(no subject)
The first thing she knows, before she sees or hears or feels anything else, is the sense of presence. She's felt it before, one year ago.
There's darkness; not the darkness of todash or a tight spot but the red-tinged dark behind her eyelids. She's sitting on a bench, and someone is sitting beside her, close enough to brush against her as they breath. It's cool but not cold, and she thinks that by now she knows a New England spring. Almost subliminally she can smell salt, and much closer, horses.
( She's been here before, a bus stop bench outside of a Stop and Shop grocery store, and she knows that if she stands and turns she'll see the graffiti jaggedly carved into the ancient greying wood she feels under her fingertips.)
Once upon on a time she stood here, on her way home from the Dark Tower; three times widdershins. Now she's here again, and she's not alone.
She's taking stock, bit by bit, and now she opens her eyes and takes stock of herself. She's in the clothes she wore to the club in Austin; Dereon jeans and the yellow strapless top, her heels replaced with Carmen's blue-laced white canvas high-tops. She's wearing a fleecy white hoodie instead of the leather jacket, another acquisition from the same shopping expedition. She runs her thumb over the plastic daisy pendant on the zip as she braces herself to look at the woman beside her.
She's different here (now?). She still wears a single-sleeved (chiton) Greek-looking tunic, but it's not the same one, not the same color. It's white, and there's a kind of flowing blue thing draped over it. (The word is himation, but to Rose's ignorant eyes it looks like a classy version of the filthy green blanket Clint Eastwood slung over his shoulder in those old movies.) She's older--a little fuller in figure, a little change in the definition of her throat, tiny cues--and her hair is darker. Still blonde, but dark honey instead of fresh wheat. There's no way Rose would mistake her for Susan Delgado now, although she's still very beautiful.
Rose has no desire to look into those eyes again, so she gets only a cursory look at her face; she drops her own eyes to the goddess' bare feet. She wears an anklet of bronze bells, and when she speaks, there's laughter in the voice, but it's not the cracked peal Rose remembers from the temple. There's no madness there.
"So you've put on again the raiment of Chloe," the goddess says. "It suits thee."
"I--" Raiment means clothes, right? Rose looks down at herself in bafflement. "I guess?"
A full laugh, now. "Chloe was a goddess of youth and strength," she says. "In Souveria they called her my sister. Yellow was sacred to her, and flowers such as those."
"Mr. Copeland said you had a sister." Rose is hesitant. "You... fought, right? Over a guy?"
"That was not Chloe," the goddess says; not quite sharply. "She was young. A maiden goddess, the keeper of the hearth and the patron of the girls who run and jump and climb and shout. The wild girls and the mad ones."
"And the dead, right?" Rose says. "Fill them, Chloe, with strength." From the prayer for the dead.
"We are all gods of the dead," the goddess says, and she sounds so sad that without thinking Rose's hand closes over hers. She's not sure what to expect, but the other woman only turns her hand over to curl her fingers within Rose's. "Chloe has been gone for a very long time."
Rose hesitates before she speaks again, and then it's too late; the goddess rises, the skirt of the chiton skirling around her knees. "We must ride," she says. "I have something to show you, gunslinger."
"Ride--?" Rose focuses on the parking lot, and she sees that parked in a nearby space is her bike, not the big red Honda but the little Buell Blast she left behind in Castle Rock, the little rocket she calls the Cricket. But like both women, the Cricket has had a makeover; its drippy purple paint job has been painted over in white.
(The first thing Rose thinks is that that would be a nightmare to keep clean.)
There aren't any helmets, and Rose isn't sure how the goddess is going to manage the bike in a toga, but she settles behind her in standard pillion position anyhow, her arms looped tight around Rose's waist, pressed tight to her back. She smells clean and fresh, like green growing things, and Rose's heart is pounding a little as she puts the Cricket into gear.
"I don't know where we're going," she warns, and Oriza laughs again, thrillingly close.
"You need not fear any labyrinth with me beside thee, gunslinger. Ride."
They ride, looping past book donation bins and a Wendy's and curving towards the highway, following the fences that surround a series of stables. There's a racing grounds here. "Look!" the goddess cries over the purr of the little bike's engine. She raises a hand to point at a billboard-sized placard. "Thy sigul, gunslinger! The flag of Arthur Eld!"
That's not right, Rose thinks. The flag was a white horse on a blue field. The sign is green. But maybe to the goddess there's no difference.
"Ride," the goddess whispers, her voice perfectly audible despite the wind and the engine noise. "And I will tell thee more of Chloe."
"In Souveria, they called her my sister," she begins. "But they of Gilead would have called that a fable for children. In Gilead they worshiped her as another name, another aspect of myself."
Rose frowns against the wind. "Which story is true?" She turns through nameless streets, through sprawling city, navigating traffic that comes and goes, pacing her for a while and then flickering away, replaced.
