In the Palace of Repose

  IN THE PALACE OF REPOSE

  HOLLY PHILLIPS

  Copyright © 2005 by Holly Phillips.

  Cover art by Linda Bergkvist.

  Cover design by Garry Nurrish.

  Ebook design by Neil Clarke.

  ISBN: 978-1-60701-385-3 (ebook)

  PRIME BOOKS

  www.prime-books.com

  No portion of this book may be reproduced by any means, mechanical, electronic, or otherwise, without first obtaining the permission of the copyright holder.

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  CONTENTS

  Introduction by Sean Stewart

  In the Palace of Repose

  The Other Grace

  The New Ecology

  A Woman’s Bones

  Pen & Ink

  One of the Hungry Ones

  By the Light of Tomorrow’s Sun

  Summer Ice

  Variations On a Theme

  About the Author

  INTRODUCTION

  When I was seven years old, I got a copy of The Hobbit for my birthday. I read it, loved it, demanded more and got it. I puzzled my way through The Lord of the Rings that summer, lying hour after hour on the couch in my grandparents’ tract house in Duncanville, Texas. Outside was oven heat, doodle bugs, and a dried up creek that once we found a crawdad in. In the house it was Cowboys pre-season football, my uncles’ baseball trophies on the mantelpiece, back issues of Reader’s Digest (I liked the jokes) and the Bible.

  . . . And balanced against all that, swords and hoofbeats and the war-chants of the Rohirrim; Galadriel’s mirror; Pippin and Merry bantering amidst the drowned ruins of Isengard. Truths and beauties, as C. S. Lewis wrote, that pierced like cold iron.

  I wanted to go there. Are you kidding? Duncanville vs. Middle Earth?

  But some pragmatic part of me—the part that already had caught the Tooth Fairy, and was too wise to buy into the whole Santa Claus thing—was pretty sure there would be no ship to take me to Middle Earth, however much I longed for it, so I decided I would do the next best thing: I would be a fantasy writer.

  I rather suspect Holly Phillips has a similar story. Different books, maybe, at a different age; but most fantasy authors are born out of a desire to escape into Middle Earth, or Narnia, or Earthsea; the next generation of fantasists is lying in bed tonight trying to force themselves to dream about Hogwarts. What makes the connection between me and Holly Phillips a little closer, I think, is that somewhere along the way we both got scared; we both began to realize that when we say magic, what we really mean is life; and life, it turns out, is dangerous.

  The essential Holly Phillips story begins like this: In a world that felt too little, there lived a girl who saw too much.

  Look, you: magic, it turns out, is not an ability you control, like the super-powers of a comic-book character; it is the apprehension of wildness. To see it is to give it power, to invite it into your life. Bored and safe, you may, like Bilbo, feel a mild itch for adventure; but when bored goes, safe can follow in a hurry. The two halves of the fantasy writer, the one that wishes for magic, and the one smart enough to think that’s probably a pretty bad idea, meet in a little conversation in the midst of “The New Ecology.”

  “Don’t you realize how desperate the world is for a little magic, how badly it needs a miracle? You’re keeping it all to yourself, and it isn’t fair!”

  “Fair. Jesus. How old are you? . . . It isn’t magic, and my life is not a goddamn fairy tale. . . . It’s not an invasion from Fairyland or the Eighth Dimension or whatever you pretend for your little game. This thing that’s been happening around me since I was a kid—and don’t ask me why they picked me, ’cause I don’t fucking know—it belongs to this world. Maybe it is the world, even.”

  Phillips’ characters are stalked by wonder. They’ve been caught wishing for something more in life, and are still reeling with the shock of having gotten it. This changeling sense, of having a banal life stolen and replaced with something altogether riskier, runs through many of the stories, most nakedly in “The Other Grace,” in which a girl wakes suddenly and inexplicably into her own life, with no memory of the house she has always lived in, no connection to the family she has known from the day she was born.

