All the colors have fled the world. For the first time I see it clearly: the gray skin taut against granite hills and grassless haughs; the horizon livid with clouds like a rising barrow; the hollow bones and nerveless hands drowned, beneath black waters lapping at the edge of a charred orchard. The rest is fled and I see the true world now, the sleeping world as it wakes, as it rears from the ruins and whispers in the wind at my cheeks: this is what awaits you; this and nothing more, the lie is revealed and now you are waking and the time has come, come to me, come to me. …
In the ghastly light only His eyes glow, and it is to them that I turn, it is into those hands white and cold and welcome that I slip my own, it is to Him that I have come, not weeping no not ever again, not laughing, but still and steady and cold as the earth beneath my feet, the gray earth that feeds the roots and limbs and shuddering leaves of the tree …
And then pain rips through me, a flood of fire searing my mouth and ears, raging so that I stagger from the bed as tree and sky and earth tilt and shiver like images in black water. Gagging, I reach into my own throat, trying to dislodge the capsule, Emma Harrow has bitten; try to breathe through the fumes that strip the skin from my gums. I open my mouth to scream but the fire churns through throat and chest, boils until my eyes run and stain the sky crimson.
And then I fall. The wires rip from my skull.
Beside me on the floor Dr. Harrow thrashes, eyes staring wildly at the ceiling, her mouth rigid as she retches and blood spurts from her bitten tongue. I recoil from the scent of bitter almond she exhales, then watch as she suddenly grows still. Quickly I kneel, tilting her head so that half of the broken capsule rolls onto the floor at my feet. I wait a moment, then bow my head until my lips part around her broken jaw and my tongue stretches gingerly to lap at the blood cupped in her cheek.
In the tree the Boy laughs. A bowed branch shivers, and, slowly, rises from the ground. Another boy dangles there, his hair tangled in golden strands around a leather belt. I see him lift his head and, as the world rushes away in a blur of red and black, he smiles at me.
A cloud of frankincense. Seven stars against a dormer window. A boy with a bulldog puppy; and she is dead.
I cannot leave my room now. Beside me a screen dances with colored lights that refract and explode in brilliant parhelions when I dream. But I am not alone now, ever …
I see Him waiting in the corner, laughing as His green eyes slip between the branches and the bars of my window, until the sunlight changes and He is lost to view once more, among the dappled and chattering leaves.
Part Two: Stories for Boys
1. Primordial Zone Of Bohemia
“RAPHAEL …”
The sigh came again. For an instant I paused with my head thrown back, the sweat on my shoulders cooling as I tried to recall who it was that moaned beneath me. Then a breeze stirred from the hidden panel left slightly ajar so that other Patrons might watch if they desired, and the chilly air wafted to me the scent of burned leaves and earth. A Botanist: Iris Bergenia, a friend of my Patron Roland Nopcsa and an exceedingly plain woman. The most memorable thing about her the ripe odor of loam clinging to the rough fingers that clutched me. I murmured some mindless endearment and slowed my movements, hoping this might hasten her climax so that I could join my House at last worship. Then, as an afterthought, I ran one hand across her scalp (her hair close-cropped like all the Curators’, and none too clean), and when her breathing came fast and shallow I tugged her hair as I whispered her name. She gasped and cried aloud. I pulled out of her and rolled aside on the bed. I moaned as in pleasure, hoping that no one was watching from the Clandestine Adytum to see my grimace of distaste give way to a grin as she continued to squeal and sigh.
“Ah, Raphael,” she murmured a little later, reaching to stroke the long russet tangle of hair spilling down my back. I yawned and stretched, mimed a perfect smile as I turned from her to pull on my tunic.
“That was lovely,” I said. I found my riband on the floor and braided my hair carelessly, tying the shining bit of brocade around the end. Then I stood. I pressed three fingers against my mouth in the Paphian’s beck and stared over her head at my reflection in the ancient ormolu mirror hanging from the far wall of the seraglio. It cast back my image: a slender gold-tipped shadow standing above Iris Bergenia’s stolid figure as she yanked heavy leather workboots back onto her feet. I repeated my comment, glancing down at her. But in pulling on her coarse dun-colored trousers and blouson she had also cloaked any hint of the desire that had kept her straining after me since we had met a week before at the Illyrians’ Sothic Masque. I made a face. Few of our Patrons had anything to say to us afterward.
Fewer still wanted to look at us and be reminded of their own ugliness of body and soul, forgotten for a few moments in the embrace of a pathic or little mopsy.
“Did you bring the tincture of opium?” I asked, tossing back my braid as I crossed the chamber to light more‘ candles.
“Why—no, I mean—” Iris stammered, her foot hitting the floor with a thud. She gazed at me abashed. “I understood from Miramar it was to be delivered later—”
“Oh,” I said, investing the syllable with all the sneering doubt I could muster. As the yellow tapers threw more light into the chamber I was rewarded with her blush. The mere thought that their association with us consisted of anything but raw commerce mortified even the most devout Patron of the Hill Magdalena Ardent. I knew that Miramar would be furious if he heard I had embarrassed Iris Bergenia by this intimation of impropriety. I also knew that there would never be any punishment for Raphael Miramar, favorite of the House Miramar and Roland Nopcsa’s pet. “Well, if Gower Miramar is expecting it …”
I stretched, wondering if the exchange for my favors might also bring us more of the cosmetic madder the Botanists had given us at the last masque. “May I escort you to your friends, Iris?”
“No.” Hastily she collected her cloak and carrying pouch, the tarnished swivel gun that I knew wasn’t loaded but which all Botanists carried anyway when they visited our Houses. “I think I remember the way out—”
I walked her to the chamber door, enjoying her discomfort as I embraced her. I shut my eyes and sighed into her ear, felt her shudder as she pulled away from me. She bared her teeth in a false smile. She did have even white teeth, as so many of the Botanists did; Miramar said it was from chewing birch twigs. For a moment a hint of warmth flared in her eyes.
“Roland was right about you,” she said. She gave me a fleeting smile.
I bowed my head, affecting modesty, and said, “I’ll tell Miramar you promised the tincture would be delivered soon.”
Her smile froze. With a shrug she turned and fled.
“Puh,” I said aloud. “That old bitch.” I walked to the bed and retrieved my rings and the aluminum bracelet Roland had given me last year when I had been chosen cacique at the Masque of Winterlong. It was a lovely bangle, taken from the Hall of Civil Servants in the Museum where Roland lived and where soon, soon! I would live as well. For several minutes I stood before the mirror, combing my long hair and braiding it again. This time I bound it with a long indigo riband, pulled the braid taut to display the titanium ear-cuffs that had been another token of Roland’s favor, ancient ornaments he had found among the ruins beneath the Obelisk. I dropped the braid, gingerly touched my cheek, wincing at how rough it felt. Most Patrons preferred the youngest children. Those of us old enough to shave were encouraged to do so each morning and evening. But Roland had confided that Iris Bergenia would prefer me unshaven, and so tonight I had forgone my toilet. Despite this the face that glowed between the shadows in the mirror’s flecked surface was no less beautiful than the painted effigies in the Hall of Dead Kings. Raphael Miramar, most sacred of the Magdalene’s Children, beloved of Paphians and of the Curator Roland Nopcsa.