A Green and Ancient Light (15 page)

“You're welcome. I can even help you start it properly.” She unfolded a paper and spread it out for me on the tabletop. It was old and yellowed, and I assumed she'd dug it out of her desk, too.

The sky was dark enough now that we needed the lamp. I saw that the paper had just a single sentence written on it in Grand­mother's writing, near the top. It was in the language of four
centuries ago—the language of the garden. I could decipher a lot of it, but not everything.

“It's from the grove,” said Grandmother. “Remember we told you about the main entrance arch, south of the dragon and buried now in bushes and vines? I wouldn't care to try getting there any more, but these words are carved into the arch, under all those leaves and roots. It says,
Y
ou who enter this place, observe it piece by piece and tell me afterward whether so many marvels were created for deception or purely for art
.”

With the shadows playing over her face, Grandmother looked like an imp. Narrowing her eyes, she said, “Tell me. Deception or art?”

I propped my chin on my palms. “He doesn't even give us the choice that there's a meaning.”

“No? That could be hidden in the ‘deception,' couldn't it? All the nonsensical clues could be placed to trick us and lead us away from the meaning that's there if we don't give up. Or else . . . the duke might just be snickering up his sleeve. But I'll tell you a secret: this word ‘deception' used to have another meaning besides the one we're left with today. It once also meant something like ‘magic'—the power to perform wonders.”

Hurrying to get my pencil, I asked if Grandmother had any of the other inscriptions written down.

“No,” she said. “I don't even remember why I copied this one.”

To keep myself busy that evening, I wrote a long letter to my parents, telling them all about the garden. Grandmother agreed that it would be safe enough now to go to the post office without much unwanted attention. I addressed the envelope to my mother and asked her in the letter to mail it on to my father when
she'd read it. Of course, I said nothing about Mr. Girandole or our patient, R ——. Before I finished, I read over the most recent letter from my mother, which I'd been answering in mine. As always, she'd asked some earnest questions: “Are you eating well? Are you getting along with Grandmother? What are you finding to do?” She also said that the people in my wooden castle were holding a jousting tournament, but that some of the knights were still away on their quests, and they were greatly missed.

I tapped my pencil on my chin, wondering how to answer. Mama wanted me to be well and comfortable, but I knew she'd be sad if I sounded like I was happier here than at home. I wrote, “Grandmother is very nice. I hope we can all visit her soon. I miss you and Papa. I'm eating very well, but I miss your tomato soup and the yellow sauce. Everything is clean, but the way we do the washing here, it all comes out stiffer.” I reviewed the lines, nodding with satisfaction. I added, “And a little scratchy.” Perfect.

*  *  *  *

Morning came, bright and clear, with a soft wind blowing off the sea. We started earlier than usual, loaded up the carpet bag, and took along the hatchet and ropes for more “gathering of firewood” if the situation demanded such. We saw no soldiers, though we didn't patrol the village.

Mr. Girandole met us at the first archway with the news that R —— was awake but of course still very weak. So, his wounds and our surgery hadn't killed him, but Grandmother said it came down now to his battle with infection. He really ought to be in a hospital, she said.

Instead of the stone house, Mr. Girandole led us to the pool of
the four women with their water pitchers. He motioned us to sit on the lichen-covered edge. The stagnant water reflected the green canopy of leaves and branches above it. Insects skimmed over the water, leaving rings where they touched the surface.

It was awkward to sit with Grandmother between two life-size, unclothed women, two more looming behind us. My head kept wanting to turn. The glade was especially cool at this hour, before the day's heat warmed it. Traces of mist lingered, and the shadows were in blues and purples. We could easily see the leaning house, the elephant, sea serpent, boar, Neptune, and Heracles rising gigantic near the ravine's east wall. And away to our left, near the second arch, stood the terrible angel with the keys and chain.

“What is that?” I asked quietly, nodding toward the angel as Mr. Girandole propped one booted hoof on the pool's rim.

He looked over his shoulder to follow my gaze. “Apollyon,” he said. “The Angel of the Bottomless Pit.”

