Arabesque

by Hayden Thorne

  As it was inside the cottage, time inside the glass coffin seemed to crawl, the minutes and hours melting into each other in a pulsing, living tapestry that never ended, telling stories that soothed this time, not intimidated or harassed the way the cottage’s nursery tales did. There was some comfort to be had in that little capsule of static time and magic, and as Alarick’s lifeless body was awash with story after hopeful story, his mind and heart, now healing, couldn’t help but attach themselves to old shadows.

  No, in the world outside the palace borders, there were no curses or spells woven by vindictive witches or stepmothers. There were no princesses to save. There was only the sharp delineation between the natural and the unnatural, white and black. The unnatural was the outsider—that one that belonged nowhere else but the horrible little world from which it had been spawned, and Alarick was exactly that. But just as the alchemist created poisons from a mixture of otherwise harmless compounds, the simple quality of naturalness of an apple served as poison to the system of one who’d been someone else’s manufactured doll.

  Alarick, even in that deep dream-state, could still remember his mother’s face as she bent down over him, helping him in her final moments. He could still remember the taste of the apple she fed him, something that maybe she believed to be enchanted as well, but Alarick was convinced otherwise. There was nothing strange about the apple; it was untouched and natural—something that Alarick had desperately needed after so much time spent in what had been a twisted masquerade generously peppered with manipulated stories and dreams. The apple was a desperately needed light in a dark theatre.

  His mind also couldn’t help but cling to remnants of dreary memories and bleaker dreams; it still remembered the lingering smell of wood. He could still see snatches of his reality when he finally succumbed to the effects of the apple and his mind’s final and powerful push to form that protective glass box that now encased him. Curses, reproaches, vindictive insults being screamed at him from all corners of the cottage—all were caught up in a wave of nightmarish activity when the sun set behind the trees, and shapes and colors swirled against each other before sinking into a void.

  Alarick dreamed of feeling himself touched; he felt himself kissed; he felt his clothes dissolve. Shadows hovered above as the night deepened, and he was drowning under a thousand hands that fumbled, groped, and caressed. His hands lay cold and lifeless on his chest though sometimes they’d feel as though bound with silk ribbons above his head. His legs seemed to be spread and bent—sometimes draped over a broad set of shoulders, sometimes pushed up against his chest, sometimes wrapped around heaving flanks.

  Those snatches of past dreams and nightmares gradually faded in time, and the soothing stories told by the forest around him now lulled him into a patient, hopeful, though melancholy state.

  “Have faith, Your Highness,” the trees said, once terrifying, now protecting him.

  Rumors eventually spread all over about an enchanted glass coffin lying on an old, wooden bed that was now moss- and vine-covered. Thorny briars had sprouted from the ground and had stretched out their arms to cradle the coffin in a protective embrace, blue roses blooming extravagantly up and down those canes. The oblong container then was secured firmly to the earth in spite of its otherworldly nature, and that, some people said, was the essence of magic.

  “What’s in it?” peasants ask. “Who’s in it?”

  “No one of any importance.”

  Some claimed that the figure that lay inside was that of a young man who’d been cursed to be born to the wrong set of parents, an accident of fate that had set the wrong wheels in motion, and the square peg, as the saying went, was hammered mercilessly into a round hole.

  “And why isn’t he buried properly?” travelers prodded.

  “Because it would do the world a great deal of good to make an example out of him.”

  Ah, yes, some had seen him—lying in state atop the remains of faded bedclothes, dark head slightly propped up by an old pillow. Pale features sought the sun, and gently parted lips welcomed lovers. Bruised hands were softly folded on a still chest as though feeling for a heart—or perhaps shielding it against the elements and the rest of the world. He enchanted as he lay in the glass coffin, luring the curious and the bold to his side.

  They’d wipe the dusty glass and would be enticed by the strange vision. Some desired him; some were horrified by their own lust and blamed him for their shame.

  The coffin was alternately worshipped and spat on, caressed and kicked, and the briars tightened their hold around their lifeless charge in jealous protection. Those who wished to break the glass open were stabbed with countless thorns, their clothes and skin shredded and infected until they were forced to abandon their efforts. The youth inside remained unsullied and peaceful, drawing more admirers and outraged gawkers to him.

  He was a creation of the long-dead sorcerer-king, they all cried. Release him from his coffin, and a plague of misfortune will be unleashed on an unsuspecting world. He was desperately wanted and violently loathed, and inside the dirt-caked glass coffin, he was painfully alone.

  His eyes saw beyond their shut lids. They watched the world age around him, watched time leave its mark on everything else but him. They continued to stare out of the glass, searching.

  Search for what? he asked incredulously. There’s nothing out there for me! This is my lot!

  “Remember what you’ve just endured, Your Highness,” the forest said, dropping comforting leaves on the shield he’d erected around himself. “Have faith.”

  One day a face appeared above him, stooping over the glass and peering carefully inside. It was a young face, about a year older than the cursed prince—streaked with dust and dirt from travel, dark hair waving in the breeze, tired eyes wide and questioning.

