'Circles, yes. You are quite special. My brother doubtless divined this from your letter.' She took her fingertips from me. 'But now it is late and I am certain you are tired. May I show you to your room? Food and drink are waiting for you there.'
That night there was no moon. Or rather no moon could be seen. Nor the stars nor even the sky itself. Peering out the window of my turret room, I could see nothing but the whiteness of the mist. It was as if the rest of the world had vanished.
Gripping the edge of the windowsill with my fingers, I leaned out as far as I dared, peering into the night in an attempt to pick up any outline, any shape. But not even the tops of the enormous pines could poke their way through the pall.
I strained to hear the comforting hiss and suck of the ocean spending itself on the rocky shore so far below me. There was nothing of that, only the odd intermittent whistling of the wind through the stiff-fingered turrets of the castle.
At length I went back to bed, but for the longest time I could not fall asleep. I had waited so long for Morodor's reply to my letter, had traveled for so many days just to be here now, it seemed impossible to relax enough for sleep to overtake me.
I was itchy with anticipation. Oh more. I was burning.… In the days after I had received his affirmative answer, the thought of coming here, of talking to him, of learning his secrets had, more and more, come to stand for my own salvation.
It is perhaps difficult enough for any author to be blocked in his work. But for me… I lived to write. Without it, there seemed no reason at all to live, for I had found during this blocked time that the days and nights passed like months, years, centuries, as ponderous as old elephants. They had become my burden.
I had been like a machine, feverishly turning out one book after another-one a year-for… how many years now? Fifteen? Twenty? You see, the enfant terrible has lost count already. Mercifully.
Until this year when there was nothing, a desert of paper, and I grew increasingly desperate, sitting home like a hermit, traveling incessantly, bringing smiling girls home, abstaining, swinging from one extreme to the other like a human pendulum in an attempt to get the insides in working order again.
Nothing.
And then one drunken night I had heard the first of the stories about Fuego del Aire and, even through the vapors of my stupor,
something had penetrated. An idea, perhaps or, more accurately at that point, the ghost of an idea. Of lost love, betrayal and the ultimate horror. As simple as that. And as complex. But I knew that imagination was no longer enough, that I would have to seek out this place myself. I had to find Morodor and somehow persuade him to see me.…
Sleep. I swear to you it finally came, although, oddly, it was like no slumber I had ever had, for I dreamed that I was awake and trying desperately to fall asleep. I knew that I was to see Morodor in the morning, that I had to be sharp and that, sleepless, I would fall far short of that.
In the dream I lay awake, clutching the bedspread up around my chest, staring at the ceiling with such intensity that I suspected at any minute I would be able to see right through it.
I opened my eyes. Or closed them and opened them again to find the dawnlight streaming through the tall narrow window. I had forgotten to close the curtains before going to bed.
For just an instant I had the strangest sensation in my body. It was as if my legs had gone dead, all the strength flowing out of my muscles and into the wooden floor of my room. But the paralysis had somehow freed my upper torso so that I felt an enormous outpouring of energy.
A brief stab of fear rustled through my chest and my heart fluttered. But as soon as I sat up, the sensation went away. I rose, washed, dressed and went down to breakfast.
Food was waiting in steaming array along the length of an immense wooden table. In fact, now that I had my first good look at Fuego del Aire in the light of day, I saw that everything was of wood: the paneled walls, the floor where you could see it between the series of dark-patterned carpets, the cathedral ceilings; door handles, windowsills, even the lighting fixtures. If I had not seen the outside of the castle myself, I would have sworn the place had been built entirely of wood.
Two formal settings were laid out, one at the head of the table and the other by its left side. Assuming the first was for Morodor, I settled into the side chair and began to help myself.
But it was not Morodor who came down the wide staircase; it was Marissa. She was, that morning, a sight to make the heart pound. It was as if the sun had detached itself from its prescribed route across the heavens and had descended to earth. She wore a sky-blue tunic, wrapped criss-cross between her breasts and around her narrow waist with a deep green satin sash. On her feet she wore rope sandals. I saw that one of her toes was girdled by a tiny gold ring.
Her smile as she approached had the warmth of summer itself. And her hair! How can I adequately describe the way her hair shone in the daylight, sparkling and glittering as if each strand were itself some mysterious source of light. Those waves of golden honey acted as if they had a life of their own.
'Good morning,' she said easily. 'Did you sleep well?'
