by John Crowley
Oh more, said the Breezes; more, much more.
Smoky looked up. The drapes at the window moved. “Alice?” he said.
He got up, pushing the heavy book to the floor. He went to the tall window and looked out. The walled garden was a dark vestibule; the door open in the wall led to moonlit turf and misty evening.
She’s far, she’s there, a Little Breeze said.
“Alice?”
She’s near, she’s here, said another; but whatever it was that seemed to proceed toward him through the windy darkness and the garden, he didn’t recognize it. He stood a long time looking into the night as into a face, as though it might converse with him, and explain many things: he thought it could, but all he heard it say, or himself say, was a name.
The moon rose out of sight above the house. Smoky climbed slowly up to his bed. About the time the moon set, pale horns indicating the place where the sleepy sun would soon rise, Smoky awoke, feeling he hadn’t been asleep for a moment, as imsomniacs do; he dressed himself in an old frayed dressing gown with braided edges around the cuffs and pockets, and climbed up to the top of the house, turning on as he went the hall-sconces that some thoughtless person had left off.
Lit by planetshine and daybreak, the sleepless system didn’t seem to move, any more than the morning star outside the round window seemed to: and yet it did move. Smoky watched it, thinking of the night when by lamplight he had read out from the Ephemeris the degrees, minutes and seconds of the stars’ ascensions, and felt, when he had set the last moon of Jupiter, the infinitesimal shudder of its quickening. And heard the first steel croquet-ball fall otherwise unaided into the waiting hand of the absurd overbalancing wheel. Saved. He remembered the feeling.
He put his hand on the wheel’s black case, feeling it tick over far more steadily than his own heart; and more patient too, and a hardier thing altogether. He pushed open the round window, letting in a glad rush of birdsong, and looked out over the tiled roofs. Another nice day. What is so rare. You could see a long way south from this height, he noticed; you could see the steeple at Meadowbrook, the roofs of Plainfield. Amid them the greening clumps of woods were misty; beyond the towns the woods thickened into the great Wild Wood on whose edge Edgewood stood, which went on growing always deeper and thicker toward the South far farther than the eye could see.
Only the Brave
They came to the heart of the forest, but it was a deserted kingdom. They had come no closer to any Parliament, or any closer either to her whom Auberon sought, whose name he had forgotten.
“How far can you go into the woods?” Fred asked. Auberon knew the answer to that. “Halfway,” he said. “Then you start coming back out again.”
“Not this woods though,” Fred said. His steps had slowed; he plucked up moss and wormy earth with every footstep. He put his feet down.
“Which way?” Auberon said. But from here all ways were one.
He had seen her: he had seen her more than once: had seen her far off, moving brightly amid the forest’s dark dangers, seeming at home there; once standing alone pensive in the tigery shade (he was sure, almost sure, it had been she), once hurrying away, a crowd of small beings at her feet, she hadn’t turned to see him though one of those with her had, sharp ears, yellow eyes, a beast’s unmeaning smile. Always she seemed to be headed elsewhere, purposefully; and when he followed she wasn’t where he went.
He would have called to her, if he hadn’t been unable to remember her name. He had sorted through the alphabet to jog his memory, but it had turned to wet leaves, to staghorn, snails’ shells, fauns’ feet; it all seemed to spell her, but gave him no name. And then she had escaped, not having noticed him, and he was only deeper in than before.
Now he was at the center, and she wasn’t there either, whatever her name was.
Brown breasts? Brown something. Laurel, or cobweb, something like that; bramble, or something that began with a bee, or a sea.
“Annaway,” Fred said. “This looks like as far as I go.” His poncho was stiff and tattered, his pant-legs all fray; his toes protruded from the mouths of his ruined galoshes. He tried to raise one foot from the ground, but it wouldn’t rise. His toes gripped earth.
“Wait,” said Auberon.
“No help for it,” Fred said; “Nest of robins in my hair. Nice. Okay.”
“But come on,” Auberon said. “I can’t go on without you.”
