Work Text:
For Joyce Carol Oates
Her name was Lótë. She had not yet left her father’s house and she was beautiful, a big-eyed thin-limbed beauty that was all the more striking for not being fully formed. She had a older sister who was as plain as she was fair and because of this plainness perhaps and the lack of interest it engendered, her parents had not learned to be watchful of her as she went alone to the temple to see the blessing of the sailors or to the marketplace where she and her friends might find a dark little tavern at the end of a narrow forgotten alley, a place that would sell them wine and did not object when men twice their age bought them third rounds.
On one such night her friend talked them into a different tavern, one that was closer to the center square and more crowded, and a sailor with long sandy curls bought Lótë a cup of mead. He spoke of his travels and the thick sweetness of the mead made her feel as if she were being remade more worldly by proximity, by the trace of his finger along the line of her arm. He asked her to leave with him and she felt a cold prickle of worry but she only laughed and said “not tonight,” which was a thing she had heard a woman say when she was in the dark little tavern. He did not press her but laughed and called her child and she felt a sinking shame but also a secret relief.
She pulled at her friend’s sleeve and they tumbled out laughing into the square and headed for a shop that sold ices in summer and in winter, a thick and spicy hot chocolate from the East that had become popular of late. As they crossed the square her eye happened to catch on a handsome man sitting alone at a table and he looked into her eyes and drew a finger across his lips and she heard, as if it was in her head, hello pretty girl. She shook her head to clear the mead away and when she was on the other side of the square her eyes slid back towards him, but he was gone, and she had the odd feeling that maybe he had never been there at all.
One morning a few days later, Lótë sat embroidering beside her sister. It was autumn, the day of Eruhantalë, and they would be joining the others in the daylong, pointless trek up Meneltarma, a climb that would end in disappointment when the eagles did not come. For a week her mother had fussed over bleaching their gowns, determined that they be a spotless white. It was embarrassing, thought Lótë, the way she bothered over these pointless things, as if they were going to be invited to the palace like Aglaril’s family. They spent every feast day dancing beneath the vaulted ceiling that was said to be higher than the cliffs and at night revealed an ersatz sky of stars made from glowing paint. Aglaril was forever bragging about the handsome men she met there (as if her plain face could tempt them) and the food, so much better than what one can get these days in the market. Lótë hated her.
As he did most days of late, her father shut himself away in his study to write letter after letter, emerging only to eat or to teach the few students that still came to his class. All day long she had picked at her mother, pointless little jabs like her needle was making now, and at last her mother had said in exasperation, stay home then if you are going to be miserable. And so she had, though she had walked them to the door as a sort of concession. Her father looked tired and slump shouldered in a way that frightened her. Her mother was his opposite, a parody of queenliness as she held his arm, an embarrassment always. Her sister, wrong as her mother but in a different way, was dressed in her finest gown as if she were going to a ball and not walking up a mountain.
When they had left, taken all the horses, the house was still and Lótë wandered restlessly from room to room. She found some grapes that were still good and took them to the little overgrown courtyard at the center of their house where she lay in the thin sun, an arm flung over her eyes, legs fallen open to hang over each edge of the chaise. She stretched and hummed the song that seemed to be everywhere lately; even when no one was playing it someone was humming it, and it made her want to dance, not the bends and tight little hops of the dances they learned at school but the way they danced in the back of the taverns when she slipped into a churning sea of bodies and felt the music in her chest. Those nights she loved the press of the surrounding dancers, loved to become just one more vibrating string of gut plucked by a nimble fingered musician who made of them all an instrument of joy.
The sound of the horses’ hooves on the stone street was unmistakable, and yet she did not think to investigate until she heard them stop. Reluctantly, she sat up and, taking the grapes with her, moved towards the long hall that led to the foyer and out to the street. Their door was open--she’d not thought to close it--and as she stood in the archway between courtyard and hall she could see them in the front yard. She could hardly see the one dismounting and yet she knew he was the same handsome man she’d seen in the marketplace those several nights before. She squeaked with surprise and ducked sideways into the hallway, ran on tiptoes to her bedroom where she stood before her glass and pinched her cheeks and ran a comb through her hair, hand shaking slightly. The face in the glass looked flushed and her nose shiny but she also knew that it was beautiful, knew in a way that was not prideful even, just true.
She forced herself to walk back to the foyer in an unhurried way. He looked up as she came toward the doorway and he smiled and the force of his beauty hit her like she’d been slapped with an open hand. He seemed to draw himself up a little, to gather all the parts of himself into one long line and then he bowed to her in an old-fashioned way, almost as her grandfather would.
“My lady.”
He smiled again, a private smile just for her. His eye dropped lazily to take all of her in before coming up to meet hers again. She had assumed that he was here for her father but now suddenly she thought that he was here for her and as she thought this, she said, “My lord, if you have come for my father he is not here.”
“Ah, no my lady. I have come for you. I have come for our ride.”
