Read Online The Paper Grail by James P. Blaylock - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: James P. Blaylock
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symphony of movement in the soil—roots unfurling, creeping downward; billions of grains of earth shifting, settling, giving way; rock decomposing; leaves and dead roots rotting; seeds opening and pushing toward the surface; ants and moles and gophers and earthworms creeping along in the darkness; the entire surface of the dry world stirring, crawling, heaving with motion just as steadily and surely as the surface of the sea.
The tip of the dowser bent downward, drawn toward the soil, twisting in her hands so that she could barely hold on to it. “Cabbages,” she said out loud. It was as if she had seen them herself, like slide film played against the back of her eyelids. He had put out cabbages. She opened her eyes and swayed there, nearly losing her balance and blinded by the bright sunlight. With an effort she managed to clear her mind, bringing herself back around to her own garden. She marked the spot with a piece of stick, and then using the dowser again, she traced out the row, some twelve feet of it, wondering what to plant there, what sort of maleficent vegetation might wither his cabbages.
She worked by instinct. Someday soon she would know where his garden was hidden, where
he
was hidden, and she would have a look at her handiwork. It struck her as funny that she was engaged in a vegetable war, probably the first in the history of the world. It was a war she must ultimately win. He was old and feeble and dying, and his power was dying with him.
She fetched a trowel from the porch and began to dig holes in the dirt, humming now and laying a tuber in the bottom of each. A sea breeze ruffled her hair, and she scowled, looking without wanting to at the thing on the roof across the street. Its plywood arm caught a gust and slowly straightened out in a long, sardonic salute, jerking upright in order to repeat the gesture, probably over and over for the rest of the afternoon. She hummed louder, drowning out the world, pausing to pour sea hare ink over each tuber in turn and then filling in the holes with dirt.
* * *
H OWARD woke up stiff. Sleeping on the Morris chair had required a certain degree of exhaustion, and it had taken him half the night to attain it. He had slept hard in the early hours of the morning, though, and now he felt disheveled and drooly and wrinkled, and his neck was kinked and stiff.
Abruptly he knew what had awakened him—his name had been called. A key rattled in the lock, the door swung open, and there stood Mr. Jimmers and, for God’s sake, Sylvia. Howard pulled himself up and hurriedly wiped his face and ran his hands through his hair. He unwrapped himself from the quilt and stood up, the pain in his spine nearly arching him over backward. “Sylvia!” he said, trying to sound cheerful and robust but actually just croaking. He tried to clear his throat. Like a proud father, Mr. Jimmers stood beaming at Sylvia, the look on his face seeming to assure Howard that although he had waited a long time for this moment, the wait must clearly have been worth it.
He was right. Sylvia seemed not to have aged. Her skin had the same pale cast to it, almost a translucence, and her hair was full and dark and an absolute sculptured mess. She wore red lipstick, too, which was gaudy, but right at the moment she seemed custom-built for gaudy, even though it wasn’t what Howard remembered or expected. And her eyes were larger than he remembered them, too. She reminded him of a woman out of a Rossetti painting, modernized with twentieth-century makeup and natural, handmade-looking clothes. She would have looked terrific even in a flour sack or a mu-mu. Almost laughing at him, she said, “You look awful.”
“Do I?” he managed to say. He was flattered, somehow, that she would say such a thing to him, willing to joke around when they hadn’t seen each other or even spoken in years. He tried to think of a way to quit looking awful, but there wasn’t any.
“Utterly awful. It’s my fault that you
The tip of the dowser bent downward, drawn toward the soil, twisting in her hands so that she could barely hold on to it. “Cabbages,” she said out loud. It was as if she had seen them herself, like slide film played against the back of her eyelids. He had put out cabbages. She opened her eyes and swayed there, nearly losing her balance and blinded by the bright sunlight. With an effort she managed to clear her mind, bringing herself back around to her own garden. She marked the spot with a piece of stick, and then using the dowser again, she traced out the row, some twelve feet of it, wondering what to plant there, what sort of maleficent vegetation might wither his cabbages.
She worked by instinct. Someday soon she would know where his garden was hidden, where
he
was hidden, and she would have a look at her handiwork. It struck her as funny that she was engaged in a vegetable war, probably the first in the history of the world. It was a war she must ultimately win. He was old and feeble and dying, and his power was dying with him.
She fetched a trowel from the porch and began to dig holes in the dirt, humming now and laying a tuber in the bottom of each. A sea breeze ruffled her hair, and she scowled, looking without wanting to at the thing on the roof across the street. Its plywood arm caught a gust and slowly straightened out in a long, sardonic salute, jerking upright in order to repeat the gesture, probably over and over for the rest of the afternoon. She hummed louder, drowning out the world, pausing to pour sea hare ink over each tuber in turn and then filling in the holes with dirt.
* * *
H OWARD woke up stiff. Sleeping on the Morris chair had required a certain degree of exhaustion, and it had taken him half the night to attain it. He had slept hard in the early hours of the morning, though, and now he felt disheveled and drooly and wrinkled, and his neck was kinked and stiff.
Abruptly he knew what had awakened him—his name had been called. A key rattled in the lock, the door swung open, and there stood Mr. Jimmers and, for God’s sake, Sylvia. Howard pulled himself up and hurriedly wiped his face and ran his hands through his hair. He unwrapped himself from the quilt and stood up, the pain in his spine nearly arching him over backward. “Sylvia!” he said, trying to sound cheerful and robust but actually just croaking. He tried to clear his throat. Like a proud father, Mr. Jimmers stood beaming at Sylvia, the look on his face seeming to assure Howard that although he had waited a long time for this moment, the wait must clearly have been worth it.
He was right. Sylvia seemed not to have aged. Her skin had the same pale cast to it, almost a translucence, and her hair was full and dark and an absolute sculptured mess. She wore red lipstick, too, which was gaudy, but right at the moment she seemed custom-built for gaudy, even though it wasn’t what Howard remembered or expected. And her eyes were larger than he remembered them, too. She reminded him of a woman out of a Rossetti painting, modernized with twentieth-century makeup and natural, handmade-looking clothes. She would have looked terrific even in a flour sack or a mu-mu. Almost laughing at him, she said, “You look awful.”
“Do I?” he managed to say. He was flattered, somehow, that she would say such a thing to him, willing to joke around when they hadn’t seen each other or even spoken in years. He tried to think of a way to quit looking awful, but there wasn’t any.
“Utterly awful. It’s my fault that you
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