Orfeia

by Joanne M Harris

  Fay shook her head. ‘I’m not hungry,’ she said. ‘I came because I need your help.’

  He smiled. ‘You want the Night Train.’

  Fay looked at him. ‘You knew?’

  ‘Of course. This is London Beneath, my Queen. I know everything that happens here. I know you seek the Hallowe’en King, to beg for the return of your Daisy.’ He stopped to take a canapé of butterflies’ tongues in a hazelnut shell. ‘But I beg you, lay aside your quest until the morning. Tonight there will be music, and dancing, and song from all the tribes of World Below. And if you have no appetite for food or drink or merriment, then at least give me your company, so that no one will say King Alberon failed in his duty as a host.’

  Fay looked around at the many richly clad guests in their masks of coloured feathers. Some of them had butterfly wings, or armour of dragonfly leather, cloaks of embroidered spider-silk, or coats of sequin beetles. Overlooking the hall, cut into the rock high above, Fay saw a minstrels’ gallery, lit by a magnificent chandelier of torchflies. There were stag beetle horns, and spider’s-web harps, and bumblebee drones, and grasshopper strings. A damselfly with a dulcimer sang in a high soprano voice in a language Fay could not identify, and yet could understand perfectly. And as she listened, more instruments joined in the chorus, more voices joined the soloist and the music cascaded like broken crystal into the crowded banqueting-hall—

  Alberon held out his hand. ‘One dance.’

  Fay thought of the words of the travelling girl, and of the tiger’s warning. But a dance would surely do no harm, and the music was irresistible. And so she held out her hands to the King, and allowed him to draw her into his arms.

  For a time, that was enough. She closed her eyes and allowed herself to be guided gently onto the floor. The music was strange and beautiful; the sounds both joyous and yearning. Alberon’s hand rested on her waist; the other on her shoulder. Through the fabric of her dress she could feel the warmth of his fingers. They danced, Fay still clutching her pack, and the whole of the banqueting hall danced with them, chandeliers and musicians and guests, and tables and servants and dishes and lights, revolving like a kaleidoscope. From the silver incense-burners came the scent of roses. It was exhilarating, and yet something continued to trouble her. How had King Alberon known to expect her arrival? And why were he and the rest of his folk so certain she was somebody else?

  Alberon whispered into her ear: ‘Perhaps it is you who should ask yourself why you are so certain you’re not.’

  Fay was alarmed. Had she spoken aloud? It seemed to her that she had not, and yet somehow he’d heard her thoughts. The scent of roses intensified, and Fay began to feel the same strange sense of dislocation that she had felt in Piccadilly Circus. Colours blurred into musical notes; faces took on strange aspects. The dance, so slow at first, was beginning to feel like another hellride.

  ‘I’ve never been here before,’ she said.

  ‘Oh but you have,’ said Alberon. ‘You may not remember your dreams, my Queen, but your dreams remember you.’

  ‘Am I dreaming now?’ said Fay.

  Alberon smiled. ‘No, my Queen. Now, at last, you are awake.’

  Hellride

  ≈

  ‘Noo come ye in inta wir ha,

  An come ye in among wis a’.’

  Now he’s gaen in inta der ha,

  An he’s gaen in among dem a’.

  Child Ballad no. 19: King Orfeo

  One

  ‘There once was a King of the Silken Folk, long ago, and far away. He was a powerful ruler, but he was also a selfish husband. His wife, Queen Orfeia, longed for a child, but the King was oblivious to her need, impatient with her sadness. And so she turned to Dream to provide the comfort that her man would not, and in its secret depths she sought the answer to her loneliness.’

  Alberon smiled, and the gold in his eyes spun and sparkled like fireworks.

  ‘Dream is a river,’ he went on, ‘that runs through every one of the Worlds. It shows us reflections of our lives. It carries them downstream. And sometimes those dreams become islands; and sometimes they become whole Worlds, bright and insubstantial as a bubble in sunlight.’

  Fay tried to close her eyes; to escape Alberon’s irresistible charm. But the dance, and the lights, and the feel of his hand on her waist and the nape of her neck kept her in his power, and the story kept unfolding.