Such was the surprise of this statement that Lótë wondered momentarily if she had agreed to this when they had met, but then she thought, we never spoke (though as soon as she said this to herself she was unsure of it too).
“Our ride,” she said, adopting a high tone that pushed the question out of it. “I do not believe we have met, let alone made plans for a ride.”
“Ah, but certain we have met my lady. We met in the marketplace three nights hence. And I knew you before though you had no knowledge of me. I have known you a long time, my little flower. I know all the young people around here, don’t I, Dagor?”
She had forgotten entirely about his companion. The other man was dressed in a soldier’s uniform that was shabby and threadbare in spots. His body looked young, but he wore a wide brimmed hat that hid his face and made it difficult to guess his age. He did not dismount but held the reins of his bay tightly and listed slightly in the saddle, as if he were drunk. She blinked and looked again at the handsome one.
“I’ve never seen you around, except for the other night, of course.”
“Ah, so you do remember. Well, I do like to keep out of the way, my flower. Too many eyes make me nervous. But I saw you and if you will forgive me, you made such an impression that I thought, let me see this one on her own. So we can become better acquainted away from all those eyes.”
“You’re very bold,” she said, fighting the nerves creeping into her voice.
“You like it though.” He smiled again and drew his finger across his lips as he had that first time and her eyes were riveted to it as it moved to the corner of his mouth and pulled it up slightly, like he was making a smile one side at a time. It slid slowly then back to the center of his mouth and between his lips where his nail picked at his teeth. He met her eyes again and perhaps she looked strangely, because he took his finger out and put that hand up on the horse’s saddle and shifted as if he were leaning casually, though she could see that he was not putting any weight at all into the gesture.
“Maybe I do,” she said and smiled a little as she looked into his eyes. “But I’m not allowed to go riding with strange men.”
“Ah but you’ll be riding with me, flower, and when you ride with me you ride with a friend. We’re going to be good friends, you and I. We’re going to be as close as you can get.”
He hummed the song that had been in her head and he moved his body a little to it, the way that they did in the back rooms but stiffer, like he was trying to imitate but doing a bad job of it. His robes were the last year’s fashion and this irritated her a little because he was otherwise so fair. Lótë wondered what he looked like underneath. He was very tall, much taller than any man she’d seen, and she could tell that he was strong from the way his arm flexed now and then against the saddle.
“I don’t know,” she said slowly as if he’d not just put her in mind of things beyond a ride. She looked over to where some shoes were by the door next to a basket. They looked strange and she had to shake her head and remember that the shoes were her father’s and the basket was hers; she used it to bring home the marketing.
“Where are we going?” she asked and ran a bare toe over the edge of the threshold.
“Just for a ride.” He tipped his head down then and looked at his feet, like he was shy, and he reached up to brush his horse’s muzzle. The horse snorted quietly and he said something to it in a language she’d never heard before. “Don’t worry about Dagor. He’ll be our chaperone but you’ll forget him and it will be just like it’s the two of us.”
“You said you know people around here? How old are you anyway?” She’s starting to feel a little grain of sand burrowing in her stomach like the start of a pearl.
“I’m just a little older than you, not too much. And I know all of your people. I know your friends Tôdaphêl and Aglarân and Aglaril of course and I know your atto and your ammë and your nésa. And I know you.”
“What do you know about me?” Her voice was faint now and she wasn’t sure if she was asking him in truth or for sport. It didn’t seem like a sporting occasion any longer.
“Lótë.” At the sound of her name she felt her mind snapped back to attention, like someone had taken her by the shoulders and given them a shake. “I know you Lótë. I know your family is on the path right now up the mountain a long way from here and your sister’s got your mother’s hand and your father is talking with a fat man about things that will never happen.”
“What man?” Lótë asked it as if he could actually see them. He couldn’t of course, nor could he know what her father was talking about…
“I don’t know what he’s called, do I know every corpulent elf lover in the world?”
She flinched a little at that. “They’ll be back.” She said it to reassure herself as much as to tell him. “They’ll be back and if I’m not here my father will be angry.”
“Your atto’s not in charge anymore,” Dagor said with a sneer in his voice. “Nobody cares what he thinks.”
“Dagor,” says the fair man with exaggerated politeness, “there’s no need to be rude to my lady. Why don’t you keep quiet now.” And Dagor made a low noise, a kind of growl and then a squeak.
“He’s a little strange,” she said, looking at Dagor again. He was bobbing front to back in the saddle. “Where’d you two meet anyway?”
“A little strange!” the fair one seemed to find this very funny. “She thinks you strange, Dagor. He’s been with me a little while now but he’s new at it.” The part of Lótë’s mind that is bubbling away in the background wonders what “it” is.
“Pay him no mind. Now as I said, I know your friends and I know your family and I know you, pretty flower. And I know you’re going to come for a ride with me. Just a little ride. It’ll go by so quick you won’t even believe it. You know I was talking with your neighbor earlier, the one who sells scarves.”
