CHORUS:
Here ends the tale of foul Augusta Prima,
A murderer, a kidnapper, and thief.
The lords and ladies were all punished justly,
The Gardens’ magic broken and dismissed.
The children are now free to return home
To mortal lands where they might live in peace.
Ne’er again will foul Augusta roam;
Good has triumphed, and the world is whole.
THE END
34
Augusta stood on the grass, reeling. On the dais before her, Mnemosyne’s corpse was sinking into the throne, which had sprouted vines and crushed her in its embrace. Walpurgis lay in front of her, one hand around Mnemosyne’s foot. His face had collapsed in on itself; tiny shoots stretched into the air from the top of his head. Cymbeline and Virgilia embraced each other in a heap in the middle of the lawn. And there was Euterpe, naked in the rhododendron, overtaken by growth; ferns shot up like spears through her chest, unfurling in the sunlight. Everything was quiet save for the rustle of growing things. The air smelled of dew and grass and rot. It was dawn.
The servants still stood here and there on the lawn. Augusta saw now how emaciated they were, how their dresses and livery hung moldy and moth-eaten on their thin frames. They were all staring at her.
Augusta looked down at herself. Nothing had happened to her. She was as she had been before: the borrowed breeches and coat, her body within. She alone was untouched. She kneeled by Euterpe’s body and shook it gently.
“Sister,” she said. “Wake up.”
Euterpe fell apart like a rotten log. The inside teemed with life: beetles, maggots, sprouting seeds.
Augusta’s cheeks felt hot and wet. It was hard to breathe.
“Remarkable,” a voice said.
Augusta turned around. Ghorbi.
“You,” Augusta said. “Did you do this?”
“Of course not,” Ghorbi replied. “I merely watched.”
“But all this.” Augusta gestured at the mayhem. “It’s you. It must be you.”
“I think not,” Ghorbi said. “But I have my suspicions. It looked a lot like a play. You were talking in blank verse.”
“I’m not dead.”
“No, you’re not.” Ghorbi paused. “You probably should be. But you’re not.”
Augusta shook her head. “I don’t understand.”
“Let’s be clear,” Ghorbi said. “You had this coming. Albin survived, did you know? I’m sure he had plans for you.”
“Albin,” Augusta said. “Albin.”
A boy, a page. Insolent. She had killed him. He and Ghorbi must have conspired. She looked at what was left of poor Euterpe, who had only just now danced across the lawn.
“This is all your fault,” Augusta growled. “Yours and Albin’s.”
She threw herself at Ghorbi, who slid out of her way.
“I see you haven’t learned a thing,” Ghorbi said.
Augusta punched at her, but her fist met empty air. She cried out in frustration, and Ghorbi chuckled.
“You’ll see,” Augusta said. “I’ll be like you. I’ll travel the worlds. I’ll be a celebrated guest in every court. And I’ll have my vengeance.”
Ghorbi’s expression grew serious.
“Not like me,” Ghorbi said. “Never like me. You don’t know how to be a guest. You only know how to intrude, to subjugate. You wouldn’t be a guest; you’d be a terrifying invader. In any case…” Ghorbi looked over Augusta’s shoulder. “You’d best hurry.”
Footsteps came through the grass. Augusta turned her head and saw a half-circle of servants closing in on her. Her chest seized with something like fear.
“Help me,” she begged Ghorbi. “For friendship’s sake.”
Ghorbi shook her head. “You are no one’s friend, Augusta.” She took a few steps back.
The servants surrounded Augusta now. They were not at all the cowed children that had once attended the courtiers.
Augusta pointed at the biggest one, a sturdy-looking youth.
“You,” she said, in her lady voice. “Pack me a bag for traveling.”
The servant stared at her, right in the eyes. Then he charged.
Augusta turned around and ran into the forest. Twigs tore at her as she pushed her way through underbrush. Her lungs hurt. Behind her, the ululating cries of the hunt.
35
The house-carriage sat in the middle of a lawn that had burst into wild growth. In front of it stood a pavilion with the overgrown remains of a divan. Here and there, bone gleamed in wet grass. The sun shone down; clouds were scudding away over the treetops.
“Here we are,” Director said, “frontstage and all, for once.”
“Thank you,” Albin said.
“I can’t see her anywhere,” Albin said. He was pacing the lawn, still wearing Reveler One’s ruined coat. Nearby, Journeyman stepped out of Mnemosyne’s dress and folded it.
