Текст книги "Palimpsest"

Автор книги: Catherynne M. Valente

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Текущая страница: 19 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

VERSO:

YOUNG-EYED CHERUBINS

ONE

THE FLAYED HORSE

Amaya Sei sits in the broad open pavilion of the Fushimi Inari shrine. She folds her hands over her stomach, trying, for the hundredth time, to decide. One thousand blaze-orange toriigates open up behind her, winding up the mountain like a long tunnel into fire. Spiders of improbable size string their rain-colored webs in the corners of the gates. They are pale green, though that means nothing here, still it makes Sei smile. There are huge circles under her eyes, and she feels ill, sore in every joint, in every part. I am the Kami of Engines,she thinks to herself, and I have come to take the winds of my lovers into my belly, and to burn.

_______

This is the eighth day she has waited at the shrine. The stone foxes—she has heard there are thirty-three thousand of them on the mountain, an exact number, yet infinite, infinitely variable vulpine faces, and they regard her now with familiar acceptance, like a family dog who has come to love a frequent visitor. The evening is crisp, the leaves almost all brown now, the persimmons flaccid and smeared on the stones. There is a belt of pale gold around the horizon, and above it, all is blue, a universe of blue, like the light at the bottom of a lake.

_______

But today they do come, walking through the festooned gate of the shrine, three of them, holding hands. They are so beautiful, she thinks. So strong. I have paid such a price for their easy passage,she thinks. It was worth it, that they have not suffered as I have.The woman’s skin looks as though it was burned many years ago, but it is healed now, and shining. She is wearing gloves in the cold. One of the men is tall and older, with glasses and poor posture. The other is younger, sad-looking, very thin. But they know her, they know her immediately, and she runs to them, as fast as she can, and despite everything she flings herself into their arms, and kisses the man with glasses as though he is her most desperate wish. He does not give her his tongue, and she does not seek it. And then the woman, whose mouth tastes like the sugar-candies her mother loved, and then the young man, who circles her waist with his arm and lifts her off the ground.

“Come on,” she says in Japanese, but they understand her meaning, and Sei leads them into the tunnel of gates, up and up, one thousand of them, into the crystalline blue night, into the infinite foxes, into the green spiders and the flame-colored pillars. Without knowing why, she begins to run ahead of them, and in her belly the first quavering movement comes with the pounding of her feet. Oh, she thinks, oh, you poor thing. I’m so sorry. You are a terrible toll to pay. I don’t think it will hurt. Just . . . imagine a book at the bottom of a lake. Fish read it. It is your book, all your own, and you can find such wonderful things written there . . .

And she is filled with terror, and filled with joy, with the brightness of their kisses, with the fluttering of her child, with the light of the first stars, and—

_______

And Sei is speeding at the head of the Flyleaf Line, the unpredictable child-train, through the underground and up into the city, the elevated rails, the sassafras-scented air. She cuts her hand with the edge of a steel disc and laughs softly as oil bubbles up from beneath the controls. She presses her palm to it and the shriek of ecstasy that erupts from train and girl shatters three streetlamps as they pass. She sinks into the arms of the Third Rail, and her legs seem to flow into the circuitboard, and her hair seems to flow back over the body of the locomotive, and her arms are pressed back against her sides so that her face, the face of the train, the new train, can feel the wind dancing by.

At Oathusk Station, they will say they saw a train fly. They saw it jump the tracks without the smallest hesitation, jump into the air as though it had waited a lifetime for that jump, and race into the tall grass. The black-faced sheep scattered, and the raspberries exulted as the train that is Sei who is the train moved like light toward the mountains and beyond.

The sound of its whistle, they will say, is like a mother and a child singing together.

TWO

THE UNHAPPY ROOK

Sei is so young, and November kisses her like she will never get a chance again. The toriigates stretch up into the night like one gate echoed over and over, a stutter of gates, and the fox statues grin down from their pedestals. When Sei begins to run ahead into the shadows, November can see them, she is sure she can see them, she would swear it, the foxes, one by one, turn their stone heads and bow to them, their little ears flattened against their granite skulls.

