John Crowley: Little, Big

He walked. People hurried past him, they had destinations, he was aimless and slower. And from a side street ahead of him, a package under her arm, booted feet quick, Sylvie turned on to the avenue and away uptown.

Small, alone but assured on the hectic street, her kingdom. And his. Her retreating back: she was still on her way away, and he was behind. But he was pointed now, at last, in the right direction. He opened his mouth, and her name came out. It had been on the tip of his tongue.

“Sylvie,” he called.

She heard that, and it seemed to be a name she knew; her feet slowed, and she partly turned but did not; it had been a name, a name she remembered from somewhere, somewhen. Had a bird called it, calling to its mate? She looked up into the sunshot leaves. Or a chipmunk, calling its friends and relations? She watched one scamper and freeze on the knobby knees of an oak, then turn to look at her. She walked on, small, alone but assured beneath the tall trees, her naked feet falling quick one after the other among the flowers.

She walked far, and fast; the wings she had grown were not wings, yet they bore her; she didn’t stop to amuse herself, though pleasures were shown her and many creatures implored her to stay. “Later, later,” she said to all, and hurried on, the path unfolding before her night by day as she went.

He’s coming, she thought, I know it, he’ll be there, he will; maybe he won’t remember me, but I’ll remind him, he’ll see. The present she had for him, chosen after long thought, she held tight under her arm and had let no one else carry, though many had offered.

And if he wasn’t there?

No, he would be; there could be no banquet for her if he wasn’t present, and a banquet had been promised; everybody would be there, and surely he was one. Yes! The best seat, the choicest morsels, she would feed him by hand just to watch his face, he’d be so surprised! Had he changed? He had, but she’d know him. She was sure.

Night sped her. The moon rose, waxing fat, and winked at her: party! Where was she now? She stopped, and listened to the forest speak. Near, near. She had never been here before, and that was a sign. She didn’t like to go further without sure bearings, and some word. Her invitation was clear, and she need defer to none, but. She climbed a tall tree to its tip-top, and looked out over the moon’s country.

She was on the forest’s edge. Night breezes browsed in the treetops, parting the leaves with their passage. Far off, or near, or both, anyway beyond the roofs of that town and that moonlit steeple, she saw a house: a house decked out in lights, every window bright. She was quite close.

Mrs. Underhill on that night looked one last time around her dark and tidy house, and saw that all was as it should be. She went out, and pulled the door shut; she looked up into the moon’s Face; she drew from her deep pocket the iron key, and locked the door, and put the key under the mat.

Give way, give way, she thought; give way. It was all theirs, now. The banquet was set with all its places, and very pretty it was too, she almost wished she could be there. But now that the old king had come at last, and would sit on his high throne (whenever it was, she had never been exactly sure) there was nothing more for her to do.

The man known as Russell Eigenblick had had, when he alighted, only one question for her: “Why?”

“ Why , for goodness’ sake,” Mrs. Underhill had said. “why, why. Why does the world need three sexes, when one of them doesn’t help out? Why are there twenty-four kinds of dreams and not twenty-five? Why is there always an even number of ladybugs in the world and not an odd, an odd number of stars visible and not an even? Doors had to be opened; cracks had to be forced; a wedge was needed, and you were it. A winter had to be made before spring could come; you were the winter. Why? Why is the world as it is and not different? If you had the answer to that, you wouldn’t be here now asking it. Now do calm yourself. Do you have your robe and crown? Is everything as you like it, or near enough? Rule wisely and well; I know you’ll rule long. Give my best to them all, when they come to make their obeisance, in the fall; and don’t, please don’t, ask them hard questions; they’ve had enough of those to answer these many years.”

And was that all? She looked around herself. She was all packed; her unimaginable trunks and baskets had been sent on ahead with those strong young ones who had gone first. Had she left the key? Yes, under the mat; she had just done that. Forgetful. And was that all?

Ah, she thought: one thing left to do.

“We’re going,” she said, when near dawn she stood on the point of rock that jutted out over a pool in the woods into which a waterfall fell with a constant song.

Spears of moonlight were broken by the pool’s surface; new leaves and blossoms floated there, gathering in the eddies. A great white trout, pink-eyed, without speckle or belt, rose slowly at her words. “Going?” he said.

“You can come or stay,” said Mrs. Underhill. “You’ve been so long on this side of the story that it’s up to you by now.”

The trout said nothing, alarmed beyond words. At last Mrs. Underhill, growing impatient with his sad goggling, said sharply, “Well?”

“I’ll stay,” he said quickly.

“Very well,” Mrs. Underhill said, who would have been very surprised indeed if he had answered differently. “Soon,” she said, “soon there will come to this place a young girl (well, an old, old lady now, but no matter, a girl you knew) and she will look down into this pool; she will be the one you’ve so long waited for, and she won’t be fooled by your shape, she’ll look down and speak the words that will free you.”

“She will?” said Grandfather Trout.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“For love’s sake, you old fool,” Mrs. Underhill said; she struck the rock beneath her stick so hard it cracked; a dust of granite drifted onto the stirred surface of the pool. “Because the story’s over.”

“Oh,” said Grandfather Trout. “Over?”

“Yes. Over.”

“Couldn’t I,” said Grandfather Trout, “just stay as I am?”

She bent down, studying his dim silver shape in the pool. “As you are?” she said.

“Well,” said the fish. “I’ve got used to it. I don’t remember this girl, at all.”

“No,” said Mrs. Underhill, after some thought. “No, I don’t think you can. I can’t imagine that.” She straightened up. “A bargain’s a bargain,” she said, turning away. “Nothing to do with me.”

Grandfather Trout retreated into the weed-bearded hidey-holes of his pool, fear in his heart. Remembrance, against his will, was coming fast on him. She; but which she would it be? And how could he hide from her when she came, not with commands, not with questions, but with the words, the only words (he would have shut his eyes tight against the knowledge, if only he had had lids to shut) that would stir his cold heart? And yet he could not leave; summer had come, and with it a million bugs; the torrents of spring were done and his pool the old familiar mansion once again. He would not leave. He laved his fins in agitation, feeling things come and go along his thin skin he had not felt in decades; he worked himself deeper into his hole, hoping and doubting that it would be deep enough to hide him.

“Now,” Mrs. Underhill said, as dawn rose around her. “Now.”

“Now,” she heard her children say, those near and those far off too, in all their various voices. Those near gathered around her skirts; she put her hand to her brow and spied those already journeying, caravans down the valley toward dawn, dwindling to invisibility. Mr. Woods took her elbow.