Jagannath Part 8

Augusta returned to her rooms, a little medal pinned to her chest as thanks for her find. No one had noticed her taking the metal thing for herself. She shooed out her page and sat down on the bed to examine the thing further.

It seemed to be made of gold, engraved on both sides with flowery strands. It was heavy and cold in her palm. The vertigo gradually subsided, but the chills remained like an icy stream going from her hand to her neck. The chain attached to the locket by a little k.n.o.b on the side. Another, almost invisible b.u.t.ton sat across from it. She pressed it, and the locket sprung open to reveal a white disc painted with small lines. Three thin rods were attached to the centre. One of them moved around the disc in twitching movements, making a ticking noise like a mouse's heart.

It was a machine. Augusta had seen things like it a few times, among the belongings of houses or humans who had been claimed by the gardens. They had always been broken, though. Mechanical things usually fell apart as soon as they came into the gardens' domain. It was a mystery how this thing could still be in one piece and working.

The chills had become an almost pleasant sensation. Augusta watched the rod chasing around the disc until she fell asleep.

She woke up in the same position as she'd fallen asleep in, on her side with the little machine in her hand. It was still now. Augusta frowned and called on her page. There were a handful of pages in the family, most of them nameless changelings raised in servitude. For various reasons, only two of them could carry a conversation, should one be so inclined. Augusta's page wasn't one of them.

"Fetch Azalea's page," she told him when he arrived.

Augusta watched the machine until there was a scratch at her door and Azalea's page stepped inside. He was a half-grown boy, with dark hair in oiled locks and eyes rimmed with kohl; a beautiful specimen that Azalea had insisted on taking into service despite his being too old to train properly. The boy stood in the middle of the room, having the audacity to stare directly at Augusta. She slapped him with the back of her hand. He shrunk back, turning his gaze to the floor. He walked over to the bed and started to remove his clothes.

"No, not now," Augusta said.

The boy froze halfway out of his surtout. Augusta tossed him the little locket.

"You will tell me what this is," she said.

"You don't know?" he said.

Augusta slapped him again.

"You will tell me what this is," she repeated.

He sniffled.

"It's a watch."

"And what does a watch do?"

"It measures time."

He pointed at the different parts of the watch, explaining their functions. The rods were called hands, and chased around the clock face in step with time. The clock face indicated where in time one was located. It made Augusta shudder violently. Time was an abhorrent thing, a human thing. It didn't belong here. It was that power which made flesh rot and dreams wither. The gardens were supposed to lie beyond the grasp of time, in constant twilight; the sun just under the horizon, the moon s.h.i.+ning full over the trees. Augusta told the boy as much: "Time doesn't pa.s.s here. Not like that, not for us."

The boy twisted the little bud on the side of the locket, and the longest hand started to move again.

"But look," he said. "The hands are moving now. Time is pa.s.sing now."

"But does it know how time flows? Does it measure time, or does it just move forward and call that time?"

The changeling stared at her.

"Time is time," he said.

Augusta cut his tongue out before she let him go. Azalea would be furious, but it was necessary.

She lay down on her bed again, but couldn't seem to fall asleep. How could the hands on the watch keep moving here? The sun didn't go up or down. Didn't that mean time stood still here? It was common knowledge. Whenever one woke up, it was the same day as the day before.

She sat at her writing desk, jotting down a few things on paper. It made her head calm down a little. Then she opened a flask of poppy wine and drank herself back to sleep.

When Augusta woke up, her page was scratching at the door with a set of clothes in his arms and an invitation card between his teeth. It was an invitation to croquet. With a vague feeling that there was something she ought to remember, Augusta let the page dress and powder her.

She returned with a b.u.mp in the back of her head and a terrific headache. It had been a fantastic game. There had been gorging, Walpurgis had demonstrated a new dance, and the twins had - sensationally - struck each other senseless. Augusta had been behind everyone else in the game, eventually having her ball sent into the woods again, needing to go fetch it just like that time she'd found something under the dog-rose bush. . . under the dog-rose bush. She looked at her writing desk, where a little silk bundle sat on a piece of paper. She moved the bundle out of the way and read: A minute is sixty seconds.

An hour is sixty minutes.

A day is twelve hours.

A day and a night is twenty-four hours.

Augusta opened the bundle and looked at the little locket. Some images appeared in her mind: Her first croquet game. The corpse in the grey suit. The watch. The page who told her about time. A thirst to know how it worked. What is time? she wrote under the first note. Is it here?

