Arabesque

by Hayden Thorne

  Once back in the little woodland clearing, he filled the pot with water from the brook, and in the old container he placed the wildflowers, offering the collection to the marble statue as he’d seen other mortals do.

  “This will, I hope, comfort you—until the gods repent their harshness and change you back.” He paused as he thought he’d just heard a faint voice chide him: Do you really believe that they’d repent once they make their judgments on humanity? Roald shrugged, feeling a bit helpless. He knew the answer to that well enough.

  “Mortals may have given up on you, but I won’t. If nothing happens in the next few days, I’ll ask my mistress if she could appeal on your behalf.” Roald had to smother a burst of laughter. How very romantic of him to say such things, he thought, his amusement only softened by the return of odd yearnings for something or someone. With a pang, Roald realized how lonely he felt despite the goddess’s promise to elevate him into immortality, to be surrounded by other gods and goddesses till the end of time. Worshipped, to be sure, by those who inhabited a world he was now poised to leave behind.

  For all those enticements, however, Roald could only think of the present and how alone he was. He studied the marble youth with some longing. “I’d like to have met you before this,” he whispered, the words tumbling out of him and leaving him aching and, to some extent, rebellious. “If I had it in my power, I’d move heaven and earth to bring you back.”

  The statue gazed pensively at the sky. It seemed to hope for the best, too.

  Roald now took to cleaning up the area a bit for all the good it did, feeling himself compelled again, this time to make the little woodland sanctuary a prettier and more comfortable haven for himself. Besides, he was also reluctant to part from his new friend, but he knew that he had a task to perform, and time wasn’t on his side. At length, he stepped forward and placed a hand on the statue’s in farewell.

  “I don’t know why I’m talking to a statue,” Roald said, blushing and feeling sheepish now. “But something tells me that I should, and I’ve learned—somewhere, sometime ago, maybe—that I should listen to what my instincts tell me. Whether or not you are what I think you are isn’t the issue here, but I think that talking to you will somehow help me. As to what all this might mean, I really can’t say.”

  Roald paused, still blushing but now feeling a little relieved by his strange confession. “Yes,” he added in a hushed, thoughtful voice, as his gaze inched its way down the statue’s figure, admiration, awe, and insistent stirrings now filling his immediate world. “Yes, I know I should do this. I must.”

  He reached up and pressed tentative fingers against the statue’s cheek, feeling cold, unyielding stone against his skin. As his eyes traveled down, his fingers followed their direction, exploring full lips, a gracefully shaped throat, the swell of collarbones and chest muscles before tracing their way down to the statue’s stomach and hips. The winding sheet of cloth that swirled around the statue, however, covered its genitals in the most provocative and sly way imaginable, and if Roald could tear the damn thing off and liberate the boy, he’d do it. As it was, he could only let his imagination run away with all kinds of images and possibilities as his gaze lingered on the area, his fingers also resting against the spot where Roald knew the heavens surely lay.

  His sheepish smile shifted to something less embarrassed, and a wholly different heat now suffused Roald’s face and body. There it was again—that familiarity, that longing, that desire to be with someone else. And for one mad, brief moment, Roald wished that this enticing youth were alive, so he could honor him with passionate attention.

  “Where did that come from?” he blurted out, eyes widening, as his mind fixed itself on that final thought of his. He desired another boy?

  The statue only stared at the sky, but Roald thought that he saw a tiny, mischievous smile in the shifting shadows, and he smiled as well.

  “Never mind. I’ll come back to you eventually, as I can’t think of a better place for me to rest in my adventures. In the meantime, I’ll pray for good weather.” He pressed his hand against the marble youth once more, this time in farewell.

  He fancied that the statue seemed to like the suggestion, and Roald walked away, feeling a little lighter in his heart and warmed by the thought of seeing that lovely boy again. Once he emerged from the trees, he headed straight for the dirt road, whose direction he didn’t know. Not that it mattered, truly, for Roald understood that in order for him to carry through with the tasks that had been laid on him, he needed to head forth without knowing where he was going. Adventures surely required impulsiveness on his part, and simply taking an unknown road to unknown destinations felt like the right thing to do.

  So, after a brief moment’s deliberation, he went down one direction and walked for as long as he could till fatigue and hunger overcame him, and he was forced to stop and forage for food wherever he could find edible fruit. For relaxation, he searched for another river in whose sparkling depths he found comfort and peace, even though the mere act of swimming—or even stripping and walking to the water—once again roused those strange, disjointed feelings in him of missing someone.

  Roald wished that he could stay underwater indefinitely, for it was a welcome relief to his burdened mind despite its other effects on him, which he’d yet to fathom because of their insistence in being facts and nothing less than.

  He supposed that he could always avoid rivers or any body of water in which he could swim. Perhaps he could wash himself just as nicely and thoroughly—as well as enjoy the same kind of relaxation—in a brook or a stream. Neither could offer him the depth in which he could swim away his troubles and fatigue, but he could always sit by their edges and wash himself without having to immerse himself entirely.

