Post by Jasper de Montchrestien (D) on May 22, 2006 17:40:13 GMT -5
It was some days after I had arrived in the City that I first saw her.
I was, at the time, living in a sordid little lodging house in a district of Night’s Doorstep of which respectable people have no notion. I spent my days wandering the streets in search of beauty and passion and grace to console myself for the squalid nights spent listening to the scuttle of the cockroaches and the spiders and counting by sickly moonlight the cracks upon the damp and mould-streaked ceiling above my narrow bed.
I was sitting on the rim of one of the fountains that decorate some of the superior plazas, shivering somewhat in a threadbare coat, trying to capture the pattern of sunlit sparkles and glistening waterdrops upon tiles when I saw her. She walked, oh how can I capture the fluid glory of motion, how can I ever? Words are inadequate. Lines upon a page are inadequate. All day and all night I worked on the memory of the sight of her, until the daylight died, until my last candle burned itself to nothing, through the flickering uncertainty of starlight until I was half-blind in the grey dawn with nothing but crumpled papers and sweeps of pencil, inks, oils, watercolours that representing nothing of the power and grace of the woman who had prowled through the plaza like a queen and a predator and an animal and a woman.
I went there every day for the next week, although the days grew colder and my coat ever less protection against it. Sometimes I could barely keep my fingers upon a pen. And then, finally, she returned and the cold seemed like nothing at all. This time I caught the sweep of her hair, as black and rippling as a river of ink. And her eyes as black as flame. Her shadow fell across me.
“What are you doing?” Such an imperious voice, with the hint of a purr from deep her undulating throat.
I barely glanced up. “I’m drawing you. Or trying to.”
The paper was whisked from beneath my hands. I had to let it go. I knew, with an utter certainty, that if I hadn’t released my hold on it she would have thought nothing of tearing it. And paper is expensive, inspiration more so.
She gave a considering hum. “Not bad.”
“It would be better if you stood still for a moment.”
She laughed at that. “Is that all you want”
“It’s all I want from you.”
She rested a foot lightly upon the rim of the fountain where I still sat and bent her head to whisper in my ear. My eyes wandered over the exquisite lines of her body, those sweeping curves, the delicate musculature. The scent of her washed over me, some musky perfume, cinnamon and sandalwood, and the hot sweet smell that was hers alone. She whispered a price in my ear.
My eyes flew wide. A naiveté I would preferred not to display. “I can’t afford candles,” I replied, “Or patches for the elbows of my coat. I certainly can’t afford you. And art has no price.”
She stood, running her hands over her hips. “This art has a price,” she said. She was still holding my drawing and, without a moment’s hesitation, she tore it in two down the middle. It made a sound like a scream. And then she threw it into the centre of the fountain. The ink bled immediately into the dirty water, dark lines swirling into nothing.
“You…” I shall not repeat the name I called her. My voice was surprisingly steady and full of venom.
She lent towards me again. Again, the scent of her rushed of me, this time in a wave that made me feel as though I was drowning. “I could teach you manners, too, little artist.”
My senses whirled giddily. I think it was lack of proper food and rest that made so suddenly light-headed. It was only the sudden hand that she put on my shoulder that stopped me swooning backwards into the fountain.
She chuckled, honey rich, wine-dark lips parting from glistening white teeth. “But I charge for that too.”
I looked back at the water – there were only a few sodden curls of paper left of my sketch. At that moment I felt such an insanely potent mix of helplessness and fury I hardly knew what to do or say. I was half afraid I was going to do something truly mad like burst into tears; it would have been impotent anger and frustration, combined with weeks of grinding poverty and misery, but I didn’t want her to witness it and think it was sorrow or self-pity. I jerked myself from her touch and turned to go.
“My name is Caresse no Mandrake,” she called after me. “If you have something to offer me, I’ll let you draw me. However you choose.”
I stopped, my back still turned to her, my emotions still too tumultuous for me to be able to face her with anything like dignity. “I could ink your Marque,” I said. “I have a talent for that.”
“That’s quite a risk to take from somebody who looked like he wanted to kill me about twenty seconds ago.”
Composure. Composure. Why was my heart still beating? Why did I feel somewhere between screaming and fainting. I walked slowly back towards, shrugged my right arm out of my coat and rolled my back shirt sleeve. She closed her hand around my wrist, pulling me towards her so abruptly that I almost stumbled. Her eyes travelled over the various designs and patterns that covered most of the skin of my arm, at least all those parts of it I could comfortably reach.
“You’re good,” she said, finally, grudgingly.
I met her eyes. “I know.”
“And you’re arrogant.”
“That, too, I know.”
