Time Travel Omnibus, page 634
“Forgive me, Mongrove! I take back all I said,” announced Werther, unable to recall a single sour syllable of the exchange. “Tell me why you are abroad. It is rare for you to leave your doomy dome.”
“I am making my way to the Ball,” said Lord Mongrove, “which is shortly to be held by My Lady Charlotina. Doubtless I have been invited to act as a butt for their malice and their gossip, but I go in good faith.”
“A Ball? I know nothing of it.”
Mongrove’s countenance brightened a trifle. “You have not been invited? Ah!”
“I wonder . . . But, no—My Lady Charlotina shows unsuspected sensitivity. She knows that I now have responsibilities—to my little Ward here. To Catherine—to my Kate.”
“The child?”
“Yes, to my child. I am privileged to be her protector. Fate favours me as her new father. This is she. Is she not lovely? Is she not innocent?”
Lord Mongrove raised his great head and looked at the slender girl beside Werther. He shook his huge head as if in pity for her.
“Be careful, my dear,” he said. “To be befriended by de Goethe is to be embraced by a viper!”
She did not understand Mongrove; questioningly she looked up at Werther. “What does he mean?”
Werther was shocked. He clapped his hands to her pretty ears.
“Listen no more! I regret the overture. The movement, Lord Mongrove, shall remain unresolved. Farewell, spurner of good-intent. I had never guessed before the level of your cynicism. Such an accusation! Goodbye, for ever, most malevolent of mortals, despiser of altruism, hater of love! You shall know me no longer!”
“You have known yourself not at all,” snapped Mongrove spitefully, but it was unlikely that Werther, already speeding skyward, heard the remark.
And thus it was with particular and unusual graciousness that Werther greeted My Lady Charlotina when, a little later, they came upon her.
She was wearing the russet ears and eyes of a fox, riding her yellow rocking horse through the patch of orange sky left over from her own turbulent “Death of Neptune”. She waved to them. “Cock-a-doodle-do!”
“My dear Lady Charlotina. What a pleasure it is to see you. Your beauty continues to rival Nature’s mightiest miracles.”
It is with such unwonted effusion that we will greet a person, who has not hitherto aroused our feelings, when we are in a position to compare him against another, closer, acquaintance who has momentarily earned our contempt or anger.
She seemed taken aback, but received the compliment equably enough.
“Dear Werther! And is this that rarity, the girl-child I have heard so much about and whom, in your goodness, you have taken under your wing? I could not believe it! A child! And how lucky she is to find a father in yourself—of all our number the one best suited to look after her.”
It might almost be said that Werther preened himself beneath the golden shower of her benediction, and if he detected no irony in her tone, perhaps it was because he still smarted from Mongrove’s dash of vitriol.
“I have been chosen, it seems,” he said modestly, “to lead this waif through the traps and illusions of our weary world. The burden I shoulder is not light . . .”
“Valiant Werther!”
“. . . but it is shouldered willingly. I am devoting my life to her upbringing, to her peace of mind.” He placed a bloodless hand upon her auburn locks, and, winsomely, she took his other one.
“You are tranquil, my dear?” asked My Lady Charlotina kindly, arranging her blue skirts over the saddle of her rocking horse. “You have no doubts?”
“At first I had,” admitted the sweet child, “but gradually I learned to trust my new father. Now I would trust him in anything!”
“Ah,” sighed My Lady Charlotina, “trust!”
“Trust,” said Werther. “It grows in me, too. You encourage me, charming Charlotina, for a short time ago I believed myself doubted by all.”
“Is it possible? When you are evidently so reconciled—so—happy!”
“And I am happy, also, now that I have Werther,” carolled the commendable Catherine.
“Exquisite!” breathed My Lady Charlotina. “And you will, of course, both come to my Ball.”
“I am not sure . . .” began Werther, “perhaps Catherine is too young . . .”
But she raised her tawny hands. “It is your duty to come. To show us all that simple hearts are the happiest.”
