John Wray - The Right Hand of Sleep

Soon after came the rest, mourning cloaks and swallowtails and purple moors, chess pieces and white apollos, peacock’s-eyes and cyllabils and others whose names Voxlauer couldn’t remember ever having known. He would follow Else down along the water and tell her stories as she stalked them with her net and killing jar, struggling to keep up with her as she ran ahead through the heavy brush, following the tip of her net as it dipped and circled above the reeds. Often he would realize as a story was half finished that he’d lost track of her completely. Coming out onto the road a short while later, scratched and dusty and grinning, the end of the net tucked down into the ether, she’d beg his forgiveness and ask him to start over again at the beginning. More often than not, he’d abandon the story, sigh and lie down in the grass and think of something else to tell her.

One morning as they were sitting by the creek together and he sat playing a fly line into the current he found himself staring at the back of her head, dappled and striped by the overhanging reeds. — What is it? said Else after a minute or two had passed, turning round.

— Pauli says your cousin’s come back, he said, reeling the line in carefully.

— Yes.

He looked at her. — You knew?

— His mother sent word he’d asked where I was living. I’m not sure what she told him.

— Ah, said Voxlauer.

Else kicked at the water with the heel of her boot. — She didn’t say how long he was planning on staying. He might only have been passing. I’m not sure.

— He’s head of the new Reichs-Commission, Voxlauer said slowly. — From Gressach to the Steyrmark. I think it’s likely he’ll be staying for quite a while.

— I’ve asked her to tell him not to come, Oskar. I’ve told her not to say where I am. I can’t do more than that, can I?

— He’ll know where you are. He knows already.

— Why do you say that? she said, looking away.

Voxlauer closed his eyes. — Because he’s SS, Else. That’s why.

She said nothing.

— You didn’t tell me he was SS.

— You knew he was an illegal. She got up slowly from the bank. — Does it matter?

— It does matter. Yes. It matters.

— Well, Oskar: now you know. She stepped behind him and disappeared into the bushes, taking her net up as she passed. Voxlauer sat without moving for a long time, staring down at the water.

An hour later Else came back and set her net down by his shoulder. — Look here, Oskar. Reaching in with her tweezers she pulled out a dark blue set of wings veined and speckled with vermilion and purple. The under pair of wings glittered lazuli as she turned them. — There’s room in Resi’s box for one more, don’t you think?

Resi came through the door first, hanging back in its lit frame. The evening sun behind her glowed in her dark mass of hair and erased any trace of childishness from her features. — Why are you here? she said, looking at Voxlauer. — I didn’t ask you.

— No, you didn’t, said Voxlauer, rising from the table. — Would you like me to go?

— Theresa, Else said, coming up the steps behind her. — Oskar’s my good friend. He can come in very handy.

Resi looked at him again. He grinned stupidly at her, showing his missing teeth.

— How did that happen? said Resi, taking a half step backward.

— Robbers beat him, said Else, shooting a glance at Voxlauer.

— Friends of cousin Kurti’s, said Voxlauer, still leering.

Resi laughed loudly, a shrill, malicious-sounding, boyish laugh. — I bet he could knock out all your teeth if he wanted.

— Most likely he could, said Voxlauer. He sighed. — Sometimes they fall out by themselves.

— You can stay, said Resi abruptly, crossing the room. Voxlauer bowed to her and sat down.

After dinner they sat Resi at the table and blindfolded her with a dish towel and told her to count to twenty. The evening light shone on her through the open door and Voxlauer could see her smiling to herself as they brought the boxes up from the bedroom. With her eyes covered by the cloth she looked less like Else, thinner-faced and darker. Again Voxlauer had the impression she was older than she was. — Happy twenty-eighth! said Else, slipping off the blindfold.

— I’m not twenty-eight, said Resi, smiling up at them suspiciously.

— Sure you are.

— I’m seven.

— Ah. Well. We’d best take these presents to a more mature young lady, then, said Voxlauer, picking up a box. Resi let out a shriek and clutched at his leg.

— Fräulein! Please! said Voxlauer, staring down at her aggrievedly. — A bit more decorum. You’ll shatter my glass eye.

— Look to your presents now, Resi, Else said. — Ignore this man altogether.

— Tell him to give that back, said Resi, pointing at the box.

— Voilà! said Voxlauer, laying the box down on the table. — I was only keeping it safe for the mademoiselle.

— What is it? said Resi, looking past him at Else.

— Don’t play the diva, mouse. Open your blessed boxes.

— For mademoiselle’s convenience, said Voxlauer, extending a pair of scissors.

Resi took the scissors and snipped without ado through the twine. — Is this a ribbon? she asked, holding it up to her face.

— Close enough, Resi. Else leaned over the table and pulled the twine away from the box and held it open. Resi stood on her stool and pulled out a long black silk dress Voxlauer recognized after a moment as from the trousseau under the parlor window. She held the dress up to the light and studied it intently. — Are we going to a funeral? she asked, glancing uncertainly at Voxlauer.

— Funeral season begins next month, mademoiselle. A little patience.

— No one’s going to any funerals, said Else, narrowing her eyes at him. — Next box, please, Resi. I swear I’ve never seen such a girl for dawdling.

— Don’t rush me, Mama. Resi had taken up a smaller package now and was trying to slide the twine off all in one piece. Her small-boned face was set in an expression of fixed attention, her mouth twisting slightly as she worked. — Smells like a book, she announced, tearing the paper in a spiral. She looked at the cover a moment and grinned. — Bugs and flowers.

— So you won’t always be pestering me, said Else. — Last one, now. She motioned excitedly to Voxlauer.

Voxlauer brought the box up onto the table, tapping significantly against its sides with his fingers. — It’s wood, said Resi, eyes widening. — I’ll do it, she said, pushing Else away. — I’m doing it, Mama.

— Help me please, she said a moment later, her small voice wavering. Else took the box by its corners and pulled the paper downward. Bright wings phosphoresced in the light from the window, darkening and shifting color as the box revolved. — Ach! Thank you, Mama! Resi said, taking Else’s hand in that strange formal way of hers.

— You’ll have to name them all, of course, said Else. — From the book. And say thank you to Oskar. He made the box.

After dinner the two of them sat late into the evening labeling specimens from Else’s lexicon. Voxlauer said good night and walked slowly down the slope and up again through the little town. The air was still and warm and smelled of pine dust as always and the gables of the cliffs glowed a heavy violet behind it. The chittering of crickets accompanied him as far as the last fields, surging and ebbing and surging again, then faded gradually through the pines. Now and then a branch would snap close by the road and something would tumble away from him into the brush. For a long while he was unaware of his own breathing and when he did notice it again it seemed wonderfully untroubled to him. He walked purposefully and steadily and counted as many as seven steps between breaths. Everything on all sides was benevolent and mild. As the road straightened and leveled he closed his eyes and walked blindly forward, feeling his way upward through the dark.