I had a strange dream. What an understatement that is, and yet, how accurate. In the carriage home, I had questioned Livvy about the Metatronims; she didn’t have much information. I learned their especial patrons were the Di Corboran family, who had considerable influence at the court of the Kaliph and owned over a hundred massive vineyards throughout the Bochanegran Empire. The Metatronims mixed in high circles. As to where they lived, Livvy did not know. I realised that people living outside the atelier district knew very little of what went on in there.
‘Who are the artisans?’ I asked her, as we got out of the carriage at the back of the Carmen. ‘They are foreigners, aren’t they?’
‘What makes you say that?’ Livvy asked, quite sharply.
‘It is obvious; they look different to Bochanegrans. They are different! Where do they come from?’
‘Well, they do come from a far land, I suppose. I think they were driven out a long, long time ago. They have no country now. But Sacramante is their home; all artisans are under the patronage of the Kaliph and her family.’
‘Why are they shut away from the rest of the city so?’
‘They aren’t, Rayo!’ Livvy snapped. ‘I don’t think you should ask questions with such a tone in your voice! I suppose they have their own customs and way of life. Like you said, they are foreigners! We just accept what comes out of the atelier courts, and are grateful for it.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I didn’t mean to sound rude. Livvy?’
‘Yes.’
‘Can we visit the atelier of the Metatronims?’
She laughed, shook her head. ‘No, Rayo, no! We are not patrons of theirs.’
I still did not understand how this patronage business worked, but how disappointing! Still wrestling with thoughts of how I might connive a meeting with the Metatronims (perhaps I could enlist the help of Zimon, who undoubtedly shared my enthusiasm), I went up to my room, and gratefully unbound myself from the clothes Livvy had lent to me. I lay in the moonlight, still full of excitement, reliving the moment when I had first seen Gimel and her brother, and extending the memory into fantasy, imagining they had called to me, drawn me to them. ‘Who are you?’ they asked. ‘We have to know!’ I imagined they took me home with them, and all the while, I sparkled with wit and repartee; in my mind, transformed into an older version of myself. I sat in a carriage beside Beth Metatronim, knowing I could look at him whenever I wanted to and therefore sweetly torturing myself by not doing so. Gimel, I talked to, but her brother was a silent presence beside me, his thigh pressed against my own. I could not really understand the powerful sensations these people had invoked within me. I did not feel like sleeping and turned restlessly in my bed, replaying my fantasies, adding detail with each repetition, which led me nearer to when I would reach their house and be taken inside. I wanted to reserve fantasies beyond this point for a later time; more exquisite torture. Half of me wanted to leap out of bed and dance and run and shout. Half of me was exhausted. I must have fallen asleep eventually, because that was when he came to me.
I opened my eyes, and my room was in darkness. The moon had slid across the sky. Everything was very still. I peered into the shadows, a little unnerved. From the very first instant, I felt I was not alone. As a soulscaper, I had already been trained to deal with such feelings, knowing that the majority of them stemmed from the inner landscape exuding thought forms into reality. It is quite a common occurrence when woken from deep sleep. We are taught to examine these things objectively. I sat up in the bed, and took a few calming breaths, willing whatever I had conjured forth to manifest itself more clearly.
He was sitting in a chair at the end of the bed, taking shape from the pale tumble of silk, which was the petticoat of the dress I had discarded earlier. As I stared, he stood up; I could discern the wet gleam of dark jewels upon his breast. He did not speak, but somehow glided towards me, as if through the bed itself. I was not afraid; only fascinated, confident that he was my own creation. He curled up beside my legs, like a great cat, staring at me from dark sockets. Impulsively, I reached to touch him, even though I knew such action would evaporate his fragile corporeality. My hand touched silky hair, felt the hardness of skull beneath. I pulled away, gasping, drawing up my knees. This was too real. He made a soft sound, perhaps a laugh, and slithered up towards me. I could not move, perhaps, deep inside, did not even want to. ‘Heart’s desire,’ he whispered and put his mouth against my own. I felt his teeth against my lower lip, felt a sharp pain. No! Vainly, I tried to expel this vision from my consciousness, but my heart was beating too fast; I was in too much of a panic. It happened very quickly after that, and I cannot (perhaps do not wish to) remember the details. I know that he bit my face, very hard, and as he bit, a greater pain convulsed my body. I could not believe what was happening. His body was heavy upon me. Did I cry out? I don’t know. All I do know is that I woke up gasping and panting, throwing myself up from the bed, my body covered in sweat. My loins tingled in a strange, half-pleasurable, half-painful way. Dream or reality? I still don’t know which. But I was aware, in my heart, that illusion or not, I was no longer virgin in this body, and that Beth Metatronim was responsible for it.
