Lyonesse II - The Green Pear and Madouc (18 page)

Arriving at Trilda, Shimrod found all in order. The housekeepers had maintained full cleanliness, with not so much as a dead fly on the window-sills. The furniture glowed to the use of bee’s-wax and patient rubbing; in the chests and presses the linens lay crisp and smelled fragrant with lavender.

Shimrod’s only complaint was over-tidiness. He threw open doors and casements so that air from the meadow might banish the fust of stagnant days and silent nights, then went from room to room shifting this and moving that, to disturb the unrelenting exactitude imposed by his housekeepers.

Arriving in the kitchen, Shimrod kindled a fire and brewed a pot of tea, using horehound for heart, penny-royal for savor and lemon verbena for zest, then took the tea into his day parlour.

Trilda seemed very quiet. From across the meadow came the chirrup chi chi chi of a lark. At the end of the song, the silence seemed more profound than ever.

Shimrod sipped the tea. At one time, so he remembered, solitude had been an adventure, to be enjoyed for its own sake. Since that time events had altered him; he had found within himself a capacity for love, and of late he had become accustomed to the merry company of Dhrun and Glyneth, and, more recently, to that of Aillas.

Melancthe? Shimrod made an ambiguous sound. In connection with Melancthe, the word ‘love’ would seem to have a most dubious application. Beauty compelled admiration and erotic yearning; such was its organic function. But never by itself could it command love: so Shimrod assured himself. Melancthe was a shell, empty inside. Melancthe was no more than a warm breathing symbol of great power, but no more than this. Overintellectualization? Shimrod made a sound of disgust. Did she expect him not to think?

Shimrod continued to drink tea. The time had come when he must put aside his obsession and address himself to the program defined by Murgen: work which might embroil him in more excitement than he had bargained for, so that he would think back upon this placid interlude with longing. Murgen had so warned him: “You will be impinging yourself upon Tamurello’s notice! You will be rudely interrupting his work and arousing his anger! These are not trivial acts: make no mistake! He will find a means, crude or subtle, to retort, and you must be prepared for amazement!”

Shimrod put aside the tea, which no longer soothed him. He went to his workroom, dismissed the guardians and entered. The room was aptly named. Everywhere, work cried out for sympathetic attention. The center table supported stuffs and articles confiscated from Tintzin Fyral: thaumaturgical equipment, materia magica, books and paraphernalia-all to be inspected, classified, then either retained or discarded.

First and most urgently, Shimrod must set out monitors to scrutinize Tamurello and his conduct, as required by Murgen. These devices, when they came to Tamurello’s notice, as they inevitably must, would dissuade him from other bold and arrogant mischiefs: so went Murgen’s theory, and Shimrod had no reason to fault it, save that it put him in the position of a goat staked out in the jungle for the purpose of enticing a tiger. Murgen had waved aside Shimrod’s misgivings. “Tamurello’s bravado must be curbed, and this will be the effect of our program.”

Shimrod had proposed another objection: “When he feels the scurch
¹⁰
, he will merely use new tactics, or a clever subterfuge.”

“Still, he will be inhibited from truly grandiose ventures, and these are the efforts I fear the most.”

“And meanwhile he will take pleasure in wreaking a multitude of small harms in such a way that they cannot be imputed to him.”

“We will estimate his crimes and punish him accordingly, and soon Tamurello will be acclaimed the meekest of the meek!”

“Tamurello is not one to turn the other cheek,” grumbled Shimrod. “More likely he will send a sandestin
¹¹
with a plague of stag-beetles for my bed.”

“Anything is possible,” Murgen agreed. “Were I you, I would maintain double vigilance. Dangers which can be imagined can be refuted!”

With Murgen’s dictum in mind, Shimrod surrounded Trilda with a network of sensitive tendrils, to achieve at least a modicum of security. Then, once more in his workroom, he cleared the clutter from one of his work-tables and spread out a sheet of buff-colored parchment provided by Murgen.

The substance of the parchment merged into the oak, so that the table-top became a great map of the Elder Isles, with each of the domains tinted a different color. At Faroli, Tamurello’s manse, a point of blue light glittered, to indicate Tamurello’s presence. Should Tamurello travel near or far, the blue light would trace his movements. Shimrod had solicited other lights from Murgen, that he might know the movements of other folk; Murgen would hear nothing of this. “You must concentrate your attention upon Tamurello and nowhere else.”

