The Phoenix and the Mirror

by Avram Davidson

  The pieces remained awhile in the solution, then were removed and rinsed in clean, cold water, thoroughly scoured with clean, wet sand, and then placed in a wooden pail of water. Thence they were removed for further dippings in strong solution and rinsings in water, and now care equal to that employed on behalf of the bronze had to be maintained on behalf of the workmen. The dipping was done in the open air, their clothes were covered with special, thick aprons, three, of carpeting; and while some dipped and quickly rinsed, others stood by with vessels of asses’ milk — to drink, if the fumes affested the lungs, to pour on the skin, lest the acid at least stain it and at worse remove it, to dash instantly into the eyes to “kill” any stray splash. But these precautions, perhaps because they had been taken, proved unnecessary. After the last dip and rinse in cold water, the bronzes were next washed finally with boiling water and then dried with dust of sawed boxwood, and then — care being taken that they at no time be touched with naked fingers, they were covered and wrapped in the softest of chamois leathers.

  And now came the time of the burnishers.

  Isacco and Lionelo were their names. Isacco was stooped in age, but blindness had come on him gradually over the course of many years, and he had gradually adapted to it. Lionelo was still in his time of vigor, and his sight had been lost to him suddenly by the kick of a runaway horse whose frenzied rush he had no time to avoid. Each had been a burnisher and each had been fortunate to work for good masters who had allowed him to continue in his craft; their touch was knowing, and — so the master burnishers had reasoned — others could always look and say where sightlessness had left some spot for further care. As the years went on, though, this outer vision was needed less and less. Lionelo said that he could tell by tapping and smelling, Isacco offered no explanation: he knew without knowing how he knew.

  “I have hired your time from your own masters,” Vergil told them, “but I shall pay you double for your work. A room has been fitted up for it, and I think it lacks nothing — benches and brushes and boxes, lathes and wheels and water and soap, hook, spear, round, and long burnishers, buff leather and chamois leather, crocus powder and dilute beer, vises and poles and sawdust and vinegar — ”

  “Ox gall, master? Is there . . . ?”

  “No, Lionelo, the work is, I think, too delicate to risk the strong stench of ox gall.”

  Isacco said, “Vinegar will do, it will do prime, and so will beer. Is there a good small fire, master, and pots with handles?”

  “All that. We are not yet ready to commence burnishing the prime pieces, and in the meanwhile I want you to familiarize yourselves with the layout of the workroom. We will rearrange it any way you wish, and then there are items of lesser importance which you may begin with to try your hands, so to speak. I need give you no specific further directions, except this — and this is most important. The door will open only from the inside and you are not to open it when the bronze is exposed. You must cover the bronze first. And also note that the stove is set in a sort of cabinet or closet by itself — this, too, must be closed whenever the bronzes are uncovered. You must polish them from behind. No one can be here to check on you. I must — and I do — rely upon you utterly.”

  They nodded. At first they groped, then they moved with confidence, later with absolute unthinking familiarity. Finally, when the Moon began to pass through Scorpio and Pisces, the discs and all of their smaller fittings (made from the superfluous bronze that had filled the sprue channels during casting), carefully wrapped and boxed, were handed over to the two blind burnishers and the door closed upon them . . . and upon the light. There, within, the opaque surface of the mirror would gradually become fit for reflecting. But it would reflect nothing, and, even if by rare happenstance it did, no one there could see it. And there in the blackness the lid was fitted on and all the clasps and fastenings put in place. And so wrapped again, and boxed again, and returned to the world outside again.

  • • •

  Vergil placed around the box a series of knotted scarlet silken cords alike to those which bound the perestupe or mandrake. “Pull” he invited Clemens. “Try your strength.”

  The alchemist shook his head. “I thank you, no. I am an alchemist and not a magician . . . Ah. What I desired to show you before I go — evidently there was a loose leaf in my copy of the tractate On Cathayan Bronze, as I found it last night in my library, it will not appear in your transcript. Listen:

  Inscription on a Mirror

  Round, round precious mirror,

  Bright, bright on the high altar;

  The phoenix looking at the mirror dances to its own reflection,

  Reflecting the moon, the blossoming flower.

