Other Kingdoms

by Richard Matheson

  The problem was that visual—even auditory—memories began to fade after a while. Even my dreams began a slow—and maddening!—deterioration. I suppose it was because my eyesight had been virtually (or actually) destroyed. So what I couldn’t see in wakefulness, I couldn’t see in sleep. Poor me. A nineteen-year-old is not exactly a fountainhead of philosophical insight. Mostly, I was pissed off. And unhappy, of course. Ruthana did her all to assuage my unhappiness. She really did. It helped. Somewhat.

  Where was Gilly? Back in the Cairn. He did a dreadful thing. His sentence was lengthy, I was told. I wanted to hear he’d been convicted to a hangman’s rope, a headsman’s axe. No such luck. Such punishment was verboten in Faerieland. Too bad. I’d have done it myself. Hanged him or beheaded him or both. No such luck times two. I tried not to convey this dark ambition to Ruthana. She probably knew anyway. She was telepathic. So was I, the realization gradually dawned on me.

  I, also, realized that, without making any kind of issue over it, Ruthana had increased my—how do I put it without sounding like a dope?—creative ability. My frustration was immense. I was filled with ideas. I yearned to write them down. Pour out endless novels—no such possibility when blind. What, dictate to Ruthana? Out of the question. My frustration—inflamed by my creative surge—increased my frustration exponentially. Ruthana assured me that I would write again, no doubt of it. Sure, I said, nodding my blind head. Not believing a word of it. But I guess she knew.

  The fading—visual and mental—of my memories. I gave up trying to summon any vestige of recollection about my boyhood—the Captain, my mother, Veronica. Those recollections went fast. The best I could do, at first, was “seeing” my experiences in the trench, my meeting with—and later despair at his “death”—Harold. My trek to Gatford. In the beginning of my struggling remembrances, I was even able to visualize (quite well) the cottages I saw, even managing a chuckle at my recollection of so-called Comfort Cottage.

  I should have bypassed my early days there. Joe. His cautioning. My first experience in the woods. By the time I came to Magda, my insights were already paling. I had to grit my brain-teeth in order to recapture those moments—my first visit to her remarkable house. Another chuckle recalling her remarkable bed—and the remarkable gymnastics that had taken place there. Magda’s healing of my wound. The Good days. Then the darker ones. (I was almost glad to “see” them fade away.) The arguments. Expulsion from her house. Reconciliation. More good (as well as lustful) hours. Peace. At a price, naturally.

  Then my meeting with Ruthana. Did she—in my blindness—know what I remembered? She must have—for the visual details suddenly became vivid. As though she was literally projecting them into my mind. She probably—wonderfully—was.

  Because the following images were blurred again. Indistinct. My discovery (a coward’s word for “theft”) of Magda’s hideous manuscript. All moments jumbled then. Only the final scene unmistakable. Magda’s assault on me. My use of the powder. How did Ruthana foresee that need? My flight from Magda’s blind rage. Return to the Middle Kingdom—and Ruthana.

  From there, my memories were clear. (Ruthana must have been responsible for that.) My decrease in size. That pain seemed negligible now. My happy days with Ruthana. My afternoon with Garal and my education regarding true Reality. Not that the knowledge was very helpful with my eyes so totally out of commission.

  Or were they? Such was the final stage of my blindness.

  It took months. Had to. Week upon week of what? I couldn’t tell you. I didn’t know then and I don’t know now.

  Their healing process.

  It was truly good of them. Wouldn’t it have been more convenient—easier certainly—to leave me a blind, mortally wasted human being, stuck in their habitat? Surely. But they were good. Kind. Thoughtful. And they restored my sight.

  Easier to say than to explain. How did they do it?

  Granted, the powder seemed to be their own concoction. I learned during that healing time, so they knew what the ingredients were. Or are—I’m going on the assumption that the powder is still being produced, although it’s difficult for me to know why. The faeries seem an unlikely people to utilize such toxic dust. There was, at least to me and, presumably, Ruthana, a valid reason to use it against Magda. I would have lost my head if I hadn’t. That meant a good deal to me. Nineteen, you recall. My head still had some use to me.

