Araminta Station (12 page)

“Spanchetta had appeared on the scene. She became excited, and asked Chilke: ‘How dare you threaten poor Sisco on such paltry grounds?’ And: ‘Don’t you think that this is an intolerably arrogant act, to be taking the law into your own hands, especially after you have been discharged from your post?’”

Sessily asked in fascination: “What did Chilke say to that?”

“He said: ‘Madame, I was not discharged, and I was not taking the law into my own hands. I was taking airport property into my own hands. It represents a considerable sum of money.’

“Spanchetta said that principles were more important than money, but now Bureau B arrived: my father, Wals Diffin and old Bodwyn Wook himself. No one agreed with Spanchetta, not even Namour.”

“And what will happen to Sisco?”

“He’ll be sent back to Yipton without wages; that’s about all that can reasonably be done to him. But the case isn’t closed yet. Everyone is down at the compound now, making a tour inspection, and even the new Conservator has been notified. I should be there too, but I won’t be missed and I’d rather be with you.”

“Thank you, Glawen. I’d hate to miss Parilia because of Sisco’s crimes, as I might if these wings don’t get done.”

“I think we’re coming along quite nicely.”

“I do too.” Already they had built four frames of bamboo withe, over which they had stretched transparent film; now they glued wings to the film, in accordance with a pattern. They worked in a combination studio-storage room under the west wing of Veder House, with sunlight entering through a line of windows. Sessily wore soft pink trousers and a gray pullover shirt: garments which failed to disguise the contours of her body, of which Glawen became ever more conscious. At last, he came to stand beside her, where she bent over the table. She felt his nearness and looked up, half smiling. Glawen caught her in his arms and kissed her with an intensity she could not fail to understand, and to which she responded. At last they pulled apart and stood facing one another.

Glawen said huskily: “I don’t know whether it’s because of ideas Arles put into my head or because I’ve begun thinking of my own accord. Either way I find it hard to stop.”

Sessily, smiling ruefully, said: “To blame Arles because you want to love me - that’s not very flattering.”

Glawen said hastily: “I didn’t mean it that way. It’s just that –”

“Hush,” said Sessily. “Don’t explain. Talk is always a distraction. Think, instead.”

“Think? Of what?”

“Well . . . Perhaps of Arles.”

Glawen was puzzled. “If you like. For how long?”

“Only an instant. Just long enough to realize that I have feelings too, and Arles said nothing to me.” She took a step back. “Glawen, no. I shouldn’t have said that. My mother might be looking in at any moment . . . In fact, listen! I hear her coming now. Get busy.”

Footsteps approached, certain and brisk. The door opened and it was indeed Felice Veder who came into the room: a pretty woman of early maturity, not much larger than Sessily, characterized by an innate decisiveness, as if her conduct were controlled by patterns of absolute validity which needed no attention.

Felice paused a moment to appraise Glawen and Sessily. Her gaze took in Glawen’s uneasy posture and Sessily’s flush and somewhat tumbled brown curls. She came to the table and inspected the wings. “Oh, how beautiful! Those will be truly spectacular, especially when they glow in the light! Am I wrong, or is it a trifle warm down here? Why don’t you open the windows?”

“Yes, it’s a bit warm,” Sessily agreed. “Glawen, would you please - but no! If the wind blows in, it will shift all the patterns.”

“True,” said Felice. “Well, I have much to do. Keep up the good work!”

She departed. A few minutes later another set of footsteps sounded in the hall. Sessily listened. “It’s Squeaker. Mother decided that we need supervision.” She glanced sidelong at Glawen. “With good reason, perhaps?”

Glawen grimaced. “Now she’ll make sure that we’re never alone.”

Sessily laughed. “Small chance of that . . . Although sometimes I want things to go on forever, just as they are.”

Into the room came a girl: a slight little creature about ten years old, with Sessily’s snub nose and brown curls. Sessily looked up.

“Hello, Squeaker: What are you doing down here among the rats and vermin and jumpy bugs?”

“Mother says that I am to help you, and that Glawen must work very hard so that his mind does not wander off among the flowers. Isn’t that a strange thing for Mother to say?”

“Very strange. She is unpredictable. she means, of course, that Glawen is something of a poet, and unless you and I direct his every move, he’ll just stand and daydream.”

