Thorn Boy and Other Dreams of Dark Desire (43 page)

Charidotis was
a magnet of the world. People were drawn there from every known
land to parade before the tomb of the boy-king, the dead prophet.
Some came to be healed, others for spiritual renewal, and still
more came as tourists. The city itself, white as bone, rose like a
fretwork of wind-blasted ivory along the sides of the river. And
ahead, I could see the misty outline of the Pyramid itself, the
tomb, like a mirage against the lavender sky, at once real and
stultifyingly phantasmic.

My father had
brought our luggage up on deck, his cloaks hanging over his arm.
‘See, Alexi, see!’ he exclaimed, his outspread fingers encompassing
the splendours of the mythical city.

‘
It is
fabulous,’ I said, the first kind remark I had made to him upon the
journey.

He
smiled, encouraged, and soon the
Emmeshara
found her own niche within the
labyrinth, and we all disembarked to make the miles-long journey on
foot around the maze to reach the shore. Despite the fact the cost
of the trip was extortionate and had nearly ruined us, I had been
allowed to bring a little money with me. My first impulse was to
squander it all in the market. Everything glittered or coiled. The
colours were deep and iridescent, mimicking the hues of jewels.
Shawls flapped like captive wings, enchanted necklaces swung,
exotic foods hissed in their spiced fat, impossible glass
wind-chimes filled the air with music. The market people were small
and swarthy, with few teeth but wide smiles. Their hands danced
upon the air as they extolled the virtues of their goods. We passed
a stall devoted solely to Mipacanthus. It bore a forest of
identical statuettes that had been fashioned from every conceivable
medium, as well as painted leaves, varnished to hardness, that
carried the prophet’s ineffable image.

The veiled
woman, my companion of the rail, attached herself to us. We learned
she was a native of Threnador, a city so distant as to be
considered fictional. As we negotiated the maze, my father seemed
to understand her speech, while I just nodded and smiled at most of
her urgent, delighted exclamations. We found a pilgrim’s inn near
the docks and took a communal room to conserve funds. There was so
much to see and explore I didn’t know what to do with myself, and
just sat on my mattress, dazed, while Moomi and my father made
plans for the evening, consulting a library of pamphlets they had
purchased on the way from the river. Moomi took off her mask of
coins to reveal the most ugly yet fascinating face I had ever seen.
Her bones were exquisite beneath her dark skin, yet her teeth
jutted out from a stretched mouth like those of an embalmed corpse.
Her nose was long and hooked, her eyes abnormally large and of a
lustrous black. It looked as if her real eyes had been plucked out,
and replaced with dark, polished gems. Her hair had been oiled into
coiling locks that fell like snakes over her shoulders. Around her
neck hung a treasury of black pearls and gold chains. She was
perhaps halfway between my own age and that of my father. Now that
we had arrived in Charidotis, my torpor of the journey north had
vanished, giving rise to a feverish enthusiasm, which bloomed
unexpectedly in my chest. Moomi’s appearance, strange and wonderful
as it was, seemed a fitting part of our adventure.

We spent the
evening walking around the temple quarter, where architectures of
the world competed with each other in magnificence. All the temples
were dedicated to Mipacanthus, although every one of them
celebrated a different aspect of the prophet. Here a severe tower,
crowned flamboyantly with a crenellation of stone lace, symbolised
Mipacanthus as law-maker. There a spreading vista of snowy columns,
from which clouds of incense oozed, which symbolised Mipacanthus as
sensual, the confidante of despairing lovers. And above all,
rearing up like a fortress on its hill, skirted with ancient
poplars, the Great Library stood. Here scholars worked upon the
hundreds of books that contained the prophecies of Mipacanthus and
analysed the historical documents of the known world.

