A Green and Ancient Light (9 page)

I backed away and returned quickly to the bench.

“So, you heard those planes,” Grandmother said, “and knew they'd seen the parachute.”

Mr. Girandole nodded. “It was too far to take the man to my cave—too hard on him, even if I could have managed it; so I brought him here. Had to drag him most of the way on my coat, then sweep up the worst of the drag-marks.”

“Resourceful,” said Grandmother. “And clever thinking, I'm sure; though I doubt it did him much good to be dragged up all these steps.”

Mr. Girandole nodded ruefully. “I was as gentle as possible.”

“But didn't the soldiers come here, too?” I asked.

“Yes, they came,” he said. “They gawked at the monsters, prodded the bushes, and inspected this listing house. But what I'd hoped came to pass.”

Grandmother had a knowing gleam in her eye.

“What came to pass?” I asked, looking up at the colorless wall. Two windows gaped without glass or shutter, one above the other.

Mr. Girandole bent close and spoke behind his hand. “They didn't find the secret space, where the man and I were hiding.”

I know my eyes brightened at the mention of a secret space. “Can I see it?”

“Yes,” said Grandmother, pulling me back into my seat, “he'll show you presently.” She waited for Mr. Girandole to continue his story.

“Then I collected the tools and washed the canvas in the stream, as I promised. I knew it would take the soldiers time to get here, so I worked deliberately. I smoothed out the mound we made, brought water here in the bucket, and washed the blood from these steps.”

“He was still bleeding?” asked Grandmother.

“No, not really. I think it was from his clothes, and my poor coat, too. I fear it may be time for a new one.”

“I expect so,” said Grandmother, “when the excitement dies down.”

“Yes, yes, there's no hurry.”

It occurred to me then that Mr. Girandole must depend on my grandmother for things such as clothes; he couldn't walk into the village on those back-bending legs of his and shop for his own. But Grandmother, I supposed, could buy second-hand men's clothing “for the buttons” or “for quilting.”

How lonely Mr. Girandole's life must be, I thought. He had no person to talk to but Grandmother; and for the more than thirty years of her marriage, he'd had no one at all. But maybe time passed differently for ageless fauns. Or maybe here in the sacred woods where time itself seemed an unproven fancy, the waiting had not been so bad.

I thought of my own two friends from home and imagined the fun we might have exploring this garden. Our letters had tapered off. I'd tried to describe the village to them, but they'd never seen such a place, and now our lives were entirely different—theirs so full of chores and anxiety, and everything rationed. They had no time for letters. And now there was so much I couldn't write about. I felt like the statues here, grown deep into a world of shade and silence, isolated and concealed. I hoped the letters from my ­parents wouldn't stop coming.

There was a long, comfortable quietness then, during which we sat on our benches and gazed out at images the world had forgotten. Without getting up, I could see the pool, Neptune on his throne, our first archway, the boar, the dragon's head, the sea serpent, the elephant, and of course Heracles, wading in the bushes like a man at the green sea's edge.

“Not much has changed,” Grandmother said. At first, I didn't know what she meant. “The bushes are wilder now. More paths are overgrown, and more is hidden.”

Mr. Girandole nodded, looking around thoughtfully, and I figured out they were remembering the garden as it had looked years and years ago, when Grandmother was my age.

“More is broken down and rounded off,” Mr. Girandole said. “The mermaid is the worse for wear, and the vine roots are not kind.
It's hard to hold back a forest that's so eager and full of life, but I've done what I can to keep the main pathways open.”

Now I understood why the archways were free of vegetation. Mr. Girandole cared for the garden, trimming back the bushes when it became necessary. But he'd been discreet; he'd let the woods grow wild enough that no casual visitor would suspect the intervention of a caretaker. Branches were left to decay where they fell. The forest made its choices.

“Mermaid?” I asked, remembering that Grandmother had spoken of seeing a mermaid first of all the monsters.

“There's another half to the garden,” Mr. Girandole said. “Behind you, through the second set of arches. That's the upper part, and this is the lower.”