“Possibly . . .”
“You must. The world must have examples, Werther, if it is to follow your Way.”
Werther lowered his eyes shyly. “I am honoured,” he said. “We accept.”
“Splendid! Then come soon. Come now, if you like. A few arrangements, and the Ball begins.”
“Thank you,” said Werther, “but I think it best if we return to my castle for a little while.” He caressed his ward’s fine, long tresses. “For it will be Catherine’s first Ball, and she must choose her gown.”
And he beamed down upon his radiant protegee as she clapped her hands in joy.
My Lady Charlotina’s Ball must have been at least a mile in circumference, set against the soft tones of a summer twilight, red-gold and transparent so that, as one approached, the guests who had already arrived could be seen standing upon the inner wall, clad in creations extravagant even at the End of Time.
The Ball itself was inclined to roll a little, but those inside it were undisturbed; their footing was firm, thanks to My Lady Charlotina’s artistry. The Ball was entered by means of a number of sphincterish openings, placed more or less at random in its outer wall. At the very centre of the Ball, on a floating platform, sat an orchestra comprised of the choicest musicians, out of a myriad of ages and planets, from My Lady’s great menagerie (she specialized, currently, in artists).
When Werther de Goethe, a green-gowned Catherine Gratitude upon his blue velvet arm, arrived, the orchestra was playing some primitive figure of My Lady Charlotina’s own composition. It was called, she claimed as she welcomed them, “On the Theme of Childhood”, but doubtless she thought to please them, for Werther believed he had heard it before under a different title.
Many of the guests had already arrived and were standing in small groups chatting to each other. Werther greeted an old friend, Li Pao, of the 27th century, and such a kill-joy that he had never been wanted for a menagerie. While he was forever criticizing their behaviour, he never missed a party. Next to him stood the Iron Orchid, mother of Jherek Carnelian, who was not present. In contrast to Li Pao’s faded blue overalls, she wore rags of red, yellow and mauve, thousands of sparkling bracelets, anklets and necklaces, a headdress of woven peacocks’ wings, slippers which were moles and whose beady eyes looked up from the floor.
“What do you mean—waste?” she was saying to Li Pao. “What else could we do with the energy of the universe? If our sun burns out, we create another. Doesn’t that make us conservatives? Or is it preservatives?”
“Good evening, Werther,” said Li Pao in some relief. He bowed politely to the girl. “Good evening, miss.”
“Miss?” said the Iron Orchid. “What?”
“Gratitude.”
“For whom?”
“This is Catherine Gratitude, my Ward,” said Werther, and the Iron Orchid let forth a peal of luscious laughter.
“The girl-bride, eh?”
“Not at all,” said Werther. “How is Jherek?”
“Lost, I fear, in Time. We have seen nothing of him recently. He still pursues his paramour. Some say you copy him, Werther.”
He knew her bantering tone of old and took the remark in good part. “His is a mere affectation,” he said. “Mine is Reality.”
“You were always one to make that distinction, Werther,” she said. “And I will never understand the difference!”
“I find your concern for Miss Gratitude’s upbringing most worthy,” said Li Pao somewhat unctuously. “If there is any way I can help. My knowledge of twenties’ politics, for instance, is considered unmatched—particularly, of course, where the 26th and 27th centuries are concerned . . .”
“You are kind,” said Werther, unsure how to take an offer which seemed to him overeager and not entirely selfless.
Gaf the Horse in Tears, whose clothes were real flame, flickered towards them, the light from his burning, unstable face almost blinding Werther. Catherine Gratitude shrank from him as he reached out a hand to touch her, but her expression changed as she realized that he was not at all hot—rather, there was something almost chilly about the sensation on her shoulder. Werther did his best to smile. “Good evening, Gaf.”
“She is a dream!” said Gaf. “I know it, because only I have such a wonderful imagination. Did I create her, Werther?”
“You jest.”
