Swansong

by Rose Christo

  Eventually we come what would have been a factory if the lease hadn't run out. Azel tilts his head back and inspects the monster of a building, twenty-five stories of coal-colored iron, windows free of framework and glass. Urban refuse fills the front areaway in the form of scrap metal and torn girders.

  "Is this safe?" Azel asks warily.

  "Sure it is," I tell him, smiling. "Joss and I came here all the time."

  His face is guarded, respectfully closed.

  We walk around the back of the building. The ladder to the fire escape hangs close to the ground, wrought-iron and rusted. I jump and catch it. I'm not as strong as I used to be, the wind knocked out of me, cold weakness trickling down my legs. I suck in a forced breath. I pull myself up onto the rickety landing.

  Azel follows me up the ladder in half the amount of time. "Are you alright?"

  "Yeah." I smile. I tell myself I shouldn't look down. Lately when I look down, I think about falling.

  We climb the grated staircase one--two--three flights up. We climb two more. I push aside the bloated board in the oriel window. I climb inside the factory.

  Azel coughs when he follows me. It's dark in here, dusty, winks of light flitting feebly through the far windows. I grab Azel's hand. I lead him to the personnel staircase. A draft floods up the concrete steps.

  "Wendy. Are you sure this is safe?"

  "Yes. Why?"

  "I think a rat brushed past my ankle."

  "He's just trying to be friendly."

  One minor eternity later, a stitch in my side, Azel's hand clammy around mine, I shoulder open a half-finished door. We emerge on an unfurnished landing. The walls are peeling, the ceiling rafters exposed. Gray, chilly sunlight gusts through the wide, north-facing window, a railed balcony beyond it.

  "A hideout," Azel realizes.

  My easel's still standing where I left it. Dirty bulk canvases lie in a pile on the floor, paint cans sealed, paintbrushes stained. Mismatched kerosene lamps stand scattered around the rest of my junk; I used to buy them at the wharf when Dad's friends sailed in with their wares.

  "Joss and I practically lived here," I comment, smiling faintly. "That one summer when she found out she was adopted."

  Chairs stand against one wall, one on top of the other. Hanging from the chairs is Jocelyn's pink, zebra-striped curtain. She liked her privacy. My throat tightens at the sight of it. Even now I can't bear to pull the curtain aside. It's a shame, because I'd really like to see what she left behind.

  "That's remarkable," Azel says suddenly, his eyes on the opposite wall.

  I realize he means the mural. Chipping wood isn't exactly the best canvas for a painting, but the bareness was bothering me. A lit lighthouse emerges from rocky ocean waves. A small boat tugs itself across the sea, to the safety of the glowing beacon.

  "That's the Tillamook Rock Lighthouse," I say. "Have you ever seen it? In person, I mean."

  "I haven't."

  "Come here," I say.

  Azel lays his satchel on the floor. He follows me to the wide-open window.

  We're nineteen stories up. The city below looks like a cardboard construct of gray spires, white plastic, glass panes, toy cars tugging slowly along the streets. Don't look down, I tell myself. I look out at the horizon instead. The ocean glitters brightly, seraphic blue-gray, fingers reaching hungrily for sandy white shores. Jutting silver cliffs dip into the waters, rock surfaces shimmering coldly under white winter skies. The sun is weak, but generous. It paints the wandering clouds in soft pools of robin's egg blue, dashes of scarlet, coils of creamy yellow.

  "That's Cape Meares," I say. "See the white fleck standing on the waves?"

  Azel stands close to me. "Yes."

  "That's the lighthouse. If you're out here at night, you can watch it light up."

  "You come out here at nighttime?"

  "Used to. I haven't been out this way since Jocelyn died."

  I can feel Azel looking at me. I don't want to return his gaze. I killed my best friend. My mother, my father. It's weird how I'll forget myself and start expecting that truth to go away over time. It never goes away. It can't. It wouldn't be the truth if it could.

  "Thank you," Azel says. "For trusting me."

  "It's probably just selfishness," I say, smiling at the horizon. Tiny little houses clutter around the far side of the Cape.

  "How can that be?" Azel asks.