  Roald surfaced and then dove in again. This is ridiculous, he thought, impatience at himself roiling in his belly. I sound like a child.

  He finished his swim eventually and wiped himself down with his shirt. His clothes, he noted with a grimace, were soiled and getting damned close to being torn up. He looked more like a peasant than…

  Roald took a deep breath at the thought—or would it be a remembrance? He wasn’t a peasant. He knew that. Somehow, deep down, something had just reached out and attempted to connect with the rest of his mind, telling him that he wasn’t poor and had never been poor, but for all his efforts at clawing away at that something, he still failed to tear out of its hidden place and to make it tell him everything there was to know about himself.

  He pressed the heels of both hands against his temples when he felt a jolt of pain rip through his head.

  “Stop it,” he hissed, pressing his eyes closed and grimacing as wave after wave of a sharp ache swept over him. “Stop it!”

  He fell forward and curled up on the grass, crying out while desperately willing it all away. The pain subsided, eventually, but for several agonizing moments, Roald thought that he was in danger of going mad, if not fainting.

  Once his mind had settled itself and the pain had gone, Roald realized that he was still naked and that he lay on his side, fetal, while the sun soothed him with its warm, gentle light. Dizziness followed the delicate calm, and it felt as though Roald were swimming in a haze of mixed and disjointed images, sounds, and color, and nothing stayed long enough in the forefront of his mind for him to grasp and cling to. His stomach churned, and he was afraid that the next thing to happen would be his vomiting everything he’d eaten since the goddess revived him from whatever state he’d been in.

  “Where are you?” he whispered, and he felt hot tears trail down the side of his face and onto the grass. “Alarick, where are you?”

  There! Hold on to it before you lose him again!

  The torturous whirlpool in his head dissipated, and to his dismay, Roald could remember nothing about that jumble of images, but he did hold on to the name that came unbidden to his lips: Alarick.

  He remembered nothing of Alarick, whoever that might be, but that deep, hidden
something in Roald’s mind reassured him with an odd sense of relief. For the next few moments, Roald remained on the grass, crying and repeating Alarick’s name, his despair being compounded by the silence that answered his calls.

  * * *

  Roald awakened to a marvelously warm breeze and a sun that had gone a little past its highest point in the sky. He also realized that he was still naked and lying on his side, curled up like a baby, and whatever dirt he’d managed to wash off in his swim had returned in a different form. Small debris that had been carried by the breeze dotted parts of his exposed body, while the side that had lain pressed against the ground now sported bits of earth and crushed grass. With a pained grimace, Roald stretched his cramped limbs and felt the ache of muscles that had been forced into one position for too long.

  It was all he could do to stumble to his feet and hurry back to the river, where he simply waded in and proceeded to wash himself off. His mood remained grim, however, and his spirits felt depressed. The name of Alarick lingered like an insistent ghost along the fringes of his mind, and Roald knew that he needed to find a way to bring his past back to him.

  As he put on his clothes, he wondered if the goddess were watching his every move at the moment, observing and taking critical notes, perhaps, of his behavior. Would she be furious at him for stumbling across that marble statue and allowing its strange presence to move him enough so that his memory endured a bit of a jarring?

  He wondered as well if gods could see inside a mortal’s heart and mind. Behavior could easily be watched and read, but the inner workings that made a mortal unique in every way?

  Roald gazed around him before glancing up at the sky. No, it was best for him not to utter a single word whenever he thought things through. Better to be safe than sorry. He just hoped that the goddess, wherever she might be, hadn’t heard him call out Alarick’s name. That she’d yet to appear before him, looking offended or outraged over his perceived transgression, gave Roald some hope.

  “Besides,” he murmured, eyes darting left and right cautiously, “she hasn’t turned me into a rock or a tree yet.” Yes, there was hope still.

  He set out at length with a firm reminder to keep his mouth shut and to not betray himself—and Alarick, whoever that might be—to the goddess. In the meantime, he ought to carry on the task that had been appointed to him, and perhaps along the way, answers to the puzzle of his existence would show themselves to him.

  Roald walked on until he finally caught sight of human activity after half a day on the road as he paused to rest on the crest of a hill. Past some of the other low hills that bordered the secluded meadow and woodland glade, another colorful valley stretched before him, and in the distance, where other roads coming from other points, tiny figures of people and horses drawing wagons and carts converged. They all seemed to be headed down a single road in particular, which appeared to take them to a sizable town.

  He was amazed that it lay at a relatively short distance from the secluded woodland glade, but it was no matter. In fact, it gave him quite a bit of relief, knowing that at the end of that day, following his adventures at “absorbing” human nature, he had the ability to retrace his steps and return to a quiet little haven that was now familiar to him.

  Roald found that he didn’t care for the possibility of venturing too far, however; in a moment of surprising clarity, he felt—indeed, he knew—that he simply didn’t want to be separated too long from that hideaway of his. He felt and knew that he should return there, maybe as soon and as often as he could.

  Familiarity.

