Thorn Boy and Other Dreams of Dark Desire (33 page)

Her touch
kindled heat within him. ‘This is your home now, my love. We shall
be happy here.’ The dream took on flesh once more.

Xanthe uttered
an appreciative murmur as the house appeared around a bend in the
drive. The garden at the front was rather neglected; a sweep of
waving grasses, hedged by willows. The house itself lay like a
sleeping lizard in its grounds; a grey sprawl of wings, buttresses
and towers that had formed over the generations, from architectural
additions by Samuel’s ancestors. It was scaled with a myriad tiny
windows and its walls were lazily uneven, corseted with immense
wooden beams. The late afternoon sun, still watery from the storm,
washed the lichened walls with rusty light and gilded the window
panes. ‘So warm,’ Xanthe breathed. ‘So warm.’

The heat of
summer, however, seemed not to have penetrated the hall of the
house, and here the air felt uncomfortably cold and damp. The house
smelled of its own age - once a familiar, comforting odour to
Samuel, but now somehow repellent. He noticed his wife shiver a
little. ‘The place needs a good airing,’ he said lamely. ‘It was
shut up while I was away.’

Xanthe glanced
at him, but made no comment, even though Samuel could guess she
thought the house had been neglected for rather more than a month.
The wooden panels of the hall, which once had burned with the sheen
of bees’ wax, now looked dull and sticky. The floor tiles were
obscured by years of accumulated mud, trampled in by Samuel from
the garden. Xanthe ventured forward cautiously, apparently to
examine her surroundings.

Samuel called,
‘Look out,’ but it was too late. Xanthe had stepped into a tray
against the wall and had scattered its contents.

‘
Oh, I’m
sorry, I’ve spilled all your seeds,’ Xanthe said, adding pointedly,
‘I didn’t see them.’ She bent to brush them up but Samuel hurried
to her side and stopped her hand.

‘
Don’t
touch it, my love!’

Xanthe
frowned. ‘Why not?’

Samuel took
her hand in his. ‘It’s poison. A hazard of living in the country,
I’m afraid. We have a problem keeping these old places free of
vermin.’

‘
Vermin,’ said Xanthe, flatly, straightening up.

‘
Mice,’
Samuel explained. ‘Even rats - not that they often come this far
into the house, of course, but the cellars, the old larders... I
have to keep poison down.’

Xanthe raised
an eyebrow. ‘Don’t worry. Rodents don’t scare me. They are too
small to inspire fear.’

Samuel smiled
at her. What an admirable quality in a woman, this fearlessness
where vermin were concerned. He’d always believed women screamed
and fainted at the mere mention of them. He led her through the
dark passages of the house, into the old kitchen, where he
suggested she should wash her hands. Xanthe went to the great,
white sink - which was not as white as it could have been - and
turned on the cold water tap. ‘Poison is dangerous,’ she said. ‘We
might have children one day, Samuel. Why haven’t you got a brace of
good cats to deal with the problem?’

Samuel did not
wish to mention that the poisons growing in his garden were lethal
to dogs and cats, while at the same time oddly attractive to them.
The thought of children made him go momentarily cold. He imagined
little hands reaching for the tempting, deadly fruits. He laughed
too heartily and made a feeble joke that animals did not like
him.

‘
Do they
not?’ Xanthe said coolly, looking for something on which to wipe
her wet hands, and finally opting for the front of her
dress.

As the sun
sank, they went into the dark, dusty dining-room and there consumed
the modest repast that Hesta had left for them; cold meats, cheese
and thick, heavy bread. Samuel had found a bottle of wine that had
not gone off, but it was thick and red - nothing like the light,
acid wines he had enjoyed with Xanthe in Mewt. Afterwards, Samuel
showed Xanthe around the more habitable areas of the house, finally
leading her to his bedroom. Xanthe’s nose wrinkled fastidiously,
but she seemed relieved to discover that at least the sheets were
crisp and clean. Spiders bred in the dusty, faded folds of velvet
drapes around the bed, and the windows were opaque with grey-green
grime. Samuel had made a small effort at decorating the room,
however, and had filled a number of huge, antique vases with garden
flowers - not the children of his ladies, but some lesser blooms
left over from the days when his mother had tended the estate.
Xanthe sat on the bed and said, ‘I may have to make changes here,
Samuel.’ She leaned back on stiff arms and looked around herself.
‘You’ve had dire need of a homely touch, it seems.’

‘
You may
do what you like to the house,’ he replied.

