In Darkness

The messenger

This noise is an ocean I must cross, peak after trough it crashes against me, a frail sailor drowning in the sound of this room, thrashing to keep my head above water, fighting this affliction of age or perhaps disposition and madness this sensitivity to the noisy churn of humanity and I think I have been fighting against this current for too long, the endless invective, humourless and wan has soaked into me, it has become me and I have become my own sodden prayer. I close my eyes in an effort to navigate these waters, hoping to shake off the unhelpful darkness and hone in on the conversations that matter, I will my mind to separate the noise from those words which impart something important, butterflies in the storm, though after several minutes of trying, I can tell that my heart is not in it, the voices babble, the music howls, and I curse my weakness and the pain that hammers in its bone cage, the familiar ache clutching at me like a needy child.

In front of me the food cools, pale and unappetising. The burnt-cereal smell of the staple grains fills the room, finds its way into the small corners, the clothing, the wood of the table itself, it is indifferent to the attempts of the kitchen to flavour it with herbs and ginger, indifferent to our human aspirations of sophistication and taste, a watery carbohydrate, overcooked and poor. There is little difference between the food and the ale served alongside it.

Today has soured me more than usual. It has been a long day for an old woman and I miss the comforts of home, almost as much as I miss the young woman who lived for moments like these in which her quick mind and sharp tongue were not a cause for vilification but fear. Why did Janus really feel it necessary to include me in these intrigues? He knows full well that I am not interested in pageantry. He also knows that time has blunted my ambition and dimmed my eyes, both those that take in this scene before me and the internal eye, the one that watches for meaning among the collected verbiage and colour of a crowded room. 

Is Janus wishing to impress our guest by my presence? If so, I will do a very poor job of that, a confused old woman struggling to hear in all of this din. I barely have the respect of the staff. Not two minutes ago one of the servers offered to cut my food for me. The poor boy almost lost his fingers as he grabbed for my knife. He will not soon make the same mistake again.

I suppose that I must appear a sorry sight, frail and befuddled, though in such appearance I feel I may yet find an advantage. It is probably a good thing that I did not have a knife on me during our afternoon meeting with the messenger. Janus insisted that I be present while he interviewed Marius, for such I discovered is the messenger’s name and a good patrician name at that, so much so that I wonder if he traces his lineage to any of the families in this region or whether it is an affectation, I no longer know how they name themselves in the capital and whether they follow the old traditions at all, in fact I no longer know many things and the longer I live the more this seems true and yet Janus wanted me there also, sat in the corner of his meeting room looking for all the world like an ancient secretary rather than a trusted advisor and I’m sure if he hadn’t been polite enough to introduce me then Marius might have mistaken me for one of the many antiques littering his office. When I told this to Sam he laughed, then smothered the laugh and assured me that it wasn’t at all possible to mistake me for something inanimate. I slapped the old fool and he laughed even more.

Janus had seated us at the large wooden table at which he holds all of his important meetings, clearly intent on giving his impromptu consultation with Marius the kind of gravitas it deserved, and once seated he dispensed with all pleasantries and launched straight in.

Our council has met this morning, said Janus, and we have an answer for you to take back to the capital.

To be clear, said Marius, I don’t believe anyone is concerned with whether you have an answer or not. We are not asking for your permission. Compliance is assumed.

All the same, said Janus, maintaining his calm and diplomatic demeanour even as my fists clenched below the surface of the table, we would appreciate it if you could convey a few thoughts from our council regarding the practical arrangements necessary to fulfil the request.

There is no need, Marius insisted, the arrangements are purely your business. The government does not concern itself with the operational matters of the provinces, and I’m not exactly sure to whom or where you would have me report these ‘thoughts’.

Ah, well, said Janus, you see, the thing is we haven’t had a lot of detail about why this request is being made, when it is expected we deliver the double harvest, and whether more support in regards to labour & materials might be forthcoming. So if you were able to communicate these concerns to the appropriate authorities we would be much better placed to deliver on the original…

I’ll stop you there, said Marius, and just make it very clear to you that I have absolutely no power to negotiate, nor for that matter to deliver your demands to anyone that might hear them. Just like you I have received my instructions without any pre-amble, background, or further explanation. But unlike you, it seems, I am capable of getting on with the job of figuring out how to follow through on them.

Oh for goodness sake! I say after hearing all of this, what utter nonsense. Are you truly telling me that, having delivered a message that will turn the production of our town on its head, a message that has the power to up-end the careful balance of our community, that you have no further responsibility nor care? That you, a godforsaken messenger, cannot deliver a simple message?

Marius looked at me with some surprise, almost as if he’d forgotten I was sitting at the table at all. After a few seconds, in which time he seemed to recalibrate some part of his brain, he spoke again.

It does not matter whether I care, don’t you see? I can understand the impact of the request, but I cannot do anything about it. 

