--Shakespeare
So Orpheus did for his owne bride,
So I unto my selfe alone will sing,
The woods shall to me answer and my Eccho ring
Edmund Spenser
..::Steward, now to my words give ear!
If thy king, Orfeo , were here,
and had in wilderness full long
suffered great hardship sore and strong,
had won his queen by his own hand
out of the deeps of fairy land::..
J.R.R. Tolkien
Sir Orfeo
* * * *
All was quiet then.
Emlyn sat rigid, hands clasped, looking down, afraid of what Daryl could be thinking...did he think she was fantasizing all this? That was her chief worry...she certainly didn't want his ego taking charge; to believe that she desired him in some mad fashion...
For Daryl's part...he had stopped his pacing and stood now before the French doors, gazing out at the skies beyond, and frowning.
'Getting darker...could be another storm brewing.' He looked down then, and turned toward Emlyn, flashing a brief glance her way; 'I...believe I shall head for the kitchen, and begin dinner preparations. It will get dark soon tonight...'
And off he sped.
Em breathed a great sigh of relief after he'd gone. She stood and came back to the table, began slowly going though the masses of photos, clippings, lobby cards and playbills.
Well, at least he wasn't, ah, upset by her disclosure. Perhaps he didn't know what to think...that was no doubt true. Where were they now, however? How did their relationship stand between them? What, indeed, was the nature of it-- in it's entirety?
Apparently, she would have to wait to find out.
She found several more images of Daryl-as-Otherman, as she thought of 'them'; he and his younger, itinerate self.
These she took with her to the sofa and sat before the dying fire perusing carefully, with no one looking over her shoulder...
Strange, how his image brought it all back to her: the few, glorious instances that she could recall being together with...him. She couldn't bring herself to call him Daryl.
"Diego", perhaps; Em sighed, thinking that would do for now. Diego, would be her Otherman. Daryl, meanwhile...should stay firmly where Em wished to put him, which was: anywhere other than Otherwhere!
She frowned, clasping a well-worn, dog-eared photo before her. Daryl, her 'guardian', belonged here, where he had always been, the way he had always been...(well, perhaps not 'always': Em did not care to recall her first meeting with him at the gypsy camp when he had kidnapped her.)
Em believed he had changed since then, had believed it was just an act Daryl had staged, consummate actor that he was.
It was probably true...since then, in all this time, he had proven himself to be, (mostly) trustworthy and of noble intent. Mostly.
Except where using others to get his way was concerned. (The Cup...) Or kidnapping people.
Or his semi-legal attainment and selling of antiques filched from timewalks...
Em sighed again. Well, so Daryl was an honest thief. That was probably her best assessment of his character.
Still, he had certainly put himself in harm's way to do right by her, and Jack, and others. She ought to give the man the benefit of the doubt...
meanwhile...
She glanced at the poster for Orpheus once more.
Em guiltily feasted her eyes upon Diego's half-dressed form before her, clad only in a toga, a sash draped decoratively over one well-muscled shoulder, violin in hand, his head bent over, gazing meditatively downward, dark long locks curling over his forehead.
She recalled then the Orpheus play that Morgana (Marguerite) had performed, which she and Alice (and the Captain and Alejandro) had uncomfortably viewed in San Francisco, lo these many years hence. Morgana had certainly made note of Daryl in his past production; had perhaps been in it herself! Oh, no: not as Eurydice, Em hoped.
Emlyn felt suddenly ill...with the image of her own beloved Diego before her, to imagine he, as he was then, with Morgana--! It didn't bear thinking of...Em swallowed, forcing her mind away from the morass of sketchy scenes which swam unbidden into her consciousness.
She couldn't bear it...
...A harbinger of things to come?
. . . .
Emlyn found Daryl, as promised, in the kitchen,
apparently finishing up. He had just popped something into the oven and was rising, wiping his hands on a tea towel.
Seeing Em before him, he carefully blanked his features and resorted to small talk once more.
'A mushroom cassoulet. It will be warming.' He glanced out of the windows. 'I do believe the storm is nearly upon us...' He then began to uncork a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon. 'Everything is taken care of here. Why don't you set the table?'
Happy to be of service and busy doing something, Emlyn obliged, grateful that Daryl was trying to make things appear routine and normal for them both.
However, it wasn't often, she had to admit, as she set out the silverware, that she and Daryl, just the two of them, ever had a formal 'sit-down' dinner together. Well, it would be nice for a change, she supposed, especially with a storm on the way.
After the table was set to her satisfaction, she built a fire in the parlor, as it was becoming quite chilly rather quickly. And, yes, darker.