“Hm. Do you really think that’s what she meant?”

“I’m sure of it.”

“When can I have a turn directing Glawen?”

Sessily said: “Sometimes, Squeaker, I suspect that you are far wiser than you let on. You definitely may not have a turn with Glawen. Not until I have put him through all his paces, and proved that he is tame. Now, then, come over here and make yourself useful.”

“Are there really rats and vermin down here?”

“I don’t know. Go look in that dark corner, behind those boxes. If something jumps out at you - well, we’ll all know not to do it again.”

“It’s not all that important, thank you.”

Sessily told Glawen: “Squeaker is very brave in such matters, remarkably so.”

“Not exactly,” said Squeaker. “In fact, not at all, though it’s nice of you to say so. Also, I’ve been thinking lately that I’d rather not be called Squeaker anymore. Glawen, did you hear that?”

“I certainly did. What should we call you?”

“My real name is Miranda. It sounds more like a girl than ‘Squeaker.’”

“Perhaps so,” said Glawen. “What does ‘Squeaker’ sound like, in your opinion?”

“I know what it sounds like! When anyone says ‘Squeaker’ they think of me.”

“Exactly right!” said Sessily. “Well, we must change our ways. Especially since ‘Miranda’ is a pretty name, just right for a nice girl who is not a brat, like so many other little sisters I know.”

 “Thank you, Sessily.”

Chapter I, Part 10

Just after sundown Glawen returned to Clattuc House, and once again Scharde was gone from their chambers. Glawen stood indecisively, disturbed by a feeling of guilt for some deed or misdeed which he could not define, but for which Scharde’s absence seemed to reproach him. What could his father be doing at this quiet hour of the evening? The matter of Sisco’s larceny must long since have been settled . . . Glawen telephoned Namour’s office but made no contact. He called Bureau B headquarters at the New Agency and was told that in all likelihood Scharde was still occupied at the compound.

Glawen waited no longer. He left the chambers, departed Clattuc House and started for the compound, only to be met by Scharde. Glawen said hurriedly: “I was just starting out to look for you. What has kept you so long?”

“Quite a good bit,” said Scharde. “Wait for me in the refectory. I’ll be down as soon as I wash up.”

Ten minutes later Scharde joined Glawen at the table where he sat nibbling on cheese and salt biscuits. Scharde asked: “And where have you been hiding yourself all afternoon? You were needed.”

“I’m sorry,” said Glawen. “I was helping Sessily with her costume. I wasn’t aware that anything was going on.”

“I might have guessed,” said Scharde. “Parilia must proceed, or so I suppose. We managed without you, and probably saved your young lives in the process. Although, now that I think of it, you had a hand in the matter yourself.”

“But what happened?”

Scharde was silent while the Yip waiter served them soup. Then he: said: “It is truly a wonderful chain of circumstances. Parilia seems to have a charmed life of its own.”

“How so?”

“If it were not for Parilia, Sessily would never have wanted butterfly wings. You would not have heroically tried to shoot tangle-tops with an empty gun. Chilke’s honor would not have been outraged and he would not have forced his way into Sisco’s room, to make his awesome discovery. Bureau B would not have been called down to the compound, where we searched room after room, and found not only mounds and heaps of stolen goods and aircraft parts, but also a small arsenal. Every Yip at the compound owned a weapon: knives, dart shooters, spantics and twenty-eight guns. The place was an armed camp. Namour declares himself dumbfounded. He is very subdued at the moment, and he admits Chilke was right, although for the wrong reasons.”

Glawen asked: “But what is the meaning of all this?”

“Nobody knows for sure. The Yips just simper and smirk, and look off into space with their eyes crossed. The guns were presents from tourists, for being nice. So they say. That means that tourists visiting Yipton were provided Yip girls during their stay and paid off in guns. It’s quite possible. We’ll squeeze down on that right away; there’ll be no more guns taken out to Yipton.

“The Yips won’t tell us anything of their plans. But next week is Parilia. On Ort the ferry was to bring in a new gang of Yips, perhaps with more weapons. Everyone wonders if, say, Tzein or Ing night, when folk are standing around in their costumes, drunk and careless, if there might not have been a sudden screaming attack and a fine massacre, with the Yips pouring into Araminta by the thousands. Then they fly south to Throy and blow Stroma into the fiord, and it’s all over; the hay is in the barn, and Deucas is thereafter known as Yipland, with Titus Pompo the Oomphaw of Cadwal. But” - and here Scharde held up his finger - “Sessily decided she wanted butterfly wings and Chilke is a man who won’t be denied and so Parilia will proceed as usual, and very few folk will know how near they were to something else.”

