The Thirteenth Tale-第11章

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now　i　knew　i　was　tied　to　the　story。　i　had　stumbled　upon　the　heart　the　tale　that　i　had　been　missioned　to　tell。　it　was　love。　and　loss。　for　what　else　could　the　sorrow　of　that　exclamation　be　but　bereavement？　in　a　flash　i　saw　beyond　the　mask　of　white　makeup　and　the　exotic　aperies。　for　a　few　seconds　it　seemed　to　me　that　i　could　see　right　into　miss　winter’s　heart；　right　into　her　thoughts。　i　recognized　the　very　essence　of　her—how　could　i　fail　to；　for　was　it　not　the　essence　of　me？

we　were　both　lone　twins。　with　this　realization；　the　leash　of　the　story　tightened　around　my　wrists；　and　my　excitement　was　suddenly　cut　through　with　fear。

‘where　can　i　find　a　public　record　of　this　fire？“　i　asked；　trying　not　to　let　my　perturbed　feelings　show　in　my　voice。

‘the　local　newspaper。　the　banbury　herald。“

i　nodded；　made　a　note　in　my　pad　and　flipped　the　cover　closed。

‘although；“　she　added；　”there　is　a　record　of　a　different　kind　that　i　can　show　you　now。“

i　raised　an　eyebrow。

‘e　nearer。“

i　rose　from　my　chair　and　took　a　step；　halving　the　distance　between　us。

slowly　she　raised　her　right　arm；　and　held　out　to　me　a　closed　fist　that　seemed　three…quarters　precious　stones　in　their　clawlike　settings。　in　a　movement　that　spoke　of　great　effort；　she　turned　her　hand　and　opened　it；　as　though　she　had　some　surprise　gift　concealed　and　was　about　to　offer　it　tome。

but　there　was　no　gift。　the　surprise　was　the　hand　itself。

the　flesh　of　her　palm　was　like　no　flesh　i　had　seen　before。　its　whitened　ridges　and　purple　furrows　bore　no　relation　to　the　pink　mound　at　the　base　of　my　fingers；　the　pale　valley　of　my　palm。　melted　by　fire；　her　flesh　had　cooled　into　an　entirely　unrecognizable　landscape；　like　a　scene　left　permanently　altered　by　the　passage　of　a　flow　of　lava。　her　fingers　did　not　lie　open　but　were　drawn　into　a　claw　by　the　shrunken　tightness　of　the　scar　tissue。　in　the　heart　of　her　palm；　scar　within　a　scar；　burn　inside　burn；　was　a　grotesque　mark。　it　was　set　very　deep　in　her　clutch；　so　deep　that　with　a　sudden　nausea　i　wondered　what　had　happened　to　the　bone　that　should　be　there。　it　made　sense　of　the　odd　set　of　the　hand　at　the　wrist；　the　way　it　seemed　to　weigh　upon　her　arm　as　though　it　had　no　life　of　its　own。　the　mark　was　a　circle　embedded　in　her　palm；　and　extending　from　it；　in　the　direction　of　the　thumb；　a　short　line。

thinking　about　it　now；　i　realize　that　the　mark　had　more　or　less　the　form　of　a　q；　but　at　the　time；　in　the　shock　of　this　unexpected　and　painful　act　of　revealment；　it　had　no　such　clarity；　and　it　disturbed　me　by　the　appearance　on　a　page　of　english　of　an　unfamiliar　symbol　from　a　lost　and　unreadable　language。

a　sudden　vertigo　took　hold　of　me　and　i　reached　behind　me　for　my　air。

‘i’m　sorry；“　i　heard　her　say。　”one　gets　so　used　to　one’s　own　horrors；　one　forgets　how　they　must　seem　to　other　people。“

i　sat　down　and　gradually　the　blackness　at　the　edge　of　my　vision　receded。

miss　winter　closed　her　fingers　into　her　damaged　palm；　swiveled　her　wrist　and　drew　the　jewel…encrusted　fist　back　into　her　lap。　in　a　protective　gesture　she　curled　the　fingers　of　her　other　hand　around　it。

