Alisiyad Chapter 9 ~ Eliasha

A weird modernist painting?  Russ wasn’t even sure what that meant, but if the servants had left him his real clothes, he would have changed back into them before going outside.  But he couldn’t; they’d taken his clothes away . . . maybe they were washing them, or burning them, or making a little voodoo doll of him to stick needles in.  There was nothing he could do about it now.

He latched the doors shut behind him and ambled down the stairs.  It was nice in the garden, nicer than trudging through a forest or through a field.  Liseli didn’t know what she was missing.  He would have stuck his hands in his pockets as he went, but there were no pockets in the pants.  Useless.  The shirt was okay, but he hoped he’d at least get his jeans back in one piece.

Russ stopped at the bottom of the stairs and looked around.  Underneath the balcony was a shaded area with windows in the wall above stone benches.  The path led away from the stairs, branching off toward the garden in one direction, and leading out into a courtyard with a fountain and watering trough in the other.  A stone archway separated the garden from the courtyard.  Russ headed into the garden, glancing around for any sign of people.  He felt guilty, for some reason . . . even though no one had told him he had to stay in his room until dinner, he didn’t want to be caught.  Well . . . .  It was more like a suggestion, really.  Or a strong hint.  An indirect order.

Anyway . . . .  He walked past a rosebush, a stretch of tall yellow and white flowers swaying in the breeze, and a spread of tiny purple buds like carpeting.  The path branched again, one way leading out into an open area set up with tents, the other leading past tall trees and ferns growing in the shade.  Russ went to the left, into the trees.  There were more benches, strategically placed on beds of neatly trimmed grass with stepping-stones leading up to them.  Russ saw statues of people and animals, then birdbaths, birdhouses, and a small gazebo overgrown with vines.  He crossed a little stone bridge over a stream, pausing to lean over the side to look at the lily pads in bloom and the hints of fish gliding below.  Liseli would have really liked this.  He was sure of it.  He’d never actually heard her talk about liking gardens . . . but . . . .  Hell, I think it’s kinda cool, anyway . . . .

At one point deep in the trees he felt as if he was in a real woods.  A real, wild woods.  It was cool and dim, and when he looked all around he could see the depth of trees instead of seeing out past them to the bushes and flowerbeds beyond.  To his left he caught site of a building nearly hidden among the plants.  A narrow path of stepping-stones led toward it, and he took the turn-off.  The building was small and square, covered in ivy.  The stones stopped at an old wooden door.  He glanced up at the slate roof, and down at the thick overgrowth, then stared at his feet for a moment.  He wondered if there was anything wrong with going into the building.  Probably.

Russ glanced around, yawned, scratched his head, and attempted to nonchalantly put his hands in his non-existent pockets.  He seemed to be as alone as ever . . . .  He sidled around the edge of the building, leaving the stones and climbing through the thick grass.  There were windows framed in the ivy, and he peeked through the first one.  He saw windows lining the other side of the building, shining hazy afternoon light into the room.  It was difficult to make out what exactly was in the building, though, with the shadows and the faint glare.  He could make out the outlines of objects, but didn’t see anyone moving around inside.  Maybe it was a tool-shed.

Back in front of the door.  It’s probably locked, anyway.  He reached out and took the doorknob as if accepting the offer of a handshake.  The iron was smooth around the edges but had little pits and bumps of texture across the top; it was cold and hard, and didn’t turn.  He jiggled it back and forth for a moment, thinking, Damn.  He stopped and let go, looking at the handle for a moment.  Maybe it was just stuck . . . a sticky door.  Rusted mechanism, or something.  Probably was just a tool-shed, anyway.

He turned away and took a step down the path, then stopped.  Maybe just push on it a little and it’ll come unstuck.  He turned back, and tried leaning on the door as he jiggled it.  It didn’t budge.  Russ paused and scratched his head absently.  He’d seen something that didn’t look like a tool, inside.  It was like one of the statues lining the paths in the open areas.  He thought he’d seen a gray hand in the shaft of light.  Or maybe he’d imagined it out of the shape of a . . . hedge-trimmer.

Russ kicked the door gently with the toe of his sneaker (which the servants had apparently not seen fit to confiscate).  It didn’t budge, but he didn’t really expect it to . . . .  But now that he thought about it more, he couldn’t get the image of the hand to fade or become something else.  It had been extended, palm upwards, forefinger pointing with the other fingers curving slightly up and away.  Beckoning, or asking for something.  If he closed his eyes and rested his forehead against the door he could almost see the gray stone arm climbing up past the elbow . . . connected to what?

The door had to be stuck.  It couldn’t be locked.  He could feel it wanting to open, coming that close to falling open.  Something was stopping it.  Rust . . . gunk . . . swelling from humidity in the air.  Something.  It couldn’t be locked.  He had to see what was on the other side.

