Starwater Strains

by Gene Wolfe

  “Which she will never be, worse luck,” the prince pointed out. “And I beg you not to be extravagant with those pearls.”

  “You’re right, of course, Highness,” the seamstress said. “Elegance and simplicity. And a silk that’s like spring grass. I’ll get it.”

  When the seamstress had slipped off to her storeroom, the child whispered, “Why does she call you Highness, kind sir?”

  “It’s merely a courtesy title.” Prince Patizithes soothed her smoothly. “A bit of flattery our city’s tradespeople lavish upon those whose station in life is somewhat more elevated than their own.”

  Thyme sighed. “I see.”

  The seamstress had brought a bolt of bright silk. She laid it on her table and put up a painted screen to close one corner of her chamber. “If you’ll just step behind this, my dear,” she chirped, “and slip out of that—that thing you’re wearing, I’ll take your measurements.”

  The beautiful child nodded dutifully, and slipped behind the screen, soon followed by the seamstress.

  The prince looked grim. “This will take half the day, I’m afraid. We should have kept the wine.”

  “I did,” Thyme told him, bringing the bottle from beneath his colorless old cloak. “No glasses, though, I fear. I have bad luck with them—they break so easily.” He passed the black bottle to Prince Patizithes, who was somewhat surprised to find his wine gone sour.

  “That should do it,” said the seamstress, stepping from behind her screen. “I shall have her gown ready—”

  Thyme’s cold eye caught hers. There was the slightest of pauses.

  “—by tomorrow. Tomorrow before nones, I should imagine.”

  “Fine,” Thyme told her.

  “And I’ve loaned her an old dress to wear until then,” the seamstress proceeded breathlessly, “that is, she really doesn’t have to return it.”

  “We thank you,” Thyme told her; and as he spoke, the child stepped silently from behind the seamstress’s screen, scarcely less lovely than a summer sunrise.

  The prince gasped.

  Thyme’s mouth twitched, and he suppressed a smile. “This audience you promised to arrange for us, do you think you could make it for tomorrow afternoon?”

  The child smiled too. “Yes, it would be marvelous. Could you?”

  “I think so.” Prince Patizithes nodded nervously. “Anyway, I’ll try. I—my house is outside the walls. It’s only a league or so. My carriage is at the gate. I’ll bring it if you like.”

  “That might be best,” Thyme told him. “This poor child and I have already walked some distance today.”

  “Of course, of course!” Prince Patizithes darted through the dressmaker’s door.

  Wearily, the child chose a chair. “He is nice,” she told Thyme, “whether you think so or not.”

  “As nice as peace?” Thyme asked her seriously.

  The seamstress simpered. “He’s royal, my darling, and to be royal is ever so much better than to be nice.”

  “Perhaps.” Thyme turned away and walked to the window. He had hardly reached it when a whip cracked outside. The prince’s equipage came rattling over the cobbles, and four footmen leaped to open its doors and draw out a deep green carpet.

  “Slippers!” The seamstress snapped her fingers. She flung herself into the search, but she had started too late. Lightly as any lady, the child smiled, gave her a little pat of parting, and put her hand into the prince’s to help herself up the steep step. Frowning, Thyme followed, choosing a seat that faced the child.

  Prince Patizithes raced around the high rear wheels to duck through the other door and sit beside her. “We’ve shoes aplenty,” he assured her. “Guests are always leaving them. You know how it is. You may have whichever pairs you like.”

  The child thanked him with her eyes. “Are there any green ones to go with my new dress?”

  Their coachman clucked his tongue to his team and cracked his black whip, the white horses leaped like lurchers after a leveret, and the prince’s rich equipage jerked and jolted up the cobblestoned street.

  Patizithes laughed. “Why, there’s nothing but green ones, I’ll take my oath. Because of the war, no lady of Vert has ever dared come to court in anything else.”

  The sentries snapped erect and saluted them smartly as the ghostly team galloped through the postern gate. Patizithes had lied about his lodge (for it was to such a hunting house in the forest royal that his carriage carried them) when he said it lay but a league away; their horses were heaving and lathered with sweat whiter than they before all the weary watches that brought them to that lonely lodge were done.