‘i’m　sorry　you　didn’t　want　to　hear　my　ghost　story；　miss　lea。“

‘i’ll　hear　it　another　time。“

our　interview　was　over。

on　my　way　back　to　my　quarters　i　thought　of　the　letter　she　had　sent　me。　the　strained　and　painstaking　hand　that　i　had　never　seen　the　like　of　before。　i　had　put　it　down　to　illness。　arthritis　perhaps。　now　i　understood。　from　the　very　first　book　and　through　her　entire　career；　miss　winter　had　written　her　masterpieces　with　her　left　hand。

in　my　study　the　velvet　curtains　were　green；　and　a　pale　gold　watermark　tin　covered　the　walls。　despite　the　woolly　hush；　i　was　pleased　with　the　room；　for　the　overall　effect　was　relieved　by　the　broad　wooden　desk　and　e　plain　upright　chair　that　stood　under　the　window。　i　switched　on　the　desk　lamp　and　laid　out　the　ream　of　paper　i　had　brought　with　me；　and　my　twelve　pencils。　they　were　brand…new：　unsharpened　columns　of　red；　just　what　i　like　to　start　a　new　project　with。　the　last　thing　i　took　from　my　bag　was　my　pencil　sharpener。　i　screwed　it　like　a　vise　to　the　edge　of　the　desk　and　set　the　paper　basket　directly　underneath。

on　impulse　i　climbed　onto　the　desk　and　reached　behind　the　elaborate　valance　to　the　curtain　pole。　my　fingers　groped　for　the　tops　of　the　curtains；　and　i　felt　for　the　hooks　and　stitches　that　attached　them。　it　was　hardly　a　job　for　one　person；　the　curtains　were　floor　length；　lined　and　interlined；　and　their　weight；　flung　over　my　shoulder；　was　crushing。　but　after　a　few　minutes；　first　one　then　the　other　curtain　was　folded　and　in　a　cupboard。　i　stood　in　the　center　of　the　floor　and　surveyed　the　result　of　my　work。

the　window　was　a　large　expanse　of　dark　glass；　and　in　the　center　of　it；　my　ghost；　darkly　transparent；　was　staring　in　at　me。　her　world　was　not　unlike　my　own：　the　pale　outline　of　a　desk　on　the　other　side　of　the　glass；　and　farther　back　a　deeply　buttoned　armchair　placed　inside　the　circle　of　light　cast　by　a　standard　lamp。　but　where　my　chair　was　red；　hers　was　gray；　and　where　my　chair　stood　on　an　indian　rug；　surrounded　by　light　gold　walls；　her　chair　hovered　spectrally　in　an　undefined；　endless　plane　of　darkness　in　which　vague　forms；　like　waves；　seemed　to　shift　and　breathe。

together　we　began　the　little　ritual　of　preparing　our　desks。　we　divided　a　ream　of　paper　into　smaller　piles　and　flicked　through　each　one；　to　let　the　air　in。　one　by　one　we　sharpened　our　pencils；　turning　the　handle　and　watching　the　long　shavings　curl　and　dangle　their　way　to　the　paper　bin　below。　when　the　last　pencil　had　been　shaved　to　a　fine　point；　we　did　not　put　it　down　with　the　others；　but　kept　hold　of　it。

