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Lost Cities

It was an age of archaeological wonders, of whole cities excavated. Walking through their ancient streets the people wondered how in future ages they would ever be thus discovered, for it had been many, many years since cities were buried in ash or drowned in the sea. So it was decided that ever hundred years a city would be chosen by lot to be lost, and in being lost preserved.

And it came to pass one year that the lot fell to a city in the plains. It was a city of green glass and blue stone, fair and shady, and the people loved their city and cried out when the lot was drawn, though they were promised fine sums to resettle, to replace their belongings.

"You yourselves voted for this law," they were reminded, "We didn't hear you cry out when Navenna burned or Jin-kiang sank under the mud." And some people were mindful that they had voted, and left for cities of red roofs or yellow fields.

But some decided to stay and defy the preservation. And they built great systems of dikes and channels to turn the floods, and huge mirrors to turn the glaciers. Towers they built to rise above any ash and shield walls many, many rods thick to withstand the lahar, the hot mud of volcanos.

And still they took care that their city of green glass and blue stone remained fair and shady.

"Fine," they were told, "Be that way; if you will not be remembered, you will be forgotten." For they had never had a city fight the lot before, and were much angered. Then they unbuilt the roads that led to the city on the plains, and struck its name out of all the records, and even the satellites did not fly overhead.

Autarky was not so hard a thing, for a city of that age, but whether the city flourished in isolation or perished of neglect is not known. How could it be? Only, some think, when the rest of the cities have fallen, will they emerge to discover who we were, and what we became without them.

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Swords and Stones

This is a story about swords and stones. Unlike most of my other stories, I didn't come up with this one on my own - it came out of a conversation I had this past summer. See, I was at the Ann Arbor Art Faire, which is about fifteen scattered blocks jampacked with tents of artists, craftspeople, vendors, and the occasional street performer... electric violin, Brazilian folk, you've heard these people before, in subway stations, in tourist places. And the thing that started it is that I enjoy striking up random conversations with artists, especially people whose work I like - that's how I wound up with this Celtic knot, the artist gives one away each show for karma - but that's another story. The art fair is so big and anonymous that I lose my normal awkwardness talking to people I don't know... if something goes wrong or is uncomfortable I can just melt back into the crowd again.

So I found out how to make dichroic glass and how to make paper castings and where to get good ideas for print designs ("sacred labyrinths"?). One woman had these weird triangular bracelets, I asked if they were comfortable, she said here, try one on and put it on me, and then told me I had four hundred and thirty dollars (!!) of fragile object wrapped around my wrist. I talked to this photocollage printmaker named Captain Zorg who addressed me as "airy spirit" and who claimed to be from the Hell of another planet, having been sent to earth as a punishment, and I asked this sculptor about his philosophy and generally was nosy and jovial. And so here I am, walking along and I've just been approached by evangelical Buddhist monks, only they're blond and have French accents, when I see this short heavy guy in sturdy brown peasant garb, burlap and leather, you know, who to be honest looks like an escaped Ren Faire dwarf. Ok, I have no tact. But I figure he was a street performer, although he's just standing there, so I go over to sort of linger and see what he's doing. Which is nothing. So then I'm thinking he's just a diehard SCAdian, because he's got the serious boots and belt and all the details just right. So I say, "Hey, awesome outfit," which is a safe way to start a conversation, unless one objects to 80s slang.

And he says "Thank you, fair maid," in that Ren-faire stage-voice manner. So I ask "Do you do reenactment," figuring that sounds non-derogatory, and he smiles, and says "No, I'm a leprechaun." I know that must sound weird to you but by this point in the day it was par for the course and I'll play along with anything that isn't creepy, you know? So I'm just "Cool, a leprechaun," and he gets that "I have an audience" gleam in his eye and says "Yes, I am the leprechaun mastersmith, in fact."

"Master smith? I thought that was more of a dwarf sort of thing, and leprechauns were, you know, cobblers and stuff." And in fact he looked more like a dwarf, in all that brown, short beard, half-cloak, and not a green thing on him. Anyways he just glares at me and says "Oho, and I suppose you think daddy goes to office and mommy stays home to cook, too" and I told him I didn't realize it was the same thing. He asked what I did and I said I was working in the Chemistry department at the university (of Michigan, you east-coasters, duh) and he could see I was sorry, because he started the routine again. Maybe this was all in the script, who could tell. So he says that he is a master smith, that he specializes in weapons. Petroxiphomancy.

"Um, what? Wait, petro would be rocks... is that like geomancy? But smiths work with metal."

"Metal," he sniffed, "metal is all well and good if it's dwarves." Obviously I didn't know anything at all. "You said you were a biochemist, right? Haven't you heard about ceramic artificial hips? Replacing all sorts of metal things with ceramics, they are. Better, longer lasting..." I agreed that I had heard this sort of thing mentioned. "Well, it's hardly a new idea. Metal is good stuff... if you don't need the very best."

"Now wait, I said. You're talking about ceramics. What happened to rocks?"

"Stones" he corrected. "You must have heard about swords and stones. Of course, they always get it wrong, they do. Swords just sitting there on their own waiting for some fool to come along and pull them out, or maybe jammed in there by some meddling wizard. Really getting a sword from stone takes work."

"But stone is so heavy,' I said. 'Ceramics are, um, porous, and lightweight. Could you really swing a stone sword?"

"What, are you picturing granite? Haven't you even heard of a crystal sword?"

"Ok, but wouldn't it shatter if you hit it?"

"All these questions! Although at least you're thinking, that's a pleasant change. But don't you know that iron shatters too..." he looked at me invitingly.

"Unless a smith works it! Right, and makes it steel. Cool!" I said. "It makes sense. Petroxiphomancy. Pretty nifty concept."

"It's not just a concept," he said, "have a look at this." And he reaches to the small sheath on his belt and pulls out a dagger. Small thing, maybe more of a knife, and it's the most gorgeous thing. The blade is red, like a ruby but not at all magenta, blood red maybe, and clear. It's very thin and sort of curved like a long skinny leaf with no stem. The handle is carved wood with leather wrapped on it, not "fancy" but the carvings on the knobs are like little flowers with grass and leaves and they're really cool, but I can't hardly take my eyes off that blade. "Prithee have a closer look, milady," and he hands it to me, and I'm just turning it over. It's damn sharp and very smooth and sort of cold.

"Is this made out of glass?" I ask. "Haven't you been listening? It's crystal." Sure, whatever. The game pales in comparison with the wonder in my hands. I want one, and I could probably get Chaos to trade me half her soul for another (but what would I do with a spare half-soul?) I want to know if he has others, if he's selling, how much. But am I even talking to the artisan, or is this his new toy from a booth somewhere in the vastness of the art fair? He's still in his routine, we've been following his script, I'm not sure if it's polite to break in and ask. And he's been talking all this time (about ceramics, even!) with a fake hearty accent (about as Irish as William Shakespeare, too). So what do I do? The script breaks the ice.

"I made that, milady," he tells me proudly. "'Twas an oathblade. Took me seven years to find the ruby and I had to burn half the forest of Arvendale to get the fire hot enough to forge her." This is fascinating, but more to the point, will I have to burn half of my checking account to buy it? He's going on about how many days and nights he worked and how he boiled off a lake to quench the steam, and how a normal blade is just one casting for him because he has mastered the art, and I'm hoping that this will get somewhere, and then he throws me.

"Do you want me to show you?" he asks. Now I don't want to call him on it... that's hardly in the spirit of the game, let alone the spirit of being a Nice Potential Customer, so I'm like, "Wouldn't you have to find another ruby?" Figuring that the art fair will be over way sooner than seven years so he has an easy and dramatically-approved out. "No, milady," he says, "that was... special. A rare need. Really any rock will do for a normal blade, and I've got a handle here somewhere..." and he puts one in my hand, when I hadn't even seen him holding one. Cool, I think, add slight-of-hand to this guy's repertoire, and he's good at it, too, because I hadn't seen him get anywhere near his pouch in the past few minutes, and he's got tight cuffs.

