Shimmering Splendor Page 14

  She used the candle to light the lamps in her room but shivered when she looked at the bed. Then she picked up the candle again, frowning slightly, and went to the last room on the left. Holding the lamp high, she examined the bedchamber of the monster.

  The bed was narrower than her own; he was certainly not monstrous in size, although the dark shroud that surrounded him could have hidden a giant. The bows hanging on the wall were longer than those her brothers used, so he was taller, but nothing about them bespoke any deformity. The grip was surely shaped for a human hand. Hesitantly she approached a clothes chest, set the lamp on a table nearby, and knelt before it.

  This was surely forbidden; Psyche bit her lip, remembering that the monster had said he would not answer any questions about his appearance. But he had not forbidden her to try to find out in other ways. Psyche stared at the lid of the chest. It was very bad manners to open another person’s chest; it was an invasion of privacy. She uttered a soft bark of laughter. Thinking of manners and ordinary conventions in her situation was ridiculous.

  With a quick intake of breath Psyche flung open the chest and drew out one heavy cloak, another, and then, at last, a well-worn tunic. She held it up, turned it front and back. It was a perfectly ordinary tunic, large, but with no extra cloth, no worn patches, that could betray a deformed body.

  Sitting back on her heels, Psyche contemplated the tunic, the weapons on the wall, the bed. Slowly she folded and replaced the clothing in the chest, then rose and left the room. In her own bedchamber, she sat down on a chair and stared out the window. The bench, still silvered by moonlight, was empty.

  An ordinary man, she thought, does not hide himself in a black cloud. Then it occurred to her that her doom was to marry a monster. Her heartbeat quickened. Was it possible that the being in the cloud was an ordinary man and the cloud itself was designed to make him appear monstrous to fulfill that doom? She drew a long breath, almost released a sigh of relief, and then remembered that he had spoken of punishment, a punishment so terrible that even now, centuries later, he had physically fled the memory.

  Psyche bowed her head. She was afraid to contemplate a form so terrible… Her head lifted again and a frown creased her perfect brow. But he joked about it. Well, perhaps not joked, but spoke very lightheartedly about being a monster. How did that fit with a pain so sharp he had fled to conceal it? Because it was not pain? Could it be rage, recalled when he remembered those who had inflicted the monstrous form on him as she still felt rage over her family’s treatment? Could he have feared inflicting that rage on her—as she had done to him in spiteful words only a moment earlier—and thus taken himself to where he could not hurt her? A very kind and noble monster.

  She knew that already. Psyche sighed. She was, as he had said, the more monstrous of the two. She was selfish, concerned only with her own hurts and feelings. How could she still be angry with her mother and sisters when she had seen their grief for her? Grief? Guilt, perhaps, because they were relieved to be rid of her. As the thought came to her mind, Psyche flushed with shame. The black cloud was right, she was a monster.

  Thought of the monster overrode her guilty shame. Surely he had been hurt more deeply than she, and whatever his crimes, even if they were worse than his admitted carelessness and indifference that had caused others much suffering, he could not have deserved centuries of pain. Why had he not been forgiven and released? Her lips curled contemptuously. Because the gods who were no gods were creatures as petty as humans—cruel, vindictive, and indifferent to his suffering.

  A new idea burst into Psyche’s mind like a flash of light so that she blinked. Could giving her to the monster have been not only a punishment for her but a deliberate attempt to renew his agony? Clearly from the almost amused way he spoke of his monstrosity, he had grown accustomed to it. Was it known that he desired love, a home, children? Was it assumed from her rejection of the worship of Aphrodite that nothing would make her accept the monster? Would that not tear him apart, to be with her whenever he wished and yet be deprived of what he so desperately needed?

  It would serve them all right if she accepted him! Psyche almost rose from her chair to impart her resolve to him, and then first chuckled at her impetuosity and finally shuddered at the ultimate in cutting off one’s nose to spite one’s face. Perhaps she could learn to love the monster and welcome him into “their” home, but children? Poor, deformed creatures who could never have any happiness? Tears formed in her eyes and ran unheeded down her cheeks. Could she inflict that on herself, on the children, on the monster, who…

  Oh, what a fool she was! She wiped the tears from her cheeks and shook her head, half smiling. She did not doubt the monster was good and kind and that he knew the effect of his appearance on others. Could such a being desire to have children unless he knew they would not be deformed? Doubly a fool. She should have realized that as soon as she understood the monster had not been born a monster. Unless the spells that deformed him were designed to afflict all his progeny? No, surely he would have discovered that. He, above all, would not want a child if he knew it would have a life of misery, ashamed to show its face, shunned by the whole world.

  So she could no longer use the excuse that to mate with the creature would produce monstrous children. Nor could she believe it would damage her physically to couple with him—the furnishings in his chamber and the clothing in the chest all gave evidence of a large, but not abnormally large, man. Suddenly Psyche shuddered. Only it might not be a man. It might be the same size and have hands and yet be some kind of slimy horror, or be covered with ulcerated sores dripping pus, or…

  She thrust away the nauseating horrors that had filled her mind. There was no need to commit herself irrevocably and immediately to the ultimate act. Even if she could not see into the black cloud, the monster had assured her he was there, a real…whatever…within it. She could discover a great deal about him by touch, and she need do nothing until she was quite sure that his deformity was something she could endure, like a single eye in the middle of his face or a humped back or an extra pair of arms. That was a soothing thought. Psyche uttered a long sigh, stood up, and began to remove her clothes. Having made her decision, she felt relaxed and drifted off to sleep almost happy.