Pilgrims and
tourists thronged the temple area; a babbling crowd, which
effectively dispelled any atmosphere of peace and holiness. Here,
the passage of countless feet had worn away the stones of the
temple floors into channels. We walked to the plaza of the Pyramid,
but both Moomi and my father prolonged their moment of
enlightenment by agreeing not to enter the tomb until the morning,
when they would feel refreshed. Close to, the monument is so
massive as to blot out the sky; it seems inconceivable that human
hands built it. From the river, its walls had appeared smooth, but
in reality they were covered in carvings, which stuck out at every
angle. A million saints, martyrs, sacred concubines, holy soldiers,
confirmed kings and the like peered from the towering sides of the
Pyramid, each one as life-like as can be achieved in stone. Some
threw out their arms in commemoration of their final, agonised
moments in life, while others were composed in prayer. Dancing
girls, touched by the sacred, swept their stone scarves across the
faces of stern men of the sword, who had fought in the prophet’s
name. I would have been content to stand there all night, examining
the endless seethe of frozen faces, but my father was hungry and
wanted to get back to the inn. He pointed out I would be able to
see more in full daylight, clearly pleased I seemed interested in
the Pyramid.

I saw the blue
woman before Moomi did. My father never noticed her: perhaps that
is significant. It was one of those moments when time becomes
still; when we can step out of it, and events of significance
occur.

The interior
of the Pyramid was dark, the light of a thousand candles failed to
dispel the gloom but, despite the fact it was heaving with
pilgrims, it did not share the sullied atmospheres of the temples
we had visited the night before. Here was majesty serene, here was
history entrapped in stone and crystal. We had to pass through a
series of vaulted ante-chambers, before approaching the centre of
the tomb, where the body of the prophet lay. Everyone spoke in
hushed voices as they shuffled between roped walkways. I looked
around myself, soon bored with waiting, and with moving so slowly,
and wished I could go and investigate the triangular doorways
reached by perilous flights of steps that pitted the walls above
our heads. No doubt they led to secret chambers of the Pyramid,
where only the priesthood ventured. Was there ever a time when the
place was empty? I would have preferred it so. The press of humid
bodies obscured everything I wanted to see: the ancient wall
carvings, the grotesque relics in stone niches. The crowd was
policed by holy militia, or Guardians, tall, masked individuals
(some of whom were women), dressed severely in black. Only when you
passed close by, could you see that their obscuring robes comprised
layers of a wondrous, floating stuff, like smoke.

When we
reached the seventh, and final, ante-chamber, we discovered the
reason for the long queue. Only six pilgrims were allowed into the
inner chamber at a time. Merchandise was set out on a table by the
entrance, where pilgrims could buy perfumed purple candles to light
in honour of the prophet. As my father delved in his purse to find
coins, having offered to buy Moomi a candle as well, I was given my
first glimpse of the holy vault.

The
sarcophagus itself was an unbearable brilliance, reflecting the
light of devotional candles, which filled the room but for the
narrow walkway around the resting place of Mipacanthus. Five of the
six pilgrims within were in shadow at the far end of the vault. I
saw the other one lean to place a candle amid the sea of flickering
light. She was dressed all in dark, rich peacock blue; a mist of
translucent veils that covered her entirely. As she leaned forward,
a slim, brown arm came out of the folds to place a lighted candle.
With her other hand, she brushed back the veils, and just for a
moment, I could see her face. Such a face. Her profile was
exquisite and noble. A single coil of black hair fell down her
cheek. Her visible eye slanted upwards like the eyes of the women
in the carvings on the wall. My heart, I think, stopped for a beat
or two, and yet, though I was thrilled, I was strangely dismayed.
It was a feeling almost impossible to describe. Then a bell chimed
to advise the pilgrims they must leave the chamber, and a voice
came from the shadows at the far end of the vault. Her name must
have been spoken, though I could not catch it. She looked round
towards the sound and, as her body swung, the corners of the veil
wafted up and I could see the sea of candles through it, their
flames rendered blue by the colour of the fabric. On light feet,
she moved towards the shadows and disappeared from my sight.

By my side,
Moomi, who had also been looking, uttered a soft hiss, that
essentially feminine sound of disapproval. She muttered something
in her own language and I remember I said, ‘What?’

‘
Blue
flame,’ she answered, and made a complicated gesture with her
fingers against brow and chest. She shook her head, making the
coins across her face swing and chime. ‘Her air, it change de hue o
de flame.’

I laughed and
my father looked round at us, holding out the candles. Before I
could question Moomi further, we were ushered into the inner
chamber.