  ‘The Queen had powers of her own, and glamours to rival those of the King, and her dreams were equally powerful, building a wall between her and the life she shared with him. And in time, she came to believe that the dream-world she had built for herself was the truth, and her real life nothing but fantasy. She sought out ever stronger draughts to help her reach that joyful place. And she spent her days and nights in Dream, sleeping ever more and more, until at last she vanished from the real world altogether, and was lost – for ever, they thought – in that world of her own creation.

  ‘But the King had finally understood his part in his wife’s disappearance. He was cruel, and selfish, and bad, but he loved her, and was deeply ashamed. And so he went in search of her, combing the islands and skerries of Dream, hoping to find his lost Queen among all the flotsam of the Worlds. But when at last he found her – after many years of searching – she did not recognize him at all, and simply retreated into her dream, so that the King was left alone, grieving; inconsolable.’

  Alberon reached to touch Fay’s hair, and continued: ‘And yet he waited, hoping that one day she would return to him. Meanwhile, in her dream, the Queen fell in love with a man of the Folk, and had a daughter whom she loved more than anything she had ever loved in the waking world.’

  ‘It wasn’t a dream,’ Fay managed to say. ‘Daisy was real. So was Allan.’

  ‘Of course they were,’ said Alberon. ‘Anything that can be dreamed is true. And yet they belonged to the river, and the river took them back in the end. And so the Queen was left dreaming, alone, without her glamours or memory, while over the water, the King looked on, powerless to reach her. Until one day, in his despair, he went in search of the Oracle. The Oracle was old, and filled with ancient malice and hatred. It dwelt in the heart of World Below in a roaring cradle of fire, but it was cunning, learned, and wise, and it was bound to tell the truth to anyone who petitioned it.

  ‘The road to the Oracle was long and filled with untold dangers. And yet the King endured them, and fought his way to the Oracle, to ask how the Queen could be released, for her dream had become a nightmare.

  ‘The Oracle smiled from its cradle of fire. Its face was all age and all malice. Its lips were sewn shut, and yet it spoke to him in a baleful whisper:

  ‘“To free your lady,” the Oracle said, “you must find the madcap mushroom, which grows in the caves on the shores of Dream, under the cliffs of Damnation. Correctly used, it opens up the doors between the Worlds, and will allow your Queen to pass between the realms of Dream and Waking. To reach the place where madcap grows, you will have to take the Night Train to the Kingdom of Death, where the Hallowe’en King, on his bone-white throne, watches the Worlds through his one living eye. But those who enter the Kingdom of Death are seldom allowed to leave it. The Hallowe’en King demands a price – be sure you are willing to pay it.”

  ‘“More than willing,” said the King. “I thank you for your wisdom.”

  ‘The Oracle gave its twisted smile, and sank back into its cradle of fire. “I speak as I must,” it told him. “And I cannot be silent.”’

  Two

  Fay listened to Alberon’s story as the room circled faster and faster. Her head was filled with colours and lights; her stomach with barbed wire and butterflies. The scent of roses was maddening; it filled the air like a choking rain. And still they danced on, the King leading her around the room with a strong hand in the small of her back, his dark eyes never leaving hers.

  She wanted to tell him to stop, but the words somehow refused to take shape. Around her, the musicians, the guests, the tables la
den with glassware and sweets had taken on a nightmarish cast. She felt both numb and excruciatingly sensitive to everything; even the fabric of her gown seemed to be filled with briars and thorns.

  She clutched at Alberon’s coat. ‘Please.’

  He smiled, and the dancing lights in his eyes reflected the gleam of his jewelled crown. ‘Are you unwell, my Lady?’ he said, guiding her towards one of the chairs of gilded coromandel. ‘Drink this. It will restore you.’ And he handed her a goblet of wine that sparkled like a cup of stars.

  Fay was just about to drink when she realized the trickery. She put down the wine untasted, and, still distressed and disoriented, said the first words that came into her mind, the strange words of the tiger’s song: ‘My plaid shall not be blown away.’