  Morning brought no change in her determination. In fact, she hurried through her breakfast, eager to get to the book room and find some unexceptional subjects that could be discussed safely and might lead to a touch. There were lots of scrolls concerning hunting; Psyche sighed. That would be safe enough, but no better than the talk in her father’s house. She could listen, but aside from a few questions her monster would surely guess were only an excuse to make conversation, what could she say? He was too clever, she thought, to enjoy the pretense.

  Patience was rewarded eventually. She found a treatise on plants, sensibly divided into sections on food, healing, and magic, in which she was truly interested. She spent most of the morning reading it, smiling in recognition of some uses, surprised and doubtful about others, and eager to discover specimens that were entirely new to her. A summons to lunch caught her just as she had started on the section about magic.

  As she ate, she wondered whether her monster practiced magic. The thought brought a brief sense of the nearly empty well within her, but she diverted herself by pondering whether any of the plants with healing or magical properties were likely to grow nearby. That was a question she could ask her monster—her mind checked, backed up: her monster? When had he become her monster? Psyche thought about it and could not remember specifically when she had changed her mode of thinking, but the term was certainly not new to her. She had used those words before.

  Well, so he was her monster; he had been inflicted on her, and whatever he looked like, he was a gentle soul. All the more reason to be certain her questions would not hurt him. But she was sure he would like to have his advice asked about the plants and also whether it would be safe for her to wander alone in the woods beyond the garden. Psyche’s ha
nd paused with a bite of food halfway to her mouth. If the woods were not safe, did she wish to ask the monster to accompany her? Would she be comfortable with that looming blackness so visible in the light of day?

  She had found no answer to that question by the time she returned to the book room. Leave it, she thought. He had said she could invite him inside in case of bad weather and he would not assume too much. Then it would be safe to invite him to come to the book room to look at one of the scrolls. One had to have light to see a book, and she would be able to determine how she felt about having the darkness looming over her shoulder or beside her while he read. And if he put out his hand to hold the scroll, she would see the darkness bulge and she might touch him—by accident.

  A little thrill went through her, but before Psyche could decide whether it was a thrill of fear or of excitement, she was shocked by an entirely different thought. How could she be so sure her monster would return? He had not said he would. He had not waited to hear her call to him—or if he had heard, he had not responded. Doubtless he had run to his precious Aphrodite for comfort.

  Psyche set her teeth. Precious little comfort he would get from Aphrodite. She had “spoken” for him, had she? Poor fool, he called himself Aphrodite’s servant, but he didn’t seem to realize that she had been using him all these years. Then Psyche sighed, her ill temper diminishing. Aphrodite’s selfishness assured her that her monster would return. He had told her more than once that his mating with her was her punishment, a duty set on him by Aphrodite.

  No matter what misery that duty caused… Psyche hesitated, sought for a name, and was shocked anew at her own unkindness. She had never asked her monster’s name. Well, she would! When she invited him in, she would apologize and she would call him by name, not “Creature” or “Monster”.

  Reminded of her purpose, Psyche hurriedly put the treatise about plants aside and began to search for one that presented a problem she could reasonably ask him to examine. Like a good omen, when she reached into the shelf below, the first scroll she drew forth provided a subject. The unknown squiggles were the first marks to catch her eye. She was about to return the book to the shelf when the new position revealed another row of symbols, and these she recognized. She looked at the positions of the two lines, feeling a stirring of excitement. There was no way to be sure, but she believed the second line was a translation of the first. Now all she needed was to be certain the subject would not cause her poor monster pain. The title didn’t tell her much: Whispers in the Breeze.

  Perusal of the scroll showed that, provided it was a translation, she held a book of poetry. Why bother translating poetry? If you could read it in the original, it was far better to do so. Did that mean her monster could not read the original language? No, that was ridiculous. He had said Aphrodite had obtained the scrolls for him. Would she get him books he could not read? Psyche looked with a sudden greater interest at the scroll. Had the monster done the translation? For Aphrodite? For someone else? The monster had indicated clearly that he had no other friends.

  In a fine temper, Psyche rerolled and tied the book of poetry. It would serve her purpose well enough, but she did not need to read a lot of silly love poetry, which was all Aphrodite would care about. To soothe herself, she unrolled the history. She could not discuss it with…she sighed. She did need a name for him. However, there was no reason why she shouldn’t learn what she could. Perhaps his fate was mentioned and she could discover what he had been and what he had become.

  That was so intriguing an idea that Psyche began reading at once, but she soon forgot the monster and her original purpose. She found the information in The History of the Olympians fascinating, even though some of it was also horrifying. The way Kronos had used the slaves his tribe had captured—her people and others among the coastland natives—had been brutal beyond necessity. But the result… She cocked her head and twisted the scroll holders to return to the description of the plan for Olympus. If it had been fulfilled, it would be a city fit for gods.

