Little, Big (84 page)

Night sped her. The moon rose, waxing fat, and winked at her: party! Where was she now? She stopped, and listened to the forest speak. Near, near. She had never been here before, and that was a sign. She didn't like to go further without sure bearings, and some word. Her invitation was clear, and she need defer to none, but. She climbed a tall tree to its tip-top, and looked out over the moon's country.

She was on the forest's edge. Night breezes browsed in the treetops, parting the leaves with their passage. Far off, or near, or both, anyway beyond the roofs of that town and that moonlit steeple, she saw a house: a house decked out in lights, every window bright. She was quite close.

Mrs. Underhill on that night looked one last time around her dark and tidy house, and saw that all was as it should be. She went out, and pulled the door shut; she looked up into the moon's Face; she drew from her deep pocket the iron key, and locked the door, and put the key under the mat.

Give way, give way, she thought; give way. It was all theirs, now. The banquet was set with all its places, and very pretty it was too, she almost wished she could be there. But now that the old king had come at last, and would sit on his high throne (whenever it was, she had never been exactly sure) there was nothing more for her to do.

The man known as Russell Eigenblick had had, when he alighted, only one question for her: "Why?"

"
Why
, for goodness' sake," Mrs. Underhill had said. "why, why. Why does the world need three sexes, when one of them doesn't help out? Why are there twenty-four kinds of dreams and not twenty-five? Why is there always an even number of ladybugs in the world and not an odd, an odd number of stars visible and not an even? Doors had to be opened; cracks had to be forced; a wedge was needed, and you were it. A winter had to be made before spring could come; you were the winter. Why? Why is the world as it is and not different? If you had the answer to that, you wouldn't be here now asking it. Now do calm yourself. Do you have your robe and crown? Is everything as you like it, or near enough? Rule wisely and well; I know you'll rule long. Give my best to them all, when they come to make their obeisance, in the fall; and don't, please don't, ask them hard questions; they've had enough of those to answer these many years."

And was that all? She looked around herself. She was all packed; her unimaginable trunks and baskets had been sent on ahead with those strong young ones who had gone first. Had she left the key? Yes, under the mat; she had just done that. Forgetful. And was that all?

Ah, she thought: one thing left to do.

"We're going," she said, when near dawn she stood on the point of rock that jutted out over a pool in the woods into which a waterfall fell with a constant song.

Spears of moonlight were broken by the pool's surface; new leaves and blossoms floated there, gathering in the eddies. A great white trout, pink-eyed, without speckle or belt, rose slowly at her words. "Going?" he said.

"You can come or stay," said Mrs. Underhill. "You've been so long on this side of the story that it's up to you by now."

The trout said nothing, alarmed beyond words. At last Mrs. Underhill, growing impatient with his sad goggling, said sharply, "Well?"

"I'll stay," he said quickly.

"Very well," Mrs. Underhill said, who would have been very surprised indeed if he had answered differently. "Soon," she said, "soon there will come to this place a young girl (well, an old, old lady now, but no matter, a girl you knew) and she will look down into this pool; she will be the one you've so long waited for, and she won't be fooled by your shape, she'll look down and speak the words that will free you."

"She will?" said Grandfather Trout.

"Yes."

"Why?"

"For love's sake, you old fool," Mrs. Underhill said; she struck the rock beneath her stick so hard it cracked; a dust of granite drifted onto the stirred surface of the pool. "Because the story's over."

"Oh," said Grandfather Trout. "Over?"

"Yes. Over."

"Couldn't I," said Grandfather Trout, "just stay as I am?"

She bent down, studying his dim silver shape in the pool. "
As you are?
" she said.

"Well," said the fish. "I've got used to it. I don't remember this girl, at all."

"No," said Mrs. Underhill, after some thought. "No, I don't think you can. I can't imagine that." She straightened up. "A bargain's a bargain," she said, turning away. "Nothing to do with me."

