Red as Blood, or Tales from the Sisters Grimmer: Expanded Edition (25 page)

“It bothers me. Don’t forgo your meal. Why,” she said, “are you able to eat Earth food? Why has this process of separable atoms not been given to Earth?” And, to her astonishment, her own fragile glass dropped from her hand in pieces that never struck the floor.

“Have you been cut?” his distorted voice asked her unemphatically.

Estár beheld she had not.

“I wasn’t,” she said, “holding it tightly enough for that to happen.”

“The house is eager to serve you, unused to you, and so misunderstands at times. You perhaps wanted to crush something?”

“I should like,” she said, “to return to my father’s house.”

“At any time, you may do so.”

“But I want,” she said, “to stay there. I mean that I don’t want to come back here.”

She waited. He would say she had to come back. Thus, she would have forced him to display his true and brutal omnipotence.

He said, “I’m not reading your mind, I assure you of that. But I can sense instantly whenever you lie.”

“Lie? What am I lying about? I said, I want to go home.”

“
‘Home’ is a word which has no meaning for you, Estár Levina. This is as much your home as the house of your father.”

“This is the house of a beast,” she said, daringly. She was very cold, as if winter had abruptly broken in. “A superior, wondrous monster.” She sounded calm. “Perhaps I could kill it. What would happen then? A vengeance fleet dispatched from your galaxy to destroy the terrestrial solar system?”

“You would be unable to kill me. My skin is very thick and resilient. The same is true of my internal structure. You could, possibly, cause me considerable pain, but not death.”

“No, of course not.” She lowered her eyes from the blank shining mask. Her pulses beat from her skull to her soles. She was ashamed of her ineffectual tantrum. “I’m sorry. Sorry for my bad manners, and equally for my inability to murder you. I think I should go back to my own rooms.”

“But why?” he said. “My impression is that you would prefer to stay here.”

She sat and looked at him hopelessly.

“It’s not,” he said, “that I disallow your camouflage, but the very nature of camouflage is that it should successfully wed you to your surroundings. You are trying to lie to yourself, and not to me. This is the cause of your failure.”

“Why was I brought here?” she said. “Other than to be played with and humiliated.” To her surprise and discomfort, she found she was being humorous, and laughed shortly. He did not join in her laughter, but she sensed from him something that was also humorous, receptive. “Is it an experiment in adaptation; in tolerance?”

“To determine how much proximity a human can tolerate to one of us?”

“Or vice versa.”

“No.”

“Then what?”

There was a pause. Without warning, a torrent of nausea and fear swept over her. Could he read it from her? Her eyes blackened and she put one hand over them. Swiftly, almost choking, she said, “If there is an answer, don’t, please don’t tell me.”

He was silent, and after a few moments she was better. She sipped the cool wine from the new goblet which had swum to her place. Not looking at him at all, she said, “Have I implanted this barrier against knowledge of that type, or have you?”

“Estár,” she heard him say, far away across the few yards of the table, “Estár, your race tends sometimes to demand too little or too much of itself. If there’s an answer to your question, you will find it in your own time. You are afraid of the
idea
of the answer, not the answer itself. Wait until the fear goes.”

“How can the fear go? You’ve condemned me to it, keeping me here.”

But her words were lies, and now she knew it.

She had spoken more to him in a space of hours than to any of her own kind. She had been relaxed enough in his company almost to allow herself to faint, when, on the two other occasions of her life that she had almost fainted, in company with Levin, or with Lyra, Estár had clung to consciousness in horror, unreasonably terrified to let go.

The alien sat across the table. Not a table knife, not an angle of the room, but was subtly strange in ways she could not place or understand. And he, his ghastly nightmarish ugliness swathed in its disguise.…

Again with no warning she began to cry. She wept for three minutes in front of him, dimly conscious of some dispassionate compassion that had nothing to do with involvement. Sobbing, she was aware after all he did not read her thoughts. Even the house did not, though it brought her a foam of tissues. After the three minutes she excused herself and left him. And now he did not detain her.

