How the novel progressed and concluded, I will keep a secret. If it has a happy or a tragic ending, I will not tell you. (It was a sort of A. Black send-off tale remember, so I leave that up to you.)
* * *
I will not forget the afternoon Ruthana took me by the hand and walked me through the woods. Life in those days was idyllic in every way, so I thought little about where she was taking me. I simply enjoyed the stroll. Spring was in the offing. Sound poetic? I was in a poetic mood. In a short while I would celebrate my first year in Gatford. In even less time, I would become a happy father, the mother my beloved Ruthana.
So imagine my surprise when she led me toward the path. For several long minutes (they certainly seemed long to me), I thought she was putting me out of the woods, out of her life. Was my presence so disturbing to her? It wouldn’t be that difficult to understand. I had disrupted her existence in many ways. I was, despite my diminished stature, still a human being—or, as Gilly had it, a Human Being. She was carrying a baby put inside her by a race unknown to her. My proximity generated a situation in which Gilly’s vengeful hatred of humans was so completely exaggerated that it made him miscalculate and endanger his own sister’s life; a definite dereliction (I won’t say it!) in the Middle Kingdom. Because of this he was imprisoned in the Cairn. I’d simply done too much harm.
The more I thought about it, the more convinced I became that she was expelling me from Faerieland; perhaps on Garal’s order.
“You’re putting me out, aren’t you?” I said.
“What?” She hadn’t heard. I repeated the question—more a despairing statement.
“Putting you out?” she said. She sounded confused.
I blurted out my list of anxieties.
“Oh, Alexi!” she murmured, stopping in her tracks.
“Isn’t it true?” I asked, also stopping. “Haven’t I ruined your life?”
“Alexi. My love. Ruined it? You’ve made my life heaven!”
“Then … why—?” I started.
“Putting you out?” she sounded painfully incredulous now. “I would never do that.”
“Then why … the path?” I asked.
I’d removed my hand while enumerating my doubts. She took it back now. Firmly. “Come,” she said.
We walked to the path. There, she stopped and pointed. I looked. Magda’s house.
Burning.
* * *
For a while—how long I don’t remember—I was speechless. Then, at last, I was able to speak. Not coherently. “How?” was all my brain was able to produce.
“We don’t know,” Ruthana said. “We think that the people of Gatford did it.”
“Why?” Another ill-produced word from my unhinged brain. The intense relief of hearing that Ruthana was not getting rid of me magnified by the unnerving sight of Magda’s house on fire created a word void in my head. “Why?” I said again, blotting out her answer. Which was, “Because she’s a witch.”
“I know but—is, Ruthana? She’s dead, isn’t she?” I felt cold asking it.
Colder yet at Ruthana’s answer. “Part of her.”
“Part?” I couldn’t recognize my voice, it sounded hollow, hoarse.
“Her second body is still alive,” she said.
Again that voice sounded unrecognizable to me. “Second body?”
“Didn’t Garal tell you?” she asked.
“No,” I said. Then, “I don’t remember.”
She recounted to me (I guess Garal had said something like it) that we have several bodies, one of them physical.
“That was the body you saw in the woods,” she told me. “The body she shifted to the griffin body. The body that was killed.”
“Then … her—second body?…” I was totally mixed up.
“Is her—did Garal name it?—astral body? Spirit body? It’s still alive. There has to be a second death.”
“Second death,” I muttered. Caught between confusion and the deep blue sea.
Ruthana nodded. “Then the rest of her can move on.” Her expression darkened. “I would hate to see where, she’s done so much evil.”
“So much good, too,” I found myself protesting. “I was with her for months. She healed my wound. She was very kind to me.”
“Are you sorry you left her?” Ruthana asked. She meant it.
“I didn’t leave her, she chased me out.”
“And tried to kill you, Alexi.”
I sighed. I felt rotten. “I know,” I said. “My home is with you.”
“Oh, Alexi,” she said. She was in my arms again. Her soft lips on mine. “I love you,” she whispered. “Don’t ever think you ruined my life. Don’t ever think that.”
“I won’t,” I promised. “Thinking it made me sick.”
She kissed me tenderly. “You never have to think it again,” she said.