Xanthe nodded
and silently smiled. Standing, and fixing him with her slanting
eyes, she peeled away her dress. Samuel went to her, eager to touch
her smooth skin once more, to breathe in her intoxicating scent.
Pulling away from him, she walked, naked, to the window and wiped
the glass. The moon was rising above the trees, sailing high.
Xanthe struggled to open one of the windows and, at last, with a
scraping creak and a fall of dead insects and spider webs, it
released its hold on its frame. Xanthe stood tall, taking deep
breaths. Samuel put his hands upon her smooth, bare shoulders and
kissed the cool flesh. She buried her fingers in the thick velvet
drapes and sighed like the night.

Below them, in
the pale moonlight, the flowers had turned their heads towards the
ground. But for the rustling of rats in the grass, the gardens were
silent.

The following
morning after breakfast, Samuel took his new bride into the garden
behind the house. He had decided there was no point in delaying a
certain crucial introduction, although his heart beat fast.

Xanthe stepped
down the shallow steps led to the lawn and shaded her eyes. ‘It is
so bright out here after being inside. The house needs light,
Samuel.’

Samuel took
her elbow in a firm yet gentle grip and ushered her over the grass
to the first walled garden. Herbs grew here, surrounded by granite
pathways. In the centre, was an ancient grey sundial, almost like
an altar. Beyond the herb garden, steps led down into a shaded
avenue of stately poplars, with lawns to either side, bordered by
mature roses of dark red and startling white. Behind them, lush
green ivy tumbled over crumbling walls.

Xanthe
examined her surroundings with apparent pleasure, complimenting
Samuel on the variety of the plants and the secluded mystery of the
linked gardens. ‘Is that water I hear?’ she asked. ‘Oh, Samuel, do
you have a water garden?’

Breaking away
from him, she ran down a path-way, her swift body dappled by
sun-light. Samuel was forced to run to keep up with her, slightly
annoyed by her wilfulness.

He found her
by the fountain, where a voluptuous stone mermaid held up her hands
to release a stream of cold, clear water. The pond was greened with
the leathery saucers of water-lilies. It was surrounded by a
circular path, around which grew a tall juniper hedge. Samuel once
again slipped a hand beneath Xanthe’s elbow. His voice was hushed.
‘This way.’ He put a finger to his lips.

Xanthe frowned
quizzically, but did not speak. She went compliantly into the yew
walk that led to the court of the queen. Samuel saw her studying
the strange plants that grew in the gloom, some with long, white
heads like trumpets and others with purple spikes. Later, he would
regale her with their secret histories. Then, the narrow opening in
the hedge was ahead, and he allowed his new bride to go before
him.

Night’s
Damozel reared imperially in her green bower. Xanthe paused at the
entrance to this hidden garden, and Samuel heard her draw in her
breath. She seemed almost shocked. He hurried past her, smiled
encouragingly and urged her forward. ‘Come, come, this is who I’ve
been waiting to show you.’

Xanthe’s eyes
were wide; it made her look peculiarly sinister. ‘It is a creature
of enchantment,’ she breathed, and then flicked him a narrower
glance. ‘Where did you get it?’

‘
A
corner of the world,’ Samuel whispered, ‘but hush. Stand before
her, but not too close. Her pollen is toxic.’

So the new
bride was introduced to the queen. Their beauty seemed to
complement each other; both so tall and still. Samuel could not
detect any sense of rivalry or pique in the Damozel, but perhaps
the presence of another human being stifled his communication with
the flower.

‘
I can
see,’ Xanthe said softly, ‘that all other flowers in your garden
are but a screen for this priceless bloom. You keep her secret, of
course.’ She nodded gently to herself. ‘But that is only
right.’

‘
Well, I
wouldn’t go so far as to say...’

‘
No!’
Xanthe interrupted. ‘I can see the truth of it. Thank you for
bringing me here.’

Samuel felt
oddly uneasy. He wasn’t sure what reaction he’d expected from
Xanthe, but it wasn’t this.

As they walked
back to the house, Xanthe was silent. Samuel asked her what she
thought of his garden.

‘
It is a
wonderland,’ she said. ‘Your haven of myth and dream.’ A certain
gleam in her eyes made Samuel wonder whether she’d divined the
nature of his relationship with some of the more narcotic plants.
He did not like her thinking that. She seemed to be laughing at
him.

It is my
hobby,’ he said stiffly. ‘I have spent a lot of time on it.’