Grandfather Trout retreated into the weed-bearded hidey-holes of his pool, fear in his heart. Remembrance, against his will, was coming fast on him. She; but which she would it be? And how could he hide from her when she came, not with commands, not with questions, but with the words, the only words (he would have shut his eyes tight against the knowledge, if only he had had lids to shut) that would stir his cold heart? And yet he could not leave; summer had come, and with it a million bugs; the torrents of spring were done and his pool the old familiar mansion once again. He would not leave. He laved his fins in agitation, feeling things come and go along his thin skin he had not felt in decades; he worked himself deeper into his hole, hoping and doubting that it would be deep enough to hide him.

"Now," Mrs. Underhill said, as dawn rose around her. "Now."

"Now," she heard her children say, those near and those far off too, in all their various voices. Those near gathered around her skirts; she put her hand to her brow and spied those already journeying, caravans down the valley toward dawn, dwindling to invisibility. Mr. Woods took her elbow.

"A long way," he said. "A long, long way."

Yes, it would be long; longer, she thought, though not so hard, as the way for those who followed her here, for at least she knew the way. And there would be fountains there to refresh her, and all of them; and there would be the broad lands she had dreamed of so often.

There was some trouble getting the old Prince helped onto his broken-winded charger, but when he was aloft he raised a feeble hand, and they all cheered; the war was over, more than over, forgotten, and they had won. Mrs. Underhill, leaning on her staff, took his reins, and they set out.

It was the year's longest day, Sophie knew, but why should it be called Midsummer when summer had just begun? Maybe only because it was the day, the first day, on which summer seemed endless; seemed to stretch out before and behind limitlessly, and every other season was out of mind and unimaginable. Even the stretch of the screen-door's spring and the clack of its closing behind her as she went in, and the summer odor of the vestibule, seemed no longer new, and were as though they had always been.

And yet it might have been that this summer could not come at all. It was Daily Alice who had brought it, Sophie felt sure; by her bravery had saved it from never occurring, by going first had seen to it that this day was made. It should therefore seem fragile and conditional, and yet it didn't; it was as real a summer day as Sophie had ever known, it might be the only real summer day she had known since childhood, and it vivified her and made her brave too. She hadn't felt brave at all for some time: but now she thought she could feel brave, Alice all around, and she must. For today they set out.

Today they set out. Her heart rose and she clutched more tightly to her the knitted bag that was all the luggage she could think to bring. Planning and thinking and hoping and fearing had taken up most of her days since the meeting held at Edgewood, but only rarely did she feel what she was about; she forgot, so to speak, to feel it. But she felt it now.

"Smoky?" she called. The name echoed in the tall vestibule of the empty house. Everyone had gathered outdoors, in the walled garden and on the porches and out in the Park; they had been gathering since morning, bringing each whatever they could think of for the journey, and as ready for whatever journey they imagined as they could be. Now afternoon had begun to go, and they had looked to Sophie for some word or some direction, and she had gone to find Smoky, who at times like this was always behind-hand, for picnics and expeditions of every kind.

Of every kind. If she could go on thinking that it was a picnic or an expedition, a wedding or a funeral or a holiday, or any ordinary outing at all which of course she knew quite well how to manage, and just go on doing what needed to be done just as though she knew what that was, then—well, then she would have done all that she could, and she had to leave the rest to others. "Smoky?" she called again.

She found him in the library, though when at first she glanced in there she didn't perceive him; the drapes were drawn, and he sat unmoving in a big armchair, hands clasped before him and a big book open, face down, on the floor by his feet.

"Smoky?" She came in, apprehensive. "Everybody's ready, Smoky," she said. "Are you all right?"

He looked up at her. "I'm not going," he said.

She stood for a moment, unable to understand this. Then she put down her knitted bag—it contained an old album of pictures, and a cracked china figurine of a stork with an old woman and a naked child on its back, and one or two other things; it should have contained the cards, of course, but did not—and came to where he sat. "What, no," she said. "No."

"I'm not going, Sophie," he said, mildly enough, as though he simply didn't care to. And looked down at his clasped hands.

Sophie reached for him, and opened her mouth to expostulate, but then didn't; she knelt by him and said gently, "What is it?"

