“What?” said Colette. “What the hell are you talking about, George?”
“He’s right,” said Franny. “Anne… Anne Sillenes. It’s so strange to say that name. I had almost forgotten it. It died with me, so long ago. Franny Beatty was a name you chose for me, Bill, picked at random out of the paper. But my real one’s always remained, echoing in the many empty places in my skull.”
“But how can this be?” Silenus said. “I haven’t spoken to you for half a century, my dear… I thought you were lost. How can you have come back to me now?”
“I haven’t come back to you, Bill,” said Franny, or perhaps it should have been Anne. “I was just reminded. This all started when you took me to the fairies, don’t you remember? It was an arrangement we made, when we first learned about the cancer. About the thing eating me up, behind my eyes.”
“It was the first of three visits,” said Ofelia. “You carried her to my mother after she’d passed, still streaked with grave dirt. You, a bereaved husband, with this poor, pale little thing with the pretty red hair in your arms. You sobbed like a child when you brought her, did you not? And my mother took pity on you, and told you of a way, of symbols and etchings that can bring animation to the body.”
“Yes,” said Anne. She raised one hand and grasped her sleeve and pulled it back, displaying the countless black markings that wrapped around her arm like second skin. “You brought me back, Bill. Just like we’d discussed.”
“My God, my dear,” said Silenus. “I… I can’t believe it! I thought it hadn’t worked! When you came back, at first you were the same but… but then you changed.”
“That was because it didn’t work,” she said. “I was not back! The sleep took me, that waking death. I was so tired… Every second was an hour, every year a lifetime. My memories faded, and I could hardly remember who I was. Yet some part of me stayed alive, trapped behind miles of thick glass, watching the years slip before me. And when you brought me back to that house, it was like all the years were sloughed off my back, and I remembered… I remembered everything. Do you know what that was like, Bill? Can you have any idea what it feels like, to fall outside of time and shamble on, no more than a dazed, empty vessel?”
“No,” said Harry. “No, no, I couldn’t know what it was like for you.”
“You knew,” said Anne. “You knew what it would be like. And yet you let me live on.”
“I had to!” said Silenus. “I had no choice, I couldn’t bear to lose you! You were my darling, Annie, my everything! With you beside me everything made sense, and when you were gone…”
“When I was gone, you cursed me with this,” said Anne. “With this waking hell. You should have let me go! You should have killed me when you saw it hadn’t worked!”
“Don’t you think I tried?” cried Silenus. “But I’d lost you once, and then I had this… this puppet of a person, and while it wasn’t you it looked and sounded and smelled exactly like you. I couldn’t kill it! Could anyone?”
“Oh, Jesus…” whispered Colette.
“You would have if you loved me,” said Anne. “You should have let me rest, Bill. You should have let me go.”
“I couldn’t,” he said. “Not again. I wasn’t strong enough.”
“And instead you had what?” she asked. “You would keep some horrible memento of me staggering on behind you, while you lived your life and led the troupe on, and forgot about me?”
“Never,” said Silenus. “I never forgot about you.”
“Then explain them!” said Anne, and she pointed at George and Colette. “One you fathered upon some poor farm girl, and the other, hardly more than a child, you’ve enjoyed as you once did me!”
Colette’s hands flew to her face in shock, and she hid her eyes. Stanley shook his head and his grip grew tighter on George’s shoulder.
“It isn’t true,” said Silenus.
“Have you become a liar now?” shouted Anne. “I’ve seen the way you talk to her, the way you touch one another. You did it right in front of me, Bill! As if I weren’t even there!”
“But to me, you weren’t…” said Silenus. “It was like you were a stranger. As the years went by, you became someone else.”
“So you admit it. You did move on to other loves, and forgot me, left me watching. It is true?”
Silenus looked back at the three of them. His glance moved from face to face, and he seemed to come to a decision about something. He lowered his head and nodded. “It is.”