  There is an undercurrent of guilt throughout; these women are pretty sure, at some level, that they brought this on themselves—and they are right. What they have—what Phillips has—is a quickening vision; eyes that see the red blood of the world under its bland skin.

  Unsurprisingly, many of her protagonists are artists. Art is a discipline against fear: I conjure life, I control it; and lo! I am not destroyed. (At least, that’s the theory; and yet the best work comes, we know, when the djinn escapes us, and so art is a curious dance, almost self-destructive, where we try to let just a little more wildness into the world than is safe . . . )

  I am forced to take a moment here to talk, reluctantly, about Phillips’ prose. Forced, because her writing is studded with such extraordinary, luminous moments; reluctant, because writers of pretty sentences learn pretty fast that for many people, a phrase like “lyrical prose” is instantly translated as “not enough action.” For the record, these are cool stories, and you don’t have to give a damn about poetry to enjoy them. But if you are open to the simple pleasures of a ravishing metaphor, Phillips carpets the stories with them, so they release their fragrance as you walk by. For instance, Thick yellow sunlight filters through and is caught and stirred by dust.

  That’s from my favorite story in this collection, “Summer Ice.” Manon, the young artist in the story, feels alone and unsure of herself. She has that quickening eye and a generous heart and she tries to do the right thing, even though she feels like she’s way out of her depth. At the story’s end, Manon is startled to find that it’s enough: that her quirky gifts are treasured by those around her; that she is loved.

  We aren’t surprised at all.

  The girls who see too much in Phillips’ stories are scared, but brave. They swallow hard and they risk it; they dare to live. There’s a lot of Manon in Holly Phillips, I suspect. She has worked very hard, often alone, to let some magic into the world, with no assurance that the rest of us will care, or even notice. She has risked.

  We are the richer for it.

  —Sean Stewart

  IN THE PALACE OF REPOSE

  The Ministry car pulled up before the Palace gate and the driver was out and holding the passenger door open before Edmund Stonehouse could get his papers shuffled into order. The top page of the rough draft for his annual finance report escaped and drifted to the cobblestones. The driver bent and picked it up, and Stonehouse gruffly thanked the man. He wished the motor pool people would stop changing drivers on him. Lazy Hawkins had let him open his own door in his own time.

  Listen to him. Carping like an old man. He had only turned forty-eight two weeks ago, but a vision of Chesterford confronted him, his aging predecessor bitterly unsympathetic in his cottage on the fell. Stonehouse, younger then, and resisting the temptation to warm his hands in his armpits, had thought that the spot the old man had chosen for his retirement exile suited him admirably.

  That fell wind hadn’t been any colder than this deepening winter, though. Stonehouse buckled the flap of his briefcase and climbed out of the car.

  “Keep the motor running,” he told the driver. “I shan’t be long.”

  The driver touched his cap and climbed back behind the wheel, happy, no doubt, to be out of the cold. Stonehouse pulled his collar up around his ears and retrieved the key from his pocket. It was a clumsily ornate bit of ironwork, and the lock on the oak-timbered gate was massive, ugly, and uncooperative in the cold. H
e wrestled it open, stepped through, relocked it, and set about tracing the cardinal symbols on the forecourt’s frost-white cobbles. He was just as pleased to perform the Ritual of Abrogation out of the driver’s view. His contemptuous colleagues at the Ministry gave him a sufficiency of grief.

  Last month he opened the Palace door onto a summer of honey and roses. Today, it is autumn, and bare blackberry canes claw at the foyer walls.

  He is the Seeker. He presses ahead through thicket and curtain. The canes all have thorns, but they do not draw blood. The curtains, cobwebs, caress him and trail from his coat sleeves. Palace halls have become forest paths, but somehow the farther view is always white with marble, and the floor, though mossy, is polished stone. The Palace Is, always, whatever its sleeping King happens to dream. At least this quest is only a gentle tease, not the ordeal other visits have been. Stonehouse follows a thread of pale sunlight through the half familiar maze, and the rustle in the dead and dying leaves is only mice. The King is willing to grant him an audience.

