Little, Big

Tears were on his cheeks too in the little park where he sat, having salvaged this, the last of Sylvie, the living end. When he had at last awakened in the Terminus still in that position, he didn’t know how or why he had come to be there; but he remembered now. The Art of Memory had given it all back to him, all, to do with what he could.

What you didn’t know; what you didn’t know arising, spontaneously, surprisingly, out of the proper arrangement of what you did: or rather what you knew all along but didn’t know you knew. Every day here he had come closer to it; every night, lying awake at the Lost Sheep Mission, amid the hawkings and nightmares of his fellows, as he walked these paths in memory, he approached what he didn’t know: the simple single lost fact. Well, he had it now. Now he saw the puzzle complete.

He was cursed: that’s all.

Long ago, and he knew when though not why, a curse had been laid on him, a charm, a disfigurement that made him for good a searcher, and his searches at the same time futile. For reasons of their own (who could say what, malevolence only, possibly, probably, or for a recalcitrance in him they wanted to punish, a recalcitrance they had however not punished out of him, he would never give in) they had cursed him: they had attached his feet on backwards, without his noticing it, and then sent him out that way to search.

That had been (he knew it now) in the dark of the woods, when Lilac had gone away, and he had called after her as though his heart would break. From that moment he had been a searcher, and his searching feet pointed Somehow in the wrong direction.

He’d sought Lilac in the dark of the woods, but of course he’d lost her; he was eight years old and only growing older, though against his will; what could he expect?

He’d become a secret agent to plumb the secrets withheld from him, and for as long as he sought them, for just so long were they withheld from him.

He’d sought Sylvie, but the pathways he found, seeming always to lead to her heart, led always away. Reach toward the girl in the mirror, who looks out at you smiling, and your hand meets itself at the cold frontier of the glass.

Well: all done now. The search begun so long ago ended here. The little park his great-great-grandfather made he had remade into an emblem as complete, as fully-charged, as any trump in Great-aunt Cloud’s deck or any cluttered hall in Ariel Hawksquill’s memory mansions. Like those old paintings where a face is made up of a cornucopia of fruit, every wrinkle, eyelash, and throat-fold made of fruits and grains and victuals realistic enough to pluck up and eat, this park was Sylvie’s face, her heart, her body. He had dismissed from his soul all the fancies, laid here all the ghosts, deposited the demons of his drunkenness and the madness he’d been born with. Somewhere, Sylvie lived, chasing her Destiny, gone for reasons of her own; he hoped she was happy. He had lifted the curse from himself, by main strength and the Art of Memory, and was free to go.

He sat.

Some sort of tree (his grandfather would have known what kind, but he didn’t) was just in that week casting off its leaflike blooms or seeds, small silver-green circles that descended all over the park like a million dollars in dimes. Fortunes of them were rolled toward him by wastrel breezes, piled against his unmoving feet, filled his hat-brim and his lap, as though he were only another fixture of the park to be littered, like the bench he sat on and the pavilion he looked at.

When he did rise, heavily and feeling Somehow still inhabited, it was only to move around from Winter, which he was done with, back to Spring, where he had begun; where he now was. A year’s circuit. Winter was old Father Time with sickle and hourglass, his ragged domino and beard blown by chappy winds, and a disgusted expression on his face. A lean, slavering dog or wolf was at his phthisical feet. Green coins fell across them, catching in the relief; green coins fell whispering from Auberon as he rose. He knew what Spring, just around the corner, would be; he’d been there before. There seemed suddenly little point in doing anything any more but making this circuit. Everything he needed was here.

Brother North-wind’s Secret. Ten steps was all it took. If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind? He’d always thought that was put wrong. Shouldn’t it be, If Winter comes can Spring be far ahead? Ahead: as you advance through the seasons, first winter comes, and then spring is not far ahead. “Right?” he said aloud to no one. Ahead, behind. It was probably he who had it wrong, who saw it from some peculiar useless personal point of view no one else shared, no one. If winter comes… He turned the corner of the pavilion. Can spring be far ahead, behind… Someone was just then turning the other corner, from Spring into Summer.

“Lilac,” he said.

She glanced back at him, half gone around the corner; glanced back at him with a look he knew so well yet had for so long not seen that it made him feel faint. It was a look which said, Oh I was just going away somewhere, but you caught me, and yet it didn’t mean that, was just pretty coquetry mixed with some shyness, he’d always known that. The park around him grew unreal, as though in the act of silently blowing away. Lilac turned toward him, her clasped hands swinging before her, her bare feet taking small steps. She had (of course) grown no older; she wore (of course) her blue dress. “Hi,” she said, and brushed her hair away from her face with a quick motion.

“Lilac,” he said.

She cleared her throat (long time since she’d spoken) and said, “Auberon. Don’t you think it’s time for you to go home?”

“Home,” he said.

She took a step toward him, or he one toward her; he held out his hands to her, or she hers toward him. “Lilac,” he said. “How do you come to be here?”

“Here?”

“Where did you go,” he said, “that time you went?”

“Go?”

“Please,” he said. “Please.”

“I’ve been here all the time,” she said, smiling. “Silly. It’s you who’ve been in motion.”

A curse; only a curse. No fault of your own.

“All right,” he said, “all right,” and took Lilac’s hands, and lifted her up, or tried to, but that wouldn’t work; so he linked his hands like a stirrup, and bent down, and she put her small hare foot into his hands, and her hands on his shoulders, and so he hoisted her up.

“Kind of crowded in here,” she said as she made her way within. “Who are all these people?”

“Doesn’t matter, doesn’t matter,” he said.

“Now,” she said, settled in, her voice already faint, more his than hers, as it had always been, after all, after all; “nowwhere do we go?

He drew out the key the old woman had given him. It was necessary to unlock the wrought-iron gate in order to leave, just as it was in order to enter. “Home, I guess,” Auberon said. Little girls playing jacks and plucking dandelions along the path looked up to watch him talk to himself. “I guess, home.”

III.

Despising, for your sake, the City, thus I turn my back: there is a world elsewhere.

—Coriolanus

Hawksquill’s powerful Vulpes translated her back to the City in a near-record time, and yet (so her watch told her) perhaps still not under the wire. Though she was now in possession of all the missing parts of the problem of Russell Eigenblick, the learning of those parts had taken longer than she had expected.