Large smooth flagstones ran beneath the arch of the trellis, which was densely grown with thick green vines and broad dark leaves. Halfway down the side of the house, the trellis parted around a low wooden door. At its far end he emerged again into bright sunlight and saw the land falling away before him in three broad terraces to the long dark pond. This was bordered at either end by the stands of gnarled, leaning trees from which the woman in green had emerged. A steep metal staircase, painted black, ran down the slope of the terraces.
He moved toward the staircase. Far away, on the other side of the long pond and a little forest, a wide field striped by a mower sloped upward to a row of straight feathery trees that served as the border of another, higher field. White sheep like dots of wool stood so motionless they looked painted. At the top of the far field the blades of a windmill shaped like a beehive turned slowly in a drifting breeze.
An unchanging paradise would have such fields, such ponds and trees, even the unmoving sheep and the drowsy windmill. It came to him that he was wholly happy for the first time since boyhood.
The black paint on the iron railing was flaky and pitted with rust. The entire structure clanged when Standish moved onto the first step. He grasped the gritty railing and looked back at the house.
From the rear the building had the massivity of a prison. The rough stone facing of the ground floor gave way to undistinguished brick. The windows at the back of the house were uniformly smaller than those at the front. Here and there blackened timbers, relics of some earlier Esswood, were visible within the brickwork. Only the library windows were not curtained.
Standish began to move down the iron staircase.
White iron lawn chairs and a sturdy iron table had been set out on the first terrace. The second was a smooth green swatch of lawn, oddly blank, like an empty stage.
When he reached the bottom of the stairs his palm was stained orange from the rust. Behind him the staircase chimed and vibrated against the bolts.
Over the tops of the trees Standish could see the feathery trees and the field topped by the windmill. A thick, buttery odor hung in the air—an almost sexual smell of grass, water, and sunlight. It occurred to Standish that this was a perfect moment: he had been inhabiting a perfect moment since he had come out from under the trellis. He walked across a track of crushed red gravel and bent to immerse his hand in the pond. The water met his flesh with a cold live shock that refreshed his entire body. Had they swum here, Isobel and Theodore Corn and the others? He swirled his hand gently in the water, watching the rust deposit drift away like a cloud of orange blood.
Shaking his right hand, he stood up and turned toward the house. From the pond it looked less ugly, more like the prosperous merchant-landowner’s house it had been before Edith had turned it into a sort of art colony.
An enormous butterfly with deep, almost translucent purple wings like fragments of a stained-glass window bobbled in the heavy air over the pond, and Standish’s breath caught in his chest as he watched it zigzag upward with aimless grace. Its angle to the light altered, and the thick wings became a dusty noncolor. Then Standish half-saw, half-sensed a movement in the house, and he looked up the terraces and saw a figure standing in the library window. A smudge of face above a blur of green hovered behind the glass. His viscera went cold. The woman was shouting at him: a black hole that must have been her mouth opened and closed like a valve. He had a sense of anger leaping like a flame. The pale blobs of her fists flattened against the glass. With a rush of panic, he remembered driving north on the motorway and seeing the child shut up in the red brick house: it was as if she had pursued him here, still demanding release.
Standish put his hand on his chest and breathed hard for a moment, then began to move around the pond toward the house. The woman stepped back from the window and disappeared. Red dust lifted from the stones each time he took a step.
eight
At five minutes to eight he backed awkwardly into the dining room through the door from the secret corridor. Cradled in his arms were two bulky folders, one filled with drafts of poems, the other with partially ordered pages of The Birth of the Poet. He planned to go through the poetry while he ate, and to make a sustained effort at reading the memoir in the Fountain Rooms after dinner.
When he turned around he saw his place laid in the now-familiar manner: the golden tableware, the domed covers, and the gold-rimmed wineglass. An opened bottle of red burgundy stood beside the glass. Two candles burned in golden candlesticks.