  Anyway, the ingredients. English ivy. Foxglove (a source of digitalis). Jimson weed. Holly leaves. Amanita (mushrooms). I urge you not to try the recipe at home. The amounts are essential. You’d never get them right. Thank God.

  What did they do to heal me?

  Procedures while I was awake—conscious, that is.

  Put some kind of stinging wash in my eyes. The stinging was not so severe as the one I felt when Gilly first threw that damnable powder in my eyes. For days on end, I couldn’t erase the memory of the griffin’s (Magda’s) milk-white sclera, pupil, and iris. As though they had been marinated in liquefied dough. Gradually, that image left me. Fortunately, being sightless, there was no way to witness my reflection. No mirrors, anyway; I’d have had to see it in a pond or something. I knew what it was, though. And was sharply reminded of it each time they (Garal, I presume, maybe Ruthana; I don’t think there were any Middle Kingdom physicians, though I wouldn’t bet on it) worked on me.

  Anyway … the eyewash helped. A little. Very little. On occasion, I had a momentary view of gray (always gray) light in my eyes. Not that I could see anything. No, no. Good ol’ Gilly had done an A-1 job on that. The wee bastard.

  What else? Massages. To my temples and forehead. I knew that was being done by Ruthana. Her touch was unmistakable. Gentle—loving. And, of course, accompanied by her sweet voice. Telling me to never lose faith. My eyesight would return. She promised me. Sometimes I fell asleep while her fingers were massaging me. What I didn’t know until later was that her mother sometimes relieved her when she tired—or had to breast-feed our daughter. On those occasions, I might awake—and never realize that Eana now massaged me, her touch, too, so gentle, so loving. Only when I spoke to her and she replied did I realize who it was. If I indicated any alarm at Ruthana’s absence, her mother quickly reassured me.

  Massages, then. And some kind of creamy salve (also stinging) applied directly to my eyeballs. And, often, cool, damp cloths laid across my eyes for—I guesstimate—an hour at a time. Mostly Ruthana would remain with me during those periods. I came to—almost—enjoy them. They were so quietly peaceful. During them, Ruthana would sing to me in her soft, angelic voice. I have, at times, attempted to transcribe a few of the melodies she sang, but the effort is a waste. The notes alone do not contain more than a hint of the magic conveyed by Ruthana’s voice. Long ago, I gave up the attempt.

  What else? The eye washes. The massages, the creamy salve—or salves, there may have been more than one kind. The cool damp cloths. The singing. For all I knew, that may have been part (an important part) of the healing process.

  Anything more? Yes, I’m forgetting the drinks. The potions, I guess you’d call them. They were tasty; they were awful. Several varieties. I came to know the difference between them. Some were sweet and fruit-flavored, reminiscent of orange juice, apple juice, creamy milk. Others … yuck! Like drinking battery fluid! They had to be helpful, I told myself. Something tasting that ghastly had to be curative. Or why bother? Garal laughed when I told him that. His laughter, on that occasion, was not of any comfort, or pleasure. But I went along with the vile beverage, more concerned with sight repair than taste bud catering.

  So that was when I was conscious. I can only surmise (wildly, I admit) what they did when I was either asleep or—very possibly—drugged. I know, by guess (and by gosh), that there were lapses of time I could not account for. So I assume that, during those lapses, I was, as they say, “knocked out.” Probably one—or all—of those drinks rendered me unconscious.

  What they did to me when I was “out,” I couldn’t say for cer
tain.

  I can guess, though.

  They removed my eyes.

  Why I say that, don’t ask for proof. Only the vaguest of memories attest to it.

  You’ve probably seen (I hope you haven’t, it’s a loathsome sight) photographs of eyeballs pulled out (either accidentally or deliberately) from their orbits—or, if you prefer, their sockets—and hanging down over cheeks, dangling by the optic nerve. It has been done, how often medically, I couldn’t say. I’m sure it’s occurred a thousand times in war, gouged out by blades, no doubt torn away completely. Sure. Good ol’ mankind.

  Well (even guessing that this actually took place), I’m sure that my faerie healer (most likely Garal, I doubt if Ruthana could have stomached it) used extreme care in removing my eyeballs from their orbits. How, I can’t imagine. (I’d rather not imagine) Why? I can’t imagine that either, but my guess has a bit more coherence.