The "handle" (I would have thought hilt, but shows what I know) was a dark black wood, quite heavy, with silverish wire wrapped around, only sort of welded on. Nice spirals around the ends. It was really comfortable to hold, too, like scissors with the uneven handles where every finger has a place to go, only even better than that, because it was the right size for my hand.

"Come here," he says, and actually takes my other hand and leads me over to the sidewalk. I suppose I should have freaked out but he had nice dry callused hands and it never occurred to me to yell "kidnapping" or anything, and there were still lots of people around. The buildings are stone the first few feet and then brick, and he bends down to the stone and takes the handle back and sets it against the wall, perpendicular. He sort of twists it a bit, wiggles it around, then braces his other hand and a foot against the wall and starts acting like he's pulling. I'm wondering if I'm going to get to admire an invisible "dagger" when I see his hands actually jerk back a little, and in between the wall and the handle is about an inch of bright green blade. It's so green it's practically glowing, like Mello Jello, and he starts pulling it out smoothly. And not quickly, either. The funny thing is it seems attached to both the handle and the wall, although the way he's got his hand wrapped around it I can't really see that well.

He pulls it completely free- a skinny little blade maybe 7 inches long, delicately curved... he holds it up to catch the light and it's just vivid. It doesn't look like green bottle glass, it's more translucent (Lucite?), maybe like the brightest green jade. And this is even more beautiful than the first dagger, and I want to look at it, and I also just as much want to figure out how it worked. The handle is long, it must have been hidden inside, but it didn't look that long. Could he have slipped it in through a hidden slot? It must have gone tip first either way, but then why didn't I see the tip resting against the wall as he pulled the handle out and pushed the blade out of it? It had looked wider, and not pointed. Although I was looking at it somewhat on edge, and he had got me thinking "pulling out of wall", and I could have tricked myself into seeing that.

I'm thinking all of these things, but also reaching out for the knife hoping he hasn't wasted this elaborate sales pitch only to tell me it's hundreds of dollars, and I'm just overcome by curiosity and enthusiasm and I say "That's a great trick, wow." He just looks at me, and his look gets sad, and suddenly I feel very small and dumb, and he says "I don't know why I bother any more. You could have it, if you could keep it." And he snaps the blade off the dagger and throws it to me, and turns away. I catch it (he was standing pretty close) and am a little worried I've just cut my hand open catching another razor-sharp dagger blade and I also feel really bad that I've disappointed him somehow, and why did he just give me this incredible thing, but as soon as it touches my hand it starts melting, and drips off and before it can run onto the sidewalk it's evaporated completely. My hand isn't even damp. Isn't even sticky. Nothing I've ever heard of does that, and I look up to ask him what the hell it was, but he's gone. I don't know how a guy that short and that fat could get away that fast when there isn't much of a crowd, but there are booths to go behind. And he's just gone.

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The Story About the Ogres

This is the story about the ogres. Once upon a time there were three ogres. You know what ogres are, right? They're big monsters... mean and scary and scaly with sharp claws and teeth. The youngest ogre liked to bang and clang... he would dent your car and knock over stuff in stores and make the dog bark and keep everybody up at night. The second ogre liked to smash and crash. He would stomp on your car and break windows and knock holes into buildings. The oldest ogre was silent. He came out at night and would gobble you up.

So you can see how nobody liked the ogres very much. Now in this land with the ogres there was also a shining king. And the shining king asked for someone to come and save them from the ogres, and if someone could stop them they would be a great hero.

In this land there lived three harpers. You know what a harper is, don't you? A harper is someone who plays music on a harp. This was back when music used to be magic. Later they invented the guitar and it was so much fun they forgot all about the magic because they were dancing and singing, but this was before that, and music was still the same as magic. The first harper had a harp made of rusty bones and barbed wire, and it made the most horrible music in the world. The second harper had a harp made of glass and the golden braids of the most beautiful woman who had ever lived, and it played the most perfect music in the world. The last harper had a harp made from wood and steel, and his music was true.

So the ogres were rampaging across the land, destroying things and making a huge mess, and the first harper went to the court of the shining king. The shining king said "The ogres are mean and scary and scaly, but we need someone to stop them. What can you do?" and the harper said "My music is magic and I can stop the ogres." The king said "Play for us so we know you can do it," but the first harper said no, he couldn't do that, because his was the most horrible music in the world and was too awful to play in the court of the shining king. So the king said ok, and told him where to find the ogres. The first harper went to the tall cliff where the ogres lived carrying his harp of bone and rust and wire, and he found the youngest ogre. The ogre said "I am the ogre who bangs and clangs, and you are just a little harper, what do you think you are going to do against me?" And the harper started playing his harp of bones and wire, and he played the most horrible music in the world. It was screeching and plunking and jangling and tangling and howling and yowling, and it was so bad that the ogre put his hands over his flappy ears and begged him to stop, but he kept playing, and it was such torture that the first ogre ran right off that tall cliff to get away from it. And that was the end of the first ogre. The people were very glad when they heard this because now they could sleep at night.

The harper went on along the cliff and he found the second ogre. And the ogre said "I am the ogre who smashes and crashes, and you are just a little harper, and what can you do to me?" And the harper started playing his harp, and it was screeching and howling, but the ogre said "My little brother used to clang and bang, and noise doesn't bother me." And he went smash and crash and that was the end of the first harper. When the shining king heard that he said "What can I do? There are still two more ogres to rampage across the land." But the second harper came to his court with his harp of glass and golden hair and he said, "My music is magic, and I will stop the ogres." The king said "Show us what you will do, play us your music" but the harper said, "My music is the most perfect music in the world and it is too good to play in the court of the shining king. Only perfect ears should hear this music." The shining king was disappointed but he told the harper where he could find the ogres.

The harper went out to the tall cliff with his harp of glass and golden braids, and when he found the second ogre the ogre said "I am the ogre who smashes and crashes, and you are just a little harper, and what can you do to me?" But the harper started playing his harp of glass and he played the most perfect music in the world. Every note was right and it would make you smile and it would make you weep. It was like math and like stars and like crystal. The ogre listened and thought of nothing but the music, but then the harper stopped, and there was just the wind on the tall cliff. The ogre begged him to keep playing because it was the most beautiful thing in the world but the harper wouldn't play, and the ogre was so sad he jumped off the tall cliff. And that was the end of the second ogre. When the people heard they were glad, because now their windows wouldn't get crashed and their housed wouldn't get smashed.

The harper went on along the cliff and found the third ogre. And the third ogre said "I am the ogre who swallows at night, and you are just a little harper. You don't think you can do anything to me." The harper started to play his harp of glass and gold and the music was perfect but the ogre said, "I am the silent ogre who can gobble you up without any noise," and he did.

When the shining king heard this he was even more upset. "What can we do? Two of the ogres are gone, but the worst one remains, and even though their music is magic the harpers can't stop him. The ogre is eating cats and he's eating little boys and little girls and big men and brave women and even my grandmother, and I don't know if we can do anything about it." Then the third harper came with his harp of wood and steel to the court of the shining king. The king looked at him and said "What can you do? Two harpers have tried and failed to defeat the ogres." But the harper said, "My music is magic, and I can do it." The king said "I don't suppose you could play for us and show us what you will do against the silent ogre." And the third harper said, "I will play for you, because my music is true." He played his harp of wood and steel for the court of the shining king. What did he play? He played the songs people sing along with on the radio and the songs they sing around the campfire and the songs that make you dance and clap and the songs your mother sings to you when you're going to sleep and the songs people sing when they're working hard in the bright sun. He played for the court of the shining king and when he was done the king said "I believe you can defeat the silent ogre, because your music is magic and your music is true."

