Little, Big

V.

Are you, or are you not? Have

you the taste of your existence,

or do you not? Are you within

the country or on the border? Are

you mortal or immortal?

—Parliament of the Birds

'I want a clean cup,' the Hatter

interrupted. 'Everyone move one place.'

—Alice in Wonderland

That the Dog predicted by Sophie which greeted Daily Alice at the door should turn out to be Spark didn't surprise Alice much, but that the old man whom she found to guide her on the far side of the river should be her cousin George Mouse was unexpected.

"I don't think of you as old, George," she said. "Not old."

"Hey," George said, "older than you, and you're no spring chicken, you know, kid."

"How did you get here?" she asked.

"How did I get where?" he replied.


Her Blessing

They walked together through dark woods, talking of many things. They walked a long way; spring came on more fully; the woods deepened. Alice was glad of his company, although she had not been sure she needed a guide; the woods were unknown to her, and scary; George carried a thick stick, and knew the path. "Dense," she said; and as she said it she remembered her wedding journey: she remembered Smoky asking, about a stand of trees over by Rudy Flood's, whether those were the woods Edgewood was on the edge of. She remembered the night they had spent in the cave of moss. She remembered walking through the woods on the way to Amy and Chris's house. "Dense," he had said; "Protected," she'd answered. As each of these memories and many others awoke in her, unfolding as vivid as life, Alice seemed to remember them for the last time, asthough they faded and dropped as soon as they blossomed; or rather that each memory she called up ceased, as soon as she called it up, to be a memory, and became instead, Somehow, a prediction: something that had not been but which Alice, with a deep sense of happy possibility, could imagine one day being.

"Well," George said. "This is about as far as I go."

They had approached the edge of the wood. Beyond, sunny glades went on like pools, sunlight falling in square shafts upon them through tall trees; and beyond that, a white, sunlit world, obscure to their eyes accustomed to the dimness.

"Goodbye, then," Alice said. "You'll come to the banquet?"

"Oh, sure," George said. "How could I help it?"

They stood a moment in silence, and then George, a little embarrassed for he'd never done this before, asked her blessing; and she gave it gladly, on his flocks and on his produce, and on his old head; she bent and kissed him where he knelt, and went on.


So Big

The glades like pools, one after another, continued a long way. This part, Alice thought, was the best so far: these violets and these new moist ferns, those graylichened stones, these bars of benevolent sun. "So big," she said. "So big." A thousand creatures paused in their spring occupations to watch her pass; the hum of newborn insects was like a constant breath. "Dad would have liked this place," she thought, and even as she thought it she knew how it was that he had come (or would come) to understand the voices of creatures, for she understood them herself, she needed only to listen.

Mute rabbits and noisy jays, gross belching frogs and chipmunks who made smart remarks—but what was that in the further glade, standing on one leg, lifting alternately one wing and then the other? A stork, wasn't it?

"Don't I know you?" Alice asked when she had entered there. The stork leapt away, startled and looking guilty and confused.

"Well, I'm not sure," the stork said. It looked at Alice first with one eye, and then with both eyes down its long red beak, which gave it a look at once worried and censorious, as though it peered over the tops of pince-nez spectacles. "I'm not sure at all. I'm not sure of much at all, to tell you the truth."

"I think I do," Alice said. "Didn't you once raise a family at Edgewood, on the roof?"

"I may have," the stork said. It made to preen its feathers with its beak, and did it very clumsily, as though surprised to find it had feathers at all. "This," Alice heard it say to itself, "is going to be just an enormous trial, I can see that."

Alice helped her loose a primary that had got folded the wrong way, and the stork, after some uncomfortable fluffing, said, "I wonder—I wonder if you would mind my walking a ways with you?"

"Of course you may," Alice said. "If you're sure you wouldn't rather fly."

"Fly?" said the stork, alarmed. "Fly?"

"Well," Alice said, "I'm not really sure where I'm going at all. I sort of just got here."

"No matter," the stork said. "I just got here myself, in a manner of speaking."

They walked on together, the stork as storks do taking long, careful steps as though afraid to find something unpleasant underfoot.

"How," Alice asked, since the stork said nothing more, "did you just get here?"

"Well," the stork said.

"I'll tell you my story," Alice said, "if you'll tell me yours." For the stork seemed to want to speak, but to be unable to bring itself to do it.

"It depends," the stork said at last, "on whose story it is you want to hear. Oh, very well. No more equivocation.

"Once," it said, after a further pause, "I was a real stork. Or rather, a real stork was all I was, or she was. I'm telling this very badly, but at all events I was also, or we were also, a young woman: a very proud and very ambitious young woman, who had just learned, in another country, some very difficult tricks from masters far older and wiser than herself. There was no need, no need at all, for her to practice one of these tricks on an unwitting bird, but she was young and somewhat thoughtless, and the opportunity presented itself.

"She performed her trick or manipulation very well, and was thrilled at her new powers, though how the stork bore it—well, I'm afraid she, I, never gave much thought to that, or rather I, the stork, I thought about nothing else.

"I had been given consciousness, you see. I didn't know that it was not my own but another's, and only loaned to me, or rather given or hidden in me for safe-keeping. I, I the stork, thought—well, it's very distressing to think of, but I thought that I was not a stork at all; I believed myself to be a human woman, who by the malice of someone, I didn't know whom, had been transformed into a stork, or imprisoned in one. I had no memory of the human woman I had been, because of course she retained that life and its memories, and went gaily on living it. I was left to puzzle it out.

"Well, I flew far, and learned much; I passed through doors no stork before had ever passed through. I made a living; I raised young—yes, at Edgewood once—and I had other employments, well, no need to speak of them; storks, you know . . . Anyway, among the things I learned, or was told, was that a great King was returning, or re-awaking; and that after his liberation would come my own, and that then I would truly be a human woman."

She paused in her tale, and stood staring; Alice, not knowing whether storks can weep or not, looked closely at her, and though no drop fell from her pinkish eye Alice thought that in some storkish sense she did weep.

"And so I am," she said at length. "And so I am, now, that human woman. At last. And still only, and for always, the real stork I always and only was." She lowered her head before Alice in sorrowful confession. "Alice, you do know me," she said. "I am, or was, or we were, or will be, your cousin Ariel Hawksquill."

Alice blinked. She had promised herself to be surprised by nothing here; and indeed, after she had contemplated the stork, or Hawksquill, for an astonished moment, it did seem that she had heard this tale before, or to have known that it would happen, or had happened. "But," she said, "where, I mean how, where is . . ."

"Dead," said the stork. "Dead, spoilt, ruined. Murdered. I really, she really, had no place else to go." She opened her red beak, and clacked it shut again, a sort of sigh. "Well. No matter. Only it will take time to get used to. Her disappointment, the stork's I mean. My new—body." She raised a wing and looked at it. "Fly," she said. "Well. Perhaps."