She glanced at the grandfather clock, surprised to see that it was only late afternoon. Although evening came earlier now, it was the storm ushering in a presumptive twilight that lent a somber cast to the rooms so soon.
Em idly wondered when it was now...what day, or even month... She heard the wind begin to blow all about the windows now, heard it whistling in the chimneys...
Well, let there be light, then! She took the tall silver candlesticks and setting them upon the table, lighted the candles in an effort to shed a cheerful glow to their dinner.
She was admiring her table when Daryl entered then, carrying the wine and a basket of rolls.
'Looks lovely, thank you, filla.' His gaze went to the French doors at the north end of the room.
'Yes, it is soon upon us!' He smiled softly for a moment, thinking fondly of his beloved storms.
'If Athena wishes to join us, she will, I'm sure...if not, we'll have enough to eat for awhile, just we two.'
Em looked down, biting her lip. She needed something to distract the focus away from 'just we two'...
'Have a seat, Em. I can bring in the meal, not so much really...'
He turned about, humming to himself, and soon returned with a hot covered dish which smelled divine, followed with a salad.
'Mushroom season...they're all about, now,' Daryl said as he helped himself to the cassoulet. 'I'll show you the best foraging places some day.'
'I do adore wild mushrooms, thank you Daryl.' She nearly called him 'Diego' and stopped herself. No more of that...she felt herself blushing. Quick, change the subject!
'Have you heard anything from Jack, or even Aleister?' Ah, safe territory...
'No...that's odd, isn't it?' Daryl mused, mid-forkful, 'I thought we would have heard from them by now. I wonder what Real Time, it is?' He began
buttering rolls and passing salad and didn't really seem to be too concerned about Time. One becomes inured, Em guessed, to living life Out Of Time.
'Oooh, would you listen to that wind--?' Emlyn put her fork down, leaning forward as her eyes darted to the parlor where the wind could be heard whistling down the fireplace. She shivered slightly.
'Have some wine, filla. It will warm you.' Daryl poured a refill for them both.
Emlyn drank the dark red wine which, in the lowering light, now appeared like ebony in her glass. She fancied she could hear distant thunder growing louder. 'Sounds like another big storm, don't you think?--Oh!'
Em jumped as the first real 'boom!' of thunder cracked near the house.
Another, louder 'BOOM!!' sounded.
And the lights went out. Except for Em's candles.
'Your 'wife' sounds rather...tempestuous,' she remarked.
'Indeed,' Daryl had to agree. 'Are we about finished here? Let us head to the fire and the parlor, we can clean up later, eh? I'll bring the wine...'
. . . .
Emlyn shut the double doors behind them, whilst Daryl built up the fire as much as he dared.
'I don't want to make much of a real blaze, not in this wind.' He replaced the poker and took the wing chair nearest the fireplace. 'This should do for now. I'll feed it regularly and it should burn steady enough.'
Meanwhile Emlyn was going about the parlor, lighting candles. Although she was the only one who ever used them, Daryl deigned to keep them about wherever Em had placed them, for her convenience.
'There! Much better. We're nearly cozy in here now...' Taking her glass, she situated herself across from Daryl, whom, she noted, was gazing speculatively her way, eyelids half-closed.
'"O Wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being..."' Daryl murmured. He opened his mouth again, but Em beat him to it with a quick, neat: '--Shelley.'
'Eh, precisely...' Daryl conceded, a dry smile
attempting to spread.
Em obeyed a sudden urge and roused herself, heading into the corner near the piano. She found her mandolin and brought it to the fire with her.
'Out of tune, a bit...' She began fiddling with the tuning pegs.
Daryl then stood, and went to the walnut bar in the corner and began fiddling with the decanters.
'Brandy, cher?' he inquired, pouring.
'Oh, just a tad, gracias...' She had to hold her tongue to keep from calling him 'Diego', now.
They sat companionably enough, listening to Em's musical noodling, the crackling fire and the wails of the wild wind as the candles flickered about the room, casting dancing dark shadows upon the walnut wainscoting surrounding.
Emlyn finally tuned up as best she could, and began to pluck out 'Liberty Bell'.
'This, and 'Red River Valley',' Em complained, 'are two of the hardest to commit to memory...'
'If only you would practice, cara...' Daryl handed her snifter to her, with rather more than the requested 'tad'.
'It would all come to you with barely a thought...' He returned to hover about the fireplace, arm draped over the mantle piece.
Emlyn studied him for a time, wondering about that, and where was Anara's portrait? Back at Nob Hill House, she supposed; then decided to toss caution to the not-insignificant winds howling about them.
'May I ask something of you, Daryl?'
Daryl, all unknowning, nodded assent.
