Карин Тидбек - The Memory Theater

“Where are your paints?” Augusta demanded.

“I have this,” Elsa said, and held up a stick of fuchsia-colored wax.

“It will do,” Augusta said, and rubbed some onto strategic spots. Much better.

“Now feed me,” she told Elsa. “Then tell me where to find learned men and women.”

They found themselves on a cracked plain that stretched out in all directions. The sand had disappeared, and Dora was standing on mud that had dried and split. The sky above them was wide like a fishpond. Something like an inverted sun hung up there, an empty disc surrounded by a blinding corona. Thistle had sat down on the ground, panting heavily, elbows resting on his knees. He gave Dora a strained smile as she crouched next to him.

“What happens now?” Thistle said from the ground.

“I couldn’t let them have you,” Ghorbi said. “And I can’t just leave you here. This is a crossroads between worlds.”

Thistle stood up. He was almost breathing normally now. “You can take us to where Augusta is.”

“I suppose I could, theoretically,” Ghorbi said. “Except I don’t know where she went. Possibly to Earth, from whence you all came. Possibly to one of the other realms. But there are many, so many. She may have ended up anywhere.” She tapped her chin with a long fingernail. “I could direct you to someone who might help you.”

“Do it,” Dora said. “Please.”

Ghorbi was quiet for a moment. “I don’t hand out favors left and right. I have already helped Thistle twice, out of the goodness of my heart. But everything comes with a price.”

“We have nothing,” Thistle said.

Ghorbi looked down at him, and her eyes flickered. “Will you repay me later?”

Thistle nodded. “Yes. Anything.”

“Anything,” Ghorbi said. “I will keep this in mind.”

Ghorbi strode off toward a structure in the distance. Dora and Thistle followed. She could see the silhouettes of people.

“Is that where Augusta is?” Thistle asked.

“No. This is where you come to go somewhere else.”

Inside a chest-high stone enclosure, wooden stalls were lined up in two neat rows. At each table, a strange-looking person was busy pressing buttons on a box or writing on paper and tablets. The people were bald, with skin that reminded Dora of ashes; their eyes were huge and their limbs long. They were swaddled in lengths of gauzy, colorless fabric. Very long toes peeked out from under the hem of their robes.

When Dora and Thistle caught up with Ghorbi, she was waiting in front of one of the tables. On it sat a sphere as big as Dora’s head, out of which keys stuck out at odd angles. The person behind the desk was busy with the sphere, muttering to itself.

“Who are they?” Dora asked.

“Traffic controllers,” Ghorbi said. “They direct whoever comes here to where they need to go.” She smiled. “They have always been here. Perhaps they are little gods. Benign ones, mind you.”

The traffic controller finished whatever it was doing, then looked up at Ghorbi and nodded. It spoke a long stream of crisp syllables in a hoarse voice. Ghorbi replied in the same language. The other pointed at Dora and Thistle. Ghorbi said something else, the tone of her voice rising at the end of the sentence. She got a single vowel in reply.

Thistle sat down on the ground again.

Dora sank down next to him and put her arm around his shoulders. “Are you tired?”

“I feel like I haven’t slept for days. And I’m hungry and thirsty.”

Thistle rested his head against her shoulder. Dora closed her eyes and let the sounds wash over her: talk, clicks, quills rasping on paper.

She came to with a start when Ghorbi touched her shoulder.

“It’s time to go,” Ghorbi said.

Thistle rubbed his eyes. “Where are we going?”

“I asked them if they’ve seen Augusta, but she hasn’t been through here. I couldn’t find out where she is now, but I know of some people who might be able to locate her. I’ll show you to the realm where you might find them.”

Ghorbi helped Dora and Thistle to their feet.

“We’re hungry,” Dora said.

Ghorbi paused. “Ah.” She went over to one of the stalls and conferred with one of the traffic controllers, then came back.

“They are willing to sell you food,” she said. “For a price. It’s steep. Direction is free, but food isn’t.”

“We don’t have anything to pay them with,” Thistle said.

Ghorbi nodded at Dora. “They want your hair.”

“Oh,” Dora said.

“Are you very attached to it?”

Dora shrugged.

“Dora, no,” Thistle said.

“I’m hungry,” Dora replied. “So are you.”

“Come,” Ghorbi said.

Dora followed her. At the stall, the traffic controller babbled excitedly and took out a very sharp-looking knife. Up close, the creature smelled like smoke. It grabbed hold of Dora’s hair and deftly cut it off, strand after white strand, close to her scalp. When it was done, a neatly ordered heap of hair lay on the table. Dora touched her head. It felt light, free. Next to her, Thistle looked devastated.

“You’re bald,” he said.

Dora laughed. “I like this,” she said. “It feels good.”

The traffic controller nodded and gathered Dora’s hair into a small box, then bent down and rummaged under the table. It placed an opaque bottle and an object wrapped in waxy paper in front of Dora. It bowed and said something.

“This is from its private stores,” Ghorbi said. “It offers the food to you with many thanks.”

Dora opened the package. It contained what looked like a cake. She broke off a piece and put it in her mouth. It was chewy and tasted vaguely like dried fruit. She handed another piece to Thistle.

“It’s all right,” she said.

Thistle hesitated, then crammed the cake into his mouth.

The liquid in the bottle was water with a metallic taste. Dora drank half of it and gave the rest to Thistle. She felt better. Thistle looked better, too.

“Now, then,” Ghorbi said. “Let’s go.”

They walked to another opening in the wall, and through it onto the baked-mud plain.

“It looks just the same,” Dora said.

“Does it?”

Ghorbi pointed at the ground. A single blade of yellow grass stuck up, waving in a faint breeze.

“This is as far as I go. Just keep walking in that direction, straight ahead, until you see tall trees and statues guarding a city made of stone. You are looking for a theater troupe. They come there often.”

Thistle frowned. “But why aren’t you coming with us?”

Ghorbi shook her head. “The people you are about to see won’t welcome me.”

“Why?” Thistle asked.

“It’s a long story.” Ghorbi smiled wistfully. “Once upon a time, I saved one of them. He fell in love with me and wanted me to stay. But I am a traveler, and so I left, and it broke his heart. He has been angry ever since.”

“I’m sorry,” Thistle said.

Ghorbi chuckled. “Don’t be sorry for me. He’s the one who couldn’t let go. That’s why I don’t hand out favors anymore. It creates bonds that are hard to break.”

She kissed each of them on the forehead. “You’ll do just fine. If ever there is an emergency, sing the song I sang, and it will bring you here. Do you remember it?”

Thistle nodded.

“Good,” Ghorbi said. “Now go.”

Augusta found her way to the university, which Elsa had said was populated by scholars. She wandered the grounds, cornering students and professors, until three officious-looking men told her to leave. Too much attention might not be good. These people were no use anyway; no one knew of the Gardens, and no one was an adept of the mystical arts.