“Yes,” she hissed. “You left me to rot in the prison of my own body.”
“No!” he said. “That wasn’t it! You don’t know what I’ve done for you, Annie! When you died, I changed the very nature of the troupe! I started to put all of our efforts into finding the remains of the song! I thought if I did that, I could… I could figure out why such a thing could be allowed to happen, or even call the Creator back. Don’t you understand what an enormous victory that would be? That was why I kept you on. It could fix you, fix me, fix everything! And I still can, Annie!” he said. “I can make it come back, and ask it to fix all of this!”
“Oh, Bill!” she cried. “As if the world were a simple machine that had thrown a few gears! How foolish can you be?”
“I can make it work, Annie! I just need a little more time.”
“You’re still the same person after all these years, no matter what name you use,” she said, and shook her head. “You still think you can find a solution to anything. I wish we had realized we got all the time we could, and cherished it.”
“I did cherish it,” said Silenus. He was nearly sobbing now. “I did.”
She reached out to touch the side of his face. He shut his eyes and leaned into her hand, letting her fingers graze his temple, his cheek. “So did I,” she said softly. “But I can’t forget what you put me through, or how you’ve lived before my very eyes.” Then she stepped back to stand beside the lady.
“Please don’t go,” said Silenus. “Please don’t leave me again.”
“I didn’t leave you,” she said. “I was taken from you, Bill. And you should have moved on. Look at what’s become of us—we can hardly recognize each other after what you allowed to happen.”
“But I can save you, Annie!” said Silenus. “I can save everyone, everything, I promise!”
“I know that reasoning is why you did what you did,” said Annie. “And that’s why I didn’t ask for your death. But you have to pay, Bill. You have to understand what you did to me. You have to pay.”
The lady asked, “Are you finished with him?”
Annie looked at Silenus longingly, then nodded. “I am.”
“Good,” said the lady. She looked to the fairies behind her, and said, “Beat him. Then cut his throat.”
Annie blinked in shock, and cried, “What?”
“No!” shouted George.
“I never said to kill him!” said Annie. “That was never the agreement!”
The lady looked down at her, yet as always it was impossible to tell what she was thinking. “Oh, did we? What was it we agreed on, exactly?”
“He was supposed to suffer, but not die! He was supposed to know what this felt like!”
The lady extended one long finger. It twitched back and forth chidingly, and she said, “No, that was not what we agreed. We agreed that he would know your pain.”
“My what?” said Anne, but then two pale faces emerged from the darkness behind her. The fairies each grasped an arm, and one grabbed a fistful of her hair and wrenched her head back. Anne screamed in pain and rage, but the fairies easily held her. Though the symbols on her skin made her hugely strong, apparently this accounted for nothing against their makers.
“And your pain is a highly variable thing, is it not?” said the lady. “Why, if we were to beat you, we would have permission to beat him as well, wouldn’t we? And if we were to cut your throat…”
“You whore!” cried Silenus, rising to his feet.
Yet before he could do anything, the lady’s mocking finger turned to him. She tutted. “I would not use such language now, player. Those you care for now depend on my whims. Don’t they?”
Silenus looked back at George and the others.
“Don’t they?” she said again, menacingly.
“Yes,” he said.
“Yes,” she said. Then, to her servants, “Take this measly little dead thing away and put it out of its misery somewhere. There should do.” She pointed west to the base of the dam, next to the old railroad track, and with the gesture a grove of trees there bent aside to reveal a rusting train car. “You won’t die at our hands, my dear, I know that. The symbols my mother gave you make killing you terribly difficult, even for us. But you are not in my house anymore. And without that, why, I think you’ll soon forget everything again, won’t you? And you’ll go back to being a lost little dead thing, just like before…”
“No!” cried Franny. “Not that! Not that!”
Then came Silenus’s voice, surprisingly calm and soft: “Ofelia,” he said. “Ofelia, please.”
