Hawksquill, watching the battle, that the whole world was just at that moment lapsing into a long dream, or perhaps awaking from one; it was impossible to tell which. But when she turned from the window to remark on this, she saw that the Emperor Frederick Barbarossa was asleep in his chair, snoring softly, his faint breath blowing out the hairs of his red moustache and his face as peaceful as any sleeping child’s: as if, Hawksquill thought, he had never really awakened at all.
Ever After
“Oho,” George Mouse said when at last he opened the door of Old Law Farm to find Auberon on the stoop. Auberon had been long pounding and calling (somewhere in his wanderings he had lost all his keys) and now faced George ashamed, the prodigal cousin.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hey,” George said. “Long time no hear from.”
“Yeh.”
“You had me worried, man. What the hell was that about, running off? Hell of a thing.”
“Looking for Sylvie.”
“Oh, yeah, hey, you left her brother in the Folding Bedroom. A sweet guy, really. So you find her?”
“No.”
“Oh.”
They stood facing each other. Auberon, still bemused by his own sudden reappearance in these streets, could not think of a way to ask George to take him back, though it seemed that it was for that that he stood before him. George only smiled and nodded, his black eyes alert to something not present: stoned again, Auberon supposed. Though May was just unfolding in Edgewood, the City’s single week of spring had come and passed, and summer was full there already, putting forth its richest odors, like a lover in heat. Auberon had forgotten.
“So,” George said.
“So,” Auberon said.
“Back in Bigtown, huh?” George said. “Were you thinking…”
“Can I come back?” Auberon said. “I’m sorry.”
“Hey, no. Swell. Lot’s to do just now. The Folding Bedroom’s empty… How long were you thinking?…”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Auberon said. “From now on, I guess. Ever after.”
He was a flung ball, that’s all, he saw that clearly now; flung outward from Edgewood at first, leaping high, bounding to the City, then ricocheting madly within that maze, the walls and objects he struck the determiners of his way, until (not by his choice) he had been flung back Edgewoodwards again to carom there, angles of incidence equaling angles of reflection; and then back again to these streets, to this Farm. And even the most tensile of balls must have a stop, must bounce more lowly, then more lowly, and at last roll only, parting the grass; then, resisted even by the grass, must slow, and with a little rocking motion come to rest.
Three Lilacs
George seemed then to realize that they stood there in an open door, and, darting his head out for a quick look down the fearful street to see who might be approaching, drew Auberon within and locked the door behind them, as he had once before on a winter night in another world.
“You got some mail and stuff,” he said as he led Auberon down the hall and down the stairs to the kitchen; and then said something more, about goats and tomatoes, but Auberon heard nothing more because of a sudden roaring of blood in his ears and a fearful thought about a gift, which filled up his head; a roaring and a thought which continued to fill up his head while George aimlessly searched amid the treasures of the kitchen for the letters, stopping to put questions and make remarks. Only when he saw that Auberon neither heard nor answered did he apply himself and come up with two long envelopes, which had been put in a toast-rack along with some ancient dunning letters and souvenir menus.
A glance told Auberon that neither was from Sylvie. His fingers trembled, though pointlessly now, as he opened them. Petty, Smilodon & Ruth were pleased to inform him that Doctor Drinkwater’s will had at last been settled. They included an accounting which showed that, less advances and costs, his share of the settlement was $34.17. If he would come in and sign some papers he would receive this amount in full. The other envelope, a heavy wove paper with an expensive-looking logo, yielded up a letter from the producers of “A World Elsewhere.” They had gone very carefully over his scripts. The story ideas were terrific and vivid but the dialogue was somewhat unconvincing. Still, if he cared to work over these scripts or try another, they thought a place could be found for him soon among the show’s junior writers; they hoped to hear from him, or were anyway hoping last year. Auberon laughed. At least he’d have, perhaps, a job; perhaps he
“Good news?” George said, making coffee.
“You know,” Auberon said, “There’s some very strange things going on in the world lately. Very strange.”
“Tell me about it,” George said, meaning the opposite.
Auberon realized that coming out of his long drunk he was just now noticing things that everyone else had already learned to live with. As though he were suddenly to turn to his fellow man and announce that, hey, the sky is blue, or point out that the aged trees along the street were in leaf. “Were there always big trees along this street?” he asked George.
“That ain’t the worst of it,” George said. “The roots are breaking up my basements. And just try to get through to the Parks Department. Hopeless.” He put coffee before Auberon. “Milk? Sugar?”
“Black.”
“Curiouser and curiouser,” George said, stirring his coffee with a tiny souvenir coffee-spoon though he had put nothing in it. “Sometimes I think I’ll blow this burg. Go back into fireworks. There’s going to be big bucks in fireworks now, I bet, with all the celebrations.”
“Hm?”
“Eigenblick and all that. Parades, shows. He’s very into that stuff. And fireworks.”
“Oh.” Since his night and morning with Bruno, it had been a policy of Auberon’s not to think or ask questions about Russell Eigenblick. Love was strange: it could color whole passages of the world, and ever after they retained the color of love, whether that color was bright or dark. He thought of Latin music, souvenir T-shirts, certain City streets and places, the nightingale. “You were in fireworks?”
“Sure. You didn’t know that? Hey. The biggest. Name in the papers, man. It was a lot of laughs.”
“It wasn’t ever mentioned at home,” Auberon said, feeling the familiar exclusion. “Not to me.”
“No?” George looked at him strangely. “Well, it all came to a kind of sudden end. Just about the time you were born.”
“Oh yeah? How come?”
“Circumstances, man, circumstances.” He stared into his coffee, a pensiveness odd for George having fallen on him. Then, seeming to come to a decision, he said, “You know you had a sister, named Lilac.”
“Sister?” This was a new idea. “Sister?”
“Well, yeah, sister.”
“No. Sophie had a baby, named Lilac, that went away. I had an imaginary friend, named Lilac. But no sister.” He pondered. “I always kind of thought there were three, though. I don’t know why.”
“Sophie’s baby’s the one I’m talking about. I always thought the story up there was… Well, never mind.”
But Auberon had had enough. “No, uh-uh, wait a minute. No ‘never mind.’ ” George looked up startled and guilty at Auberon’s tone. “If there’s a story, I want to hear it.”
“It’s a long one.”