She takes Ludovico’s hand and begins to run, too, up and up and up, and the spiders all around, if she could but hear them, call her name like a rosary, and—

_______

And Casimira sweeps her up with a laugh like a war trumpet, and sets her down again in a vast red room full of brown notebooks and printing presses and bees crawling the walls. November opens the books, one of them, two, but they are blank.

“Didn’t you notice the street names, my darling girl?” Casimira beams. “Enough nouns make a verb, and we have made a verb, and it is us.”

The house tugs at November’s hand and presses it to his little lips. Hesitantly, with held breath, he extends his pink tongue and licks it gently.

November looks for Ludovico, but he is not there. Her bees fly from her fingertips, into the city, seeking him in her name. She smiles in the arms of Casimira, arms tight and strong and undeniable, arms like victory. They will find him.

_______

In years to come the bees of Palimpsest will be utterly changed, and to be stung by one will be to be honored beyond dreams of grace. On their wings will be printed in infinitesimally delicate script an encyclopedia of Palimpsest, written in a high room in a house that practices its smiles, a high room the house kept hidden for all of them, a lair but not a cave. In the encyclopedia are endless lists of the city’s wonders, and in those lists are stories upon stories, and to be stung is to know all of them, and weep for the knowing of.

THREE

THE THREE OF TENEMENTS

The dark descends so fast it steals Oleg’s breath, and when they begin to run ahead he is afraid to be left behind, he cannot be left behind, and through the wafting incense of the shrine below he wills his skinny, weakened legs to carry him, to carry him toward them, after them, into the shadows, into the blue, into the mouths of all those foxes, who seem to have his own face, smiling back at him, and seem to be saying:

She is waiting for you. She is waiting, Olezhka.His chest burns as though his heart has been pierced by a spear of flame, and—

_______

And Lyudmila is sitting naked on a broad, dry bed piled with quilts of blue and silver stars. His sister, her arms open, her eyes shining. She speaks to him in Russian and he understands her, falls into her, kisses her laughing, and she laughs with him. When he is inside her he will see snow falling through torchlight on the edge of the Volkhov, which never took any child’s breath, which never was anything but a band of silver light in the dark.

In days to come the locks of Palimpsest will fall in love. They will refuse the keys made for them and insist that their owners follow the Albumen until they find an enormous river barge with a canopy of bronze silk, where a thin young man and his wife with hair the color of bread beat keys from the most extraordinary substances, from baleen and dried river mud, sodalite and beryl and bird bones, king’s crowns and prison bars, hazel branches and willow wands and corset stays and gold and silver and glass.

No lock will settle for less than its most and dearest beloved.

FOUR

THE ARCHIPELAGO

D on’t leave me, Ludovico thinks when November starts to run after Sei. But of course, of course she would not. She is his Isidore, and she will lead him into the world. She grabs his hands and they run like children, as though there is a wonderful game ahead and the whole day to come for its playing. November laughs and he thinks the sound of it might shatter him, so high and so sweet, inviolable. In just another moment she will be able to speak to him, in just another moment she will turn to him and he will understand every syllable in the etymology of her, and—

_______

And he wakes on a wooden dais, a huge circle of oak raised slightly above the street. He stares around him, the empty air of an early morning, before anyone is awake, except bakers and postmen. An old woman stands in her doorway, her right leg a huge, twisted bear-limb, holding a tray of steaming, frosted cake. Tears fill up her eyes and roll down her fat cheeks. She drops the cake. Her mouth hangs open.

Klavdia goes inside and snatches another from the window. She comes running to him, finally, finally, after all this time. Casimira promised her, and here he is.

He swallows her cake, drinks her tea.

The war is over.

_______

As Ludovico eats and the old woman fusses over him, her fur bristling against his leg, Ludo turns his eyes north, down the long avenues, to a house with high green spires. It is fitting, he supposes, that I arrived here, in the old place. Out of all of them, I am the traditionalist.

A bee alights softly on his knee. The old bear-woman grins at him. She gives him a little curtsey. A second bee drifts in, and a third.

November, he thinks. He lets the bees coax him onto the street as the first traffic of the morning comes screeching, careening in, and walks up the lane, toward his beloved, his ibex, who leapt from such a far height, and landed on her horns.

