“The virgin was devoured,” he said wonderingly, gesturing at the red ship, “the saints will go west with henless eggs, and the sea,” his voice tightened, “has gone to gold.”
Eyvind seemed to shimmer and to wriggle, like a worm spasming on a hook—and then there was no Eyvind at all any longer. A great white bear stood in his place, tears streaming from its large black eyes. Its fur was smooth and snowy, illuminated with light and sea spray. The timbers groaned under the sudden weight. Sigrid cried out and crossed the plank from the red ship to the Witch’s Kiss, sinking to her knees and touching his furry face.
The bear closed his eyes, and laid his head heavily in his lover’s lap.
“It’s happened.” He sighed, his voice changing to something deeper and rougher now that it was his own again, more growl than tongue. “And now we can go home. At last, we can go home. We will go to Skin-Peddler, and you will ask for your skin again, and we will go back to the snows and the wilds, together. It’s over.”
Sigrid took her hands away slowly. “No, Eyvind. I cannot. I am not Ulla, and I will never be again. I go with my Lady, as I was meant to. The maiden, the bear, and the girl in gray. You must find your own way now.”
“Do not leave me, Bear-wife. All I have done has been for you.” He lifted his limpid eyes to her, stricken.
“All you have done, you have done for yourself, so that you could live again as you thought you should. I cannot be a part of that dream—all I have done I have done by instinct and desire, save for what I have done for her. She is the object of my Quest, and I cannot reject it now. I feel as though I am being split apart again, my skins warring with each other. But I’m sorry, my love. There is just no getting any of it back.”
She stood and stroked his coarse white head, bent and kissed it, her tears wetting the fur through. He begged her, and clutched at her uselessly with his clumsy paws.
“Where will I go? What will I do?” he whispered hopelessly.
Sigrid shook her head, unable to give an answer. She crossed back to the red ship with its carpet of broken shells. The Saint embraced her, and Sigrid came away from that embrace glowing like a new bride.
“Come on, then, Bear,” Grog said with a sigh, sprinkling a bit of brine over her chest. “Seems you and I are going home lonesome. Snow, get on the boat, child. I’ve no taste for blubbering send-offs.”
But Snow, her pale hair catching the last light of the sun, stepped backwards into Sigrid’s arms. “I’m staying,” she said uncertainly. “Muireann is not my home. There is nothing for me there. If the captain will take me, I will call this ship mother and father. Perhaps some morning I will wake up and my body will have flushed dark and rose again.” She smiled, and the smile warmed her face like a swinging lantern.
“Of course we’ll take you,” the Saint said. “Tommy bade us never turn away a recruit—we are a family of monsters, and the birth of new beasts is a cause for joy. There is so much for us to do—the sea and the tide are ours again.”
The planks were unlashed and the ships separated like twins within their mother’s womb. The Maidenhead sailed west, her sails blazing with light. Grog and Eyvind remained on the dilapidated Witch’s Kiss, turning east, away from the sun and into the gloomy twilight. The Magyr looked after the bear, who stood on the foredeck, staring after the red smear of the receding ship, his great shoulders slumped in grief.
“Come on, love,” she said, feeling strangely tender suddenly, “I’ll take you home.”
“Muireann is not my home, either. But I am not monster enough, it seems, to be offered a place at sea.” Grog searched for a grain in the boards, uncomfortable with his mourning.
“Then I’ll take you north, Evvy,” she said brightly, her voice like buttered rum. “To your real home. You can go back now, right, and rest with your own people? That’s something, don’t you think? Don’t you miss the Stars a-shining on the glaciers, like a thousand candles?”
Eyvind turned his ursine head towards her. “I do,” he admitted.
“Then I steer north, old bear. And when you’ve felt the snow beneath your paws again, the world won’t seem so black. At least, that’s my guess. Who can tell with your lot?” Grog ran a hand through her green hair.
The white bear walked gingerly over the decks to her tub and settled his bulk down next to it. He laid his head on the wooden rim, and, as the last ribbons of day unwound from the sky, slept.
