As we make our approach, I hear strange melodies carried on the wind, and I am reminded of marble pillars stained with spilled wine, images of impossible ideal beauties, and gods who sinned as men but with celestial power. A gritty, haunting wavering sound, an
aulos, was it? And as we draw near, I hear the crisp chiming of stringed instruments, and the music is fast and wild, revealing the abandon of the guests. I shall not take Cerise to the main room, then, for it would be far too disturbing to her tender soul.
Instead, I turn us aside long before we have reached the brightly lit main entrance, and lead us in through a smaller doorway. Music curls around the interlaced corridors, echoing from walls and pillars of stone, pushing through narrow hallways to expand in the larger spaces of covered rooms and open atriums. Cerise speaks little, instead captivated by the eerie sounds of music that was lost to mankind centuries ago. I wonder if some ancestral memory of it remains in her blood? For this music was created by man, as equally as the music created in this time, so its sound cannot be entirely alien to her. Yet the harmonies and scales are different than those she has known all her days... so perhaps it is both strange to her ears, and yet familiar to her heart's blood. What an odd combination for one to experience. If I thought she could express the answer, I would ask her to tell me of it – but I do not think words could relay such things, not in any direct fashion.
The sound of a stringed instrument grows louder as we walk, and turning a corner, we find ourselves in a small atrium. We nearly stumble on a young man seated in the entryway, a stringed instrument resting on his folded legs. He does not look up, so intent is he on the rippling sounds he is producing. Though there is a plectrum of some sort beside him, he now uses his fingers to pluck the strings, creating an eerie echoing sound, as rain among empty rooms. The sound is caught perfectly in the arched entryway in which he sits, amplifying it and adding a subtle layer of depth in the faint echoes.
Cerise moves slightly into the courtyard, and I follow, as her eyes seem to indicate a wish to speak with me.
“Whatever is that instrument? I have not recognized a single sound that I have heard this night!”
Though the name did not come to my mind instantly, it has had time enough to rise up from the depths of memory now. “A
barbiton, an instrument from ancient Greece. Aristotle once said that it was an instrument incapable of being used in educational settings, for its sounds induced only pleasure, and imparted none of the intellectual gifts of understanding. It was considered the instrument best suited for drinking wine, and one legendary player claimed his instrument produced only tones of erotic yearnings.”
Cerise flushes a little at this, and I smile reassuringly at her, touching her cheek softly. “My dear, you need not worry over such things. I shall keep you safe from any impertinent glances this evening.”
She smiles warmly, her eyes so sweet and trusting! “It has a lovely sound – and it is such an interesting shape... it does seem as something one would see painted upon some ancient urn, it is so strange to see one actually in the world, being played upon.” Her eyes trail slowly over the not-quite oval, not-quite triangular, shape of the
barbiton, its strings suspended in the air between the narrow curve of the base and wider curve of the top, caught between the arcs of the upper curve by a straight bar, curious horned shapes at its edges.
But her attention is drawn away from the instrument, and mine is drawn away from her, at the sound of laughter from the opposite side of the atrium. The sound is light and bubbling, but I can hear a strain within it, and an image of warm golden curls enters my mind---
“Why! That must be Jocelyn. I have not seen her in years – come, let me introduce you.” Placing Cerise's hand upon my arm, I stride quickly across the small space, though I can feel the girl pulling back just a little, evidently feeling shy, timid at meeting another of our company. Truly, her misgivings are probably well-founded, though she could not know this – but, we shall see what the two will think of each other soon enough.
“Jocelyn, our Aphrodite! It has been far too long since you have graced us with your lovely presence.”
“My dear Luce – your flattery does not cease, even after all these years.”
She lounges on a cushioned divan set among overflowing urns of flowers, and I lean down to kiss her hand, her lips, in greeting. Oh, our lovely Jocelyn, you have kept your appearance so well! Though the gold of her hair is not so warm as it once was, it is still the aureate hue of an autumn afternoon, if not that of summer's high sun. It cascades in long waves over her shoulders, and would hang down to her waist were she standing. She is dressed in loose folds of some fine white fabric, which is held in cunning arrangement by ornate pins and brooches of gold and gemstones, each one undoubtedly worth a small fortune. There are stones scattered through her hair, and upon her head rests an intricate tiara of laurel leaves and tiny flowers, cast in gold and more colored stones, tiny diamonds sparkling in the moonlight.