So the third harper went out to the tall cliffs and he found the oldest ogre. And he was huge and mean and scary and scaly and he said "You are just a little harper and I am going to gobble you up." And the harper said "You may and you may not, but first you will hear me play." And the ogre laughed but the harper said "My music is magic and my music is true." He played his harp of wood and steel, and it was the songs the ogre had heard when he was little and the songs he heard when he walked through the city gobbling people up and the songs he hadn't heard yet but was going to someday. And the ogre listened and he listened and he started to cry. And he said "I have been a very bad ogre, haven't I. I have done horrible things. I shouldn't have ever gobbled anyone up and I never will again." The harper wasn't too sure about this, because it is not wise to trust an ogre right off. But the ogre said "I cannot undo the harm I have done, but I have seen the truth now, and I would like to be your friend." So the harper said they were friends, and they walked back from the tall cliffs together.

They went to the court of the shining king and the shining king said "Silent ogre, you have done some horrible things, and why shouldn't we put an end to you to make sure you never gobble anyone up again." But the ogre said "I cannot undo the harm I have done, but I will work for the rest of my life for the people of your kingdom to make up for it. For I am no longer the silent ogre, wherever I go and whatever I do I will hear and sing the music from the harp of wood and steel that tells me I must work to make good in the land, because music is magic and music is true." So the shining king let him go and the ogre and the harper walked out from the court to help rebuild the city with wood and with steel. And I don't know if they lived happily or sadly after that, but my story is magic, and my story is true.

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Lament

If I were 'prisoned in some lonely cell
And order'd, "work!", I would know no unrest
If I could choose the Work that suited best,
Set to, give o'er its due, and do it well.
But cell-less, rather I am servant made,
A lackey to the soulless count of hours:
I lack that solace ta'en from choice's pow'r,
Since Schedule's beck and call must be obeyed.
For time is gold and gold well spent is joy
But gold regretted if spent ill, in haste;
So time is mourned, in Duty's stern employ
That, wanting want, makes naught of will but waste.
Yet to these labours I might gladly goe
If that I thought some Profitte soon would showe.

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Secret Names

Once there were a king and queen who lived in a castle of things they did not use. Elaborate cakes sat behind glass, rugs too well-woven for feet hung on the walls, and musical scores were never performed, for fear a wrong note might be played. When the king and queen had a daughter, they gave her a secret name that was never spoken save between the three of them. As the girl grew up, her teachers and friends knew her by the name that had been announced at her christening. But it was her secret name by which the girl thought of herself.

In time, knights came to court the girl, and the daring and dash of one young knight captured her heart. They grew very fond. The king and queen saw, and approved their betrothal. When she consented to give the knight her hand, the girl also confided in him her secret name. The young knight's heart welled with happiness to share this new closeness with his beloved, and the girl delighted to hear her secret name from his lips.

The girl and her knight were wed and revelled in their joy. Before long the old king and queen drifted peacefully away leaving the castle to their daughter. In the freshness of her love, the girl could not bear to see all the best things made in the castle preserved idly behind glass. Cakes were made to be eaten: let the intricate lace of the icing melt lovingly onto tongues! Rugs were laid down soft and thick under bare toes. The scrolls of great music were spread open and heard at last.

As the girl saw her castle awaken and brim over with life and enjoyment, she began to wonder why she still hid her secret name from her people. It sang so sweetly from her love that surely it would ring bright on the lips of her people! Perhaps not everyone... but her loyal chambermaid, the master of horse who taught her to ride, her aged mathematics tutor who was so dear to her heart? Was she to let all the other riches of the castle run freely but forever sequester her secret name from those she cared about? It was the most beautiful of names, and to settle for the name that had been announced at her christening seemed a great loss.

But her young knight was not pleased to hear she wanted to share her secret name. It was their treasured secret and he was hurt that she wanted to wrench open their closeness. She saw only the succulence of the feasts, while he saw the perfection of the icing on the elaborate cakes smeared across the faces of people just as pleased by simple honey. She felt the luxury of well-woven cloth; he pointed out the holes worn into the priceless, irreplaceable rugs. She thrilled to finally hear the great music of the age but he made her admit that not all of it had lived up to the perfection expected from the written scores. Did she really want to hear the secret name he so cherished bellowed coarsely across the yards?

They talked, they quarrelled, they embraced and made up again. Tears were shed, fingers were pointed, and hilarity erupted. Finally they went to sleep and he whispered her secret name goodnight.

She told her mathematics tutor and saw the wrinkled face creased further by a smile. He never missed an opportunity to chuckle her secret name in her ear. She told her chambermaid but confessed the tension with her knight, and the chambermaid never called her by it. She never told the master of horse at all. No music was ever left to languish unplayed in rolled-up scrolls, but they hung some of the rugs back on the walls and let the chefs put their finest works in glass cases if they wished. Some did and some didn't.

And when the girl and her knight had a son, they did not give him a secret name. They thought of the most beautiful of names. And they announced it his christening.

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Language of Trees

Once there was a boy who talked to trees. He had a fine smooth cheek and a twinkle in his eye, and he skipped and chattered through the woods like a silly fat squirrel, because the woods were his favorite place. He'd run out from the town most every day and play in the shade and the green-filtered sun. And as he listened to the wind rustling in the leaves he thought he heard voices, and so he stopped his laughing and whistling and chatter and bounded through the woods silently like a young hare, and he listened to the trees tell him about wind and butterflies. And when he understood it heard it easily he went to the market and sang a song in the language of the trees. And people gathered to listen and they thought they heard the leaves rustle in his voice and they said "you have truly captured the voice of trees" and they threw him bright copper coins. And the boy gathered the coins and took them back to the woods and showed them to the trees and said "Look, I have learned to speak in the language of trees, and I have won these coins," and he thanked them.

But the trees laughed at him, and they said "Foolish boy, you have learned the language of leaves, not of trees. Under the leaves are the branches and if you would really know the voice of trees you must look further."

So the boy stopped scampering and bounding through the woods and learned to run smooth so he could fix his gaze on the arch and line and fork of branches, and while he glided through the woods like an elk he read in the branches all about the sun and the great wheel of stars. And he went to the market and he traded for scraps of paper and he painted the lace of branches, and soon people brought him paper for him to paint on, and many bright copper coins, and they said to him, "you have truly captured the essence of trees!" And he showed his paintings to the trees and in them he thanked them for showing him the real voice of trees.

But the trees laughed at him, and they said "Foolish boy, you have learned the language of branches, not of trees. Under the branches is the solid trunk and you must look further to really know the voice of trees."

So the boy came to live in the woods and feel the great bulk of trunks around him and cheek grew rough like the bark, and the people from the town brought their sick to him to cure, because he had learned to see what lies under the surface, and the flow of sap within. And he lumbered like a bear through the woods and was happy in the shade and warm green sun. And he talked like a trunk and thanked the trees for sharing their real voices with him.

But finally the trees said to him, "You have learned the secrets of wind and sun and the sap under the surface. But under the trunk are the roots, and if you would really know the true voice of trees you must learn that language. You must learn the secrets of rock and worm. Nothing lies under the roots; here we speak with our real voice. Plant yourself and be still and you will learn to speak the true language of trees." And the trees opened a long dark furrow in the earth before him.

But the boy said, "But I am not a tree!" and he split open his thick rough skin and he leapt up into the air and he let out a whoop and a holler and a whistle and he ran laughing all the way back into town, where his mother was waiting for him at the gate.

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The Princess and the Moon

Once upon a time there was a princess as tall as trees. The other princesses were as tall as gentle deer or graceful harps or fertile corn. Which are good heights, but the princess stood out like a lost flamingo with ducks. The princes weren't much better. They were as tall as cheerful sunflowers or bucking stallions, but never trees. So instead of standing straight like a young pine the princess began to hunch over, which is after all what a young pine does if there's always a wind blowing.