Obsolescence and Unutterable

THE SUBURBS OF PALIMPSEST SPREAD OUTfrom the edges of the city proper like ladies’ fans. First the houses, uniformly red, in even lines like veins, branching off into lanes and courts and cul-de-sacs. There are parks full of grass that smells like oranges and little creeks filled with floating roses, blue and black. Children scratch pictures of antelope-footed girls and sparrow-winged boys on the pavement, hop from one to the other. Their laughter spills from their mouths and turns to autumnal leaves, drifting lazily onto wide lawns. The sun glowers red in the east, leaving scarlet shadows on all their cheeks.

There are parks, of course, between the houses. Suburbs create children out of ether, and they require the space. Carousels of bone and fur mirror the exact musculature of horses and giraffes and three-toed sloths, so that the children will naturally be inclined to ride such creatures when they are grown and such a thing becomes a necessity. There, just there—a little girl with violet ribbons like reins in her hair is telling her brother that mother will be away tonight, and they may sneak into the city to dance with women with the heads of white foxes. Wicked child!

Eventually the houses fade into fields: amaranth, spinach, blueberries. Shaggy cows graze; bell-hung goats bleat. Palimpsest is ever hungry. In the morning, milk will splash white as a river into a hundred pails and more, butter will come creamy and yellow, and bread will rise as thick as a heart. There are orchards, peaches and plums, cherries and apples like garnets. There are ponds full of fish, their eyes black and depthless. The farms go on further than the houses, out and out and out.

But these too fade as they extend like arms outstretched, fade into the empty land not yet colonized by the city, not yet peopled, not yet known. The empty meadows stretch to the horizon, pale and dark, rich and soft.

_______

The war is over.

This was the last of it, and I have told you all you need to know of the breaking of the doors. Find me, find me in black and secret places. I am here; I am waiting. I want no more than any city: to thrive.

Come. Come.

Look out, over my outermost fields, my borderless borders—I am vast enough to contain you.

A wind picks up, blowing hot and dusty and salt-scented. Gooseflesh rises over miles and miles of barren skin.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

This book owes debts to many people, books being the profligate creatures they are, forever leaving their authors to pay their bills. And so I must settle the tab.

Thank you to Ekaterina Sedia, who once asked me to write her a story about a city.

To Christopher Barzak, an invaluable friend and resource.

To Juliet Ulman, my benevolent editor.

To the members of the Blue Heaven Writers Workshop, especially Paolo Bacigalupi and Daryl Gregory.

To S. J. Tucker, whose music continually explains to me what I’ve written.

To everyone who has supported me, offline and online, allowed me into their homes and their hearts, held me up, made me tea, and listened to (and read) my nonsense: we are all of us Palimpsest, a strange and marvelous city created only when we are together.

And finally, ever and always, to Dmitri Zagidulin, who doesn’t like to be called a muse.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Born in the Pacific Northwest in 1979, Catherynne M. Valente is the author of the Orphan’s Tales series, as well as three other novels and five books of poetry. She currently lives in southern Maine with her partner and two dogs.

Also by

CATHERYNNE M. VALENTE

THE ORPHAN’S TALES

In the Night Garden

In the Cities of Coin and Spice

Yume No Hon

The Labyrinth

The Grass-Cutting Sword

POETRY

Apocrypha

Oracles

The Descent of Inanna

PALIMPSEST

A Bantam Spectra Book / March 2009

Published by Bantam Dell

A Division of Random House, Inc.

New York, New York

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved

Copyright © 2009 by Catherynne M. Valente

Bantam Books and the rooster colophon are registered trademarks and Spectra and the portrayal of a boxed “s” are trademarks of Random House, Inc.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Valente, Catherynne M., 1979–

Palimpsest / Catherynne Valente.

p. cm.

eISBN: 978-0-553-90629-5

1. Locksmiths—Fiction. 2. Bookbinders—Fiction. 3. Girls—Fiction. 4. Beekeepers—Fiction. I. Title.

PS3622.A4258P36 2009

813'.6—dc22

2008035650

www.bantamdell.com

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