Steven Millhauser - Voices in the Night - Stories

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The Work of a Master. The workshop of the Leaf Artist is located in the northeast wing of the Summer Palace, where the artisans are housed, not far from the musicians’ quarters. In the late afternoon, the Prince pays the Master a visit. After their talk, the two men walk in the Garden of Artisans, where the Leaf Artist points out the silk leaves on trees of sandstone and hedges of carved cedarwood, the painted birds in the branches, a pond with artificial swans, and at the base of a sculpted juniper bush blossoming with lifelike flowers, a stone cat asleep on its side. Gautama is full of hope as he walks in the garden, for the Master has promised to set to work immediately. Four days later a messenger hands Gautama a wooden writing board on which a message has been written. He is to meet the Leaf Artist at nightfall in the Pavilion of Deepest Peacefulness, in the woods that border the southern rampart. Gautama dips his swan quill in an inkpot, writes on the board, and hands it back to the messenger. At sunset Gautama passes through parks and gardens, enters a bower, and descends a flight of steps into a mossy tunnel. He climbs a second flight of steps, emerges at the edge of a wood, and makes his way through the darkening trees. In the spaces between black and purple branches he sees the night sky. The sky is so fiercely blue, so shiningly, darkly blue, that it appears to quiver with inner fire. The moon is a white swan in a blue lake. Before him Gautama sees a dim shimmer. A moment later he pushes through a silk hanging and enters the Pavilion of Deepest Peacefulness. A shadow stands before a divan. Gautama greets the Leaf Artist, who stoops in a streak of moonlight to unbind two bundles at his feet. The great wings are woven from white swan feathers and glimmer like white horses in the light of the moon.

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Flight. The Leaf Artist lifts a wing and fastens it with straps of silk rope to Gautama’s left arm. He lifts the second wing and fastens it to Gautama’s right arm. The wings are heavier than Gautama has anticipated, and as he moves his arms slowly forward and back he thinks that it is like moving his arms in deep water. He follows the Master from the pavilion into the darkness of the forest. On shadowy tree trunks fatter than the legs of elephants he sees patches of moonlit moss. He feels a wing scrape against bark and draws his arms close to his sides. In a sudden streak of moonlight an edge of dark wing glows like white fire. The trees disappear. In the brilliant clearing he sees his long shadow stretching away. The sides of the shadow crack open: dark shadow-wings sweep out. The Master leads him across the clearing, which slopes up at one side to form a steep hill. At the top of the hill the Master examines the wings, tugs at the feathers, tightens the silk straps. He repeats his instructions. Gautama looks down at the clearing, at the woods beyond, at the dark rampart rising high above the world. He swings his swan-arms back and forth. He thinks: I am a Swan of the Night. The Master gravely nods. Gautama begins to run down the hillside toward the clearing, lifting and lowering his wings. Massive trees rise up on both sides. He feels like a child, a fool. The clumsy wings are holding him back, he can feel the ground pressing up against his feet. He remembers an afternoon in childhood when he saw a large bird rise slowly from a lake. Never will his feet leave the grip of the earth. He runs, he runs. Something is wrong. The trees are sinking down. Are the trees sinking down? He can no longer feel the slap of the path. The great wings lift him higher. He is above the clearing, above the trees. Before him rises the rampart. He is a swan-god, he is Lord of the Night Sky, Prince of Stars. He can feel his blood beating in his wings as he flies upward toward the top of the wall.

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Yasodhara’s Dream. Yasodhara dreams that she is walking in a sunny courtyard. Across the courtyard she sees her husband, walking alone. She calls out to him. He smiles his boyish, enchanting smile and begins to walk toward her. The sun shining on his face and arms fills her with warmth, as if he were bringing her the light of the sun. Midway between them, on the courtyard grass, she notices a white object. When Gautama draws near it, he bends over and picks it up. He stands with it in his hands as she comes up to him. She sees that it is a white bowl. He is holding the bowl in both hands, staring at it as if he expects it to burst into speech. She stands beside him, waiting for him to look at her. “My lord,” she says, but he does not hear her. She tugs at his arm, but he does not feel her. Wearily she sinks to her knees and leans her head against his leg.

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The Other Side. Below him Gautama sees the moonlit treetops, the clearing, and the little Master on the hill. Above him soars the rampart. On the moonlit wall he sees the gigantic shadow of his lifting and falling wings. He imagines the wing-shadows rising higher and higher until they reach the top of the wall and suddenly vanish. And then? What lies on the other side? Gautama remembers the boyhood chariot ride with his father: “Nothing is there. Everything is here.” He remembers philosophical conundrums posed by his teachers. If you draw a line around Allness, what lies on the other side? If you do not draw a line around Allness, does it never end? Now he is nearing the limit of the known world. And beyond? The swan-wings are heavy, but Gautama is strong. As he approaches the top of the wall, he hears a sound as of rattling or low rumbling. Above him, he notices a narrow aperture that runs along the wall near the top. From the aperture emerges a broad and finely meshed net, stretched between two horizontal poles. Below him, a second net emerges from the wall. The upper net drops and entangles his wings. He thrashes helplessly as he falls into the lower net. Slowly, entrapped in a cocoon of netting, he sinks toward the trees.

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Chanda Reflects. As the nets enclose Gautama and gradually lower him to earth, Chanda watches from the high branches where he has concealed himself. He continues peering through the leaves as the Leaf Artist hurries down the hillside, across the clearing, and into the woods to assist the fallen Prince. When Chanda is certain that his friend is unharmed, he returns to the Summer Palace and sends a messenger to the King, who, as Chanda well knows, has followed the entire adventure with close attention. Immediately after Gautama’s first visit to the artisans’ quarters, the Leaf Artist began to meet regularly with the King. In the presence of Chanda, the King instructed the Master to prepare the swan wings. The next day, he ordered royal guards to penetrate the hollow passages of the rampart and climb the inner stairways in order to operate the two concealed net-mechanisms, installed many years ago for the purpose of foiling foreign invaders. Chanda passes a sleepless night. In the morning he makes his way to the Park of Six Bridges and sits under an acacia tree at the side of a stream. What kind of man has he become? He has always thought of himself as a loyal friend, watching anxiously over Gautama’s happiness. Yet lately he can think of himself only as an instrument of his friend’s unhappiness, a traitor and spy who serves no one but the King. It’s true that the King loves his son dearly and desires nothing but his happiness, so long as that happiness is of the kind that embraces the world and its delights. But Gautama can no longer surrender himself to those delights. Or is it, rather, that the small world of the Three Palaces is no longer large enough for the restless son of a mighty King? Chanda sees again the great wings struggling in the net and turns his inward sight away. The world within the world is too small for a man with a restless heart. He must pass to the other side of the rampart, he must confront the great world in all its splendor. Of course: the other side. There’s no time to waste.