The only time she did straighten up to her full height was at night under the moon. The moon was a great friend of the princess. She did not like the sun forcing a long merciless shadow behind her, and the stars were mere glitter. But the moon was a marvel. The princess had gazed at it so many nights that she knew every pockmark. She knew just where it would fly through the sky, and whether it should be porcelain pale or cheddar orange. Wax and wane were like her own breath. But the princess really loved the moon because it was taller than she was. She could stretch on her tiptoes and raise her arms and the moon still hung far above her, not taunting, but beaming down. It was only sometimes after a night of dancing tall beneath the moon that the princess wanted anything more. Sneaking home as the moon was setting she thought "I can climb the trickiest trees when no one else can, and they look up and wave. And I can look up to the glowing moon. But oh, I wish I had someone I could look in the eye!" But she didn't wish it too often.

Once a month the moon refused to appear, swallowed up by the dark. On these nights the princess never danced, but wandered through the trees, or curled up on a certain rock and dreamed secret dreams. It was such a night when she arrived at her rock and to her great surprise saw a young man already sitting on it.

He saw her startled expression. "Oh, I'm sorry," said the young man, "Is this your rock? I came across it and it seemed like such a nice place to sit."

Of course it was, and of course he offered to leave and she said it was quite alright, and of course nothing could suit the young man but that he scrunch over and let her have the rather less bumpy half. They were deep into a conversation regarding how forests were just the place for having a nice think to oneself when it occurred to the princess to wonder just why a stranger was on the palace grounds at all. So she asked.

He explained that he liked to get out when he had the chance, and the palace woods had always looked like a nice place to visit.

She was confused. "But I've never seen you around at all," she told him. "How did you know about our woods?"

She saw in silhouette that he sat up straighter, and even in the moonless dark she could tell that he smiled.

"I've seen it from the sky," he said. "I'm the man in the moon."

Her earlier surprise returned full force. She felt for the first time in her life that she might accurately use the word "flabbergasted".

"I'm not joking," he quickly added. "Ever since I was a small boy I've loved the moon. But I never felt like an admirer from afar... I always thought it was mine, somehow, in a way it wasn't anyone else's. I read everything I could, and dogged the heels of the court astronomer. One night I ran into an old man in the library and knew just where to find the scroll he was looking for. We fell to talking about the moon."

The young man smiled again. The princess couldn't help but smile back.

"It was the proudest day of my life when he accepted me as his apprentice. He's been gone two years now. I don't know that I'll ever have the fine touch he did. But I've got the rest of my life to find my own voice with it, so to speak. And I think I've done some pretty fine work so far."

The princess silently agreed, but... "What exactly do you do?"

He began to explain about luminosity and diffusion and velocity and jerk. And then stopped. She thought maybe he blushed, but in the faint starlight she couldn't really tell.

"Once you get me talking about my work it's hard to make me stop," he admitted. "And it's almost all I think about the whole month, except for books I bring back with me. I only ever leave at the new moon, and it's my chance to really be in the world I float above every night. So what exactly does a princess do? I've always wondered."

She started telling him about figuring out crop rotations and music lessons and adjudication, and he interrupted to ask about the best way to irrigate, and again about whether she had to perform ("Because I hate being on stage," he said, "When I'm running the moon you can't see if I've got a dopey expression"), and she interrupted him back about a good quarrel with your duet partner being the best cure for your performance anxiety, although probably not for theirs, and it was horrid if the person whose marital dispute you had to mediate the next day caught you brawling backstage. They talked about their favorite books (they were both indifferent to poetry) and were still talking when the young man noticed the sky starting to dim from crisp black to grey.

"I need to get back," he told the princess. "But I feel as if there's ever so much we still have to talk about. Do you think you might meet me here, next month? If you wanted."

"I think I might," said the princess. "If you like."

And when they rose to go she saw that he was exactly as tall as she was.

They met the next month, and the next, and the princess told the young man how beautiful he made the moon, and he told her how his passion for his work had become even greater when he knew she would see it. And the moon was even more precious to the princess, because now it was not only a familiar friend, but a private performance, just for her, from her love.

A month became a very long time to wait to see him again. She would dance under the moon and wonder if he could see her. And she knew he couldn't, but she would look up and know he was there. And she would cry a little, or blow him kisses, because she knew he knew she was looking. When they met at the new moon he held her hard as if he would never let her go again. But he always had to, and she could taste his tears.

Until one evening when she was tired of hunching over to talk to the other princesses while they worked and did not relish hunching over her dinner to talk to the princes. She lingered in the herb garden long after sunset, wishing the moon would rise that very minute so that she might see her young man's newest creation, and instead saw the young man himself.

She ran towards him, alarmed. He caught her up in his arms and swung her around until the garden spun, and after a few kisses, explained that he had found a way to leave.

She was still dizzy from the spinning, the kisses, the pungent smell of the herbs. She frowned.

"It's like an autopilot... set it up right and it can run itself!" he explained gleefully. "It means I can be with you."

She smiled, but thoughtfully. He was all froth and bubbling over, and she felt heavy. Picking up on her mood, he calmed down and held her close.

They sat together and watched the moon rise.

"I haven't seen it in such a long time," said the young man. "What a beautiful sight."

But the princess bit her lip. The moon could have crept up over the tips of the trees or loomed over the clusters of tiny houses in the village or even lurched into the sky. But it had just... moved, as efficiently as a horse pulling a wagon, and with the same lack of artistry. She sighed, and looked at the young man, and saw in his eyes that he realised it too. So they sat quietly in the moonglow, heads tipped together, hands intertwined, knowing it was the first and last time.

And then the moon was making way for the sun, and he rose to leave.

"Until the new moon?" and a nod, and they squinted in the new sunlight.

As she walked back to the castle she felt herself lowering her head and rounding her back by habit. And she stopped, and straightened herself to her full height.

That night she stood tall like a young pine in the brilliant rays. And that night there was a rainbow around the moon.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Grey Men

Once upon a time there was a man who loved the world. He lived a long life and as he lay dying he called his sons to him.

"I have lived by the sureness of my hands," he said. "I have lived with open eyes and a clear mind. And I have lived in great joy. You three must go out and find your way in the world now, and these are the best gifts I can give you. Oh, my beautiful sons." And with those words he spoke no more.

The brothers went out into the world. The eldest heard rumors of a mill abandoned a hundred years ago. He found it. Bereaved without human habitation, it was dirty, isolated, and inhabited by bats, but the timbers were sound and it was surrounded by untilled but rich earth. He cleaned, chipped at the polished stones, improved the efficiency of the gears. He planted his lands with grain and advertised his services to his neighbors.

The middle brother went to work for a local dairy farmer. He watched and learned the trade, the tricks of bargaining. And by watching the cows he figured out the timing of lean seasons, of calving, of the best places to graze. Soon for a small fee the villagers could place their cows in his herd and be guaranteed a set amount of milk production. When the cows did not have enough milk, they got money back. When the cows had more milk, well, soon the village had its first thriving cheese business.

The youngest brother had long been apprenticed to a blacksmith. Wishing to establish a forge of his own, his mentor invested in it. The brother knew it might take years for him to repay the debt but when the first sparks flew from his own anvil he knew it was worth it.

So the eldest brother's grain was golden and his mill rumbled with activity. The middle brother's cattle grew fat. And the youngest brother's forge fairly beat out the churchbells with the ringing of his hammer all day long. And that might be the end of it had not the grey men returned.

"The grey men," whispered the villagers. "It has been a hundred years since we have seen them. And would that it had been a thousand till they were seen again!"

They were seen in the corner of one's eye, scuttling into the forest. Or openly, stalking along the road. Or just their shadows would cross your field of vision but your throat would tighten and your neck tingle and your blood run cold, cold, cold.

And then the first nails were found missing from the youngest brother's forge. And the first chicken was stolen. The blossoms in the orchards wilted, choking in foul smoke from a hundred mysterious fires. A puppy was found in the well. That's when the children weren't let out alone anymore. The fat bags of brown grain were stolen from the eldest brother's mill, and worried whispers about the winter were heard. They finally found the nails and the chicken but wished they hadn't since the one was stabbed full of the others. Then the women didn't go out alone either. The middle brother's cows were found dead, drained of blood, entrails spread into obscene patterns, and even the lines of men working in the field were knotted into little clumps with no one more than a few steps from his neighbor. One horrible night the eldest brother huddled by his fire alone as weird wailing was heard from his mill. When the sun rose he emerged to find his millstones broken, and smeared with blood in scrawled inscriptions.