He put the files on the table and sat down. He placed his hand over the cover. He hesitated for a second, then lifted the cover and looked down at slices of veal loin covered with a brownish sauce and morel mushrooms. “Now wait a second,” Standish said to himself. He replaced the cover.
He saw the face of the marvelous woman who had let him into Esswood looking back up at him over her shoulder. There were two women in the house—one, old Miss Seneschal, who distrusted him and peered at him through windows; and the other, who teased. He stood up and went into the butler’s pantry.
“What are you trying to do, fatten me up for the kill?” he called out.
A burst of giggles floated toward him from the kitchen.
An even diffuse light, like soft light in the library, filled the narrow stairwell. Standish trotted down to a bend in the staircase, around a half-landing, down again. He felt a bubble of elation rising to his throat from the center of his life, deep deep within.
“You have to eat this stuff with me, at least,” he called, and came down into the kitchen.
A row of old iron sinks stood against one bright white wall, an electric dishwasher and a long, dark green marble counter beside them. White cabinets hung on the wall. On the opposite side of the room was a huge gray gas range with two ovens, a griddle, and eight burners. In the middle of the room was a large work surface covered with the same green marble. A golden corkscrew with handles like wings lay on the marble.
“Hey!” Standish shouted. “Where are you? Where’d you go?”
Laughing, he threw out his arms and turned around. “Come on!”
She did not answer.
His laughter drained away. “Aw, come on,” he said. He peeked around the side of the big counter. “Come on out!”
Standish walked all the way around the divider and touched the front of the range, which was still hot.
“Please.”
He leaned against the marble counter, thinking that at any moment she would pop giggling out of a closet. On the far side of the iron sinks was an arched wooden door, painted white. A long brass bolt had been thrown across the frame. Standish pulled back the bolt and opened the door. He stepped outside into the middle of the arched trellis.
“Hello!” he shouted. Then he realized that the door had been bolted from the inside.
He went back into the kitchen. Once more he walked all around the kitchen, hearing nothing but the sound of his own footsteps on the stone floor. His emotions swung wildly free within him, vacillating between frustration, rage, disappointment, amusement, and fear without settling on any one of them. He put his hands on his hips. “Okay,” he said. “We’ll play it your way.” At length he went back up the narrow staircase. On the table in the suffocatingly formal dining room were his folders, the cover over his food, the bottle of wine.
Dinner could wait another few minutes. He went back into the pantry, opened the liquor cabinet, and removed the bottle of malt whiskey and two glasses. The bottle said COMMEMORATIVE HERITAGE 70 YEARS OLD. He set the glasses down beside the sink and poured an inch and a half of whiskey into each glass, then replaced the bottle and carried the glasses into the dining room.
He sat down and drank while staring at the pantry door. The whiskey tasted like some smooth dark meat.
He finished the whiskey in his glass, picked up the other glass, and tilted all the liquid in it into his mouth and swallowed.
As he ate, he flipped through drafts of unfamiliar poems. They seemed
to make even less sense than was usually the case in Isobel’s poetry. Most of them seemed to consist entirely of randomly selected words: Grub bed picture dog, Hump humph laze sod. He wondered if Isobel had evolved toward or away from outright meaninglessness. He drank some red wine, which he noticed tasted as good as the Esswood whiskey, though in an entirely different way. Perhaps Isobel had written drunk. He revolved the bottle and looked at the label. It was a Pomerol, Chateau Petrus, 1972. And the veal was so good that it was almost worth eating at every meal.
In fact—
Standish stopped chewing for a moment.
In fact, it was like being with Isobel, eating this particular meal at this particular table. It was as if time did not exist in the conventional linear sense at all and she were somewhere just out of sight.
The P of the title meant Past, Standish realized.
He closed the folder of poems, pushed it aside, and drew the thick folder of the memoir nearer to his plate. He drank wine, he chewed at his food and drank again. He read.