“Ho, ho! Serious old Werther.” Gaf kissed him, bowed to the child, and moved away, his body erupting in all directions as he laughed the more. “Literal, literal Werther!”
“He is a boor,” Werther told his charge. “Ignore him.”
“I thought him sweet,” she said.
“You have much to learn, my dear.”
The music filled the Ball and some of the guests left the floor to dance, hanging in the air around the orchestra, darting streamers of coloured energy in order to weave complex patterns as they moved.
“They are very beautiful,” said Catherine Gratitude. “May we dance soon, Werther?”
“If you wish. I am not much given to such pastimes as a rule.”
“But tonight?”
He smiled. “I can refuse you nothing, child.”
She hugged his arm and her girlish laughter filled his heart with warmth.
“Perhaps you should have made yourself a child before, Werther?” suggested the Duke of Queens, drifting away from the dance and leaving a trail of green fire behind him. He was clad all in soft metal which reflected the colours in the Ball and created other colours in turn. “You are a perfect father. Your metier.”
“It would not have been the same, Duke of Queens.”
“As you say.” His darkly handsome face bore its usual expression of benign amusement. “I am the Duke of Queens, child. It is an honour.” He bowed, his metal booming.
“Your friends are wonderful,” said Catherine Gratitude. “Not at all what I expected.”
“Be wary of them,” murmured Werther. “They have no conscience.”
“Conscience? What is that?”
Werther touched a ring and led her up into the air of the Ball. “I am your conscience, for the moment, Catherine. You shall learn in time.”
Lord Jagged of Canaria, his face almost hidden by one of his high, quilted collars, floated in their direction.
“Werther, my boy! This must be your daughter. Oh! Sweeter than honey! Softer than petals! I have heard so much—but the praise was not enough! You must have poetry written about you. Music composed for you. Tales must be spun with you as the heroine.” And Lord Jagged made a deep, an elaborate bow, his long sleeves sweeping the air below his feet. Next, he addressed Werther:
“Tell me, Werther, have you seen Mistress Christia? Everyone else is here, but not she.”
“I have looked for the Everlasting Concubine without success,” Werther told him.
“She should arrive soon. In a moment My Lady Charlotina announces the beginning of the masquerade—and Mistress Christia loves the masquerade.”
“I suspect she pines,” said Werther.
“Why so?”
“She loved me, you know.”
“Aha! Perhaps you are right. But I interrupt your dance. Forgive me.”
And Lord Jagged of Canaria floated, stately and beautiful, towards the floor.
“Mistress Christia?” said Catherine. “Is she your Lost Love?”
“A wonderful woman,” said Werther. “But my first duty is to you. Regretfully I could not pursue her, as I think she wanted me to do.”
“Have I come between you?”
“Of course not. Of course not. That was infatuation—this is sacred duty.”
And Werther showed her how to dance—how to notice a gap in a pattern which might be filled by the movements from her body. Because it was a special occasion he had given her her very own power ring—only a small one, but she was proud of it, and she gasped so prettily at the colours her train made that Werther’s anxieties (that his gift might corrupt her precious innocence) melted entirely away. It was then that he realized with a shock how deeply he had fallen in love with her.
At the realization, he made an excuse, leaving her to dance with, first, Sweet Orb Mace, feminine tonight, with a latticed face, and then with O’Kala Incarnadine who, with his usual preference for the bodies of beasts, was currently a bear. Although he felt a pang as he watched her stroke O’Kala’s ruddy fur, he could not bring himself just then to interfere. His immediate desire was to leave the Ball, but to do that would be to disappoint his ward, to raise questions he would not wish to answer. After a while he began to feel a certain satisfaction from his suffering and remained, miserably, on the floor while Catherine danced on and on.
And then My Lady Charlotina had stopped the orchestra and stood on the platform calling for their attention.
“It is time for the masquerade. You all know the theme, I hope.” She paused, smiling. “All, save Werther and Catherine. When the music begins again, please reveal your creations of the evening.”