"I'm sure," Alice said, putting her hand on the stork's soft shoulder. "And I should think you could share, I mean share it with Ariel, I mean share it with the stork. You can accommodate." She smiled; it was like arbitrating a dispute between two of her children.

The stork stepped on in silence a time. Alice's hand on her shoulder seemed to soothe her, she had stopped her irritable fluffing. "Perhaps," she said at length. "Only—well. Forever and ever." There was a catch in her throat; Alice could see the long apple move. "It does seem hard."

"I know," Alice said. "It never comes out like you think it will; or even like you thought they said it would, though maybe it does. You learn to live with it," she said. "That's all."

"I'm sorry now," Ariel Hawksquill said, "of course too late, that I didn't accept your invitation of that night, to go with you. I should have."

"Well," Alice said.

"I thought I was separate from this fate. But I've been in this Tale all along, haven't I? With all the rest."

"I suppose," Alice said. "I suppose you have, if here you are now. Tell me though," she added, "whatever became of the cards?"

"Oh dear," said Hawksquill, turning her red beak away in shame. "I do have a lot to make up for, don't I?"

"It doesn't matter," Alice said. They were coming to the end of the forest glades; beyond lay a land of a different sort. Alice stopped. "I'm sure you can. Make up for it, I mean. For not coming and all." She looked out over the land she must now travel. So big, so big. "You can be a help to me, I think. I hope."

"I'm sure of it," Hawksquill said with conviction. "Sure."

"Because I'll need help," Alice said. There somewhere, beyond those hedges, over those green waves of earth where the new-risen grass-sea turned silver in the sunlight, Alice remembered or foresaw the knoll to be, on which there stood an oak tree and a thorn in deep embrace; and, if you knew the way, there was a small house there built underside, and a round door with a brass knocker; but there would be no need to knock, for the door would stand open, and the house would anyway be empty. And there would be knitting to take up, and duties, duties so large, so new. . . . "I'll need help," she said again. "I will."

"I'll help," said her cousin. "I can help."

Somewhere there, beyond those blue hills, how far? An open door, and a small house big enough to hold all this spinning earth; a chair to rock away the years, and an old broom in the corner to sweep away winter.

"Come along," the stork said. "We'll get used to it. It'll be all right."

"Yes," said Alice. There would be help, there must be; she couldn't do it all alone. It would be all right. Still she didn't take the first step beyond the woods' edge; she stood a long time, feeling the asking breezes on her face, remembering or forgetting many things.


More, Much More

Smoky Barnable, in the warm glow of many electric lights, sat down in his library to turn over once again the pages of the last edition of the Architecture of Country Houses. All the windows had been opened, and a cool fresh May night came and went unhindered as he read. The last of winter had been swept away as by a new broom.

Far upstairs, as silently as the stars it modeled, the orrery turned, passing its tiny but unresistable motion through many oiled brass gears to give impetus to the twenty-four-handed fly-wheel, shut up once again in its black case but delivering its own force to generators, which in turn fed the house with light and power, and would go on doing so until all the jewelled bearings, all the best-quality nylon and leather belts, all the hardened-steel points themselves wore away: years and years, Smoky supposed. The house, his house, as though from the effects of a tonic, had perked up, refreshed and strengthened; its basements had dried, its attics were ventilated; the dust that had filled it had been sucked up by a potent and ancient whole-house vacuum-cleaner whose existence in the walls of the house Smoky had vaguely known about but which no one had thought would ever work again; even the crack in the music-room ceiling seemed on the way to healing, though why was a mystery to Smoky. The old stocks of hoarded light-bulbs were brought out, and Smoky's house alone, the only one for miles, was lit up continuously, like a beacon or the entrance to a ballroom. Not out of pride, not really, though he had been very proud of his arrangements, but because he found it easier to expend the limitless energy than to store it (why store it, anyway?) or to disengage the machine.

And besides, lit up, the house might be easier to find: easier for someone lost, or gone off, who might be returning on a moonless night, to find in the darkness.

He turned a heavy page.

Here was a horrid idea of some vindictive spiritualist's. There is, of course, no hell after death, only a progress through higher and higher Levels. No eternal suffering, though there might be a difficult, or at least lengthy, Re-education for recalcitrant or stupid souls. Generous: but this had apparently not been enough coals to heap on the heads of sceptics, so the idea was conceived that those who refuse to see the light in this life will refuse to see it, or be blind to it, in the next as well; they will stagger alone eternally in cold darkness, believing that this is all there is, while all around them unbeknown the happy bustle of the communion of saints goes on, fountains and flowers and whirling spheres and the striving souls of the great departed.

Alone.

It was clear that he could not go where all of them were summoned unless his desire were as strong as faith. But how could he desire another world than this one? He studied again and again the descriptions in the Architecture, but he found nowhere anything to convince him that There he would find a world anything like as rich, as deeply strange yet just as deeply familiar, as this one he lived in.

Always Spring there: but he wanted winter too, gray days and rain. He wanted it all, nothing left out; he wanted his fire, his long memories and what started them in his soul, his small comforts, his troubles even. He wanted the death he had often lately contemplated, and a place beside the others he had dug places for.

He looked up. Amid the constellation of the library's lamps reflected in the windows the moon had risen. It was just crescent, fragile and white. When it was full, Midsummer Day, they would depart.

Paradise. A world elsewhere.

He didn't really mind that there was a long Tale being told, didn't even object any longer that he had been put to its uses; he only wanted it to continue, not to stop, to go on being muttered out endlessly by whatever powers they were who spun it, putting him to sleep with its half-heard anecdotes and going on still while he slept in his grave. He didn't want it to snatch him up in this way, startle him with high, sad, harrowing conclusions he wasn't equal to. He didn't want it to have taken his wife from him.

He didn't want to be marched off to another world he couldn't imagine; a little world that couldn't be as big as this one.

Yet it is, said the breezes that passed his ears.

It couldn't contain all seasons in their fullness, all happinesses, all griefs. It couldn't contain the history of his five senses and all that they had known.

But it does, said the breezes.

Not all of that, which was his world; and then more too.

Oh more, said the Breezes; more, much more.

Smoky looked up. The drapes at the window moved. "Alice?" he said.

He got up, pushing the heavy book to the floor. He went to the tall window and looked out. The walled garden was a dark vestibule; the door open in the wall led to moonlit turf and misty evening.

She's far, she's there, a Little Breeze said.

"Alice?"

She's near, she's here, said another; but whatever it was that seemed to proceed toward him through the windy darkness and the garden, he didn't recognize it. He stood a long time looking into the night as into a face, as though it might converse with him, and explain many things: he thought it could, but all he heard it say, or himself say, was a name.