  Over a pond, shining like the moon,

  It appears to the beautiful one, to her.

  “Lovely, isn’t it? I wonder what it might mean . . . Well! I have a multitude of things to attend to at home, but of course I will be on hand at the viewing, though Father Vesuvio himself intervene to prevent me. Absit omen.”

  Again the phoenix, and once again the phoenix! It was night and Vergil walked out on his balcony, thinking to try a sortilogy from whatever stray utterance of old Allegra’s might come to hand. And her remark, crooned as she bedded down her cats and herself, was cryptic enough. “On the sea, my lord, walk without water if you would find her . . . ” The Woman of Delphi herself would have been satisfied. But, riddle it as he would, clear as its obvious meaning was, Vergil could read in it nothing about the phoenix.

  There was a belvedere set into the upper part of one of the upper rooms in the House of the Brazen Head, with twelve windows, through each of which, during its proper month, the sun at its meridian cast a beam of light; and the tessellated pavement below was further marked off with annotated areas, some of them overlapping, for day and by day; so that the chamber formed one great sundial. Vergil had been at work with his astrolabe, checking and rechecking and setting and resetting his horlogues. His face was yellow and sunken and he did not even look up as Cornelia entered; then, suddenly, he did. It was their real meeting since his return, and one might have admired the restraint she showed in not vexing him with the frequent visitations she must dearly have desired to make. Their eyes met now. It was she who, almost instantly, withdrew and broke the gaze. Almost, her look pitied him. Almost, she did not see him. Silently she approached the box and looked at it, extended her hand, hastily and almost fearfully drew it back. She was very pale, and the skin about her eyes was dark violet. She sighed, compressed her lips, clasped her hands, Vergil took hold of the clew and gave the silk cord the slightest of tugs, murmuring a word as he did so. All the elaborate cordings and knottings fell open and slack, the sides of the box parted slowly and settled back onto the table.

  And the speculum was revealed.

  Like a great locket, it rested there, shining and brightening. As if at an agreed signal, all began to walk around it. Its back was ornately and beautifully designed and inscribed, but no one lingered to examine or to decipher; all walked with eyes awestruck and unfocused. And, as they did so, an horlogue began to sound the twelfth hour and as it did the room began to darken, until at eleven it was almost black. Then came the stroke of twelve, Vergil reached out and snapped back the lid, and the bronze, resounding like a bell, encompassed and occluded the stroke of noon. Simultaneously the the darkness was pierced by a broad shaft of sunlight and Cornelia pulled from the bosom of her robe a long golden pin and thrust it at the blank but luminous face of the mirror’s disc. The pin touched, the surface of the disc went into flux like oil resting upon the surface of water when disturbed. The disorder became a whirlpool, round and round, drawing everything toward it and everything into it.

  “Laura!”

  And there she was, pacing slowly on great Cyclopean steps; near her, always near her, but never quite in clear range of vision, was something ugly and dreadful. Whose voice had cried her name, Vergil did not know, but it was Cornelia’s voice which cried out now, cried no name,
cried out. The whirlpool swirled reversewise, closed in, the scene vanished, and the last vanishing echoes of the stroke of twelve were heard. The mirror was a mirror now, and nothing more. Vergil, Clemen, Cornelia saw their own faces, but Vergil now saw what he had already felt: it was his own face, his true face, his face complete. His missing soul had returned to him. Cornelia — she who now stood staring, staring, staring — had kept her word.

  To her it had been plain magic. To Clemens, a living metal had revealed a living truth. To Vergil, a focus had been provided to reveal in presently visible terms an event occurring elsewhere and at that moment impressed upon the universal ether, from which the virgin speculum (virgin now no longer) had received and revealed it upon its virgin surface. Vergil reached out his hand towards Cornelia.

  Cornelia spoke. She did not speak, she was pointing at the wall, her face worked, her lips moved, her throat moved, a harsh and fearful cry came from her mouth. There on the wall in a luminous circle was the design of the four figures of the four quadrants of the uranoscope; around the rim, both clockwise and counterclockwise, the inscription in the curious and impressive letters of the Umbrian alphabet, so often written mirror-fashion, Widdershins.

