and grindings as they did to the golden masks and harvest-blanching fists!"
"I never thought of that." Timothy looked up in gentle surprise.
"Think," said the voice from the Theban hinges three thousand years lost in time.
"Continue," said all.
"And seeing," said the voice, "that the worshippers tilted their heads to catch my pronunciamentos, garbed in mystery and waiting for interpretation, instead of oiling the bronze hasps, a lector was appointed, a high priest who translated my merest creak and murmur as a hint from Osiris, an inclination from Bubastis, an approbation from the Sun Himself."
The presence paused and gave several examples of the creak and slur of the hinge binding itself. This was music.
"Once born, I never died. Almost but no. While oils glistened the gates and doors of the world, there was always one door, one hinge, where I lodged for a night, a year, or a mortal lifetime. So I have made it across continents, with my own linguistics, my own treasures of knowledge, and rest here among you, representative of all the openings and closures of a vast world. Put not butter, nor grease, nor bacon-rind upon my resting places."
A gentle laughter, in which all joined.
"How shall we write you down?" asked Timothy.
"As a tribesman of the Talkers with no wind, no need of air. The self-sufficient speakers of the night at noon."
"Say that again."
"The small voice that asks of the dead who arrive for admission at the gate of paradise: 'In your life, did you know enthusiasm?' If the answer is yes you enter the sky. If no, you fall to burn in the pit."
"The more questions I ask, the longer your answers get."
" 'The Theban Voice.' Write that."
Timothy wrote.
"How do you spell 'Theban'?" he said.
Chapter Eighteen
Make Haste To Live
Mademoiselle Angelina Marguerite was perhaps strange, to some grotesque, to many a nightmare, but most certainly a puzzle of inverted life.
Timothy did not know that she even existed until many months after that grand, happily remembered Homecoming.
For she lived, or existed, or in the final analysis hid in the shadowed acreage behind the great tree where stood markers with names and dates peculiar to the Family. Dates from when the Spanish Armada broke on the Irish coast and its women, to birth boys with dark, and girls with darker, hair. The names recalled the glad times of the Inquisition or the Crusadeschildren who rode happily into Muslim graves. Some stones, larger than others, celebrated the suffering of witches in a Massachusetts town. All of the markers had sunk in place as the House took boarders from other centuries. What lay beneath the stones was known only to a small rodent and a smaller arachnid.
But it was the name Angelina Marguerite that took Timothy's breath. It spelled softly on the tongue. It was a relish of beauty.
"How long ago did she die?" Timothy asked.
"Ask rather," said Father, "how soon will she be born ."
"But she was born a long time ago," said Timothy. "I can't make out the date. Surely"
"Surely," said the tall, gaunt, pale man at the head of the dinner table, who got taller and gaunter and paler by the hour, "surely if I can trust my ears and ganglion, she will be truly born in a fortnight."
"How much is a fortnight?" asked Timothy.
Father sighed. "Look it up. She will not stay beneath her stone."
"You mean?"
"Stand watch. When the grave marker trembles and the ground stirs, you will at last see Angelina Marguerite."
"Will she be as beautiful as her name?"
"Gods, yes. I would hate to wait while an old crone got younger and younger, taking years to melt her back to beauty. If we are fortunate, she'll be a Castilian rose. Angelina Marguerite waits. Go see if she's awake. Now !"
Timothy ran, one tiny friend on his cheek, another in his blouse, a third following.
"Oh, Arach, Mouse, Anuba," he said, hurrying through the old dark House, "what does Father mean ?"
"Quiet." The eight legs rustled in his ear.
"Listen," said an echo
"I never thought of that." Timothy looked up in gentle surprise.
"Think," said the voice from the Theban hinges three thousand years lost in time.
"Continue," said all.
"And seeing," said the voice, "that the worshippers tilted their heads to catch my pronunciamentos, garbed in mystery and waiting for interpretation, instead of oiling the bronze hasps, a lector was appointed, a high priest who translated my merest creak and murmur as a hint from Osiris, an inclination from Bubastis, an approbation from the Sun Himself."
The presence paused and gave several examples of the creak and slur of the hinge binding itself. This was music.
"Once born, I never died. Almost but no. While oils glistened the gates and doors of the world, there was always one door, one hinge, where I lodged for a night, a year, or a mortal lifetime. So I have made it across continents, with my own linguistics, my own treasures of knowledge, and rest here among you, representative of all the openings and closures of a vast world. Put not butter, nor grease, nor bacon-rind upon my resting places."
A gentle laughter, in which all joined.
"How shall we write you down?" asked Timothy.
"As a tribesman of the Talkers with no wind, no need of air. The self-sufficient speakers of the night at noon."
"Say that again."
"The small voice that asks of the dead who arrive for admission at the gate of paradise: 'In your life, did you know enthusiasm?' If the answer is yes you enter the sky. If no, you fall to burn in the pit."
"The more questions I ask, the longer your answers get."
" 'The Theban Voice.' Write that."
Timothy wrote.
"How do you spell 'Theban'?" he said.
Chapter Eighteen
Make Haste To Live
Mademoiselle Angelina Marguerite was perhaps strange, to some grotesque, to many a nightmare, but most certainly a puzzle of inverted life.
Timothy did not know that she even existed until many months after that grand, happily remembered Homecoming.
For she lived, or existed, or in the final analysis hid in the shadowed acreage behind the great tree where stood markers with names and dates peculiar to the Family. Dates from when the Spanish Armada broke on the Irish coast and its women, to birth boys with dark, and girls with darker, hair. The names recalled the glad times of the Inquisition or the Crusadeschildren who rode happily into Muslim graves. Some stones, larger than others, celebrated the suffering of witches in a Massachusetts town. All of the markers had sunk in place as the House took boarders from other centuries. What lay beneath the stones was known only to a small rodent and a smaller arachnid.
But it was the name Angelina Marguerite that took Timothy's breath. It spelled softly on the tongue. It was a relish of beauty.
"How long ago did she die?" Timothy asked.
"Ask rather," said Father, "how soon will she be born ."
"But she was born a long time ago," said Timothy. "I can't make out the date. Surely"
"Surely," said the tall, gaunt, pale man at the head of the dinner table, who got taller and gaunter and paler by the hour, "surely if I can trust my ears and ganglion, she will be truly born in a fortnight."
"How much is a fortnight?" asked Timothy.
Father sighed. "Look it up. She will not stay beneath her stone."
"You mean?"
"Stand watch. When the grave marker trembles and the ground stirs, you will at last see Angelina Marguerite."
"Will she be as beautiful as her name?"
"Gods, yes. I would hate to wait while an old crone got younger and younger, taking years to melt her back to beauty. If we are fortunate, she'll be a Castilian rose. Angelina Marguerite waits. Go see if she's awake. Now !"
Timothy ran, one tiny friend on his cheek, another in his blouse, a third following.
"Oh, Arach, Mouse, Anuba," he said, hurrying through the old dark House, "what does Father mean ?"
"Quiet." The eight legs rustled in his ear.
"Listen," said an echo
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