An unmarried young woman from Duxbury, Massachusetts, came to a great estate in England. A beautiful woman named E. greeted her. E. led her up the staircase to a long gallery and a suite of rooms that overlooked a playing fountain. The young woman from Massachusetts bathed and rested before going downstairs to meet the other guests, knowing that she was in this place to find her truest self. She experimentally opened a door in her bedroom and discovered a staircase that seemed like a secret known only to her—
Standish tried to pour wine into his glass and found that the bottle was empty. A few mushrooms lay in congealed gray sauce on his plate. The brightness of the dining room hurt his eyes. Back in time again, he yawned and stretched. Somehow it had gotten to be nearly midnight. Standish stood up and went back to the pantry to pour himself another inch of seventy-year-old whiskey. If his body was tired, his mind was not—he would have trouble sleeping.
Carrying his folders and glass, he moved through the room to the main entrance, not feeling like struggling up his and Isobel’s “secret” corridor this late at night.
He mounted the great staircase and took the right wing toward the little anteroom before the Inner Gallery. He knew that the door to the gallery was opposite the door to the staircase. Therefore he felt as if his body had betrayed his mind when he bumped into a large piece of furniture, somehow got turned around in the dark, and could not find the other door.
He told himself to stay calm. He ceased blundering from one piece of furniture to another. The room seemed even darker than it had when his beloved had led him through it. He forced himself to breathe steadily and slowly. In the darkness he could see the large clumsy shapes of high-backed leather chairs. All four walls seemed covered with a uniformly mottled gray-brown skin that refused to resolve into rows of books. He stepped forward and banged his right leg painfully against a hard surface. He swore under his breath, stepped sideways, and inched forward.
A space opened up before him, and he moved more confidently toward the hovering plane of the wall. After a single step he tripped over some low piece of furniture, screamed, and fell. The glass flew out of his hand and shattered far off to his left. He landed on his left arm, still clutching Isobel’s papers. Sharp, definite pain shot from his elbow to his shoulder, then settled into a constant throb. Standish began to push himself along the floor like a grub. He realized that he was very drunk.
From somewhere above him, he heard a woman laugh.
His entire body grew cold, and his testicles shrank back up into his body. He tried to speak but his throat would not work. The laughter expired in a short happy sigh. The severed tendons of Standish’s throat reattached themselves. “Where are you?” he whispered.
Silence.
“Why are you doing this to me?”
He heard a soft flurry of movement behind him, then thought he heard rapid footsteps moving down the staircase.
Standish groped his way across the room until his outstretched fingers found a wooden door.
He came out into the blaze of light that was the Inner Gallery, rubbing his eyes with his left hand. Reality wavered around him, golden plates and golden forks and a deserted mansion and severed heads and a woman who vanished into laughter and a baby not his baby in a past that—
The Birth of the Past.
He shook his head. He needed sleep. Cool drafts moved around Standish’s ankles. He looked through the dark windows and saw the windows of the Seneschals’ suite shining back at him.
While he watched, a small dark shadow scuttled across the shade of the window on the left, and the lights went off as abruptly as the slamming of a door. It had not seemed the shadow of an ordinary human being. All the contradictory feelings within Standish melted into a single act of acceptance: he was in the Land, and he would follow where he was led.
Standish let himself into the Fountain Rooms, moved unseeing through the living room, and threw himself onto the bed.
nine
…Born in Huckstall, the fleeing blue-eyed boy it was?
Standish’s bed stood beside the long pond in cool moonlight, and a disembodied voice had just spoken lines about Huckstall and a blue-eyed boy which, though nonsense, had caused a turmoil in his breast. The dark pond stretched out before him. He held a sleeping baby in his arms, and the baby slept so rosily because it had just nursed at his breasts, which were womanly, large and smooth-skinned, with prominent brown nipples. A drop of sweet milk hung from his left nipple, and with his free hand Standish brushed it away. The peace of holding the baby in the bed beneath the moon was a kind of ecstasy. Then he remembered the speaking voice and the creature in the window, and looked down the side of the pond to the group of leaning trees. Their twisting branches concealed a being, male or female, who wished to remain hidden. Standish felt a simple profound apprehension that this being wanted to harm his baby. It—he or she—would kill him too, but the threat to himself was a weightless scrap, a nothing against his determination to protect his baby. As if in response to the threat, his breasts tingled and ached and began to express tear-shaped drops of white milk that leaked, rhythmically as drips from a faucet, from his nipples.