  Vergil seized her hand. “Lady Cornelia, don’t be afraid,” he said urgently. “This is the so-called magic mirror effect, yet it is no true magic but an effect derived from purely natural causes. Come and see, come and see . . . .” He showed her the design, now reflected on the wall, on the back of the surface of the speculum, whence (he explained) by a seemingly inexplicable effect caused by atomical disturbances, it was cast upon another surface and thus gave the impression that the solid bronze was transparent as glass. “I do not wonder at your surprise,” he said. “No doubt you failed to observe, while looking at the reverse of the disc before, that it showed the heavenly configurations . . . the Somber Warrior in the north, and in the south, the Vermilion Phoenix.”

  She tore her hand loose from his grasp. Fear now partially retreated and was replaced by rage, but did not vanish utterly; and outrage and hatred and despair struggled with them both. She turned upon her heel and left the room.

  Softly, Clemens said, “It is done.”

  But Vergil knew that it was not done, that only a phase of it was done. The girl in the mirror, the first woman he had really seen in months — and he had fallen in love with her.

  And now he had to find her.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  THE BULL HAD bellowed that he would take Tartis Castle apart, stone by cyclopean stone, treaty rights or no treaty rights. But in actually approaching the castle with the Imperial Sub-Legate and a century of his own troops, Doge Tauro’s voice had decreased in volume and increased in awe. The politely astonished Captain-lord had immediately granted permission to search not the castle alone but all of Tartis ward, and insisted on limping along with them. The building was huge, it was vast, it seemed to extend for half of forever beneath the hill. Most of it was gaunt and bare, and of the rest, most was half dust and half decay. Long before the search was done, both Doge and Sub-Legate were convinced that not the Captain-lord nor any of his men knew anything of the matter. It took until the end, however, for them to conclude, reluctantly, that no one and nothing had held Laura there — with or without the knowledge of the rightful occupants — at any time. And so the seekers departed, more baffled than when they came.

  Vergil lingered a moment to thank the Captain-lord in person for the gift of tin. The man shrugged. “It seems no good to have helped you. But why thought you that she was here?”

  “I never thought she was. But she was clearly in a place as like to this as to make the others think that it was this . . . great blocks of stone piled by the four-armed Cyclopes in the Age of Dreams. . . .”

  The Captain-lord looked at him with shrewd and tired eyes. “I know of one other such, that in Mycenae. But it all of ruins is. It could no one conceal. You” — he shrugged again his massy shoulders — “you know of more ones, I think. Yes? Then — Doctor — Magus — advise you, I have no right. But let me say . . . go not yourself. Let another go. But you, go not.”

  Vergil sighed. “Sir, go I must.”

  The snowy brows met in a frown. “Pursue, pursue! Always must you pursue?” And the vast chest rose in a great breath which was itself both question and statement.

  His departing guest nodded. “Yes, Captain-lord. Until death conquers me. . . . or I conquer death . . . always, I must pursue. Farewell.” He turned to go.

  Behind him, the low and weary voice said, “Pursue . . . pursue . . . I would be content merely not pursued to be.”

  The torches were burning low, the Doge, stamping impatiently, started off, asking over his shoulder, “What did the old man have to say to you, Magus?”

  “That in Mycenae is another castle which used to be like this. It’s all in ruins now, though, and no one could be hiding there.”

  The Doge swore. So much work, so much magic, and all — he asked — all for what? And the Sub-Legate, breaking his silence, said, “I understand that the Emperor’s patience cannot be answered for much longer.”

  Although Tauro growled that it made no difference, that even the Roman legions could not find Laura if no one had any idea where she was, Vergil understood . . . and knew that he, though not the Doge, was meant to understand . . . not that Caesar, losing patience, would summon troops to seek the princess of Carsus out, but that he would simply turn his ever-wandering attentions elsewhere. There were other young women of rank suitable for marriage, should the Emperor finally decide to divorce his aging and ill-tempered consort . . . should he decide to bother with marriage. And in that case, what worth the plans of Cornelia and the Viceroy?