The moon rose out of sight above the house. Smoky climbed slowly up to his bed. About the time the moon set, pale horns indicating the place where the sleepy sun would soon rise, Smoky awoke, feeling he hadn't been asleep for a moment, as imsomniacs do; he dressed himself in an old frayed dressing gown with braided edges around the cuffs and pockets, and climbed up to the top of the house, turning on as he went the hall-sconces that some thoughtless person had left off.

Lit by planetshine and daybreak, the sleepless system didn't seem to move, any more than the morning star outside the round window seemed to: and yet it did move. Smoky watched it, thinking of the night when by lamplight he had read out from the Ephemeris the degrees, minutes and seconds of the stars' ascensions, and felt, when he had set the last moon of Jupiter, the infinitesimal shudder of its quickening. And heard the first steel croquet-ball fall otherwise unaided into the waiting hand of the absurd overbalancing wheel. Saved. He remembered the feeling.

He put his hand on the wheel's black case, feeling it tick over far more steadily than his own heart; and more patient too, and a hardier thing altogether. He pushed open the round window, letting in a glad rush of birdsong, and looked out over the tiled roofs. Another nice day. What is so rare. You could see a long way south from this height, he noticed; you could see the steeple at Meadowbrook, the roofs of Plainfield. Amid them the greening clumps of woods were misty; beyond the towns the woods thickened into the great Wild Wood on whose edge Edgewood stood, which went on growing always deeper and thicker toward the South far farther than the eye could see.


Only the Brave

They came to the heart of the forest, but it was a deserted kingdom. They had come no closer to any Parliament, or any closer either to her whom Auberon sought, whose name he had forgotten.

"How far can you go into the woods?" Fred asked.

Auberon knew the answer to that. "Halfway," he said. "Then you start coming back out again."

"Not this woods though," Fred said. His steps had slowed; he plucked up moss and wormy earth with every footstep. He put his feet down.

"Which way?" Auberon said. But from here all ways were one.

He had seen her: he had seen her more than once: had seen her far off, moving brightly amid the forest's dark dangers, seeming at home there; once standing alone pensive in the tigery shade (he was sure, almost sure, it had been she), once hurrying away, a crowd of small beings at her feet, she hadn't turned to see him though one of those with her had, sharp ears, yellow eyes, a beast's unmeaning smile. Always she seemed to be headed elsewhere, purposefully; and when he followed she wasn't where he went.

He would have called to her, if he hadn't been unable to remember her name. He had sorted through the alphabet to jog his memory, but it had turned to wet leaves, to staghorn, snails' shells, fauns' feet; it all seemed to spell her, but gave him no name. And then she had escaped, not having noticed him, and he was only deeper in than before.

Now he was at the center, and she wasn't there either, whatever her name was.

Brown breasts? Brown something. Laurel, or cobweb, something like that; bramble, or something that began with a bee, or a sea.

"Annaway," Fred said. "This looks like as far as I go." His poncho was stiff and tattered, his pant-legs all fray; his toes protruded from the mouths of his ruined galoshes. He tried to raise one foot from the ground, but it wouldn't rise. His toes gripped earth.

"Wait," said Auberon.

"No help for it," Fred said. "Nest of robins in my hair. Nice. Okay."

"But come on," Auberon said. "I can't go on without you."

"Oh, I'm comin'," said Fred, budding. "Still comin', still guidin'. Oney not walkin'." Between his great rooting toes a crowd of brown mushrooms had sprung up. Auberon looked up, up, up at him. His knuckles doubled, tripled, turned to hundreds. "Hey m'man," he said. "Lookin' at God all day, yunnastan. Gots to catch some rays, scuse me," and his face tilted back disappearing into bole as he reached up toward the treetops with a thousand greening fingers. Auberon gripped his trunk.

"No," he said. "Damn it now, don't."

He sat down, helpless, at Fred's foot. Now he was lost for sure. What stupid, stupid madness of desire had propelled him here, here where she was not, this princedom of nobody's where she had never been, where he was unable to remember anything of her but his desire for her. He put his head in his hands, despairing.

"Hey," said the tree, with a woody voice. "Hey, what's that about. I got counsel. Listen up."

Auberon raised his head.

"Oney the brave," said Fred, "jes' oney the brave deserve the fair."

Auberon stood. Tears made rivulets in his dirty cheeks. "All right," he said. He ran his hands through his hair, combing out dead leaves. He too had grown rank, as though he had lived years in the woods, mould in his cuffs, berry-juice in his beard, caterpillars in his pockets. A derelict.

He would have to start all over again, that's all. Brave he was not, but he had arts. Had he learned nothing at all? He must get a grip on this, he must get power over this. If this were a deserted princedom, then he could install himself in its seat, if he could think how, and then he would be lost no more. How?

Only by reason. He must think. He must make order here where there was none. He must get bearings, make a list, number everything and arrange it all in ranks and orders. He must, first of all, erect in the heart of the forest a place where he knew where he was, and what was what; then he might remember who he was, he who was here at the seat and center; and then what he should do here thereupon. He would, Somehow, have to turn back and start again.

He looked around the place he was, trying to think which of the ways away from it would lead him back.

All would, or none would. Warily he peered down leafy flowered avenues. Whatever way looked most like leading him away would only turn in some subtle way and lead him back, he knew that much. There was an expectant, an ironic silence in the woods, a few brief questions from the birds.

He took a seat on a fallen log. Before him, in the center of the glade, amid the grasses and violets, he set up a little stone shed or pavilion, facing in four directions, north, south, east and west. On each of its faces he put a season: winter, summer, spring and fall. Radiating away from it were the curving, tricksome ways; he metalled them in gravel, and bordered them with white-painted stones, and led them toward or awsy from statues, an obelisk, a martenhouse on a pole, a little arched bridge, beds of tulips and day-lilies. Around it all he drew a great square of wrought-iron fence studded with arrow-headed posts, and four locked gates to go in and out of.

There. Traffic could be heard, though far off. Carefully he shifted his look: there beyond the fence was a classical courthouse, surmounted with statues of lawgivers. A hint of acrid smoke mixed in his nostrils with spring air. Now he needed only to go around the place he had made, to each of its parts in strict order, and demand from each the part of Sylvie he had put there.

The part of whom?

The park trembled in unreality, but he put it back. Don't grasp, don't hurry. The first place first, then the second place. If he didn't do this properly, he would never find out how the story came out: whether he found her, and brought her back (back where?) or lost her for good, or whatever the end was, or would be, or had been. He began again: the first place, then the second place.

No, it was hopeless. How could he ever have thought to have contained her in this place, like a princess in a tower? She had fled, she had arts of her own. And what anyway did his ragbag of memories amount to? Her? No way. They had grown over time even more crushed, faded and tattered than he remembered them being when he had put them here. It was no use. He rose from his park bench, feeling in his pocket for the key that would let him out. The little girls who played jacks along the path looked up at him warily as he chose a gate to go out of.

