.”
“Will we be there? Will all of us be? Where will it be, how long from now, what part of the wood, what season of the year?” “We will.”
“Nearly all.”
“There, soon, not a lifetime, every part, midsummer.”
“What a tangle,” Tacey said, and held up for them to see a handful of stuff from her workbox, which a child or a cat had got into: silk thread bright as blood, and black cotton darning-stuff, a hank of sheep-colored wool, a silkpin or two, and a bit of sequined fabric dangling from it all,
spinning on a thread-end like a descending spider.
CHAPTER THREE
She heard a note in Elmond’s wood
And wished she had been there.
—Buchan, Hynde Etin
Hawksquill could not at first determine whether by the operations of her Art she had cast herself into the bowels of the earth, the bottom of the sea, the heart of the fire or the middle of the air. Russell Eigenblick would later tell her that he had often suffered from the same confusion in his long sleep, and that perhaps it was in all four places that he had been hidden, in all four corners of the earth. The old legend always put him in the mountain, of course, but Godfrey of Viterbo said no, the sea; the Sicilians had him ensconced in the fires of Etna, and Dante put him in Paradise or its environs though he might just as well (if he had been feeling vindictive) have stuck him in the Inferno with his grandson.
The Top of a Stair
Since taking this assignment, Hawksquill had gone far, though never quite this far, and little of what she had begun to suspect about Russell Eigenblick could be put into a form understandable to the Noisy Bridge Rod and Gun Club, which almost daily now importuned her for a decision concerning the Lecturer. His power and appeal had grown enormously, and soon it would be impossible for them to dispose of Eigenblick tidily, if dispose of him they must; not much longer and it would be impossible to dispose of him at all. They raised Hawksquill’s fees, and spoke in veiled terms of perhaps seeking other sources of advice. Hawksquill ignored all this. So far from malingering, she now spent nearly every waking and many sleeping hours in pursuit of whoever or whatever it was that claimed to be Russell Eigenblick, haunting her own memory mansions like an unlaid ghost, and following flying scraps of evidence farther than she had ever gone before, pulling up at times before powers she would rather not have started into wakefulness, and finding herself in places that she had not before known she knew existed.
Where she found herself just now was at the top of a stair.
Whether she mounted or descended these stairs she wouldn’t afterwards be able to determine; but they were long. At the end of them was a chamber. The broad studded door stood flung open. A great stone, by its track in the dust, had not long ago been rolled away from barring shut the door. Dimly within she could see a long feast-table, spilled cups and scattered chairs iced with ancient dust; from the chamber came an odor as of a messy bedroom just opened. But there was no one within.
She made to pass the broken door to investigate, but noticed then seated on the stone a figure in white, small, pretty, head bound in a golden fillet, paring its nails with a small knife. Not knowing what language to speak to this person, Hawksquill raised her brows and pointed within.
“He is not here,” the person said. “He is risen.”
Hawksquill considered a question or two, but understood before she asked that this personage would not answer them, that he (or she) was an embodiment only of that one remark: He is not here, he is risen. She turned away (the stair and the door and the message and the messenger fading from her attention like a shape momentarily perceived in changeful clouds) and set off further, bethinking herself where she might go for answers to many new questions, or questions to fit the many new answers she was quickly garnering.
Daughter of Time
“The difference,” Hawksquill had long ago written in one of the tall marbled folios filled with her left-handed script which stood or lay on the long lamplit study table far behind her now, “the difference between the Ancient concept of the nature of the world and the New concept is, in the Ancient concept the world has a framework of Time, and in the New concept, a framework of Space.
“To look at the Ancient concept through the spectacles of the New concept is to see absurdity: seas that never were, worlds claimed to have fallen to pieces and been created newly, a congeries of unlocatable Trees, Islands, Mountains and Maelstroms. But the Ancients were not fools with a poor sense of direction; it was only not Orbis Terrae that they were looking at. When they spoke of the four corners of the earth, they meant of course no four physical places; they meant four repeated situations of the world, equidistant in time from one another: they meant the solstices and the equinoxes. When they spoke of seven spheres, they did not mean (until Ptolemy foolishly tried to take their portrait) seven spheres in space; they meant those circles described in Time by the motions of the stars: Time, that roomy seven-storey mountain where Dante’s sinners wait for Eternity. When Plato tells of a river girdling the earth, which is somewhere (so the New concept would have it) up in the air and somewhere also in the middle of the earth, he means by that river the same river Heraclitus could never step in twice. Just as a lamp waved in darkness creates a figure of light in the air, which remains for as long as the lamp repeats its motion exactly, so the universe retains its shape by repetition: the universe is Time’s body. And how will we perceive this body, and how operate on it? Not by the means we perceive extension, relation, color, form—the qualities of Space. Not by measurement and exploration. No: but by the means we perceive duration and repetition and change: by Memory.”