  The slaves had done much, but as much or more had been accomplished by the use of the Gifts. Gifts from whom? The Mother? Had that been the true worship? Had the Olympians interposed themselves between the people and the Mother? Psyche was sure that the Olympians were not gods, most of them not even godlike. They were only Gifted, she thought, staring past the open scroll. In fact, the gods were more strongly Gifted than anyone she could even imagine.

  How was it that those who were not Gifted or less Gifted were not so afraid that they destroyed them—as her people had done and still did with their own Gifted. Certainly the Olympian Gifted were dangerous, which was how so many of her people could be taken prisoner and carried away. Kronos had been responsible for the capture of thousands. Yet despite his strong Gift, Kronos had been overpowered.

  At that moment the manservant, whom she had discovered was Titos, scratched and opened the door. Psyche sighed and allowed the scroll to close. Too bad she could not ask the monster how the Gifted could be controlled. That would be a truly useful piece of knowledge for the people of Iolkas to have—but she was not likely ever to be free to bring it to them. She shrugged and followed Titos down the stairs; in any case, she did not intend to mention that scroll and take the chance of hurting her monster again.

  She ate quickly, bored with her own company. She had reason to regret her haste to be finished as soon as the meal was over. Now she had nothing at all to do, not even picking over sweets and savories she did not want. The sun had barely set and the sky was full of light. It was much too soon for her monster to come…if he were coming. She bit her lip. Doubtless Aphrodite would drive him back to her in the end, but it might not be today or even tomorrow.

  Pride forbade her to go to the bench and wait. And all her preparation in the book room might have been in vain, so she had no desire to go there. Desperation drove her to the workroom, and she lit the lamps because though it was still light out, inside the room it was rather dim. She began listlessly to turn over the pile of cloth until it occurred to her that although her chest was full of the finest clothing, all new, the tunic she had seen in…she must learn his name…his chest had been worn. She could make him a new tunic. She looked at the cloth again with far greater interest and began to open the folded pieces to see if any were large enough.

  When she next looked up, Psyche realized it was very dark outside. With a gasp, she ran out and down the steps. As she hurried toward the bench, the dark cloud surged to its full height, spilling out of itself a cascade of objects that glittered faintly and clattered as they fell. Psyche jerked to a stop, horrified at what seemed like parts of a metal simulacrum falling out of the creature.

  “I thought you weren’t coming,” the monster’s beautiful voice said, a touch reproachfully.

  “I am sorry to be late,” she replied automatically, still trying to absorb that cascade of metal objects. “I was looking at the cloth and—” Now she did not know whether that tunic had belonged to what was in the cloud or not, and even if it did, she could not admit that she had been so ill mannered as to look in his chest and notice his tunic was worn. “The fabric is very fine,” she continued, her voice trembling just a trifle, “and—I am afraid women are easily distracted by the prospect of elegant garments, even when they have been gifted with a whole chest full of beautiful new clothes. I forgot that time was passing.”

  He laughed. “And there I was last night, tossing and turning with worry because you had said you were bored.”

  “I said I was bored?” Psyche repeated. “When?”

  “When I asked if the house was satisfactory. You said you were too comfortable, that you hadn’t enough to do. So I brought some games. Oh, blast! I forgot them when I saw you running. They’re all over the ground.”

  “Games!” Psyche exclaimed, and burst out laughing.

  The shadow had shrunk down. Psyche guessed he had bent or knelt and then had the distinct feeling that he had paused to look at her when she laughed. A mom
ent later, her eyes now having adjusted to the dark, she saw a board appear on the bench, then another, then several smaller, shiny bits—pieces. Then, thinking about how the objects had spilled out of the shadow, she realized they had been carried within it, fallen out, been reabsorbed, and come out again. She sighed softly with relief. Her head had always known her monster told the truth about the shadow hiding but not swallowing what was within it, but her heart welcomed the evidence.

  “I’ll help you,” she said, coming closer and kneeling down.

  The pieces that had not fallen into the grass were easy to find. They shone faintly and she gathered them up and reached forward to set them on the bench. As she did so, her hand and part of her arm disappeared. Before she could withdraw or even gasp, her hand collided with another, warm and solid.

  “I am so sorry,” the beautiful voice said softly, as the shadow withdrew and her hand and arm reappeared. “I was not looking and you moved so quickly—”

  Psyche licked her lips. “No need to beg pardon,” she got out. “When two people”—her voice shook a little, but she steadied it and went on—“are scrabbling around in the dark, touching is a likely accident.”

  “I am a person,” he said calmly, having picked up what she feared. “It is not good to look upon me, but I am a man like any other.”

  What touched her had felt like a man’s hand. She could still feel a knuckle and the division between two fingers. Psyche almost asked him to let her touch him and be sure he was a person, but she was still too shocked by the disappearance and reappearance of her arm. It was all very well to “know” that would happen, to have seen it happen to pieces for a gaming board, but to have it happen to her, to see her own arm disappear and reappear, was different.