  He sleeps, this Prisoner-King, but even sleeping he is vast enough to be aware. (Though sometimes, it is true, Stonehouse suspects that the King he speaks with is only a figment of the sleeping King’s mind. But then, when he has been inside the Palace for too long, Stonehouse sometimes begins to suspect that he is, himself, only a figment.) It had taken the might and sacrifice of a nation to bind a King of such power within this Palace of repose, and the fear and hope of a generation to press him into sleep. When Stonehouse was new in the post, he had believed he felt the weight of the nation’s need on his own shoulders, the chains of the future binding his own limbs, keeping him awake many nights, foundering in exhausted sleep the rest. He still feels the weight, but now it is more the weight of history, of a forgotten archive, dusty and crawling with silverfish, to which he has inherited the key, but not the fortune to keep it in repair.

  Such thoughts are ill-advised in this place. Even as he chases them from his mind, the brown leaves that drift the floor become scrawled pages, yellowing and torn. Stonehouse’s department may have fallen into neglect, but the power it was meant to contain for the sake of progress is undiminished, and immense.

  The trail leads him at last into a high gallery. He has been here before. One side of the room forms a balcony with a low railing that overlooks, or has overlooked in past visits, a garden, a pit, a ballroom, and a cistern brimming with dark water. The King’s appetite for invention is tireless. Today, the gallery is a high nest or tree house, with the branches of huge trees reaching over the rail. The polished wood of the balustrades is almost hidden behind the tangle of lichens and vines. Two chairs have been set near the overlook, so Stonehouse knows this is where the audience is to take place. He walks over to the chair not hung with a mantle of yellow chrysanthemums, sheds his overcoat, and folds it neatly over the back. The gallery is warmed by the slips of sunlight falling between gnarled branches. It is very quiet. Stonehouse leans over the rail and can just make out the forest floor, green moss rumpled by roots and littered with golden leaves between the columnar trunks of the trees. There is movement down below. Is that—can it be?—a human figure?

  Edmund, says the King.

  He is in the chrysanthemum chair as if he has always been there. A hard figure to see (some failing of Stonehouse’s eyes or brain, not of the air, or the King) he seems to wear a cloak of woven grass and a crown of feathers. Stonehouse bows.

  “Your Grace.”

  The King gestures and Stonehouse finds himself seated in the other chair. His heart races, as it always does, but this time it is more than just the King’s presence that shocks his blood. In all the dreams he has walked through, all the dreams his predecessors have recounted in the visit log, there has never been a vision of a human being. The department head of a century ago had written, Our monarch refuses company even within his prisoner’s fantasies. Is he so stubborn in his anger against the humanity that bound him in his Palace? Or has he always been so alone?

  Ask, says the King.

  But Stonehouse is too unsure of what he might have seen. He tries to remember what questions he had meant to ask, even though he knows that any paper he might write about the Palace and its denizen will inevitably go unread.

  I have had a visitor, says the King.

  For an instant the feather crown comes clear: a ragged sunburst of blue and black, kingfisher and crow.

  A visitor, says the King again.

  “Have you?” Stonehouse carefully replies.

  Yes, says the King. Unless I dreamed her.

  The King’s smile is like the movement of clouds.

  Stonehouse clears his throat. “You have never dreamed a visitor before. Have you, your Grace?”

  The King says nothing.

  “Where did she come from, then, your Grace?”

  Unless I dream you, Edmund, says the King.

  “Did your visitor come from outside, your Grace?”

  Only I am within, says the King. And you, when you have come.

  “And she?”

  Perhaps she is a dreamer, says the King, dreaming me and you.

  Stonehouse frowns down at the tips of his polished shoes. The King is patient with such pauses. Stonehouse has never recognized in the King any grasp of time. Yet today the King interrupts Stonehouse’s thinking.

  A dreamer, a dream, says the King. Edmund, it will be a hard winter. I will think of you.

  Stonehouse stares, astonished, but the King is gone. The chrysanthemums cloaking his chair have turned into butterflies, somnolent monarchs breathing with their wings. The audience is done.