You may as well be an automaton, I said, they could have written the message on a stone and hurled it into the town square for all you matter! You are saying you have no authority, nor responsibility, and yet you arrive here in an official transport, you stay in official housing, and you demand the respect of the townspeople. If it is respect you want, then you should earn it. Listen to what Janus has to say and deliver our damn message!

I slapped the table with the last outburst, and even Janus raised an eyebrow. Marius, his cheeks colouring, was no longer as composed as he’d been when he came in the door and he seemed unsure of how to respond. Janus, taking a quick and somewhat uncertain look towards me, stepped into the uncomfortable silence with a conciliatory tone.

You will forgive her, I hope. Iris is old and occasionally forgets proper decorum. But she is correct in pointing out that your function is to deliver messages, and I would simply ask that you deliver one on our behalf. It is a simple enough request, is it not? To save you time and much discussion, I’ve already drafted a letter to the Minister of Production. And I want you to know that we recognise the value of such service. As such I am willing to provide the appropriate fee for the carrying of this letter.

Well that changed his tune in a hurry. While I continued to seeth at him, Janus busied himself with the particulars and Marius was restored to his earlier pomposity, comfortable once again that he could ignore me.

I watch Janus conferring with him now. Marius is shorter than our Primus, though more heavily built and while Janus is very particular about his dress, seeing him next to Marius one can sense that his clothing is ever so slightly out of date. As I watch Marius he nods in acknowledgement of some comment Janus makes but I cannot catch the words. A smile creases the messenger’s smug face, and I even see his teeth for a moment. He is clearly amused by the wit of our Primus.

I know that as a messenger he has little importance in the grand scheme of things, but such men are often employed to gather intelligence as much as they are there to deliver the edicts of our distant lords and so he must be watched even as he watches us and I wonder, as I half-heartedly chew my food, what he thinks of us when he looks around this faded room, what does he see in the patriciate of Matheson? 

First and foremost he will have noted the abilities of our Primus, and these will be explored and reported on, and not in any sort of flattering way. Our capital likes to concentrate talent as well as power, and is always sure to remove it from the provinces wherever it can be found. Perhaps Marius has also brushed up against the cupidity of William. It knows how to work with greedy men, and he cannot fail to notice the insipid but otherwise tractable council, something that will please him well and among them myself, a grouchy old woman overdue for her dotage and as I think about this I begin to understand Janus’ thinking a little more clearly because surely our messenger thinks nothing of me at all, frail and unfashionable as I am, a relic of former times, no more than a passing curiosity to a man from the centre of things, a man so full of entitlement that it floats around him like perfume. Such a man has already disregarded me, leaving me free to watch him, to assess whether there is anything to be gleaned from his manner or words, something by which we might gain the slightest leverage against the capital.

I watch as Janus turns to the patrician at his elbow, an attractive woman with raven hair named Elise. She leans in to whisper something in his ear, a smile creasing the corners of her mouth as though she was imparting something mysterious and amusing. I know Elise well and believe me she will not be saying anything mysterious or amusing but Janus, being a good politician, will humour her all the same. Marius, meanwhile, is staring across the room where the serving boy I snapped at earlier is standing against the wall. He has a look in his eye that I do not like. While Janus is distracted he turns towards one of the porters to make some sort of enquiry, signalling towards the boy.

This is not something that I expected. There is no good reason why Marius would have business with a serving boy. My mind races to find one, but does not land on anything specific, well that’s not entirely true, of course, because it lands on the worst possible but most obvious assumption. I hope that I am mistaken about the man’s intentions, but the history of powerful men is not on Marius’ side. Elise turns her attention from Janus to Marius, touching his arm and saying something before laughing in her obnoxious way. Marius turns away from the porter to face her,  a look of mild confusion and annoyance on his face, and the porter takes the opportunity to disappear.

Conversations swirl, the noise does not abate. I get up from my seat, feeling unsteady, as though the floor does indeed pitch in the storm.  I leave the talk to others and make my way across the room to the boy, still waiting against the wall until summoned. I sense him shrinking from me as I approach, obviously concerned that I might still have a knife.

Calm yourself, boy, I say, I didn’t come over here to cut anything off.

He looks uncertain, but he does not bolt for the door. He has sandy hair and is about my height, though he can’t be older than eleven or twelve years old.

What’s your name? I ask.

Simon he replies, his voice mild, his eyes cast downward.

A good name, I say, and you are from the Cast, is that correct?

Yes Ma’am he says.

Do you know who I am? I ask him. He nods his head slowly. Then listen to me, I say, when we are finished talking you are going to leave here immediately. If any of your masters try to stop you, you will say that you have instructions from me to head directly back to the Cast. If they have any questions about this they are to speak to me, and to me alone. Do you understand these instructions?

Again, the boy, his head still slightly bowed, nods his assent.

Then what are you waiting for? Get on with it. Go.