“She’s not. She isn’t our neighbor any more,” Lótë said, her voice a near whisper.
“Why, don’t you like her?” asked Dagor. “She likes those Western gods what you all do. The ones that don’t come when you call.”
“She’s dead,” said Lótë. “There was… there was an accident at the market and she died.”
“I told you they aren’t friends, Dagor. My flower’s much smarter, for one thing.”
Dagor turned his head toward the fair man and raised his chin so she could see his smile below the brim of his hat. His teeth were sharp and there was something stuck in them, something like the gristle on the meat that they bought from the butcher that would still sell to them. It made her sick to look at it too closely.
“I think maybe,” said Lótë, “I think maybe you should go now.”
“No, my lady. You don’t mean that. You are putting me off because you think you have to. You and I don’t need that. You don’t need to pretend to be modest. You can just come. Come up on my horse now. I’ll sit behind you and I’ll make sure you don’t fall. Don’t tell me you’re not thinking about it. You know what you do to me.”
Lótë felt a strange sensation then. It wasn’t real but neither was it like daydreaming; it was like a vivid night dream. She was sitting on his horse in front of him and he was holding her below her waist, his fingers digging into her hips, sliding around to pull her thighs open wide, to expose that soft part of herself that she touched sometimes at night. The horse was galloping and they were all moving together, the horse beneath them and she against the saddle and he against her. She wasn’t wearing any small clothes and both his hands were pressing her against the front of the saddle, and she was shameless, panting and soaking the leather as he slid her back and forth against it. Then she was back on her doorstep watching her hand go white at the knuckles as it gripped the doorframe.
She looked at him in shock. She was wet beneath her dress and she remembered suddenly that she hadn’t put on small clothes that morning. She did that sometimes, just to have a secret, but now she wished that she hadn’t today because it felt like saying something that she didn’t mean to.
“My lady? My lady are you all right? You look a little hot.”
She shook her head and pressed a hand to her cheek. It felt like it was on fire.
“You need to come out, flower. I won’t come in. I’ve made a promise to your king and I intend to keep it. But if you come out willingly, we’ll go right away. And no one else will have to come. Just you. Your atto and your ammë and your nésa are all right with me if you just come out. They can do whatever they like, call on him or the rest of them or whatever they like. Because none of that matters, flower. It’s you and me that matters.”
Dagor said then in a strange rasping voice, “á hyamë rámen úcarindor, sí ar lúmessë ya firuvammë.”
“Did I not say,” the fair man said to Dagor. His voice was deep and terrible and he shimmered then--the outline of him got fuzzy for a moment and something in his face slid sideways before it all came back together. She felt insane to look at it.
The sunken pool of her mind yelled run. She backed inside and shut the door, remembered the bolt her father had put on last month and slid that across till it gave a solid click, and slid herself down the door until she sat upon the floor, legs sprawled out uselessly. She’d started crying at some point and she pushed her palms into her eye sockets trying to hold it in.
“Ah flower. This door is nothing to me, you understand. I am from a place where there are no doors and so if I say there is no door there isn’t one, you see? And if you don’t talk to me I don’t have to keep to my agreement, and if I come in there we won’t have our chaperone, will we? So why don’t you open the door and we can continue our conversation.”
Lótë sobbed for a minute, shook her head and then banged it against the solid wood. It was a door, it was solid, it had the lock that her atto put in when they got the first letter... It was real, she told herself, but she was no longer sure.
“Lótë? Open the door, love.” Open the door. Open the door. Openthedooropenthedoor. The words were in her head the way his words were when she first saw him in the marketplace, but these ones hurt. They throbbed in her brain like one of those terrible headaches that started with a shimmer of light on the edge of her vision. She screwed her eyes shut and shook her head as if to get them out. But they wouldn’t come out, not ever, until she did it. And so she did.
“Good girl,” the fair man said flatly once she slid open the bolt and cracked the door with shaking fingers. He was shimmering again. He was not a man at all, she knew this deep in her bones. His smile was like one of those embroidered patches they put on their gowns over a tear.
“I’ve been very patient but it’s time to come out now, flower,” he said to her and in her, in her head. “You’re such a brave girl. You’re the best of all of them. They’re on the mountain right now saying their prayers and you’re the answer to their prayers, love. Because if you come out and go for that ride with me I won’t bother any of them with this. We’ll have a nice ride and we’ll be one and it won’t hurt much, just a little tear and then you’re mine, flower. Come now, my lady.” He made a little exaggerated bow then and pointed a toe in a way that seemed ancient, and he held out his hand to her, head bent.
She watched herself walk through the doorway and down the stone steps that felt cold on her bare feet and he sighed and said there now and she looked into his eyes as she came and she came into his eyes as she walked across the hard stone of the street her atto built and those eyes were all there was, they were their own kingdom and their own country, a country that she had never seen before and did not know except to know that she was going to it.