We stood in silence for a while, looking at the fiery blaze of Magda’s house.
“I suppose there’s no way to put it out,” I thought aloud.
“None,” she said. “We can’t do it. And the people of Gatford won’t do it. We believe they started it, of course.”
I said no more. I did wonder why the faeries could do nothing. I didn’t ask. Ruthana read my thought. “She tried to harm us any way she could,” she told me. “We’re not sad to see it burn.”
I noticed, at that moment, that we were not alone. All through the trees, I saw a host of Middle Kingdomites, all standing quietly, watching. A few of them—the younger ones—were smiling, even grinning at the leaping flames. Most of them, however, to their credit, observed the (by now) conflagration in grave muteness. There was no way of knowing what terrible hostilities had existed between them and Magda. (I knew nothing about it from her.) Memories of dreadful events I’d experienced gave me some idea; but details? No. I actually lost track of the fire, turning my head to look at the different faeries.
I had never seen them in such numbers before. They were a fascinating sight. Every age, every appearance, all short in height, of course, all dressed in clothes of various color. All—do I dare express it so?—cute. Well, they were. Dwellers of Middle Kingdom. Secretive to a fault. Fast moving. Innocent yet capable of alarming mischief. Lovers—and nurturers—of Nature. A (virtually) unknown race of legendary people, little people. It was hard for me to believe I was one of them. Of course, I wasn’t.
I had to tear away my rude inspection of them. I managed it somehow, returning to the burning house. It was, now, a holocaust. (An original definition of the ghastly crime we, later, were witness to.)
“There’s no way … Magda—as she is now—can put it out?” I asked.
“None,” said Ruthana. “She is not part of this world now. I mean not in this … what is the word my father uses? Diminishin?”
“Dimension?” I suggested.
“Yes.” She nodded. “Magda is still in the house but in a different—demenishen.”
I didn’t correct her. All I could accost in my brain was an image of Magda in the house, unable to do anything but watch the belongings of her life consumed by fire. The furniture, the books, her bed, for God’s sake! The painting of Edward! Even in another dimension, it had to be a wrenching experience for her to watch helplessly as these priceless possessions burned.
You wonder, perhaps, why, so easily, I accepted the concept that, her physical body dead, Magda still existed. Listen, folks. After all I’d seen in 1918, I would have bought the Brooklyn Bridge for twenty cents. Little green men from Mars? Probably. Rocket ships to—what?—the moon? Why not? For Jesus’ sake I’d lived with faeries for six months! A witch for three! What was left to disbelieve?
* * *
So the house of Magda Variel was burned to the ground. Well, almost. Some of it remained, blackened, charred. And any sign of the Gatford Voluntary Fire Department? My ass. I hated to think of Joe gloating over the consumption of the witch’s house. He probably did, though. Hadn’t he alerted me to her witchdom? Hadn’t he told me how to cope with her? No, that
was with the faeries; he was obsessed with them, too.
Well, he had brought me bread and milk and fixed the roof of Discomfort Cottage—give the man pluses for that. And he was a product of his time and place, God bless his superstitious bones. Oh, Christ. I’m getting tolerant in my waning years. Or is it feeble-minded? Anyway, Joe’s superstitions proved to be true. Magda was a witch. The woods did swarm with faeries. I should write him a letter. Dear Joe, you were fucking right. (There, I’ve used the super-naughty word. And I’m not even apologizing for it.)
I have become conscious of the fact that I am killing pages to delay what is becoming those dread words (worse, I think than the “bad” one).
The End.
But it’s not, you see. Almost but not completely.
Chapter Twenty-nine
The birth of Garana took place on February 29, 1919. It was a painless and harmonious delivery. They always are in Faerieland. Or so I was told. Why not? Was there any stress to deal with? Not at all. Except for human beings with guns.
I will attempt now (probably without success) to describe the celebration that took place in honor of Garana’s entry into Little People Land. I suppose I might have shown resentment that my daughter wasn’t named Alexana or something like that. I assumed that despite every emotional attachment I felt for Middle Kingdom, I was still, fundamentally, a human being, and my child’s name reflected that albeit subtly. Actually, I did feel disturbed by it but had to understand. Ruthana picked up my distress and tried to comfort me. Garana was still my blood daughter, she said. Nothing could change that.