"Except for the nails they seem to have spared me," said the youngest brother. But the next morning he found a blackened human bone in his forge.

"We must do something," said the eldest brother. "The grey men destroy us all. They have taken my grain and broken my millstones. They have slaughtered my brother's cattle and have defiled my brother's forge. My father taught me to live by the sureness of my hands. Should they now stay empty and idle when I can see that something needs to be done?" He gathered the villagers and spoke to them. He led them to the place the grey men were known to dwell. As they approached the air grew cold and still. It hung heavily on them and they could not breathe. But the eldest brother filled his lungs with his purpose and shouted "You have done us great wrong and we demand that you make amends! If you do not come out and make peace, we will see you gone from this place!" No reply was heard, only a low chanting like the mutter of wind. The villagers drew closer and saw dark shapes circled around a low fire, massive and alien. They fled in fear. The eldest brother realized he was unwise to have tried to confront the grey ones in twilight, and would have to try again before sunset, for he knew he could not face them alone. He returned to his mill planning another attempt in the morning. But that night the grey men came and filled his mouth with stones and left the broken body on the soft sweet earth.

When his brothers found him their pain overwhelmed them. As they groaned and wept their anguish some their minds cleared. "They will come for us next," said the middle brother. "They always do." The youngest brother struggled to deny it, but the middle brother was unflinching. "Our father taught us to live with our eyes open, little brother. We must always face what we know to be true. And the grey men will not hold back from seeing our whole family dead."

"But can't we get away?" cried the younger brother. "Surely the whole world is not within their reach. Surely somewhere people live free." "Don't think I haven't thought about it," said the middle brother. "I want to live just as much as you do. But we know they can move faster than us. We know they are stronger than us. We know that a hundred years ago those who tried to leave were the first ones to be killed, and that even if you are one of the ones left alive when they leave, you are not so lucky, for having been touched by the grey men the stench never clears, the taint never leaves your life. Our village is doomed to destruction, for hasn't it taken a hundred years for the desolation to be cleared and the village rebuilt by the five-times descendants of the survivors? Our father loved the world for he had the fortune to live in the best time, the time of the rebuilding. And they do not vanish in the meantime, no, they move from village to village spreading their carnage. Yes, surely somewhere it is possible to be free, but no travellers have reached us from that far-off land. My eyes are open, little brother, and what I see is our death and the decay of our land." But the youngest brother shook his head violently, tears in his eyes, and ran away from his brother. It was the last time he saw him for that night the grey men came and filled his mouth with stones and left him lying in the lush grass where his cattle used to graze.

Now the youngest brother huddled in his forge at the base of his anvil, hand wrapped around his hammer. "My brother died in despair," he thought. "His last hours on earth were filled with agony and dread. This cannot be right. A life should not be wasted in such misery. But he spoke true! I cannot deny that." He stroked the hammer, marvelling how with this simple object he could bend a lump of misshapen iron to whatever shape he willed. "He spoke true, and yet truth did not serve him, for his last chance to taste pleasure was squandered in pain. Well, my father taught me to live in great joy, and let truth go to the devil!" And he turned away from the knowledge within him that they would come for him that night. He thought of his brothers, standing beside him, but he was reminded that they would never stand again, and he wept. He stopped his weeping and remembered that he sought joy. He looked around and thought of his pride in his new forge, and thought of his years learning his trade, but he was reminded that he would never look on it again, and he wept. Again he put aside his sorrow and resolved that this time he would find what he sought.

So the youngest brother shut his eyes and laid down to dream. He dreamt of the blows of his hammer shaping the glowing red metal into tools used in the strong hands of his neighbors. He dreamt of wagon-wheel rims and axles he made rolling down the roads. He dreamt of a hero, come to save them all from the grey men, and he dreamt that her fierceness in battle was only met by her fierceness in his bed. He dreamt that she taught him the secrets of the forging of her bright sword and that he won fame and renown for the strength and elegance of his tools made of the new metal. He dreamt of his brothers alive and well, of fields of green grain ripening to gold and of herds of sleek cattle. He dreamt of his father, striding through the village, his great laugh booming to great everyone he met. He dreamt of his love by his side and a cradle on the hearth, of a golden-voiced girl and a silver-fingered boy who would together make the sweetest and strangest music he had ever heard, and when he listened to them he would feel like he was flying through clouds and into the sun, and wonder that he had fathered such children. He dreamt through the night and when the grey men pried his lips apart he was smiling.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

The Tower

Once upon a time there was a tower of wonderful magic. Well, I'm starting my story in the wrong place, because it's really a story about the brothers, and everyone knows the brothers, and while everyone knew about the tower and how it held all the best most fantastical things in the world, no one had ever actually been there in all the time anyone could remember. Because the way to the tower led through the dark woods and up the perilous cliff and across the fiery chasm. And everyone knew there were monsters in the woods and ghosts on the cliff and demons in the fiery chasm, and anyone fool enough to try it came back shaking and could never sleep soundly again.

But once upon a time the brothers were sitting around talking about the tower and what they thought was up there. You know the brothers, of course, they were famous in the village. Wes could fair lift a cart over his head and the ox along with it. Bert could charm the eggs from a hen or the skirt off a farmer's daughter. And John was sure of step and aim and word.

"I bet there are heaps of gold and a feast that never runs out!" said Wes.
"Beautiful enchanted maidens and a harp that plays itself," said Bert.
"A fountain of clouds, a wheel of stars, and the form of the good." said John.

So of course they decided to set out that very day and try their luck at the tower. They had hardly left the village before they were in the shadows of the dark woods.

Wes and Bert looked around nervously. "I will fight my way through!" said Wes, but he heard rustling of feet and gnashing of teeth and turned back in fear. "Perhaps we can trick them," said Bert, but he saw the glowing of eyes and the gleaming of claws and he turned back in fear.

But John looked around and saw nothing but trees and shadows, and he felt no fear, and he walked through the dark woods and his brothers followed him.

They soon came to the perilous cliff and began to climb. Wes was set to haul himself up with his strong arms, but he heard the wailing of the ghosts of climbers who had fallen before, and feared he would let go and join them. Bert tried to coax out handholds with his nimble fingers but he saw the empty gaping eyes of ghosts, and feared he would let go and join them.

But John heard only the wind on the cliff, and he felt no fear, and he climbed to the top and his brothers followed him.

At the top of the cliff they could see the magical tower bright before them. They ran forward but caught themselves short: between them and the tower was the fiery chasm, and only a narrow footbridge across it with no rail and no guard.

"I will run across!" said Wes, and he began to run, but he looked down at the fierce flames below him and froze in the middle unable to go on. "I just won't look down," said Bert, but as he started across he thought of the demon faces that leered beneath him waiting for a misstep, and he froze in the middle with his brother.

But John stared into the fire and saw nothing to fear, and he walked calmly across, and his brothers came with him.

And at last they were at the tower, and the doors flung themselves open for them, and they rushed in, and it was full of wonderful things. Wes found mountains of gold and Bert beautiful princesses and haunting lively music played in the air as if from invisible instruments and there was a table laden with so many kinds of food you could try a new one at every meal and not taste them all in your lifetime. And the two brothers ran about the tower and laughed and called to each other to look at the wonders they found.

But they saw that John stood by the door, and said nothing, and so they called to him. "John, come join us!" "Please, John, it's fantastic..." "Look at the gold!" "You could try the roast venison, it's delicious..." But no matter how they coaxed or commanded John would not so much as smile in answer.

Finally he looked at them. "I was not afraid on the way to the tower because I saw nothing to fear. But now that I am here I still see nothing. You talk of gold and princesses, but I see only an empty room."

Wes and Bert stayed in the tower with the never-ending feast and the music in the air and the beautiful princesses and were merry all their days. But John went back down to the village and he never spoke of the magical tower to anyone but me, and now I've told you.

