Little, Big

by John Crowley

  At the door—which stood ajar—George turned again to Auberon. “Now just for God’s sake,” he whispered urgently, “don’t say a word about, you know, that story. That story I told you, about—you know—” he glanced at the open door—”about Lilac,” he said, or rather did not say, he only moved his lips around the name silently, exaggeratedly, and winked a frightened warning wink. Then he pushed open the door.

  “Look,” he said. “Look, look,” as though Auberon were capable of not looking. “My kid.”

  The child sat on the edge of the table, swinging her crossed bare legs back and forth.

  “Hello, Auberon,” she said. “You got big.”

  Auberon, feeling a feeling like crossed eyes in his soul but looking steadily at the child, touched the place in his heart where his imaginary Lilac was kept. She was there.

  Then this was—

  “Lilac,” he said.

  “My kid. Lilac,” George said.

  “But how?”

  “Don’t ask me how,” George said.

  “It’s a long story,” Lilac said. “The longest story I know.”

  “There’s this meeting on,” George said.

  “A Parliament,” Lilac said. “I came to tell you.”

  “She came to tell us.”

  “A Parliament,” Auberon said. “What on earth.”

  “Listen, man,” George said. “Don’t ask me. I came down to brew a little coffee, and there’s a knocking at the door….”

  “But why,” Auberon asked, “is she so young?”

  “You’re asking me? So I peeked out, and here’s this kid in the snow….”

  “She should be a lot older.”

  “She was asleep. Or some damn thing. What do I know. So I open the door …”

  “This is all kind of hard to believe,” Auberon said.

  Lilac had been looking from one to the other of them, hands clasped in her lap, smiling a smile of cheerful love for her father, and of sly complicity at Auberon. The two stopped talking then, and only looked at her. George came closer. The look he wore was an anxious, joyful wonderment, as though he’d just hatched Lilac himself. “Milk,” he said, snapping his fingers. “How about a glass of milk? Kids like milk, right?”

  “I can’t,” Lilac said, laughing at his solicitude. “I can’t, here.”

  But George was already bustling with a jelly jar and a canister of goat’s milk from the refrigerator. “Sure,” he said. “Milk.”

  “Lilac,” Auberon said. “Where is it you want us to go?” “To where the meeting is,” Lilac said. “The Parliament.” “But where? Why? What …”

  “Oh, Auberon,” Lilac said, impatient, “they’ll explain all that when you get there. You just have to come.” “They?”

  Lilac turned up her eyes in mock-stupefaction. “Oh, come on,” she said. “You just have to hurry, that’s all, so as not to be late….”

  “Nobody’s going anywhere now,” George said, putting the milk in Lilac’s hands. She looked at it curiously, and put it down. “Now you’re back, and that’s great, I don’t know from where or how, but you’re here and safe, and we’re staying here.”

  “Oh, but you must come,” Lilac said, taking the sleeve of his dressing gown. “You have to. Otherwise …”

  “Otherwise?” George asked.

  “It won’t come out right,” Lilac said softly. “The Tale,” she said, even more softly.

  “Oho,” George said. “Oho, the Tale. Well.” He stood before her arms akimbo, nodding a skeptical nod but lost for an answer.

  Auberon watched them, father and daughter, thinking: It’s not all over, then. That had been the thought he had begun to think as soon as he entered the old kitchen, or rather not to think but to know, to know by the rising of the hair on his nape and the weird swarm of feeling, the feeling that his eyes were crossing and yet seeing more clearly than before. Not all over: he had lived long in a small room, a folding bedroom, and had explored its every corner, had come to know it as he knew his own bowels, and had decided: this is all right, this will do, a sort of life can be lived here, here’s a chair by the fire and a bed to sleep in and a window to look out of; if it was constricted, that was made up for by how much simple sense it made. And now it was as though he had lowered the front of the mirrored wardrobe and found not a bed clothed in patched sheets and an old quilt but a portal, a ship in full sail raising anchor, a windy dawn and an avenue beneath tall trees disappearing far out of sight.