“Oh, I’m comin’,” said Fred, budding. “Still comin’, still guidin’. Oney not walkin’.” Between his great rooting toes a crowd of brown mushrooms had sprung up. Auberon looked up, up, up at him. His knuckles doubled, tripled, turned to hundreds. “Hey m’man,” he said. “Lookin’ at God all day, yunnastan. Gots to catch some rays, scuse me,” and his face tilted back disappearing into bole as he reached up toward the treetops with a thousand greening fingers. Auberon gripped his trunk.
“No,” he said. “Damn it now, don’t.”
He sat down, helpless, at Fred’s foot. Now he was lost for sure. What stupid, stupid madness of desire had propelled him here, here where she was not, this princedom of nobody’s where she had never been, where he was unable to remember anything of her but his desire for her. He put his head in his hands, despairing.
“Hey,” said the tree, with a woody voice. “Hey, what’s that about. I got counsel. Listen up.”
Auberon raised his head.
“Oney the brave,” said Fred, “jes’ oney the brave deserve the fair.”
Auberon stood. Tears made rivulets in his dirty cheeks. “All right,” he said. He ran his hands through his hair, combing out dead leaves. He too had grown rank, as though he had lived years in the woods, mould in his cuffs, berry-juice in his beard, caterpillars in his pockets. A derelict.
He would have to start all over again, that’s all. Brave he was not, but he had arts. Had he learned nothing at all? He must get a grip on this, he must get power over this. If this were a deserted princedom, then he could install himself in its seat, if he could think how, and then he would be lost no more. How?
Only by reason. He must think. He must make order here where there was none. He must get bearings, make a list, number everything and arrange it all in ranks and orders. He must, first of all, erect in the heart of the forest a place where he knew where he was, and what was what; then he might remember who he was, he who was here at the seat and center; and then what he should do here thereupon. He would, Somehow, have to turn back and start again.
He looked around the place he was, trying to think which of the ways away from it would lead him back.
All would, or none would. Warily he peered down leafy flowered avenues. Whatever way looked most like leading him away would only turn in some subtle way and lead him back, he knew that much. There was an expectant, an ironic silence in the woods, a few brief questions from the birds.
He took a seat on a fallen log. Before him, in the center of the glade, amid the grasses and violets, he set up a little stone shed or pavilion, facing in four directions, north, south, east and west. On each of its faces he put a season: winter, summer, spring and fall. Radiating away from it were the curving, tricksome ways; he metalled them in gravel, and bordered them with white-painted stones, and led them toward or away from statues, an obelisk, a marten-house on a pole, a little arched bridge, beds of tulips and day-lilies. Around it all he drew a great square of wrought-iron fence studded with arrow-headed posts, and four locked gates to go in and out of.
There. Traffic could be heard, though far off. Carefully he shifted his look: there beyond the fence was a classical courthouse, surmounted with statues of lawgivers. A hint of acrid smoke mixed in his nostrils with spring air. Now he needed only to go around the place he had made, to each of its parts in strict order, and demand from each the part of Sylvie he had put there.
The part of whom?
The park trembled in unreality, but he put it back. Don’t grasp, don’t hurry. The first place first, then the second place. If he didn’t d
o this properly, he would never find out how the story came out: whether he found her, and brought her back (back where?) or lost her for good, or whatever the end was, or would be, or had been. He began again: the first place, then the second place.
No, it was hopeless. How could he ever have thought to have contained her in this place, like a princess in a tower? She had fled, she had arts of her own. And what anyway did his ragbag of memories amount to? Her? No way. They had grown over time even more crushed, faded and tattered than he remembered them being when he had put them here. It was no use. He rose from his park bench, feeling in his pocket for the key that would let him out. The little girls who played jacks along the path looked up at him warily as he chose a gate to go out of.