Sometimes she thinks she recognizes some of it. She loops around what must be (can't be) Logan Square; passes beneath the shadow of a steeple she saw in Amoret; past an HSBC bank and the unemployment office beside it in New Rochelle, with a line of men and women out the door. The owl building from the Austin skyline peeps around corners, and the Gateway Arch, and the Hancock Building.
"All the stories are true, Rose," the goddess says solemnly. Almost pityingly. "You will have to decide what you will believe."
"This is a tale they tell of Chloe, in the land where she is most honored; in Souveria, which was a barony of the far north. They had reason there, to love the sun--"
Gan made the world, and the world moved on; so the story goes. But in some places they say that it was he who left us; abandoned his bright tower and cast the world in darkness. One by one his children left the Tower, breaking the pledge they had made, marking the White, and last of all was Chloe, kindling a torch from the embers of the fire that had burned there, to light her way.
The first person that Chloe met was a drover, with thirteen head of cattle and a rude cabin of logs, sprawling and homey and warm, and a fearsome black bull. And he saw her, and he desired her, for the daughters of Gan were very beautiful. He called out for her to stay with him and keep him company there, for his home was dark and silent and dirty besides, and he had need of a woman's touch. But Chloe laughed. And he was angry, but she gaily danced away. And he chased her, but she was young and strong.
And when she was tired she slept beneath the elderberry bushes, and rose in the morning to follow her ka, raising her torch.
The second person that Chloe met along the road was a rancher, with nineteen fine horses and a tall, cold house of stone, and he rode a white stallion. And he saw her, and he cherished her, for the daughters of Gan were very beautiful. He begged her to stay with him and be his wife, for he was lonely and his life was dark and graceless, and did she not need a man's love and a man's protection? But Chloe smiled sadly, and she bowed to him, and she left him, singing.
And when she was tired she slept beneath the elderberry bushes, and rose in the morning to follow her ka, raising her torch.
And the third person that Chloe met was called Daphnis, and he was a shepherd, and he lived in the field with his flocks, and when he was tired he slept beneath the laurel bushes, and when he was cold or lonely he played on his pipes. And Chloe loved him, and swore they would never part, and for a time she was happy.
"And then what happened?" Rose says. All of the stories of Mid-world are Westerns; and all of them have sad endings. There's a black Nova following close behind them, flashing his brights, and she slows a little to let him pass.
The goddess sighs. "You will find, gunslinger, that the great secret of telling stories is knowing when to STOP
There's darkness; not the darkness of todash or a tight spot but the red-tinged dark behind her eyelids. She's sitting on a bench, and someone is sitting beside her, close enough to brush against her as they breath. It's cool but not cold, and she thinks that by now she knows a New England spring. Almost subliminally she can smell salt, and much closer, horses.
( She's been here before, a bus stop bench outside of a Stop and Shop grocery store, and she knows that if she stands and turns she'll see the graffiti jaggedly carved into the ancient greying wood she feels under her fingertips.)
Once upon on a time she stood here, on her way home from the Dark Tower; three times widdershins. Now she's here again, and she's not alone.
She's taking stock, bit by bit, and now she opens her eyes and takes stock of herself. She's in the clothes she wore to the club in Austin; Dereon jeans and the yellow strapless top, her heels replaced with Carmen's blue-laced white canvas high-tops. She's wearing a fleecy white hoodie instead of the leather jacket, another acquisition from the same shopping expedition. She runs her thumb over the plastic daisy pendant on the zip as she braces herself to look at the woman beside her.
She's different here (now?). She still wears a single-sleeved (chiton) Greek-looking tunic, but it's not the same one, not the same color. It's white, and there's a kind of flowing blue thing draped over it. (The word is himation, but to Rose's ignorant eyes it looks like a classy version of the filthy green blanket Clint Eastwood slung over his shoulder in those old movies.) She's older--a little fuller in figure, a little change in the definition of her throat, tiny cues--and her hair is darker. Still blonde, but dark honey instead of fresh wheat. There's no way Rose would mistake her for Susan Delgado now, although she's still very beautiful.
Rose has no desire to look into those eyes again, so she gets only a cursory look at her face; she drops her own eyes to the goddess' bare feet. She wears an anklet of bronze bells, and when she speaks, there's laughter in the voice, but it's not the cracked peal Rose remembers from the temple. There's no madness there.
"So you've put on again the raiment of Chloe," the goddess says. "It suits thee."
"I--" Raiment means clothes, right? Rose looks down at herself in bafflement. "I guess?"
A full laugh, now. "Chloe was a goddess of youth and strength," she says. "In Souveria they called her my sister. Yellow was sacred to her, and flowers such as those."
"Mr. Copeland said you had a sister." Rose is hesitant. "You... fought, right? Over a guy?"