Locks. That's all this damn City is, he thought, inserting his key; locks upon locks. Rows, clusters, bouquets of locks knotted against the edges of doors, and the pocket weighed down as with sin by keys, to open them and lock them up again. He pushed open the heavy gate, swinging it aside like a jail door. On the rusticated red stone gatepost was a plaque: it said Mouse Drinkwater Stone 1900. And from the gate the street stretched out, townhouse-lined for a block, then marching into the brown uptown distance between vague castles, old in power, that scraped the sky, wreathed in smoke and noise.

He walked. People hurried past him, they had destinations, he was aimless and slower. And from a side street ahead of him, a package under her arm, booted feet quick, Sylvie turned on to the avenue and away uptown.

Small, alone but assured on the hectic street, her kingdom. And his. Her retreating back: she was still on her way away, and he was behind. But he was pointed now, at last, in the right direction. He opened his mouth, and her name came out. It had been on the tip of his tongue.

"Sylvie," he called.


Quite Close

She heard that, and it seemed to be a name she knew; her feet slowed, and she partly turned but did not; it had been a name, a name she remembered from somewhere, somewhen. Had a bird called it, calling to its mate? She looked up into the sunshot leaves. Or a chipmunk, calling its friends and relations? She watched one scamper and freeze on the knobby knees of an oak, then turn to look at her. She walked on, small, alone but assured beneath the tall trees, her naked feet falling quick one after the other among the flowers.

She walked far, and fast; the wings she had grown were not wings, yet they bore her; she didn't stop to amuse herself, though pleasures were shown her and many creatures implored her to stay. "Later, later," she said to all, and hurried on, the path unfolding before her night by day as she went.

He's coming, she thought, I know it, he'll be there, he will; maybe he won't remember me, but I'll remind him, he'll see. The present she had for him, chosen after long thought, she held tight under her arm and had let no one else carry, though many had offered.

And if he wasn't there?

No, he would be; there could be no banquet for her if he wasn't present, and a banquet had been promised; everybody would be there, and surely he was one. Yes! The best seat, the choicest morsels, she would feed him by hand just to watch his face, he'd be so surprised! Had he changed? He had, but she'd know him. She was sure.

Night sped her. The moon rose, waxing fat, and winked at her: party! Where was she now? She stopped, and listened to the forest speak. Near, near. She had never been here before, and that was a sign. She didn't like to go further without sure bearings, and some word. Her invitation was clear, and she need defer to none, but. She climbed a tall tree to its tip-top, and looked out over the moon's country.

She was on the forest's edge. Night breezes browsed in the treetops, parting the leaves with their passage. Far off, or near, or both, anyway beyond the roofs of that town and that moonlit steeple, she saw a house: a house decked out in lights, every window bright. She was quite close.

Mrs. Underhill on that night looked one last time around her dark and tidy house, and saw that all was as it should be. She went out, and pulled the door shut; she looked up into the moon's Face; she drew from her deep pocket the iron key, and locked the door, and put the key under the mat.


Give Way Give Way

Give way, give way, she thought; give way. It was all theirs, now. The banquet was set with all its places, and very pretty it was too, she almost wished she could be there. But now that the old king had come at last, and would sit on his high throne (whenever it was, she had never been exactly sure) there was nothing more for her to do.

The man known as Russell Eigenblick had had, when he alighted, only one question for her: "Why?"

"Why, for goodness' sake," Mrs. Underhill had said. "why, why. Why does the world need three sexes, when one of them doesn't help out? Why are there twenty-four kinds of dreams and not twenty-five? Why is there always an even number of ladybugs in the world and not an odd, an odd number of stars visible and not an even? Doors had to be opened; cracks had to be forced; a wedge was needed, and you were it. A winter had to be made before spring could come; you were the winter. Why? Why is the world as it is and not different? If you had the answer to that, you wouldn't be here now asking it. Now do calm yourself. Do you have your robe and crown? Is everything as you like it, or near enough? Rule wisely and well; I know you'll rule long. Give my best to them all, when they come to make their obeisance, in the fall; and don't, please don't, ask them hard questions; they've had enough of those to answer these many years."

And was that all? She looked around herself. She was all packed; her unimaginable trunks and baskets had been sent on ahead with those strong young ones who had gone first. Had she left the key? Yes, under the mat; she had just done that. Forgetful. And was that all?

Ah, she thought: one thing left to do.


Come or Stay

"We're going," she said, when near dawn she stood on the point of rock that jutted out over a pool in the woods into which a waterfall fell with a constant song.

Spears of moonlight were broken by the pool's surface; new leaves and blossoms floated there, gathering in the eddies. A great white trout, pink-eyed, without speckle or belt, rose slowly at her words. "Going?" he said.

"You can come or stay," said Mrs. Underhill. "You've been so long on this side of the story that it's up to you by now."

The trout said nothing, alarmed beyond words. At last Mrs. Underhill, growing impatient with his sad goggling, said sharply, "Well?"

"I'll stay," he said quickly.

"Very well," Mrs. Underhill said, who would have been very surprised indeed if he had answered differently. "Soon," she said, "soon there will come to this place a young girl (well, an old, old lady now, but no matter, a girl you knew) and she will look down into this pool; she will be the one you've so long waited for, and she won't be fooled by your shape, she'll look down and speak the words that will free you."

"She will?" said Grandfather Trout.

"Yes."

"Why?"

"For love's sake, you old fool," Mrs. Underhill said; she struck the rock beneath her stick so hard it cracked; a dust of granite drifted onto the stirred surface of the pool. "Because the story's over."

"Oh," said Grandfather Trout. "Over?"

"Yes. Over."

"Couldn't I," said Grandfather Trout, "just stay as I am?"

She bent down, studying his dim silver shape in the pool. "As you are?" she said.

"Well," said the fish. "I've got used to it. I don't remember this girl, at all."

"No," said Mrs. Underhill, after some thought. "No, I don't think you can. I can't imagine that." She straightened up. "A bargain's a bargain," she said, turning away. "Nothing to do with me."

Grandfather Trout retreated into the weed-bearded hidey-holes of his pool, fear in his heart. Remembrance, against his will, was coming fast on him. She; but which she would it be? And how could he hide from her when she came, not with commands, not with questions, but with the words, the only words (he would have shut his eyes tight against the knowledge, if only he had had lids to shut) that would stir his cold heart? And yet he could not leave; summer had come, and with it a million bugs; the torrents of spring were done and his pool the old familiar mansion once again. He would not leave. He laved his fins in agitation, feeling things come and go along his thin skin he had not felt in decades; he worked himself deeper into his hole, hoping and doubting that it would be deep enough to hide him.

"Now," Mrs. Underhill said, as dawn rose around her. "Now."

"Now," she heard her children say, those near and those far off too, in all their various voices. Those near gathered around her skirts; she put her hand to her brow and spied those already journeying, caravans down the valley toward dawn, dwindling to invisibility. Mr. Woods took her elbow.

"A long way," he said. "A long, long way."