I shivered, only partly because of the morning's chill. Whatever the name meant, it was fitting.

“We're talking here so the man in the house won't hear us,” Mr. Girandole explained. I saw that he'd brought R ——'s notebook, which he opened and handed to Grandmother. As she read the translation of the poem R —— had written in his delirium, I opened my own notebook on my knees and copied it—the forward version for now: I could add the mirror-script later.

A duke the secret knew

And locked the riddle here

Find twice the number Taurus follows with his eye

Sisters dancing in the water and the sky

Heed the words among the trees in stone

Though not all words are true

And they will lead you home

“Taurus. . . .” Grandmother said at last, rubbing her chin. “Taurus is the bull.”

“There aren't any bull statues here,” I said. “Are there?”

Mr. Girandole shook his head.

“‘They will lead you home,'” Grandmother said, and looked at Mr. Girandole with a curious light in her eyes.

“The ‘words among the trees in stone' can only refer to the inscriptions on the statues,” Mr. Girandole said. “And the whole thing is clearly written about this garden—mention of the duke and all.”

Grandmother nodded. “It would seem so . . . but how? How could a feverish man write a poem like this about a place he's never heard of?”

Mr. Girandole pushed his hat farther back and glanced at the leaning house. “That's what I wanted to tell you. He's been dreaming as he hung between life and death. And he speaks . . . Often, he speaks.” Lowering his voice, Mr. Girandole hunched closer. “He has said names—names he could not possibly know, for they are written in no book, and no mortal ear has heard them.”

“Names?” Grandmother whispered back.

“Names of fairies and fauns. People I know. Names of rivers and mountains in the land from which I came.”

Grandmother watched him.

“Don't you see?” he asked. “Where departed souls go . . . Heaven, Hell, and Faery, my home—it's all one when you're through the Gates of Dawn—it all connects. R —— was there, on the edge of
death—he was wandering in the mists—but he didn't go on. He came back.”

“What do you mean?” Grandmother asked.

“For whatever the reason, he wasn't allowed to stay. It wasn't time for him to be there yet; I guess it means he has something yet to do here, in this world. This poem came back with him. It was
sent
with him.”

“A message?”

Mr. Girandole nodded. “It's not easy anymore to find doors between here and Faery, although once they were everywhere. Even when I still lived there, the two worlds were growing farther apart. Doors were vanishing.”

“I think you've told me that,” Grandmother said. “It's why you can't go home to your people.”

“But you see, sometimes doors can still be discovered.” Mr. Girandole turned his hat between his hands, thinking. “Now and then, a mortal on this side stumbles upon a fragment of the ancient wisdom in very old writings or through a knowledge of the stars. We know that our duke was intrigued by alchemy—you've told me so, M ——. He may have found a secret in some musty book or scroll.”

Alchemy
. Magic . . . “deception” . . . the power to perform wonders.

Grandmother spoke in a hush. “A doorway into your world?”

“A doorway that can still open, though it would be hidden well and probably locked.”

“But not the doorway you and the other fauns used before?” she asked. “You would remember that.”

“No,” he said. “We didn't use a doorway as such—we came to
these woods in a dawn mist that made this world one with ours, when such things used to happen. If there's a door here in the garden, we never knew it. When the fauns left, I'm sure they were following the Piper; the music of the pipes was their way home.”

“Won't the Piper call you someday?” I asked in a shaky voice.

Mr. Girandole touched the notebook, still open in Grand­mother's lap. “In this, I think perhaps he is. Do you see?
My people might know there
'
s a door here.
They might have sent this message to help me find it.”

“But I don't understand,” I said, thinking of R ——'s poem. “If the fauns know about the door, why do they send hints? Why don't they just come through it and lead you home?”

Mr. Girandole smiled vaguely. “The poem didn't come from the fauns. This is quite beyond them, sending words and dreams from one world to another. It must be the work of the Green Lord and the Lady of the Stars, who rule over Faery.”

