Night's Daughter

by Marion Zimmer Bradley

  She was like Papageno, to the green and yellow feathery crest on her head, but younger. She did not seem pretty to Tamino; the nose was too sharply beaked, the eyes too glittery and piercing. But Papageno stood as if enchanted.

  "Papagena!" he cried, and abruptly the room was plunged into darkness and his cry turned into a howl of despair.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  IT was, from the appearance of the sky, late in the morning or early midday. Tamino was beginning to feel hungry himself, but his long journey had accustomed him to fasting, and he was prepared, if he must, to ignore his hunger as long as the Masters of the Ordeals should require. Papageno sat on the floor, sunk in despair, and silent willingly for the first time since Tamino had known him. He did not touch the magical bells; he had not even troubled to put on his other boot. Tamino was beginning to be worried about him, when the door opened at last and the two priests came in.

  "How is it with you, Prince Tamino? Are you still determined to persevere?"

  "As yet, I have seen nothing to change my mind," Tamino said quietly.

  "And you, friend Papageno?" asked the other. "What has happened to you in this long night?"

  Papageno sat with his head down. He said, "I'm sure you know just as well as I do, everything that happened. I don't suppose that I passed your Ordeals. I'm just a chattering fool, after all. I did the best I could, but my best just isn't very good." Then he lifted his head and looked right at the priest.

  "It's your fault, you know. For expecting me to do what I'm just not built to do. I used to catch and tame birds for the Starqueen, and I taught some of them to talk, too. I was pretty good at that. But after I taught them to talk, I couldn't go back and teach them not to, and I couldn't teach them to talk at the right time and say the right things, and be quiet when it was time to be quiet. I guess I'm sort of like those birds. Once I was taught to talk, I don't know how not to. I never said I wanted to be tested this way, and I told you, you remember, that I wouldn't be any good at it."

  "So you did, my son," said the priest, and his voice was gentle. "I have not found fault with you. Will you tell me, then, since you feel yourself unfit for the Ordeals, what it is that you want out of life?"

  "Right now? Right now, I'd like some breakfast. All I had was a cup of wine, and I suppose it's made me a little silly or I wouldn't be talking like this to you, Reverend Father. If I've offended you—"

  The priest put a hand on his shoulder. "You cannot offend me here, little brother, not when I ask for truth and you give me what I have asked. Breakfast you shall have, at once." He made a signal, and a young priest appeared with a laden tray which smelled very good: hot honeycakes and cakes crusted with sticky nuts. He set it before Papageno.

  "Satisfy your hunger, little brother. But tell me, have you no other wish?"

  "Not just now," Papageno said, "but I know myself well enough to know that before very long, I'll have a dozen. Why? What good does it do to talk about that? Thank you for the breakfast, Reverend Father. Then I suppose, considering that I didn't pass your Ordeals, I'll have to go back to my little hut in the forest. But that's not a bad place. Only—" he stopped, and swallowed, and put aside the piece of nut cake he had started to eat. Tamino saw that his eyes were full of tears.

  'Tell me what troubles you, Papageno, my boy."

  "Well," Papageno said in a rush, "I'm sick and tired of being tormented by those fiends in the shape of pretty ladies. I don't mind working hard, but I'd like to do it in peace and quiet and know they wouldn't hurt me when I've done my best. And I do wish I could have Papagena with me. I'd even take the old lady, if you couldn't arrange to let me have the young girl. She's a jolly companion and a friend, at least. I suppose, because I didn't pass your test of not speaking to the young lady, I really don't deserve her. But why don't you ask her—Papagena, I mean—what she wants? Shouldn't she have a chance too?" He stared intensely at the priest, the nut cake forgotten in his hand.

  "Papagena has had her chance, as you have, and she has chosen you," said the priest. "Continue to have courage, and she may still be yours. But"—his voice was severe again as he warned—"the joys of wisdom, known to the Initiated, may never be yours."

