Little, Big (76 page)

They had almost all agreed, though, to come, oddly untaken-aback, when the word reached them; it had been almost as if they had long expected a summons like this. And so they had, though most of them didn't realize it until it had come.

When Marge Juniper's young visitor passed through the pentacle of five towns which, once upon a time, Jeff Juniper had connected with a five-pointed star to show Smoky Barnable the way to Edgewood, more than one of the sleeping householders had awakened, feeling someone or something go by, and a kind of expectant peace descend, a happy sense that all their lives would not end, as they had supposed, before an ancient promise was Somehow fulfilled, or some great thing anyway come to pass. Only spring, they told themselves in the morning; only spring coming: the world is as it is and not different, and contains no such surprises. But then Marge's story went from house to house, gathering details as it went, and there were guesses and supposings about that; and then they were unsurprised—surprised to be unsurprised—when they were summoned here.

For it was with them, with all those families touched by August, taught by Auberon and then by Smoky, and visited by Sophie on her endless spinster's rounds, just as Great-aunt Nora Cloud supposed it would come to be with Drinkwaters and Barnables. There had been, after all, a time, nearly a hundred years ago, when their ancestors had settled here because they knew a Tale, or its tellers; some had been students, disciples even. They had been, people like the Flowers had been or had felt themselves to be, in on a secret; and many had been wealthy enough to do little but ponder it, amid the buttercups and milkweed of the farms they bought and neglected. And though hard times had reduced their descendants, turning many of them into artisans, into odd-jobbers, pickup-truckers, hard-scrabble farmers, inextricably intermarried now with the dairymen and handymen whom their great-grandparents had hardly spoken to, still they had stories, stories told nowhere else in the world. They were in reduced circumstances, yes; and the world (they thought) had grown hard and old and desperately ordinary; but they were descended from a race of bards and heroes, and there had been once an age of gold, and the earth around them was all alive and densely populated, though the present times were too coarse to see it. They had all gone to sleep, as children, to those old stories; and later they courted with them; and told them to their own children. The big house had always been their gossip, they could have surprised its inhabitants by how much they knew of it and its history. At table and by their fires they mused on these things, having not much other entertainment in these dark days, and (though altering them in their musing into very different things) they did not forget them. And when Sophie's summons came, surprised to be unsurprised, they put down their tools, and put off their aprons, they bundled up their children and kicked up their old engines; they came to Edgewood, and heard about a lost child returned, and an urgent plea, and a journey to go on.

"And so there's a door," Sophie said, touching one of the cards (the trump Multiplicity) which lay before her, "and that's the house here. And," touching the next, "there's a dog who stands by the door." The silence wasutter in the double drawing-room. "Further on," she said, "there's a river, or something like one. . . ."

"Speak up, dear," Momdy said, who sat almost next to her. "No one will hear."

"There's a river," Sophie said again, almost shouted. She blushed. In the darkness of her bedroom, with Lilac's certainty before her, it had all seemed—not easy, no, but clear at least; the end was still clear to her, but it was the means that had to be considered now, and they weren't clear. "And a bridge to cross it by, or a ford or a ferry or anyway some way to cross it; and on the other side an old man to guide us, who knows the way."

"The way where?" someone behind her ventured timidly; Sophie thought it was a Bird.

"There," someone else said, "Aren't you listening?"

"There where they are," Sophie said, "There where the Parliament's to be."

"Oh," said the first voice. "Oh. I thought
this
was the Parliament."

"No," Sophie said. "That's there."

"Oh."

Silence returned, and Sophie tried to think what else she knew.

"Is it far, Sophie?" Marge Juniper asked. "Some of us can't go far."

"I don't know," Sophie said. "I don't think it can be far; I remember sometimes it seemed far, and then sometimes near; but I don't think it could be too far, I mean too far to get to; but I don't know."

They waited; Sophie looked down at her cards, and shifted them. What if it was too far?

Blossom said softly: "Is it beautiful? It must be beautiful."

Bud beside her said, "No! Dangerous. And awful. With things to fight! It's a war, isn't that so, Aunt Sophie?"

Ariel Hawksquill glanced at the children, and at Sophie. "Is it, Sophie?" she asked. "Is it a war?"