Em switched to chords then, sounding hopefully, somewhat like 'Dublin Jack'...
'Have you, and Anara, ever had...physical relations? Intimate, physical relations?'
Daryl nearly lost his snifter. He managed to swallow his sip, then pinched his nose.
'I think I got cognac up my sinuses...'
He shot Emlyn a hard glance then blinked. Walked over to the decanter and poured himself a hefty refill.
Em continued to softly play, waiting...
At last Daryl sighed, pacing the room. He went to the windows, twitching the drapery aside. 'Getting rather harsh, out there now...' he mused, then turned to look at Em, his thumb tapping against the glass he held.
'No, Emlyn. To answer your question: Never.'
Em was relieved. 'Neither have I. That is, ever experienced any actual intimate, physical relations with my Otherworldly Significant Other.'
She switched to 'Crooked Jack', then paused, held out her glass for a refill. Daryl eventually noted this and brought round the decanter.
After pouring, Daryl sauntered about the room, tapping his glass.
'"For I have been faithful to thee, Cynara, in my fashion..."' he muttered.
'I wonder...In fact, I wonder...' Daryl stopped before the fire, and faced the room with his head cocked sideways, staring dreamily at nothing.
'I wonder, if, perhaps, that is, or was, the problem...' He said this last so softly, Em was not certain she had heard correctly.
'Yes? How so, Daryl?' Emlyn wanted to know.
He sighed, then sat at last. 'I...we...were always, as you have also experienced, in a different state of being, whenever we were together. And, although we touched, and kissed, and...felt emotion more deeply than I have ever felt before or since...' he sighed again, '...never have I ever been able to come anywhere near that experience here in the physical world...this, particular, dimension...in whatever time. Perhaps only you, Em, and maybe Yeats, could know whereof I speak.'
Emlyn thought, Oh, yes, indeed; I do know whereof you do speak. Oh, that 'whereof'. That loaded question; that promise of tomorrow that never comes...
'Yes, Daryl,' she sighed, 'I do know. And you are absolutely right!' She shook her head, 'I despair of marriage, since there is certainly nothing, here, you know, to compare! We have been, how would you say, 'spoiled', for mundane reality!'
Daryl smiled a sad smile. 'Just don't call it 'The Real World'. Because it isn't, you know. This--' he spread his arms wide, '--is nothing like the Real World, which is theirs. I, at least, prefer to believe so.'
'Most assuredly!' Em agreed, interrupting her playing to partake of the brandy. 'Oh, I would so rather be there than here! Anytime! If only we could go there now!'
Daryl smiled and raised his eyebrows skyward.
'It doesn't work that way. Alas. Believe me, Em, I have tried...everything. But time has nothing to do with their world, and it is a prison guard holding the key, to ours...' He sat back, crossed his legs and, leaning his head upon a hand, quoth:
'But then, "the course of true love never did run smooth".'
'Perhaps, "Then you must speak of one who loved not wisely but too well". That's us, in a nutshell, Daryl.' Em nodded at her guardian. 'You are not disappointed, are you?'
Daryl looked only bemused. 'Whatever for?'
'I know...that you had hopes for Jack and myself...' Em softly answered. 'I did too, for a time. And I still love him, dearly, you know.
'But, I...Oh, Daryl...you know I felt so much less for Gwydion than I do for Jack. It was a mistake; I thought he, Gwydion, felt as I; that it was just a bit of May Day Madness...but, it wasn't. Not for Gwydion.
'But I never wished to hurt Jack. And I certainly never wished to cause you, or anyone, really, any inconvenience.'
'Hmm,' Daryl intoned. 'That's, ah...well, pray don't fash yourself, Emlyn.' He looked as if he was near to blushing. 'Jack is his own man. It's all...water under the bridge now, and another lifetime ago...' He made a banishing gesture with his free hand.
'I propose we begin anew. Fresh. Without any preconceptions about one another.'
'That won't be easy, Daryl.' Em didn't want to let him off so breezily. 'But, I will try.' She set her glass down and took up the mando once more.
'What is it, about them, and their reality, Daryl? What is it that makes it all so...so much more real, than this world? To awaken here, after being there, it is painful.'
'It is that,' Daryl agreed. 'But, at least you won't feel so completely alone, here. You can talk to me. And Athena. She knows of Anara, and the Otherworld.' He sighed.
'The loneliness can be difficult...there is certainly no other male, besides Yeats, with whom I could speak to of this. Imagine the reaction of the boys down at the pub, were you to tell them that you've just had the most sensual, ecstatic experience of your life with a woman, and you never actually had sex...'
