Sky Lands: The Gift Stones

by TL Rese

Windows reflected the corridor candles, the glass washed with warm candlelight fading into the cool scene of night sky beyond. Kallan told a maid to care for the old man. The lady bowed, a curtsy in her robe, before Kallan bid the old man farewell.

  The maid led the old man up a curving staircase, the edges of it pebbled with gems twisting in artistic designs. At the landing, the maid lit a match, striking it against her hip. “This way, sir,” she said, opening a door and letting the old man in. She lit candles inside before igniting the fireplace with a stick. When the room was glowing, she said, “You must not have eaten in a long while, by the looks of you. Is there any food you’d like?”

  The old man removed his hood with a pale hand, revealing a hoary head, a face gaunt to near starvation. When he answered, his voice was chipped, like a bit off a porcelain bowl. “Just Madam Molla’s smoking lamb stew, miss,” he said simply.

  “I’ll send a boy to fetch it.”

  When the maid left, the old man went to the window and slid back the curtain. Outside, the moon was full. A wash of starlight spilled in onto the stone. His hand was fragile in the white light. A night breeze came and refreshed the stale air of the chamber.

  I stood beside him and saw a bird outside on the sill. Its feathers were black, glossed like the pearly underside of a shell. I thought it was a kind of raven, or perhaps a strange nightingale.

  “He’s sent a messenger,” the old man said.

  In response, the bird began to sing a melancholic song. Gradually, I understood its notes as words. “Brother, I waited but you did not come. So I sent a messenger to look for you and I saw you with that knight. Why did you go with him, Brother?”

  The old man sighed, “What difference does it make where I spend Eternity?”

  “We would have missed you if you had gone to the Angels.”

  “Who knows where mortals go when they die. Perhaps, they go nowhere. Perhaps, they truly die.” The old man reached out and let the bird step onto his palm. He brought the bird into the chamber and sat quietly on his bed, partially hidden behind the bed’s canopy.

  “Brother,” the bird’s voice was sad. The nightingale bent its head submissively as the old man stroked its head with a finger. “Come and be with us.”

  “I’ve been here for so long. This place is my home.”

  “There can be new homes, Brother.”

  “Already the weight of the years is heavy. The memories grow heavier with time, and they are crushing me. How can I bear the weight of Eternity?”

  “There is peace beyond the Sisters, Brother.” The bird’s song was a whisper. It shed a single tear, sliding from the darkness of its eye. The old man caught the tear on his finger. He raised it to the light of the candelabra, examining the teardrop on the face of his fingertip. The tear solidified into a tiny clear sphere; he rolled it into the palm of his hand and tucked it into his robes. “Remember me by that, Brother,” said the bird.

  “There is no need to weep for me. Look around you. This place is beautiful. Tonight, I will bathe in that pool there,” the old man indicated a bathtub set into the flooring. “Tomorrow, the sun will rise and fill this room with sunshine. The morning larks will sing and I will breakfast to their sound. Afterwards, I might take a walk through the dawn. The days will go on like this until the day my body falls asleep here. It will stay here, where it belongs, forever becoming a part of the earth that is my home.”

  Though the bird shed no more tears, it seemed to weep. “Then let me stay here with you for the night, until dawn. I’ll wait for you at the temple before I leave. Perhaps, you will change your mind.”

  The sound of a key in the lock made the bird fly to the windowsill. The maid returned, bearing a tray laden with not only a steaming bowl of soup, but a variety of fruits, vegetables and desserts. “How’s my guest?” she asked, closing the door. She set the tray next to the circular bath.

  The bath was built into the floor, made entirely of colored pebbles that curved in designs imitating water and fish. The maid turned a lever that let in a gradual stream of water. When the bath was filled, she lit a fire in a hollow beneath the stone. “Get the bath warm for you,” she remarked.

  From her pocket, she took out vials of honey and violets that she poured into the tub, swirling the water with her arm, her sleeve rolled to the shoulder. A perfume rose, its aroma a flavor on my tongue. She uncorked a glass of dried flowers, sprinkling it into the water like a chef adding spices to a boiling pot. The bath lifted steam in thick currents throughout the room. The fragrance was almost palpable.

  “It’s ready,” she said, satisfied. She unfolded a fabric and laid it next to the bath. “There’s your robe, sir. Your nightgown is on your bed. I’ll pick up the food tray in the morning. Goodnight.” With that, she walked out of the room, the door closing after her.