Augusta took the watch and left her room. She wandered down to the orangery, which was lit from inside. Tendrils of steam rose from the roof. Inside, three enormous mounds lay on couches. The Aunts were as always immersed in their holy task to fatten. Three girls hovered around them, tiny in comparison. The girls were servants and successors, keeping the Aunts fed until they eventually perished, and then taking their places to begin the process anew. Augusta opened the watch, peeking at the clock face. The longest hand moved slowly, almost imperceptibly.

She walked from the orangery to the outskirts of the apple orchard, and from there to Porla's fen; then to the dog-rose shrubs in the woods outside Mnemosyne's court. Everywhere, the hands on the clock face moved; sometimes forward, sometimes backward. Sometimes they lifted from the clock face, hitting the gla.s.s protecting it, as if trying to escape.

Augusta woke up in Azalea's arms, under a canopy in Our Lady's arbour. The orgy they were visiting was still going on; there were low cries and the sound of breaking gla.s.s. Augusta couldn't remember what they had been doing, but she felt sore and bloated, and her sister was snoring very loudly. She was still wearing her s.h.i.+rt. Something rustled in her left breast pocket; she dug it out. It was a note. A little map, seemingly drawn in her own hand. Below the map was written a single sentence: The places float just like time. She had been wandering around, drawing maps and measuring distances. At some point. Mnemosyne's garden had first been on the right-hand side from Augusta's rooms. The next time she had found herself walking straight ahead to get there. The places floated. Augusta turned the note over. On the other side were the words: Why is there time here? Why does it flow differently in different places? And if the places float, what is the nature of the woods?

She returned to her rooms in a state of hangover. Papers were strewn everywhere it seemed: on and under the bed, on the dresser, in droves on the writing desk. Some of the notes were covered in dust. She couldn't remember writing some of them. But every word was in her own handwriting.

There was a stranger in Mnemosyne's court, towering over the other guests. She was dressed in simple robes, hooded and veiled, golden yellow eyes showing through a thin slit. They shone down on Walpurgis, who made a feeble attempt to offer her a croquet club. Everyone else gave the stranger a wide berth.

"It is a djinneya. She is visiting Mnemosyne to trade information," the twins mumbled to Augusta.

"We wonder what information that is," Vergilia added.

"Those creatures know everything," Hermine said.

The djinneya sat by Mnemosyne's side during the whole game, seemingly deep in conversation with her hostess. Neither the twin's spectacular knock-out of Walpurgis nor Azalea's attempt to throttle one of the pages caught her attention. Having been knocked out with a ball over her left knee, Augusta retreated to a couch where she wrote an invitation.

Augusta was woken at her writing desk by a knock at her door. A cloaked shape entered without asking permission. The djinneya seemed even taller indoors.

"Come in," said Augusta.

The djinneya nodded, unfastening the veil. Her skin was the colour of fresh bruises. She grinned with a wide mouth, showing deep blue gums and long teeth filed into points.

"I thank you for your invitation, Augusta Prima."

She bent over Augusta's bed, fluffing the pillows, and sat down. A scent of sweat and spice spread in the room.

"You wanted to converse."

Augusta straightened, looking at the papers and notes on her desk. She remembered what it was she wanted to ask.

"You and your sort, you travel everywhere. Even beyond the woods. You know things."

The djinneya flashed her toothy smile.

"That we do."

"I would like to know the nature of time," Augusta said. "I want to know why time can't be measured properly here, and why everything moves around."

The djinneya laughed.

"Your kind doesn't want to know about those things. You can't bear it."

"But I do. I want to know."

The djinneya raised her thin eyebrows.

"Normally, you are tedious creatures," she said. "You only want trivial things. Is that person dead yet? Does this person still love that person? What did they wear at yesterday's party? I know things that could destroy worlds, and all you wish to know is if Karhu from Jumala is still unmarried."

She scratched her chin.

"I believe this is the first time one of your sort has asked me a good question. It's an expensive one, but I shall give you the answer. If you really are sure."

"I have to know," said Augusta. "What is the nature of the world?"

The djinneya smiled with both rows of teeth.

"Which one?"

Augusta woke up by the writing desk. The hangover throbbed behind her temples. She had fallen asleep with her head on an enormous stack of papers. She peered at it, leafing through the ones at the top. There are eight worlds, the first one said. They lie side by side, in degrees of perfection. This world is the most perfect one. Below these lines, written in a different ink, was: There is one single world, divided into three levels which are part.i.tioned off from each other by greased membranes. Then in red ink: There are two worlds and they overlap. The first is the land of Day, which belongs to the humans. The second is the land of Twilight, which belongs to the free folk, and of which the woods is a little backwater part. Both lands must obey Time, but the Twilight is ruled by the Heart, whereas the Day is ruled by Thought. At the bottom of the page, large block letters proclaimed: ALL OF THIS IS TRUE.