Yes, it would be long; longer, she thought, though not so hard, as the way for those who followed her here, for at least she knew the way. And there would be fountains there to refresh her, and all of them; and there would be the broad lands she had dreamed of so often.

There was some trouble getting the old Prince helped onto his broken-winded charger, but when he was aloft he raised a feeble hand, and they all cheered; the war was over, more than over, forgotten, and they had won. Mrs. Underhill, leaning on her staff, took his reins, and they set out.


Not Going

It was the year's longest day, Sophie knew, but why should it be called Midsummer when summer had just begun? Maybe only because it was the day, the first day, on which summer seemed endless; seemed to stretch out before and behind limitlessly, and every other season was out of mind and unimaginable. Even the stretch of the screen-door's spring and the clack of its closing behind her as she went in, and the summer odor of the vestibule, seemed no longer new, and were as though they had always been.

And yet it might have been that this summer could not come at all. It was Daily Alice who had brought it, Sophie felt sure; by her bravery had saved it from never occurring, by going first had seen to it that this day was made. It should therefore seem fragile and conditional, and yet it didn't; it was as real a summer day as Sophie had ever known, it might be the only real summer day she had known since childhood, and it vivified her and made her brave too. She hadn't felt brave at all for some time: but now she thought she could feel brave, Alice all around, and she must. For today they set out.

Today they set out. Her heart rose and she clutched more tightly to her the knitted bag that was all the luggage she could think to bring. Planning and thinking and hoping and fearing had taken up most of her days since the meeting held at Edgewood, but only rarely did she feel what she was about; she forgot, so to speak, to feel it. But she felt it now.

"Smoky?" she called. The name echoed in the tall vestibule of the empty house. Everyone had gathered outdoors, in the walled garden and on the porches and out in the Park; they had been gathering since morning, bringing each whatever they could think of for the journey, and as ready for whatever journey they imagined as they could be. Now afternoon had begun to go, and they had looked to Sophie for some word or some direction, and she had gone to find Smoky, who at times like this was always behind-hand, for picnics and expeditions of every kind.

Of every kind. If she could go on thinking that it was a picnic or an expedition, a wedding or a funeral or a holiday, or any ordinary outing at all which of course she knew quite well how to manage, and just go on doing what needed to be done just as though she knew what that was, then—well, then she would have done all that she could, and she had to leave the rest to others. "Smoky?" she called again.

She found him in the library, though when at first she glanced in there she didn't perceive him; the drapes were drawn, and he sat unmoving in a big armchair, hands clasped before him and a big book open, face down, on the floor by his feet.

"Smoky?" She came in, apprehensive. "Everybody's ready, Smoky," she said. "Are you all right?"

He looked up at her. "I'm not going," he said.

She stood for a moment, unable to understand this. Then she put down her knitted bag—it contained an old album of pictures, and a cracked china figurine of a stork with an old woman and a naked child on its back, and one or two other things; it should have contained the cards, of course, but did not—and came to where he sat. "What, no," she said. "No."

"I'm not going, Sophie," he said, mildly enough, as though he simply didn't care to. And looked down at his clasped hands.

Sophie reached for him, and opened her mouth to expostulate, but then didn't; she knelt by him and said gently, "What is it?"

"Oh, well," Smoky said. He didn't look at her. "Somebody ought to stay, shouldn't they? Somebody ought to be here, to sort of take care of things. I mean in case—in case you wanted to come back, if you did, or in case of anything.

"It is my house," he said, "after all."

"Smoky," Sophie said. She put her hand over his clasped ones. "Smoky, you have to come, you have to!"

"Don't, Sophie."

"Yes! You can't not come, you can't, what will we do without you?"

He looked at her, puzzled by her vehemence. It didn't seem to Smoky to be a remark anyone could fitly make to him, what would they do without him, and he didn't know how to answer. "Well," he said. "I can't."

"Why?"

He sighed a long deep sigh. "It's just, well." He passed his hand over his brow; he said, "I don't know—it's just . . ."

Sophie waited through these preambles, which put her in mind of others, long ago, other small words eked out before a hard thing was said; she bit her lip, and said nothing.

"Well, it's bad enough," he said, "bad enough to have Alice go. . . . See," he said, stirring in his chair, "see, Sophie, I was never really part of this, you know; I can't . . . I mean I have been so lucky, really. I never would have thought, I never really would have thought, back when I was a kid, back when I came to the City, that I could have had so much happiness. I just wasn't made for it. But you—Alice—you—you took me in. It was like—it was like finding out you'd inherited a million dollars. I didn't always understand that—or yes, yes I did, I did, sometimes I took it for granted maybe, but underneath I knew. I was grateful. I can't even tell you."

He pressed her hand. "Okay, okay. But now—with Alice gone. Well, I guess I always knew she had a thing like that to do, I knew it all along, but I never expected it. You know? And Sophie, I'm not suited for that, I'm not made for it. I wanted to try, I did. But all I could think was, it's bad enough to have lost Alice. Now I have to lose all the rest, too. And I can't, Sophie, I just can't."

Sophie saw that tears had started in his eyes, and overflowed the old pink cups of his lids, a thing she didn't think she'd ever seen before, no, never, and she wanted with all her heart to tell him No, he wouldn't lose anything, that he went away from nothing and toward everything, Alice most of all; but she didn't dare, for however much she knew it was true for her, she couldn't say it to Smoky, for if it wasn't true for him, and she had no certainty that it was, then no terrible lie could be crueler; and yet she had promised Alice to bring him, no matter what; and couldn't imagine leaving without him herself. And still she could say nothing.

"Anyway," he said. He wiped his face with his hand. "Anyway."

Sophie, at a loss, oppressed by the gloom, rose, unable to think. "But," she said helplessly, "it's too nice a day, it's just such a nice day. . . ." She went to the heavy drapes that made a twilight in the room, and tore them open. Sunlight blinded her, she saw many in the walled garden, around the stone table beneath the beech; some looked up; and a child outside tapped on the window to be let in.

Sophie undid the window. Smoky looked up from his chair. Lilac stepped over the sill, looked at Smoky arms akimbo, and said, "Now what's the matter?"

"Oh, thank goodness," Sophie said, weak with relief. "Oh, thank goodness."

"Who's that?" Smoky said, rising.

Sophie hesitated a moment, but only a moment. There were lies, and then there were lies. "It's your daughter," she said. "Your daughter Lilac."


Land Called the Tale

"All right," Smoky said, throwing up his hands like a man under arrest, "all right, all right."

"Oh good," Sophie said. "Oh Smoky."

"It'll be fun," Lilac said. "You'll see. You'll be so surprised."

Defeated in his last refusal, as he might have known he would be. He really had no arguments that could stand against them, not when they could bring long-lost daughters before him to plead, to remind him of old promises. He didn't believe that Lilac needed his fathership, he thought she probably needed nothing and no one at all, but he couldn't deny he'd promised to give it. "All right," he said again, avoiding Sophie's radiantly pleased face. He went around the library, turning on lights.