  Alberon flinched. ‘Who taught you that?’

  ‘I forget who taught me,’ said Fay. ‘But there’s wisdom in an old wives’ tale, and magic in a story.’

  Alberon smiled. ‘You are indeed wise,’ he said. His discomfort had lasted no more than a moment, but his eyes were still cautious. Fay took a breath and felt her dizziness begin to abate. The words of the song made no sense to her and yet, somehow, they had power.

  Alberon said: ‘I hope my tale has not caused you any kind of distress. Believe me, it was not my intention to make you uncomfortable in any way.’

  Fay returned his smile. The interruption, brief as it was, had given her time to recover. She touched the strap of her backpack, which she had been clutching throughout the dance. It’s real, she told herself. I brought it here from London.

  So this was why King Alberon had tried to take her pack away. It was a reminder of who she was. It was her only link to her world. Once more she thought of the words of the song – My plaid shall not be blown away – and thought that maybe she knew their meaning, after all.

  Summoning all her composure, she said: ‘Not at all, Your Majesty. It would take far more than a tale to make me doubt my sanity. But please continue with your enchanting tale of the Night Train, and the Hallowe’en King.’

  Once more Alberon smiled, and his eyes gleamed in appreciation. ‘As my Queen desires,’ he said. ‘I live to serve at her pleasure.’ And, taking his seat beside her, he continued his story, while around them the torchflies flickered and burned, and the dancers spun ever more merrily.

  Three

  ‘The easiest way for a living man to board the Night Train is to die,’ said Alberon with a slow smile. ‘But the King was not ready to give up his life, and so he sought another way. The way to all the Worlds is Dream, and Dream is the mother of Story, and it was through stories and dreams that the King found a way to fulfil his desire.’

  Alberon sipped his wine, and went on: ‘The King knew many old stories and songs, and his voice was renowned throughout the Worlds. Songs can open doors, he knew, and stories make connections. And so he went into World Below and sat beside the railway tracks, and sang a song of love and loss, and waited for the Night Train.

  ‘He sang of King Orfeo, a legendary King of the Folk, known throughout the Nine Worlds for his skill with every musical instrument. King Orfeo had a wife, taken much too soon by Lord Death to his hall in World Below. So the King, in his despair, travelled to the Land of the Dead, and begged Death for his wife’s release.

  ‘Lord Death looked down from his bone-white throne, in his crown of dead man’s ivory. His living eye was blue as the sky; his dead eye dark as for ever.

  ‘“What will you give me in return?” he said with his twisted half-smile.

  ‘“Anything I own,” said the King. “Gold, and lands, and tapestries, and carpets from beyond the seas, and perfumes from the islands.”

  Lord Death laughed, and his living eye shone with terrible merriment. “I have no need of treasures,” he said. “Gold and land have no currency here, nor gems, or wealth, or perfumes.”

  ‘King Orfeo looked around him at the dusty palace of Lord Death; its ivory floors; faded tapestries; vaulted, bone-white ceilings. Everything was silent here: the people were nothing but shadows. His wife was among those shadows, he knew, but she did not know him now, for when a mortal loses their shadow, they lose all of their memories.

  ‘“Then let me play for you, my Lord. Music is my currency. I can play a reel so gay that all the bones in this palace will dance; I can sing a song so true that even the dead will listen.”

  ‘Lord Death looked down from his bone-white throne, and his face was both handsome and cruel. “Then sing to me,” he said with a smile. “And I will return your wife to you – but only if you can make me weep.”

  ‘So King Orfeo sang a song of love so sweet and true that Death himself was moved to sigh, and a single tear ran down the living side of his ruined face. And when it was over, from the shadows, he led forth a pale and beautiful woman: it was the wife of Orfeo.

  “I promised you your wife,” said Lord Death with his mocking half-smile. “And here she is. But her shadow remains in my Kingdom, for ever and without release.”

  ‘And so Orfeo took his wife back into the waking World. But she did not know him, or herself, but walked with him as if in a dream, and would not eat, and would not drink, and looked at him with narrowed eyes, as if he were a stranger, for she had lost her shadow, and with it, all memory of her former life.

