KALEIDOSCOPE II
Cynthia Hatch
PART 10
It was not yet late, and they spoke to several people they encountered, passing through the more populated areas of the community. He never let go of her hand, and it thrilled her, this subtle statement to the people of his world that they were a unit. He was not one for insignificant gestures. What might have seemed a casual act in anyone else, in him took on a deeper meaning. He was acknowledging openly what all but the most obtuse of observers already knew -- that she was not merely a friend of the community, a valued helper, but someone whose importance was unmistakably personal in a way that no one's had ever been before.
She liked to think that they were pleased for him. Surely, those who loved and respected him, who knew the extent of his solitary existence, would be happy to see that his aloneness had been breached that someone had managed to penetrate the defenses of a lifetime to touch him with the love he deserved.
If they had any misgivings, she doubted that anyone would have the nerve to voice them -- anyone, of course, but Father. Nor would it matter if someone were to object. As much as he valued the opinions of others, always open to them, always encouraging their free expression, his own convictions were never lightly made, and he held them with a great tenacity that nothing and no one could shake. If he had chosen to acknowledge her significance to him, he would hope for its acceptance, but remain totally complacent in the face of rejection. She knew deep down that if everyone residing below were to rise up in a united effort to exclude her from this world, they wouldn't stand a chance. The knowledge was at once warmly reassuring and intoxicating, a reminder of the mysterious power that emanated from this man she loved.
The nature of it defied analysis. To her it spoke of passion, love, a fierce tenderness and pervasive sexuality that often threatened to overwhelm her, but others must perceive its nature very differently. In people whose intentions were good, she sensed it took on a light of pure wisdom and moral courage, but for the weak and depraved it represented something remorseless and terrifying, the ultimate revelation of their own hollowness -- and its destruction.
"A penny for your thoughts." His voice was gentle, a sweet intruder into her introspection.
"Do you have a penny," she asked archly. Joe would be so relieved that she was finally checking out the "plumber's" financial status.
"Mm-hmm. I have one I've kept since Devin and I were boys. He tried to persuade me one day that it was worth more than a dime."
"That sounds like Devin, all right," she laughed, as he recounted the story. "Isn't it odd that even as a boy he was so attracted to the values of my world? I can't see why, when he had a far better example right here around him."
"He was restless, Catherine, intrigued by the adventures of the unknown. I could understand that."
"I know you understand it." She knew too how desperately he had longed to share those adventures, but there was no hint of self-pity in the remark. "That's what's so ironic. Devin goes out and throws himself headlong into every little corner of the world he can. He manipulates people and situations, and I know he's learned an amazing number of skills. There's no doubt that he's brilliant, but what good has it done him, Vincent? He understands less about what's really important, about how people think and feel, than you do, never having left this place."
"Perhaps he's too close to it all. He was so young when he left us. Devin has had to survive the best way he could, Catherine. He's never known the luxury of standing back, observing, and he has changed, since befriending Charles."
"You're right. He has." She squeezed his hand, loving him all the more for his stalwart defense of a brother whose faults he characteristically minimized.
They had entered the Chamber of the Winds, and he let go of her hand to precede her down the wind buffeted stairs, ready to catch her if she should fall. Halfway down, she stopped to slip the heavy sweater over her head, mussing her hair, but the currented air lifted it again, creating its own disordered style.
Vincent had stopped a few steps below and turned to watch her. His own hair never quite tamed enough to lose its primitive appeal, streamed out behind him, licking at the shadows like golden flame. His face, his neck, the strong line of his jaw, habitually shielded, were exposed now in all their naked splendor, and her breath fled with the wind. His was the elusive beauty of perfection, the work of an ancient artisan, coaxing from hard, clear marble -- with love and genius and awe for his own creation -- the statue of some revered god.
But a statue that so pulsed with life could only have been sculpted by the elements of nature. He is the wind, she thought, and the fire. And in the deep-set eyes that never left her face, she saw the pure blue of pristine waters and knew that in him the life-giving elements had found their purest expression. He was one with them, inseparable and magnificent, and the hand she extended to touch his face marveled at the warmth that met her fingers.
She had no idea how long she'd stood spellbound by this vision of him. Perhaps he'd given up on her ever taking another step. Suddenly his hands were at her waist, almost encircling it, lifting her up and out and finally into his arms. He carried her to the base of the stone steps, but didn't put her down. From this place of safety, secure in his warm embrace, she looked into his eyes and knew he had sensed her fascination with the primitive forces that eddied around them.
Closing his eyes, he inhaled deeply, inviting the power of the wind into himself. She felt the rise and release of his breath, nestled as she was against his chest, her arms around his neck, and he began to spin -- in a wide, graceful circle, gathering speed, his cloak a storm cloud billowing around them, the heavy fringe floating out like streamers on the air.