  He shut it up, fearful. He’d had his adventure. He’d followed outlandish paths, and hadn’t for no good reason given them up. He got up, and clumped to the window in his rubber boots. Unmilked, the goats bewailed in their apartments.

  “No,” he said. “I’m not going, Lilac.”

  “But you haven’t even heard the reasons,” Lilac said.

  “I don’t care.”

  “The War! The Peace!” Lilac said.

  “Don’t care.” He’d stick. He wouldn’t miss the whole world if it passed him by on the way there, and it probably would; or perhaps he would miss it, but he’d rather that than take his life in his teeth and pass into that sea again, that sea Desire, now that he’d escaped it, and found a shore. Never.

  “Auberon,” Lilac said softly. “Sylvie will be there.”

  Never. Never never never.

  “Sylvie?” George said.

  “Sylvie,” Lilac said.

  When there had been no further word from either of them for some time, Lilac said, “She told me to tell you …”

  “She didn’t!” Auberon said, turning on her. “She didn’t, it’s a lie! No! I don’t know why you want to fool us, I don’t know why or for what you came, but you’ll say anything, won’t you, won’t you? Anything but the truth! Just like all of them, because it doesn’t matter to you. No, no, you’re just as bad as they are, I know it, just as bad as that Lilac that George blew up, that fake one. No different.”

  “Oh, great,” George said, casting his eyes upward. “That’s just great.”

  “Blew up?” Lilac said, looking at George.

  “It was not my fault,” George said, rifling a furious look at Auberon.

  “So that’s what happened to it,” Lilac said thoughtfully. Then she laughed. “Oh, they were mad! When the ashes drifted down. It was hundreds of years old, and the last one they had.” She climbed down from the table, her blue skirt riding up. “I have to go now,” she said, and started toward the door.

  “No,” Auberon said. “Wait.”

  “Go! No,” George said, and took her arm.

  “There’s so much to do,” Lilac said. “And this is all settled here, so … Oh,” she said. “I forgot. Your way is mostly in the forest, so it would be best if you had a guide. Somebody who knows the woods, and can help you along. Bring a coin, for the ferryman; dress warm. There are lots of doors, but some are quicker than others. Don’t be too long, or you’ll miss the banquet!” She was at the door, but rushed back to leap into George’s arms. She circled his neck in her thin golden arms, kissed his lean cheeks, and scrambled down again. “It’s going to be so much fun,” she said; she glanced once at them, smiling a smile of simple sweet wickedness and pleasure, and was gone. They heard the pat of her bare feet on the old linoleum outside, but didn’t hear the street door open, or shut.

  George took from a leaning hatrack his overalls and coat, pulled them on, and then his boots; he went to the door, but when he reached it he seemed to forget what he was about, or why he hurried. He looked around himself, found no clue, and went to sit at the table.

  Auberon slowly took the chair opposite him, and for a long time they sat silent, sometimes starting, but seeing nothing, while a certain light or meaning was subtracted from the room, returning it to ordinariness, turning it to a kitchen where porridge was made and goat’s milk drunk and two bachelors sat rubber-boot to rubber-boot at the table, with chores still to be done.

  And a journey to go: that was left.

  “Okay,” G
eorge said. “What?” He looked up, but Auberon hadn’t spoken.

  “No,” Auberon said.

  “She said,” George said, but then couldn’t exactly say what; couldn’t forget what she had said but (what with the goats bawling, what with the snow outside, what with his own heart emptying and filling) couldn’t remember it either.

  “Sylvie,” Auberon said.

  “A guide,” George said, snapping his fingers.

  There were footsteps in the hall.

  “A guide,” George said. “She said we’d need a guide.”

  They both turned to look at the door, which just then opened.

  Fred Savage came in, wearing his rubber boots, and ready for his breakfast.

  “Guide?” he said. “Somebody goan someplace?”

  Lady with the Alligator Purse

  “Is it her?” Sophie asked. She pushed aside the window’s drape further to look.

  “It must be,” Alice said.