In her rooms, she found her bed blissfully prepared and lay down on it, letting the mechanisms, visible and invisible, undress her. She woke somewhere in the earliest morning and called the bead like a drop of rain and sent it to fetch the story he had told her.

She resolved she would not go near him again until he summoned her.

* * * *

A day passed.

A night.

A day.

She thought about him. She wrote a brief essay on how she analyzed him, his physical aura, his few gestures, his inherent hideousness to which she must always be primed, even unknowingly. The distorted voice that nevertheless was so fascinating.

A night.

She could not sleep. He had not summoned her. She walked in her private garden under the stars and found a green rose growing there, softly lighted by a shallow lamp. She gazed on the glow seeping through the tensed and tender petals. She knew herself enveloped in such a glow, a light penetrating her resistance.

“The electric irresistible charisma,” she wrote, “of the thing one has always yearned for. To be known, accepted, and so to be at peace. No longer unique, or shut in, or shut
out
, or alone.”

A day.

She planned how she might run away. Escaping the garden, stumbling down the mountain, searching through the wilderness for some post of communications or transport. The plan became a daydream and he found her.

A night.

A day.

That day, she stopped pretending, and suddenly he was in her garden. She did not know how he had arrived, but she stepped between the topiary and he was there. He extended his hand in a formal greeting; gloved, six-fingered, not remotely unwieldy. She took his hand. They spoke. They talked all that day, and some of the night, and he played her music from his world and she did not understand it, but it touched some chord in her, over and over with all of its own fiery chords.

She had never comprehended what she needed of herself. She told him of things she had forgotten she knew. He taught her a board game from his world, and she taught him a game with dots of colored light from Earth.

One morning she woke up singing, singing in her sleep. She learned presently she herself had invented the fragment of melody and the handful of harmonies. She worked on it alone, forgetting she was alone, since the music was with her. She did not tell him about the music until he asked her, and then she played it to him.

She was only ashamed very occasionally, and then it was not a cerebral, rather a hormonal thing. A current of some fluid nervous element would pass through her, and she would recall Levin, Lyra, Joya. Eventually something must happen, for all that happened now was aside from life, unconnected to it.

She knew the Alien’s name by then. It had no earthly equivalents, and she could not write it, could not even say it; only think it. So she thought it.

She loved him. She had done so from the first moment she had stood with him under the spring trees. She loved him with a sort of welcome, the way diurnal creatures welcome the coming of day.

He must know. If not from her mind, then from the manner in which, on finding him, she would hurry toward him along the garden walks. The way she was when with him. The flowering of her creativity, her happiness.

What ever would become of her?

* * * *

She sent her family three short noncommittal soothing letters, nothing compared to the bulk of their own.

When the lawns near the house had altered to late summer, it was spring in the world and, as she had promised, Estár went to visit her father.

THREE

Buds like emerald vapor clouded the boughs of the woods beyond the house. The river rushed beneath, heavy with melted snows. It was a windless day, and her family had come out to meet Estár. Lyra, a dark note of music, smiling, Joya, smiling, both looking at her, carefully, tactfully, assessing how she would prefer to be greeted, not
knowing.
How could they? Joya was slim again. Her child had been born two weeks ago, a medically forward seven-month baby, healthy and beauteous—they had told her in a tape, the most recent of the ten tapes they had sent her, along with Lyra’s letters.… Levin was standing by the house door, her father.

They all greeted her, in fact, effusively. It was a show, meant to convey what they were afraid to convey with total sincerity.

They went in, talking continuously, telling her everything. Lyra displayed a wonderful chamber work she and Ekosun, her lover, were at work on—it was obvious he had been staying with her here, and had gone away out of deference to Estár’s return, her need for solitary confinement with her family. Joya’s son was brought, looking perfectly edible, the color of molasses, opening on a toothless strawberry mouth and two wide amber eyes. His hair was already thick, the color of corn. “You see,” said Joya, “I know the father now, without a single test. This hair—the only good thing about
him.”

“She refuses even to let him know,” said Levin.

