The Emperor of All Things - By Paul Witcover Page 0,105
at a noise only she could hear. Alarm and fear rose in her features. This shocked me, for how could such a perfect being be afraid … and of what? I realized at the same time that she was younger than I had thought: was, in fact, younger than I. Had she always been so? A rosy blush infused her skin; her lips glistened as if with the juice of blueberries; the green of her eyes was no longer that of cold stone but a shade at once more vibrant and more fragile: an audacious springtime green. She seemed to be in the throes of a transformation, as though something frozen in her had begun to melt; and even as I had this thought, tears welled up in her eyes, spilling down her cheeks.
‘What is it?’ I asked, pierced to the heart by this evidence of vulnerability and filled with a fierce desire to protect her; indeed, at that moment I would have laid down my life for her without question or hesitation. ‘What are you afraid of?’
She answered in a breathless voice that was nothing like I had imagined it might be – beautiful, yes, but humanly so … which made it seem even lovelier, and made her seem lovelier, too, nearer to me, not an angel but a woman. ‘He approaches.’
‘He?’
A booming shudder passed through the bed, the inn, the world. And then another. Like the rolling thunder of an avalanche. Or the footsteps of a giant.
‘My father,’ she said, her voice little more than a whisper. ‘If he should find me here … I must go!’
‘But who are you? I don’t even know your name—’
Another footstep, much closer, as if from just outside the window behind me. I turned, but could see nothing through the glass, which was thoroughly befogged. The whole room, in fact, was filling with fog, and when I turned back to the girl, I saw that the source of it was her gown. The air had grown warmer, and I heard the steady hissing of the stove again. Or not the stove, but the gown itself, the icy fabric melting, dissolving, turning translucent as it thinned, so that I could see the outline of the body within, willowy and white, the pink buds of breasts visible for an unforgettable instant before, raising one arm to cover herself, the girl turned with a cry and fled the room.
‘Wait,’ I called, but she was gone, vanished into the billowing mist. As I moved to follow, I felt the unmistakable sensation of being observed, and so powerful was this intrusive presence that I turned back to the window, afraid that I would see a gigantic eyeball pressed to the glass. But the swirling fog was too dense. Whatever was out there, watching me, I could not see it, though the force of its dreadful regard immobilized me, held me in its grasp so that I could not even breathe.
Then the pressure withdrew. I coughed, sucking air into my lungs as I heard and felt the ponderous footsteps drawing off. I was limp with relief, drenched in sweat. Yet I could not forget the girl was out there, pursued by a father (for so she had named him) that she feared. I was afraid as well, I won’t deny it, and a part of me wanted nothing more than to pull the sheets up over my head and, like a trembling boy, take refuge in a cosy darkness of my own making. But I would not be ruled by fear. I paused only to pick up my dirk before plunging into the already dissipating mists after my beautiful visitor. She would not face her father alone and unprotected.
She proved easy to follow: her melting dress had left a wet trail across the floor that glowed with a silvery-blue phosphorescence. I lost my footing once and almost fell as I hurried down the stairs and into the common room … which was empty save for the hound, Hesta, asleep before the glowing coals of the fire, her fat old body twitching in the throes of some doggy dream. Curtains of fog made slow undulations in the air. I wondered how late it was, how long I had slept, but I couldn’t make out the face of the cuckoo clock. Nor did I linger for a closer look or check my pocket watch. Instead, I hurried out of the inn.
The snowstorm had grown worse. I did not think even