  Not often enough now did headlights turn in at the stone gateposts for it to be very likely anyone else. The long, low car, black in the twilight, swept the house with its brilliant eyes as it bounced up the rutty drive; it pulled around in front of the porch, its lights went out but its impatient burble went on for a while. Then it fell silent.

  “George?” Sophie asked. “Auberon?” “I don’t see them. No one but her.” “Oh dear.”

  “All right,” Alice said. “Her at least.” They turned away from the window to the expectant faces of those gathered in the double drawing room. “She’s here,” Alice said. “We’ll start soon.”

  Ariel Hawksquill, after stilling the car’s motor, sat for a moment listening to the new silence. Then she worked her way out of the seat’s grasp. She took from the seat next to her an alligator shoulder bag, and stood in the slight drizzle that was falling; she breathed deeply of the evening air, and thought: Spring.

  For the second time she had driven north to Edgewood, this time over the ruts and potholes of a degenerated road system, and passing this time checkpoints where passes and visas had to be shown, a thing that would have been unthinkable five years before when she had come here. She supposed that she had been followed, at least part way, but no tail could have kept up with her through the tangle of rainy roads that led from the highway to here. She came alone. The letter from Sophie had been odd but urgent: urgent enough, she hoped, to justify sending it (Hawksquill had insisted her cousins never write to her at the Capital, she knew her mail was scanned) and to justify a journey and a long absence from the Government at a critical time.

  “Hello, Sophie,” she said, when the two tall sisters came out on the porch. There was no welcoming light lit there. “Hello, Alice.”

  “Hello,” Alice said. “Where’s Auberon? Where’s George? We asked …”

  Hawksquill mounted the steps. “I went to the address,” she said, “and knocked a long time. The place looked abandoned …”

  “It always does,” Sophie said.

  “… and no one answered. I thought I heard someone behind the door; I called their names. Someone, someone with an accent, called back that they had gone.”

  “Gone?” Sophie said.

  “Gone away. I asked where, for how long; but no one answered. I didn’t dare stay too long.” “Didn’t dare?” Alice said.

  “May we go in?” Hawksquill said. “It’s a lovely night, but damp.” Her cousins didn’t know, and, Hawksquill supposed, couldn’t really imagine the danger they might put themselves in by association with her. Deep desires reached out toward this house, not knowing of its existence, yet sniffing closer all the time. But there was no need (she hoped) to alarm them.

  There was no light in the hall but a dull candle, making the place shadowy and vast; Hawksquill followed her cousins down, around, up through the impossible insides of the house into a set of two big rooms where a fire burned, lights were lit, and many faces looked up interested and expectant at her arrival.

  “This is our cousin,” Daily Alice said to them. “Long-lost, sort of, her name is Ariel. This is the family,” she said to Ariel, “you know them; and some others.

  “So, I guess everybody’s here,” she said. “Everybody who can come. I’ll go get Smoky.”

  Sophie went to a drum-table where a brass, green-glass-shaded lamp shone, and where the cards lay. Ariel Hawksquill felt her heart rise or sink to see them. Whatever other fates they held or did not hold, Hawksquill knew at that moment that hers was surely in them: was them.

  “Hello,” she said, nodding briefly to the assembly. She took a straight-backed chair between a very, a remarkably old and bright-eyed lady and two twin children, boy and girl, who shared an armchair.

  “And how,” said Marge Juniper to her, “do you come to be a cousin?”

  “As nearly as I can tell,” Hawksquill said, “I’m not, really. The father of the Auberon who was Violet Drinkwater’s son was my grandfather by a later marriage.”

  “Oh,” Marge said. “That side of the family.”

  Hawksquill felt eyes on her, and gave a quick glance and a smile at the two children in the armchair, who were staring at her with uncertain curiosity. Rarely see strangers, Hawksquill supposed; but what Bud and Blossom were seeing, in the flesh, with wonder and a little trepidation, was that enigmatic and somewhat fearsome figure who in a song they often sang comes at the crux of the story: the Lady with the Alligator Purse.

  Still Unstolen

  Alice climbed quickly up through the house, negotiating dark stairways with the skill of a blind man.