“Come on,” he muttered, thrusting his shoulder at the wood.  It creaked.  He closed his eyes and tried to see the gray hand again.  He knew that this time the latch would give and the knob would turn.  It was only a matter of giving it a quick little yank and . . . open sesame.  With a faint click, the handle gave way the door shuddered inward.

He cracked open the door, peeking in around the corner.  A high, round window in the back wall shone a beam of light downwards, backlighting a statue of an angel.  Actually, no.  It didn’t have any wings.  The side windows cast light to balance out the round one, and he could see the carved face of a woman.  A wreath of real flowers was draped over the rendering of hair piled on top the head.  He thought the folds of a dress falling over feminine curves looked remarkably soft and real, for stone.  The left hand was poised demurely with the fingers touching the base of the throat; the right hand extended toward the door.  Russ stepped into the room.  He left the door hanging open, for more light, and looked around.

On the spaces of wall between the windows hung paintings.  They were done in thick, dark colors, and were hard to see.  The statue stood on a pedestal in the very middle of the room.  There was another, lower stand in front of it facing the door, and on that sat a large leather-bound book.  Potted flowers ringed the stands.  Around the edges of the room were various items; some pottery and smaller statues interspersed with tables and benches.  On the tables stood little knick-knacks, seemingly random odds and ends.  An ivory comb and a silver clasp sat arranged with a wooden flute.  A shelf of small books ran alongside them, and a glass frog sat as a paperweight over a sheet of handwritten music.

Russ inspected all of them, feeling as if they were the pieces of an odd little puzzle, which could fit together only if he knew the rules.  He didn’t touch anything.  Not even when he came to the back of the room and found a small guitar sitting on the bench, nestled in a blue cape which trailed to the ground.  Instead he stepped back and looked at the wall — save for the small round window, it was completely covered in paintings and sketches.  He cocked his head to the side and squinted at them.

It was mainly people and animals, and some scenes of buildings and landscapes he didn’t quite recognize.  There was one large picture of a beautiful woman who sat holding a ball of flame in her hands, while a tall red haired man stood at her shoulder, both of them staring at the ball in wonder.  Several small children played on the floor at their feet.  Only it wasn’t actually the floor, it was a black expanse, as if the people were floating, or the painter hadn’t done the backdrop yet.  The woman wasn’t so much sitting as crouching.  It was a weird picture.

He saw another picture of what looked like a dog, only it was standing back on its hind legs, and its front legs dangled at its sides, extending into something halfway between hands and paws.  Its tail was long and draped across the floor, curling around its feet.  When Russ looked at the face he could almost feel the feral orange eyes of the dog staring down at him while the jowls raised in a menacing sneer.  Huh.  He wondered if that picture could be by the same artist who had done the floating family, and had painted all the other portraits of things like deer, birds, smiling people and pleasant city streets.

He inspected the paintings for a signature, and found a common mark on all of them.  He couldn’t really read it, but it looked like the same thing.  Huh.  It was a cool picture, though.  Devil dog.  Or something.

Russ returned to the front of the statue, and looked around for a plaque or engraving that would say who the statue was of, or was by.  There was nothing.  He carefully opened the large book, letting it fall naturally to a part near the beginning.

The left-hand page of the book was penned in a language Russ couldn’t read.  The right side, however, was in daintily handwritten English.  “ . . . with the coming of mankind.  Azmanvalli and Zalisha perceived that it was good for their children to walk among the strange beings from afar, and to know them, begetting offspring to fill the Seventh.  They called together the Six, and revealed their plan.  These Three of the Six obeyed their parents’ will: Ederi of Earth, Althya of Growing, and Arkilli of Beasts.  But Alisiya of Air made her will known, to remain above the Seventh, alone and chaste.  This will her parents respected.  The eldest of the Six, Aldia of Night and Auchai of Water, agreed to their parents’ plan in voice, but in secret they rebelled, sister and brother wedding each other.  These Three did they beget: Byzauki of War, Ricalli of Shadows, and Osvira of Passion.  Then Azmanvalli and Zalisha became aware of the union, and Azmanvalli was sorely aggrieved . . . .”

It was some kind of weird history book, Russ thought as he came to the end of the page.  He turned it over; it crinkled slightly, disturbing the silence.  So, Azmanvalli was pissed about his kids mating . . . .  Well, that’s one thing Mom doesn’t have to complain about, Russ rolled his eyes and smiled briefly at the idea, but then shuddered when he thought about Kyla.  He wondered who had taken the time to write out this whole gigantic book by hand.

A flutter of movement to Russ’s left caught his attention.  He looked up and froze, seeing a young woman standing outside the window staring in at him.  Her expression was composed, as if she found him mildly interesting but not the least bit surprising.  When she saw that he saw her, she turned with a hint of a smile and walked toward the front of the building.  Russ thought about fleeing, but only got as far as the doorway before he found himself face to face with her.