from heaven knows where. Fragile as dandelions, as impossible to get rid of. Tough, too. Planted in your sitting room. This siren plainsong could go on forever, with or without support.
Helena Kendall stood by her thick glass doors. The fire had gutted; only a few embers glowed. In the arms of Julian lay Lily, curled up very small. He was stroking her hair, looking down into her eyes, and mumbling quietly. Lily made a little sound, and reached to be closer, like a newborn at the teat. Julian bent his head downward toward an engulfing, dark silence and remained. His mother, after a long instant, turned herself toward the stairway.
12
I N TRUTH, it was not just the sitting room that Lily had usurped. Mrs. Kendall’s pantry teemed with the various jams she had captured in summer: gooseberry, strawberry, quince. These were perfect now, on hunks of her fresh-baked bread, at small hours, in the company of Julian. Lily had developed an enormous appetite in this house, and Julian’s grew sympathetically. He had never gorged, had never had so much the sensation that he was feasting.
They never ate in haste. They did not, with greedy fists, fling great gobs into their mouths. There was, instead, an air of earnest play about these secret meals, an elfin atmosphere in which work and play, fantasy and engineering, were deftly confused. They sawed on their crusts, groaning with a humorous heaviness, as soft powder dusted them white. Massy stickiness was mortared on layer after layer, slice after slice. Thus they built something, together, at the large wooden table of the Kendall home. It was their altar.
Their meals were always taken in the quick of night, in silence. Different words might have been exchanged at different times, their feelings might have grown deeper with every night’s passage, but the large wooden table was still and serene and constant. Winter was outside them, and a slumbering house around, but life was there, on the spot, with bread, and jam.
The table would be covered with a bright white glow, the moon peeping in through the darkness. Spot-lit hands fluttered toward mouths into darkness, then met, stroking slowly in the light. The world was safe, warm and glowing. Clocks could be heard ticking, a muffled, hibernatory sound. The house, in its dreaming, seemed close, a navy cape thrown over the two sleepwalkers it protected. Lily and Julian whispered when they spoke, but soon grasped that the night could insulate them completely. There was no need to modulate, no need to hide.
“Have you been wandering, too, Julian? I feel like a wandering Jew . . . .” Her voice was uninflected by worry. She was spilling over, lolling in the soul.
“I’ll wander with you,” he answered, rocking her. They were adrift together on the rolling seas. He rocked her far more slowly than the quick tick-tock of clocks. Even the big wooden grandfather clock seemed hasty now; Julian’s rhythm made time swell with a vast bounty.
I have all the time in the world, she thought, languidly. All the time in the whole, whole world. I can strain my gaze forever, until the figures on the pier are not just thumb-sized but invisible, all gone. And there’s time in what’s invisible, too. It rests there.
And still Julian rocked her, until he himself had disappeared to Lily, and all that remained was the rocking itself, and then sleep. The grandfather clock suddenly thought of something to say; it tolled: Bonnngggg . . . . Bonnngggg . . . . Bonnngggg . . ..
He scooped up the girl whose consciousness amazed him, and felt the sheer weight of her dead frame. Now she was unassuming. Her head fell back as he hoisted her aloft, fully exposing her white neck. It poured from the yoke of her dress like sand from an hourglass. Her bare feet tipped downward, her fingertips dangled, grazing,
at his knees. He stood for a moment, absorbed by the shadow the moonlight cast on the wall.
The night began to lift. Julian raised Lily’s head and watched
Helena Kendall stood by her thick glass doors. The fire had gutted; only a few embers glowed. In the arms of Julian lay Lily, curled up very small. He was stroking her hair, looking down into her eyes, and mumbling quietly. Lily made a little sound, and reached to be closer, like a newborn at the teat. Julian bent his head downward toward an engulfing, dark silence and remained. His mother, after a long instant, turned herself toward the stairway.
12
I N TRUTH, it was not just the sitting room that Lily had usurped. Mrs. Kendall’s pantry teemed with the various jams she had captured in summer: gooseberry, strawberry, quince. These were perfect now, on hunks of her fresh-baked bread, at small hours, in the company of Julian. Lily had developed an enormous appetite in this house, and Julian’s grew sympathetically. He had never gorged, had never had so much the sensation that he was feasting.
They never ate in haste. They did not, with greedy fists, fling great gobs into their mouths. There was, instead, an air of earnest play about these secret meals, an elfin atmosphere in which work and play, fantasy and engineering, were deftly confused. They sawed on their crusts, groaning with a humorous heaviness, as soft powder dusted them white. Massy stickiness was mortared on layer after layer, slice after slice. Thus they built something, together, at the large wooden table of the Kendall home. It was their altar.
Their meals were always taken in the quick of night, in silence. Different words might have been exchanged at different times, their feelings might have grown deeper with every night’s passage, but the large wooden table was still and serene and constant. Winter was outside them, and a slumbering house around, but life was there, on the spot, with bread, and jam.
The table would be covered with a bright white glow, the moon peeping in through the darkness. Spot-lit hands fluttered toward mouths into darkness, then met, stroking slowly in the light. The world was safe, warm and glowing. Clocks could be heard ticking, a muffled, hibernatory sound. The house, in its dreaming, seemed close, a navy cape thrown over the two sleepwalkers it protected. Lily and Julian whispered when they spoke, but soon grasped that the night could insulate them completely. There was no need to modulate, no need to hide.
“Have you been wandering, too, Julian? I feel like a wandering Jew . . . .” Her voice was uninflected by worry. She was spilling over, lolling in the soul.
“I’ll wander with you,” he answered, rocking her. They were adrift together on the rolling seas. He rocked her far more slowly than the quick tick-tock of clocks. Even the big wooden grandfather clock seemed hasty now; Julian’s rhythm made time swell with a vast bounty.
I have all the time in the world, she thought, languidly. All the time in the whole, whole world. I can strain my gaze forever, until the figures on the pier are not just thumb-sized but invisible, all gone. And there’s time in what’s invisible, too. It rests there.
And still Julian rocked her, until he himself had disappeared to Lily, and all that remained was the rocking itself, and then sleep. The grandfather clock suddenly thought of something to say; it tolled: Bonnngggg . . . . Bonnngggg . . . . Bonnngggg . . ..
He scooped up the girl whose consciousness amazed him, and felt the sheer weight of her dead frame. Now she was unassuming. Her head fell back as he hoisted her aloft, fully exposing her white neck. It poured from the yoke of her dress like sand from an hourglass. Her bare feet tipped downward, her fingertips dangled, grazing,
at his knees. He stood for a moment, absorbed by the shadow the moonlight cast on the wall.
The night began to lift. Julian raised Lily’s head and watched
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