"But hurry," Sophie said. "While it's still day."

"Hurry," Lilac said, tugging at his arm.

"Now wait a minute," Smoky said. "I've got to get a few things."

"Oh, Smoky!" Sophie said, stamping her foot.

"Just hold on," Smoky said. "Hold your horses."

He went out into the hall, turning on lamps and wallsconces, and up the stairs, with Sophie at his heels. Upstairs, he went one by one through the bedrooms, turning on lights, looking around, moving just ahead of Sophie's impatience. Once he looked out a window, and down on many gathered below; afternoon was waning. Lilac looked up, and waved.

"Okay, okay," he muttered. "All right."

In his and Alice's room, when he had lit all the lights, he stood a time, angry and breathing hard. What the hell do you take? On such a trip?

"Smoky . . ." Sophie at the door said.

"Now, damn it, Sophie," he said, and pulled open drawers. A clean shirt, anyway; a change of underwear. A poncho, for rain. Matches and a knife. A little onion-skin Ovid, from the bedside table. Metamorphoses. All right.

Now what to put them in? It occurred to him that it had been so many years since he had gone anywhere from this house that he owned no luggage whatever. Somewhere, in some attic or basement, lay the pack he had first carried to Edgewood, but just where he had no idea. He threw open closet doors, there were half a dozen deep cedar-lined closets around this room that all his and Alice's clothes had never come close to filling. He tugged at the light-pulls, their phosphorescent tips like fireflies. He glimpsed his yellowed white wedding suit, Truman's. Below it in a corner—well, maybe this would do, odd how old things pile up in the corners of closets, he hadn't known this was in here: he pulled it out.

It was a carpetbag. An old, mouse-chewed Gladstone carpetbag with a cross-bones catch.

Smoky opened it, and looked with a strange foreboding or hindsight into its dark insides. It was empty. An odor arose from it, musty, the odor of leaf-mould or Queen-Anne's-lace or the earth under an upturned stone. "This'll do," he said softly. "This'll do, I guess."

He put the few things in it. They seemed 'to disappear in its capacious insides.

What else should go in?

He thought, holding open the bag: a twine of creeper or a necklace, a hat heavy as a crown; chalk, and a pen; a shotgun, a flask of rum-tea, a snowflake. A book about houses; a book about stars; a ring. With the greatest vividness, a vividness that stabbed him deeply, he saw the road between Meadowbrook and Highland, and Daily Alice as she had looked on that day, the day of the wedding trip, the day he was lost in the woods; he heard her say Protected.

He closed the bag.

"All right," he said. He took it up by its leather handles, and it was heavy, but an ease entered him with its weight, it seemed a thing he had always carried, a weight without which he would be unbalanced, and unable to walk.

"Ready?" Sophie said from the door.

"Ready," he said. "I guess."

They went down together. Smoky paused in the hall to push in the ivory buttons of the lights that lit the vestibule, the porches, the basement. Then they went out.

Aaaah, said everyone gathered there.

Lilac had drawn them all after her, from the Park, from the walled garden, from the porches and parterres where they had gathered, to this front of the house, the wooden porch that faced a weedy drive leading to stone gateposts topped with pitted balls like stone oranges.

"Hi, hi," said Smoky.

His daughters came up to him smiling, Tacey, Lily and Lucy, and their children after them. Everyone rose, everyone looked at one another. Only Marge Juniper kept her seat on the porch stairs, unwilling to rise till she knew steps must be taken, for she didn't have many. Sophie asked Lilac:

"Will you lead us?"

"Part way," Lilac said. She stood in the center of the company, pleased, yet a little awed too, and not sure herself which of these would keep on till the end, and having not enough fingers to count. "Part way."

"Is it that way?" Sophie asked, pointing to the stone gateposts. They all turned and looked that way. The first crickets' voices began. Edgewood's swifts cut the air, air blue and turning green. Exhalations of the cooling earth made the way beyond those gateposts obscure.

Had that been the moment, Smoky wondered; had it been that moment, when he had turned in at those stone gateposts for the first time, that the charm had fallen on him, not ever after that to release him? The arm and hand with which he held the carpetbag tingled like a warning bell, but Smoky didn't hear it.

"How far, how far?" asked Bud and Blossom hand in hand.

On that day: the day he had first gone in at Edgewood's door and then in some sense never again back out.

Perhaps: or it may have been before that, or after it, but it wasn't a matter of figuring out when exactly the first charm had invaded his life, or when he had stumbled unwittingly into it, because another had come soon after, and another, they had succeeded one another by a logic of their own, each one occasioned by the last and none removable; even to try to disentangle them would only be the occasion for further charms, and anyway they had never been a causal chain but a series of removes, Chinese boxes one inside the other, the further in you went the bigger it got. And it didn't end now: he was about to step into a new series, endless, infundibular, utter. Apalled by a prospect of endless variation, he was only glad that some things had remained constant: Alice's love chief among them. It was toward that that he journeyed, the only thing that could draw him; and yet he felt that he left it behind; and still he carried it with him.

"A dog to meet us," Sophie said, taking his hand. "A river to cross."

Something began to open in Smoky's heart as he stepped from the porch: a premonition, or the intimation of a revelation.

They had all begun to move, taking up their bags and belongings, talking in low voices, down the drive. But Smoky stopped, seeing he could not go out by that gate: could not go out by the gate through which he had come in. Too many charms had intervened. The gate wasn't the same gate; he wasn't the same either.

"A long way," Lilac said, drawing her mother after her. "A long, long way."

They passed him on either side, burdened and holding hands, but he had stopped: still willing, still journeying, only not walking.

On his wedding day, he and Daily Alice had gone among the guests seated on the grass, and many of them had given gifts, and all of them had said "Thank you." Thank you: because Smoky was willing, willing to take on this task, to take exception to none of it, to live his life for the convenience of others in whom he had never even quite believed, and spend his substance bringing about the end of a Tale in which he did not figure. And so he had; and he was still willing: but there had never been a reason to thank him. Because whether they knew it or not, he knew that Alice would have stood beside him on that day and wed him whether they had chosen him for her or not, would have defied them to have him. He was sure of it.

He had fooled them. No matter what happened now, whether he reached the place they set out for or didn't, whether he journeyed or stayed behind, he had his tale. He had it in his hand. Let it end: let it end: it couldn't be taken from him. He couldn't go where all of them were going, but it didn't matter, for he'd been there all along.

And where was it, then, that all of them were going?

"Oh, I see," he said, though no sound came from his lips. The something that had begun to open in his heart opened further; it let in great draughts of evening air, and swifts, and bees in the hollyhocks; it hurt beyond pain, and wouldn't close. It admitted Sophie and his daughters, and his son Auberon too, and many dead. He knew how the Tale ended, and who would be there.