  To wash them. Dip them in some therapeutic medicine. If, as I understood it, the cells of my eyeballs were clogged with poison, eyewashes could have only a limited effect. A more direct and penetrating soak or “scrub” was called for.

  How long my eyeballs were absent from my head, again I have no idea. I do recall one dream I had in which my eyeballs tumbled from their sockets and were grabbed up by a laughing shellycoat. Maybe that took place while Garal—or someone—was immersing my dislocated eyeball into whatever healing balm was on the schedule that day. Maybe not. It was a frightening dream, though. Jesus God, the whole experience was frightening; let me tell you! Stay out of the damn woods! No, I don’t mean that. If you (males) have the good fortune to accost a Ruthana, you’ll be blessed forever. The very sight of her—

  Which was what mine was, at least three-quarters of a year following the Gilly attack. Bing! Like that. A shade suddenly raised before my eyes. Ruthana’s darling face in front of me.

  “I can see!” I cried. It might have been the most ecstatic moment of my life.

  “Oh, my love!” she said, her voice close to strangled. I did not react to that. I held her close, my face pressed into her golden, fragrant hair. I believed her sobs were those of joy and gratitude.

  I was wrong.

  When I drew back to gaze once more at her exquisite face, I saw, for the first time, her expression of anguish, her cheeks soaked with flowing tears.

  I misunderstood. “Do I look so bad?” I asked, convinced that I did.

  “Oh, Alexi, no, no.” she said, her words thickened by despair. She threw her arms around my neck and kissed me fervently. Her lips were wet with tears.

  Now she drew back, quickly, a look of dread on her face. “Oh, love,” she murmured.

  “What?” I asked. Her dread had entered my heart by now. “What is it?”

  She could barely speak. She almost gasped the words.

  Which were, “You have to leave.”

  Chapter Thirty-one

  I stood riveted to the spot. And she was gone. Bing! Like that again, in the faerie way. Why she left like that I didn’t understand until later. She couldn’t face what was about to happen. Her gone in an instant, Garal in front of me the next instant. At one time, their incredible ability to vanish or appear in a split second would have startled me. Now I only wondered why.

  “I have to leave?” I asked

  Garal nodded. “Yes.”

  “Why?” I asked, almost demanded. “What have I done?”

  His smile was melancholy. “Nothing,” he said.

  “Then why?” I demanded now.

  “Because of what you are,” he said.

  “A human being?” I said angrily. “It’s Gilly, isn’t it?”

  “Part of it,” he told me.

  I didn’t get it. “Can’t you leave him in the Cairn?” I asked impatiently. I knew they couldn’t but I had to ask.

  “That isn’t possible,” Garal said. Dear God, his tone was very patient. I knew I was in for it.

  “Why not?” I asked again, demanding. “Would it completely disrupt your lifestyle? Is it better to let him keep trying to kill me?”

  “No,” he said quietly. Then, “That isn’t it either.”

  “Why not?” I said. I knew that I was being argumentative. But I didn’t want to lose Ruthana. “Garal,” I went on, protesting, “why did you let me stay here in the first place? You must have known that Gilly hated me.”

  He was silent.

  “Well?” I said. I knew my voice was strident now.

  “We shouldn’t have,” he said. “It was a mistake.”

  “A mistake?” Now my voice was shrill. I knew I was losing. “Why?!”

  “You weren’t meant to live in here,” he said.

  His voice and words made me tremble. “Why did you admit me, then?” My voice trembled as well. Admit? I remember thinking. What kind of word is that? It sounded stupid.

  “Because of my daughter,” he said.

  “Ruthana?” I asked. Feeling immediately dumb. He knew her name. She was his daughter, for Chrissake! Hadn’t he just said so?

  He did not respond to my gaffe. All he said was, “Yes.” Quietly. Still patiently. I think I would have preferred it if he lashed out. I should have known better. That was not Garal’s way. He was the soul of containment.

  “You did it because of her?” I asked, completely stressed by now.

  “Of course,” he said. “She is our princess.”

  I must have sounded dense. “She’s a princess?” I asked.