So it could end there. Or that last paragraph could go away, and instead...

The brothers looked at each other sadly.

"We did spot a staircase..." one began. "Dusty!" "And bare stone, none of this lovely marble inlay..."

Of course, to John it was all bare stone.

"We didn't bother going up it." "But perhaps if you did?"

John thanked his brothers.

"Don't mention it!" "After all, we could have hardly made it without you..."

John started up the stairs. They were wound around the tall room where his brothers played. He spiralled up and up.

He came to a wooden door and pushed it open. Inside was another empty room, bare but cozy, with a chair and a bed windows that looked out over all the land. From that high place he could see all the way back to the village and beyond to fields of green corn and clouds blowing along the hills and the first stars in the evening sky.

Wes and Bert went back with bags of gold and tubs of food and a magical harp and princesses for wives and the people all marvelled to hear their story, and they lived happily ever after. But John stayed in the tower and never returned to the village.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Sleep

Once upon a time there was a boy who went to look for sleep because he didn't want to have to go there every night. He thought sleep was a place just like the library, and when he got there, he could just stay forever, wrapped in shifting dreams, and never have to go back and forth again.

One night he was in the middle of building a huge castle of sticks and string. But he had to go to sleep and abandon it half-formed. That same night he had a marvelous dream of a world of fish, drifting slowly through the water. But he had to wake up and do the dozen useless things they make you do in the morning. He decided that that was the day he would set out for sleep. He was no further than the end of his driveway when the neighbor's dog rushed up bouncing for attention. The boy hardly even noticed.

"Hey, boy, why won't you play with me today? You haven't thrown me a ball in weeks. Let's go run around," yipped the dog. But the boy said "I can't run and play. I am on my way to sleep. It will be a long trip and I must get started now." "Sleep, huh?" puzzled the dog. "Have I ever been there? Hey, I got a great story first. I got the mailman real good... it was great, man, he was so confused. Boy did we play a trick on him! See, three doors down there's this little mutt, and we hid him, and the mailman thought, no wait, first we..." The dog's tongue stumbled, unable to keep the pace of the adventure, but the boy said "I have no time for stories. But remember the fun we had when I get to sleep, ok?" Because he was really a kind boy, and he didn't want the dog to miss him.

He walked on and left the dog behind still trying to recall the details of his story. The boy walked and walked, down streets and across yards and sometimes even over a fence when that was the shortest way. After a while the houses grew fewer and the streetlights turned into stopsigns and then just posts, and he went up hills and over bridges and past huge fields of lazy grain.

He had stopped for a few minutes in the shade of a giant tree when he saw a black shape overhead. The shape spiralled down, then swooped at him, and as he jumped back he saw it was a raven.

The raven, unconcerned, dropped neatly to the ground and walked back to where the boy was caught between "go" and "stay". "We don't get too many out here as small as you," quoth the raven. "Are you sure you're on the right road? There's a nice park back a few turns, I'm thinking that was where you meant to go? Wait, I can deduce from the mustard stain on your shirt that you have a sandwich in your front left pocket, so you must be on a long journey." The boy reacted hardly at all to this feat of insight. "Yes, I am on a trip. I'm going to sleep, so I don't have to go there every night." "Sleep!" The raven hopped back a few steps. "You're a bit young, aren't you? A journey that may be wisdom in an elder is surely reckless in youth. You wouldn't set out yourself for the supermarket, would you?" "I don't want to argue with you, sir." the boy said quietly. "But I have to go to sleep and come back again just like any grownup." "Well," pondered the raven, "The longest journey has many turnings. If you wish companionship for part of the way I shall go with you, and tell you a story. Listen while I tell you of triumph and peril, of old days of mighty deeds when the sun shone brighter. In this time there was a hero who strode across the land in titanic glory, save for the shadow of the winged danger he could not slay..." but the boy interrupted him. "Thank you for your offer but I think I will get there fastest by myself," he said. "I have no time for stories." "No time for stories, eh?" said the Raven haughtily. "Then I'll leave you be." And in no more than a minute he was just a speck against the blue.

The boy walked the long road to sleep. The fields of lazy grain gave way to meadows of busy grass. The asphalt road lost its stripe, then turned to stones. Before long the boy was walking under arching branches on dirt... not a narrow trail, but dirt packed by a thousand feet. The rolling hills grew steeper, and the trail wound upward. The soft land grew rocky and the gentle wind grew fierce. As the boy came around a boulder larger than his mom's minivan he noticed two things immediately. He was at the top of a tall and daunting cliff. And seated placidly a mere twenty feet away was a fantastical monster considerably larger than the boulder. Where he could see past the wings, each one of which could have sailed a small yacht, he saw yellow fur. A tail as big around as his thigh at least. But he wasn't looking at the back much because the front was a gigantic but quite recognizable human...in fact, a woman. And she was... captivatingly... shamingly... naked. The boy blushed so red his lips disappeared in his face, but couldn't take his eyes off the mountains in front of him. Until the Sphinx (for that is what she was) turned to look at him. She stared at him with eyes the color of deserts and cold as stars. The boy realized that her massive breasts were like jellied sandstone, her fur the same stuff fibrous, her wings like sugary marble. For a moment he was the most afraid he had ever been, but then he saw that she lay across the road to sleep, and monsters lost the power to frighten him. "Please move," he called, "I want to go to sleep, and you are in my way." "Aren't you frightened of me, little man? Aren't you fascinated? Don't you want to talk to me?" "All I want is sleep, ma'am," he answered. "Ahhh". And her sigh blew down trees.

"I understand. I have always understood this. So, manling, you seek the perfect tranquility behind your eyelids. The forever lull and the end to endless waking." "You do understand," said the boy. "I couldn't do anything else when I had to go back and forth. It was the override, the priority job. Every night this trip away, and every morning coming back. I know I have to go. But this trip, I'm staying." "You are right, boy, but you are wrong. The breath tide, the beat of the hot drum, the rush of red and the murmur of belly. Itch and spasm and urges and surges you do not yet know, these all cut through. Only as a stranger to them do I last." "You last?" whispered the boy. "I was old when the world was young, child. I can remember being inside, boy." "Inside?" "In the beginning there was only the egg, and the surface of the egg was the universe, rough and slick. Then the egg cracked and space seeped out so the egg hung alone in darkness. Then the waters ran forth and the egg floated. As it bobbed gently I and my kind wanted out, so we began to chip at the walls. At long last-" "That's just another story!" cried the boy. "I thought you were different. I thought you could help me!" "I could," said the Sphinx, "But my help is not the help you seek. My help begins with a riddle and ends with a myth and in between is not as pleasant as a young boy's trip through woods. Go on your own path, boy. I will be here if you ever change your mind. I will always be here. I have always been here..." The boy was gone; she was all the audience she had ever needed.

He walked up and up through the mountains. The trees grew more twisted and more stunted and more hunched and more lonely and finally he walked over bare rock and silvered grass. Fog rolled in on the wind. "I am almost there", he thought. "It is almost all gone. The sky is blank and there is no horizon. When the ground vanishes, I am there." And just then he could no longer feel the wet grass on his numbing ankles, and he hung in mist. "But it is so light! To have come to sleep and be surprised! The grey glows! Where is the warm red-black dark? I am so cold... I want to be here, but I didn't know it would be cold." But the cold was empty and the cold was still and the cold was peace, so he drifted.

There was no time and no change and then he saw a figure approaching from far off, just a shadow in the clouds. As it grew closer he saw it was two people, a man carrying a small child. A little boy. Who waved at him like he was the circus. The man just looked hungry. He knelt down and set down the child, and they both stared at the boy.