And her face... whatever art she has found, she must teach the rest of us, for though her skin is pale, it maintains the firm flush of youth, and she looks hardly older than Cerise (so long as one does not look into those ancient eyes, which once were blue, but have darkened from seeing only the dull earth for so long).
“Ah, my dear... you are still, as ever, too lovely for words.”
She smiles, pleased at the compliment, and nods her head in gracious acceptance. Then tilts her head, smiling curiously at a glimpse of something behind me. “You have brought me a guest? Do introduce us! For all your compliments, your manners seem a bit lacking this night, Luce.”
I chuckle, and turn to motion to Cerise. She hangs back, standing in my faint shadow, uncertain of protocol – and, no doubt, more than a little intimidated by the goddess-like beauty of Jocelyn, as well as her rather imperious manner. “Jocelyn. May I introduce Cerise Walker? She is a recent acquittance of ours, whose talents as a seer we have been seeking tutelage for.”
“A seer! What a lovely diversion. Do you read the tarot, my dear? Palms, or phrenology? Or do you speak with the ghosts of the departed?”
Cerise stutters a little, shyly. “I... I have not done much with any yet, my lady. I sometimes have visions, and unbidden insights, but I have little control over these still. I am only beginning to learn what direction my abilities might best be trained in.”
“I see,” Jocelyn comments, already bored. “Luce, darling, whyever are you so late this evening? Though punctuality has never been a concern for you, I should still have expected you far earlier.” She waves a hand, and a young faun scampers quickly out from a dark archway, standing at attendance before her. “Wine.” He makes a sweeping bow, then hastens away on the instant. “You have missed all sorts of intrigue, and I would have thought you would make better use of such an evening of indulgence.”
I seat myself on a nearby bench, and indicate for Cerise to sit as well. She hesitates a moment, then does so, folding her hands nervously in her lap. I gaze at her a moment, stroking her hair soothingly, and she smiles faintly, her eyes showing that she is determined to be calm and decorous, despite the strangeness of her situation. “I doubt there has been much intrigue I could not have foreseen – things have been a bit predictable of late. I spoke with Veri, who was leaving as we arrived, and I presume he and Meres are still at an impasse. Meres, I suppose, is spending yet another evening enthralled by Claude, the painter?”
Jocelyn raises an eyebrow, quirking a smile. “Meres is no longer here – he appeared for a brief time, perhaps a quarter of an hour. He was seen speaking with Claude, but the boy came away from the conversation looking quite put out. Meres spoke to no-one else, and left long before Veri arrived.”
“Curious... still, Meres has his moods. I am somewhat surprised Veri attended at all, but I suppose even he must get out once in while.” I recall, but make no mention of, Cerise's reading of his state. I am certain Veri was here only to see Meres, and finding him unusually absent, was drained of all strength.
“I find it hard to believe that Mephisto is still enraptured by
liasons with young actors,” Jocelyn comments idly. The faun returns, and pours a glass of wine for each of us. The wine is incredibly dark in color, with hints of dark cacao and musky woods. Cerise takes only the tiniest sips, and those as sparingly as politeness will allow. Yet I find the light bitterness an intriguing aspect, and quite enjoy the subtle elements of the cacao, as it mingles sharp and sweet and spice.
“I do not quite understand it either, for it seems all of these boys have been the same... still, he engages each one as if it is the first time he has found such purity, passion, and talent. But Mephisto is a tiresome topic for discussion – whatever has lured you away from Paris, Jocelyn? I had thought it was impossible to draw you out from its endless charms.”
“I will admit this to you, Luce – I simply grew tired of reading letters!” She laughs at her own wit, and I chuckle as well. Cerise only smiles shyly, soon turning her attention back to the flowers in a Grecian urn beside her. Her delicate fingers lightly trace the curves of the moonlit petals, and I wonder idly what meanings Meres would put to the lavish blossoms.
