know, because if she had not come through the door, any child she had would not be me, because I am as much a part of my father as I am of her, but on those nights, in those moments of exhaustion, I don’t think of that, I just think of me, walking down a beach of white sand under earth’s yellow moon. Tell me, is the ocean as big as my mother said, are its waves as unceasing? Are the sun and the moon really yellow?”
I nodded, unwilling to interrupt this flood of words which I was certain he had never unleashed in anyone else’s presence, the slight formality of speech which I had already noticed creeping into his speech patterns when he was very passionate or upset about something, legacy of his mother. I recalled what Johnny had said to me in the stables a mere hour before. “He’s an abnormality in his own world,” he’d said. And how right he’d been.
“I dream of that world and how wonderful it would be to be in it, free, without Trusca on my shoulders, and one of Earth’s women at my side, strong and proud, who has no need for a man to pretend always that he was strong and unafraid, a woman who could look into my soul and see it with all its frailties and accept it, even love it, not like the women of Trusca, who’ve been raised for countless years and will be raised for countless more to expect men to show no weakness, to need nothing more than food and sleep and a woman’s body on occasion. I’ll never see that world. But I saw you. And I thought I could have maybe just a part of that world. So that’s the truth, all of it, as best I can explain it. So do you think we have a chance?”
I was shaken. Deeply. Okay, I was overwhelmed. He didn’t release my hand, but neither did he speak. He had stated his case, most eloquently, and that was all that he would do. In fact, it was all that he could do, and I respected him for knowing that. One cannot control another’s thoughts and feelings, even if they can control, to a certain extent, their actions.
“Our world is not just beauty and luxury,” I said finally. “It also can be a hard world, and I grew up with a fair knowledge of its hardness. All that I was in my world, all that I became, I achieved on my own. That makes it hard for me sometimes to trust other people.”
I paused, and he nodded, acknowledging that I was sharing with him a part of myself that it was very hard to share.
“It also makes my first response to other people one of suspicion. What do they want? Why are they telling me this? What do they hope to gain from it? But I’m not so embittered that I don’t recognize real emotion, real truth, when I hear it. I was always lonely in my world, even when I was with other people. So suppose we pretend we’ve just met? And you’re introducing me? To you. To Trusca. What do you think about that?”
He smiled. “Welcome to my world, Madam. I am Randalph of Trusca.”
“Pleased to meet you,” I said. “Now introduce me to your world.”
“That will be a long ramble, Green Eyes.” He glanced around and settled his back against one of the large boulders, shifting his weight until he was arranged to his own satisfaction, and gestured an invitation. I got up and moved over, and he pulled me down, settling me easily beside him with his arm around my shoulders. He rested his chin on my head for a moment, and then he began to speak.
Chapter Eleven
In the beginning, when there was only the beginning, and the world held no world except the mists, the mists parted and gave birth. Far out, beyond the mists, the gods watched and guided, and Trusco, the King of the Gods, he who carried the great sword of lightning and the impenetrable shield of thunder, laughed in his pleasure as the ground gained firmness and shape.
“You call that a world?” asked Tarn, the Queen of the Gods, and the consort of Trusco, who as a woman, saw always what was missing instead of what was there. “It has no shape. For all its width and breadth,
I nodded, unwilling to interrupt this flood of words which I was certain he had never unleashed in anyone else’s presence, the slight formality of speech which I had already noticed creeping into his speech patterns when he was very passionate or upset about something, legacy of his mother. I recalled what Johnny had said to me in the stables a mere hour before. “He’s an abnormality in his own world,” he’d said. And how right he’d been.
“I dream of that world and how wonderful it would be to be in it, free, without Trusca on my shoulders, and one of Earth’s women at my side, strong and proud, who has no need for a man to pretend always that he was strong and unafraid, a woman who could look into my soul and see it with all its frailties and accept it, even love it, not like the women of Trusca, who’ve been raised for countless years and will be raised for countless more to expect men to show no weakness, to need nothing more than food and sleep and a woman’s body on occasion. I’ll never see that world. But I saw you. And I thought I could have maybe just a part of that world. So that’s the truth, all of it, as best I can explain it. So do you think we have a chance?”
I was shaken. Deeply. Okay, I was overwhelmed. He didn’t release my hand, but neither did he speak. He had stated his case, most eloquently, and that was all that he would do. In fact, it was all that he could do, and I respected him for knowing that. One cannot control another’s thoughts and feelings, even if they can control, to a certain extent, their actions.
“Our world is not just beauty and luxury,” I said finally. “It also can be a hard world, and I grew up with a fair knowledge of its hardness. All that I was in my world, all that I became, I achieved on my own. That makes it hard for me sometimes to trust other people.”
I paused, and he nodded, acknowledging that I was sharing with him a part of myself that it was very hard to share.
“It also makes my first response to other people one of suspicion. What do they want? Why are they telling me this? What do they hope to gain from it? But I’m not so embittered that I don’t recognize real emotion, real truth, when I hear it. I was always lonely in my world, even when I was with other people. So suppose we pretend we’ve just met? And you’re introducing me? To you. To Trusca. What do you think about that?”
He smiled. “Welcome to my world, Madam. I am Randalph of Trusca.”
“Pleased to meet you,” I said. “Now introduce me to your world.”
“That will be a long ramble, Green Eyes.” He glanced around and settled his back against one of the large boulders, shifting his weight until he was arranged to his own satisfaction, and gestured an invitation. I got up and moved over, and he pulled me down, settling me easily beside him with his arm around my shoulders. He rested his chin on my head for a moment, and then he began to speak.
Chapter Eleven
In the beginning, when there was only the beginning, and the world held no world except the mists, the mists parted and gave birth. Far out, beyond the mists, the gods watched and guided, and Trusco, the King of the Gods, he who carried the great sword of lightning and the impenetrable shield of thunder, laughed in his pleasure as the ground gained firmness and shape.
“You call that a world?” asked Tarn, the Queen of the Gods, and the consort of Trusco, who as a woman, saw always what was missing instead of what was there. “It has no shape. For all its width and breadth,
Similar Books
