you stood beneath me, with all your love bleeding out onto the ground, killing you— I intervened. I saw that the injury he’d given you was fatal— that your heart wouldn’t recover, and all love would die for you— so in fear of that, I took your whole world and put it into this little key.”
‘“This key?” I studied it. The clear glass was inscrutable. I didn’t understand him.
‘He saw my confusion and reaffirmed his words: “Your whole world, and all your heartbreak with it. I sealed everything inside, to leave you harmless. That’s why you can go anywhere on the earth, Araminta, except to those places you used to know, with their associations. That’s why you’re free of pain— not a pang of love-grief can reach you. The key holds it all.”
‘I examined that tiny shard still more closely— near to my eyes, and at the stretch of my arm, it was the same; but now it seemed terrible, and fatal, like some portent. I carried it daily, and yet it contained everything I daily missed. Somehow, somewhere inside, was me, consumed with the fresh wounds of your rejection, Sam, trapped with them inside the glass. And meanwhile, here was I, equally trapped, but outside, pining to recover what was essential to me. How could I escape? When I’d tried to break the key, the world had broken open instead. Was I estranged from myself forever?
‘I appealed to Orion, offering the key again. “Let me out! You must!”
‘“Ah, think, Araminta!” he urged. “Why do you want that lovelorn side of you back? Why do you want the ordeal, all the repercussions of that worthless man’s careless cruelty? You’ve come to me— here I am— do take my hand, and I’ll lift you up into this sphere where we can shine together, always. I’ve freed you from him so that you can love me.”
‘“You had no right to take my feelings away,” I rebuked him, “to rob me of myself! You’ve left me a shadow, and you want me to love you for it?” I cast the key disgustedly onto the stones. “Release me! Immediately!”
‘“There’s nothing inside but anguish, Araminta,” he warned, vexed. “The hope and value you placed on a man who rejected you, that’s all there is, your warmest feelings chilled to ice. Why do you want to care for him again? Do you think he still cares for you? Do you imagine you can regain the happiness you lost? It’s gone, Araminta, it can’t be restored.”
‘“I would rather know the measure of my own emotions,” I insisted, “and endure them, than exist as the cipher you’ve made me.”
‘He started some fierce retort, bit it off, and eyed me darkly. “You want him back,” he concluded, fuming. “You mean to punish me by choosing him.”
‘“I don’t want to punish you,” I said, desperately. “It isn’t that— but I can’t be divided anymore. If I love him, I must be allowed to know it! Please, break the key and let me out!” I reached down and took it up once more. “If this is my real self, I must let her go. I must let her hope her hopes, and cry her tears, and risk her love as she will. I don’t want this halfness.” I searched his expression for some clue to how I might persuade him. “Break the key,” I pressed.
‘At that he rose up in triumph, stretching his bright rays almost from horizon to horizon. “It can’t be done,” he announced. “It can’t be broken. It’s made of your own pain, Araminta, and while that pain endures, it keeps the key intact.”
‘“Because inside that key I still believe in what caused the pain in the first place,” I retorted immediately— desperation leant me ingenuity. “I’m shocked by the heartlessness of the man I love, stunned by it, and that’s why it holds me. But if he cares— even after these long years— if there’s even a trace of compassion, of affection for me left in him, the hard pain may relent, may ease for a moment— and the key may crack.”
‘This notion incensed him, however, and he seethed: “But since he feels nothing for you, it will never break!”
‘“Let me find out!” I begged, imploring him with every gesture I knew. “Let me ask him! If he’s indifferent, as you say, if he’s longsince forgotten me, I’ll join you in the stars, and the key can hold my miseries forever.”
‘This was even more aggravating. “You’d settle for me!” he roared. “Is that how you value me? For the eternal splendour I offer you, to be fixed in everlasting beauty, you’d gamble a meagre chance that a fickle man will care!”
‘I pointed directly at him. “You’ve created your own torment, just as I have,” I cried. “If I’ve set my hopes on a fickle mortal, so have you— and while I can be fickle, I will, and make my own choice!”
‘“That’s enough!” he thundered, in a powerful wrath, which shivered through the rocks, and rang across the icy desert. “Go to him, then! That door will lead you there— use the key one last time, and see if he has the least concern for you! But don’t hope to find compassion from me when he fails you— even my devotion wanes! If you choose him, Araminta, your choice is final, and fatal!”