She smiled. Such a smile. It sent shivers up and down my spine. “I think we have a deal.”
I was, at the time, living in a sordid little lodging house in a district of Night’s Doorstep of which respectable people have no notion. I spent my days wandering the streets in search of beauty and passion and grace to console myself for the squalid nights spent listening to the scuttle of the cockroaches and the spiders and counting by sickly moonlight the cracks upon the damp and mould-streaked ceiling above my narrow bed.
I was sitting on the rim of one of the fountains that decorate some of the superior plazas, shivering somewhat in a threadbare coat, trying to capture the pattern of sunlit sparkles and glistening waterdrops upon tiles when I saw her. She walked, oh how can I capture the fluid glory of motion, how can I ever? Words are inadequate. Lines upon a page are inadequate. All day and all night I worked on the memory of the sight of her, until the daylight died, until my last candle burned itself to nothing, through the flickering uncertainty of starlight until I was half-blind in the grey dawn with nothing but crumpled papers and sweeps of pencil, inks, oils, watercolours that representing nothing of the power and grace of the woman who had prowled through the plaza like a queen and a predator and an animal and a woman.
I went there every day for the next week, although the days grew colder and my coat ever less protection against it. Sometimes I could barely keep my fingers upon a pen. And then, finally, she returned and the cold seemed like nothing at all. This time I caught the sweep of her hair, as black and rippling as a river of ink. And her eyes as black as flame. Her shadow fell across me.
“What are you doing?” Such an imperious voice, with the hint of a purr from deep her undulating throat.
I barely glanced up. “I’m drawing you. Or trying to.”
The paper was whisked from beneath my hands. I had to let it go. I knew, with an utter certainty, that if I hadn’t released my hold on it she would have thought nothing of tearing it. And paper is expensive, inspiration more so.
She gave a considering hum. “Not bad.”
“It would be better if you stood still for a moment.”
She laughed at that. “Is that all you want”
“It’s all I want from you.”
She rested a foot lightly upon the rim of the fountain where I still sat and bent her head to whisper in my ear. My eyes wandered over the exquisite lines of her body, those sweeping curves, the delicate musculature. The scent of her washed over me, some musky perfume, cinnamon and sandalwood, and the hot sweet smell that was hers alone. She whispered a price in my ear.
My eyes flew wide. A naiveté I would preferred not to display. “I can’t afford candles,” I replied, “Or patches for the elbows of my coat. I certainly can’t afford you. And art has no price.”
She stood, running her hands over her hips. “This art has a price,” she said. She was still holding my drawing and, without a moment’s hesitation, she tore it in two down the middle. It made a sound like a scream. And then she threw it into the centre of the fountain. The ink bled immediately into the dirty water, dark lines swirling into nothing.
“You…” I shall not repeat the name I called her. My voice was surprisingly steady and full of venom.
She lent towards me again. Again, the scent of her rushed of me, this time in a wave that made me feel as though I was drowning. “I could teach you manners, too, little artist.”
My senses whirled giddily. I think it was lack of proper food and rest that made so suddenly light-headed. It was only the sudden hand that she put on my shoulder that stopped me swooning backwards into the fountain.
She chuckled, honey rich, wine-dark lips parting from glistening white teeth. “But I charge for that too.”
I looked back at the water – there were only a few sodden curls of paper left of my sketch. At that moment I felt such an insanely potent mix of helplessness and fury I hardly knew what to do or say. I was half afraid I was going to do something truly mad like burst into tears; it would have been impotent anger and frustration, combined with weeks of grinding poverty and misery, but I didn’t want her to witness it and think it was sorrow or self-pity. I jerked myself from her touch and turned to go.
“My name is Caresse no Mandrake,” she called after me. “If you have something to offer me, I’ll let you draw me. However you choose.”
I stopped, my back still turned to her, my emotions still too tumultuous for me to be able to face her with anything like dignity. “I could ink your Marque,” I said. “I have a talent for that.”
“That’s quite a risk to take from somebody who looked like he wanted to kill me about twenty seconds ago.”
Composure. Composure. Why was my heart still beating? Why did I feel somewhere between screaming and fainting. I walked slowly back towards, shrugged my right arm out of my coat and rolled my back shirt sleeve. She closed her hand around my wrist, pulling me towards her so abruptly that I almost stumbled. Her eyes travelled over the various designs and patterns that covered most of the skin of my arm, at least all those parts of it I could comfortably reach.
“You’re good,” she said, finally, grudgingly.
I met her eyes. “I know.”
“And you’re arrogant.”
“That, too, I know.”
She smiled. Such a smile. It sent shivers up and down my spine. “I think we have a deal.”