In the Garden
DAWN STOLE THROUGH THE VIOLET CURTAINS, STAINING THEM RED AS calf’s blood. The girl sat on the damp grass, her face ringed in orange and gold, smiling up at the boy as he sat in his window, shaded from the warm day which still grew, like a fat child.
“That was a wonderful story!” he cried, a little too loudly. The girl hushed him, leaping up and laying her finger over his lips. He thrilled at her touch, like dry wood touched by a spark. They looked at each other for a moment, her dark-rimmed eyes seeming to swallow him until he saw the sun no more, only those twin moons, shadowed and secret.
She took her hand from his face and stretched her limbs like a young lion. “Yes, and I shall tell you another even more strange and wonderful tomorrow, if you will return to the Garden, to the night, and to me…”
She turned and ran back up the cypress path, past the stable, and into the rows of dew-strung apple trees, her gray skirts trailing behind her.
The boy shivered with delight, his skin full of gooseflesh in the chill morning, and climbed back beneath his furs to dream of a red ship sailing into the sun.
Dinarzad lay awake, still as death in her bed, and her eyes were full of tears.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
A few brief thanks:
To Sean Wallace, Nick Mamatas, and Jeff VanderMeer for their early faith in me and generous advice.
To Deborah Schwartz and Sonya Taaffe for their inspiration and patient ears.
To Juliet Ulman for her unerring instinct and guidance, and Michele Rubin for her kind shepherding.
Finally, to Sam Barris and Dmitri and Melissa Zagidulin, without whose unflagging support, love, and thoughtful criticism this book would have been impossible.
THE ORPHAN’S TALES: IN THE NIGHT GARDEN
A Bantam Spectra Book / November 2006
Published by
Bantam Dell
A Division of Random House, Inc.
New York, New York
All rights reserved
Copyright © 2006 by Catherynne M. Valente
Interior illustrations by Michael Wm. Kaluta
Bantam Books, the rooster colophon, Spectra, and the portrayal of a boxed “s” are trademarks of Random House, Inc.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Valente, Catherynne, M., 1979—
The orphan’s tales: in the night garden / Catherynne Valente.
p. cm.
eISBN-13: 978-0-553-90310-2
eISBN-10: 0-553-90310-1
I. Title.
PS3622.A4258 O77 2006 2006048425
813/.6 22
www.bantamdell.com
v2.0
CONTENTS
Dedication
The Book of the Storm
In the Garden
The Tale of the Crossing
The Tale of the Twelve Coins
The Foreman’s Tale
In the Garden
The Foreman’s Tale, Continued
The Tale of the Hungry Lord
The Foreman’s Tale, Continued
The Tale of the Twelve Coins, Continued
The Tale of the Crossing, Continued
The Tale of the Twelve Coins, Continued
The Huldra’s Tale
The Tale of the Golden Ball
The Soldier’s Tale
In the Garden
The Soldier’s Tale, Continued
The Tale of the Golden Ball, Continued
The Huldra’s Tale, Continued
The Tale of the Twelve Coins, Continued
T
he Huldra’s Tale, Continued
A Tale of Harm
The Poisoner’s Tale
A Tale of Harm, Continued
The Huldra’s Tale, Continued
The Tale of the Twelve Coins, Continued
In the Garden
The Tale of the Twelve Coins, Continued
The Tale of the Crossing, Continued
The Tale of the Twelve Coins, Continued
The Tale of the Eunuch And the Odalisque
The Tale of the Tea-Maker And the Shoemaker
The Tale of the Eunuch And the Odalisque, Continued
The Tale of the Twelve Coins, Continued
The Manticore’s Tale
The Tale of the Twelve Coins, Continued
The Manticore’s Tale, Continued
The Pig-Tamer’s Tale
The Manticore’s Tale, Continued
The Tale of the Twelve Coins, Continued