  I have had a visitor. A glimpse of movement on the forest floor. Stonehouse begins to sweat.

  It is impossible, he wants to cry. But he cannot summon a reason why it should be. He has not examined the architecture of the Palace bindings since he was a graduate student, but the purpose of the place has always been absolutely clear: to keep the King inside. Whether there are also wards to keep intruders out, Stonehouse frankly does not know. No one has ever wanted in. Not even the troubled, the suicidal, the mad. No one. Until now?

  Well, his duty is clear. He must find the King’s visitor, or else establish there is no such person. The first part is only barely possible. The second—

  He could spend a lifetime wandering the King’s dreams and never find the end, he thinks with genuine despair.

  Genuine despair. Yet he is not surprised when the King’s visitor finds him at the foot of the gallery stairs.

  When he led her out of mild autumn and into bitter winter, she clutched his overcoat around herself and spoke for the first time.

  “It is cold.”

  The Ministry driver got out of the car to open the door for Stonehouse, but when he saw the King’s visitor at Stonehouse’s side he just stood and gawked, his gloved hands swinging at his sides.

  Stonehouse stepped forward until they were almost nose to nose and the other man had no choice but to meet his eyes. “This is a classified governmental matter,” he said softly. “It is absolutely top secret. If you breathe a word to anyone you will be committing treason, and I will know. You will never see your loved ones again. Do you understand?”

  The driver was younger than he was, with a round chin and full cheeks, a stubby nose gone red in the cold. He blinked pale, watery eyes and choked out, “Sir. But sir.”

  “Treason,” Stonehouse repeated. “Death penalty without the benefit of a trial.”

  “Yes, sir. I understand, sir.”

  “Not a word,” what was the man’s name? “Creely.”

  “Not a word, sir.” Creely stiffened until he was militarily straight. His right hand twitched as if he contemplated a salute.

  Stonehouse, feeling like an impostor, gave him a sharp nod and then shepherded the King’s visitor into the back of the car.

  She sat in the corner against the door and rubbed her bare feet with her hands.

  Stonehouse could hardly blame Creely for staring. The fact of
her was enough to astonish him, but he began to realize, as he cast her glances from his side of the seat, that she was possibly beautiful as well. Possibly. She wore a veil of dreams, or perhaps it was his eyes that were veiled. Every time he looked away from her he felt he had forgotten her face and had to look again. It was a long, finely-drawn oval framed in a tangle of autumn-grass hair. Her eyes were the tip-tilted round of a cat’s, but their color escaped him. The shape of her nose, of her mouth— He pinched the bridge of his nose. Oddly, it was her feet and her hands that stayed in his mind, long and slender, with delicate, prominent bones. The pale skin bore a good many scratches, and there was a smudge on her jaw that was either dirt or a bruise.

  She tucked her feet up on the seat and covered them with the hem of his coat.

  “How long,” Stonehouse had to clear his throat, “how long were you in the Palace?”

  She drew her eyes from the window. They were the pale green of the inner flesh of limes. She said, “Is this winter?”

  Iron-gray clouds over steel-gray river. They were already at the bridge.

  “Yes. Winter. What was the season when you went in?”

  “It’s cold.”

  Stonehouse opened his mouth, then slowly closed it again. The driver was listening, and for his own sake the less he knew the better. More to the point, it was hard to tell how capable the girl was of answering. Was she simple, or mad? If she had been so to begin with, how did she get inside the Palace when his department held the only key? On the other hand, if she had been sane to begin with, why had she wanted to go inside?

  Oh, there were a hundred questions. The worst of it was, Stonehouse knew very well that once the Minister learned about the girl he, Stonehouse, would be fortunate to get even a glimpse of some interrogator’s carefully edited report. The thought of the Ministry’s Special Branch putting their hands on her made his guts freeze; his own powerlessness made him burn.

  The girl pointed out the window at pedestrians on the pavement and said happily, “Look! Children! And a dog!”