  I don't tell him how. I don't tell him that whenever I talk to him--even if it's trivial--I feel as if I don't mind staying in this world a little longer. I feel as if the inevitable can be postponed.

  I don't mind the part of this world that Azel inhabits. I wish I could hold onto that part of the world when the rest of it falls into the sea.

  * * * * *

  Azel moves some of his books into the hideout. By unspoken agreement, neither of us strays near Jocelyn's part of the floor. I brush the dust and grit off of one of my bulk canvases and set it up on the empty easel. The paint cans are still good; I must have mixed them with coffee the last time I came out this way. All I need to do is bring my palette out here, some vinegar for the brushes.

  One day I catch Azel sitting on the floor between unlit kerosene lamps, flipping through an enormous, leatherbound book. I squint in the winter sunlight and sit at his side.

  "Is that an anthology?" I ask.

  "This?" It's well over four hundred pages. It looks like he's struggling just to hold it on his lap. "This is not a collection. This is one poem."

  "You're kidding me," I gape.

  He flashes a quick, dark smile at my expression. "It's the Rubaiyat."

  "I've never heard of it."

  "It's an epic set of quatrains by Omar Khayyam. He was a Sufi mystic. There's a planet named for him."

  "In this galaxy? Really?"

  "In this solar system. It's somewhere in the asteroid belt between Mars and Jupiter."

  Mars. Jupiter. The asteroid belt. I've seen all of those with my own eyes. It's so surreal.

  I can accept the surreal these days.

  Azel's face goes blank and smooth with contemplation. "Bet you'd like its neighboring planet even better. Raffaello Santi?"

  "The painter!"

  "A painter and a poet share the heavens. There's something lyrical about that."

  "Have you ever written any poems?"

  "Nah, I suck at syntax."

  "Oh. Me, too."

  The light's no good in here. We head out onto the balcony, the sun a little stronger, cold air stinging my face. We sit on the smooth concrete, a thin metal rail dividing us from the landscape far below.

  Don't look down, I tell myself. Don't look down.

  Azel props the book open on his knees, long legs stretched out in front of him. The wind whips and tosses his long hair. I lie on my back so I don't have to face the city. I watch his curls instead, the way the air current carries them like banners.

  " 'One moment in annihilation's waste,' " he reads from the Rubaiyat. " 'One moment of the well of life to taste. The stars are setting, and the caravan starts for the dawn of nothing--oh, make haste.' "

  My back is on the balcony terrace. My eyes are on the domed sky. The sky looks like it wants to swallow me up. I don't think I would mind, somehow. It's mesmerizing. The sky. Azel's voice. They blend together in the chambers of my mind. The clouds shine with a sumptuous translucence, wet and delicate, gentle, august and all-encompassing. Celestial baptism. Azel's voice is baptizing, calm and low and self-assured.

  " 'For, in and out, above, about, below, 'tis nothing but a magic shadow-show played in a box whose candle is the sun, round which we phantom figures come and go.' "

  Phantom figures. That's us. We're already gone. It's a scrapbook life filled with scrapbook memories. Most of the stars in the sky are already dead.

  " 'Listen again. One evening at the close of Ramadan, ere the better Moon arose--' "

  He really likes his Moon, doesn't he? Azel. The moon rises and the night connects us.
r />   " '--in an old Potter's shop I stood alone, with the clay population round in rows.' "

  Clay. Kory works with clay. Clay and sugarglass. The whole entire universe inside a glass snowflake.

  " 'And, strange to tell, among the earthen lot, some could articulate while others not. And suddenly, one more impatient cried, "Who is the Potter, and who, pray tell, the Pot?" ' "

  If nobody knows, then what difference does it make? If there isn't any difference, then aren't they both the same?

  You are at the center of the universe.

  " 'Ah, my beloved, fill the cup that clears today of past regrets and future fears. Tomorrow? Why, tomorrow I may be myself with yesterday's ten thousand years.' "

  * * * * *

  The stars leave smoke trails in the sky. The night sky is deep and wet, blotted black ink. I wonder why the air's so cold up here. I thought heat rises. Or is that just indoors? I'm glad I'm wearing a woolen jacket.

