Карин Тидбек - The Memory Theater

Nils set off when it was still dark. He made the hour-long walk over to Andersson’s, where he borrowed the horse and cart. Then he went into the village and bought what he needed. Goods for the coming winter, and some fancy things. Let people talk.

By the time Nils finally returned, unloaded the cart, and put the horse in the stable, the boy had almost managed to knock the door off its hinges. But the house was sturdy.

“Why are you doing this?” the boy sobbed from inside.

“I can’t have you leave,” Nils replied. “I bought sweets. We’re going to have a party.”

A party needed decoration, and this place was a dull one. Nils went through chests and cupboards, and eventually found old tablecloths and dresses. They made for fine curtains and drapes. He nailed them to doors and walls, adjusting them until he was satisfied. There were no flowers to find this time of year, but he went out and cut some birch branches that he nailed to the ceiling and adorned with some of the Christmas decorations from the attic. It began to feel festive. He found his best suit. It was not very well cut, and the fabric was dull. But he found some leftover paint from the barn with which he drew gaudy swirls of flowers over the back of the jacket. Then he put it on. There was something in the jacket’s breast pocket, and he drew it out. A golden locket: a watch. Elna had given him this for their wedding. He hadn’t seen it for a long time. The engraved flowers on the lid tickled his fingers. He briefly held it against his cheek, feeling the metal warm to his skin, then put it back. A wash and a shave, and he was ready for the party.

The boy made no attempt to fight as Nils unlocked the door and entered the bedchamber, just sat in a corner of the room, staring.

“Are you hungry?” Nils asked.

“Who are you?” the boy said quietly. “Who are you really?”

Nils tilted his head. “Whatever do you mean? I am as you see me.”

“Yes, you are as I see you. I see someone else than the man who took me in.” The boy’s stare was forward, too forward, the stare of someone who needed to be chastised.

Nils blinked. Someone else than the man who took me in . Perhaps he was. Yes, he was. Something had been growing inside him, something strange yet familiar. Something old. It was right. He knew what to say; the words rolled off his tongue.

“You’ll want to be nice, my sweet,” Nils replied. “I want a nice party. Just you and me. We’ll dance!”

He took a couple of dance steps, clapped a rhythm with his hands: one-two-three-four-five, one-two-three-four-five-six. The boy put a hand over his mouth.

“You—” he said through his fingers.

Yes. Nils slapped the boy with the back of his hand. The boy let out a muted cry and crawled farther into the corner.

“That’s no way to address me, lad,” Nils said. “What do we say?”

“My lord?” the boy whispered. “I beg your pardon, my lord. I did not mean to offend. Please forgive me.”

The boy bowed his head and held his hands out, palms up, in a gesture that was so, so familiar. And there, on his wrist, a scar peeked out. Nils knew what that was. It would be a stem, a flower stem, curling up around the boy’s arm and on across his shoulder and chest. Such a beautiful flower.

Nils tilted his head. “I know you,” he said.

He bent down, tore the boy’s shirt open, and recognized his own handiwork. And, finally, the boy.

“Thistle,” he said. “I know you. You’re all grown up.”

“Augusta,” Thistle breathed, then screamed.

Nils went to the hallway mirror and studied his own face. Deep lines crisscrossed his skin, and his eyes were watery. His mouth was full of teeth with receding gums. His hair looked dull and was going gray. Everything was too worn, too big, too base .

He was not supposed to look like this. She was not supposed to look like this. She, Augusta of the Gardens. This body was strong, yes, but awkward and heavy and old. Joints and tendons ached and complained. A couple of teeth felt loose. It was a body that wouldn’t last. Augusta remembered herself now, and Phantasos. He had come here to live out his life as a mortal man. He had found Elna, married her, raised two boys. He had abandoned who he once was. And then Augusta had come along. She had killed him, and he had cursed her to live out his life. And maybe she would have, had not Thistle found her. He had recognized her, but it had not turned her back into her old self. One of your own, Phantasos had said. It had to be one of her own. How had Thistle found her?

The cows were lowing in the barn. They wanted milking, of course. Menial work, not fit for a lady of Augusta’s standing. She ignored the noise and went inside the kitchen. Thistle didn’t talk back when she told him to put the feast in order.

On the kitchen table, Thistle laid out the things Augusta had bought in the village: soft bread and honey; little cakes, ham, tiny sausages; a bottle of spirits. He was a good boy. She allowed him to sit at the table, even have a taste of the bread. He sat slumped on his stool, legs squeezed together, hugging himself.

“How did you get here?” Augusta said conversationally.

“I ran away, my lady,” Thistle mumbled.

Augusta paused. “You ran away?”

Thistle nodded.

“If you found your way out, you can find your way back in. How? Tell me how.” Augusta leaned closer and grabbed him by his collar. “Mnemosyne cast me out. She had no right. You will answer my question.”

“I’ll tell you, I’ll tell you!” Thistle said quickly. “Ghorbi took us to the crossroads. We… traveled from there.”

“Ghorbi, eh,” Augusta said, and twisted his collar a little.

Thistle nodded in reply.

“So if I go to this ‘crossroads,’ I can go to the Gardens from there?”

“I reckon so, my lady,” Thistle replied.

“And how does one go to the crossroads?” Augusta tightened her grip.

“One sings a song,” Thistle wheezed. “I can’t breathe.”

Augusta let him go. “You will teach me this song.”

Thistle straightened and rubbed his throat. He paused and swallowed. Then he said, “I propose a trade, my lady. You have something I need. I have something you need.”

Augusta laughed. “Your name, isn’t it. Did you come all the way here for your name, boy?”

“I did.”

Augusta couldn’t help but be impressed. “Very tenacious. And so you thought I’d give it to you.”

“As a trade, my lady. It’s all I have left.”

Augusta looked him up and down. The boy was trembling and wide-eyed. “Very well,” she said. “I suppose it’s a fair trade.” She emptied her glass. “Teach me, and you’ll earn your name back.”

Thistle held out his hand. “Your word,” he said.

Augusta laughed. “Of course.” She grabbed his hand and held it just tight enough to feel the bones shift. “You have my word that once you have taught me the song to get to the crossroads, you will have your name back.”

Thistle nodded. “We should probably go outside.”

“You first,” Augusta said. She put her carving knife in her belt, just in case.

The sky had cleared. A faint multicolored aurora glimmered to the north.

“Go on,” Augusta said. “Sing.”

Thistle started humming. Augusta hummed with him. The sound gradually built into a simple tune, but something that Thistle did made it sound like he was harmonizing with himself. Augusta moved her tongue around in her mouth and adjusted the muscles in her jaw, until she felt a second note reverberate through her skull. Thistle sang a long, long word, and Augusta mimicked him. The song rose and fell, rose and fell. Then Thistle abruptly went quiet.