Peter Beagle - Innkeeper's Song

What did I feel, in that little room with those three women I loved, and the door creeping shut behind me of its own slow weight? What do you think I felt? I was hot and cold by turns: lips and ears afire one minute, stomach frozen solid the next. Lal’s vagrant smile had me trembling until I could hardly stand, while Lukassa’s flushed cheekbones turned me rigid as one of those enchanted idiots in the players’ shows. And Nyateneri? I took her left hand as gently as I could—it seemed to cry out in my grasp, like a trapped animal—and I kissed it, and then I raised up on my toes (only slightly, mind you) and I kissed her on the mouth, saying as loudly as I could, “I love you.” And I had never said that before in my life, although I had been with a woman, more or less.

Nyateneri sighed into my mouth. I can still taste that sigh today, all wine and surrender—more to herself than to me, certainly, but what did I care then? She said something against my lips—I don’t know what it was she said. Over her shoulder I could see the fox in the corner, eyes shut tight, ears and body stiff with attention, red tongue smoothing his whiskers, left, right.

No, I did not sweep her up on the instant and carry her across the room to the bed (so few strides for so great a journey!). In the first place, I would likely enough have injured myself, being new at this, too; in the second, my first step had a wine bottle under it, and Nyateneri herself had to catch me up; and in the third place—well, in the third place there stood Lal and Lukassa. And whatever else you choose to believe of me, and of my story, believe that I was a modest boy. Lustful, certainly; ignorant and fearful, without question; but not vain. Vanity came a stride or two later.

What happened to me that night has never happened again. Before, yes—I could see my omission in your face—yes, it had happened, if by it you mean my being in a bed with more than one other person. But I had no choice in that situation, and no pleasure in it, and I do not care to speak of it further to you. I am talking about choice, and about something more than choice, more than honest desire—something that I had truly never known, for all my old acquaintance with my own blood. When Nyateneri sighed and took Rosseth fully into her arms, then I had to have him, too. The madness was that sudden, that simple, that complete.

Too much wine, too deep a weeping? Like enough. It certainly had nothing to do with jealousy, with Nyateneri—I hardly saw Nyateneri in that moment, hardly heard anything but my voice saying nearby, “Not without us. Not tonight.”

Why did I say it? And why on earth did I speak for Lukassa, concerned as I surely was just then with nothing on earth but myself? All I can offer for answer is that I must have seen Nyateneri in some way after all, must in some way have read the look she gave me then which was not one of anger, but of terror, pleading, desperation. The boy stood back gaping, poor child, but Lukassa— Lukassa laughed aloud, and the sound was as sweet as the sound that ice-covered twigs make in the spring, chiming and cracking together. I said, “Rosseth is ours. He is our knight, our pure and valiant lover, serving each of us three without favor or demand.” My body was shaking—I could not hold it still—but my voice was calm and slow. It is another trick, one of my oldest, dearly learned. It always works.

“You have well earned your reward,” I said to Rosseth. I walked up to him and I put my hands on his hot face and pulled him down to me. How many jokes and songs there are about kissing the slack-jawed lout from the stables, with manure on his boots and under his nails, mares and stallions his only visions of loving. Rosseth’s mouth was soft and strong at once, and tasted like the first small breeze of a summer’s dawn. His hands on me, when they came, were so tender that I felt myself about to weep all over again, or to scream with laughter, or run out of the room. If he had not held me then, I would have fallen.

It is fortunate that I have had very few chances to learn with what terrible ease gentleness finds my heart. I give thanks for my good fortune every day. Oh yes, I do.

Pigeons . Lift up my nose, no ceiling, no rafters between us. Close my eyes and see rumblysoft pigeon dark, juicy wing-beats filling the air with dust and grain, fluffy little under-feathers drift down. Much talking, much shifty-shuffly on their nests, restless with me. Close their pretty eyes like drops of blood, they see me, too.

Down here, hoho, down here all sorts of shifty-shuffly going on. Very crowded room, so many people trying to take other people’s clothes off. Boy backs toward the bed, one hand holding Nyateneri’s hand, other trying to open Lal’s shirt. Lal helps him, breaks fingernail, swears. Boy’s legs tangle all up with bed legs, he sits down. Lukassa kneels on bed behind him, laughing. Nyateneri turns, looks at me. We talk.

Do not. Do not .

Must.

Will not hold. Cannot hold.

I know. Must. Help me.

Window open almost wide enough. Tree goes crick-sish , one thin branch points up to pigeons’ nice little bedroom. Nyateneri. Help me . Lal reaches out, draws her down.

Lal has dimples in both shoulders. Lal’s collarbones are as proud and velvety as the spring antlers of a young sintu . The back of Lal’s neck makes me cry as she bends her head down to me.

Lukassa smells of fresh, fresh melons and peppers and spice-apples on market stalls. Her breasts are softer and more pointed than Nyateneri’s breasts, and the insides of her forearms are transparent, truly—I can almost see little blue fish sculling serenely in and out between her veins. Putting her hand on me, she finds Lal’s hand there already. She turns her head and smiles, so simply.

Nyateneri. I cannot see Nyateneri. Her hands move on me, too, and she bites my mouth until blood comes, but I cannot see her face.

No. No. I cannot let this happen, cannot. For everyone’s sake, all sakes, no. But such sweetness—such friendliness . When was the last time anyone kissed you as that boy does— kissed you , not your bow or your dagger, the things you can do, the things you know? When did hands caress you as wisely as Lal’s hands, or with such welcome as Lukassa’s? And you are so tired, and so lonely, and everything has been so long.

I cannot be letting this happen. It will not hold— he knows. I try to push Rosseth from me—but it is not Rosseth, it is Lukassa catching my aching hand and drawing it into herself, over herself, over Lal as though she were dressing her in my touch. The river-surge of Lal’s belly against my mouth; the dear clumsiness of Lukassa’s knee bumping me somewhere, Lal’s broken fingernail scratching my hip. No, no, it will not hold . Lukassa. Lukassa’s hair on me. No.

Someone’s hands are under me, someone’s mouth is on each breast. My eyes are wide open, but all I can see is someone’s hair. Rosseth breathes my name; Lukassa whimpers, oh, oh, oh, oh , each soft cry a burning blessing against the scar on the inside of my thigh. I start to tell her who put it there, but someone else is murmuring, “ Lal ” into my mouth, kissing the old agony to oblivion. I put my arms around everyone I can reach, throwing all my doors and windows wide to let the wild comfort enter.

Almost wide enough—maybe wide enough? Maybe for a little, little fox with soft fur? Along the wall, hurry, front paws on the ledge—nose, whiskers, ears can fit through. Hello, pigeons.