Grandmother was still thinking of the past. “This is where we met, isn't it, Girandole? On this very terrace. You were reading a book.”

He chuckled. “One of those books I brought back with me from my foray into the world of the mortal folk. I still remember which one it was, and the page and the place I was reading when I looked up and there you were. I nearly jumped over the rail—no one else has ever sneaked up on me—no one else before or since. I wondered who this could be, to walk so silently!”

“Could never do it now,” Grandmother said. “You'd hear me huffing on the bottom step, and my joints creaking.”

“You were very small, but you gave me quite a fright.”

Grandmother blinked languidly. “I wasn't afraid of you, and you had goat feet.”

“You've never been afraid, M ——. Not of your world, and not of the other.”

“What good does it do to be afraid?”

They had forgotten all about me, but I didn't mind. It was good to hear them talking this way, their voices warm and soft and worn as old leather. I wandered to the rail and peered out across the bottom of the garden. In my head I tried to picture Grandmother as a young girl, gliding soundless across the carpets of leaves.

The deep glade was not in absolute shadow. The most delicate beams of sunlight pierced intermittently, making brilliant flecks no bigger than coins on the moss.

After another long silence, Grandmother suggested I go with Mr. Girandole to see how R —— was doing. “And we'd better take the brush knife home, at least. It will need sharpening.”

No mention was made of Mr. Girandole's not having come to our house the previous night. We understood that for him to visit us would only risk danger for us all. And he had his hands full caring for the patient.

“Don't forget to leave the provisions we brought,” Grandmother said, pointing to the carpet bag. “If R —— can't eat them, then you can, Girandole.”

Mr. Girandole thanked her and stood, and I followed him to the doorway. It had no door and was forever open.

The coolness of ancient stone washed over us. Beyond the threshold lay exactly the sort of chamber I had expected: absolutely bare, its floor strewn with dead leaves. As Grandmother had said, the building's tilt was much more disturbing inside. At once I felt a weariness in my ankles, since they had to bend to keep me upright. Dampness streaked the walls. Immediately to our left, a short stairway descended into a low annex like Grandmother's summer kitchen. Ahead of us, an enclosed corner of the room
housed a dim, winding stairway. Mr. Girandole led me upward. Enough light filtered in from above and below that I could make out the footing.

There seemed too few steps for the space they had to climb. To compensate, each step leaped high above the preceding one; this fact and the stairwell's tilt made the going difficult. “Be careful not to fall,” Mr. Girandole said gently. “It's rather more like a ladder than a stair.”

“A ladder on a sinking ship,” I answered.

I also noticed at once that the risers between steps all bore numbers, one number on each vertical plane. But the numbers were all out of order and made no sense that I could see. Four and nine gave way to two and eleven and fourteen: moreover, some of the numbers were carved upside down. “What do these mean?” I whispered.

Crawling up the stairs above me, Mr. Girandole shook his head. “Another mystery of the garden.”

Grandmother had said there was a riddle to this place, a puzzle. I began to understand that she meant more than just the gathering of fantastical statues and architecture.

The room at the top of the stairs was of the oddest construction I'd yet seen. Though the ceiling and walls closely resembled those of the chamber below, the floor had two levels. Its front half, on the side of the house above the terrace, was even with the threshold where we now stood. But between us and that farther section of floor lay a sunken half, into which a short stairway descended. It reminded me of a swimming pool with all the water drained. A narrow ledge, just wide enough to walk upon, ran from our feet in both directions to join the upper half of the floor. There across
from us was the window through which Mr. Girandole had been looking out. I also noticed a stone ladder built right into the wall in the rear corner straight opposite our doorway; presumably, the closed hatchway at its top led to the roof.

Down in the sunken well was the pilot, R ——. Flat on his back, he occupied a pallet made from Grandmother's canvas and a bed of grasses and leafy branches; I saw ends of these sticking out from beneath him. A stoneware cup, a tea kettle, and some rags were arrayed around him, along with our bucket and pan, the brush knife, and the unlit lantern. There was also a pile of rumpled blankets that must have come from Mr. Girandole's house, and in a corner lay the long coat, now badly stained and tattered.