  The stars burn beauty into my eyes. My head feels warm. Azel's legs are warm. He brushes his fingers through my hair, my head on his lap. Now and again his curls obscure my vision. I don't mind it. If my arms didn't feel like leaden weights, I'd try to catch them as they sail on the wind.

  "I feel like Prince Camar al-Zaman," Azel murmurs. Soft fingertips graze the scars on my scalp.

  "Who's he?" I ask.

  "His name means Moon of the Epoch," Azel says. "He's the prince of Khaledan."

  "Where is that?"

  "Nowhere. It's made up."

  Azel likes his moon. It's almost full tonight. It's milk-white and radiant. I feel as if I could reach up and touch it, bring my fingers to my lips and taste ambrosia and snow.

  "The Moon Prince didn't want an arranged marriage, even though his father tried and tried to make a good match. So the prince threw a tantrum and locked himself in a tall tower with nothing but his favorite books and snacks."

  A tall tower. I guess we're pretty high up. "What were his favorite snacks?" That's the important part.

  "Luqaimat." Azel tucks my hair behind my ears. It's long enough now. It reaches my chin. "Rose water. Halwa and kahwa."

  "I don't blame him for running away. Imagine marrying someone you don't love."

  "But the Sultan was wise and judicious. He knew his son better than his son knew himself."

  That's always the way with parents, I think.

  "One night," Azel goes on, "the Moon Prince woke up and found a strange woman in bed with him."

  "I hate when that happens."

  "She was beautiful, as is often true of overnight visitors. She lay sound asleep with her head on the prince's lap."

  "First date must've gone really well."

  "He didn't want to wake her. He didn't dare move her. Entranced with her, he let her sleep. He touched her hair--"

  Azel touches my hair, his fingers skittering and light. Oh.

  "He felt as if he knew her, from some other realm. He drifted back to sleep. But when he woke in the morning, she was gone."

  "She was a dream?" I ask, not entirely trusting my voice.

  "The night servants swore they hadn't let anyone into the tower. And the bedroom was too high up for anyone to have climbed in through the window. But the Moon Prince decided she was real. He left his tower to find her."

  "He did that? He could have been chasing a dream..."

  "It doesn't matter. It's better to chase a dream than never to dream at all. Even if you're in for a rude awakening."

  "You'll get hurt," I say, uncertain.

  "That's fine. That's how you know you're alive."

  * * * * *

  It's late. Jude's going to kill me if I don't head home soon. Chilly, numb, I head inside the factory, the kerosene lamps flickering by the paint easel.

  "I'll walk you home," Azel says, following me.

  "Are you sure?" I ask tentatively. We don't exactly live close to one another.

  "It's fine," Azel says. "It's dark out. You shouldn't walk by your lonesome."

  He tugs on his cotton jacket. He tosses a glance back at the window. He smiles his sunrise smile.

  "The lighthouse," he murmurs. "It's lit."

  He got to see it. I'm so glad.

  I'm so glad.

  * * * * *

  We walk south to the Charles Babbage memorial. A group of high school kids sit around the base of the statue, sharing a bottle of Listerine.

  "That is disgusting," Azel says starkly.

  "I guess they're bored with the regular buzz..."

  We walk past the gas stations, past the bottle recycling building. The bottle machines are all lit up. Somebody must've hit the jackpot tonight.

  "I wish I had met you sooner," Azel remarks. His shoulders are hunched, his hands in his pockets.

  "Huh?" I follow the streetlights until I'm dizzy. Azel's a senior. I forgot. "Are you moving back to Oman after school?"

  "No. You can never go home again." He trains his eyes carefully on the sidewalk. For someone who moves so beautifully on a stage, when he walks, he gives off the impression that the ground will fall apart beneath him. "I'll enroll in a tertiary school. Take Graham and Horton classes. Then go work on a cruise ship or something."

  "Azel. That's terrible. You should be on Broadway." Jocelyn wanted to sing on Broadway.

  "I believe in chasing dreams," Azel says. "I also believe in safety nets."

  When I think about it, painting for a living probably isn't very realistic. I'm not sure I'm even all that good. I could be a deep sea diver, I think. My heart aches for the ocean. Home. We come from the sea. At our most instinctive, our most primordial, we want to return to it. I really believe that.