“What will happen next?”

“That will be decided after Parilia. Right now all Yips except domestics are confined to the compound. Chilke wants to send them out to Rosalia with indenture to pay their fares. It seems that Namour is already keeping a business like that in operation.”

“It sounds like a sensible idea.”

“Decisions like that come from Stroma, where nothing is simple. It seems now that there’s a faction, the Freedom, Peace and Mother-Love Society, or some such title, that won’t allow anything done which might hurt the Oomphaw’s feelings. Well, we’ll see. Incidentally, good news for you!”

Glawen looked up in apprehension. “Oh? What?”

“You’ve been assigned some important official duties over Parilia.”

Glawen’s heart sank. “I’m to guard Yips at the compound.”

“Quite right! That’s good thinking! Additionally, you’ll have a most prestigious post. The new Conservator is named Egon Tamm. He will be residing at Clattuc House over Parilia, until the old Conservator moves out of Riverview House. He will bring his family, which includes two children: Milo, a boy about your age, and Wayness, a girl somewhat younger. They are pleasant intelligent young people, very well mannered. You have been selected to take them in charge and do your best to keep them amused during Parilia. Why were you chosen? Be ready for a compliment. Because you too are considered pleasant, intelligent and well-mannered.”

Glawen sat limply back in his chair. “I’d rather have fewer compliments and more free time.”

“Put all such thoughts aside.”

“My social life is ruined.”

“A Clattuc is not only reckless and brave; he is resourceful and bides his time. At least, that’s how the tradition goes.”

“If I must, I must,” growled Glawen. “When does this activity start?”

“As soon as they arrive from Stroma. They are probably modest and conventional; do not get them drunk so that they make themselves public spectacles; the Conservator would not like it and he would form a poor opinion of you.”

“All very well,” muttered Glawen. “But suppose they are the unruly ones: who will protect me?”

Scharde laughed. “A Clattuc is a gentleman under all circumstances.”

Chapter II

Chapter II, Part 1

On Verd morning the satyr Latuun jumped upon an abutment near the lyceum, jerked his knotted brown arms, stamped goatish legs, then blew a skirling flourish on his pipes, to signify the beginning of Parilia. Jumping down into Wansey Way, then blowing a melody of reedy phrases and rasping ground tones, he led a parade up Wansey Way, kicking out his hairy legs, leaping, stamping, strutting like a young animal. Costumed celebrants followed close behind, jigging and cavorting to the urgent music of Latuun’s pipes, along with a score of decorated wagons, mechanical monsters, gorgeous ladies and stately gentlemen in sumptuous carriages. Musicians accompanied the procession, marching or riding on wagons; a phalanx of eight Bold Lions in costumes of tawny fur reared, charged and pounced on pretty girls along the way. Lines of gleeful children: small Pierrots and Punchinellos ran back and forth throwing handfuls of flower petals, darting sometimes under the rearing legs of Latuun himself. And who might be this satyr under his leering mask? Latuun’s  identity was supposed to be a profound secret, but clearly, Latuun and the man who represented him were quite comfortable with each other’s personalities, and it was generally suspected that Latuun was none other than that gallant scapegrace Namour.

So began the final three days and nights of revelry, pomp, feasting, along with amorous titillation and giddy dalliance. On Verd and Milden evenings Floreste’s Mummers would present one of their little interludes, which Floreste called Quirks, and on Smollen night a more extended Phantasmagoria. Then: the climactic Grand Masque, until midnight when the bittersweet music of the pavane brought an end to Parilia, amid unmasking and tears of emotion, sometimes for the sheer tragic glory of life, and the wonder attendant upon its coming and going.

Such was Parilia, in the form now conventionalized after a thousand years of celebration.

Chapter II, Part 2

Glawen’s plans for Parilia were disrupted by a pair of unrelated circumstances, both surprises, both irksome: the discovery of the Yip arsenal and the arrival of the new Conservator and his family at Clattuc House.