"That was not Chloe," the goddess says; not quite sharply. "She was young. A maiden goddess, the keeper of the hearth and the patron of the girls who run and jump and climb and shout. The wild girls and the mad ones."
"And the dead, right?" Rose says. "Fill them, Chloe, with strength." From the prayer for the dead.
"We are all gods of the dead," the goddess says, and she sounds so sad that without thinking Rose's hand closes over hers. She's not sure what to expect, but the other woman only turns her hand over to curl her fingers within Rose's. "Chloe has been gone for a very long time."
Rose hesitates before she speaks again, and then it's too late; the goddess rises, the skirt of the chiton skirling around her knees. "We must ride," she says. "I have something to show you, gunslinger."
"Ride--?" Rose focuses on the parking lot, and she sees that parked in a nearby space is her bike, not the big red Honda but the little Buell Blast she left behind in Castle Rock, the little rocket she calls the Cricket. But like both women, the Cricket has had a makeover; its drippy purple paint job has been painted over in white.
(The first thing Rose thinks is that that would be a nightmare to keep clean.)
There aren't any helmets, and Rose isn't sure how the goddess is going to manage the bike in a toga, but she settles behind her in standard pillion position anyhow, her arms looped tight around Rose's waist, pressed tight to her back. She smells clean and fresh, like green growing things, and Rose's heart is pounding a little as she puts the Cricket into gear.
"I don't know where we're going," she warns, and Oriza laughs again, thrillingly close.
"You need not fear any labyrinth with me beside thee, gunslinger. Ride."
They ride, looping past book donation bins and a Wendy's and curving towards the highway, following the fences that surround a series of stables. There's a racing grounds here. "Look!" the goddess cries over the purr of the little bike's engine. She raises a hand to point at a billboard-sized placard. "Thy sigul, gunslinger! The flag of Arthur Eld!"
That's not right, Rose thinks. The flag was a white horse on a blue field. The sign is green. But maybe to the goddess there's no difference.
"Ride," the goddess whispers, her voice perfectly audible despite the wind and the engine noise. "And I will tell thee more of Chloe."
"In Souveria, they called her my sister," she begins. "But they of Gilead would have called that a fable for children. In Gilead they worshiped her as another name, another aspect of myself."
Rose frowns against the wind. "Which story is true?" She turns through nameless streets, through sprawling city, navigating traffic that comes and goes, pacing her for a while and then flickering away, replaced.
Sometimes she thinks she recognizes some of it. She loops around what must be (can't be) Logan Square; passes beneath the shadow of a steeple she saw in Amoret; past an HSBC bank and the unemployment office beside it in New Rochelle, with a line of men and women out the door. The owl building from the Austin skyline peeps around corners, and the Gateway Arch, and the Hancock Building.
"All the stories are true, Rose," the goddess says solemnly. Almost pityingly. "You will have to decide what you will believe."
"This is a tale they tell of Chloe, in the land where she is most honored; in Souveria, which was a barony of the far north. They had reason there, to love the sun--"
Gan made the world, and the world moved on; so the story goes. But in some places they say that it was he who left us; abandoned his bright tower and cast the world in darkness. One by one his children left the Tower, breaking the pledge they had made, marking the White, and last of all was Chloe, kindling a torch from the embers of the fire that had burned there, to light her way.
The first person that Chloe met was a drover, with thirteen head of cattle and a rude cabin of logs, sprawling and homey and warm, and a fearsome black bull. And he saw her, and he desired her, for the daughters of Gan were very beautiful. He called out for her to stay with him and keep him company there, for his home was dark and silent and dirty besides, and he had need of a woman's touch. But Chloe laughed. And he was angry, but she gaily danced away. And he chased her, but she was young and strong.
And when she was tired she slept beneath the elderberry bushes, and rose in the morning to follow her ka, raising her torch.
The second person that Chloe met along the road was a rancher, with nineteen fine horses and a tall, cold house of stone, and he rode a white stallion. And he saw her, and he cherished her, for the daughters of Gan were very beautiful. He begged her to stay with him and be his wife, for he was lonely and his life was dark and graceless, and did she not need a man's love and a man's protection? But Chloe smiled sadly, and she bowed to him, and she left him, singing.
And when she was tired she slept beneath the elderberry bushes, and rose in the morning to follow her ka, raising her torch.
And the third person that Chloe met was called Daphnis, and he was a shepherd, and he lived in the field with his flocks, and when he was tired he slept beneath the laurel bushes, and when he was cold or lonely he played on his pipes. And Chloe loved him, and swore they would never part, and for a time she was happy.
"And then what happened?" Rose says. All of the stories of Mid-world are Westerns; and all of them have sad endings. There's a black Nova following close behind them, flashing his brights, and she slows a little to let him pass.
The goddess sighs. "You will find, gunslinger, that the great secret of telling stories is knowing when to STOP