A Shadow All of Light (30 page)

“Is the bargain concluded?” I asked.

“We are to leave and I am to return in an hour,” Mutano said. “During that time, Sunbolt will seal my voice within the device or he will not. I am to bring his shadow with me. Then the exchange will be made—or it will not.”

“Well then,” I said, “I shall conclude that my part in the affair is done with.”

We went out to the hitching rail and horsed ourselves, he to ride Defender, surveying the grounds of the château, and I to repose myself at the villa and muse upon the nature of shadows, a subject of infinite profundity and compelling perplexity.

*   *   *

Mutano had said that Sibylla's shadow communicated to Veuglio where objects and free spaces lay about him. He compared the shadow to the whiskers of cats that brush against obstacles and enable the animals to locate themselves in the dark. But that shadow as he had described it was not so passive as cats' whiskers; Sibylla's shade, he said, seemed to search ahead and behind for perils that might threaten the blind man. It is well known that the other senses of the blind—hearing, smell, touch, taste—are keener and make finer distinctions than do those of the sighted. Did this guardian action argue for some degree of intelligence on the part of umbrae? If such were the case, would the intelligence of my shadow be an extension of my own mind or would it belong independently to the shadow?

I had read, two seasons ago, in a treatise of some woolly-faced philosopher, the fanciful proposition that shadows did indeed have intelligence. In those days I sometimes tested the learning, as well as the patience, of the maestro. I had posed the question to him, saying, “The old philosopher must have been jesting. If shadows could think thoughts and possess volition, they would not be content merely to imitate the motions of the casters. They would perform deeds different from those that their casters perform.”

“If shadows do think,” Astolfo replied, “they believe that they initiate movement and that we gross bodies but clumsily ape their motions.”

“How could that be? Doth not the corporeal control the incorporeal?”

“You conceive an incorporeal thought, that it would be gladsome to down a mug of ale,” he said. “And, lo! The corporeal hulk hauls the vessel to its maw and guzzles it off, obedient to the incorporeal.”

“Yet the thought, being conceived in my brain, is joined to the body. It is, in that way, a corporeal object.”

“Where is it, then? Show this object to me.”

“The emptied mug is the sign of it.”

“If emptied ale mugs betoken thought, our world is o'errun with philosophers,” he replied. “Your exemplum is faulty, attempting to demonstrate the existence of an incorporeal by pointing to the absence of a corporeal.”

“The ale is not absent,” I said. “I have drunk it off and now it resides in a place where it may work good to my soul.”

“It hath not unmuddied your brain. There are many recorded instances of the umbrae acting upon their own. Sometimes, it is said, a shadow is attached to a man of such evil nature that it becomes ashamed and deserts him. There is the story of a shadow that conceived such a profound distaste for its caster that it attempted to murder him. A woman of the alleyways once purchased and wore the shadow of a chaste vestal, and it labored to purify her character. There is an ancient account of a warrior whose shadow aged at a speedier rate than did his body; it wasted and shriveled and ended by draining his natural strength.”

“Idle tales,” I replied. “You will not tell me that any of these instances, or others like them, have fallen within your experience.”

“And yet I may,” he said. “I was brought to a household where it was thought that a young girl's shadow had deserted her. She was but twelve and always in precarious health. An overwise medico whom they had consulted inferred that the umbra feared for its existence if she died and so detached and went seeking a wholesomer body.”

“That could not be.”

“It had not happened. Her shadow was yet with her, but it was so wispened and insubstantial it had become almost invisible. She had fallen into a state something like dormancy. I suggested that she be forcibly fed and be kept in moderate light instead of dimness. Her shadow regained also.”

“There is a sage who pretends to cure this dormancy and other ills of the spirit, I hear.”

“His name is Veuglio. I know him to be honest. It is probable you will make his acquaintance someday. At any rate, I do expect that your interest in volitional shadows will increase.”

In that prediction, the maestro proved correct, for now Veuglio was here and the question of umbral volition had become vital.