Locks. That’s all this damn City is, he thought, inserting his key; locks upon locks. Rows, clusters, bouquets of locks knotted against the edges of doors, and the pocket weighed down as with sin by keys, to open them and lock them up again. He pushed open the heavy gate, swinging it aside like a jail door. On the rusticated red stone gatepost was a plaque: it said Mouse Drinkwater Stone 1900. And from the gate the street stretched out, townhouse-lined for a block, then marching into the brown uptown distance between vague castles, old in power, that scraped the sky, wreathed in smoke and noise.
He walked. People hurried past him, they had destinations, he was aimless and slower. And from a side street ahead of him, a package under her arm, booted feet quick, Sylvie turned on to the avenue and away uptown.
Small, alone but assured on the hectic street, her kingdom. And his. Her retreating back: she was still on her way away, and he was behind. But he was pointed now, at last, in the right direction. He opened his mouth, and her name came out. It had been on the tip of his tongue.
“Sylvie,” he called.
Quite Close
She heard that, and it seemed to be a name she knew; her feet slowed, and she partly turned but did not; it had been a name, a name she remembered from somewhere, somewhen. Had a bird called it, calling to its mate? She looked up into the sunshot leaves. Or a chipmunk, calling its friends and relations? She watched one scamper and freeze on the knobby knees of an oak, then turn to look at her. She walked on, small, alone but assured beneath the tall trees, her naked feet falling quick one after the other among the flowers.
She walked far, and fast; the wings she had grown were not wings, yet they bore her; she didn’t stop to amuse herself, though pleasures were shown her and many creatures implored her to stay. “Later, later,” she said to all, and hurried on, the path unfolding before her night by day as she went.
He’s coming, she thought, I know it, he’ll be there, he will; maybe he won’t remember me, but I’ll remind him, he’ll see. The present she had for him, chosen after long thought, she held tight under her arm and had let no one else carry, though many had offered.
And if he wasn’t there?
No, he would be; there could be no banquet for her if he wasn’t present, and a banquet had been promised; everybody would be there, and surely he was one. Yes! The best seat, the choicest morsels, she would feed him by hand just to watch his face, he’d be so surprised! Had he changed? He had, but she’d know him. She was sure.
Night sped her. The moon rose, waxing fat, and winked at her: party! Where was she now? She stopped, and listened to the forest speak. Near, near. She had never been here before, and that was a sign. She didn’t like to go further without sure bearings, and some word. Her invitation was clear, and she need defer to none, but. She climbed a tall tree to its tip-top, and looked out over the moon’s country.
She was on the forest’s edge. Night breezes browsed in the treetops, parting the leaves with their passage. Far off, or near, or both, anyway beyond the roofs of that town and that moonlit steeple, she saw a house: a house decked out in lights, every window bright. She was quite close.
Mrs. Underhill on that night looked one last time around her dark and tidy house, and saw that all was as it should be. She went out, and pulled the door shut; she looked up into the moon’s face; she drew from her deep pocket the iron key, and locked the door, and put the key under the mat.
Give Way Give Way
Give way, give way, she thought; give way. It was all theirs, now. The banquet was set with all its places, and very pretty it was too, she almost wished she could be there. But now that the old king had come at last, and would sit on his high throne (whenever it was, she had never been exactly sure) there was nothing more for her to do.
The man known as Russell Eigenblick had had, when he alighted, only one question for her: “Why?”
“Why, for goodness’ sake,” Mrs. Underhill had said. “why, why. Why does the world need three sexes, when one of them doesn’t help out? Why are there twenty-four kinds of dreams and not twenty-five? Why is there always an even number of ladybugs in the world and not an odd, an odd number of stars visible and not an even? Doors had to be opened; cracks had to be forced; a wedge was needed, and you were it. A winter had to be made before spring could come; you were the winter. Why? Why is the world as it is and not different? If you had the answer to that, you wouldn’t be here now asking it. Now do calm yourself. Do you have your robe and crown? Is everything as you like it, or near enough? Rule wisely and well; I know you’ll rule long. Give my best to them all, when they come to make their obeisance, in the fall; and don’t, please don’t, ask them hard questions; they’ve had enough of those to answer these many years.”
