distance and time, which were the same thing only so long as you kept moving, she thought, since time was no friend when you were still, waiting, chained to blackness or cold stone … back … back to where her father had lived, find it somehow … perhaps … perhaps … distance and time …
“Leena, can we —” the boy started to pant, rocking his head from side to side.
“No! Go on.” He said nothing more but she repeated: “No.”
“Please don’t go, my brother,” she’d said at the horse and man shape, a motionless, dark sculpture in the burning, dying light, the road winding down and away stained by the ruby glowing that fired his black armor ( the blood touches each of us it’s a marking I know it’s in my eyes too , she’d thought) and she knew he didn’t really see her.
“I want to find him,” he’d said, cold, furious, the light bleeding and old.
“Father? Is that —”
“No,” he’d said. “No.”
“I don’t under —”
“All of them, then.” His hand was on the hilt of his sword where the light dripped. “Those sons-of-bitches … all of them … I’ll teach them something.”
So melancholy , she thought now, and then he was gone too like father … mother was always wet - eyed … no one was happy … always going … going …
Hollow-eyed mother, Layla, flesh purpled beneath where the creases showed in the candlelight, brushing her hand at her loose hair, smoothing it, swaying a little across the table.
Mother , she remembered, you didn’t cry that time and you were always crying …
“But he didn’t tell me,” she’d said.
“It matters not,” Layla’d said.
“I said please stay.”
“Yes,” her mother’d replied, staring, swaying, and from the bedchamber the deep voice she didn’t really like to have to hear called something she wouldn’t register or recall and her mother said: “Yes ...” again. The deep, male voice.
“I asked him if he went to find father.”
Layla laughed dryly, without smiling. The flames moved and ran like blood on the red silken robe as she swayed and caught the winestains at her mouth. The male voice.
“Wait,” Layla said, “I’m just coming.”
“Mother …”
“Look for him,” she said and didn’t even laugh this time, bloodlight rippling …
And then time went past and she didn’t recall much and then coming out of the sewing room holding a candle and the shock, the shadows moving in the hall, crashing and cries, a servant staggering past, mouth open, full of blood, his silver hairs parted with a neat, dark gash, the whiteness chipped and he fell, vanished into the shadows that moved and there were big men and stairs fleeing beneath her and terrible sounds, shadows, swords, and her mother shouting from above somewhere and the man, the bearded man, falling out of a sheet ( he must have wiped his blood with it ), she watching as he lurched and twisted, feet still tangled, body spouting like a fountain (so many holes ), like, she’d thought, the saint on the church altar sprouting arrows (she used to stare at it during mass), neat red arcs spilling gracefully from his curved and tranquil form … the nakedness of the falling body a shock too (“Call me uncle, child,” he’d liked to tell her in that deep voice she pictured somehow as changed by the beard), rolling past her on the stairs. She’d held her head in a rush, a soundless vacuum of knowing that she was screaming as if she screamed silence, blood splashing and sprinkling over her pale face, arms, loose robe, hot and raw from all the holes and the shadows moved and the men and the long silence rushing away …
“We don’t stop now,” she told the boy, breath short, legs shaky as they topped the hill and looked down the smooth grayness and dulled green to where the thin road slashed through the empty country and she thought: It must have circled around us … and then noticed the people and the wagon and hesitated, reached for him, thinking No ,
“Leena, can we —” the boy started to pant, rocking his head from side to side.
“No! Go on.” He said nothing more but she repeated: “No.”
“Please don’t go, my brother,” she’d said at the horse and man shape, a motionless, dark sculpture in the burning, dying light, the road winding down and away stained by the ruby glowing that fired his black armor ( the blood touches each of us it’s a marking I know it’s in my eyes too , she’d thought) and she knew he didn’t really see her.
“I want to find him,” he’d said, cold, furious, the light bleeding and old.
“Father? Is that —”
“No,” he’d said. “No.”
“I don’t under —”
“All of them, then.” His hand was on the hilt of his sword where the light dripped. “Those sons-of-bitches … all of them … I’ll teach them something.”
So melancholy , she thought now, and then he was gone too like father … mother was always wet - eyed … no one was happy … always going … going …
Hollow-eyed mother, Layla, flesh purpled beneath where the creases showed in the candlelight, brushing her hand at her loose hair, smoothing it, swaying a little across the table.
Mother , she remembered, you didn’t cry that time and you were always crying …
“But he didn’t tell me,” she’d said.
“It matters not,” Layla’d said.
“I said please stay.”
“Yes,” her mother’d replied, staring, swaying, and from the bedchamber the deep voice she didn’t really like to have to hear called something she wouldn’t register or recall and her mother said: “Yes ...” again. The deep, male voice.
“I asked him if he went to find father.”
Layla laughed dryly, without smiling. The flames moved and ran like blood on the red silken robe as she swayed and caught the winestains at her mouth. The male voice.
“Wait,” Layla said, “I’m just coming.”
“Mother …”
“Look for him,” she said and didn’t even laugh this time, bloodlight rippling …
And then time went past and she didn’t recall much and then coming out of the sewing room holding a candle and the shock, the shadows moving in the hall, crashing and cries, a servant staggering past, mouth open, full of blood, his silver hairs parted with a neat, dark gash, the whiteness chipped and he fell, vanished into the shadows that moved and there were big men and stairs fleeing beneath her and terrible sounds, shadows, swords, and her mother shouting from above somewhere and the man, the bearded man, falling out of a sheet ( he must have wiped his blood with it ), she watching as he lurched and twisted, feet still tangled, body spouting like a fountain (so many holes ), like, she’d thought, the saint on the church altar sprouting arrows (she used to stare at it during mass), neat red arcs spilling gracefully from his curved and tranquil form … the nakedness of the falling body a shock too (“Call me uncle, child,” he’d liked to tell her in that deep voice she pictured somehow as changed by the beard), rolling past her on the stairs. She’d held her head in a rush, a soundless vacuum of knowing that she was screaming as if she screamed silence, blood splashing and sprinkling over her pale face, arms, loose robe, hot and raw from all the holes and the shadows moved and the men and the long silence rushing away …
“We don’t stop now,” she told the boy, breath short, legs shaky as they topped the hill and looked down the smooth grayness and dulled green to where the thin road slashed through the empty country and she thought: It must have circled around us … and then noticed the people and the wagon and hesitated, reached for him, thinking No ,
Similar Books
