“If it was good, I have forgotten it now.”
I had already noticed that she was careful to keep her eyes away from the water spilling from the ruined fountain.
“Every night, I dream I am walking through streets of shops. I am happy, or at least content. I have money to spend, and there is a long list of things I wish to buy. Again and again I recite the list to myself, and I try to decide in what parts of the quarter I can get each in the best quality for the lowest price.”
“But gradually, as I go from shop to shop, I grow aware that everyone who sees me hates me and holds me in contempt, and I am aware that it is because they believe me to be an unclean spirit who has wrapped itself in the woman's body they see. At last I enter a tiny shop conducted by an old man and an old woman. She sits making lace while he spreads their wares on the counter for me. I hear the sound her thread makes behind me as it is pulled through the work.”
I asked, “What is it you have come to buy?”
“Tiny clothes.” Dorcas held her small, white hands half a span apart. “Doll's clothing, perhaps. I particularly remember little shirts of fine wool. At last I choose one and hand the old man money. But it is not money at all — only a lump of filth.”
Her shoulders were shaking, and I put my arm about her to comfort her. “I want to scream then that they are wrong, that I am not the foul specter they take me for. Yet I know that if I do, whatever I may say will be taken as the final proof that they are right, and the words choke me. The worst part is that just then the hissing of the thread stops.” She had taken my free hand again, and now she gripped it as though to drive her meaning into me. “I know that no one could understand who has not had the same dream, but it is terrible. Terrible.”
“Perhaps now that I am here with you again, these dreams will end.”
“And then I sleep, or at least fall into blackness. If I do not wake then, there is a second dream. I am in a boat poled across a spectral lake —”
“There is no mystery in that, at least,” I said. “You rode in such a boat with Agia and me. It belonged to a man named Hildegrin. Surely you must remember that trip.” Dorcas shook her head. “It is not that boat but a much smaller one. An old man poles it, and I lie at his feet. I am awake, but I cannot move. My arm trails in the black water. Just as we are about to touch shore, I fall from the boat, but the old man does not see me, and as I sink through the water I know that he has never known I was there at all. Soon the light is gone, and I am very cold. Far above me, I hear a voice I love calling my name, but I cannot remember whose voice it is.”
“It's my voice, calling to wake you.”
“Perhaps.” The whip mark Dorcas had carried from the Piteous Gate burned on her cheek like a brand.
For a while we sat without speaking. The nightingales were silent now, but linnets were singing in all the trees, and I saw a parrot, clad in scarlet and green like a little messenger in livery, flash among the branches.
At last Dorcas said, “What a frightful thing water is. I should not have brought you here, but it was the only place nearby where I could think to go. I wish we had sat on the grass under those trees.”
“Why do you hate it? It seems beautiful to me.”
“Because it is here in the sunshine, but by its own nature it runs down and down forever, away from the light.”
“But it rises again,” I said. “The rain we see in spring is the same water we saw running the gutters the year before. Or so Master Malrubius taught us.”
Dorcas's smile flashed like a star. “That is good to believe, whether it's true or not. Severian, it's silly for me to say you're the best person I know, because you're the only good person I know. But I think if I met a thousand others, you would still be the best. That was what I wanted to talk to you about.”
“If you need my protection, you have it. You know that.”
“It isn't that at all,” Dorcas said. “In a way I want to give you mine. Now that sounds silly, doesn't it?
I have no family, I have no one except you, and yet I think I can protect you.”
“You know Jolenta, and Dr. Talos and Baldanders.”
“They are no one. Don't you feel that, Severian? Even I am no one, but they are less than I. The five of us were in the tent last night, and yet you were alone. You told me once that you don't have much imagination, but you must have sensed that.”
“Is that what you want to protect me from — loneliness? I would welcome such protection.”
“Then I will give you all I can, for as long as I can. But most of all, I want to protect you from the opinion of the world. Severian, do you remember what I told you of my dream? How all the people in the shops, and on the street, believed that I was only some hideous ghost? They may be right.” She was shaking, and I held her.
“That is part of the reason the dream is so painful. The other part comes from knowing that in some other way they are wrong. The foul specter is in me. It is me. But there are other things in me too, and they are what I am as much as it is.”
“You could never be a foul specter, or anything foul.”
“Oh, yes,” she said seriously, and looked up at me. Her small, tilted face was never more beautiful than it was then in the sunlight, or more pure. “Oh, yes I could, Severian. Just as you can be what they call you. What you sometimes are. Do you remember how we saw the cathedral leap into the sky and burn away in an instant? And how we went walking down a road between trees until we saw a light ahead, and it was Dr. Talos and Baldanders, ready to put on their show with Jolenta?”
“You held my hand,” I said. “And we talked about philosophy. How could I forget?”
“When we came to the light and Dr. Talos saw us — do you remember what he said?” I cast my mind back to that evening, the end of the day on which I had executed Agilus. In memory I heard the roar of the crowd, Agia's scream, and then the roll of Baldanders's drum. “He said that everyone had come now, and that you were Innocence, and I was Death.” Dorcas nodded solemnly. “That's right. But you're not really Death, you know, no matter how often he calls you that. You're no more Death than a butcher is because he cuts the throats of steers