  Dad loaded me up in his fishing boat one night. It was a secret. We sailed out to the Tillamook Rock Lighthouse. A sunny yellow glow washed over us from towering white windows. Clutched safely between the light and the sea, I knew I was home.

  Where did you go, God? Why did you leave?

  "Wendy?"

  We're outside the apartment building now. Nightshadows hide the grunge and the graffiti. Azel's eyes are a bright green cosmic dust.

  "Don't be a stranger," he tells me.

  I hug him. Maybe it's silly. Maybe it's selfish. I have to hug him, because I'm scared right now. I'm scared of endings. I'm scared of goodbyes.

  He puts his arms around me. He tucks his hands into the small of my back. I press my cheek against his curls. I steal his warmth.

  I let go.

  I watch Azel when he crosses the street. I watch him walk down the sidewalk until his brown ponytail's a blur.

  He saw the lighthouse. I'm glad.

  I'm done.

  My head bursts with pain.

  My head bursts open. I can feel my skull snapping away, matter rushing out of it. I can't see. The agony scalds my eyes, blinding, white-hot. I double over, shoulders hunched, muscles locking with pain. My head is lighter and lighter on my shoulders. Something is loud and I don't know what and Help me, I'm afraid.

  I hear a voice. It's not my own. Can't make out the words. Can't see. My eyes are swollen shut with tears.

  I wrench them open.

  Stars and quasars pour out of my head. They swell and flare and die in explosions of light. Hot stardust disperses in their wake, bright scarlet and orange and sea-blue and sea-green. The stardust cools and spins and thickens and hardens into planets and moons and new stars, tiny stars, white-green-white-gold stars flickering with youth, shimmering comets in watery ice, watery planets with bronze poles, sandy satellites orbiting in envy, in deference. The comets rocket off into vacuums of nothing, of everything. The stars and clouds and planets spin away from one another. They spiral into chains. They spiral into the ethers of a pulsating, blue-black sky. New galaxies wink innumerably from the endless sky, the sky streaked in energy trails of powdery saffron and splashes of teal-green.

  A cloudy swan in white watercolors ascends the cosmos, wings outstretched.

  My head crackles with static pain.


  I can almost hear my mother singing.

  Rosa das rosas, e fror das frores.

  Doña das doñas, señor das señores.

  She sits on the sand with her backstrap loom stretched in front of her. Red textiles pool on her knees. The back saddle rests around her tiny waist, the stick shuttle in her tiny hand. Gray hairs weave through her thick gold mane. Each one is a separate secret. She's good at keeping those.

  Mom. I can reach out. I can touch you. You're almost here.

  "Here I am."

  I turn around.

  Warm puddles of light pool in Annwn's red-blonde hair. She's standing under the streetlight. She clamps her beret close to her head when a car rushes past us, wind from the tires tousling her curls.

  Frantic, I feel my head with both hands. I feel the scars beneath my palms, the sparse hair.

  The city tilts and twirls around me, dull pain whispering in my ears.

  "Didn't you call for me?" Annwn asks, calm, placid, a little bemused.

  "What? I--" My head--

  "Are you ready to go?" Annwn asks. "You wanted to escape, didn't you?"

  "How the hell--" Of all people--

  Annwn smiles. She folds her hands. There's a new light in her sleepy brown eyes.

  Wrapped around her left wrist is a charm bracelet. A silver-gilt swan spreads her wings in flight.

  13

  Adam

  "You're not here," I stammer. "You can't be."

  The Pied Piper smiles her innocuous smile. I think of Great Whites with their beautiful fins. They hide their ugly teeth below the water's surface.

  "You're not real," I go on, head spinning, head aching.

  1950s time-traveler in a dark beret--

  --Beret, no, it's supposed to be a ribbon--

  She's not here. She's not here. I'm seeing things.

  I keep seeing things.

  "You wanted to escape," Annwn says. "So, here I am."

  She's not here. I'm seeing her. I'm seeing things.

  "Let's leave this world behind."

  "That's all you want," I answer. "You want to watch the world die--"

  "Don't you?"

  I want to leave. I want to escape.