‘I glanced towards the high arch set amidst the crags, and its indomitable-seeming door. I gripped the key tightly— my attitude told him my decision.
‘“You lay everything on him, then, and nothing on me!” he raged, until even the atmosphere shuddered, and the stars and planets appeared to quail from their orbits. “Go on, then, and hope that he saves you from my love, as I saved you from his!” —and with that he drew his great sword, swift as a lightning shaft, and pierced me through the side. I buckled under the terrible weight of it, and watched him withdraw, incandescent, into the high darkness.
‘Then, gasping with the shock and hurt of the stab, and caught in panic that the injury would overcome me, I stumbled towards the door, fitted the glass key into the lock, and arrived here.’
The excitement, or stress, of the narrative did indeed overcome her at this crucial juncture, and she closed her eyes, breathing harshly. Sam contemplated her, saying nothing.
What was he to make of it? What did she intend? What conclusion should he draw? It was all an absurd concoction of fantasy, vanity and self-pity— and yet delivered with such earnestness, such vigour, such sensibility, as though it were plain honesty’s best account. How should he respond?
This quandary was soon resolved for him, however. Araminta looked over at last, and said simply: ‘So that’s how I came here, and why. Now, look at that glass curse on the table again, and tell me: will you— can you— unlock the key?’
He started to his feet, scooped up that guilty item, and threw it into her lap. ‘You can keep your stupid key, and your stupid tale together!’ he chided. ‘Do you think you were the only one hurt when you left? Do you think I didn’t have to cope, and heal? Well, I did, Araminta, and I recovered, and I put the past behind me— so if you think you can burst in here with some preposterous story and make me love you again, you’re very wrong!’
He flung away from her, and gripped the mantle-shelf, flexing his arms as his head bowed towards the white-hot ashes. Ten years, he kept thinking, ten years, and all she has is this.
He heard her give a sigh— a long and final sigh, as though the last breath, and effort, and hope, were exhaled at once. He half turned; she was getting up, slowly, weakly. As she rose, the glass key slid to the floor at her feet. Her face was calm, resigned, and sad; and with an elegant movement, she unwrapped the long coat that enveloped her, drew the laps wide, and let it slip back from her shoulders. Was it a trick of the strengthening shadows, or was one side of her body stained with a long streak of darkness? And was not the armchair where she had been sitting also blackened, and glistening? Her hands were spotted and smeared from pressing the overcoat tightly; her face was pallid, the very lips chalk-white; her eyes had a lustre too brilliant, too other-worldly.
With a slight gasp, she stumbled down. He was quick enough to catch her, letting out an exasperated cry as he felt how cold she was already, sensed the dampness of her clotting blood, saw the ugly gash between her ribs.
‘Why didn’t you say? Why didn’t you say?’ he fretted. ‘If you were really injured, why didn’t you tell me? Why carry on with that s
illy fable while you were bleeding?’
And even as he posed this question, he had an inkling of why, perhaps, she had— but as he made to speak again, to tell her to listen to him, to breathe, to hold on, he realised that the feeble movements of her chest had lulled, had ceased— that he was speaking to himself.
He sank to the floor in disbelief, clutching the still form in his arms, gaping into its empty face. She was gone— he had lost her— lost her again. He shook his head, shook it and shook it in denial. She should have lived— just as they should have loved, and should have married, all those years ago. They would never thrash over their differences now, never forgive, or be forgiven for them; they would never explain to each other what they felt, never shake hands and part, never agree to remain friends, never kindle into love again— no. She should have been happy— and so should he; but now that happiness was extinct, could never be reprised.
As he gazed upon her, feeling her throat in vain for a pulse, an involuntary tear crept a warm path across his cheek, and dropped between her lips— and no sooner did it fall there, than the glass key, lying forgotten beside him, suddenly shattered, and his arms were empty. Falling back in astonishment, he beheld Araminta stood among the glittering fragments, blushing with health, charming, and full of her wonted vitality— just about to smile as her bright glance espied him.
And with that, Sam’s story became as fantastical as hers.
The end
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