  There it was again. Roald’s heart thundered in his chest as he held on to that thought and that remarkable sensation that came from some unfathomable depths in his very soul. And the more he lingered on it, the more determined he was to go back to that little glade and its silent resident.

  “I’ve been there before,” he noted, wonder now suffusing him. “Not that same glade, but a place that’s similar.” He paused, swallowing, his spirits lifting. “And I know that someone was with me.” The wonder that just overcame him had turned to delight—a little tentative, perhaps, but still delight at the realization as well as the assurance that he knew he was right.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Alarick, now fully healed, saw that he couldn’t leave the cottage because it simply wouldn’t let him. The first thing he’d tried to do the morning after his arrival was to hurry to the door and flee the accursed place, while remnants of his dreams faded in and out of his consciousness, taunting him with reminders of his failures—no, his seeming inability to be the perfect prince and hero for which he’d long been groomed.

  But once he reached the door, though, he could only see its outline in the wood, along with the curious carved patterns that embellished it and the door handle. The door itself seemed to have melted back into the wall, its outline nothing more than a mark of where it used to be, its handle turning into another mere decorative pattern.

  For several moments, Alarick stood before the door’s outline, feeling around for possible edges of a hidden exit but found nothing. He wasn’t sure if it was panic or confusion or perhaps the beginnings of madness that made him see several thin hands with fingers shaped like tree roots creeping over the door, feeling around as they inched forward. They seemed to have emerged from the wall that surrounded the door, and they groped their way toward the opposite side of where they’d begun. In their wake, it appeared that more thin layers of wood were stretched out over the door, further sealing it against efforts at forcing it open.

  It was all Alarick could do to stand there, slack-jawed and stunned, as he watched their creeping progress. He thought he could even hear them move, their twisted, root-like fingers scratching against the wood and creaking like branches that bent and swayed with the wind.

  “They’re locking me in,” he said, breathless and horrified. When he reached out to tear at a couple of those strange, crawling hands, they merely raised themselves off the wood and scratched away at his skin, tugging at his fingers painfully, and drawing blood with their pointed tips. They reminded Alarick of small beasts that were cornered, like raccoons hissing and spitting and slicing away at him with their razor claws.

  “Oh! Ouch!” Alarick cried as one particularly vicious hand took hold of one of his fingers and tried to break it by bending it backwards. Slamming his free hand against it in a fist, he managed to pull his finger out of its hold. The creeping hand released him with a violent shudder and a momentary writhing of its corresponding arm before carrying on with its strange task as though nothing had just happened. Within seconds, it had reached the opposite side of the door and had melted away, adding one more layer of intersecting wood against Alarick’s only means of escape.

  Once the hands terminated their journey and vanished back into the wall, Alarick fell against the door and pushed, pounded, and tugged violently at the door handle. His efforts only yielded an irregular rhythm of wood creaking a little against his fists and feet when he took to kicking the door. And judging from the muffled nature of the sounds, Alarick was convinced that the walls and the door were far too thick for him to hope for any escape.

  At length, exhausted and numbed by the fact that he was now a prisoner, Alarick turned around, leaning against the door, and slid to the floor till he sat like an abandoned puppet. He stared ahead without seeing, his legs stretched out, his hands lying limply on his lap, but his mind was madly whirling about as ideas, memories, bitter accusations, among other things, surged and fought for dominance.

  “I’m going mad,” he whispered. “By the gods, I’m…”

  He swallowed as he forced his thoughts to quiet down. He couldn’t leave, and his predicament now could have been his fault entirely or partially. Regardless, he was there, and it didn’t matter. What did matter was for him to survive whatever it was that kept him there—defy it, fight it, till he neither had the strength nor the will left. He wouldn’t be a victim so easily.

  He listened to
his heart slow and his breathing soften. Once he’d regained mastery of himself, Alarick wondered if whatever creature or force that kept him prisoner could read his thoughts.

  There’s only one way to find out, he told himself.

  Schooling his features to what he felt was the perfect expression of hopelessness and despair, he let his mind scream.

  You bastard! Son of a whore! You’re a sickening pile of shit!

  One invective after another flew across his mind with such ferocity as to make him breathless for a moment. He made those thoughts go while still keeping his outward appearance as helpless and anxious as he possibly could. It proved to be a draining experiment, for he’d never done such a thing before, having been forthright all his life, and attempting a risky experiment in deceiving a force that he knew nothing about took just about every ounce of strength in him. Once or twice, he felt his resolve waver, but there was something liberating about mentally screaming one’s fury and outrage that easily swept him up and carried him with the currents, and any doubts that threatened to shake him were easily squashed.

  After he’d run out of insults, Alarick waited for punishment. He held his breath as he pulled his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them while pressing his forehead against his arms in a theatrical show of surrender.

  With a surge of hope, he heard nothing but silence and sensed nothing amiss. The only thing that broke the silence was the sudden gurgling of his empty stomach, and he shifted and stumbled to his feet.

  Alarick let out a trembling sigh as his gaze went to the dining table, the chairs and their corresponding bowls. With a start, he counted only six this time. The alabaster table setting had vanished.