The Tale of the Crossing, Continued
The Ferryman’s Tale
In the Garden
The Ferryman’s Tale, Continued
The Tale of the Lizard’s Lesson
The Tale of the Glass Princess
The Tale of the Lizard’s Lesson, Continued
The Ferryman’s Tale, Continued
The Tale of the Crossing, Continued
Out of the Garden
The Tale of the Crossing, Continued
The Tale of the Dancing Girl’s Descent
The Mourner’s Tale
The Hoopoe’s Tale
The Mourner’s Tale, Continued
The Tale of the Dancing Girl’s Descent, Continued
The Tale of the Crossing, Continued
The Tale of the Leaf And the Snake
The Tale of the Birds’ Tears
The Tale of the Leaf And the Snake, Continued
The Tale of the Crossing, Continued
In the Garden
The Tale of the Crossing, Continued
The Midwife’s Tale
The Tale of the Crossing, Concluded
In the Garden
The Book of the Scald
In the Garden
The Tale of the Waste
The Tale of the Cage of Ivory And the Cage of Iron
The Tale of the First Djinn
The Tale of the Cage of Ivory And the Cage of Iron, Continued
The Tale of the Giant who Stayed
The Tale of the Cage of Ivory And the Cage of Iron, Continued
In the Garden
The Tale of the Cage of Ivory And the Cage of Iron, Continued
The Violinist’s Tale
The Tale of the Rooster-Maker’s Daughter
The Violinist’s Tale, Continued
The Tale of the Cage of Ivory And the Cage of Iron, Continued
The Tale of the Two Duchesses
The Tale of the Tongue
The Tale of the Two Duchesses, Continued
The Tale of the Cage of Ivory And the Cage of Iron, Continued
The Tale of the Waste, Continued
The Tale of the Cage of Ivory And the Cage of Iron, Continued
The Tale of the Cloak of Feathers
The River Pilot’s Tale
The Tale of the Ajan Coin
The Tale of the Blue Serpent
The Tale of the Ajan Coin, Continued
The River Pilot’s Tale, Continued
The Tale of the Cloak of Feathers, Continued
The Dressmaker’s Tale
The Tale on the Floor
The Navigator’s Tale
The Tale on the Floor, Continued
The Dressmaker’s Tale, Continued
In the Garden
The Dressmaker’s Tale, Continued
The Weaver’s Tale
The Dressmaker’s Tale, Continued
The Tale of the Waste, Continued
The Dressmaker’s Tale, Continued
The Tale of the Kingdom of Mice
The Dressmaker’s Tale, Continued
The Tale of the Cloak of Feathers, Continued
The Tale of the Cage of Ivory And the Cage of Iron, Continued
The Tale of the Cloak of Feathers, Continued
The Tale of the Cage of Ivory And the Cage of Iron, Continued
The Fire-Dancer’s Tale
The Tale of the Cinnamon Shoes
The Fire-Dancer’s Tale, Continued
The Tale of the Cage of Ivory And the Cage of Iron, Continued
In the Garden
The Tale of the Cage of Ivory And the Cage of Iron, Continued
The Tale of the Carnelian Box
The Tale of the Tiger Harp
The Tale of the Carnelian Box, Continued
The Tale of the Cage of Ivory And the Cage of Iron, Continued
In the Garden
The Tale of the Cage of Ivory And the Cage of Iron, Continued
The Ash-Queen’s Tale
The Tale of the Cage of Ivory And the Cage of Iron, Continued
The Tale of the Waste, Continued
The Tale of the Lepress And the Leopard
The Tale of the GOOD Daughter
The Tale of the Lepress And the Leopard, Continued
The Tale of the Cattle Merchant And the Apple
The Tale of the Lepress And the Leopard, Continued
The Tale of the Waste, Concluded
In the Garden
The Last Tale
OUT of the Garden
Acknowledgments
Copyright
For Sarah, who,
when she was older,
wanted the World.
In the Garden
THE PATHS OF THE GARDEN WERE WET WITH FALLEN APPLES AND red with their ruptured skin. Rag-clothed winds trailed over grass blanched of green; scarlet swallowed up the thrashing trees until all the many groves stood in long rows like bouquets of bloody flowers with long, black stalks.