Moomi seemed
on edge as, together with three other pilgrims, we negotiated our
way along the narrow walkway between the tomb and the sea of little
flames. Her initial reluctance, however, was soon forgotten. The
sarcophagus was every bit as magnificent, as we had hoped and
expected. Constructed of crystal and gold, its quarters were
guarded by sphinx-goddesses and gryphon gods, each bearing diamonds
for eyes and gilden thread for hair. We had learned from the
pamphlets that the jewels allowed the guardians a clear sight
between the domain of earth and the realm of the unseen. Through
diamonds, they observed each pilgrim that passed the tomb. Golden
saints pressed their backs against the sides of the sarcophagus,
but their eyes were blank and staring. Their human origin meant
that, in death, they could only gaze inwards upon the spirit realm,
and not out upon the earth.

In the event,
it was difficult to see the body of Mipacanthus in any great
detail, owing to the opulent embellishments of the tomb. We all
stood on tiptoe to get a glimpse, though all I saw through the
crystal plate, scattered with petals, was an indistinct pale face
wreathed in what appeared to be fresh flowers. It was impossible to
tell whether that face was beautiful or not, whether it exuded
serenity or was merely blank. This undefined appearance actually
lent the body an air of authenticity. I felt that had it been a
carving or a waxwork, as I’d suspected, it would have been more
visible, more obviously displayed. This unnerved me. Moomi made
soft noises of adoration, while my father’s lips worked silently in
a personal prayer. Presently, the bell chimed, and we were obliged
to move on, out of the inner chamber into the prayer rooms beyond,
where ropes of miniature lilies and other adjuncts to devotion
could be purchased.

As we walked
back to our hostel, I spoke to Moomi about the girl we had seen,
she of the blue veils. Moomi made further sounds of disapproval.
‘De place attract dem,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘De air, de
very air, it call dem.’

‘
Calls
what?’ I asked her, intrigued.

She turned her
masked face towards me, and I felt the stab of her attention. ‘No
ask,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘Not for you, young innocent.
No.’

‘
What is
it, Alexi?’ my father enquired, distracted from his beatific
silence by our conversation.

‘
Nutting,’ said Moomi, and it was left at that.

After we left
the Pyramid, I wanted to wander off alone. We all agreed to meet
later at the plaza within the Great Library, where an open air
eating place could be found. My father suggested I should visit the
library and search for documents concerning the history of Elanen.
He was curious about such things. I was not. Once free of my
companions, I went looking for the girl. Often, I caught glimpses
of that aching blue through the crowd, and hurried towards it, only
for it to elude me. Probably it was someone else every time, though
I did not like to think of the girl as a simple pilgrim mesmerised
by the prophet’s cult. Rather, I imagined her as a scholar,
disdainfully studying the phenomenon of Mipacanthus who would scorn
his mindless followers. After having seen the body of the prophet
myself, I was more disposed to understand his enduring fascination,
but I was of that age when it is preferable to be different, set
apart from the common herd. Also, my instincts had awoken, focusing
on the unknown female, and the mystery that seemed to surround
her.

At the end of
the afternoon, as my feet mounted the hundred steps to the frontal
columns of the Great Library, I had invested my phantom female with
a full personality and history. Despite the disappointments of my
afternoon’s search, I had no doubt that I would see her again, and
in that, I was not wrong. Some things are simply meant to be;
sometimes we are marked by the mordant wit of Fate.

I found the
plaza very quickly for it was well sign-posted, but Moomi and my
father had not yet arrived. After scuffing my feet for a few
minutes, wondering whether to purchase a drink while I waited, I
decided I might as well investigate the nearest chambers of the
Library. The gloom of the great vaults seemed to draw me in and,
once I stepped across the threshold into shadow, the outside world
might as well have disappeared. The atmosphere was stern and
forbidding, as if to foreshadow the arcana it would never divulge.
Stylised portraits of Mipacanthus and his family adorned the
soaring walls of the endless corridors. Sometimes the boy-king was
represented as limpid, effeminate; a fragile creature doomed to
early death. In others, I perceived a steel in his gaze, as if when
he had modelled for the portrait he had been aware of the virtual
immortality he would enjoy, and was cynically amused by it. As a
prophet, he had no doubt foreseen his own future. He had apparently
been very beautiful in life, but perhaps the portraits flattered
him. There was, I thought, something inhuman about the absolute,
slanting symmetry of his face.