The lady’s head snapped around to look at him, and the trees shot up straight, as if there had been strings holding them back and they’d all been suddenly cut. She stood as still as a statue, watching him with her blank eyes.
“I did not kill Titania, Ofelia,” he said. “You know that. She died while fulfilling her bargain, while collecting the instruments to help us detect the song. She helped me, I would have never hurt her.”
“She died,” said Ofelia softly, “because of a story you told her. A lie you put in her heart.”
“I did not lie.”
“You did,” said the lady. “You put something in her that drove her mad. You gave her hope, singer, where there should have been none.”
“That hope was true,” said Silenus. “I have learned that. I wish now that I had listened to what I’d learned more often.”
“Then you are as worthless as your trite little performances,” said the queen. She nodded, and the two fairies began to drag Anne back into the darkness of the forest. She tried to scream, but one of them struck her on the side of the head, and the sound of the impact was so loud everyone paled to hear it. Then she hung limp in their arms and they were gone.
“In our revelries we have feasted upon many things,” said the lady. “Many strange animals, many exotic wines. And in our time we have gone beyond mere beasts. We have eaten heroes, and saints, and madmen, and several who were rumored to be gods. Yet I can think of no sweeter meat, no finer taste, than that of revenge. And tonight, once you are dead and spitted for us, I will know that taste. How does it feel to know that, singer?”
Silenus stared at where Anne had stood, his face ash-gray. Then he weakly said, “It feels like every other day, really.” With great effort, he collected himself. “What’s to happen to my compatriots?”
“Do you swear it?”
She did not nod or shake her head. Instead she cocked it to the side, like a snake fascinated by its prey, and said nothing.
“Swear it, damn you!”
She shrugged. “Fine. I swear I will not harm them.”
“All right,” said Silenus. He swallowed and nodded. “If I am to die, then I suppose I will die. But may I make one last request, as one imbiber to another?”
“A request?”
“There’s a bottle of wine I have, a vintage that was popular in my home,” he said. “It is no great wine, it’s a peasant’s drink. But it’s one I would like to taste again in my last moments.”
The lady nodded her head back and forth as she thought about it. “You must understand how much this sounds like treachery.”
“I do. And I’m willing to let you inspect the bottle, or whatever you would wish.”
The lady considered it, and sighed. “I suppose I can understand such a last wish. Even from a thing as hateful as you. Bring me the bottle.”
Silenus nodded and walked to the steamer trunk. He undid one clasp, and the other, and George braced himself, expecting something great to happen, some explosion or trickery, or perhaps the First Song itself would pour out and come to their aid…
But it did not. When the lid creaked open he saw there was no song inside, and no light. Only several rows of glass bottles, each filled with some liquor or tincture or another. George was so surprised he cried out in dismay, “What are those?”
Silenus looked up at him. “They are restoratives, mostly. What did you think would be in here?” He selected a bottle with a particularly fine cork and opened it. He walked over to the lady, proffering the open bottle, and her seneschal walked forward and took it. The seneschal swirled the wine around a bit, sniffed it, and took a sip.
“It’s claret,” he said. “Not a particularly good one, either.”
“As I told you,” said Silenus.
“Let me see that,” said the lady. She took the bottle and did the same, tasting a very tiny drop. “You are right,” she said. “I didn’t know you have such poor taste in wine.”
Silenus took it back, returned to his trunk, and took out a goblet.
“No,” said the lady suddenly.
He turned to her. “No?”
“No. Not your goblet. I cannot even trust your glassware, singer. We will give you one of ours.” She gestured, and a fairy stepped out of the wood with a small, ornate crystal glass.
Silenus took it, turning it over, and said, “Very fine work, this. If you wish.” Then he carelessly tossed his goblet over his shoulder. It broke on the rocky shore.
The lady stared at the broken glass, uncertain. Then she said, “Pour it so that we can see. I’m willing to treat you to this last luxury, but if I catch the slightest whiff of your tricks…”
“I have no tricks left,” said Silenus. “I know I will die today.”