  “I don’t mean royally,” he explained. “I know she is your princess though. And to Ruthana, you are her prince. Her love for you is boundless. So great that we allowed her pleas to let you in to be accepted. We made a mistake.”

  He sounded so doleful now that my defensive anger faded. “Why was it a mistake, Garal?” I asked. I actually sounded patient now.

  He hesitated. Then said, “Since your sight returned, have you looked at yourself?”

  “I beg your pardon,” I said. A foolish thing to say—but I was so perplexed by his comment that I couldn’t come up with anything better.

  He wasted no further words. “You’re growing,” he said. “The diminishing was only temporary. In a while, you’ll be a full-size human being—again. We didn’t know that would happen.”

  “Can’t you—diminish me again?” I asked. It was an honest inquiry. I meant it.

  “We wouldn’t dare to try,” he said. “It would be too dangerous. Don’t you recall the pain?”

  “Yes. I do,” I told him. I had noticed an increase in the size of my hands and feet, a biting throb in my body. But I’d endure it all again. I couldn’t bear to lose Ruthana. I told him so.

  He only shook his head.

  “Garal, I’ll do it!” I cried. “Don’t make me lose Ruthana!”

  “Alex,” he said. His use of my human name made me shudder. “You don’t understand. It was all a mistake. You were never meant to be one of us.”

  His tone was so final, I had no response. Except one very weak, “Why?”

  “Because it’s not your world,” he said. “No mortal can exist here for long. They’d become unhappy.”

  “No,” I protested, “I wouldn’t. I’ve been very happy here.”

  “It wouldn’t last,” Garal told me. “Do you think you are the first human being to stop here and want to stay?”

  I must say that stunned me. I had no idea. “Did they … choose to diminish?” This was all unnerving news to me.

  “Some,” he said. “Some died trying. You do remember the pain.”

  “None of them stayed?” I asked. Already my human self was cutting in.

  “They couldn’t,” said Garal. “Those who survived the diminishment could not survive their loss of spirit. If they remained, that spirit withered and died.”

  “Oh, God,” was all I could say. I knew that he was telling me the truth. It was devastating to me.

  Then I said, “Will I lose it all if I leave?”

  He shook his head. His smile was kind. “No,”
he said. “Whatever is important to you will always remain with you.”

  * * *

  My farewell to Ruthana was a strange one—an ambivalent one.

  At its most disturbing was Ruthana’s desolation. At the other extreme, my mounting resentment that I was being ousted from Faerieland. Why? The question remained to plague me. It couldn’t be because of Gilly. They knew about his hatred of me when they diminished me. Why do it then if his hostility wasn’t an issue? Yet they did. Wasn’t it possible that Ruthana could teach me all her powers so I could defend myself from Gilly’s assaults? For that matter, after enough attacks had failed (I omitted more blinding powder from the estimate), wouldn’t he just give up? Get to know me? Discover that I wasn’t such a bad person after all and become my friend? That last possibility was the most improbable—but I was really desperate for an out. I was willing to consider any solution.

  As for the rest? That, after a while, my spirit would wither and die? The more I examined that scenario, the more farfetched it seemed. I was supposed to accept that as the main reason to exit the Middle Kingdom? I simply couldn’t believe it. Continuous examination of the idea seemed to reveal it, more and more, as threadbare and unacceptable.

  So what did that leave me with?

  My angelic love in total desolation. Clearly, she believed what Garal had told me. Every word of it. Every blessed word. How could I contend with that, much less obstruct it? It was her life’s conviction. Maybe it was even true. I didn’t possess the armament to subdue it. I’d only frighten her if I tried. I didn’t believe it. I didn’t want to. She did. That was the gist of it. It was part and parcel of her culture. Period. Amen. Selah. Damn it!

  So all I could do was hold her in my arms, kiss her on her hair, her cheeks, her lips. She could not stop crying. “Weeping” is more the word. Mourning and grieving. Sobbing. Eyes brimming with endless tears, cheeks remaining soaked with them, no matter how often I patted them with my handkerchief; which, at length, grew soggy. I had to wring it out more than once. Poor Ruthana. She was inconsolable. Ravaged by sorrow.