Next morning, I was in a daze. My mother was absent from breakfast, as there had been an emergency with Salyon in the night. Apparently, he had come out of his trance and had screamed until his throat bled. Only the strongest of Ushas’ potions could calm him. Still, it was progress. Wherever the soul-essence of Salyon had once fled to, it now firmly inhabited his flesh once more, albeit unhappily. Soon, we would be able to leave. I wanted to be alone with my thoughts that day, prompting Livvy to wonder whether I was sickening for something.
Who are the artisans? Who are they? This question flapped around my brain like a trapped bird. I wanted to tell Livvy about the dream, but at the same time, savoured the secret of it. It had been so real, and yet cautious investigation of my body in daylight revealed no injury or sign of invasion.
Eventually, because I had become tearful, I sought out my mother in Salyon’s room. The boy was lying with his eyes open this time; his face a mask of despair. I wondered whether consciousness was an improvement. Ushas was talking to him in a low voice; I recognised the intonation of encouragement and nurturing. She turned when I entered the room and cried, ‘Rayo, what’s the matter!’ I just ran into her waiting arms and sobbed my heart out. When I had purged myself, I pulled away, wiping my face with my sleeve. Salyon’s eyes were looking right at me, right into me, I felt.
‘What’s wrong,’ Ushas was still asking, squeezing my arm.
Behind her, the boy raised a stick-like arm from the bed. He beckoned me to him. Puzzled, Ushas let me go, and watched as I leaned towards her client. I don’t know why I felt so compelled to obey his request; Salyon repulsed me. His appearance was horrific and he smelled of death. Shakily, he lifted his fingers to touch my face where I had been bitten in the dream. His fingers were dry and hot. I raised a hand defensively, paused, and then he slipped his fingers into my own. I squeezed him hard, felt the brittle bones grind in their tissue of desiccated flesh. It was instinctual; all of it. Somehow, he gave me peace. I leaned down and kissed his brow, the skin like paper beneath my lips. ‘You will be well,’ I said.
‘Rayo?’ Ushas murmured behind me.
‘I had a dream, a horrible dream,’ I said, and looked back at the boy on the bed. He closed his eyes slowly and managed a weak smile. If stronger, he would have nodded, I’m sure of it. ’It’s alright now.’ I slid my fingers out of Salyon’s hold, feeling immensely calm. Somehow, he had sealed my experience within me; I would never speak of it to anyone. I was sure he knew exactly what I had experienced in the night, as strongly as if he’d spoken to me aloud. In some way, he had experienced it too, and had been shocked out of his coma. The significance of what happened in that room was not revealed to me for a long, long time.
Section Seven
Gimel
‘…he seemed for dignity composed
and high exploit: but all was false and hollow… for his thoughts were low, to vice industrious…’
Paradise Lost, Book II
It will come as no surprise I’d had severe reservations about working with the Tartaruch. I was nearly disappointed when things turned out so well. What possessed him to invite the participation of Beth and myself, I prefer not to dwell upon. Upon discussion, neither my brother nor I could accept that Avirzah’e was merely offering us the hand of friendship; there had to be other motivations. To refuse would have caused comment among the throngs, of course; perhaps Avirzah’e attempted nothing but to humiliate us. His humour was infantile, in that case. We accepted his offer.