  The bird hopped along the window ledge, leaning over to peer through the steam into the colorful bath waters.

  “Would Eternity be this comfortable, Brother?” the old man asked. He went to the tray, picking up the bowl of soup. He brought it to the window next to the bird, the steam from the bowl falling in billows to the ground. He set the bowl on the ledge, so the steam rolled over the stone sill into the night. “A taste of the famous lamb, Brother?”

  “I have no wish to make my messenger sick.”

  The old man bit into the lamb shank, savoring it. He watched the tendrils of steam dissolve into a dark breeze. Below, the village lights shone as pinpricks in the black valley, like fireflies in grass. Softly, the old man asked, “Would you not miss this place?”

  “Of course,” the bird said. For a moment, both the man and the bird were silent as they watched the aging night, musing in their own worlds, a bowl of mutton stew steaming between them. Inside, the bath was still full and hot, saturating the chamber with mist. I could smell its perfume, sweet like nectar, mixing with the cooked scent of soup.

  “Thank you for coming, Brother,” said the old man. He dipped a piece of lamb in the broth. The beads of oil bobbed in the bowl, golden like the lights of the valley.

  “No, Brother,” replied the nightingale. “It was selfish of me. I came for my own sake, that I might have your company forever. Not for you.”

  The old man paused, the lamb between his fingers, the steam from it curling like smoke from a cigarette. “You came because you love me. How could love be so kind and yet so selfish?”

  “Love is a strange creature faceted with many faces.”

  “I have never envied love’s strange passions.”

  “No wise man would envy a lover. Yet no man is wise until he has loved.”

  The rest of the meal was eaten in silence. Soon the lamb was gone. The old man lifted the bowl to his lips and drained it of its broth. Once again, he held out his hand to the nightingale, bringing the bird into the room; the bird fluttered precariously, beating its black wings in a flash of glossy feather. “Moving more quickly now that we’re full, Brother?” the bird said.

  “If you have wings, why must I carry you?”

  “It is hard for old men to get around easily,” the bird said, before flying to the fireplace mantel, the firelight casting a glow against its feathers.

  The old man began to undress for the bath; his robes fell to the floor in a heave. His skin was a pallor sicklied over with the spots of age. Draping over his sharp spine were the lengths of his hair, the strands just touching the tips of his angular pelvis. Raising his head, he looked directly at me, and I thought wildly that he could see me. His colorless lips parted. Steam writhed around his naked flesh. He seemed not human but a creature wreathed in mist. Briefly, I was afraid he was angry that I’d intruded on his private moment. But he turned back to the bath. The moment was gone, and he was an old man again. And I was only a shadow, formless in the chamber.

  Slowly, he eased himself through the bath’s steam. Though his frame seemed of such small weight, he lifted it with effort as if it were a great burden to carry. He lay near the edge, his head o
n a pillow with his thin eyelids closed, so translucent that I felt I could almost see through them to his eyes beneath. His hair floated in a lattice around him, crimson petals drifting into the white strands. The steam was moist against my own skin, the heat of it against my body.

  After a while, he brought the food tray to him and set it afloat on the waters. When he finished eating, he wrapped the bathing robe around himself. Most of the bath bubbles had settled to the floor, rolling on the stone ground. Some sat stacked around the chamber. I realized I’d never seen any of them pop.

  The old man’s feet swept the bubbles aside. At the fireplace, the nightingale was asleep, its head tucked beneath its feathers. The old man looked fondly at the bird for a moment, before going to bed.

  A quiet filled the room. Steam still rose from the bath, winding towards the ceiling. Through the mist, bubbles fell, tumbling across the floor and gathering in corners. A tall pile had collected next to the fireplace. I went there and lay on them, warm beside the fire. It was like lying on air, the spheres delicate, their touch a whisper.

  I wondered how long I’d been gone from Berkeley. I wondered where I was. Perhaps in a dream? But when were dreams so vivid? I wondered if I had indeed died that night in the parking lot and walked now on another world as a ghost.

  I played with that thought as the candles burned lower, the wax of the candelabras dripping into pools on the ground. A breeze blew in from the window, ruffling the curtains and tousling the tassels on the bed drapes. The wind brought the fragrance of the bath to me, and its rich scent was the last thing I remembered before I fell asleep.

  Chapter 8