Yes—the celebration. I did recall that my marriage to Ruthana was unattended by my Faerieland brethren. Because it was a polyglot wedding, faerie with human being—or mortal as we are sometimes called. But aren’t faeries mortal? Aren’t they corporeal as much as human beings? I guess not. They are partly (how much I never knew) also incorporeal? Astral? Ruthana seemed bodily enough when we were loving. Oh, who knows? I’ve been sidetracked again. Arthur Black would put me in a home for askew authors.
Well, I must, as best I can describe the natal day celebration. I said I would, and by God, I will. I might go off center periodically, but I do manage to get back on target. Eventually.
You know that faeries love to dance. No, you don’t. I never told you. Well, they do. A lot. As much as possible. And what better excuse than the birth of a Middle Kingdom citizen?
The music? Fiddles. Panpipes. Pennywhistles. One delicious melody after another. Did you know that many so-called folk songs were derived from faerie songs? For instance “The Londonderry Air.” That was one of them. Of course, there is a melancholy feeling to that one. There was nothing but joy and energy to the dancing music that day. All to the throbbing, mesmerizing beat of tiny drums, the rhythmic cadence of feet as they battered lightly at the ground. Whirling, jumping faerie figures, dressed in vividly colored costumes adorned with flowers, sparkling with jewels of every shade. Voices singing jubilantly, peals of buoyant laughter. These were happy people. No matter their size. They were surfeited with merriment. As was I, watching on the sidelines, enchanted by the sights and sounds of their delight. I have never, since, experienced such total exultation.
Which made the sudden silence an oppressive heaviness on my ears. I had to shake my head to clear it of the gaiety of musical clamor I had been relishing. I looked around in curious wonder. Everyone had stopped their excited jigging. They were starting to move near the edge of the immense glade we were in. Why? I thought. What could have caused them to, abruptly, terminate their beloved dance? Then I saw. The figure of a man emerging from the woods.
Gilly.
I thought (I hoped) that the gathering faeries were going to attack Gilly, showing angry disapproval of his unforgivable behavior.
I was fated to disappointment on that one.
Embraces were rampant, handshakes plentiful. They were glad to see him. He had, I suppose, discharged his punishment in the Cairn and was now being welcomed back once more, a full-fledged member of the clan.
Garal was beside me then. I wanted Ruthana, but she was still resting. “He’s passed his time in the Cairn,” Garal told me.
“Now what?” I asked. Tremulously, I’m sure.
“He’ll be all right now,” Garal said. Not to comfort me, I felt. More to put me in place.
“I hope so,” I said.
“I’ll bring him over,” Garal replied.
Before I could protest, No, don’t! he was gone. I watched as he entered the group. Respectfully, they parted from their leader, and he moved to confront Gilly—who was smiling broadly from his friends’ enthusiastic greetings.
Seeing Garal, he lost the smile, although its replacement was an expression of pleased respect. Garal gave him a welcoming hug, and Gilly smiled. They spoke briefly, Gilly nodding at whatever his father said, Garal now nodded as well, looking at his son with guarded assurance. He took Gilly by the arm and began to escort him from the clustering group. I felt myself begin to tense. Gilly had given me so much unwarranted angst. I was ( justifiably, I thought) terrified of him. What was he going to do now? Especially, after spending—what was it?—six months in the Cairn. The ugliness of which was only imaginable to me.
But now—incredibly!—he was smiling at me. Had he forgiven me? Reformed? Wonder of wonders, as he approached, he broadened his smile. He extended his right hand to shake mine. I felt a wash of tremendous relief. He had forgiven me! Well, at least, accepted me.
“I’m back, Alexi,” he said. His tone was warm. His handshake firm.
And tightening.
“Time,” he said.
“Gilly,” Garal warned him.
Too late. Gilly’s left hand—in the pocket of his jacket—jerked out. He was clutching something in it.
“Gilly!” cried his father.
Just as Gilly hurled the gray powder in my face. In my eyes. Pain!