“Bored by the lack of variety in our gossip, or tired of the effort of reading our elaborate scripts?”
“Both, of course, and more tired still of the expectation of replying. Why, my last dozen letters – you know of course that I did not write them myself, but nor did I dictate them these past months. I simply told one of my attendants to reply as it seemed best, and let them handle it entirely!”
This is hardly news to me, or to any of us who have received such letters. So bland and dull, filled with such drivel portrayed as gossip, platitudes as insight, and cold formality in place of elegance. Whatever was she thinking, to waste our time so?
There is a sudden burst of raucous laughter, and the pleasant music of the
barbiton is cut short in a harsh chord.
“Oh! Ha! Oh, I am too sorry! Your instrument – we didn't break it? Here, wine! Do, take some, in recompenanen... recompeten... in payment, dear sir, for our faults.”
Cerise turns on the instant, peering curiously into the shadows. I pause a moment, for I do not entirely wish to condone such unrefined behavior by paying it any attention. But I have recognized the voice as Claude's, and so I turn to look, for it may be interesting to see how the boy acts, without Meres' supervision.
He is very, very drunk. One arm is thrown clumsily around the shoulders of a satyr, a young man a few years older than he, and equally as drunk. They laugh among slurred words, their eyes thick with the haze of inebriation, their motions graceless and exaggerated. Though one bottle is now in the unsettled hands of the musician at their feet, Claude still holds another, and the leather pouch slung over the satyr's shoulder holds the shape of several bottles within it.
Claude takes a long pull from the bottle – I can tell by the color of the label that it is far too fine a vintage to be drunk in such a manner – and laughs loudly, passing the bottle to the satyr, who drinks deeply of it as well. “Musician! Give us a song. Satyr! You should play along. A duet! And I shall dance, as the beautiful King David danced before his people, drunk and joyous and a delight to the eyes of all!”
The
barbiton player picks a hesitant tune, looking anxiously at the satyr, who has pulled a pan-flute of some sort from his loosely-tied belt. I suspect it has been damaged in some clumsy action, for when the satyr plays upon it, one note is out of keeping with all the rest. Of course the scales of the instruments are not what we are used to in these times, but I have not entirely forgotten the sound of the Greeks, and there is certainly a bad note produced by the instrument. The satyr seems not to notice, for he begins to play a wild melody. It is a moment before the barbiton joins in, and when he does, he has adjusted the notes of his accompaniment, avoiding the note the flute plays incorrectly, that the correct note will not clash harshly with it. A clever man, and quite a skilled musician, to make such a drastic change off the cuff. Mephisto, as always, has chosen only the best. Though the satyr has no great skill, the predetermined notes of the pan flute are impossible to play unmelodiously – or, at least, it would be impossible, were the instrument not damaged. Still, the effect is a nice one, with wild improvised melodies, and I know why the man was given such an instrument.
Claude's dancing, however, has a less pleasant sort of wild quality. He stumbles dangerously near the musicians, drinking lavishly from a fresh bottle he has obtained from the satyr's pouch. His body careens without control, his limbs awkward and sprawling, and the effect is not so much that of a jubilant King, as it is a gangly bug tied to a string, being shaken about by a child.
Jocelyn clucks her tongue, shaking her head. “How atrocious. Absolutely
gauche. However did such a creature gain admittance?”
I chuckle wryly, shaking my head at the boy. “I am afraid I can scarcely defend Meres' choice. While he is a wonderfully talented painter, and made for easier access to the lovely Father Douglas – whom I suspect you would be bored with, my dear, though I find him an absolute delight to talk with – I am finding the boy to become rather wearisome. Still, you must agree that it will be interesting to see how his continued relationship with Meres affects Veri.”
I can feel Cerise tense a little at this. She has shown such a strange amount of concern for Veri – I wonder why? I will admit, I am concerned as well, though it is largely because what happens to him... could, in theory, happen to any of us. And I find far too much enjoyment in this world to wish to pull away from it so soon.
Jocelyn laughs lightly, waving the faun over to refill her glass. “I suppose so... still, I wonder that Meres should not have discarded him already.”