He shut the trunk and sat down on the top. He was so close now that George could not bear the shame. “I’m so sorry, Harry!” he shouted.
Silenus looked at him with a questioning eyebrow.
“I… I knew what she was going to do,” he said. “Anne, or Franny, I mean. I thought… I didn’t trust how you were running the troupe, and I thought… I thought I hated you. I did. I’m so sorry, Father. I would’ve never been quiet if I’d known it could be like this. I’m so sorry.”
Silenus nodded as if he was only slightly disappointed. “Well. It isn’t your fault, kid. I did nothing to earn your trust or love. I find myself wishing for many things right now, but chief among them is that I’d treated you better.” His eye moved to Colette. “And I’m sorry, Lettie. I never meant to hurt you.”
“She was right there,” said Colette. “Right there all along, and you still let me come to you?”
“I was weak,” he said. “I’d not known a woman’s touch in many years. You were my first love, after her. I’m sorry. I’m sorry for all of you. I only hope you all get out of this.”
Then Colette, who rarely showed any emotion besides frustration or cold satisfaction, whimpered and burst into tears. Even in this moment of deep distress, George was surprised to see her cry.
“There, there,” said Silenus. He put down the crystal glass and reached toward her. She extended a hand, but before they could touch the seneschal angrily cleared his throat.
“Will you not let a man comfort a grieving woman, Ofelia?” Silenus said.
“This is getting very much out of hand,” said the lady, irritated. She shook a little, and said, “You may kiss her hand, but no more.”
Silenus nodded, and leaned over. Before he kissed her hand he breathed in deep, taking in her scent, and looked up her arm with eyes both fond and proud. “You gave me a quiet among lifetimes of war,” he said. “If anything means anything, that does.” With the barest touch of his lips he kissed one knuckle of her hand, and sat up straight. He moved the bottle of wine to the hand with the cork in it, holding the cork with his index finger and thumb and the neck of the bottle with the other three fingers, and picked up his crystal glass with his free hand. Just before he poured, he glanced up at Stanley. “You know what to do, don’t you?” he said.
If Stanley knew he made no sign. His fingers were digging into George’s shoulder, yet George could not feel anything but a kindred sense of sympathy: they were about to lose their leader, their father, contradictory and wayward as he was.
“Yeah,” said Silenus to Stanley. “You know what to do. I wish I had listened to you, you know. You were right.” He looked up and around, smelling the night breeze, and smiled a little. “There is so much more to everything than this.”
Stanley nodded, and bowed his head.
Silenus began to pour the wine. “Ah,” he said. “The mere scent is almost enough for me.” And as he poured George swore he thought he saw something else fall into the glass, but it did not come from the bottle: it came from the cork, and it looked like just a drop of a very thin syrup, yet it was almost shielded from view by Silenus’s hand. George started when he saw it, and when he looked up he saw Silenus was staring at him very piercingly. Then his father offered the glass of wine to the sky, said, “Salut,” and drank.
Again, George expected something to happen. He’d put something in the wine, so surely this was some sort of plan of his… yet there were no effects at all. Silenus simply sat on the trunk when he was done, breathing out heavily, an old man wearing muddy shoes. Then he said in a small and frightened voice, “I am going to die today.”
“Yes,” said Ofelia. “You are. Will you be so cowardly as to run from us?”
“No. No, I will not run,” he said, and stood. “But if you are to have me killed, I will at least have the dignity to die before my killer.”
“You are out of privileges,” she said coldly. “That is one I will not give you.” She nodded to several of the fairies, and they marched forward bearing stout clubs in their hands.
Silenus sniffed, tossed the glass over his shoulder, straightened his tie, and calmly began walking toward Ofelia. “I am going to die today,” he said again softly.