Sophie looked up, and held out empty hands. "I don't know," she said. "I think it's a war; that's what Lilac said. It's what
you
said," she said to Ariel, a little reproachfully. "I don't know, I don't know!" She got up, turning around to see them all. "All I know is that we have to go, we have to, to help them. Because if we don't, there won't be any more of them. They're dying, I know it! Or going away, going away so far, hiding so far that it's like dying, and because of us! And think what that would be, if there weren't any more."

They thought of that, or tried to, each coming to a different conclusion, or a different vision, or to none at all.

"I don't know where it is," Sophie said, "or how it is we're to go there, or what we can do to help, or why it is that it's us that have to go; but I know we must, we have to try! I mean it doesn't even matter if we want to or don't want to, really, don't you see, because we wouldn't even
be
here if it wasn't for them; I know that's so. Not to go, now—that's like, it's like being born, and growing up, and marrying and having children, and then saying well, I've changed my mind, I'd rather not have—when there wouldn't be a person there even to
say
he'd rather not have, unless he
had
already. Do you see? And it's the same with them. We couldn't refuse unless we were the ones who were meant to go, unless we were all
going
to go, in the first place."

She looked around at them all, Drinkwaters and Barnables, Birds, Stones, Flowers, Weeds, and Wolfs; Charles Wayne and Cherry Lake, Bud and Blossom, Ariel Hawksquill and Marge Juniper; Sonny Moon, ancient Phil Flowers and Phil's girls and boys, August's grandchildren and great- and great-great-grandchildren. She missed her aunt Cloud very much, who could have said these things so simply and incontrovertibly. Daily Alice, chin in her hand, was only looking at her smiling; Alice's daughters were sewing calmly, as though all that Sophie had said were just as clear as water, though it had seemed nonsense to Sophie even as she had said it. Her mother nodded sagely, but perhaps she hadn't heard aright; and the faces of her cousins around her were wise and foolish, light and dark, changed or unchanged.

"I've told you all I can," Sophie said helplessly. "All that Lilac said: that there are fifty-two, and that it's to be Midsummer Day, and that this is the door, as it always was; and the cards are a map, and what they say, as far as I can tell, about the dog and the river and so on. So. Now we just have to think what next."

They all did think, many of them not much used to the exercise; many, though their hands were to their brows or their fingertips together, drifted away into surmise, wild or common, or sank into memory; gathered wool, or knitted it; felt their pains, old or new, and thought what those might portend, this journey or a different one; or they simply ruminated, chewing and tasting their own familiar natures, or counting over old fears or old advice, or remembering love or comfort; or they did none of these things.

"It might be easy," Sophie said wildly. "It could be. Just a step! Or it might be hard. Maybe," she said, "yes, maybe it's not one way, not the same way for all—but there
is
a way, there must be. You have to think of it, each of you, you have to
imagine
it."

They tried that, shifting in their seats and crossing their legs differently; they thought of north, of south, east, west; they thought of how they had come to be here anyway, guessing that if a path
there
could be seen, then perhaps its continuation would be clear; and in the silence of their thinking they heard a sound none had heard yet this year: peepers, suddenly speaking their one' word.

"Well," Sophie said, and sat. She pushed the cards together as though their story were all told. "Anyway. We'll go step by step. We've got all spring. Then we'll just meet, and see. I can't think what else."

"But Sophie," Tacey said, putting down her sewing, "if the house is the door . . ."

"And," Lily said, putting down hers, "if we're in it . . ."

"Then," Lucy said, "aren't we traveling anyway?"

Sophie looked at them. What they had said made perfect sense, common sense, the way they said it. "I don't know," she said.

"Sophie," Smoky said from where he stood by the door. He hadn't spoken since he'd come in and the meeting had started. "Can I ask something?"

"Sure," Sophie said.

"How," Smoky said, "do we get back?"

In her silence was his answer, the one he'd expected, the one thing everyone present had suspected about the place she spoke of. She bowed her head in the silence she had made, and no one broke it; they all heard her answer, and in it, hidden, the true question that was being put to them, which Sophie could not quite ask.