  “He’s a wanderer from a strange land, and rumor has it that he’s a disgraced aristocrat out to clear his name. But does it matter now?” the forest said.

  “No, not a wanderer,” the breeze corrected, and the briars with their blue roses gently loosened their hold on the glass coffin. “No, he’s someone from these parts who’s finally come home.”

  Alarick silently wondered. There was something comfortably familiar with that face, which was now speaking, but the words were lost outside the glass. Had Alarick seen him before? The face disappeared, and the coffin suddenly shook. The sound of cracking and squeaking could only mean that the newcomer was attempting to pry the lid open, no doubt with a sword. All travelers—particularly those of noble blood—always carried a sword.

  Alarick wracked his brain and fished around the fog.

  Have we met before? he asked.

  Yes, he finally realized it. Yes, they’d met before, a long time ago.

  They’d shared a kiss at the vine-choked well. They’d been locked away in a crystal tower prison. They’d chased each other in a flurry of fur and hysterical yowling. They’d descended into a bed of silk with the beating of white wings. They’d spun straw into gold together. They’d marked themselves unwittingly in the bloody chamber and had unfairly paid for it. They’d floated in oblivion.

  Yes, we have met! he cried, jubilant, and a solitary tear pressed through his lashes in welcome to the young man who’d just come home to him.

  Cracks formed and rapidly spread out like jagged fingers across the glass, tiny capillaries that stretched and multiplied till the coffin shook unsteadily, and the briars gave up their hold under the determined swinging of a well-aimed sword.

  There were no curses or spells woven by vindictive stepmothers, after all. There were no princesses to save. There was only the sharp delineation between the natural and the unnatural, white and black, but was it real? This separation—this delineation—was nothing more than phantasms formed in the dreary depths of one’s mind if he were to surrender to unchecked grief and despair.

  The lid shattered and showered Alarick with a thousand shards of glass, but he felt no pain.

  The sun envel
oped him in warmth, the breeze filled his lungs with clear air, and he yearned to smile again. Behind his closed lids, he could still see Roald loom over him; he appeared bruised, weary, and soiled, his shoulders sagging from the weight of resistance and counter exertions. Yet his eyes gazed at Alarick’s lifeless figure with a faint light that hadn’t dimmed completely. And perhaps—perhaps—it never would.

  Please, Alarick said as Roald gently lifted him from his discolored bed and held him in warm arms. Give me what my senses lack, and I’ll spin you tales of contentedly-ever-after.

  Alarick must have said—or done—something right at last, for the dust-covered Roald, tearful and smiling, bent down for a kiss.

  Epilogue

  Back in the northern kingdom of the continent, Kavi and Uma seemed to be compelled to remain where they were, but whatever ostracism they’d endured before had tapered off to shaky acceptance. The couple, after all, proved themselves to be remarkable intellectuals and were courted by the new king of the region to be his ministers. But they declined politely, with Uma offering to be the king’s scribe instead, faithfully recording events both great and small and assigning them a permanent place in the kingdom’s annals. Kavi was a talented poet and had entertained (and continued to entertain) the court with his creations, which tended to touch on epic accounts of the land’s history though he’d also given life to smaller, more insignificant tales of mortal struggles.

  He was credited for committing in ink the story of Hamlin and Wilmar, which, as time went, turned to legend, and people recounted the tale without truly knowing which points were real or not.

  Perhaps the most mystifying tale that had ever come from Kavi’s pen was a curious romance between a blue rose and a marble statue. The poet claimed to have received the story in his sleep, and people pressed him on to finish the tale, but he resisted them, much to their chagrin.

  “Are the gods kind to them?” they asked.

  “Will they be given another chance?”

  “The poor boy! All that suffering for nothing?”

  Everywhere, people demanded their happily-ever-after, refusing to accept that the charming tale of a young man who resisted an immortal’s efforts at falling in love with the wrong person—and who chose to be transformed instead than bow to her wishes—was ongoing.

  Kavi shrugged, looking faintly bewildered. “I don’t know how the story ends,” he simply replied. “The gods guide my pen, and as far as I’m told, this doomed youth has yet to be vindicated.”

  People left him, muttering under their breaths, but he paid them no heed and threw himself into his work. The inspiration would come—of that he knew too well. And as he worked, he’d smile at the anticipation he always felt—when he’d look forward to the next moment when he and Uma, goaded on by the gentle voice of a sorrowful goddess, who’d visit them at seemingly random days, would leave the world behind them to gather wildflowers. Those were offerings for an abandoned marble statue that stood in an idyllic glade, waiting for a certain kind of lover to appear, offering his heart and even his life, to an impossible goal.

  * * *

  “People are getting impatient,” Kavi said as he sat on the grass, luxuriating in the warmth of the golden sunshine, his pen and paper at the ready. Nearby, Uma sat in rapt attention, and the two of them together looked like eager schoolchildren in rich, colorful costumes that spoke of adventure and distant lands. “They all want to know how the story ends.”