It dawned on Augusta that she remembered very clearly. The endless parties, in detail. The finding of the corpse, the short periods of clarity, the notes. The djinneya bending down to whisper in her ear.

A sharp yellow light stung Augusta's eyes. She was sitting at her writing desk in a very small room with wooden walls. A narrow bed with tattered sheets filled the rest of the s.p.a.ce. The writing desk stood beneath a window. On the other side of the gla.s.s, the woods bathed in light.

There was a door next to the bed. Augusta opened it, finding herself in a narrow hallway with another door at the end. A full-length mirror hung on the opposite wall. It showed a woman dressed in what had once been a blue surtout and knee pants. The fabrics were heavily stained with dirt and greenish mold and in some places worn through. Concentric rings of sweat radiated from the armpits. The s.h.i.+rt front was stiff with red and brown stains. Augusta touched her face. White powder lay in cracked layers along her nose and cheeks. Deep lines ran between her nose and mouth; more lines spread from the corners of her eyes. A golden chain hung from her breast pocket. She pulled on it, swinging the locket into her hand. It was ticking in a steady rhythm.

Augusta opened the other door and stepped out onto a landing. An unbearably bright light flooded over her. She backed into the hallway again, slamming the door.

"I told you. Your kind can't bear that question."

The djinneya stood behind her in the hallway, shoulders and head hunched under the low ceiling.

"What did you do?" Augusta said.

"What did I do? No. What did you do, Augusta Prima?"

She patted Augusta's shoulder.

"It started even before you invited me, Augusta Prima. You tried to measure time in a land that doesn't want time. You tried to map a floating country."

The djinneya smiled.

"The woods spit you out, Augusta. Now you're in the land that measures time and draws maps."

Augusta gripped the hand on her shoulder.

"I want to go home. You have to take me home again."

"So soon? Well. All you have to do is forget what you have learned."

The djinneya squeezed past Augusta and stepped out onto the porch, where she stretched to her full height with a sigh.

"Goodbye, Augusta," she said over her shoulder. "And do try to hurry if you want to make it back. You're not getting any younger."

Aunts.

In some places, time is a weak and occasional phenomenon. Unless someone claims time to pa.s.s, it might not, or does so only partly; events curl in on themselves to form spirals and circles.

The orangery is one such place. It is located in an apple orchard, which lies at the outskirts of a garden. The air is damp and laden with the yeasty sweetness of overripe fruit. Gnarled apple trees with bright yellow leaves flame against the cold and purpling sky. Red globes hang heavy on their branches. The orangery gets no visitors. The orchard belongs to a particular regent whose gardens are mostly populated by turgid n.o.bles completely uninterested in the orchard. It has no servants, no entertainment. It requires walking, and the fruit is mealy.

But in the event someone did walk in among the trees, they would find them marching on for a very long time, every tree almost identical to the other. (Should that someone try to count the fruit, they would also find that each tree has the exact same number of apples.) If this visitor did not turn around and flee for the safety of the more cultivated parts of the gardens, they would eventually see the trees disperse and the silver-and-gla.s.s bubble of an orangery rise out of the ground. Drawing closer, they would have seen this: The insides of the gla.s.s walls were covered by a thin brown film of fat vapour and breath. Inside, fifteen orange trees stood along the curve of the cupola; fifteen smaller, potted trees made a circle inside the first. Marble covered the center, where three bolstered divans sat surrounded by low round tables. The divans sagged under the weight of three gigantic women.

The Aunts had one single holy task: to expand. They slowly acc.u.mulated layers of fat. A thigh bisected would reveal a pattern of concentric rings, the fat colored different hues. On the middle couch reclined Great-Aunt, who was the largest of the three. Her body flowed down from her head like waves of whipped cream, arms and legs mere nubs protruding from her magnificent ma.s.s.

Great-Aunt's sisters lay on either side. Middle Sister, her stomach cascading over her knees like a blanket, was eating little link sausages one by one, like a string of pearls. Little Sister, not noticeably smaller than the others, peeled the lid off a meat pie. Great-Aunt extended an arm, letting her fingers slowly sink into the pie's naked interior. She scooped up a fistful of dark filling and buried her face in it with a sigh. Little Sister licked the inside clean of the rest of the filling, then carefully folded it four times and slowly pushed it into her mouth. She s.n.a.t.c.hed up a new link of sausages. She opened and sc.r.a.ped the filling from the skin with her teeth, then threw the empty skins aside. Great-Aunt sucked at the mouthpiece of a thin tube snaking up from a samovar on the table. The salty mist of melted b.u.t.ter rose up from the lid on the pot. She occasionally paused to twist her head and accept small marrow biscuits from one of the three girls hovering near the couches.