"Oh, well," Smoky said. He didn't look at her. "Somebody ought to stay, shouldn't they? Somebody ought to be here, to sort of take care of things. I mean in case—in case you wanted to come back, if you did, or in case of anything.

"It
is
my house," he said, "after all."

"Smoky," Sophie said. She put her hand over his clasped ones. "Smoky, you have to come, you have to!"

"Don't, Sophie."

"Yes! You can't not come, you can't, what will we do without you?"

He looked at her, puzzled by her vehemence. It didn't seem to Smoky to be a remark anyone could fitly make to him, what would they do without him, and he didn't know how to answer. "Well," he said. "I can't."

"Why?"

He sighed a long deep sigh. "It's just, well." He passed his hand over his brow; he said, "I don't know—it's just . . ."

Sophie waited through these preambles, which put her in mind of others, long ago, other small words eked out before a hard thing was said; she bit her lip, and said nothing.

"Well, it's bad enough," he said, "bad enough to have Alice go. . . . See," he said, stirring in his chair, "see, Sophie, I was never really part of this, you know; I can't . . . I mean I have been
so lucky
, really. I never would have thought, I never really would have thought, back when I was a kid, back when I came to the City, that I could have had so much happiness. I just wasn't made for it. But you—Alice—you—you took me in. It was like—it was like finding out you'd inherited a million dollars. I didn't always understand that—or yes, yes I did, I did, sometimes I took it for granted maybe, but underneath I knew. I was grateful. I can't even tell you."

He pressed her hand. "Okay, okay. But now—with Alice gone. Well, I guess I always knew she had a thing like that to do, I knew it all along, but I never
expected
it. You know? And Sophie, I'm not suited for that, I'm not made for it. I wanted to try, I did. But all I could think was, it's bad enough to have lost Alice. Now I have to lose all the rest, too. And I can't, Sophie, I just can't."

Sophie saw that tears had started in his eyes, and overflowed the old pink cups of his lids, a thing she didn't think she'd ever seen before, no, never, and she wanted with all her heart to tell him No, he wouldn't lose anything, that he went away from nothing and toward everything, Alice most of all; but she didn't dare, for however much she knew it was true for her, she couldn't say it to Smoky, for if it wasn't true for him, and she had no certainty that it was, then no terrible lie could be crueler; and yet she had promised Alice to bring him, no matter what; and couldn't imagine leaving without him herself. And still she could say nothing.

"Anyway," he said. He wiped his face with his hand. "Anyway."

Sophie, at a loss, oppressed by the gloom, rose, unable to think. "But," she said helplessly, "it's too nice a day, it's just such a nice day. . . ." She went to the heavy drapes that made a twilight in the room, and tore them open. Sunlight blinded her, she saw many in the walled garden, around the stone table beneath the beech; some looked up; and a child outside tapped on the window to be let in.

Sophie undid the window. Smoky looked up from his chair. Lilac stepped over the sill, looked at Smoky arms akimbo, and said, "Now what's the matter?"

"Oh, thank goodness," Sophie said, weak with relief. "Oh, thank goodness."

"Who's that?" Smoky said, rising.

Sophie hesitated a moment, but only a moment. There were lies, and then there were lies. "It's your daughter," she said. "Your daughter Lilac."

"All right," Smoky said, throwing up his hands like a man under arrest, "all right, all right."

"Oh good," Sophie said. "Oh Smoky."

"It'll be fun," Lilac said. "You'll see. You'll be so surprised."

Defeated in his last refusal, as he might have known he would be. He really had no arguments that could stand against them, not when they could bring long-lost daughters before him to plead, to remind him of old promises. He didn't believe that Lilac needed his fathership, he thought she probably needed nothing and no one at all, but he couldn't deny he'd promised to give it. "All right," he said again, avoiding Sophie's radiantly pleased face. He went around the library, turning on lights.

"But hurry," Sophie said. "While it's still day."

"Hurry," Lilac said, tugging at his arm.

"Now wait a minute," Smoky said. "I've got to get a few things."