  "Oh, well—" Papageno looked up, shyly. "I don't want to say anything rude about the life you've chosen, sir, but that's really perfectly all right with me."

  "Very well; so be it," said the priest, and smiled at Papageno. "Have courage; there may be other tests before you. But at his point it is fitting that those who have chosen the ordinary things of this world shall be separated from those who have chosen to seek wisdom. Prince Tamino, bid farewell to your companion."

  "Now, look here," said Tamino, "what's going to happen to him? I'm responsible for him; I got him into this."

  Tamino's priest said gently, "Do you trust Sarastro, my brother?" Suddenly Tamino realized that this was another test, and was again pleased with himself for recognizing it.

  "Papageno—" he held out his hand and clasped the small dry hand of the Halfling, which was more like a set of talons than a human hand. "I'm sure they'll look after you properly. When I'm finished with the Ordeals, if the gods let me survive them"—for he was sure that before very long they would grow much more serious than this—"I'll look you up and find out how you're getting along. Take care, little brother, and the gods keep you."

  Papageno looked up at him skeptically. "I think you're going to need their help a good deal more than I do, my prince." Impulsively he flung his arms around Tamino. "Don't you let them scare you or hurt you. And if you need me, just—" after a minute he ripped the birdcall off his neck and handed it to Tamino. "Just whistle on this, and I'll come and do anything I can to help you. I'm not any good with dragons, maybe, but if you want somebody to talk to, I'll be right there."

  Deeply touched—it seemed to be the Halfling's only possession except for the coarse clothes he wore— Tamino took the little whistle. He said, "I'll see you at least to return it to you, little friend."

  When the priests had taken Papageno away, Tamino nibbled without much interest on one of the honey-cakes left on the tray, and wondered when, if ever, the real trials would begin. The day was well along when the door opened again, and Pamina, clad in a simple white robe very much like his own, came into the vaulted room. She looked about curiously, blinking a little as her eyes fell on the skulls, the symbols of ancient deaths, but when she saw Tamino, her eyes brightened.

  "My prince, they have sent me to return to you the magic flute." And she held it out to him, wrapped in a silken cloth.

  Overjoyed, Tamino remembered that they had sent Papagena to return to Papageno his magical bells. This must mean that she had been chosen for him, as Papagena for the bird-man. At least they were not testing him with any idiotic disguises, but, unlike the silly fellow, Tamino fully intended to keep his promise not to speak. Since she was wearing a neophyte's robe, she too must understand the purpose of this testing, and why he would not speak to her. In fact, since she was Sarastro's daughter, she probably understood it far better than he did himself.

  He took the flute, avoiding her eyes—he did not want to be surprised into a careless word, and he knew if he looked at her he probably could not keep from pouring out all his delight at seeing her. And especially that she should bring him the flute.

  He had been trying to understand the symbolism of the flute. The old priest appointed as his guide had told him that he would be tested by Earth, Water, Air, and Fire. Possibly the night spent in the crypt, with the symbols of death and mortality all about him, served to commemorate the element of Earth, from which they had all come and to which they must return? He was not sure, but he supposed that someday the priest-guide would explain it to him, when the proper time should come.

  Perhaps his love for Pamina was the test of Fire? He felt a desperate longing for her, to be with her, to speak to her, to ask her if she felt for him anything like what he felt for her. Or was she simply accepting him because it was the wil
l of both her parents? Did he want her that way, or did he in fact want her under any circumstances?

  He felt a soft touch on his arm.

  "Tamino," Pamina said gently, "please talk to me."

  He shook his head, still trying not to look at her, but he could not stop a glimpse through the corner of his eyes. When he had seen her before she had been clad in silken robes, and her hair had been braided with jewels: a princess, his equal in rank, daughter of the Starqueen and of the powerful priest Sarastro. Now, like himself, she wore a robe of coarse white linen, unadorned; her long fair hair was combed straight down her back, hanging loose and without a single ornament, almost to her waist. Again they had been made equals before the Mysteries, he thought, and silently smiled at her, shaking his head.