She smiled.
‘Oh yes, I can see that. I have some small knowledge myself, for my
father is something of a horticulterer.’

‘
Really.’ This was news to Samuel.

‘
Indeed.
I think I can say that although you cultivate many rare species,
there is only one of true value - your maiden of the night. The
others may be seen commonly in many Mewtish gardens.’

‘
Is that
so?’ Samuel felt nettled, annoyed that someone, who herself had
confessed to having ‘small knowledge’ would dare to comment on the
value of his collection. It would take some getting used to -
living with someone else, who was full of opinions of their own.
Still, she was indeed beautiful, and he was gratified she shared
his respect for the Damozel. He bent down to pluck a delicate blue
flower, a species of orchid. ‘This reminds me of you. It is named
Velenia, after a bewitching woman. This flower is yours, my
love.’

Xanthe took
the bloom and stared at it bemusedly. ‘It has thorns, tiny thorns,’
she said, twirling it in her fingers. By the time they reached the
sundial, her fingers had begun to itch and sting. She dropped the
flower on the lawn.

At mid-day,
Hesta arrived for work, and disappeared with Xanthe into the
kitchens. Samuel felt strongly that he was excluded from their
domain, but was relieved that Hesta seemed not to resent his new
wife. Later, he questioned Xanthe on how Hesta had behaved. ‘We
will have an understanding,’ Xanthe replied. ‘She is a
strong-willed woman, who expected trouble, I think, but I trust she
is as pleased with me as I am with her.’

This answer
seemed ambiguous, but it was clear Xanthe did not intend to expand
upon it. Samuel, a stranger to the ways of women, reluctantly
accepted that it was beyond his comprehension.

On the morning
of the second day, Samuel said to Xanthe, ‘You have brought the sun
from Mewt with you.’ By ten o-clock, the gardens had begun to
simmer in the heat.

‘
Aah,
this is the weather I like,’ sighed Xanthe, padding on bare feet
out from the house to the lawn.

Samuel glanced
at the sky. A heat-wave, or worse, a drought, would mean a lot of
work for him in the garden. All the plants would need to be kept
watered. He felt exhausted. Tonight, he must try to get more
sleep.

Xanthe on the
other hand seemed full of energy. She made her way to the sundial
garden and there composed herself on the ancient grey flag-stones,
fanned by the scent of baking herbs. At noon, Hesta stamped out
from the house, carrying a tray of refreshment. Samuel, working on
a flower-bed nearby, saw her disappear into the herb garden. She
did not come out for some time. It was strange how Xanthe seemed to
have cultivated a friendship with the dour Hesta so quickly. They
seemed unlikely companions.

As the weeks
passed, this friendship developed. Xanthe apparently encouraged
Hesta into cleaning some of the rooms, because the house became a
lighter, airier place that smelled of scent and polish. Xanthe
seemed to respect that Samuel needed time alone with his ladies,
for she rarely went into the garden after sundown, having spent
most of day sunning herself by the sundial. She really was quite a
lazy creature, but her presence inspired Hesta to work hard,
despite the uncomfortable heat, which seemed now to have invaded
even the shadiest corner of the house.

Samuel was
concerned by the persistent lack of rain; the more delicate of his
plants were already beginning to suffer the effects. Fortunately
the shady bower of Night’s Damozel seemed to suffer the least, and
it was here where Samuel concentrated his greatest efforts at
keeping the soil moist. He always watered the Damozel in the sultry
evenings, and after his task was complete, disrobed himself,
confidant he would not be disturbed. Then he would lie down on the
drenched leaves of the Damozel, while a mist of dream dust
shimmered down from her open hearts. Sometimes, in his intoxicated
state, Samuel could almost believe that the Damozel was indeed a
female of flesh and blood. A spirit lived within her, who
manifested into his dreams as a soft-fingered lover. It was as if
he had two wives; one of the sun and one of darkness. The night was
so serene and comfortable, whereas the scorching day made him
irritable and anxious. In these tranquil moments, Samuel found
uncomfortable thoughts forming in his head. Had he made a mistake
in bringing Xanthe here? She was lovely, but a foreigner, and
despite their weeks of passion in Mewt they had very little in
common. She was here now, installed. He would have to live with her
forever. Yet she was compliant, soft-footed and unobtrusive. The
only changes she had made to his life had to be seen as positive.
Why did these doubts come to plague him? All the while, a soft
drift of pollen fell from the blooms of the Damozel, like words
into his ears.