The grey-clad girls quietly moving through the orangery were Nieces. In the kitchens under the orangery, they baked sumptuous pastries and cakes; they fed and cleaned their Aunts. They had no individual names and were indistinguishable from each other, often even to themselves. The Nieces lived on leftovers from the Aunts: licking up crumbs mopped from Great-Aunt's chin, drinking the dregs of the b.u.t.ter samovar. The Aunts did not leave much, but the Nieces did not need much either.

Great-Aunt could no longer expand, which was as it should be. Her skin, which had previously lain in soft folds around her, was stretched taut over the fat pus.h.i.+ng outward from inside. Great-Aunt raised her eyes from her vast body and looked at her sisters who each nodded in turn. The Nieces stepped forward, removing the pillows that held the Aunts upright. As she lay back, Great-Aunt began to shudder. She closed her eyes and her mouth became slack. A dark line appeared along her abdomen. As it reached her groin, she became still. With a soft sigh, the skin split along the line. Layer after layer of skin, fat, muscle, and membrane broke open until the breastbone was exposed and fell open with a wet crack. Golden blood washed out of the wound, splas.h.i.+ng onto the couch and onto the floor, where it was caught in a shallow trough. The Nieces went to work, carefully scooping out organs and entrails. Deep in the cradle of her ribs lay a wrinkled pink shape, arms and legs wrapped around Great-Aunt's heart. It opened its eyes and squealed as the Nieces lifted away the last of the surrounding tissue. They cut away the heart with the new Aunt still clinging to it, and placed her on a small pillow where she settled down and began to chew on the heart with tiny teeth.

The Nieces sorted intestines, liver, lungs, kidneys, bladder, uterus, and stomach; they were each put in separate bowls. Next they removed Aunt's skin. It came off easily in great sheets, ready to be cured and tanned and made into one of three new dresses. Then it was time for removing the fat: first the wealth of Aunt's enormous b.r.e.a.s.t.s, then her voluminous belly, her thighs; last, her flattened b.u.t.tocks. The Nieces teased muscle loose from the bones; it needed not much force, but almost fell into their hands. Finally, the bones themselves, soft and translucent, were chopped up into manageable bits. When all this was done, the Nieces turned to Middle and Little Sister who were waiting on their couches, still and wide open. Everything neatly divided into pots and tubs; the Nieces scrubbed the couches and on them lay the new Aunts, each still busy chewing on the remains of a heart.

The Nieces retreated to the kitchens under the orangery. They melted and clarified the fat, ground the bones into fine flour, chopped and baked the organ meats, soaked the sweetbreads in vinegar, simmered the muscle until the meat fell apart in flakes, cleaned out and hung the intestines to dry. Nothing was wasted. The Aunts were baked into cakes and pates and pastries and little savoury sausages and dumplings and crackling. The new Aunts would be very hungry and very pleased.

Neither the Nieces nor the Aunts saw it happen, but someone made their way through the apple trees and reached the orangery. The Aunts were getting a bath. The Nieces sponged the expanses of skin with lukewarm rose water. The quiet of the orangery was replaced by the drip and splash of water, the clunk of copper buckets, the grunts of Nieces straining to move flesh out of the way. They didn't see the curious face pressed against the gla.s.s, greasy corkscrew locks drawing filigree traces: a hand landing next to the staring face, cradling a round metal object. Nor did they at first hear the quiet, irregular ticking noise the object made. It wasn't until the ticking noise, first slow, then faster, amplified and filled the air, that an Aunt opened her eyes and listened. The Nieces turned toward the orangery wall. There was nothing there, save for a handprint and a smudge of white.

Great-Aunt could no longer expand. Her skin was stretched taut over the fat pus.h.i.+ng outward from inside. Great-Aunt raised her eyes from her vast body and looked at her sisters, who each nodded in turn. The Nieces stepped forward, removing the pillows that held the Aunts upright.

The Aunts gasped and wheezed. Their abdomens were a smooth, unbroken expanse: there was no trace of the tell-tale dark line. Great-Aunt's face turned a reddish blue as her own weight pressed down on her throat. Her s.h.i.+vers turned into convulsions. Then, suddenly, her breathing ceased altogether and her eyes stilled. On either side, her sisters rattled out their final breaths in concert.

The Nieces stared at the quiet bodies. They stared at each other. One of them raised her knife.

As the Nieces worked, the more they removed from Great-Aunt, the clearer it became that something was wrong. The flesh wouldn't give willingly, but had to be forced apart. They resorted to using shears to open the ribcage. Finally, as they were sc.r.a.ping the last of the tissue from Great-Aunt's thigh bones, one of them said: "I do not see a little Aunt."

"She should be here," said another.

They looked at each other. The third burst into tears. One of the others slapped the crying girl's head.