Turning again, he regarded her.
"Lady," he said, "I am sorry."
"And I," she replied, "for I meant this as a place of joy."
"You are—"
"Annie, of course," she answered.
"But you're all grown!"
"So I am. Come here."
He did, and she held him.
"You'll be my mother, then?" he asked.
"Of course," she told him. "Anyone, Eddie. Anyone you need."
Abruptly, he wept again.
"I'd a dream," he said, "that I was grown, too. It hurt so... ."
"I know."
"I think that I will not go back. I believe that I shall dwell here forever."
"If you wish. It is always your home, wherever you may be."
After an hour or a year he drew away from her and turned.
"Do you hear it?" he asked.
The echo of the retreating sea still hung in the air about them, and she only nodded in reply.
"It calls to me."
"I know."
"I should go to it."
"No. You need not."
"Then I wish to. The rest is pain."
She caught up his hand.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I never meant the world should use you as it has. I had a dream. For us. It has been broken. You were caught, in a place of pain. I love you, Eddie. You are too pure a spirit for what the world has offered you."
"It has given me vision, Annie."
She looked away.
"Was it worth the price?" she asked.
He bowed and kissed her hand.
"Of course," he replied.
They listened to the echo of the melancholy, long, withdrawing roar. Then, "I must go now," he said.
"Bide a while."
"Then sing to me."
She sang, and singing made; the sea became the self that was her song. The tiger-shadows fell like bars about them.
"Thank you," he said, at length. "I love you, too, Annie. Always did, always will. I have to follow it now, though."
"No. You don't."
"Yes. I do. I know you can hold me, for this is your kingdom." His gaze fell upon their hands. "Please don't."
She studied the gray-eyed child's face, the light of forty years upon it, as if looking up from a coffin.
Then she opened her hand.
"Bon voyage, Eddie."
"Au revoir," he said; and, turning, he headed into the east, where the sea had gone and its voice thudded, warbled, then rose in pitch.
She turned the other way and walked back to the shore. The copper mountains turned to coal. The sky filled up and the lights came on. She sat on a cliff beneath their blaze and listened as the blood-warm tide came in.
IX
"Of all melancholy topics, what, according to the universal understanding of mankind, is the most melancholy?" Death was the obvious reply. "And when," I said, "is this most melancholy of topics most poetical?"... the answer, here also, is obvious—"When it most closely allies itself to Beauty: the death, then, of a beautiful woman is, unquestionably, the most poetical topic in the world—and equally is it beyond doubt that the lips best suited for such topic are those of a bereaved lover."
The Philosophy of Composition, Edgar A. Poe
It was into April's days, warm sunlight in that patch of blue we comics call the sky. The nights came balmy—guitar-noted, flamenco-stamped, fire-flocked, with constant sounds of revelry to the north.
More sedate the pleasures of the courtyard. Honest fatigue had come to rule here. Prince Prospero had grown heavier and more florid of face, and he had developed a slight limp. It has been suggested that he now numbered oriental drugs among his pleasures—smoking the opium of Bengal which leads to horrid nightmares, I am told.
I was not present when it happened. I had been taking one of my nightly walks with Annie—which, despite the circumstances, I shall always mark as among the happiest times of my life; such a light in the midst of peril and despair must, I daresay, gleam more brightly by reason of contrast.
A servant to one of the minister's wives rushed up to Annie as we paced a candle-lit gallery, admiring the exquisite artistry of ancient tapestries hung there and lamenting their state of repair. She clutched at Annie's sleeve and hissed a tearful account of events she had witnessed but minutes before.
I felt a coldness in my breast when I overheard her say, "Poor little thing... ." When she had departed, I glanced at my dear lady and she nodded. "Trippetta," she said. "The prince was with his seven chief ministers trying new wines and an African drug said to grant the pleasures of god-like madness for a brief time. They sent for her to entertain them."
There was a long silence.
Then, "They forced her to drink wine," she continued. "It does not take much to affect one so small. And then they made her dance upon a table. She could not control her balance. She fell from it and broke her neck."
I couldn't think of a single thing to say. I might be deemed a bloodthirsty wretch for my sudden desire to rid the world of this man, also. But I knew, of a devilish certainty, that no action on my part would be necessary.
A little later I was in the right place—or the wrong place, as the case might be—when her diminutive body was carried by on a board for interment in a local crypt used for those who died during our sequestration. I heard Annie gasp as the tiny form with the twisted neck went by.
I feared for my life when it came to telling Peters of it. But it had to be done. I held Annie tightly for a long while before I bade her good night.
I had been right to fear so. Peters' eyes unfocussed and his face darkened as I spoke. He drove his fist through a nearby wall, and he cursed long and loudly. I backed away, uncertain how long it would take for him to come to his senses, uncertain whether he would turn on me.
About a minute, I'd judge. Maybe a little more. Then he stopped making holes in the wall and turned to me, eyes focussing again. I braced myself.
"Ah, Eddie," he said then. "She was such a little thing and meanin' no one harm. I'll see that man dead an' in hell a piece at a time for this."
I reached toward him, thought better of touching him in this mood, withdrew and said, "It won't do her or anybody else any good if you rush off and get yourself made into a pincushion by the prince's archers."
He'd picked up a piece of brick by then and was squeezing it. I heard a grating sound. He opened his hand and gravel poured from it.
"You hear me?" I said. "I don't care how strong you are. An arrow through your heart and it stops beating."
"Ah, yer right, lad. Yer right," he said. "I'll do 'im proper, never fear. And I'll send milady a nest o'
Dukes for servants in the spirit land. Never fear I'd spend my life cheaply. Yer right."
He began to wander southward and I made to follow.
"No. No, Eddie," he said, prodding his wig back into place. "Let me go off alone now, as it should be."
I believe he spent the night in one of the monk's cells. I walked through the south wing several times later, and I'd swear I heard the sounds of a tomtom, and perhaps some chanting.
As I understand what transpired thereafter, he dissembled craftily, playing the jester once more. I was told that he later mentioned to his masters the Eight Chained Ourang-Outangs, a diversion which provided excellent sport by terrifying the ladies (not to mention the men) by creating the impression that the beasts had gotten away from their keepers.