*   *   *

I had thought Mutano would return to the villa as soon as the exchange with the cat of shadow and voice was concluded, but the afternoon lengthened into a cool, peaceful twilight and he did not appear. Yet I did not lack for company. Veuglio and Sibylla emerged from their rooms to take in the beauty of the hour in the garden where I sat oiling the shutters of a half dozen lanterns. These were necessary implements for dealing with the shadow-eating plants in our botanical house. Mutano and I divided this labor and the other tasks.

The gaunt man proceeded over the grass with the girl at his side, she whispering to him continuously. I could not hear her words but supposed she must be describing the garden and its light.

I invited them to share my place beneath the tree and they assented. As soon as I saw them, I thought to question the ancient upon the apprehending abilities of Sibylla's umbra, but he only frowned and said, “I know not what you speak of.”

I told him what Mutano had reported of her shade's behavior, but he only frowned more darkly and shook his head.

“It may be that your friend teases your gullibility,” said Sibylla.

“Why so?”

“Perhaps he is abashed that my master found no difficulty traversing your labyrinth of shadows. He invents a fanciful reason to account for it.”

“He would not trouble, since we share fault equally.”

“Perhaps his eyes deceive him.”

“His seeing is keen,” I said, “as it must be for all in our trade.”

Veuglio was seated by Sibylla on a short bench facing me. He tapped the ground with his staff, as if to break off this discussion. “On another head,” he said, “I am curious to know by what means you and Mutano transported such a large volume of shadow to the château.”

Ah well, I thought, if you hide knowledge from me, I shall not be free with my own, and so I improvised several unheard-of, unusable methods that would delude not the silliest addlepate. His shunting my inquiry aside had vexed me, and the thought came that I might steal the sensitive shadow of Sibylla to try its capacities for myself.

*   *   *

That was the foolishest thought ever to flit through my brain. If what Mutano said was true, to steal that shade would be akin to stealing Veuglio's staff and his guide. Such a breach of Astolfo's hospitality would result in my well-earned banishment.

And the character of Veuglio himself made me ashamed that I had even momentarily entertained such a knavish impulse. How could I bring myself to do even the least harm to such a person? I could name a half dozen religious sects that would regard him as a saint.

Besides, the streets of Tardocco were thick with blind beggars, some of whom actually could not see. I resolved to query among them, though they are a closemouthed lot, jealous of the secrets of their calling.

It grew dark and a servant arrived to fetch us to table, and we partook of this victual in a cool strained silence. Mutano had not returned and Astolfo too was absent until the repast was nigh complete. I sat sipping wine and looking my fill at the gaunt elder and his companion, so white and quiet she seemed almost an apparition. Peaceful thoughts breezed through my mind.

When Astolfo did at last appear, he seated himself abruptly at table head and called for a glass of plum liquor that he drained in one swallow. He was out of temper. Sibylla whispered to Veuglio and he did not respond.

“There has been a gross error of judgment,” Astolfo said. “Who has made this mistake, I do not know, but the possibilities are few.”

“What has happened?” I asked.

“Someone has disturbed the valuable the maze was laid to protect.”

Immediately I looked to Veuglio and the girl but their expressions were impassive.

“I disturbed nothing,” I said. “That is a truth you know already. And just what is this object of world-surpassing value? I have tried to imagine what such a thing might be and can form no picture. It has become in my mind an object unguessable, something beyond the reach of the senses.”

“You need not imagine, for you have seen it,” Veuglio said. These words were spoken with grave deliberateness.

“I saw nothing of worth in that hollow house. The furnishings of the rooms are meager. The hidden rooms that cost us such pains to enclose in our labyrinth contain nothing. They are empty. The whole place is deserted.”

“Those close-kept quarters are not empty,” Veuglio replied. “Recollect what you saw there.”

“There is naught to recollect—a plain table with a stool beside, a candleholder or two, and a few trifling candle stubs.”