Her laugh of exhilaration was caught and tossed away by the relentless gusts or the whirlwind of their own making. Now she too was one with the wind and with him. Around them the old stones stretched and dissolved, forsaking the patterns that had kept them rigidly in place for eons, weightless and free now like the sensations spinning through her mind, pressing the breath back into a body that floated on the wildly spiraling waves of the earth's own breath.
At last he stood her back on her feet, holding her close until she could regain her balance. Face hidden against the soft gray ribbing of his vest, she clung to him, amazed that the dizziness disorienting her own body was not reflected in his. He stood, stolid, at ease, gently stroking her hair. She pulled back, smiling, noting the echoes of pleasure in the sparkling eyes, but it was hard to speak here, and they moved on into the shelter of an adjacent passageway to continue their journey.
"Some people find that place intimidating, Catherine."
"No, it's a wonderful place -- so real. Everything there is natural -- the wind. the rock. It's just what it is. In my world so many things are made to disguise the fact that they're really something else. We have buildings with massive beams that are really made of materials a child could crush in his hand. We have food that's flavored to taste like something else, people who feel like they have to pretend to be different than they really are."
"But you're real."
"I think so. Do you doubt it?"
He nodded. "Sometimes.'
"Why, Vincent?" She looked up at him as they walked, thinking how much she'd like the chance to prove her reality to him.
"Because sometimes my mind tells me you must be a dream. And just now -- when I held you, you seemed lighter than the air. It was as if I held the wind itself in my arms."
"I was thinking something similar -- about you," He turned to her, the shadow of a smile touching the fascinating contours of his face. "Perhaps we should try to hold onto those fanciful thoughts for a while, Catherine. Too much reality can be a dangerous thing."
She nodded slowly, returning his gentle expression, knowing quite well what he meant. They had traveled far from the civilization of his world, as well as hers. They were utterly alone with their love, with their pleasure in each other, and oh, so close to the surface lay those other feelings, smoldering, waiting. There was no denying how easily they might ignite, unleashing a force every bit as elemental as those they had encountered in the Chamber of the Winds, and every bit as difficult to control.
Their resolve to approach this new part of their relationship slowly, carefully would not be served by yielding to the tempting isolation. It would be very easy to become hopelessly lost so far from home. That he still trusted her as an ally in that resolve, despite what she admitted to herself was a pretty unpromising track record, strengthened her determination to be worthy of that trust. "We're going to look at the tapestries,"
"Yes, the tapestries." He took a torch from the sconce in the wall. The rest of the way would be in virtual blackness, unbroken by the occasional twilight from some natural source or the sporadic torch light maintained in the more well traveled tunnels. The flame made their shadows loom huge and menacing around them, but darkness had lost much of its sinister mystique, knowing that with it came the man she loved, a man who seemed to carry in his soul the essence of light.
They talked in hushed tones, muffled in places by the closeness of the rocky walls, then bouncing back at them with a ringing unfamiliarity in the great hollow places they crossed. They exchanged accounts of how they'd spent their time since they'd last been together, although she suspected that, while she tried hard to stress the drama of the case she was pursuing, so that he could truly live it through her, he was purposely down playing his own activities to hold off any concern about his working too hard or his lack of sleep.
When they reached the steps to the door of the Great Hall, they were once again assailed by restless gusts of wind. He handed her the torch and removed the massive bar. Bracing himself for battle with the opposing currents that would meet when the heavy doors were opened, he pushed, leaning into them until they yielded, and he stood in the resultant blast, his cloak whipping around him. She remained watching him, struck anew by this reminder of the incredible strength in those arms that could hold her so tenderly, the powerful legs that had propelled them so gracefully in their dance with the wind.
He took the torch from her and shut the doors behind them, as they slipped into the echoing blackness. She stayed near the entrance while he moved, silent and sure, through the giant chamber, lighting the torches that lined the walls until the room appeared, shimmering in the firelight.
"It's so big.' she breathed in amazement. 'I'd forgotten how huge it was."
He nodded, surveying the vast space, so empty now, so quiet. "When you were first here, Catherine, this chamber was alive with voices."
"So filled with people we could hardly move. I remember. Do you think it minds, Vincent?" She wondered, even as she spoke, why such whimsical thoughts had fluttered more frequently of late through the orderly landscape of her mind, like rare and colorful butterflies. Perhaps it was simply that she'd turned from such notions before, knowing no one to whom she might give them voice -- no one who wouldn't ask if she was feeling all right. But Vincent would accept them -- as he accepted all things -- with no taint of pre judgment. "The room, I mean -- do you think it minds spending most of the time in darkness, empty. Is it sad?"