Shimrod continued to argue. “We should use the instrument to its full scope. Assume that a red light marked your whereabouts. Assume further that one of your lady-loves seduced you into a dungeon, I could find you easily and release you from the cell, to your minimum inconvenience.”

“The contingency is remote.”

In such a fashion the map was arranged, and, by the evidence of the blue light, Tamurello remained in residence at Faroli.

Days passed. Shimrod refined the techniques of his surveillance, using unobtrusive methods which Tamurello, if he so chose, could ignore and still maintain his dignity.

Tamurello, however, refused to tolerate the inspection gracefully, and attempted several artful mischiefs upon Shimrod, which were vitiated by Shimrod’s protective system. Meanwhile Tamurello worked to blind Shimrod’s optical wisps and shatter his listening shells with concentrations of sound.

Shimrod, warming to his task, introduced a whole new order of sensitive devices, to cause Tamurello a new set of vexations. Murgen’s strategy, to monopolize Tamurello’s energies with trivial annoyances, seemed generally to be successful.

The lunar month approached the night of the waning half-moon, and Shimrod’s thoughts irresistibly went to the white villa beside the ocean. For the briefest of moments he contemplated a second visit by midnight to the rocky ledge which thrust into the ocean; as quickly as the idea came it went, and once again Shimrod was left with unwelcome images and the haunting fragrance of violets.

Shimrod tried to exorcise the visions: “Go! Away! Depart! Dissolve into the void, and never return to disturb me! Were it not absurd, I might think you another of Tamurello’s tricks, as he does to me what I try to do to him!”

On the night itself, Shimrod became restless, and went out to observe the moon. The meadow was quiet; nothing could be heard but crickets and a few far frogs. Shimrod wandered across the meadow to the old dock on Lally Water, where the moon already had started its decline down the sky. The water was calm and dark; when Shimrod threw a pebble, the expanding ripples gleamed silver. … A watch-wisp floating over his head issued a sudden warning: “Someone stands near; magic has come and gone!”

Shimrod turned and, not altogether to his surprise, discovered by the shore a slight figure in a white gown and a black cloak: Melancthe. She stood looking up at the moon and seemed not to see him.

Shimrod, turning away, paid her no heed.

She came down the dock and stood beside him. “You do not seem surprised to find me here?”

“I only wonder how Tamurello could induce you to come.”

“He found no difficulty; in fact, I came of my own volition.”

“Strange! Tonight you were to sing with your friends on the rocks.”

“I decided to go there no more.”

“How so?”

“It is simple enough. I had a choice: to live or to die. I chose to live, which brought me to new choices. Should I continue as an outcast and sing on the rocks, or should I simulate the ways of the human race? I decided to change.”

“You do not regard yourself as human?”

Melancthe said softly: “Tamurello has informed me that I am a neutral intelligence of no great vigor in a female mask.” She looked up into Shimrod’s face. “What do you think?”

“I think that Tamurello listens and smiles. Wisp: look sharp, high and low: what listens and what watches?”

“I apprehend nothing.”

Shimrod gave a dubious grunt. “And what were Tamurello’s instructions to you?”

“He said that humanity in the main was crass, stupid, boorish and vulgar, and that I could learn at least this much from you.”

“Some other time. Now, Melancthe, I will bid you good night.”

“Wait, Shimrod! You told me that I was beautiful, and you took pains to kiss me. Tonight I have come to Trilda and you are the one who now backs away. That is a curious contradiction.”

“Not at all. I am taken aback, and cautious. Tamurello’s motives are clear enough, but yours are in doubt. I believe that you exaggerate my crassness and stupidity. And now, Melancthe, if you will excuse me-”

“Where are you going?”

“Back to Trilda; where else?”

“And you will leave me alone in the dark?”

“You have been alone in the dark before.”

“We will go to Trilda together, since I have no other place to go. And, as I have already mentioned, I came here of my own volition.”

“You show little overt warmth. It is more as if you had steeled yourself to a great challenge.,”

“It is a new experience for me.”