“A small, useless-seeming candle-end is what the baron seeks to protect,” Astolfo said.

“I do not understand.”

“Was there nothing else at all in those rooms?” Veuglio asked.

“Rat droppings,” I said. “And Mutano discovered some empty bowls that must have supplied the cat Sunbolt with milk.”

“These have their parts in the story,” he said.

“I do not know the story.”

“The nub of it is,” Astolfo said, “that the baron fears for his life. He has attached himself to a notion that will not let go. He fancies that his life, his very being, is dependent upon one or the other, or perhaps upon several, of those shabby tallow candles. Whatever is done to them is also wreaked upon him, in dread measure. When he walks the daylight, he has a sensation that his bones are being gnawed by rats. When he lies abed o' nights, he feels that his brain has been set aflame. He sweats and cries out most piteously.”

“He conceives that someone is burning his candle of life,” I said, “and that rats are toothing it. This is a brain sickness of the kind our Signor Veuglio ministers to. If these fears left the baron, his agonies would cease. Maybe you might offer your services.”

“I could not,” said the old man. “I would not.”

I heard in his voice a tone of personal animosity, of powerful rage and fury. Veuglio tried not to betray his feeling, but I could hear how control of his voice was shaken. Here was something hidden from me, something utterly out of the character of this peaceful man. I glanced swiftly at Astolfo but was uncertain I saw any response. “One thing we might do is to gather these silly stubs and present them to him to keep safe about his person,” I suggested.

“But he trusteth no one,” Astolfo said, “and he particularly mistrusts those closest to him. That was the reason for the maze at the château.”

“It is as if he had a foreknowledge of his phantasies,” I said, “for he set the big cat Sunbolt to guard his candles against rats. I have seen the cream bowls and Mutano saw the cat.”

“It is difficult to account for the mind and character of such a one as the baron,” Astolfo said.

Veuglio spoke softly but emphatically.
“Yet an accounting must be made.”

“Since you and Mutano know the maze, you shall go to the château and locate all the stubs and scour about for other detritus of this sort, and we will keep all here in safety till we decide what may be done,” Astolfo said. “You must also make certain that the arrangement of the maze is as you constructed it. Be sure that it has not been changed.”

“Very well. I will try to find Mutano. He may be at the château even now, pursuing negotiations with Sunbolt in the matter of his voice.”

“His affair will keep,” Astolfo said. “Let us make safe the candles.”

“We will go there early tomorrow,” I said. “I will instruct Mutano when he returns tonight.”

*   *   *

Mutano never arrived. I went to bed in an unfit frame of mind and found myself in no better spirits when I woke. Some vigorous ablution, along with a mug of light morning beer, refreshed me, and I saddled Mutano's horse in the paddock and rode away. If he was content to absent himself from our labors, then at least Defender, his large, mellow bay, might be put to saddle.

I had dreamed of the château and in my sleep I had seen the great orange cat stalking the corridors, eyes, nose, and ears all alert. Now and again he entered one room or another to lap from a bowl of water or to lick a bowl thinly filmed with cream. My dreaming did not discover whether the mazes of shadow we had constructed were noted by the cat. I seemed only to follow after him from place to place, as if following a guide lantern through a dusky forest.

Then my dream showed me that Sunbolt was being followed by the baron himself. My vision offered no picture of his features, for I had never seen him. But I knew that the dark, stumbling form was his as it blundered after the confident cat. He carried a brief candle in a pewter holder, the baron, and kept it close to his bosom. Errant breezes slid through the hallways and he shielded the flame against them with his hand. He seemed to know that he must not allow the flame to go out, yet must not let it continue to burn. He was desperate to live and desperate to die.

This dream had determined me to inspect the château anew. I tethered Defender in the courtyard and made my way unhindered through the great outer door to the long gallery on the right-hand side.

All was deserted, just as before. The baron had posted no guards and a hollow silence hung upon the halls. This house held the air of a mausoleum, and the echoes of my footsteps were disconcerting. I began to tread lightly.