"No . . . only waiting." He tilted his head, as if listening to vibrations just out of reach of human perception, clues to the spirit that might personify this vast space. "it's true that this chamber is seldom used, but when it is, Catherine, it's for occasions of great joy --Winterfest, weddings, naming ceremonies -- all the times when our usual cares and duties are put aside, and we gather together in the name of love."
"And that's worth any amount of waiting," she said softly.
"Yes, Catherine -- always." He stood looking down at her a moment, the torch light playing lovingly across his face, now revealing a flash of sapphire, now casting his eyes in shadow edged with the feathery silhouettes of his lashes. "Shall we look at the tapestries?"
"Absolutely." She took his arm, and they moved across the room. For minutes they remained in comfortable silence, each studying the scenes before them, wondering what skilled hands, long turned to dust, had fashioned the dramatic, yet intricate designs. When they spoke it was in hushed voices, and suddenly it was as if the part of that Sunday she'd been unable to share - the actual physical act of moving slowly together through a place devoted to artistic beauty - had been given to them. Crossing the vast emptiness, they mounted the little staircase where the last of the tapestries was hung, a complex depiction of helmeted soldiers on horseback, lances at the ready.
"They truly do seem magical, Vincent," she said at last, "not knowing where they came from, the places they've been. Are they meant to represent specific events?"
"Possibly. Devin and I had many theories -- Crecy, Poitiers. Agincourt. Unfortunately, we could never agree on the same battle at the same time. Father complained that we expended more energy quarreling about it than the soldiers did in fighting it. Perhaps they depict all of them -- or none of them."
"And you liked to think that you could go through the tapestries to another place and time?"
"Through those trees,' he confirmed. "I could almost feel the coolness of their shade, hear the distant sounds of battle."
"I used to think I'd like to live in that time. I'd wear fantastic dresses with long trains and strange, wonderful hats encrusted with jewels."
"A princess." He looked at her under arched brows.
"What else?" She could feel herself blushing, and she ducked her head, letting her hair fall forward. "The fairy tales seemed to imply that all young girls were princesses back then, unless, of course, they were poor servants destined to be rescued from poverty by Prince Charming. But it wasn't like that at all. Those were terrible times for women - even princesses. Why do you suppose we romanticize that era?"
"Perhaps, looking back on it through the centuries, it seems simpler than it was. Black and white. Good and evil, meeting head on in daylight on the battlefield. The king in his castle, the peasants below. Everything in its place."
"When in fact it was chaotic. What did you dream of doing there, Vincent -- in the world of the tapestries?"
"Boys' dreams, Catherine. Quests for treasure. Dragons slain. The glories of battle."
"Any rescuing of princesses?"
It was his turn to look embarrassed. "Yes," he said quietly, "even that."
She regretted instantly the real discomfort the admission cost him, even now -- with her, understanding that at some point in his young life he had concluded that such wishes were inappropriate to him, that he dare not speak of them again. She turned slipping her arms around him. "You rescued me,' she reminded gently. "I'm afraid I'm not a princess, but the rest of the dream -- that came true."
"Catherine," He pulled her closer, and they stood for several moments, hearts beating close together, banishing the remnants of old pain, savoring the wonder of a bond that flowed translucent and vivid with love.
"Vincent, does it seem to you . . . Do you ever think..."
He looked at her, curious at her hesitancy, the clear eyes encouraging her to continue.
"The way I feel about you . . . It doesn't seem to have started when you found me in the park. All the time -- when we were getting to know each other, I didn't realize it then, but afterward, it seemed less like I was developing new feelings toward someone that I hadn't known before, and more like an awakening, a remembering of something we've shared -- always. Do you think there's any possibility of that?"
He released her, turning away slightly, and she felt a pang of regret, fearing she'd gone too far. He was always open to new ideas, but his was at its core the most coolly rational mind she had ever known. So many paradoxes - fierce and gentle, erotic and innocent, receptive to every possibility, yet uncompromising in the truth. Perhaps she had just found the limits of his tolerance for ideas so totally devoid of logic. Although he might consider her theory, implausible as it sounded to her own ears, too fantastic to be taken seriously, she was surprised and a little hurt that he should shut her out so completely for having expressed it.
For he was shutting her out; she could feel it in the suddenly cloudy perception of their bond, see it in his stance. His arms outstretched to grip the railing on the little landing, his head lowered curtaining his face behind the torch lit hair.
"I'm sorry, Vincent. I wasn't implying you had to believe it. I was only trying to tell you how I feel."
"Believe it?" His voice was so subdued that even in the great silence of this hall, she could barely catch the words. "I carry that feeling inside me night and day. It lives in me, Catherine, as it has since the moment I found you."
She stared at him, confused. Such words -- words that found their way to her own uncertain thoughts, infusing them with light, as if some passing angel's wings had briefly touched her soul with a confirmation of miracles. Why should they be spoken with such reluctance?
"I don't understand. If you share that feeling, why does it bother you to speak about it?"