"Who are you?" he asked. "Why, I'm you," said the man, but his deep voice was muffled by the fog. "And me too," said the child. "Welcome to sleep," replied the boy. "Should we all be here at once?" "We live here!" shouted the child. "Don't you remember? You used to live here too. That was when I lived out there. I went to sleep every night and sometimes in the afternoon. And one time I met you on the way. We played together in sleep. It was a lot nicer than this... it had candy, and witches, and we could fly!" As he spoke the fog swirled. Maybe there was something behind it... "I met you a few more times, and then one time we saw some scary monsters, so after that you always walked with me to keep me safe. And then one time when we were on the road back you went back instead of me. And I stayed here. You used to still come and play sometimes... not very much though..." the child pouted and fell silent. "So you're not me... I'm... you?" said the boy. "Didn't you miss, you know, playing outside?" But he remembered that he had come to live in sleep too. "You don't really notice, once you're there," said the child. "It's not like it bothers you. Because bothering isn't part of sleep." "I know," said the boy. "I know."

Then he looked at the man. "So you're me too. I suppose you were planning to meet me on the road, and talk to me. And then one night I would go to sleep and you would come back and I would stay in sleep and never even know." "That's right," said the man. "But we can only meet on the road. If you don't make the trip back and forth, you'll never get to meet me. You'll never know who I am... who you can be." "Who *you* are," scowled the boy. The man was not expecting this. "I might not even like you. You might be horrible. You might be everything I think is dumb. I don't get any choice! I'm just stuck with you and you get to be me and occasionally you might come talk to me and laugh at what I was and how you've taken over my life. I thought going back and forth to sleep made it impossible for me to live and now I find out it's even worse than that... that even if I did put up with it, you would just steal it all anyways! There was only one choice I could make... to go to sleep myself and stay there, so I never had to go back and forth again. And here I am. And I'm staying."

"But I will never get to see the world," said the man softly. "I will never get to meet mom or smell cinnamon or throw a ball or solve a puzzle or squish my toes in mud. If you don't help me, I can never live." "You're trying to trick me!" said the boy. "Grown-ups don't play in mud. Grown-ups never have any fun!" "I might," said the man. "You'll never know if you don't find out." "That doesn't matter" said the boy. "Why should I help you anyways? Even if you were the coolest person in the world, it would still be you being cool. Not me. I'd just be... here. Clapping for you, but you would never listen. It doesn't make a difference to me."

"Is it so much to ask?" asked the man. "To spend a few more years out there, even if you didn't like them, going to sleep waiting for me? I know how hard it is," said the man. "I remember. After all, I'm you. But you can wait. I know how strong you can be. How brave. If you just hold on a few more years, you can make your trip to sleep then. And I will walk with you, and you can tell me stories about the tricks I will play and the dragons I will slay and the worlds I will build. I will love your stories. And I will make them come true, for both of us." "You're just like all the others!" screamed the boy. "Stories! Always stories! What if I don't want to dream any dreams anymore?" "But if I promise you will like them later...." said the man.

"To live. To suffer, for a promise." said the boy. "For you." "For me," said the man. "You're the only one who can do it for me. And I know you are kind, and I promise I will make it up to you later." "But what if you can't keep your promise?" asked the boy. "What if you want to stay in sleep, and wish that I hadn't kept going back and forth? What if you hate me for coming for you? Are you sure you won't hate me?" "I will always be fond of you. You will have to trust me on that," said the man. "Can I think about it every day?" said the boy. "I could always decide to come back." "No," said the man. "You can't wait long enough, if you have to think about it every day. What if you give up too soon? You have to make your choice and never look back." "Now you're making it harder!" wailed the boy.

There was silence for a long time.

"I'll go..." said the boy. "I'll come back every night to look for you. Don't take too long. Please." "Thank you," said the man. "And one more thing. Talk to people you meet on the road. Some of them know me. And they will help you find me when the time is right." The boy agreed as waves of warm dark washed away the cold mist. He saw red and orange. He opened his eyes and saw home.

"And," said the man, "just maybe... you won't be as eager to find me as you think. But I will be waiting." And he smiled.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

House of Mirrors

Lucetta pushed her plate away, and all the other girls in the mirrors pushed their plates away too.

She looked at Lucy One above her, who of course looked back. She snuck a peak at Ettas One and Two in the back left corner; they ducked theirs head to look back just at the same time.

"Finish your lunch, Lucetta," she heard from above her. "You need to be in good shape for our lesson today!"

They were studying multiplication. Lucetta already knew a lot about multiplication. All you needed was to multiply one by six, and you had infinity.

She looked back at the cold surface of the heavy cream of celery soup. If she broke the surface, she would see it reflected white in the handle of her silver spoon. And if she brought the spoon to her lips enough times, she would look into the shiny bottom of the bowl through streaks of soup and see herself looking back.

She liked leaving the soup for that reflection to hide under.

She skipped back and forth around the room. Back wall, door wall, bed wall, desk wall. Uh oh, didn't want to stop there, better go back to the bed. She saw her feet coming closer in its square posts.

Maybe she could hide under the covers. She pulled the shiny white satin up over her eyes. It was shot through with silver threads and encrusted with tiny mirrors on the outside, but it was opaque. Opaque was a good word. It meant special. Really it meant a place where light just stopped instead of throwing itself back at you. You could rest inside opaque. Not like transparent. Transparent things were glass, like everything else.

"You can't hide, Lucetta! Time for your lesson!"

She heard the door graze the floor, sweep back and ring closed. She had forgotten to check it today. Now she would never know if, maybe, she could have opened it herself, just this once. Then the covers were jerked off of her and she saw herself, white between the white lights in the ceiling.

She saw the silver of her guardian's gown trailing over the more-silver floor as he bent to pick up the scorned soup and the scorched crust of a soft roll.

"Put on your clothes, Lucetta?"

She sneered, looked at herself crosseyed in his back, but tugged the grey satin dress down her smooth arms.

"I have a treat for you! We're reading today!"

This was a treat? Listening to his remote voice behind his mask, sitting at her desk watching his gauntleted hands turn the pages across the room? She had to admit, it was a treat. Stories she didn't make up... it was the only treat she had. But her guardian seemed determined to wipe all traces of fun from the proceedings the same way he so carefully wiped away dust and grime from every surface. He would never answer her questions about where the other rooms were with the people in the books. She could not see them, of course, but her guardian came from the other side of the door. He must know if the books were true or just pretend. She knew her guardian himself was real, although his realness stayed just out of reach. She hated hugging him and pressing her cheek against the cold plates of his vest. Most of all she hated the mirrors over his eyes, that she might forever look and only see herself seeing him.

"Didn't you hear me, Lucetta? We're reading today!"

She nodded and headed for her desk and folded her hands, ready to listen.

"Surprise! You're going to read!"

He went back to the door, reached behind it for a box, the same kind of box new covers and new dresses came in. Lucetta was confused; she hadn't even had her things for half the month yet, and they were hardly even brittle at all. There should not be a box until her covers and dress were much darker. She watched, puzzled...the box contained another box. He set the new box on her desk. Its sides made new Lucettas on all of the walls. She looked down and watched silly upside-down Lucetta-on-the-floor reach out and touch the new box. One side was cut slanted and was just glass.

Her guardian motioned her back, then placed a book in the box, held open facing the glass.

"Try to read it, Lucetta!"

She could read, of course, but had never seen words so small before, or so darkly printed on such flat, unglossy paper. She haltingly began to read. When she reached the end of the page, she looked up.

"That was great! I'll show you how to turn the page."

She read about a man walking along a shadowed path under trees. She could not imagine green that did not fit on a plate, or being under something that was not also under her. Shadows she could not picture at all. She read that the man stopped walking and looked at the sky. A long time ago her guardian had read her another book that talked about the sky and she had asked her guardian about it. She thought it must be like the ceiling, only higher up. But her guardian had said there was no ceiling outside. She had wondered what was there instead. There was nothing there, said her guardian, but it was blue. Lucetta did not understand how the man could look at something that was not there, or what it was that was blue. Maybe the man would tell her, but he was walking again.

She read on, page after page, until dark spread across the white paper.

Her guardian put the box back in the big box. Her face fell.

"Don't be alarmed, Lucetta, that went really well. We're just going to try to make it work even better for next time. I think this is exactly what you need. That's it for today's lesson. It's okay to play until dinner."