I watch as he skitters away and through a servant’s entrance. Perhaps it was not wise to send him on his way, perhaps I might have used him as leverage in some manner over Marius. No one would miss somebody like him, I doubt even his masters would notice but this old witch can be sentimental sometimes. I am a little tired of children being preyed on in this town. I look back at Janus and I wonder if I could have served him better. He sees me looking at him and excuses himself from a conversation with two red-faced men who seem very sure of their opinions. He picks his way towards me a look of concern on his face.

Are you OK Iris, He says, you look tired.

I am always tired, I reply, what of it?

I must apologise, says Janus, I have not been thinking of your health. I have, perhaps, leaned a little too heavily on your counsel this day.

Oh for fuck’s sake, must everyone pity me in this town, I say, mostly to myself, but Janus smiles and begins to guide me towards the door.

You must head home now. It is late, and there is nothing more for you to do here.

I think I’ll be the judge of that I snap.

Oh come now, Iris, he says, don’t tell me you want to stay here having empty conversations with our fine patricians, most of whom call you names behind your back - I raise my eyebrow at him at this - alright, who call you names to your face. I have heard from Sam that you have been much bothered by pain recently.

Oh have you? I say, I am so glad he chooses to share this with the town

He would never share it with the town, just with me. He is concerned about you, as am I. Now, listen to your favourite student and take yourself home. You have done enough for us today.

I would like to fight him, I can feel the fight growing within me, I can feel the words begin to bubble to the surface, a hot cauldron of language that wishes nothing more than to spew forth and engulf the endless sqawking of these feather-brained clowns, but just as soon as the words rise so they sink again and I feel the heat leave me, I feel a yearning for my bed, for the comforts of our home, for an escape from this gilded room.

Sam has been waiting patiently for me, smoking cigarettes with the drivers and servants. A man of Sam’s station is not exactly welcome at such events, a situation which I suspect if he knew anything about them at all he would be thankful for though he bellyaches enough about the injustice of being treated like little more than a common servant.

But my love, I say, isn’t that exactly what you are? At which he almost drives off without me until I placate him with flattery and convince him to at least wait until I am in the car before he speeds away from the town and back along the hill road to our sanctuary. I watch him drive, his large hands firmly grasping the wheel, his gaze steadily forward, his blunt features.

I am sorry Sam, I say, it has been a long evening and my joke was poor. Janus has me acting like a spy, and I do not have much inclination nor energy for the enterprise. This is a sorry situation for a sorry town and I cannot understand why on earth it falls to me to do something about it

And what exactly does Janus think you’ll do? Asks Sam

He hopes that I might poison the well I reply.

What on earth do you mean?

There are many ways to undermine the capital, I reply, and almost none of them have anything to do with fighting, refusing, or otherwise angering them. Their weakness is their arrogance. It blinds them, and being blind they cannot see exactly what we’re planning.

And what is that?

Oh Sam, I say, that would be telling.

There was no raiceen this evening, just a low, wet howl off the sea and I wondered whether such an atmospheric voice carried within it news that a wiser woman than myself might be able to interpret. God knows why I wonder these things about the wind. God knows why I still stare at the sea. I think of the children of my morning dream, those sweet never-born souls whose perfect lives I find are preserved in my amber imagination, innocent of this dark reality, innocent of the never-was and might-have-beens that haunt me in our lingering land but better their naivete than the denial of the patriciate, the desperate faith of the forgone, or the callous hand of the capital. They talk to me here in the oculus, those children, their sweet voices asking about the world through the glass, as though looking in at my memories, as though re-telling a fantastical tale and I speak back, crouched upon my chair my blanket wrapped over my shoulders and for a short while the pain recedes. I explain that we are forgotten, and in the forgetting we forget ourselves, we wander lost, fulfilling a harvest for reasons we can no longer explain, meeting quotas that make no logical sense and still we strive.

Sam listens though I keep my voice low, he listens to his mad wife talking to herself in the tower above the town as though conjuring spirits which is in fact what she might be doing, whispering invocations into the night, summoning the lost souls of children never born, bringing them forward into the dark world there to be scattered by the vicious wind but if this is indeed what he thinks he shows no fear, he never flinches in his devotion to this wrinkled witch, a crone who was once not grotesque of course but a young woman, and a lover, and a teacher, and a force to be reckoned with in this town, a town which seems brighter in the mind's eye than it does in the light of day, a woman tipped to be the primus herself at one time before a darkness brought her low, a sapping of her vitality, a dismal companion to throw a shade over the light of all others. But still Sam remains, grumbling and loyal, slower now though still formidable, a common worker, born not of the sons of Simeon but in some low hovel long since forgotten and despite this heavy burden of birth his body is as yet unbroken, his mind better than most of the attenuated souls I have tried to educate in my long years.

His heavy step enters the room behind me.

There is a message, he says, it is urgent.

Well what is it? I snap

You should really read it for yourself, he says

Just tell me what the bloody hell it is they want with me at this time of night.

I hear Sam sigh, a rare sign of weariness and uncertainty in the man.

It is the messenger, he says at last, he’s dead.