  "But you are making fun of me," Pamina implored. "We must speak, we have so much to talk about. I need to know whether you truly want this marriage, or whether it is only that my father has chosen you and you accept because I am the daughter of the powerful priest. Did you even know that Sarastro is more than a priest, he is the Sun-king of all of Atlas-Alamesios? Is it that you wish to marry me, or that you wish to inherit this city and all its possessions?"

  Her tone was pitiable; Tamino opened his mouth to reassure her at once. Inherit the kingdom of Atlas-Alamesios? What could he, a son of the Emperor of the West, possibly care for her inheritance? Pamina was what he wanted, Pamina...

  But no. As the ladies of the Starqueen had done to frighten them, as Papagena had tested Papageno, Pamina was trying to play on his emotions and test him. He would not be caught that way. He would not lose Pamina by foolishly breaking the rules they had laid down for the Ordeals. He took the flute, bent his head to it and began to play.

  The sweet tone of the flute stole through the quiet room and the flecks of sunlight illuminating the skulls on the high pillars. As he played, peace stole through him; he tried to play all his love for Pamina, his trust, the knowledge that only through this obedience could they come together. And as the sound seemed to spread quiet through the sunlit room, it flashed upon him that perhaps this was the testing of the element of Air.

  For it was through the air of their breathing that they would speak to one another, and when speech was forbidden or forgone for the moment, surely only for the moment, then he could carry his love and concern for her through the magical medium of the air, speaking in the music of the flute.

  Magical flute, speak for me. Sing to her of my love, say she must trust me until these Ordeals are safely behind us and then, be the gods willing, we will walk together in this place.

  "Tamino!" It was such a cry of pain that he stopped his music to look at her. "Please, put away the flute, look at me, talk to me, I can't bear it when you don't even look at me! I thought you loved me. Was it only because that was what you thought I wanted to hear? Was it a joke, a lie?"

  Her eyes filled slowly with tears, and Tamino, seeing them rise and stand in the liquid depths, felt deeply troubled. Had they not told her of the test? How he wished he could put the flute aside, explain it all to her. He could see himself taking her in his arms, holding her like something very frail and very precious, a jewel he had found by chance on this strange and unexpected road he had come here to travel, and telling her, reassuring her of his love and begging her to trust him.

  But he must not. And if they had not told her of the nature of the test, well, she was a priest's daughter too, they must have prepared her for at least this Ordeal of trust.

  He saw that she was crying. He had never realized that a woman's tears could tear like this at his heart. Perhaps, after all, this was the Ordeal of Fire, for watching Pamina weep he felt a burning spear of pain at his throat. He had been taught in his father's court that he should meet all trials calmly and without undue, undignified emotion, but for a moment he felt he could not do anything but fling down the flute, crush Pamina in his arms and kiss her until she stopped crying and listened to his reasons for refusing to speak

  And then I should lose her, as Papageno lost Pa-page na — He could still hear in his mind Papageno's wail of despair as the Halfling girl vanished. He kept on fingering the flute, his head bent over the instrument, not daring to raise his eyes to hers. Surely she must hear it in the music, he thought in despair. She must know without words. Why must there be words between us?

  "Tamino, don't you love me anymore?" The words were heartbreaking. He bit his lip and tasted blood. Even if she did not know this was a test, surely this had gone too far. How could he endure to listen to her suffering?

  Yet if the test had been easy, what was the use of it? He blinked away tears and went on playing, resolutely refusing to meet her eyes.

  "Tamino!" This time it was a cry of anguish, and he felt her small hands on his arm, trying to wrench away the flute. He let it fall to the floor—he would not struggle against her, would not try to take it from her.

  They only said I must not speak to her. They did not say I could not kiss her — He fought the temptation to do just that, his breathing ragged, but he heard the words of the old priest, you may not touch her or speak to her. With an effort that made him gasp with agony, he tore himself free of her hands and turned his back on her. He heard her wild sob of mingled anger and pain, then a rush of footsteps and a slamming door. Then he fell to the floor and wept.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  PAMINA rushed from the vaulted building, sobbing wildly. It felt like the end of all her dreams. She could not trust Tamino; he had rejected her. She could no longer trust Sarastro; it was he who had sent her to take the flute to Tamino, exposing her to this deathly cruelty of rejection.