With an effort Shimrod controlled his voice. “I might have welcomed you more gladly had you not told your maid to bar the door in my face. When one is judging the disposition of another, this sort of act would seem a significant straw in the wind.”

“Possibly so, but the inference might be wrong. Remember, you had intruded into my life and had troubled my mind with your persuasions. At length I was swayed and now I am here, at your behest.”

“At Tamurello’s behest.”

Melancthe smiled. “I am I and you are you. How does Tamurello concern us, one way or another?”

“Is your memory so short? I have reason for concern.”

Melancthe looked off across the water. “He gave no orders. He said that you were here at Trilda making a nuisance of yourself. He said that if not for Murgen, he would have long since sent you riding to the far side of the moon on a saw-horse. He said he would be pleased if I beguiled and besotted you until your eyes looked like boiled eggs and you fell asleep at breakfast with your face in the porridge. He said that you had a low-order mind and could deal with no more than one thought at a time, and that if I were at Trilda you would completely forget your meddling, to his great satisfaction, and now you know all of it.”

“Just as well.” Shimrod looked moodily out over the water. “I wonder what calumnies another five minutes might have brought.”

Melancthe moved a step back. “Well then, here I am. What is it to be? Shall I go away? Consult the factions of your brain, and perhaps you will find a consensus.”

“I have already decided,” said Shimrod. “You shall come to Trilda.” And Shimrod, with grim emphasis, added: “There we shall discover who most notably distracts whom, and every morning Tamurello will receive a cheerful greeting… . Notice the waning moon; already it declines into the west. Time that we returned to Trilda.”

The two went silently back along the lane, and as they walked a new and disturbing possibility entered Shimrod’s mind: might this creature beside him which used the name Melancthe be a guise for another, of a different sort, which at some delicate moment might reveal itself in its true form, and so punish Shimrod for his impudent surveillance?

The concept was not on its face improbable. Luckily, the trick could readily be detected.

Once in the parlour at Trilda, Shimrod took Melancthe’s cloak and poured two goblets of pomegranate wine. “The flavor, like yourself, is at once sweet and tart, haunting, mysterious and by no means obvious… . Come! I will show you around Trilda.”

Shimrod first took her into the dining saloon (“The oak is cut from a tree which grew on this very site.”), across the formal parlour (“Notice the tapestries in the cartouches; they were woven in ancient Parthia.”), then into the workroom. Shimrod immediately went to look at his map. The blue point of light glittered from the site of Faroli, far to the north in Dahaut: so much for one of his suspicions, that the woman at his side might even be a guise of the epicene Tamurello; this was clearly not the case.

Melancthe looked here and there without great interest.

Shimrod described two or three pieces of his paraphernalia, then took her before a tall mirror, which reflected her image in clear detail, and another of Shimrod’s misgivings was put to rest. Had she been a succuba or a harpy, the creature’s true image would have reflected from the mirror.

Melancthe studied the glass with absorbed interest. Shimrod said: “The mirror is of magic. You see reflected the person you think yourself to be. Or you may say: ‘Mirror, show me as I appear to Shimrod!’ or, ‘Mirror, show me as I appear to Tamurello!’ and you will see these versions of yourself.”

Melancthe moved away without undertaking the trials Shimrod had suggested. Shimrod surveyed the mirror from the side. “I could easily confront the mirror and say: ‘Mirror, show me as I appear to Melancthe!’ but, in all candor, I lack the courage.”

“Let us leave this room,” said Melancthe. “It reeks of the brain.”

The two returned to the small parlour, where Shimrod brought fire to the hearth, then turned to inspect Melancthe.

She spoke in her soft voice: “You are pensive. Why is this?”

Shimrod stood looking down into the flames. “I find myself with a dilemma. Do you care to hear it?”

“I will listen, certainly.”

“At Ys, only a few weeks ago, Shimrod visited Melancthe, to renew their acquaintance and perhaps to discover some mutuality of interest which might enhance their lives. In the end Melancthe scornfully barred the door to him.

“Tonight Shimrod strolls beside Lally Water, watching the moon-set. Melancthe appears, and now, instead of Shimrod pursuing Melancthe, it is Melancthe who pursues Shimrod, that she may beguile and befuddle him in his manse Trilda, that he may desist from molesting her friend Tamurello.