  “Smoky?” she called when she stood at the bottom of a narrow curl of steep stairs that led up into the orrery. No one answered, but a light burned up there. “Smoky?”

  She didn’t like to go up; the small stairs, the small arched door, the cramped cold cupola stuffed with machinery, gave her the willies, it wasn’t designed to amuse someone as big as she was.

  “Everyone’s here,” she said. “We can start.”

  She waited, hugging herself. The damp was palpable on this neglected floor; and brown stains spread over the wallpaper. Smoky said, “All right,” but she heard no movement.

  “George and Auberon didn’t come,” she said. “They’re gone.” She waited more, and then—hearing neither noise of work nor preparations to come down—climbed up the stairs and put her head through the little door.

  Smoky sat on a small stool, like a petitioner or penitent before his idol, staring at the mechanism inside the black steel case. Alice felt somewhat shy, or intrusive into a privacy, seeing him there and it exposed.

  “Okay,” Smoky said again, but when he rose, it was only to take a steel ball the size of a croquet ball from a rack of them in the back of the case. This he placed in the cup or hand of one of the extended jointed arms of the wheel which the case contained and sheltered. He let go, and the weight of the ball spun the arm downward. As it moved, the other jointed arms moved too; another, clack-clack-clack, extended itself to receive the next ball.

  “See how it works?” Smoky said, sadly.

  “No,” Alice said.

  “An overbalancing wheel,” Smoky said. “These jointed arms, see, are held out stiff on this side, because of the joints; but when they come around to this side, the joints fold up, and the arm lies along the wheel. So. This side of the wheel, where the arms stick out, will always be heavier, and will always fall down, that is, around; so when you put the ball in the cup, the wheel falls around, and that brings the next arm into place. And a ball falls into the cup of that arm, and bears it down and around, and so on.”

  “Oh.” He was telling all this flatly, like an old, old story or a grammar lesson too often repeated. It occurred to Alice that he’d eaten no dinner.

  “Then,” he went on, “the weight of the balls falling into the cups of the arms on this side carries the arms far enough up on this side so that they fold up, and the cup tips, and the ball rolls out”—he turned the wheel by hand to demonstrate—”and goes back into t
he rack, and rolls down and falls into the cup of the arm that just extended itself over on this side, and that carries that arm around, and so it goes on endlessly.” The slack arm did deposit its ball; the ball did roll into the arm that extended itself, clack-clack-clack, out from the wheel. The arm was borne down to the bottom of the wheel’s cycle. Then it stopped.

  “Amazing,” Alice said mildly.

  Smoky, hands behind his back, looked glumly at the unmoving wheel. “It’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever seen in my life,” he said.

  “Oh.”

  “This guy Cloud must have been just about the stupidest inventor or genius who ever …” He could think of no conclusion, and bowed his head. “It never worked, Alice; this thing couldn’t turn anything. It’s not going to work.”

  She moved carefully among the tools and oily disassembled works and took his arm. “Smoky,” she said. “Everybody’s downstairs. Ariel Hawksquill came.”

  He looked at her, and laughed, a frustrated laugh at a defeat absurdly complete; then he grimaced, and put his hand quickly to his chest.

  “Oh,” Alice said. “You should have eaten.”

  “It’s better when I don’t,” Smoky said. “I think.”

  “Come on,” Alice said. “You’ll figure this out, I bet. Maybe you can ask Ariel.” She kissed his brow, and went before him out the arched door and then down the steps, feeling released.

  “Alice,” Smoky said to her. “Is this it? Tonight, I mean.

  Is this it?”

  “Is this what?”

  “It is, isn’t it?” he said.

  She said nothing while they went along the hall and down the stairs toward the second floor. She held Smoky’s arm, and thought of more than one thing to say; but at last (there wasn’t any point any longer in riddling, she knew too much, and so did he) she only said. “I guess. Close.”

  Smoky’s hand, pressed to his chest beneath his breastbone, began to tingle, and he said “Oh-oh,” and stopped.

  They were at the top of the stairs. Faintly, below, he could see the drawing-room lights, and hear voices. Then the voices went out in a hum of silence.