She tried the door as soon as he was gone, in case he forgot to lock it. There was no knob to pull, but she slid her fingertips back and forth along the tiny gap where it lay flush with, but not quite touching, the wall. It was dark against the walls full of light.

She sat on her bed and tried to look at nothing, but she kept seeing the walls instead. She wished she had just a little piece of sky so she could try it the right way. It wouldn't have to be blue, even, just a little piece of the ceiling where there wasn't anything. She looked at her dress for awhile instead. If she looked between the little mirrors, she could only see the one thin layer she could touch with her fingers. It was a place to hide, looking at the shiny fabric, but she was not supposed to play with her dress too much. She looked at the walls again, swung her head so all her others flashed by, back and forth. She would have a new dress in two more weeks. Lucetta pulled her dress right up to her eyes so the room went away.

Later she built a room with her blocks, using the clear-glass ones as little windows so she could look inside. She could not see the inside in any of the walls or the floor or the ceiling, so the Lucys could not watch her fill up the inside. It was alright since all of the others had made a little room too. She wondered whether they saw the same thing in theirs as she did: sometimes just her eye, slices of nose, tiny slivers of forehead. There was no place for all the rooms in the little room, just pieces of Lucettas. She knew that if she didn't look in, it should be a place she wasn't at all and the rooms were, like the bathroom if she shut the door as she left. But she could never check to be sure, and she could not imagine the infinity of a room without her to fill it up.

She touched the door again, but not even the very tips of her fingers could fit into the gap to grasp the edge. She paced the room, hands in front of her eyes to block out the cold glass and the hard light in all directions. And then dinner was slipped through the door, a clear soup smelling strongly of onions (the fans had almost finished clearing away the burned smell, and she could smell the onions from across the room). She ran over then stopped in shock. Something was written on her tray, the black ink beading up on the glass.

"There are places without mirrors," it said.

Lucetta ran to the door and splayed her hand on the cool glass. It felt like it always had.

"There are places without mirrors," she read. She buzzed with curiosity. She pictured rooms of glass, stretching out in all directions. But how could the rooms exist without her in them? The message must be from where the people in the books lived. They never had reflections. That night Lucetta dreamed about a world with covers hung over all of the walls. She didn't want to wake up until she remembered the strange message.

Her breakfast tray held a longer message.

"I know you're there, Lucetta. No one I know has ever talked to you, but we've all heard you're there. But now I'm the first one to talk to you! I'm Matthew. I'm right behind the door. Listen."

She listened. She heard a steady thump, three times. Then again.

Her guardian never knocked. Taking a deep breath, she knocked back.

Her lunch tray informed her that she must be very brave to live all by herself and not get lonely. "I have a family," said Matthew, "and friends. We play we're heroes. What do you play all by yourself?"

Her milk had been replaced by ink, her fork for a brush. With a shaking hand she wrote back, "I play I am my friends."

She made a great many mistakes with her multiplication that afternoon. She had never talked with anyone besides her guardian and the Lucys and Ettas before. What if she had not done it right?

But Matthew wrote back with dinner. "I am not sure what you mean. Friends are other people who like you and who like to play the things you like to play. I know you play with blocks, and I know you have a skipping-rope. I guess I know quite a lot about you."

Lucetta was starting to feel like she was Lucy One all upside down and in the air. Matthew seemed to like knowing things about her. But she had said the wrong thing about friends. She didn't know if he liked her now or not. She thought about what he said. The other Lucettas liked to play the things she liked to play. That was all they ever played. But now that she was talking to a real person from the outside, she knew they weren't really like other people at all.

And then she knew what she had to write. Her stomach twisted and her throat got dry, but she held her hand with the brush steady.

"I guess I do not have a friend, Matthew. Would you be my friend?"

That night Lucetta thought the room seemed huge and empty. The Lucettas were still there, but flattened behind their glass walls. Even under her covers she felt the angles of all of the reflections. If Matthew did not want to be her friend, she would be more alone than she had ever been, and she did not know how she could face all the rooms with no one real in them. She got up to try the door twice but her hands slipped over the smooth surface and ran down the gap feeling the sharp corner like a broken edge. There was no knob; there was only Matthew to grab onto.

For breakfast she feasted on one word: yes.

They wrote every day at every meal for another eight days, until Lucetta's fingers were stained as black from ink as her dress and covers were turning. Matthew told her about climbing trees; she climbed up on her desk. He told her one day that he had made the soup, in a pot that he could fit inside. He had been made to peel a mountain of potatoes that came nearly to his waist. Lucetta pictured a mountain of potatoes in the room, in all the rooms, imagined Lucettas buried by potatoes. But potatoes did not belong in the rooms. Potatoes were round all over. Nothing she had was round all over. She had once had a ball but let it roll from her desk and tinkle onto the floor in shards with nasty, curving, cutting edges. Her guardian had cleaned it up but lately she thought that somehow the shattered pieces were in the walls making the angles between the Lucettas sharper and all pointing right at her.

She tried to bear the razor reflections and remember that Matthew was writing for her out of all the many Lucettas.

But they were still there, and even when she looked as far back as she could she could still see them, tiny and intent upon her. Matthew wrote about polishing the silver and she shuddered. He must understand, Lucetta thought. He was her friend.

"Can you open the door, Matthew? I like reading what you say. But I can still see my face behind the words. I want to see rooms without myself in them. Have you ever seen a shadow? I never have. Every time I look in a mirror I hope you will be there looking back. Please open the door so I can meet you."

He was the only friend she had. He had to help her.

"I would like to meet you too. I've been watching your guardian and I figured out how the door works and I think I can come meet you tonight after he leaves. But I would be in awfully big trouble if they found out I helped you sneak out."

She would get to meet Matthew, it would have to be enough. She knew she should not be greedy wanting Matthew and shadows and places without mirrors all at once. And she realized she was not disappointed. He would fill up the rooms while he was there. She could hug him and hear his voice. He was better than shadows. He was her friend.

They agreed he would arrive late after dinner.

She sat down to wait, running her hands over her scalp, biting the ends of her fingers, twitching and fidgeting on her dark covers, looking at herself in the hard planes of her furniture, until far after dinner.

The door opening: a line of dark against the bright walls. A thin brown arm, a faded orange sleeve. The dullness of skin and cloth, the curly tension of hair, the softness of a round cheek, as Matthew slipped into the room and pushed the door shut behind him. In the wonderful warmth of eyes she saw him seeing her. She smiled. She reached out to touch the rough orange cloth of his shoulder.

The fabric crisped black before her fingers could so much as brush it. He jerked back, aghast. She stepped forward, confused.

"Matthew?"

She wanted him to look at her, to let her put her fingers on the waves of his hair while he told her what was wrong. He would assure her that all was well and let her rub his funny, fuzzy arm. She reached out for him again. He jumped back as soon as he saw her intent, but this time the black spread along his arm and crept toward his neck and a charred smell drifted towards her.

He drew his elbows tight to his sides, crossed his hands palms out at his chest. He stumbled back a few more steps. His eyes were like mirrors.

"Matthew!"

He bolted for the door, Lucetta flung herself forward, tears burning in her eyes.

His hair fell to ash, his mouth opened to scream. A gout of foul black smoke rolled forward. Her only friend was a dark lump of cinders on the smooth glass floor. On the six sides around her she saw the black pile a million times.

She wanted to finish his scream for him but the silence was endless.

She stared at her hand. It didn't change.

Lucetta felt her tears become thick, stagnant waters closing over her head. She was drowning in an ocean of slime that pressed on her lungs too heavy to breathe.

The Lucys and Ettas were still, waiting.

Lucetta became aware of a great cold heat radiating out around her. She poured it into the choking water. It soaked up the heat, baking to mud, until the air was clear and cool around her and a fine dust covered the floor.

She looked at her hand. It was just her hand.

One step took her to the door. She held it and swung it gently back and forth. A second step took her through.

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