  ‘“Do you not remember me, my love?” asked King Orfeo.

  ‘The young woman only shook her head. “I was dreaming such a beautiful dream,” she told the King, with tears in her eyes. “I was in a land far away, over the seas to Norroway, and there I slept in a grass-green glade, all scented with summer roses.”

  ‘In vain, King Orfeo tried to coax his Queen into remembering their love. But he was a stranger to her now, and she would not be comforted. And so, in despair, he took her to the Oracle of World Below, which slumbered deep in its cradle of fire, all bound with runes and glamours.

  ‘“How can I make her love me again?” Orfeo asked the Oracle.

  ‘And the Oracle opened one eye and spoke:

  When you can make me a cambric shirt,

  Every sage grows merry in time

  Without any seam or needlework

  Then will you be lovers again.

  ‘“How can that be?” asked Orfeo. “Is this a riddle? Is this a trick?”

  ‘The Oracle gave its twisted smile.

  When you can find me an acre of land,

  Every sage grows merry in time,

  Between the ocean and the sand

  Then will you be lovers again.

  ‘King Orfeo shook his head angrily. “Mock me you will not,” he said. “Ask of me anything you will, but let us have no more of these riddles.”

  ‘The Oracle’s dark eyes shone cruelly. “I speak as I must,” it told him. “I speak as I must, and cannot lie:”

  When you can walk shadowless at noon

  Every sage grows merry in time

  Hand in hand, once more you may

  Lovers be; together again.

  ‘And at these final words it sank back into its cradle of glamours and would not speak another word.

  ‘And so King Orfeo took his Queen back into the land of the living, but the reunion brought him no happiness. His Queen stayed cold and sad and remote from that day till the end of their lives, and the King never played or sang again.’

  King Alberon paused to finish his wine. ‘Beware asking Death for a favour,’ he said, ‘lest Death be inclined to grant it. That is the moral of my tale, and the lesson is a harsh one.’

  Four

  As Alberon finished his goblet of wine, Fay looked once more at the banqueting hall. Everything had stopped as the King told the tale of Orfeo. Dancers, musicians, revellers all now stood in reverent silence: with feathered masks, furred faces and gowns of moth’s-wing velvet. Few of them now looked human at all. Faceted eyes, plumed feelers, long beaks all turned to the royal couple.

  ‘What a sad story,’ said Fay with a smile that hid her deep and growing unease. ‘And was
the King of your story not discouraged from his quest?’

  Alberon shook his head. ‘He was not. He was a constant lover, even in the face of his lady’s desertion.’

  ‘It seems to me that his lady was somewhat justified,’ she said. ‘But tell me: how did he manage to board the Night Train?’

  Alberon smiled. ‘I do apologize: my love of old tales can sometimes lead my tongue astray. My Queen, I understand that you prefer not to drink, or eat, or dance, but I beg of you, grant me the pleasure of hearing you sing, for I have heard tales of your marvellous voice, and, like Lord Death, I would hear it.’

  At his words, the revellers all murmured their agreement. A figure standing behind them said: ‘Much can be paid for with a song – as long as you choose the right song.’ She turned and saw Mabs, in a long grey gown of embroidered moth velvet, her hair shining like starlight beneath a circlet of twisted silver. Behind her, she saw Peronelle – barely recognizable now but for the tumble of purple hair – watching her from behind a fan of jewelled lacewing and multicoloured moth’s plume.

  ‘Go for it. Sing,’ said Peronelle, their smile revealing pointed teeth. ‘Give us a song. A chorus will do. It’s the least you can offer, my Queen, to thank us for our welcome.’

  Fay hesitated. Where lay the harm? Surely a song could not be dangerous. And besides, she was eager to learn how the King had managed to board the Night Train.

  ‘If I sing for you,’ she said, ‘will you promise to get me aboard the Night Train?’

  King Alberon gave her a smile that was as warm as it was dangerous. ‘If you still wish it, of course, my Queen. But sing me your song, for my heart is sore, and your voice may help to heal it.’