He walked toward the group of approaching assailants as if they were not there, eyes fixed on the lady. When the first club fell it struck him across the brow, and blood fanned through the air. Colette cried out, and Silenus spun a little, staggered, but put down another foot to resume walking. Yet then another club fell, this one striking him on the shoulder, and then another on his neck, before one found the back of his knee. There was a pop and he groaned and twisted to the ground, and at that the fairies dispersed a little, ringing him in, ready to watch him writhe.
But he did not. He swallowed, blood spurting from his brow and his knee wobbling horribly, and slowly pushed himself up, and resumed walking forward.
The fairies swooped back in again, and another club whistled down. He held up a hand and the club struck him on the wrist and again there was a pop. Silenus cried out and bent over, the glistening teeth of shattered bone protruding from the base of his hand. Then one fairy took a fistful of hair at the back of his head, steadied him, and brought his club down on the side of his face. Silenus crumpled, his eye ruined where his skull had given in to the blow, and he lay there with his face in the dirt. Colette cried out again, and even Stanley, who’d always been utterly silent, moaned in despair.
George wanted to look away. He felt sick with rage, and he wanted to dash forward and bowl the fairies over and rush his father away. But he knew he could not, and he hated himself for his powerlessness. Yet again he was but an audience member in his own life.
He expected Silenus to stay down now: he had taken a terrible injury. Yet again, his father did not. With a series of soft grunts and moans he pushed himself up with his good hand, his ruined one clutched under his armpit, and he again began half-limping, half-crawling over to the lady, blood streaming from his eye and his brow and his hand, and now there was a little stream running down his ankle as well.
The fairies again crowded around him. One jabbed up with his club into Silenus’s stomach and he jerked forward, gasping terribly, and went reeling off into another fairy. The fairy pushed him back and they pinned him in, shoving him around, toying with him. They landed blows upon his ribs, and one even grabbed his good arm and stretched it out and struck him on the elbow. His arm bent horribly, the elbow bending to the side with the sound of old wood being crushed, and he gagged and whimpered.
“Stop it, damn you!” sobbed Colette. “Just stop it!”
Stanley again moaned softly.
“Please stop,” whispered George. “Please stop walking. Just stop.”
Yet his father would not. Even with both arms broken he bent over and staggered along for another few feet. The fairies hesitated, dodging around him, searching for the next best blow.
“Put him down,” said the lady.
One of the fairies nodded and walked alongside him for a bit, matching his slow hobble. Silenus’s breath now came in wheezes and he walked bent like a cripple, face to the ground, determined to make a few more feet. The fairy reached out and took his coat and gently brought him to a stop. Then the club rose high and fell upon the back of Silenus’s head with a sickening crack. He collapsed in a heap and lay there, hardly breathing. Colette took George’s hand, and both felt sure he was dead.
But then, unbelievably, Silenus started to move again, crawling toward Ofelia, covered in blood and dust. Ofelia shook her head as if irritated by this last show of defiance.
“Why is he doing this?” asked Colette. “Why does he keep going?”
“Because the last walk is all that’s left,” said George. And when he said this Stanley hugged them both close, and though he held George the closest, George did not mind.
“Enough,” said the lady.
The fairy that had struck the final blow took out a knife, reached down, grasped Silenus’s hair, and pulled him up. Silenus’s one good eye rolled up to glare at the lady, and his broken hands sought purchase on the ground to try to pull himself forward more. But then the fairy took the knife, delicately placed it below the far corner of his jaw, and drew it along his neck.
The spray of blood was horrific. George and Colette wailed in shock, and Stanley began to shake. The fairy released Silenus and he fell back to the ground, blood pouring from the wound.
And yet, even in those last moments, with his life rushing out of him to spill onto the ground, Silenus still somehow managed to drag himself into a kneeling position using one shoulder for leverage, as if he just might summon the strength to push himself up and take one more step toward his goal, or even two or three. But his strength finally failed him. He fell forward onto his side, breath rattling and hands and legs trembling. After a few minutes he was still.