They were all family, anyway, Sophie thought; or if they came, they counted, and if they didn't, they didn't, that's all. She opened her mouth to ask: Will you come? but their faces abashed her, so various, so familiar, and she couldn't frame it. "Well," she said; they had grown indistinct in the sparkling tears that came to her eyes. "That's all, I guess."

Blossom jumped from her chair. "I know," she said. "We all have to take hands, in a circle, for strength, and all say 'We will!'" She looked around her. "Okay?"

There was some laughter and some demurrers, and her mother drew her to her and said that maybe everyone didn't want to do that, but Blossom, taking her brother's hand, began to urge her cousins and aunts and uncles to come closer to take hands, avoiding only the Lady with the Alligator Purse; then she decided that perhaps the circle would be stronger if they all crossed arms and took hands with opposite hands, which necessitated an even smaller circle, and when she got this linked in one place it would break in another. "Nobody's
listening
," she complained to Sophie, who only gazed ather unhearing, thinking of what might become of her, of the brave ones, and unable to imagine; and just then Momdy stood up tottering, who hadn't heard the plan Blossom had urged, and said, "Well. There's coffee and tea, and other things, in the kitchen, and some sandwiches," and that broke the circle further; there was a scraping of chairs, and a general movement; they went off kitchenwards, talking in low voices.

"Coffee sounds good," Hawksquill said to the ancient lady beside her.

"It does," Marge Juniper said. "Only I'm not sure whether it's worth the trouble of going for it. You know."

"Will you allow me," Hawksquill said, "to bring you a cup?"

"That's very kind," Marge said with relief. It had been quite a trouble to everyone getting her here, and she was glad to keep to the seat she'd been put in.

Good, Hawksquill said. She went after the others, but stopped at the table where Sophie, cheek in hand, stared down as in grief, or wonder, at the cards. "Sophie," she said.

"What if it's too far?" Sophie said. She looked up at Hawksquill, a sudden fear in her eyes. "What if I'm wrong about it all?"

"I don't think you could be," Hawksquill said, "in a way. As far as I understood what you meant, anyway. It's very
odd
, I know; but that's no reason to think it's wrong." She touched Sophie's shoulder. "In fact," she said, "I'd only say that perhaps it's not yet odd enough."

"Lilac," Sophie said.

"That," Hawksquill said, "was odd. Yes."

"Ariel," Sophie said, "won't you look at them? Maybe you could see something, some first step. . . ."

"No," Hawksquill said, drawing back. "No, they're not for me to touch. No." In the figure Sophie had laid out, broken now, the Fool did not show. "They're too great a thing now."

"Oh, I don't know," Sophie said, spreading them idly around. "I think—it seems to me I've about got to the end of them. Of what they have to tell. Maybe it's only me. But there doesn't seem to be any more in them." She rose, and walked away from them. "Lilac said they were the guidebook," she said. "But I don't know. I think she was only pretending."

"Pretending?" Hawksquill said, following her.

"Just to keep our interest up," Sophie said. "Hope."

Hawksquill glanced back at them. Like the circle Blossom had tried to make, they were linked strongly, even in disorder, by their opposite hands. The end of them . . . She looked quickly away, and signalled reassuringly to the old woman she had sat by, who didn't seem to see.

In fact Marge Juniper didn't see her, but it wasn't fading eye-sight or failing attention that blinded her. She was only absorbed in thinking, as Sophie had abjured them, how she might walk to that place, and what she might take with her (a pressed flower, a shawl embroidered with the same kind of flowers, a locket containing a curl of black hair, an acrostic valentine on which the letters of her name headed sentiments faded now to sepia and insincerity) and how she might husband her strength until the day she should set out.

For she knew what place it was that Sophie spoke of. Lately Marge's memory had grown weak, which is to say that it no longer contained the past time on deposit there, it was not strong enough to keep shut up the moments, the mornings and evenings, of her long life; its seals broke, and her memories ran together mingling, indistinguishable from the present. Her memory had grown incontinent with age; and she knew very well what place it was she was to go to. It was the place where, eighty-some years ago or yesterday, August Drinkwater had run off to; and the place also where she had remained when he had gone. It was the place all young hopes go when they have become old and we no longer feel them; the place where beginnings go when endings have come, and then themselves passed.