R ——'s face looked terrible—deathly pale with a slight bluish cast, and shiny with sweat. His breath came out in hisses and moans.

“You see, he's quite bad off,” said Mr. Girandole, trotting down the steps into the well. With the equipment and blankets, there was scarcely room for him to crouch beside the man. “I don't know whether to keep him covered or not. He kicks the blankets off.” He looked up at me with bleak eyes. “This anguish, this inevitable approach of Death,” he said, “it's such a distressing part of the human world.”

I nodded, understanding enough of his big words to agree with him.

“But what's secret about this room?” I asked. “Why didn't the soldiers find you?”

“Ah. Watch this.” Mr. Girandole seemed glad for the distraction. He stooped and spread his hands on the wall of that lower space, the wall beneath the higher half of the floor.

I noticed now that the surface was pitted with hundreds of tiny, regular holes in rows, each hole about the size of a fingertip and connected to those surrounding it by faint grooves.

Finding the precise place he was seeking, Mr. Girandole stuck his thumb into one hole and his longest finger into another. I heard a loud, mechanical click, and the upper floor jerked, sliding by a fraction. Half of the floor was a moving slab!

Mr. Girandole grinned, reached up, and pulled it toward him, over his head. It rumbled, crossing the chamber, shutting Mr. Girandole and R —— into a hidden compartment, now completely gone from sight. Where the moving floor had been at first was a second well, a twin to the first, with another stairway leading down into it. To look out the window over the terrace now, a person would have to stand on the ribbon of ledge that remained there.

Mr. Girandole's voice rose, muffled, through the stone. “You can walk across above us. This is still the solid floor.”

I did so, marveling at how well it fit in its new position, having perfectly concealed the first well to reveal the second. The stone ladder to the roof seemed more naturally placed now, rising above this floor rather than above a pit.

“It must be pitch-black for you down there,” I said.

“Yes. But I can find the latch again by feel.”

I couldn't help smiling. It was such a nonsensical and delightful thing to build, like the entire leaning house. Was this whole house, then, meant to be nothing more than a magic trick-box? The sunken wells partly explained the odd height of the structure: it needed some extra space between the first and second stories.

On the floor of the newly opened well I saw an engraving that startled me. It was a giant face drawn by lines carved into the
smooth stone. Roughly human, the face had round eyes and a gaping mouth, as if it were screaming. In a long arc above it was an inscription. I recognized our language but in a style so old I had trouble making out the words.

“What does this say?” I asked, loud enough for Mr. Girandole to hear.

“‘Reason departs,'” came his muted reply.

I repeated this to myself, puzzling over the meaning. “Is there a face like this in your half?” I asked.

“Yes. Here under R ——'s bed—exactly the same.”

I returned to the doorway. Mr. Girandole asked if I was clear, and then he rolled back the floor.

“How did you ever find the secret space?” I asked.

“It was long ago,” he said. “I knew there must be a compartment there—why else build the floor so strangely? And I guessed the holes meant something. It was just a matter of feeling inside them one by one. The fact that the trigger has two separate catches took me a while.”

Just then I heard the tap of Grandmother's stick and her voice as she climbed the stairs behind me. She'd decided to come in after all.

“This place makes my head spin,” she complained. I got out of her way so she could clamber down into the well and see R —— for herself.

She changed nearly everything that Mr. Girandole had done, first moving every item on the floor to a different place, then poking and rearranging the pallet. She opened the patient's shirt and washed him with a wet rag, muttering over the state of the water in the bucket but rejecting Mr. Girandole's offer to go to the stream and get another bucketful.

I knew it was the house's tilt that she truly disliked. It was making me queasy, too. Droplets seemed to fall at an angle from the squeezed cloth; the water rose nearly to the bucket's rim on one side only.