He had sent one of his licky-spits round, a lily-fleshed human boy with the glassy-eyed stare of the perpetually supped. The missive had been delivered on a filigree tray, sealed in the Tartaruchi wax - magenta, still warm - and written in Avirzah’e’s own arrogant hand. ‘Honoured friends,’ he wrote, ‘may I humbly entreat your services for my recently completed work, ‘The Thorn Path’. A play of two acts, I can only acknowledge that its performance will be the less splendid should either of you decline to participate. Gimel, the lead part was written for you, and only your inventiveness. Beth can bring the scenery required to life. Should you be interested in hearing more about this work, I would be delighted to call on you and discuss it.’
Beth and I read the message speechlessly; the unctuous words seemed to drip with Avirzah’e’s innate sarcasm. At the end of his mordant invitation was the comment, ‘It would be my pleasure if you would replete yourselves upon this morsel delivering my word.’ An insult. I would as soon feast upon a discarded apple core. We dismissed the messenger, and examined the parchment. No trick it seemed, and yet…
‘Well?’ Beth asked me, as I put the parchment down upon a table.
I rubbed my fingers together, conscious of the fact I had touched something Avirzah’e had held in his hands. ‘I must confess to being intrigued…’
I glanced at Beth, and as our eyes met, he said, ‘At least Avirzah’e was the first to make contact…’
I nodded. ‘It was just a matter of time.’
‘Dangerous though. We both know the Tartaruch’s stance on certain matters.’
‘What has that to do with work?’
Beth shrugged. ‘Nothing. I hope. This move of Avirzah’e’s might have a political rather than social motivation, however. He might be interested in how we are progressing with the soulscaper, perhaps with the intention of interfering.’
I laughed and kissed Beth’s cheek. ‘If that is the case, he will be surprised. We are far more cunning than the Tartaruch, beloved. If he seeks to deceive us, he is sadly overrating his charms!’
We arranged to meet Avirzah’e on neutral territory, thereby signifying that, although we were interested in his offer, he had not wheedled his way into our lives to the point where we’d have him under our own roof. There are few public meeting places in the atelier courts, because most transactions between eloim take place in personal space, but there are one or two tavernas near the outer walls, where people can pause for a flute of wine should they be out walking. We met at midday, Avirzah’e sauntering arrogantly to where Beth and I were already seated, outside the taverna, beneath an awning. ‘He is beautiful,’ Beth said, under his breath.
‘And so are we,’ I reminded him. ‘Don’t fall for the glamour, beloved. We need our wits with us today.’ We did not let Avirzah’e kiss us in greeting.
He had brought copious notes with him; ideas for set designs and costumes, an outline of the play’s plot and various sections of the dialogue he presumed I might find intriguing.
I read the outline and then raised my brows at the Tartaruch prince. ‘I confess I don’t know whether to be flattered or insulted when you say this part was written with me in mind,’ I said.
Avirzah’e leaned back in his chair, balancing it precariously on its back legs. ‘Gimel, rest assured I do not aim to insult you. I had your ability, rather than your person, in mind when I wrote the play.’
I shrugged, not totally convinced. ‘Well, as you probably already know, the work is brilliant.’
‘And contentious,’ Beth added, ‘given recent events.’
‘Not that recent, Beth,’ Avirzah’e replied. ‘Since vigilance has been stepped up, the suicides have fallen off. Anyway, the play is not about that dilemma.’ The fact that Avirzah’e did not bother to query what Beth meant signified this was a lie. ‘I’m surprised you think I wrote about the sickness,’ he continued. ‘After all, there isn’t a single suicide in this work!’
‘Avirzah’e, we are not stupid!’ I said.
He smiled. ‘I am aware of that. Why else would I have invited your participation?’
There was a moment of tense silence, during which Avirzah’e grinned at us frankly.
‘You had better send us the entire manuscript,’ I said.
Avirzah’e had engaged a director, not deigning to visit the coliseum himself during rehearsals. That suited me fine, although I suspected it was not supposed to. Beth created marvellous scenery for the play, again without any contribution or even approval from the author. Even though Avirzah’e had denied it, I still suspected my role was designed to discomfort me. Foolish Tartaruch! I am a professional, and the part was interesting. Even having me seduce the Kalkydra puppy did not distress me. It was well known that Caspar had stolen a lover of mine some ten years back, who had lost no time in telling Caspar all my virtues; a defection which had left neither Kalkydra or myself happy, and which still rankled. The bitch who’d caused the upset had hived off to join a reclusive Nephelin throng in the mountains of Lansaal. I was not sorry to see her go.