'Yes,' I lied. 'Perfectly.' I lifted a bowl of green figs. 'Fruit?'
'Yes, please. Just a bit.' But even with that she left more on her plate than she ate.
'I was hoping to find your brother already awake,' I said, finishing up my meal.
She smiled sweetly. 'Unfortunately, he is not an early riser. Be patient. All will be well.' She rose. 'If you are finished, I imagine you are quite curious about Fuego del Aire. There is much here to see.'
We went out of the main hall, through corridors and chambers one after another, so filled, so disparate that I soon became dizzied with wonder. The place seemed to go on forever.
At length we emerged into a room that, judging by its accouterments, must once have been a scullery. We crossed it quickly and went through a small door I did not see until Marissa pulled it open.
The mist of last night had gone completely and above was only an enormous cerulean sky clear of cloud or bird. I could hear the distant sea hurling itself with ceaseless abandon at the jagged base of the mount. But lowering my gaze I saw only foliage.
'The garden,' Marissa breathed, slipping her hand into mine. 'Come on.' She took me past a field of tiger lilies, rows of flowering woodbine; through a rose garden of such humbling perfection, it took my breath away.
Beyond, we came upon a long sculptured hedge half again as tall as I stand. There was a long narrow opening through which she led me and immediately we were surrounded by high walls of hedges. They were lushly verdant and immaculately groomed so that it was impossible to say where one left off and another began, seamless on and on and-
'What is this place?' I said.
But Marissa did not answer until, after many twistings and turnings, we were deep within. Then she faced me and said, 'This is the labyrinth. My brother had it constructed for me when I was just a child. Perhaps he thought it would keep me out of trouble.'
'There
is a way out,' I said uneasily, looking around me at the dark-green screens looming up on every side.
'Oh yes.' She laughed, a bell-like silvery tone. 'It is up here.' And tapped the side of her head with a slender forefinger. 'This is where I come to think, when I am sad or distraught. It is so peaceful and still and no one can find me here if I choose to remain hidden, not even Morodor. This is my domain.'
She began to lead me onward, through switchbacks, past cul-de-sacs, moving as unerringly as if she were a magnet being drawn toward the North Pole. And I followed her silently; I was already lost.
'My brother used to say to me, 'Marissa, this labyrinth is unique in all the world for I have made it from the blueprint of your mind. All these intricate convolutions… the pattern corresponds to the eddies and whorls of your own brain.''
She stared at me with those huge mocking eyes, so blue it seemed as if the noonday sky were reflected there. The hint of a smile played at the corners of her lips. 'But of course I was only a child then and always trying to do what he did… to be like him.' She shrugged. 'He was most likely trying to make me feel special… don't you think?'
'He wouldn't need this place to do that,' I said. 'How on earth do you find your way out of here?' Nothing she had said had lessened my uneasiness.
'The years,' she said seriously, 'have taken care of that.'
She pulled at me and we sat, our torsos in the deep shade of the hedges, our stretched-out legs in the buttery warmth of the sunlight. Somewhere, close at hand, a bumblebee buzzed fatly, contentedly.
I put my head back and watched the play of light and shadow on the hedge opposite us. Ten thousand tiny leaves moved minutely in the soft breeze as if I were watching a distant crowd fluttering lifted handkerchiefs at the arrival of some visiting emperor. A kind of dreamy warmth stole over me and at once my uneasiness was gone.
'Yes,' I told her. 'It
is peaceful here.'
'I am glad,' she said. 'You feel it too. Perhaps that is because you are a writer. A writer feels things more deeply, is that not so?'
I smiled. 'Maybe some, yes. We're always creating characters for our stories so we have to be adept at pulling apart the people we meet. We have to be able to get beyond the world and, like a surgeon, expose their workings.'
'And you're never frightened of such things?'
'Frightened? Why?'
'Of what you'll find there.'
'I've discovered many things there over the years. How could all of them be pleasant? Why should I want them to be? I sometimes think that many of my colleagues live off the
unpleasant traits they find beneath the surface.' I shrugged. 'In any event, nothing seems to work well without the darkness of conflict. In life as well as in writing.'
Her eyes opened and she looked at me sideways. 'Am I wrong to think that knowledge is very important to you?'
'What could be more important to a writer? I sometimes think there is a finite amount of knowledge-not to be assimilated-but that can be used.'
'And that is why you have come here.'
'Yes.'
She looked away. 'You have never married. Why is that?'
