Лоуренс Блок - Ariel

“I’ll grant you that.”

“But there’s something about it I like. It has a sort of pagan quality to it, don’t you think? A druidic quality. Can’t you picture her sitting on the limb of a sacred tree somewhere in Devon or Cornwall and piping away like that to placate the woodland spirits?”

“What an idea.”

He shrugged. “Just a thought.”

“If that’s what they had for music in those days, then I’m glad the good old days are dead and gone.”

“Oh, I’ve no idea what their music was like. I doubt anyone does. But that’s what it ought to sound like.” He chuckled. “Anyway, the music is our Ariel down to the ground. Thin and reedy and fey and pagan and a little bit weird.”

“Our Ariel.”

“How’s that?”

She looked at him for a moment, then shook her head, dismissing the thought. “Well,” she said, “I think I’ll watch a little television. Maybe I won’t hear that noise over the sound of the set. I appreciate your idea of a long ride in the country, but I think we’ll forget about it, if you don’t mind.”

“It was just an idea.”

“And I want Caleb’s room left just the way it is. Let’s agree on that, shall we?”

“If you say so.”

“I do.”

“I wonder what Gintzler would say about it.”

“Well, that’s something you can go on wondering about, because I won’t have the opportunity to ask him. I don’t suppose you feel like watching TV?”

“No,” he said. “I don’t suppose so.”

Back in his study, he took a long time choosing a pipe to smoke. He kept changing his mind. As if it mattered which one he picked.

All the things they’d said to each other. All the things left unsaid.

She was seeing Channing. He knew it and hadn’t mentioned it. And it was Jeff Channing who had fathered Caleb, and he knew that, too.

And hadn’t mentioned that, either.

He thought now of the night she’d quizzed him about, the night of Caleb’s death. Waking abruptly, hearing her babble about some ghost who was no longer to be seen. Then padding down the hall to the baby’s room.

He didn’t much want to relive those moments.

Because there was something she evidently didn’t realize. He’d probed a little after the funeral and she didn’t seem to know what she’d said. What she’d screamed, really, because it was her scream that woke him, and she had screamed a name, and it wasn’t his name.

Jeff, she had screamed. Jeff.

His eyes went to the bottle of brandy on the bookshelf. It was almost full. He could imagine the sound of it flowing into his glass, could picture its warm glow held up to the light.

A great improvement on Roberta’s glass of swamp water.

Upstairs, Ariel was playing her flute. He smiled as he listened, and then other thoughts intruded, and the smile died.

For God’s sake, one little drink wouldn’t hurt. There was a world of difference between watching out for overindulgence and giving up a legitimate pleasure altogether. Alcohol in moderation had a tonic effect on the system. Everyone knew that....

When the bottle was a little over two-thirds empty, he switched off the lamp in the study and made his way upstairs to bed.

In her darkened bedroom, Ariel shifted restlessly under a heavy blanket. Her breathing became rapid and shallow and her heartbeat raced. A cold hand clutched at her heart. With a single spasmodic move she hurled the covers back and thrust herself into an upright position. Her upper lip was drawn back, and her little eyes glowed like a cat’s in the blackness.

A dream.

She fought to catch her breath, telling herself it was a dream and she was out of it now. But she was afraid of this kind of dream. She sensed that all she had to do was lie down and snuggle under the covers and surrender to the darkness and the dream would come back to her and the cold hand would reach again for her heart.

She threw her legs over the side of the bed and checked the radium dial of the clock on her bedside table. It was almost four-thirty. More than two hours before sunrise. Of course the sky would begin to brighten before actual sunrise, but she could not wait that long.

She switched on her lamp. The sudden brightness made her blink but she welcomed it just the same.

Only a dream.

She got out of bed. The room was cold but she scarcely noticed. She went to her schoolbag and drew out her green pen and the spiral notebook she was using as an occasional diary. She thumbed through it until she found the first blank page, uncapped the pen, and sat for just a moment chewing contemplatively on the end of the pen’s plastic barrel.

Then she began to write as fast as her fingers would move.

It was a dream but I have to write it down because I can never tell anybody.

Here’s how it starts. I am asleep in my bed in this room. I am me but my hair is different and I am older. My hair is golden and hangs to my waist. It is absolutely straight. Otherwise I am the same as always except that I am beautiful.

In the dream I can see myself from inside and from outside. Sometimes I am in myself and sometimes I am across the room watching me.

In the dream I wake up. I have to go to the bathroom. I have to go so bad that it hurts. I get up and put on a flowing blue-green robe the color of the sea. It sweeps around me and stays in place perfectly. I do not have to tie it.

I go out of my room and begin walking down the hallway, but it is not the hallway of this house. It is long and winding and paved with cobblestones. It is like a path outside in some old city but it is inside, in a house. I do not know how to explain this.

The part about the bathroom goes away. I just don’t have to go anymore. I am walking because there is something I must do and in my hand is my flute. But it is different. It is longer and thicker and it is made of pure gold.

And there is writing on it, carved into the gold. But when I try to read it the words move around before my eyes. It is important for me to read the message but I can’t read it because the letters won’t stay in place.

I think maybe it’s in another alphabet. But in the dream I can understand that alphabet and I would be able to read it if only the letters would hold still.

I keep on walking while I am trying to read the writing on the flute.

Then I come to the end of the hallway and there is a door. Not a door but a doorway, and it is round and low. I know what it is! It is a rathole except that it is large enough so that I can just barely fit inside. I have to put the flute in first and then I have to get on my hands and knees and squirm through like a snake.

And then I am inside, and it is Caleb’s room.

Exactly like his room in this house.

There is the crib, and Caleb is in his crib playing. He is waving his hands and feet in the air and cooing to them. He is talking to his fish mobile.

He is beautiful.

And I play my flute for him.

I could hear the music in the dream. I can almost hear it now but I don’t think I could play it. I am not sure. Sometimes I can hear music in my head and then play it on the flute but not always.

I might be scared to play this music.

She straightened up on her chair, capped her pen for a moment. Her breathing and heartbeat were normal now. She closed her eyes and deliberately let herself fall back into the mood of the dream, feeling herself very nearly returning to the dream. Then with an effort she opened her eyes again and resumed writing.

The music is the color of seawater turned to smoke.

I play with my eyes closed but I can see just the same. I can see through my closed eyelids and also I can see from across the room and can see myself playing.