“Well, whoever sent it,” I said, “if they really want to help, why don't they just tell us straight?”

Before Mr. Girandole could answer, Grandmother laughed and said, “Nature abhors a straight line.”

The faun smiled. “And a gardener abhors a straight path. It may be a test for me. I am in exile by my own choice. The Lord and Lady may have determined that if I want to come back, I must solve the duke's puzzle. A mortal's game, since I cast my lot with mortals.”

Grandmother swallowed. “Then we must solve this garden's puzzle. We must get you home.”

“But—” Mr. Girandole said. Despite the darkness of his skin, he looked pale.

“No buts. Girandole, I'm an old woman. Do you love this place
so much that you want to stay here forever, waiting for other kindred souls to find the garden after you've buried me?”

“Most definitely not,” he said.

“Then if what you say is true, this is a gift to us both—the way we can be together.” Glancing at me, she added, “All of us. For
more
than a handful of years.” She turned back to Mr. Girandole and took his arm. “We humans don't need magical doorways; we go there anyway, when it's time. You're the one who isn't built to die, poor thing.”

Mr. Girandole seemed at a loss for words. The turn this conver­sation had taken scared me—Grandmother dying of old age . . . Mr. Girandole going away through a magic door. The appeal of answering the grove's riddle was swiftly dissolving.

Grandmother patted my back. “There's nothing to be sad about,” she said. “If that door really leads to what's beyond this life, then the paths will join up on the other side.”

I was baffled. “Heaven, Hell, and Faery are all the
same
?” How could so many disparate things be one?

Mr. Girandole gripped my shoulder, his expression rueful and kind. “You can't begin to understand it from this side. The way there looks the same, but there are choices among the paths—paths that we're walking on even now, paths that your great-great-­grandparents walked. And they go on beyond. You have farther to travel, even after you leave here. It truly is a garden, all of this. Hell is where truly dead things go. But your grandmother is right. We can all be together where things live and bloom.”

I could see something in his eyes that made me feel light inside—a wondering hope, as if he'd just awoken after a long sleep, as if he'd gazed at a marvelous, glowing eastern sky.

“The journey
does
end,” said Grandmother, nudging him. “We do get there, don't we, in a little while?”

Eyes brimming, he nodded.

*  *  *  *

Grandmother eyed the leaning house with a growl of disdain. Then, heaving a sigh, she ordered Mr. Girandole and me to stay close behind her on the stairs and catch her if she toppled backward. “And don't fall yourselves,” she added. “A sorry state that would be, if we all ended up in a broken heap.”

We kept ourselves well braced. I carried the carpet bag, and on the second step, Grandmother thrust her walking-stick into my hands and said, “Here's your stick.” She went on hands and knees, with Mr. Girandole pushing, and eventually we reached the house's upper chamber.

In the sunken compartment, R —— had his head raised, as if he'd been alarmed at what sort of grunting, puffing beast might be pawing its way up the stairs.

“Good morning,” said Grandmother briskly, snatching her stick back.

“Good morning,” the pilot answered hoarsely, letting his head fall onto the pallet again. He looked haggard, but the slick pallor was gone from his skin. “I . . . memory you,” he said. “I hear what you do . . . thank you. You save me. Thank you.”

“You aren't saved yet,” said Grandmother, crouching on the well's edge to study him. “How do you feel?”

“Hurt all. Sick like dog.”

Grandmother motioned that we should climb into the well and lift her down, which we did. It wasn't hard with one of us on either side.

We crowded around R —— and looked him over. Dried blood
caked the bandages. Grandmother set about clipping them with her shears and gingerly peeling them loose. The pallet was stained and smelled of sweat.

“You've kept him clean, anyway,” Grandmother noted. “Is the water in this bucket fresh?”

“I brought it at dawn,” said Mr. Girandole.

Lifting his good arm, R —— ran a hand through his matted, thinning hair. His neck and jaw sprouted golden beard stubble, like my father got when he was on holidays. The pilot grinned at me. “You name?”