Director took her wig off. “Augusta should have perished here with the rest of the Gardens,” she said.
“She’s not here!” Albin replied.
He pointed at the green-clad corpse on the throne, still crowned in laurel. “That’s Mnemosyne. And that’s Euterpe over there, and Walpurgis, and Virgilia…but I don’t see Augusta. Where is she?” His voice rose to a shout.
“Walpurgis,” Dora said.
She picked her way across the lawn to the corpse whose garb was being overrun by tiny flowers. Walpurgis was almost reduced to bones, but the ringlets of his hair were still perfect. Dora bent down and touched them. They came loose from the skull and fell into her hands. It occurred to her that maybe she should grieve for him. But all she felt was tired. Walpurgis had not deserved to be a father.
“Goodbye,” she said to Walpurgis where he lay.
“Why isn’t she here?” Albin said again. “She’s supposed to be! That was the whole idea!”
“What idea, Albin?” Director said in a low voice.
Dora straightened. “Albin wrote the play.”
“You did what?” Nestor said incredulously.
Albin shot Dora an angry glance. “You promised you wouldn’t tell.”
“But you just did,” Dora replied.
“I want to hear it from you, Albin,” Director said slowly, and walked over to where he stood.
Albin swallowed. “I wrote the play. I wrote the play and made Dora put it in your book.”
Nestor rubbed his chin, smearing his Reveler Two makeup. His eyes were hard. “I take it you didn’t join us for the reasons you gave.”
“I didn’t lie,” Albin replied. “Everything I said was true. I have nowhere to go. And I love being an actor.”
“You lied by omission,” Nestor stated.
Journeyman looked at Dora helplessly. “Were you in on this?”
“I promised not to tell,” Dora said.
Director had made it all the way over to Albin now and was staring down at him. Her voice was cold. “Albin,” she said.
Albin looked up at her, hands balled into fists.
“Do you understand what you have done?” Director continued. “Do you understand what it means to write something that did not happen?”
“We are not gods,” Nestor said. “We are a function. We are memory. And memory is not a power to be abused.”
“You used us,” Journeyman said, still looking at Dora. “You used us to alter the fabric of the multiverse.”
“This place is evil!” Albin shouted into Director’s face. “Everything about it is evil! Augusta is a murderer! I did the right thing! And now she isn’t here!” His voice broke. “She isn’t here.”
Director’s expression softened. “I think it’s time you let this go, Albin. Move on with your life. Or this will eat y
ou alive.”
Albin covered his eyes. Dora could see his lips trembling. She walked over to comfort him, but he turned away. She heard him cry with small noises. It made her chest hurt.
* * *
—
“That was the show of a lifetime,” said a voice.
Ghorbi stood at the edge of the lawn, wrapped in her shadowy robes. The sunlight didn’t seem to touch her.
Nestor’s expression turned sour. “You were watching all along?”
“I was,” Ghorbi said. “Hello again, keeper of plays.”
“So that’s Ghorbi,” Journeyman said. “I’ve always wondered.”
Director smiled. “That’s her indeed.”
“Did you come here to congratulate yourself on a game well played?” Nestor said.
Ghorbi looked down at him. “I don’t play games. I just know when I can help and when I can’t. Thank you for returning the favor.”
Nestor sneered. “I’ll bet you were waiting for something really big. These children have had us running back and forth across all the worlds.”
Ghorbi gave him a sad smile. “I did you a favor, a long time ago. I called it in. That is the way of things. You want something that I cannot give. That is why you are angry.”
Unexpectedly, Nestor’s eyes filled with tears. “I just wish you would have loved me back,” he said in a small voice.
“I know,” Ghorbi said. “But I didn’t.”
She turned to the others. “I have business to attend to. I just didn’t want to miss the climax.” She raised an eyebrow at Dora. “I have not forgotten our deal. But your life will be long, and I’m not in a hurry. Be well.”
“Wait,” Albin said. “What became of Augusta?”
“Last I saw, your fellow servants were hunting her,” Ghorbi said. “A beautiful case of poetic justice.”
“So she is dead.”
“I can’t say,” Ghorbi replied. “But I have trouble believing she could outrun that sort of fury.”
Albin looked at his feet.
“Can you be content with that?” Ghorbi asked.
He looked up, and his eyes were hollow. “I’m tired.”
Ghorbi nodded. “Perhaps it is time to begin your own life.”
Then she was gone.