There were undercurrents in the play that I knew would be criticised by the Parzupheim and which, when Metatron read the draft, caused ructions in the family stronghold. Tatriel herself came to call, slinking into my salon, wagging a talon in my face and drawling, ‘Your father feels this is unfit for you, dear Gimel. I have to agree. The play is… contentious.’
‘Convey to the Metatron that I appreciate his concern for my reputation,’ I replied, ‘but please impress upon him that I shall invest this part with enough of my personal mark to render it acceptable in his eyes. Also, I will not be told which work I can and cannot do.’
Tatriel nodded, saying in a wry voice. ‘I thought this, and will gladly convince the Metatron you will transform the role. As for your latter comment, I feel it should remain within my heart.’ She patted my arm. ‘Allow me the privilege of being a surrogate dam to you, dear Gimel. I think I know what’s best.’
I inclined my head. ‘You are kind, Lady Tatriel.’ My surrogate dam? She was twenty years my junior.
The rehearsals went without a hitch, other than a tantrum or two thrown for effect by the sulky Kalkydra. It was no pleasure kissing him at the end, but our dedication to our work over-rode personal disgust. The director was an Elim, a flog-master, who kept us at it until past midnight some evenings. At these times, I would fall into bed as soon as I got home, administered by my sweet sibling, who brought me dainty snacks to sup upon between the sheets; lissom Amelakiveh, who would offer me his wrist and then his body. We had made him like us in many ways: a dear pet, quickly, this enterprising boy.
The first night, of course, had spread its own array of surprises. The Tartaruch showed himself in my dressing room beneath the stage before the performance, bringing me a bouquet of night-blooming roses and a carafe of honeyed wine. Our makeup complete, Hadith Sarim, Floriel Elim and I - the three most prominent actresses - were sitting together, quietly conversing, to prepare ourselves for the coming performance. The room, though well-appointed, had a distinctly cave-like ambience, which I had always found uncomfortable. Avirzahe’e’s presence did nothing to dispel my slight feeling of claustrophobia. I had not seen him in person since he’d met Beth and myself at the taverna. He kissed my hand, nipping the skin briefly as he did so. I snatched my hand away. How dare
he presume such closeness! ‘Skittish before the performance, dear Gimel?’ he asked me.
My colleagues looked away, but they were smiling, damn them.
Before he left, Avirzah’e addressed the wardrobe staff, who had come to hover in the doorway, in order to catch a glimpse of the play’s author. ‘Congratulations. You have made her a hag,’ he said.
He really is insufferable. Beth, having noticed Avirzah’e marching purposefully towards my dressing room, had also made an appearance and pushed his way through the small bustle of wardrobe people, barely able to contain repressed cries of outrage.
Avirzah’e gathered him up on the way out. ‘A seat by me, of course,’ he said.
Because everyone had seen, Beth had no choice but to go with him.
I shook my head to regain my composure and addressed all the averted heads. ‘The Tartaruchi scion has a wit about him worthy of a child!’ Then, I laughed, as if in delight, and the atmosphere relaxed.
The performance was a triumph, but then there’d never been any doubt of that. I fairly floated in a daze, lines falling from my lips without conscious thought. I fed upon the concentrated attention of my audience, drawing out strands of sustenance like a web. It was annoying that the Tartaruch would claim as much tribute for the play’s success as I would. The whole production sizzled with his personal observations, his discontent, his misplaced spirit of renewal. I gave them life, I think, but in such a way that no one could guess his intention. That was my revenge, which I knew he would notice.
Later, we had to pay our respects to the patrons. Warmed by their adoration, I feigned disinterest; it was what they expected, of course, and in keeping with my public persona. Really, I adore the humans, for all their weaknesses. They have an immediacy, a vivacity lacking in eloimkind; their brutish enthusiasms are endearing.
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