The Woman Behind the Door
I continued along, following whatever the sound was. It was still barely recognizable as a sound, but then I have always had sharper ears than most. It is hard to say what it was that I heard, but my brain chose to interpret it as music.
Before long, I was lost. This did not bother me, as being lost was something familiar and therefore safe. I knew that the worst that could happen would be to come upon some meeting or experiment, and be dragged by the ear to wherever my father was to be given a bit of a whipping and then sent to bed once more. That didn't really frighten me as much as it might have frightened other children my age. My curiosity was undoubtedly the stronger pole of the magnet.
The singing did not get louder for some time. In fact, I would have believed that I was going the wrong way except that something in my viscera told me otherwise. When the sound grew louder--almost tangible--I found that I had in fact been correct, both in the direction and the nature of the sound. It was a woman singing.
My steps grew quicker. I was curious about women, you surely understand, since I had never had a mother and I lived in a place full of men and men's talk. I was curious about their sweet high-pitched voices, the softness of their bodies, and hearing the singing of a woman in these rough-hewn halls was about the most curious thing of all.
The sound led me to a door I had never opened. I reached for the handle only to find the door locked. Worse than that, the singing stopped.
"Who's there?" came the fervent whisper from the wrong side of the door.
"I..." My own voice sounded shaky and empty, and I was instantly embarrassed. "I'm sorry, milady, I was only out walking..."
I trailed off into nothing. The silence was oppressive, it seemed to buzz and hum in my very blood. I flexed my fingers to make sure I still could. Finally, she spoke again:
"You are a child."
"Yes, milady."
"Are you lost, little one?" Her speaking voice was delicate crystal, it seemed to fall to the floor and spread like the clean sound of breaking glass.
"Yes, milady."
"Why do you call me that, you who have not seen my face? Would you address a scullery maid or slave as such?"
"Yes, milady. My father says that women are less hardy than men, and are to be treated accordingly until they prove indelicate."
Her laughter was the sound of rain on cold tile. "That may be wise, but there is no need to treat me so gingerly. What is your name, child?"
I am certain that I told her.
"Do you walk these halls often?"
"Only when I cannot sleep."
"Can you not sleep tonight?"
"I...well, I get lonely at night sometimes."
"Surely a good little boy like you has a mother who loves you. You spoke already of your father, and those words are not those of a callous man who loves not his own son. Where are your parents?"
"I haven't a mother. Or rather, I never knew her. My father is a busy man who keeps late hours."
There was a rustling, as that of a heavy gown, though in my mind it sounded far more like leaves or feathers. Then, the tips of three white fingers were visible just under the door. Instinctively, my hand reached for hers. In the few inches of space beneath the heavy wooden door our fingers intertwined. I remember well the feel of her skin: soft as pastry dough and so cold.
"Milady?" I asked the silence.
"Mmm?"
"I do not wish to impose but," I took a breath, suddenly my lungs felt small and weak. "Would you sing again? I would like very much to hear it."
She answered me in song, and her voice filled the halls. I leaned my head against the door and closed my eyes. I do not remember falling asleep, but then, it isn't often that we do.
Before long, I was lost. This did not bother me, as being lost was something familiar and therefore safe. I knew that the worst that could happen would be to come upon some meeting or experiment, and be dragged by the ear to wherever my father was to be given a bit of a whipping and then sent to bed once more. That didn't really frighten me as much as it might have frightened other children my age. My curiosity was undoubtedly the stronger pole of the magnet.
The singing did not get louder for some time. In fact, I would have believed that I was going the wrong way except that something in my viscera told me otherwise. When the sound grew louder--almost tangible--I found that I had in fact been correct, both in the direction and the nature of the sound. It was a woman singing.
My steps grew quicker. I was curious about women, you surely understand, since I had never had a mother and I lived in a place full of men and men's talk. I was curious about their sweet high-pitched voices, the softness of their bodies, and hearing the singing of a woman in these rough-hewn halls was about the most curious thing of all.
The sound led me to a door I had never opened. I reached for the handle only to find the door locked. Worse than that, the singing stopped.
"Who's there?" came the fervent whisper from the wrong side of the door.
"I..." My own voice sounded shaky and empty, and I was instantly embarrassed. "I'm sorry, milady, I was only out walking..."
I trailed off into nothing. The silence was oppressive, it seemed to buzz and hum in my very blood. I flexed my fingers to make sure I still could. Finally, she spoke again:
"You are a child."
"Yes, milady."
"Are you lost, little one?" Her speaking voice was delicate crystal, it seemed to fall to the floor and spread like the clean sound of breaking glass.
"Yes, milady."
"Why do you call me that, you who have not seen my face? Would you address a scullery maid or slave as such?"
"Yes, milady. My father says that women are less hardy than men, and are to be treated accordingly until they prove indelicate."
Her laughter was the sound of rain on cold tile. "That may be wise, but there is no need to treat me so gingerly. What is your name, child?"
I am certain that I told her.
"Do you walk these halls often?"
"Only when I cannot sleep."
"Can you not sleep tonight?"
"I...well, I get lonely at night sometimes."
"Surely a good little boy like you has a mother who loves you. You spoke already of your father, and those words are not those of a callous man who loves not his own son. Where are your parents?"
"I haven't a mother. Or rather, I never knew her. My father is a busy man who keeps late hours."
There was a rustling, as that of a heavy gown, though in my mind it sounded far more like leaves or feathers. Then, the tips of three white fingers were visible just under the door. Instinctively, my hand reached for hers. In the few inches of space beneath the heavy wooden door our fingers intertwined. I remember well the feel of her skin: soft as pastry dough and so cold.
"Milady?" I asked the silence.
"Mmm?"
"I do not wish to impose but," I took a breath, suddenly my lungs felt small and weak. "Would you sing again? I would like very much to hear it."
She answered me in song, and her voice filled the halls. I leaned my head against the door and closed my eyes. I do not remember falling asleep, but then, it isn't often that we do.