‘there；“　i　said　to　her。　”ready　for　work。“

she　opened　her　mouth；　seemed　to　speak　to　me。　i　couldn’t　hear　what　she　was　saying。

i　have　no　shorthand。　during　the　interview　i　had　simply　jotted　down　lists　of　keywords；　and　my　hope　was　that　if　i　wrote　up　our　interviews　immediately　afterward；　these　words　would　be　enough　to　jog　my　memory。　and　from　that　first　meeting；　it　worked　well。　glancing　at　my　notebook　from　time　to　time；　i　filled　the　center　of　my　sheets　of　foolscap　with　miss　winter’s　words；　conjuring　her　image　in　my　mind；　hearing　her　voice；　seeing　her　mannerisms。　soon　i　was　hardly　aware　of　my　notebook　but　was　taking　dictation　from　the　miss　winter　in　my　head。

i　left　wide　margins。　in　the　left…hand　one　i　noted　any　mannerisms；　expressions　and　gestures　that　seemed　to　add　something　to　her　meaning。

the　right…hand　margin　i　left　blank。　later；　rereading；　it　was　here　that　i　would　enter　my　own　thoughts；　ments；　questions。

i　felt　as　though　i　had　worked　for　hours。　i　emerged　to　make　myself　a　cup　of　cocoa；　but　it　was　time　suspended　and　did　not　disturb　the　flow　of　my　recreation；　i　returned　to　my　work　and　picked　up　the　thread　as　though　there　had　been　no　interruption。

‘one　gets　so　used　to　one’s　own　horrors；　one　forgets　how　they　must　seem　to　other　people；“　i　wrote　at　last　in　the　middle　column；　and　in　the　left　i　added　a　note　describing　the　way　she　closed　the　fingers　of　her　good　hand　over　the　closed　fist　of　the　damaged　one。

i　drew　a　double　line　under　the　last　line　of　script；　and　stretched。　in　the　window　the　other　me　stretched　as　well。　she　took　the　pencils　whose　points　she　had　worn　and　sharpened　them　one　by　one。

she　was　mid…yawn　when　something　began　to　happen　to　her　face。　first　it　was　a　sudden　blurring　in　the　center　of　her　forehead；　like　a　blister。　another　mark　appeared　on　her　cheek；　then　beneath　her　eye；　on　her　nose；　on　her　lips。　each　new　blemish　was　acpanied　by　a　dull　thud；　a　percussion　that　grew　faster　and　faster。　in　a　few　seconds　her　entire　face；　it　seemed；　had　deposed。

but　it　was　not　the　work　of　death。　it　was　only　rain。　the　long…awaited　rain。

i　opened　the　window；　let　my　hand　be　drenched；　then　wiped　the　water　over　my　eyes　and　face。　i　shivered。　time　for　bed。

i　left　the　window　ajar　so　that　i　could　listen　to　the　rain　as　it　continued　to　fall　with　an　even；　muffled　softness。　i　heard　it　while　i　was　undressing；　while　i　was　reading　and　while　i　slept。　it　acpanied　my　dreams　like　a　poorly　tuned　radio　left　on　through　the　night；　broadcasting　a　fuzzy　white　noise　beneath　which　were　the　barely　audible　whispers　of　foreign　languages　and　snatches　of　unfamiliar　tunes。

　．．



AND　SO　WE　BEGAN…

［。小＾说）网）
at　nine　o’clock　the　next　morning　miss　winter　sent　for　me　and　i　went　to　her　in　the　library。

by　daylight　the　room　was　quite　different。　with　the　shutters　folded　back；　the　full…height　windows　let　the　light　flood　in　from　the　pale　sky。　the　garden；　still　wet　from　the　night’s　downpour；　gleamed　in　the　morning　sun。　the　exotic　plants　by　the　window　seats　seemed　to　touch　leaf　with　their　hardier；　damper　cousins　beyond　the　glass；　and　the　delicate　framework　that　held　the　panes　in　place　seemed　no　more　solid　than　the　glimmering　threads　of　a　spider’s　web　stretched　across　a　garden　path　from　branch　to　branch。　the　library　itself；　slighter；　narrower　seemingly　than　the　night　before；　appeared　as　a　mirage　of　books　in　the　wet　winter　garden。

in　contrast　to　the　palely　blue　sky　and　the　milk…white　sun；　miss　winter　was　all　heat　and　fire；　an　exotic　hothouse　flower　in　a　northern　winter　garden。　she　wore　no　sunglasses　today；　but　her　eyelids　were　col