Werther frowned, wondering her reasons for not revealing the theme of the masquerade to him. She was still smiling at him as she drifted towards him and settled beside him on the floor.
“You seem sad, Werther. Why so? I thought you at one with yourself at last. Wait. My surprise will flatter you, I’m sure!”
The music began again. The Ball was filled with laughter—and there was the theme of the masquerade!
Werther cried out in anguish. He dashed upward through the gleeful throng, seeing each face as a mockery, trying to reach the side of his girl-child before she should realize the dreadful truth.
“Catherine! Catherine!”
He flew to her. She was bewildered as he folded her in his arms.
“Oh, they are monsters of insincerity! Oh, they are grotesque in their apings of all that is simple, all that is pure!” he cried.
He glared about him at the other guests. My Lady Charlotina had chosen “Childhood” as her general theme. Sweet Orb Mace had changed himself into a gigantic single sperm, his own face still visible at the glistening tail; the Iron Orchid had become a monstrous newborn baby with a red and bawling face which still owed more to paint than to Nature; the Duke of Queens, true to character, was three-year-old Siamese twins (both the faces were his own, softened); even Lord Mongrove had deigned to become an egg.
“What ith it, Werther?” lisped My Lady Charlotina at his feet, her brown curls bobbing as she waved her lollipop in the general direction of the other guests. “Doeth it not pleathe you?”
“Ugh! This is agony! A parody of everything I hold most perfect!”
“But, Werther . . .”
“What is wrong, dear Werther?” begged Catherine. “It is only a masquerade.”
“Can you not see? It is you—what you and I mean—that they mock. No—it is best that you do not see. Come, Catherine. They are insane; they revile all that is sacred!” And he bore her bodily towards the wall, rushing through the nearest doorway and out into the darkened sky.
He left his typewriter behind, so great was his haste to be gone from that terrible scene. He fled with her willy-nilly through the air, through daylight, through pitchy night. He fled until he came to his own tower, flanked now by green lawns and rolling turf, surrounded by songbirds, swamped in sunshine. And he hated it: landscape, larks and light—all were hateful.
He flew through the window and found his room full of comforts—of cushions and carpets and heady perfume—and with a gesture he removed them. Their particles hung gleaming in the sun’s beams for a moment. But the sun, too, was hateful. He blacked it out and night swam into that bare chamber. And all the while, in amazement, Catherine Gratitude looked on, her lips forming the question, but never uttering it. At length, tentatively, she touched his arm.
“Werther?”
His hands flew to his head. He roared in his mindless pain.
“Oh, Werther!”
“Ah! They destroy me! They destroy my ideals!”
He was weeping when he turned to bury his face in her hair.
“Werther!” She kissed his cold cheek. She stroked his shaking back. And she led him from the ruins of his room and down the passage to her own apartment.
“Why should I strive to set up standards,” he sobbed, “when all about me they seek to pull them down. It would be better to be a villain!”
But he was quiescent; he allowed himself to be seated upon her bed; he felt suddenly drained. He sighed. “They hate innocence. They would see it gone forever from this globe.”
She gripped his hand. She stroked it. “No, Werther. They meant no harm. I saw no harm.”
“They would corrupt you. I must keep you safe.”
Her lips touched his and his body came alive again. Her fingers touched his skin. He gasped.
“I must keep you safe.”
In a dream, he took her in his arms. Her lips parted, their tongues met. Her young breasts pressed against him—and for perhaps the first time in his life Werther understood the meaning of physical joy. His blood began to dance to the rhythm of a sprightlier heart. And why should he not take what they would take in his position? He placed a hand upon a pulsing thigh. If cynicism called the tune, then he would show them he could pace as pretty a measure as any. His kisses became passionate, and passionately were they returned.
“Catherine!”
A motion of a power ring and their clothes were gone, the bed hangings drawn.
And your auditor, not being of that modern school which salaciously seeks to share the secrets of others’ passions (secrets familiar, one might add, to the great majority of us), retires from this scene.