It was the girl’s favorite time—food was never so easy to find, and the air was filled all through day and night with the flapping and fluttering of wings as crows circled south and geese fled even farther into the warm belly of the world. In the autumn her skirt was always full of pomegranates and grackle-eggs, and though the air was colder, the leaves’ color did not lie, and they warmed her like a fire beneath a squat iron pot.
It was from the blazing boughs of a cinnamon tree that she saw through the high windows of the women’s quarters in the palace. Her palms were henna-dusted by the perfumed bark, and she sucked the last of the morning’s golden yolk from her fingers, now flavored with spice. She kept well behind the skein of leaves as she looked through the arched window, at the woman sitting within, her back straight as an ax-handle, and so still, though hands flashed over her and voices clicked and hushed in her pretty ears. A dozen maids held the woman’s long black hair out taut, and slowly, with infinite patience, threaded tiny white pearls onto the inky strands, one by one, as though the woman were a necklace in a jeweler’s workshop.
Dinarzad was to be wed.
Surely one or two of the Sultan’s daughters were married every year, and the girl paid them much less attention than she did the family of doves that returned to the same birch trees each spring—but she could not help knowing of this one. Gardener and groundskeeper talked of nothing else: Flowers were coaxed and coddled long past their blooming, trees trained to canopies, fruits culled in great piles, like many-colored snowdrifts, and sent wagon by wagon to the kitchens, only to return to the courtyard as pies and pastries and jams and cakes—for Dinarzad wished to be married in the Garden.
It was unseemly, to be married without a roof over one’s head, but she had insisted, even wept, and finally it was decided that a roof of trees was not in its nature different from a roof of wood, and the delicate copse of chestnuts before the great courtyard had had their branches lashed and tied and dragged into the shape of a small, narrow chapel. As they climbed their ladders to wheedle and prune the trees into holiness, the gardeners grumbled to the girl that she ought t
o be especially careful not to be seen, since the Palace was leaking out of its walls for the pleasure of a spoilt amira.
In her deep blue cushions, Dinarzad stared into the mirror as she was strung with pearls for the engagement feast, implacable, canvas-blank—and the girl stared into the princess. Still as an owl, she watched the women whose hands were full of the white jewels, watched the decorated Dinarzad like a tall mirror, until the pearl-keepers led their charge away down the stone stairs, her hair trailing behind her like a shred of sky glittering with stars. The girl touched her own hair without meaning to, hair no less black than the other woman’s, but tangled and strung through with hazel-husks.
Below her, the tree shook suddenly, and she was shaken from her contemplation of Dinarzad’s unmovable face. She glanced down to the apple-smattered path, and saw the boy staring up at her. He grinned sidelong at her, but his mouth was tired at the edges, like a slice of orange beginning to brown. She scrambled lightly down the trunk and gave him a smile small as a secret. The boy was dressed for the feast and obviously uncomfortable in stiff gold fabric and green silks, uncomfortable, especially, with the thin band of porphyry circling his wrist, which marked him to anyone who cared for such codes as the heir to the Sultanate.
The girl did not care. But she allowed that it was a lovely shade of purple.
“How did you get away?” she asked softly. “Surely everyone will want to squeeze your arms and tell you what a fine man you’re growing up to be.”
The boy snorted like a half-grown bull. “At a wedding, the girl on the dais is the only thing anyone cares to squeeze. It’s the same at every dinner until the wedding.”
“Who is marrying her?” She did not want to be interested. She told herself she was not.
“How should I know?” He kicked at a rotted apple near his slippered toe. “Some prince or soldier or prince who was a soldier or soldier who became a prince. I can’t even remember their names. They all came with chests of opals and baskets of trained songbirds tied together by ribbons of her favorite color and mechanical golden roosters that crowed when you wound their tails—I rather liked that one—and someone chose, though I’m sure it wasn’t her. I do know she’s not to be his first wife; he has two already, but no children at all. He must have brought something very nice in his barrels—I don’t know; he wasn’t the one with the roosters.”
In the Night Garden Page 44