Emlyn ceased her 'Be My Rambling Woman', and sighed. She grasped her brandy glass carefully. 'Yes, it isn't something univers'ly understood...' (Em decided this was decidedly her last glass of spirits tonight.)
Her thoughts trailed off...yes, that was all fine and dandy for Mr: "I've Had Years of All This Already". But for Em...she HADn't had years of That, YET, thank you very much..! And while, yes; it was so, that she frankly adored her Otherwhere Man, Diego, --well, the rascal simply was never around when a girl needed him, was he now? Em found her elbow bending all on its own...
Her brow knitted as she tried to recall the song: 'Lucky Break', and strummed a few chords experimentally. Her gaze travelled to the figure of Daryl, taking in the cut of his jib; as he leaned casually against the mantle and stared into the flames. What did he see there--Anara?
Em blinked several times, trying to focus. In the dark, no electric lights, just firelight... with Daryl's darker hair, the years fell from his features and suddenly Emlyn found herself staring at Diego. Caspian. Otherwhere Man.
Her stomach lurched and she felt she was falling...
--Perhaps she was.
. . . .
'Alright now, cara?'
Emlyn opened her eyes. What the--? Daryl was bending over her. He straightened.
'You fell over. Onto the floor.' He helped her sit up. 'Gently, now...I think we've had enough cognac, perhaps, yes? Ah, surely Wicked Uncle Daryl is to blame...' He frowned. 'Some tea, perhaps.'
She felt her throbbing head. 'My head hurts. Oh, Diego, no more brandy, por favor...' Damn, thought Em; don't call him that! That's what got you into trouble. That and cognac. Damn Daryl...
He stood, making the sofa stir and jostling Emlyn's sore head. 'You should eat something, you hardly had a thing at dinner.' He frowned at her, concerned. 'You shouldn't let, all this...conjecture, let's say, trouble you so.' He turned, and nodded, 'I'll bring you a plate...'
Get a grip, Em, as Jack would say. Emlyn forced herself to sit up. Wuf, too much brandy, on top of all that...what was all that, anyway?
A hallucination, perhaps. And, well, what if? What if Daryl's younger self was ah, fraternizing with her Otherwhere self...she should wish them well and get on with her own life, so called, here.
Such as it was.
Hmmm...
Something had been knocking on the door to her subconscious however. She couldn't get certain songs out of her mind...Irish reels, mostly. She'd tried to remember them enough to play them tonight. Some were Shannon's favorites, in fact.
Suddenly Emlyn caught a glimpse of Shannon's face; she was saying something to her, as if trying to get her attention...
That was it! Em realized through the haze, someone; obviously Shannon, was. The artefact--!
Emlyn rose slowly, she felt alright, but wondered why had she fallen over? It was a bit of a mystery. She probably did need to eat something...all that brandy, absurd!
Her head cleared with every step upstairs, and as she gained her room she felt certain that Shannon was trying to reach her for some reason.
She located the artefact, still in the pocket of her old skirt from Sonora, and sped back downstairs with it. For some reason, she wanted Daryl to be there when she did this. Why hide?
He was still busy in the kitchen, but Em felt she couldn't wait any longer--what to do? She tried simply holding the thing and concentrating on Shannon; her eyes closed and she willed herself to feel her there, detect her fresh summer scent of dry grasses, hear her lilting young voice...
'Sure'n tis about time, me girl! I've been callin' and callin'!'
--T'was Shannon, herself. Bright as a button and lively as the devil in springtime.
Emlyn gazed at the space before her now occupied by her frisky, feisty friend.
'Shannon!' She flung out her arms, receiving her accidental guest. 'It is so good to see you!'
Shannon was bouncing on her toes as was her wont when she was overfull of eager energy. 'I had to see you, Em! Jeanne, Mrs. Murphy, Jethro and I have all been so worried about you!'
Em held Shannon at arm's length. 'But I'm fine!
Ah, Jack is at Aleister's, they ought to have told Jethro I was here...'
'Well, Em, it's just that, you see, here it is October, and Mrs. Murphy can't hold your room indefinitely...'
'--What!?' Em couldn't believe that. 'No, it cannot be! But, it was just gone Lughnasa, a day ago, or so...?'
At that juncture, Daryl decided to re-enter the parlor, stage left. He was carrying a tray loaded full of leftovers and other snacks, but when he beheld Shannon was suddenly come upon his parlor mid-evening, unannounced, he was discomfited enough to display a brief pause whilst he took in the change of scene.
One eyebrow lifted then, and he inquired:
'Would you care for some mushrooms?'
Orphee aux Enfers [ Orpheus in The Underworld ] - Offenbach
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JmXYwuBmOuU
No comments:
Post a Comment