"Face to face," Marge Juniper said, passing by him. "Face to face." But Smoky heard nothing now but the wind of Revelation blowing in him; he would not, this time, escape it. He saw, in the blue midst of what entered him, Lilac, turning back and looking at him curiously; andby her face he knew that he was right.

The Tale was behind them. And it was to there they journeyed. One step would take them there; they were there already.

"Back there," he tried to say, unable himself to turn in that direction, back there, he tried to tell them, back to where the house stood lit and waiting, the Park and the porches and the walled garden and the lane into the endless lands, the door into summer. If he could turn now (but he could not, it didn't matter that he could not but he could not) he would find himself facing summer's house; and on a balcony there, Daily Alice greeting him, dropping from her shoulders the old brown robe to show him her nakedness amid the shadows of leaves: Daily Alice, his bride, Dame Kind, goddess of that land behind them, on whose borders they stood, the land called the Tale. If he could reach those stone gateposts (but he never would) he would find himself only turning in at them, Midsummer Day, bees in the hollyhocks, and an old woman on the porch there turning over cards.


A Wake

Under an enormous moon full to bursting Sylvie traveled toward the house she had seen, which seemed to be further and further off the closer she came to it. There was a stone fence to climb, and a beech-wood to go through; there was finally a stream to cross, or an enormous river, rushing and gold-foamed in the moonlight. After long thought on its banks, Sylvie made a boat of bark, with a broad leaf for a sail, spider-web lines and an acorn-cup to bail with, and (though nearly swept into the mouth of a dark lake where the river poured underground) she reached the far bank; the flinty house, huge as a cathedral, looked down on her, its dark yews pointing in her direction, its stone-pillared porches warning her away. And Auberon always said it was a cheerful house!

Just as she was thinking that she never would quite reach it, or if she did would reach it as such an atomy that she would fall between the cracks of its paving-stones, she stopped and listened. Amid the sounds of beetles and nightjars, somewhere there was music, somber yet Somehow full of gladness; it drew Sylvie on, and she followed it. It grew, not louder but more full; she saw the lights of a procession gather around her in the furry darkness of the underwood, or saw anyway the fireflies and night-flowers as though in procession, a procession she was one of. Wondering, her heart filled with the music, she approached the place to which the lights tended; she passed through portals where many looked up to see her enter. She put her feet in the sleeping flowers of a lane, a lane that led to a glade where more were gathered, and more coming: where beneath a flowering tree the white-clothed table stood, many places set, and one in the center for her. Only it was not a banquet, as she had thought, or not only a banquet; it was a wake.

Shy, sad for those saddened by whosoever death it was they mourned, she stood a long time watching, her present for Auberon held tight under her arm, listening to the iow sounds of their voices. Then one turned at the end of the table, and his black hat tilted up, and his white teeth grinned to see her. He raised a cup to her, and waved her forward. Gladder than she could have imagined to see him, she made her way through the throng to him, many eyes turning toward her, and hugged him, tears in her throat. "Hey," she said. "Heeeey."

"Hey," George said. "Now everybody's here."

Holding him, she looked around at the crowded table, dozens present, smiling or weeping or draining cups, some crowned, some furred or feathered (a stork or somebody like one dipped her beak in a tall cup, eying with misgivings a grinning fox beside her) but Somehow room for all. "Who are all these people?" she said.

"Family," George said.

"Who died?" Sylvie whispered.

"His father," George said, and pointed out a man who sat, bent-backed, a handkerchief over his face, and a leaf stuck in his hair. The man turned, sighing deeply; the three women with him, looking up and smiling at Sylvie as though they knew her, turned him further to face her.

"Auberon," Sylvie said.

Everyone watched as they met. Sylvie could say nothing, the tears of Auberon's grief were still on his face, and he had nothing that he could say to her, so they only took hands. Aaaah, said all the guests. The music altered; Sylvie smiled, and they cheered her smile. Someone crowned her with odorous white blooms, and Auberon likewise, taking chaplets of locust-flower from the locust-tree which overhung the feast-table. Cups were raised, and toasts shouted; there was laughter. The music pealed. With her brown ringed hand, Sylvie brushed the tears from her prince's face.

The moon sailed toward morning; the banquet turned from wake to wedding, and grew riotous; the people stood up to dance, and sat down to eat and drink.

"I knew you'd be here," Sylvie said. "I knew it."


A Real Gift

In his certainty that she was here now, the fact that Auberon had himself not known at all that she would be here dissolved. "I was sure too," he said. "Sure.

"But," he said, "why, a while ago—" he had no sense of how long ago it had been, hours, ages "— when I called your name, why didn't you stop, and turn around?"

"Did you?" she said. "Did you call my name?"

"Yes. I saw you. You were going away. I called 'Sylvie!'"

"Sylvie?" She looked at him in cheerful puzzlement. "Oh!" she said at length. "Oh! Sylvie! Well, see, I forgot. Because it's been so long. Because they never call me that here. They never did."

"What do they call you?"

"Another name," she said. "A nickname I had when I was a kid."

"What name?" he said.

She told him.

"Oh," he said. "Oh."

She laughed to see his face. She poured foaming drink into his cup and offered it to him. He drank. "So listen," she said. "I want to hear all your adventures. All of them. Don't you want to hear mine?"

All of them, all of them, he thought, the honeyed liquor he drank washing away any sense he might have had of what they could be, it was as though they were all yet to happen, and he would be in them. A prince and a princess: the Wild Wood. Had she then been there, in that kingdom, their kingdom, all along? Had he? What anyway had his adventures been? They vanished, crumpling into broken nothings even as he thought of them, they became as dim and unreal as a gloomy future, even as the future opened before him like a storied past.

"I should have known," he said laughing. "I should have known."

"Yes," she said. "Just beginning. You'll see."

Not one story, no, not one story with one ending but a thousand stories, and so far from over as hardly to have begun. She was swept away from him then by laughing dancers, and he watched her go, there were many hands importuning her, many creatures at her quick feet, and her smile was frank for all of them. He drank, inflamed, his feet itching to learn the antic-hay. And could she, he thought watching her, still cause him pain, too? He touched the gift which in their revels she had placed on his brow, two handsome, broad, ridged and exquisitely recurving horns, heavy and brave as a crown, and thought about them. Love wasn't kind, not always; a corrosive thing, it burned away kindness as it burned away grief. They were infants now in power, he and she, but they would grow; their quarrels would darken the moon and scatter the frightened wild things like autumn gales, would do so, had long done so, it didn't matter.