  Yet it was lovely. The child stared at its tall chimneys and the thronging green trees of his father’s forest with dazed delight. “Do you really live here?” she asked Patizithes in a bewitched whisper.

  “It’s just a shed,” he said. “I’ve a little place in town as well, but I know you’ll be more comfortable here, where each of you can have a private apartment.”

  At evening, while the whip-poor-will called from the tall cherry tree and the nightingale rained her sweet notes on the world, Prince Patizithes and the changed child watched lovely Lune’s head lifted by the slow rotation of Urth, and strolled the strange walks of the grotesque little garden the prince’s poor grandfather had graded and planted while weeping for his wandering wife. Fragrant were the ramping pink roses and the fading forget-me-nots that night; but he found the child’s musky tresses more fragrant far. And sweet though the birds’ songs sounded, she found the prince’s poor promises sweeter still.

  The two thought themselves alone. But all the while, one watched with the night-wide eyes of love. While they paced the pebbled paths between the silent flowers’ spiked arrays, sage Thyme spied upon each pale sigh, peeping between bloom and leaf. And while they sat side by side and hand in hand on the stained stone bench beneath the spreading wisteria, Thyme watched unwinking from the midnight face of the mute sundial.

  And while they lay lazy on the soft grass, swearing the sweet oaths of love and longing, and whispering as they parted that though long lives might pass like a night and the New Sun sunder the centuries, yet never should they ever part, Thyme crept and cried, counting seconds that spilled with the sand from the hourglass, and scenting the soft breezes that cooled the child’s burning cheek with his sad spice.

  The cock crowed as Thyme tapped impatient toes at the lofty lodge’s deserted door, but the lovers slept long. It was nearly nones before the coach came, bringing Prince Patizithes and a cheerless child. Together the three traveled over the rugged road that runs to the green gates of Vert; but they scarcely spoke one word, and though Thyme turned his anguished eyes from face to face, while watch waited upon watch, the cheated child never met his grim gaze. No more gave she her grave glance to the prince perched on the soft seat beside her, though her hand sought his, and sometimes failed to find it.

  In a space scarcely short of miraculous, Madame Gobar, the seamstress, had sewn such a green gown as any virgin nymph would willingly have worn to Vert’s stiff court. “No pearls, you see, Your Highness,” she told Prince Patizithes in the honest tones of one who takes an open pride in having done her duty. “A few small emeralds, and a nice big aquamarine or two. And she loves it—don’t you, my dear?”

  She did. But before she could smooth her skirt and gaze a moment at the glass, off flew the coach, charging down the dirty streets of Vert and never pausing until it pulled up before the broad stair whose steps stretched to the portals of the palace.

  Soon and swiftly they were sent before the emperor’s own imperial throne; and there the poor child voiced her plea for peace through chattering teeth.

  “I do not know how many men have died,” she said. “Your Majesty will know that better than I; but I know my father was one of them, and that as we came here we saw unworked fields everyplace, houses falling to ruin, and women plowing—plowing badly—when the plowing should’ve been done weeks ago. We saw women sowing grain
instead of shirts, cattle and sheep that had been killed by bears and wolves, and hungry children.”

  “Boys who can never grow into strong soldiers,” Thyme added, addressing the emperor, “and girls who will never breed them.”

  Some shocked courtiers gasped at all this, grabbing their gowns and clutching their cloaks as though to keep them clear of contamination. But the stern, scarred old emperor never heeded them, nodding his head and neither smiling nor scowling.

  “I have lost my father,” the child continued. “I know that you have lost five fine sons. Only one is left to you. I love him, and so do all your other loyal subjects, I feel sure. Won’t you make peace?”

  “Peace has been made many times,” the emperor said solemnly. “And each peace has only led to a new war. What is the good of treaties and truces where there is no trust? The fighting stops, and our enemy rearms.”