  She had begun to love him. She had begun to trust him. Now what was there for her?

  What can I do now? Go back to my mother's kingdom? she wondered. But her mother had cast her off, had demanded of her that she must kill Sarastro or be forever disowned.

  She cannot mean it, Pamina thought. Would she cast off her own daughter, the one she had chosen as her own successor and heir? But the memory of her mother's cold fierce stare was icy in her mind.

  My poor mother . Hatred and the thought of revenge have driven her quite mad. Still, Pamina was afraid to face the Starqueen unless she came to her with Sarastro's blood on the dagger...and Pamina knew that she would never raise her hand to her father.

  She still had the dagger, tucked under the bloused top of the neophyte's robe. She had been afraid to leave it in her rooms for someone to find. She looked at it bitterly. Perhaps she should turn it on herself.

  If only her mother had been willing that they should escape Sarastro's realm together. She might now be safe again in the house where she had been born.

  She could not go on like this, aimlessly wandering through the unfamiliar gardens of Sarastro's Temple. She had not been outside the walls since she had been here, she was not even sure of the way back to her mother's home. She was in a garden filled with palm trees, some of them loaded with ripe dates; the walls of buildings were blindingly white in the sun, dazzling her eyes—or were her eyes full of tears? She wiped them on the coarse linen of her robe, and looked around.

  She saw a staircase, leading up and up to one of the highest roofs. Perhaps she could look out over the wall, find her way back to her mother's castle. Surely her mother could not mean murder. She would not cast off her youngest child for refusing to murder her own father. No. Her mother could never be so cruel or unjust. But the dagger, now in her hand—that was real, and surely she had not mistaken the words she had heard her mother say.

  She thought, either hate and revenge have driven my mother mad, or I shall go mad from thinking about it. The staircase was narrow and steep, angling dizzily against the sheer wall, and Pamina, afraid to look down, leaned her whole body against the wall as she climbed, averting her eyes from the outside edge and keeping them turned on the placement of each foot. At last there were no more stairs and Pamina stepped out onto the roof.

  She had chosen her vantage poin
t well. The roof was evidently intended as a place of refuge from the worst of the heat, for shrubbery in pots stood about, shadowing divans and low seats, and at the center a small, cool fountain played. A high outer wall partially barricaded the view; but there was a step which, when climbed, afforded a view of the whole city, and Pamina, standing there, could clearly identify her mother's palace. It was not even so very far away, though it stood on the edge of this city of Atlas-Alamesios.

  But she could easily reach it from here

  She knew that she should descend at once from the roof, make her way to the nearest gate, and go along that one long, wide street whose route she traced as she stood there. But she stood, delaying.

  Surely now her father would not compel her to remain, now that Tamino had rejected her and she was no longer of use to him to be given in marriage to the Prince of the West. In any case, the plain white linen she wore made her only an anonymous novice priestess, and she could come and go around the enclosure as little noticed as any one of them on some unknown duty.

  From where she stood, high up, she could see a long procession winding through the streets near her mother's palace. Pamina marked it with surprise, and then counted on her fingers. Yes, the new moon was upon them and with them, the sacrifices. Horns were braying, there were the ritual cries from the mourners, all of them stupefied with the smoke of the sacred herbs, and there were her mother's sacrificial priests with their great knives. Surely all this was right and proper, it was the way the world had been ordered. When she had first come here she had asked Sarastro, at what hour were the sacrifices, and had been shocked when he told her there were none. Her mother had, after all, told her that Sarastro was an impious devil, and this had proved it to her, that he neglected what she had been taught was the prime duty of Humankind, in thankfulness that she had not been made Halfling—to offer up abundant sacrifices.