“Oh, I will. Sometime. But the child will take my name, or yours, if you allow it.”

They drank tea and ate cakes. Later there came wine, and later there came dinner. While there was food and drink, news to tell, the baby to marvel at, a new cat to play with—a white cat, with a long grey understripe from tail to chin-tip—a new picture to worship, Lyra’s music to be heard—while there was all this, the tension was held at bay, almost unnoticeable. About midnight, there came a lull. The baby was gone, the cat slept, the music was done and the picture had faded beyond the friendly informal candlelight. Estár could plead tiredness and go to bed, but then would come tomorrow. It must be faced sometime.

“I haven’t,” she said, “really told you anything about where I’ve been.”

Joya glanced aside. Lyra stared at her bravely.

Levin said, “In fact, you have.”

She had, he thought, told them a very great deal. She was strangely different. Not actually in any way he might have feared. Rather, she seemed more sure, quieter, more still, more absorbent, more favorably aware of them than ever in the past. One obvious thing, something that seemed the emblem of it all, the unexpected form of this change in her—her hair. Her hair now was a calm pale brown, untinted, no longer green.

“What have I told you then?” she said, and smiled, not intending to, in case it should be a smile of triumph.

“At least,” he said, “that we needn’t be afraid for you.”

“No. Don’t be. I’m really rather happy.”

It was Lyra who burst out, unexpectedly, shockingly, with some incoherent protest.

Estár looked at her.

“He’s—” she sought a word, selected one, “interesting. His world is interesting. I’ve started to compose music. Nothing like yours, not nearly as complex or as excellent, but it’s fulfilling. I like doing it. I shall get better.”

“I’m so sorry,” said Lyra. “I didn’t mean—it’s simply—”

“That I shouldn’t be happy because the situation is so unacceptable. Yes. But it isn’t. I’d never have chosen to go there, because I didn’t know what it would entail. But, in fact, it’s exactly the sort of life I seem to need. You remember when I meant to go to Marsha? I don’t think I would have done as much good there as I’m doing here, for myself. Perhaps I even help him in some way. I suppose they must study us, benignly. Perhaps I’m useful.”

“Oh, Estár,” Lyra said. She began to cry, begged their pardon and went out of the room, obviously disgusted at her own lack of finesse. Joya rose and explained she was going to look after Lyra. She too went out.

“Oh dear,” said Estár.

“It’s all right,” Levin said. “Don’t let it trouble you too much. Over-excitement. First a baby invades us, then you. But go on with what you were saying. What do you do on this mountain?”

He sat and listened as she told him. She seemed able to express herself far better than before, yet even so he was struck by the familiarity rather than the oddness of her life with the alien. Really, she did little there she might not have done here. Yet here she had never done it. He pressed her lightly, not trusting the ice to bear his weight, for details of the being with whom she dwelled.

He noticed instantly that, although she had spoken of him freely, indeed very often, in the course of relating other things, she could not seem to speak of him directly with any comfort. There was an embarrassment quite suddenly apparent in her. Her gestures became angular and her sentences dislocated.

Finally, he braced himself. He went to the mahogany cabinet that was five hundred years old, and standing before it pouring a brandy somewhat younger, he said, “Please don’t answer this if you’d rather not. But I’m afraid I’ve always suspected that, despite all genetic, ethnic or social disparity, those they selected to live with them would ultimately become their lovers. Am I right, Estár?”

He stood above the two glasses and waited.

She said, “Nothing of that sort has ever been discussed.”

“Do you have reason to think it will be?”

“I don’t know.”

“I’m not asking out of pure concern, nor out of any kind of prurient curiosity. One assumes, judging from what the others have said or indicated, that nobody has ever been raped or coerced. That implies some kind of willingness.”

“You’re asking me if I’d be willing to be his lover?”

“I’m asking if you are in love with him.”

Levin turned with the glasses, and took her the brandy. She accepted and looked at it. Her face, even averted, had altered, and he felt a sort of horror. Written on her quite plainly was that look he had heard described—a deadly sorrow, a drawing inward and away. Then it was gone.