Little, Big

That war—the war of the People against the Beast who had seized power and trodden on the institutions of democracy, and of the Emperor-President against the Interests on the people’s behalf—was real enough. The blood shed in it was real. The fractures that had run through the society when it had been struck thus hard were deep. But: “If,” Hawksquill said, “if those whom we have thought to be at war with men came here to this new world in the first place at about the same time the Europeans did—at about the time, that is, that your latter Empire began to be predicted; and if they came for the same reasons, freedom and space and scope; then they must have eventually been disappointed, just as the men were…”

“Yes,” said Barbarossa.

“The virgin forests where they hid themselves gradually logged, cities built on the river-banks and lake shores, the mountains mined, and with no old European regard for wood-sprites and kobolds either…”

“Yes.”

“And, if they are in fact as long-sighted as they seem to be, then they must have themselves seen this result, known about it, long ago.”

“Yes.”

“Before the migration even began. As long ago, in fact, as your Majesty’s first reign. And, since they could see it, they prepared for it: they begged your long sleep of him who keeps the years; they sharpened their own weapons; they waited…”

“Yes, yes,” Barbarossa said. “And now at last, though much reduced, having been patient for centuries, they strike! Issue from their old strongholds! The robbed dragon stirs in his sleep, and wakes!” He was on his feet; flimsy sheets of computer printout, strategies, plans, figures, slid from his lap to the floor.

“And the bargain made with you,” Hawksquill said. “Help them in this enterprise, distract the nation’s attention, reduce it to warring fragments (much like your old Empire, they counted on you to do that part well), and, when the old woods and bogs had crept back, when the traffic stopped, when they had recouped as much of their losses as would satisfy them, you could have the rest as your Empire.”

“Forever,” Eigenblick said, stirred. “That was the promise.”

“Fine,” Hawksquill said thoughtfully. “That’s fine.” She stroked the keys; something like Jerusalem came from beneath her ringed fingers. “Only none of it’s true,” she said.

“What?”

“None of it’s true; it’s false, a lie, not in fact the case.”

“What…”

“It’s not odd enough, for one thing.” She struck a twanging chord, grimaced, tried it again a different way. “No, I think something quite different is occurring, some motion, some general shift that is no one’s choice, no one’s…” She thought of the dome of the Terminus, its Zodiac reversed, and how she had at the time blamed that on the Emperor who stood before her. Foolish! And yet… “Something,” she said, “something like the shuffling together of two decks of cards.”

“Speaking of cards,” he said.

“Or one cut deck,” she said, ignoring him. “You know the way small children will sometimes, in trying to shuffle, get one-half the deck upside down? And then there they all are, shuffled together, inextricably mixed backs and faces.”

“I want my cards,” he said.

“I don’t have them.”

“You know where they are.”

“Yes. And if you were meant to have them, so would you.”

“I need their counsel! I need it!”

“Those who have the cards,” Hawksquill said, “prepared the way for all this, for your victory such as it is or will be, as well or better than you could have yourself. Long before you appeared, they were a fifth column for that army.” She struck a chord, sweet-sour, tart as lemonade. “I wonder,” she said, “if they regret that; if they feel bad, or traitorous to their own kind. Or if they ever knew they were taking sides against men.”

“I don’t know why you say there’s no war,” the President said, “and then talk like that.”

“Not a war,” Hawksquill said; “but something like a war.” Something like a storm, perhaps; yes, like the advancing front of a weather system, which alters the world from warm to cold, gray to blue, spring to winter. Or a collision: mysterium coniunctionis, but of what with what? “Or,” she said—the thought suddenly struck her— “something like two caravans, two caravans that meet at a single gate, coming from different far places, going toward different far places; mixing it up, jostling through that gate, for a time one caravan only, and then, on the far side, unwinding again toward their destinations, though perhaps with some few having changed places; a saddle bag or two stolen; a kiss exchanged…”

“What,” Barbarossa said, “are you talking about?”

She turned her stool to face him. “The question is,” she said, “just what kingdom it is you’ve come into,”

“My own.”

“Yes. The Chinese, you know, believe that deep within each of us, no larger than the ball of your thumb, is the garden of the immortals, the great valley where we are all king forever.”

He turned on her, suddenly angry. “Now listen,” he said.

“I know,” she said, smiling. “It would be a damned shame if you ended up ruling, not the Republic that fell in love with you, but some other place entirely.”

“No.”

“Someplace very small.”

“I want those cards,” he said.

“Can’t have ’em. Not mine to give.”

“You’ll get them for me.”

“Won’t.”

“How would you like it,” Barbarossa said, “if I got the secret out of you? I do have power, you know. Power.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“I could have you—I could have you killed. Secretly. No one would be the wiser.”

“No,” Hawksquill said calmly. “Killed you could not have me. Not that.”

The Tyrant laughed, his eyes catching lurid fire. “You think not?” he said. “Oh ho, you think not?”

“I know not,” Hawksquill said. “For a strange reason which you couldn’t guess. I’ve hidden my soul.”

“What?”

“Hidden my soul. An old trick, one which every village witch knows how to do. And is wise to do: you never know when those you serve may turn resentful, and fall on you.”

“Hidden? Where? How?”

“Hidden. Elsewhere. Exactly where, or in what, I won’t of course tell you; but you see that unless you knew, it would be useless trying to kill me.”

“Torture.” His eyes narrowed. “Torture.”

“Yes.” Hawksquill rose from her stool. Enough of this. “Yes, torture might work. I’ll say goodnight now. There’s much to do.”

She turned back, at the door, and saw him standing as though stuck in his threatening pose, glaring at her but not seeing her. Had he heard, or understood, anything she had tried to tell him? A thought took hold of her, a strange and fearful thought, and for a moment she only looked at him as he looked at her, as though they were both trying to remember where, or whether, they had ever met before; and then, alarmed, Hawksquill said, “Goodnight, your Majesty,” and left him.

New-Found-Land

Later that night, in the Capital, the episode of Mrs. MacReynolds’ death appeared on “A World Elsewhere.”