And was that all? She looked around herself. She was all packed; her unimaginable trunks and baskets had been sent on ahead with those strong young ones who had gone first. Had she left the key? Yes, under the mat; she had just done that. Forgetful. And was that all?
Ah, she thought: one thing left to do.
Come or Stay
“We’re going,” she said, when near dawn she stood on the point of rock that jutted out over a pool in the woods into which a waterfall fell with a constant song.
Spears of moonlight were broken by the pool’s surface; new leaves and blossoms floated there, gathering in the eddies. A great white trout, pink-eyed, without speckle or belt, rose slowly at her words. “Going?” he said.
“You can come or stay,” said Mrs. Underhill. “You’ve been so long on this side of the story that it’s up to you by now.”
The trout said nothing, alarmed beyond words. At last Mrs. Underhill, growing impatient with his sad goggling, said sharply, “Well?”
“I’ll stay,” he said quickly.
“Very well,” Mrs. Underhill said, who would have been very surprised indeed if he had answered differently. “Soon,” she said, “soon there will come to this place a young girl (well, an old, old lady now, but no matter, a girl you knew) and she will look down into this pool; she will be the one you’ve so long waited for, and she won’t be fooled by your shape, she’ll look down and speak the words that will free you.”
“She will?” said Grandfather Trout.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“For love’s sake, you old fool,” Mrs. Underhill said; she struck the rock beneath her stick so hard it cracked; a dust of granite drifted onto the stirred surface of the pool. “Because the story’s over.”
“Oh,” said Grandfather Trout. “Over?” “Yes. Over.”
“Couldn’t I,” said Grandfather Trout, “just stay as I am?”
She bent down, studying his dim silver shape in the pool. “As you are?” she said.
“Well,” said the fish. “I’ve got used to it. I don’t remember this girl, at all.”
“No,” said Mrs. Underhill, after some thought. “No, I don’t think you can. I can’t imagine that.” She straightened up. “A bargain’s a bargain,” she said, turning away. “Nothing to do with me.”
Grandfather Trout retreated into the weed-bearded hidey-holes of his pool, fear in his heart. Remembrance, against his will, was coming fast on him. She; but which she would it be? And how could he hide from her when she came,
not with commands, not with questions, but with the words, the only words (he would have shut his eyes tight against the knowledge, if only he had had lids to shut) that would stir his cold heart? And yet he could not leave; summer had come, and with it a million bugs; the torrents of spring were done and his pool the old familiar mansion once again. He would not leave. He laved his fins in agitation, feeling things come and go along his thin skin he had not felt in decades; he worked himself deeper into his hole, hoping and doubting that it would be deep enough to hide him.
“Now,” Mrs. Underhill said, as dawn rose around her.
“Now.”
“Now,” she heard her children say, those near and those far off too, in all their various voices. Those near gathered around her skirts; she put her hand to her brow and spied those already journeying, caravans down the valley toward dawn, dwindling to invisibility. Mr. Woods took her elbow.
“A long way,” he said. “A long, long way.”
Yes, it would be long; longer, she thought, though not so hard, as the way for those who followed her here, for at least she knew the way. And there would be fountains there to refresh her, and all of them; and there would be the broad lands she had dreamed of so often.
There was some trouble getting the old Prince helped onto his broken-winded charger, but when he was aloft he raised a feeble hand, and they all cheered; the war was over, more than over, forgotten, and they had won. Mrs. Underhill, leaning on her staff, took his reins, and they set out.
Not Going
It was the year’s longest day, Sophie knew, but why should it be called Midsummer when summer had just begun? Maybe only because it was the day, the first day, on which summer seemed endless; seemed to stretch out before and behind limitlessly, and every other season was out of mind and unimaginable. Even the stretch of the screen-door’s spring and the clack of its closing behind her as she went in, and the summer odor of the vestibule, seemed no longer new, and were as though they had always been.