  With that, the elderly emperor’s voice sank to silence, and a sullen silence hung heavy over all that gay green gathering. Some aged courtier coughed, and there was the faint scuffle of many shuffling feet. Prince Patizithes strode forward to stand beside the confounded child. Silently, he slipped his hand into hers and led her to an alcove. “I promised you an audience,” he told the child coldly. “I didn’t promise you that it would help things, and as you see, it hasn’t.”

  Thyme told her, “You tried, and that’s something not many have done.”

  Just then, they were joined by a general, an old officer whose bottlegreen uniform bore many an enameled medal, besides the usual battle honors. His hair was gray, his visage grim, his eyes the green of Vert. “Your Highness,” this green general growled, “may I interrupt? I think it will only take a moment.”

  “You already have, Generalissimo,” the prince pointed out. “But yes. I think an interruption right now might be welcome.”

  “You are young,” the green general said gravely. “And so you think wisdom is to be found in pink cheeks and bright eyes. We who bear the weight of past years know that white hair or a bald head is a better indication of it. Since you have brought this old, and I suppose holy, hermit to the court, I would like to make use of whatever hard-won wisdom he may possess while I can.”

  “Then speak, my son,” Thyme urged graciously.

  The hoary-headed old officer did not hesitate. “How can we win?”

  “You may win,” Thyme told him, “when your army is dressed in yellow.”

  For a moment the grim old general stood stunned. “You can counsel me to dress my soldiers like the enemy,” he said slowly, “but I assure you that though I am master of all our armies, I cannot do such a thing. Nor would I do it if I could. I would rather lose the war than do as you suggest.”

  “Then you will not have to,” Thyme told him. “Because I will do it for you.”

  The old officer turned upon his heel and left them without another word.

  Thyme watched his retreating back, then said softly to the child, “Now I too must go, and you must come with me.”

  She shook her head. “I love Prince Patizithes,” she said. Thinking that he still stood at her side, she looked around the alcove for him; but the prince of Vert had vanished.

  “You will come with me.” Thyme turned and walked away, his black boots tapping the tessellated pavements of the palace like the ticking of some slow clock.

  “And he loves me!” the child whispered to herself; but there was no one but herself left to listen.

  That night it rained, and Thyme sat drinking drop for drop with a broad banyan tree. As soon as the last drizzle stopped and the sun was seen, he rose and returned to the road. He had not walked much more than a watch when he heard the hurrying child calling. “Thyme, Father Thyme, stop! Wait for me!”

  Without waiting, turning toward her, or even so little as looking behind him, he murmured, “Thyme waits for no one,” and walked on.

  It was early evening before she walked with him as she had when he had brought her to the city. “I want to tell you,” she said.

  “I know.” He nodded. “And you are old enough now to tell Thyme, if you wish.”

  Slowly then she spoke of the old garden and the green lawn on which she had lain with her lover; then of the threats he had thrown in her frightened face, because she had wished to remain where he would reign, though she should be called his concubine.

  “Did I do wrong?” she asked at last.

  “No.” For a second Thyme stopped, turning to take in the road that returned to Vert. “Very small, child, are the flying days of love, and men and women must catch them when they can, if they are to know love at all.”

  The child shook her head. “Wouldn’t it be better not to know love at all, than to know a false love?”

  “No,” Thyme answered again, turning back to their way once more and taking her by the hand. “In the desert, travelers see pools of water where no water is; but those who see these pools know how real water must look, if ever real water is found.”

  So Thyme spoke, and soon no more was said, though arm in arm they walked together. Their road had reached the rugged hills, and now wound higher and higher, turning and twisting until at last it mounted mountains. There their road went with a wider, fairer way, where green grenadiers counted cadence for raw recruits, brave youths and young boys with pallid faces, who flaunted pikes.

  With each cubit they climbed, the cherry-lipped child who had ventured to Vert vanished. Lines led from her eyes to her ears, and strands of silver streaked her once sleek hair. The food they found and the rough rations Thyme took from some of the soldiers seemed to thicken her hips and bulk her breasts; and at last, with their road long lost, when they went their way guided only by the green onrush of the emperor’s army, she laid palsied palms on her broadened belly and knew the feeble flutter of new life.