* * *
—
The carriage swayed as it traveled along a stream between worlds. Muted light flickered through the stained-glass windows and danced over the company’s faces. Nestor and Director were staring at the map, speaking in low voices. Director had her playbook out and was pointing to it and then to the map. Journeyman was fussing with pots and pans in the kitchen. Whatever he was making smelled of spices. Albin sat in one of the armchairs, feet dangling over an armrest. Dora sat on the floor next to him. Albin reached down to stroke Dora’s hair.
“It’s grown back,” he said.
“It has,” Dora agreed. “Are you still sad?”
“I am,” Albin replied. “And angry. And heartsick.”
“Will you always be?”
Albin scratched her scalp a little. “I don’t think so. But I have to be for a while. You can’t fix it. Just let me be like that.”
Dora patted his hand. “I will.”
Director and Nestor came over. Director sat down in the chair across from Albin, and Nestor stood next to her with a hand on the backrest. Behind them, Journeyman looked up from the stove.
“We need to talk,” Director said, and her face was set.
Albin’s hand left Dora’s head, and he sat up straight.
Director pointed at Albin. “You did something very stupid,” she said. “You abused our power.”
“What are you going to do?” Albin asked in a small voice. “Are you going to punish me?”
Director shook her head. “No.”
“What you did was idiotic,” Nestor said. “But you have a talent for drama.”
“We would like to offer you a permanent position,” Director continued. “You won’t be writing any more plays, though.”
“I’m going to die soon,” Nestor said conversationally. “Then Director will become Grande Dame, and Journeyman will be Director, and you will be Journeyman. And someone else will be Apprentice.”
“You will make a wonderful Director eventually,” Director said. “I know it.”
Albin sat very still in his chair.
Director rose. “We’ll let you mull it over.”
She and Nestor returned to the map. Journeyman turned his attention back to the cooking pot.
“I don’t know what to do,” Albin said.
“I do,” Dora replied. “You should stay here. This is a good place for you.”
“What do you mean, ‘You should stay’?”
Dora shifted so she could look straight at Albin. What is the word for when you think of where you came from and become sad? Homesick.
“I have followed you all this time,” Dora said, “when you were looking for your name and then looking for Augusta. You protected me in the Gardens, so I protected you outside. But now you’re safe. You’re grown up. You don’t need my protection anymore. And so it’s my turn. I want to go home.”
Albin looked at her, and his eyes glittered. “I know you have to go.”
Dora rose up on her knees and cradled his face in her hands. He was almost a man now, but she could feel his delicate jaw under the beard.
“You can come visit me on the mountain,” she said. “You know where it is.”
“But not frontstage,” Albin replied. “I’ll always be backstage. Watching you.”
“Maybe they’ll make an exception.”
Albin shrugged helplessly. “Maybe.”
Dora put her arms around him.
“I can hear your heart,” he mumbled into her chest. “It’s so slow.”
“Tell me a story,” Dora said.
Acknowledgments
This book took a very long time to write, and I did not walk the road alone.
I would like to thank my parents, Kerstin Leijd-Tidbeck and Göran Tidbeck, who have always lent me their unconditional support. I would also like to thank loved ones, friends, and colleagues who have helped me, inspired me, and given invaluable advice: Patrik Åkervinda, Robin Steen, Anna Eriksson, Elin Gustafsson, Anna-Karin Linder, Fredrik von Post, the Moira crew, Haralambi Markov, Lisa Wool-Rim Sjöblom, Pablo Valcárcel, Rochita Loenen-Ruiz, Leah Thomas, Nahal Ghanbari, Karin Waller, Nene Ormes, the Word Murderers, Christine “Sonya” Malapetsa, Jay Wolf, Sara Bergmark Elfgren, Amal El-Mohtar, Niclas Hell, and Kjell Hedgard Hugaas.
Thank you to my agent, Reneé Zuckerbrot, who believed in this story and guided me every step of the way.
Last, a thank-you to my editor, Tim O’Connell, at Penguin Random House for his keen eye, patience, and dedication; and to Anna Kaufman and Robert Shapiro.
A Note About the Author
Karin Tidbeck is originally from Stockholm, Sweden. She lives and works in Malmö as a freelance writer, translator, and creative writing teacher, and writes fiction in Swedish and English. She debuted in 2010 with the Swedish short story collection Vem är Arvid Pekon? Her English debut, the 2012 collection Jagannath, received the 2013 Crawford Award and was shortlisted for the World Fantasy Award. She is the author of the novel Amatka.
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The Memory Theater Page 17