“I suspect it will not be long – he has been distracted by other matters of late, for Claude complains loudly of his neglect.”
“Painting, I suppose?”
“That is our guess, though he has spoken very little to anyone, apart from Azal, and he is choosing to be rather quiet as well lately.”
She frowns at this. “He has always troubled me. Azal is too... too serious.” She waves a hand again, and I notice there is a subtle change in the motion of her fingers. This time, the faun appears with a tray filled with delicate cakes and exotic fruits. He brings over a small stool, and sets the tray within Jocelyn's reach. She begins to nibble delicately at the refreshments. She does not, however, offer any to myself or Cerise. I suppose she assumes I should have some brought for myself if I want anything, and I am sure she does not think of Cerise at all.
“Hullo there! Would you like to dance, lovely lady?” Claude has stumbled across the open floor toward us, and come near enough to notice us through his alcohol-clouded vision. He swings himself around an urn, and falls to his knees before Jocelyn.
She narrows her eyes, and her gaze is cold as ice. “I do not dance with such as you.”
Claude only laughs, reaching for her hand to kiss it. She suffers this, but with obvious distaste.
“If you will not dance with me, you must still allow me to paint you. Your hair is the loveliest gold, your figure divine, your eyes an enchantment. I would paint you as Venus, for none other could so sway the heart toward devoted love.”
“Venus is the Roman goddess. Aphrodite would be the appropriate one tonight, child,” she comments, her tone entirely dull with boredom. “You are in the way of my wine. Remove yourself.”
He stumbles to his feet, reeling a little from the sudden motion upward. “I shall do as you wish, my lady, but I will not always take your refusal so lightly.” He winks quite outrageously, and I can feel Cerise tremble with a bit of laughter beside me. Jocelyn only looks bored, and I cannot help but share in Cerise's amusement at the contrast between the graceless amour of the boy and the imperial coolness of the lady.
Rushing – I could almost say scampering, he looks so like an over-eager puppy – around the columns and urns, Claude approaches the bench Cerise and I share. He takes no notice of me, but makes a sweeping bow to Cerise, nearly falling over forward as he does so. She cannot help but giggle at this, though she stifles it as best she can.
“Will you dance with me, sweet lady?”
“I am afraid I do not know the steps to your dance,
monsieur,” she demurs politely.
“Nonsense! I shall teach you. Do, take my hand. Please, do?”
And even I must admit there is something in the earnestness of the boy's request, that makes him almost charming for a moment. He has such innocent belief that his charms cannot be denied, and though this makes him cocky at times, at other times, it has a rather fetching boyish quality.
Cerise looks questioningly at me, and I give her a half-smile. “Do what you will, dear child. But do mind his motions, for he will injure you without intending to, I think.”
“Oh, I can--- oh!” She laughs as she jumps to her feet, rushing over to catch Claude as he trips over a loose paving stone. “Oh do be careful, you could hurt yourself terribly, these stones will not exactly cushion your fall.”
“Cerise! You are my saving angel. Now come, dance!” He takes her hands in his, and begins racing her around in a circle, the two lithe young bodies whirling ever-faster across the cold stones. They are both laughing, and the musicians play on, the
barbiton player shifting into a swirling dance rhythm, the satyr throwing wild melodies into the air. Cerise alters her steps when needed to accommodate Claude, helping him maintain some semblance of balance, keeping him from harm.
“Ah, youth... Were we ever so carefree, Luce?”
“Are you not still, Jocelyn? Is that not why you remain in Paris, away from our melancholy rains and gray moods? There, you can surround yourself with beauty and youth and frivolity, forgetting for a time that you are not one of them.”
She sighs heavily at this, and drinks slowly of her wine. “Ah, Luce... you must visit me, but not too often. It is good to hear such moods put into words, for once defined, they can be corrected. But I should not like to hear of them spoken often, for it makes life too... too...”
“Real?”
“Ha! Precisely. And reality is the one thing best kept away from our lives.”
I raise my glass in the air, and we feign a toast, smiling with only a little sadness as we watch the stumbling dance of the children we never were.