  Drawn the child looked before the dawn, in the hour when her own child came. Then Thyme himself knew terror; for it is not so (as some say) that Thyme heals all things, though healing he has. But Thyme himself tied the cord and comforted his tired child, pressing her babe to her breast.

  “Now I must go,” Thyme told her. “You must have food and good water, and rags with which to diaper your son. Keep him warm while I am away, and yourself as well.” He set sticks by her hand, so that she might feed their fire, saying. “I will return as soon as the Increate wills it.”

  Then night closed over his old gray cloak; he was gone like some ghost. The chilled child lay alone save for her son, alone and lonely, shaking with the flickering, guttering flames in the white wind that whipped the wide green skirt Madame Gobar had made, shaking too with terror as she heard the wild howls of the wolves that batten on battles, the slayers of the slain.

  More than these, she feared the fierce soldiers who surged about the wretched brush that sheltered her and her son. They who had been boys had been made beasts, bent if not broken by their battles, the henchmen of Hell and the disciples of Death—thus she thought. Then her babe embraced her breast, sucking his mama’s sweet milk; and soon her heart soared. Such was the mutability of his mother. Such, indeed, are the shiftings in all human hearts.

  Somewhere a stick snapped, and her bliss broke with it. She staggered to her feet, and would have fled if she could; but she could scarcely stand. Part of her wretched protection was rolled away. A short sword and a worn face caught the firelight. For a moment that seemed a month, her eyes met his. “By the book!” the startled soldier swore. “What in the name of awful Abaia are you two up to?”

  “My son’s having his breakfast, as you see,” she said; “and I was resting, until you came.”

  The soldier lowered his sword and pushed through the brush. “Then sit down.” He held out his hand; and when the child had clasped it, and sat as he had said, he sat himself, sitting so his broad back blocked the hole he had made in their screen of brush.

  “Did you see our fire?” she asked. “I feared someone would, though Thyme piled as many dead bushes and branches as he could a
round this windfall before he built it.”

  “Thyme?”

  “My father. Or at least that’s what I call him, since he cares for me. You needn’t be afraid. Thyme’s an old man, you can kill him easily, I’m sure.”

  The soldier shook his head, his eyes on the baby boy. “I wouldn’t do that. What’s his name?”

  The child had not yet chosen one, not knowing one would so soon be needed. Now she blurted, “Barrus!” Barrus had been her brother, in days that seemed a dream. Her bold brother, and her father’s favorite.

  “Ha!” the soldier said. “The handsome one, eh? Well, he’s handsome enough, I’ll admit, for somebody so new to this world. But may I ask what you’re doing here, on a battlefield in a ball gown?”

  “Seeing war,” she said. “I think so that I’ll know what it is when Thyme brings peace.”

  “You’d better go back home,” the soldier told her. “Before you’re killed—you and your child too. Before some fool shoots you, or you starve or freeze to death.”

  “We’re going on, I think.” Barrus had released her nipple; he was asleep. She slid the strap up so her silk bodice hid her breast. “Over the mountains to the Yellow Empire.”

  “In that green dress? That’s suicide.” A brass clasp held his soldier’s sagum. He opened the clasp, pulled off the cloak, and handed it to her. “This was green when it was new, but it’s gray now. It may not get you through alive, but it’ll keep you warmer till you die.”

  Tearfully, she tried to thank him, though she only sobbed and stammered.

  “Don’t worry about me.” The soldier shrugged. “There’s plenty of dead men out there, and their cloaks don’t keep the chill off any longer. I’ll get another one—a newer one, with any luck.” He rose to go.

  Winking back her weeping, she blew him a brave kiss. He caught it, smiled suddenly (he seemed but a boy when he smiled), and was gone as the dark gave way to dawn. Hot tears streaked her tired cheeks; she closed his cloak about herself and Barrus, her baby boy.