  Kummerene glanced at him and smiled faintly. She stood at the far end of the glade, the trees behind her softly shadowing her pale figure. “I’m afraid I don’t know how the story ends, but it will in time, and from the looks of things, it’ll end happily.”

  Kavi sighed, glancing back at the statue. “No one wants to hear that. They want specifics—something definite.”

  “Something real and reassuring,” Uma broke in with a nod.

  “The only reassurance we can hope to have depends on how these lovers live out the rest of their time together.”

  Kavi and Uma exchanged amazed and hopeful glances. “You mean to say that he—this Roald boy—found his way back?” Kavi said.

  Kummerene’s smile broadened, though she remained swathed in sadness. “He’s one of the lucky ones. Now that’s all I can tell you,” she said, raising a hand when Kavi opened his mouth to speak again. “No more. Don’t rush them to their deaths, for goodness’s sake. The end of their story will come eventually, but I suppose a bit of reassurance for your eager audience is in order.” She paused, looking wistful. “They found each other, yes. All else beyond this is superfluous.” Kummerene nodded as though she’d finally convinced herself of that fact, her voice dropping to a near whisper. “They found each other, and that’s all that matters.”

  Kavi bowed in gratitude, and Kummerene faded, leaving the couple alone in the glade, observing the statue and exchanging amazed whispers about this strange romance. It certainly defied what was always a standard tale of love against impossible odds, the kind of story told to wide-eyed children night after night, generation after generation.

  The couple stayed there for a little while longer, lost in thought and perhaps creative inspiration. At length Uma stood up and brought her husband out of his trance-like state. “Come along,” she said, laughing as she gave Kavi a gentle nudge with an embroidered silk shoe. “I’m hungry.”

  The two abandoned the glade, never once realizing that they weren’t alone after Kummerene left them. Standing invisible in another part of the glade were two other goddesses, who waited for their sister to leave before coming down to lose themselves in their own thoughts regarding Roald and Alarick’s remarkable adventures. They found that Kavi and Uma had gathered a large bouquet for that visit’s offering. The rich collection of flowers, moreover, looked very, very strange, for the colors were not only unique, but also patterned strangely for the breeds. Some were striped, some had dots, some had random indefinable patterns, and all were in wild combinations of vivid blues, oranges, pinks, reds, and yellows.

  “I don’t think they found those in the meadow.”

  “No. They bought those somewhere.”

  “Hmm. A mortal flower-seller knows how to nurture unique and very special breeds, I see. I’ve never seen these before.”

  The younger of the two smiled. “Very appropriate for their purpose.”

  “Are you going to let that statue remain here?”

  “Yes. I think its purpose has—oh—expanded a little. Besides, how can you take it away when it’s been receiving such adoring attention from mortals? I mean, look at the flowers they gave it today!”

  “I do believe you’ve just created a new god,” Weisheitta said, laughter brightening her eyes, as she gave Liebella a playful little nudge with her elbow.

  Liebella merely grinned back at her. “Have a care, Sister, that’s blasphemy.”

  * * *

  Despite Roald’s best efforts, he could find no leads on Hamlin and Wilmar. No one in the market town that he decided to visit again during his travels had seen the couple, though visitors from distant corners of the world claimed to have seen the lovers living quietly and contentedly in the south somewhere. But when pressed, no one could accurately pinpoint the couple’s exact location, and everyone was convinced that the lovers were perhaps protected by the gods.

  “Why are you so compelled to find out about them?” Alarick prodded over dinner one day, and Roald merely shrugged, offering his lover a sheepish little smile.

  “I suppose I just want to talk to them.”

  “We can always travel to the south. No one’s holding us back.”

  Roald laughed, the sight of his eyes crinkling more deeply warming Alarick with a quiet contentment. Nearing thirty, the years were beginning to take their toll on both of them, but the signs of age and the inevitable twilight never frightened him. He silently wished Hamlin and Wilmar all the happiness in the world, but he was far more concerned about his life with Roald and how they were to live out t
heir declining years together.

  Like Hamlin and Wilmar, wherever they were, Alarick and Roald wished for nothing more from life but a peaceful existence untouched by the caprice of fellow mortals. They’d settled down in a modest but cozy cottage across the water north of the cluster of restless kingdoms in the continent of their youth, reluctant to venture out and keeping a respectful but friendly distance from their neighbors, all of whom lived a good three or so miles from them. Alarick, nurturing his love of flowers, took to planting and caring for a rich garden that surrounded their home, tucking it away from the road and allowing them their own little man-made patch of paradise.

  “It’s probably excessive, but I can’t help it,” Alarick said, blushing and laughing as he and Roald surveyed their tiny kingdom.

  “Better than a cursed forest, I say.”

  They didn’t have their own watering-hole anywhere, but that was fine. A large tin tub that could fit two grown men for a bath was enough, though it always turned out rather messy in the end.