From somewhere either in the depths of the silvery trees or beyond them a woman began to laugh—
—and in the darkness of the Fountain Rooms, without breasts or baby, Standish flew into sudden wakefulness. His heart banged, and his body felt as if it had been torn from an embrace. Someone else was in the room: the dream-danger had been supplanted by this real danger. Whoever was in the room had just ceased to move, and now stood frozen in the darkness, looking down at him.
The publican of The Duelists had told the truth and Robert Wall had lied: an American had been lured here and lulled to sleep with rich food and strong wine, and the murderer had crept into his room and killed him.
Standish felt with a horrible certainty that the murdered American had been decapitated.
He tried to see into the darkness. His baby had been taken from him, and a being who meant him nothing but ill stood wrapped in darkness ten feet away.
“I know you’re there,” Standish said, and instantly knew she was not.
There were no giggles now. Standish lifted his head, and nothing else in the room moved. He was now as alone as when he followed the woman’s laughter down the kitchen stairs. Yet it seemed to him a second later that someone had been in the room with him, someone who circled all about him, someone who was a part of Esswood, Miss Seneschal or his beloved (it occurred to Standish that his beloved might actually be Miss Seneschal), someone who needed only the right time to appear before him. She could not show herself to him now, for he did not know enough now.
She would show herself when he had earned the right to see her.
He remembered dreaming of having large breasts so engorged with milk they leaked, and absently rubbed his hands over his actual chest, slightly flabby and covered with a crust of coarse black hair. Something about Huckstall pushed at his consci
ousness urgently enough to make him sit up in bed—he felt pricked by a pin. But what could Huckstall have to do with his work, which of course was the meaning of the baby in his dream?
Standish got out of bed to pee. A haze of light touched the bedroom window, and he turned just in time to look through the slats of the shutter and see the Seneschals’ light snap off again.
ten
An impossible thing happened the next morning. On the way to the dining room by way of “his” staircase and corridor, Standish lost his way inside Esswood and found himself wandering around strange corners, down unfamiliar steps, past locked and unlocked doors.
Standish had suffered very few hangovers, but each of them had made him unreasonably hungry—he wanted only to get downstairs and devour whatever was on the table, even if it had a funny name and looked like earwax. He almost ran down the stairs. His head pounded, and his eyes were oddly blurry—no more alcohol, not ever, he promised himself. He passed through the remnant of the huge spiderweb and pawed at it in revulsion. After a time, it seemed to him that he had circled around and around so many times that he must have gone past the first floor. He slowed down. The walls of the staircase were of whitewashed stone that was cold to the touch. When had the walls changed to stone? He looked over his shoulder. The curve of the wall, the iron sconce, even the dim gray light seemed strange.
Soon he reached the bottom of the staircase. The corridor seemed both like and unlike the one he knew. Just ahead was a tall door and a dim hallway. Everything seemed a little darker and dirtier than he remembered. He could not be certain that he was in a new part of the house until he had hurried down to the end of the corridor and found a blank wall where a statue of a boy should have been. He turned the corner and saw another, smaller flight of steps leading down to a concrete floor.
He stopped moving. Now it seemed to him that he had turned both right and left, blindly, several times without paying attention—his stomach had led him. He had a vague impression, like an image from a dream, of corridors branching off in an endless series of stone floors and dingy concrete walls. He felt a flutter of nausea. He turned around. A dark hallway extended past thick wooden doors and ended at a T juncture. He groaned. For a moment the sense of being lost overwhelmed his hunger. He backtracked down the hallway and tried the nearest door. It was locked.