Doesn't matter, doesn't matter. Her aunt was a witch, but his sisters were queens of air and darkness; their gifts had once aided him, and would again. He was heir to his father's bafflements, but he could touch his mother for strength. . . . As though turning the pages of an endless compendium of romances, all read long ago, he saw the thousands of her children, generations of them, most of them his, he would lose track of them, meet them as strangers, love them, lie with them, fight them, forget them. Yes! They would blunt the pens of a dozen chroniclers with their story and the stories their story generated, tedious, hilarious, or sad; their feasts, their balls, their masques and quarrels, the old curse laid on him and her kiss that mitigated it, their long partings, her vanishings and disguises (crone, castle, bird, he foresaw or remembered many but not all), their reunions and couplings tender or lewd: it would be a spectacle for all, an endless and-then. He laughed a huge laugh, seeing that it would be so: for he had a gift for that, after all; a real gift.

"Y'see?" said the black locust-tree that overhung the feast-table, the locust from which the flowers that decked Auberon's horned head had been taken. "Y'see? Jes' oney the brave deserve the fair.


She's Here She's Near

The dance whirled around the prince and princess, marking a wide circle in the dewy grass; the fireflies, toward dawn, turned in a great circle in obedience to the turning of Lilac's finger, wheeling in the opulent darkness. Aaaah, said all the guests.

"Just the beginning," Lilac said to her mother. "You see? Just like I told you."

"Yes, but Lilac," Sophie said. "You lied to me, you know. About the peace treaty. About meeting them face to face."

Lilac, elbow on the littered table, rested her cheek in the cup of her hand, and smiled at her mother. "Did I?" she said, as though she couldn't remember that.

"Face to face," Sophie said, looking along the broad table. How many were the guests? She'd count them, but they moved around so, and diminished uncountably into the sparkling darkness; some were crashers, she thought, that fox, maybe that gloomy stork, certainly this clumsy stag-beetle that staggered amid the spilled cups flourishing its black antlers; anyway she didn't need to count in order to know how many were here. Only—"Where's Alice, though?" she said. "Alice should be here."

She's here, she's near, said her Little Breezes, moving among the guests. Sophie trembled for Alice's grief; the music altered once again, and a sadness and a stillness came over the company.

"Call for the robin-redbreast an' the wren," said the locust-tree, dropping white petals like tears on the feast-table. "Keep m'man Duke far hence that's foe to man."

The breezes rose to dawn winds, blowing away the music. "Our revels now are ended," sighed the locust-tree. Alice's white hand blotted out the grieving moon like clouds, and the sky grew blue. The stag-beetle fell off the edge of the table, the ladybug flew away home, the fireflies turned down their torches; the cups and dishes scattered like leaves before the coming day.

Come from his burial, none knew where but she, Daily Alice came among them like daybreak, her tears like day-odorous dew. They swallowed tears and wonder before her presence, and made to leave; but no one would say later that she hadn't smiled for them, and made them glad with her blessing, as they parted. They sighed, some yawned, they took hands; they took themselves by twos and threes away to where she sent them, to rocks, fields, streams and woods, to the four corners of the earth, their kingdom new-made.

Then Alice walked alone there, by where the moist ground was marked with the dark circle of their dance, her skirts trailing damp in the sparkling grasses. She thought that if she could she might take away this summer day, this one day, for him; but he wouldn't have liked her to do that and she could not do it anyway. So instead she would make it, which she could do, this her anniversary day, a day of such perfect brilliance, a morning so new, an afternoon so endless, that the whole world would remember it ever after.


Once Upon a Time

The lights of Edgewood which Smoky had left burning paled to nothing on that day; in the night that followed they shone again, and on every night thereafter. Rain and wind came in through the open windows, though, which they had forgotten to close; summer storms stained the drapes and the rugs, scattering papers, blowing shut the closet doors. Moths and bugs found holes in the screens, and died happily in union with the burning bulbs, or did not die but generated young in the rugs and tapestries. Autumn came, though it seemed impossible, a myth, a rumor not to be believed; fallen leaves piled up on the porches, blew in through the screen-door left unlatched, which beat helplessly against the wind and at last died on its hinges, no barrier any more. Mice discovered the kitchen; the cats had all left for more seemly circumstances, and the pantry was theirs, and the squirrels' who came after and nested in the musty beds. Still the orrery turned, mindlessly, cheerfully whirling, and still the house was lit up like a beacon or the entrance to a ballroom. In winter it shone its lights on snow, an ice palace; snow drifted in its rooms, snow capped its cold chimneys. The light over the porch went out.

That there was such a house in the world, lit and open and empty, became a story in those days; there were other stories, people were in motion, stories were all they cared to hear, stories were all they believed in, life had got that hard. The story of the house all lit, the house of four floors, seven chimneys, three hundred and sixtyfive stairs, fifty-two doors, traveled far; they were all travelers then. It met another story, a story about a world elsewhere, and a family whose names many knew, whose house had been large and popuious with griefs and happinesses that had once seemed endless, but had ended, or had stopped; and to those many who still dreamed of that family as often as of their own, the two stories seemed one. The house could be found. In spring the basement lights went out, and one in the music-room.

People in motion; stories starting in a dream, and spoken by unwise actors into wanting ears, then ceasing; the story turning back to dream, and then haunting the day, told and retold. People knew there was a house made of time, and many set out to find it.

It could be found. There it was: at the end of a neglected drive, in a soft rain, not what had been expected at all and however long-sought always come upon unexpectedly, for all its lights; sagging porch steps to go up, and a door to go in by. Small animals who thought the place theirs, long in possession, sharing only with the wind and the weather. On the floor of the library, by a certain chair, face down at a certain page, a heavy book spine-broken and warped by dampness. And many other rooms, their windows filled with the rainy gardens, the Park, the aged trees indifferent and only growing older. And then many doors to choose from, a juncture of corridors, each one leading away, each ending in a door that could be gone out by; evening falling early, and a forgetfulness with it, which way was the way in, which now the way out?

Choose a door, take a step. Mushrooms have come out in the wetness, the walled garden is full of them. There are further lights, there in the twilit bottom of the garden; the door in the wall is open, and the silvery rain sifts over the Park that can just be seen through it. Whose dog is that?

One by one the bulbs burned out, like long lives come to their expected ends. Then there was a dark house made once of time, made now of weather, and harder to find; impossible to find and not even as easy to dream of as when it was alight. Stories last longer: but only by becoming only stories. It was anyway all a long time ago; the world, we know now, is as it is and not different; if there was ever a time when there were passages, doors, the borders open and many crossing, that time is not now. The world is older than it was. Even the weather isn't as we remember it clearly once being; never lately does there come a summer day such as we remember, never clouds as white as that, never grass as odorous or shade as deep and full of promise as we remember they can be, as once upon a time they were.



ABOUT THE AUTHOR

JOHN CROWLEY came to New York City from the Midwest in 1964, and earned his living there in films and television. In 1977 he moved to the Berkshire Hills of Massachusetts, where he has lived in one small town or another writing novels. LITTLE, BIG, his fourth, was begun in New York in 1969 and finished in Lenox, Massachusetts in 1978. He is 38.