Knowing this to be so, it could not matter to Hawksquill that on her travels her gray-bunned head and nerveless limbs did not probably change place, remained (she supposed) in the plush chair in the middle of the Cosmo-Opticon at the top of her house which stood in a hexagram of lower City streets. The wingéd horse she had summoned to bear her away was not a wingéd horse but that Great Square of stars pictured above her, and “away” was not where she was borne; but the greatest skill (perhaps the only skill) of the true mage is to apprehend these distinctions without making them, and to translate time into space without an error. It’s all, said the old alchemists quite truthfully, so simple.
“Away!” said the voice of her Memory when the hand of her Memory was on the reins again and her seat was sure, and away they went, vast wings beating through Time. They traversed oceans of it while Hawksquill thought; and then her steed plunged, at her command, unhesitatingly, without a blink, which took the breath of her Memory away, into either the southern sky below the world or into the limpid-dark austral waters, in any case making for there where all past ages lie, Ogygia the Fair.
Her Steed’s silver-shod feet touched that shore, and his great head sank; his strong wings, billowing like draperies, now emptied of the air of time, sank too with a whisper and trailed along the eternal grass, which he cropped for strength. Hawksquill dismounted, patted her steed’s enormous neck, whispered that she would return, and started off, following the footprints, each longer than herself, pressed on these shores at the end of the Golden Age and petrified long since. The air was windless, yet the gigantic forest under whose eaves she entered soughed with a breath of its own, or perhaps with His breath, expelled and drawn with the long regularity of immemorial sleep.
She came no closer than the entrance of the vale he filled. “Father,” she said, and her voice startled the silence; aged eagles with heavy wings rose up and settled sleepily again. “Father,” she said again, and the vale stirred. The great gray boulders were his knees, the long gray ivy his hair, the precipice-gripping massy roots his fingers; the eye he opened to her was milky-gray, a dim-glowing stone, the Saturn of her Cosmo-Opticon. He yawned: the inhalation turned the leaves of trees like storm-wind and stirred her hair, and when he exhaled his breath was the cold black breath of a bottomless cave.
“Daughter,” he said, in a voice like earth’s. “I’m sorry to disturb your sleep, Father,” she said, “but I have a question only you can answer.” “Ask it then.”
“Does a new world now begin? I see no reason why it should, and yet it seems it does.”
Everyone knows that when his sons overthrew their ancient Father, and cast him here, the endless Age of Gold ended, and Time was invented with all its labors. Less well known is how the young, unruly Gods, frightened or ashamed at what they had done, gave the ruling of this new entity into the hands of their Father. He was asleep in Ogygia then an
d didn’t care, so ever since it has been here in this isle, where the five rivers have their common wellspring, that all the used years accumulate like fallen leaves; and when the Ancientest One, troubled by a dream of overthrow or change, shifts his massy limbs and smacks his lips, scratching at the rock-ribbed muscles of his hams, a new age issues, the measures alter which he gives to the dance of the universe, the sun is born in a new sign.
Thus the airy scheming Gods contrived to put the blame for the calamity on their old Father. In time, Kronos, king of the happy Timeless Age, became old busybody Chronos with his sickle and hourglass, father of chronicles and chronometers. Only his true sons and daughters know better—and some adopted ones, Ariel Hawksquill among them.
“Does a new age now begin?” she asked again. “It’s beforehand if it does.”
“A New Age,” said Father Time in a voice that could create one. “No. Not for years and years.” He brushed away a few of these that had gathered in withered piles on his shoulders.
“Then,” Hawksquill said, “who is Russell Eigenblick, if he isn’t King of a new age?”