Blindness.
Chapter Thirty
Let me tell you what I’ve read about blindness.
The human eye—I’m talking about mine, I don’t know if faerie eyes are different—is cradled in a socket known as an orbit. The eyelids protect it from dirt and bright light. Obviously not from poisonous gray powder—but I’ll get to that. The white of the eye is called the sclera, its tissue opening the cornea. Behind the cornea is the pupil. Surrounding the pupil is the iris, the color of the eye. Behind that is the lens controlling the focus of the vision. Lining the back wall of the eyeball is the retina.
With me so far? I’m almost done.
At the center of the retina is the macula, providing central vision and fine details. Finally, the optic nerve, connecting the eye and brain. Why am I telling you this? Not sure. Still trying to understand what Gilly did to me. Something rotten to the eyes. That much I know.
I won’t go into common vision aliments. You know them as well as I do: nearsightedness, farsightedness, astigmatism, presbyopia. (The last still a mystery to me.) None of them apply. Nor do vision problems caused by age. I was nineteen years old, for Christ’s sake! My visual acuity was sharp as a tack. Until, of course …
Eye trauma? Getting closer now. Foreign objects? I’d classify that damned gray powder as a foreign object, sure. A lot of foreign objects. Symptoms? Sudden pain in the eye. Sudden decrease in vision. I’ll say. Red eyes? Probably. I couldn’t tell you. All I can recall of the griffin’s (Magda’s) eyes was a milky whiteness. I imagine that’s what my eyes looked like. Those foreign objects obviously damaged my cornea and lens, probably more.
Chemical burns? No doubt. Direct contact? Of course. Eyeballs seared. Serious damage to the conjunctiva (the membrane that lines the eye) and the cornea, and more—in my case. Macular degeneration? A walk in the park. I was blind. Got that? Blind.
* * *
Things I know about blindness. Remember, I was there.
My first reaction? As indicated. Pain. My god, what pain! No wonder Magda screamed. I screamed. And not for ice cream. For
relief. Which didn’t come. I couldn’t help screaming. My eyeballs were on fire. Imagine the sensation of holding your finger over a flaming burner. I mean holding it. Holding it. And holding it. Until you’re sure your finger is going to ignite. As though the pain center in your brain is gonging EMERGENCY!! Add to that a fiery scorching in my face and in my throat. A hot, I mean hot!—swelling there. A conviction that I couldn’t breathe. An expectation that, each time I did breathe, dragon fire would escape my lips.
More. A rush of hallucinations clogging my brain. Gilly’s face zooming in and out of vision, laughing with insane delight. Black and white. Like a cheap, silent movie. Ruthana running toward me, then away from me. Garal trying to push my head under burning pond water. Magda thrusting a burning wand in my face, expression maniacal. Her clothes catching fire. Her tearing off her clothes. Her nipples shooting fire at me. Wild laughter. Hers. Everyone’s. Faeries dancing, burning, laughing. The griffin attacking me, Magda’s head on it, laughing at me. A flaming owl in my face, screeching deafeningly. None of this in sequence, mind you. An admixture of demented images and noises. All made doubly, (triply, quadruply,) horrific by the burning pain in my eyes. And the blindness.
What I know about blindness.
1. It’s scary as hell. Especially when you’re only nineteen years old and take 100 percent vision for granted.
2. Space—and time—lose all significance.
3. Calling it darkness is not accurate. Total darkness would be a blessing. You still see (at least I did) occasional flashes of light, some gray clouds. (Presaging nothing but further blindness, however.)
4. Not only is it terrifying, it’s humiliating and frustrating as well. Vacillating between both extremes. Complete visual frustration, then blank, utter horror.
5. Headaches. (For me, anyway.) Nausea. Insomnia. God, how I would have loved to chop up Gilly!
6. A few (very few) positives. You hear a lot more keenly. Undistracted by sight, you sense a limitless environment around you. Not that these positives made the difference for me. At nineteen? Phooey! I say. Phooey!
7. The worst of all. In the beginning, I comforted myself by reliving my past. Not that I had a hell of a lot of it at nineteen. But there were certainly some interesting highpoints in the past year plus.