  For that matter, in any case, what worth Vergil’s own plans?

  • • •

  Clemens slapped his thigh in wrath and bawled from his chair that Vergil was acting like a concupiscent schoolboy. “I understand it clearly enough. You’ve seen nothing fairer than a furnace nor comelier than a crucible all this time. You were taut, tense . . . wrought up, dispense me the need to display the other many adjectives. And then in that, admittedly magnificient, abrupt moment you saw what I concede without argument was the face of rather an attractive wench, and — Zeus! you weren’t thinking, man — you were simply reacting. It wasn’t your heart, it was your codpiece that the impulse came from!

  “No, no,” he said, now in a softer voice, “really. You had that damnable trip to Cyprus, followed by that damnable work of the speculum. True, you are now looking better, but you do not look well yet. It is madness to embark on another journey.” His arguments were long, vigorous, logical. They did not avail. Finally Vergil broke in upon them, looking up from his open volume of the Cosmographia of Claudius Ptolemaeus on his library table. “I say that one of the things which compels me to do it is love. You deride this and say that it is lust. May I now remind you of your own words? ‘Love is for animals. Only human beings can appreciate lust.’” Clemens, caught short, snorted, pawed at the air.

  Recovering himself, he sidestepped the pitfall and asked what the other things compelling Vergil might be. He listened gravely, now and then sorting his beard, and finally said, “It is a long way to go, Lybya, because of what you think you saw in an astrological calculation.”

  “She is in Lybya. That is where she is. I know that we thought we saw her at Cornelia’s villa, perhaps we were mistaken, but the point is really only where she was, primus, when I drew up the horary chart, and where she was, secundus, when she was sighted in the speculum. Assuming that it was indeed she whom we saw at the villa that time, there is nothing which could have prevented her going subsequently to Lybya. Or, being taken, subsequently, to Lybya. Her mother’s motives I do not know and I don’t wish to involve myself at present in trying to know them. But I shall and must know them before I’m finished. At any rate, the chart, which was correct enough in so many other ways, clearly revealed Lybya — ”

  Clemens closed the gig
antic leather-bound codex with a clap. “‘Clearly revealed Lybya’!” he mocked. “Aside from Egypt, Mauretania, and Ethiopea, most of Africa is Lybya! And you intend to search this infinity of desert just because of what might be no more than a random configuration?”

  Vergil straightened up and stretched on his toes. He was wearing one of his cloaks of sunset blue edged in gold embroidered work. In his mind he could see a certain rustic farm he knew well of old: the beehives, the spaniel-eared sheep, the furrows yielding to the plowman’s pressing tool; in the oak and beechy woods beyond, the tusky boar besought by hunters. Too, he could see a certain village in the Calabrian hills, known to him in later times, the spare lean houses perching like eagles upon their crag, the rushing streams — incredibly cool, wondrously clear — the quiet pools where lurked the cautious fish, the sweet-smelling woods and flowery glades. How much he would love to visit either place, sink gratefully into the quiet, and float there forever . . . or at least until all his weariness and turmoil was laved and washed away. But it would have been at this time a wrong turning in the road. His labors on the mirror had restored to him his complete psyche, but this left him, after all, no more than he had been before. All the great questions remained unanswered, their problems unresolved. He had, so to speak, been forced to look into the sun; now, wherever else he was free to look, the image of a great, dark disc hung over and obscured his vision. And this vision must be made clear.

  And also: “Permit me,” he said, quietly, “to know at my age the difference between casual attraction and that deeper feeling which is both rare and valuable. I must go . . . to Lybya. Chasing the stars.”

  Told of the appeal to the sortes via old Dame Allegra (“On the sea, my lord, walk without water if you would find her. . . .”), Clemens admitted, as though he grudged it, that this was likely enough a possible reference to the sandy waves of Lybya Deserta. “I have also heard of a Lybya Petra,” he added, “but of a Lybya Felix? Never. So, a pretty face, the stars, the babble of a withered madwoman. What other auspicous omens impel you?”