Chapter Ten; In Which There are Many Revelations
Brendan wallowed in a lazy half-slumber, caught between the rosy twilight realm of sleep and the clear ice land of the waking. It was the cold that brought him fully awake, and dimly, in his mind, he knew that the fire must have been neglected and the warmth-giving embers were dead. The only part of him that was warm was his feet. In fact, his feet were very warm indeed. It felt like a cat was laying on them. A very large cat. How strange.
He lifted his head and began to sit up. The weight on his feet jumped, and he could feel it scramble off the bed, leaving the covers flounced and in disarray.
Brendan blinked, nervously twisting the covers in his hands. "All right, the invisibles are really starting to disturb me now…" he muttered to himself. He thought of…of someone lurking around him, silently watching him, curling up at his feet when he fell asleep… Oh, stop being to melodramatic, he told himself. I'm sure the poor souls are just lonely and crave attention. Or rather, the poor soul, for he was becoming convinced that he had one particular invisible that attended him rather than many.
"It's alright," he said aloud to the invisible servant. "Really, it is. Could I have some tea, please?" He slid out of bed and shivered. He was clad only in his smallclothes, and quickly grabbed a dressing robe and wrapped it around himself to ward off the chill. He walked over to the water basin and washed his face, and felt considerably livelier afterwards. When the tea was presented to him, it was steaming hot and had the fragrance of violets. He turned to the window and sipped gently, careful not to burn his tongue. He heard the sounds of the fire being rekindled as he looked outside.
The snow had lessened considerably, but the wind still whipped through the shivering trees like a hunting cat among young birds, and the snow blanketing the road would have come up to a horse's belly.
Brendan turned his face to the south, toward his village. He thought about Beauty and his family and wondered if they were worried about him. Well, Beauty probably was. In fact, knowing her, Brendan figured that she might have tried to follow him. If Father hadn't stopped her, then the snows certainly did. He thought about what the Beast had said about the road not letting Brendan leave a week ago. Why? And was the road also keeping Beauty out?
How strange that the thought of a sentient road doesn't seem like such a fantasy, he mused, draining his tea with relish. Dwelling on the strange qualities of the road and the weather put him in mind of the castle itself and it inhabitants, mainly the Beast. How did it all get this way? From what Beast had said, things had been so for a very long time, and the outdated fashions in the wardrobe began to make more sense. Frozen in time, perhaps? There are so many questions he had!
"I wish you could talk," he said ruefully to the unseen servant for the umpteenth time. "I have so many questions about this place. Ones that I am afraid to ask the Beast." As he talked, he picked out some clothes from the wardrobe, settling on a rust-golden tunic with dark blue breeches. He dressed quickly, suddenly very conscious of the possibility of the servant's eyes upon him. It unnerved him, not knowing whom the servant was or if it might be watching him. Perhaps it fancies me, he thought and chuckled aloud at the idea, fastening the ties on his breeches. Ridiculous, of course. But perhaps it does feel sympathetic…maybe I can convince it to provide some answers about this place. I doubt it will, though. Judging from the way Beast punishes his servants, I doubt any of them would dare to disobey him.
"Look, can you—Well, maybe help me find some answers? Please?" The unseen servant did nothing, but Brendan felt a sliver of tension in the air, as if the servant was agitated or distraught.
"Please?" he wheedled. "Maybe you could just take me to one of those rooms the Beast mentioned I wasn't to go into. Oh, I promise I won't disturb anything. It's just that I don't understand any of this, and I swear I won't bother you again if you just help me."
The servant felt reluctant, but Brendan sensed that he was close to persuading it. "You won't get in trouble, I promise you that. If he finds me, I'll take the blame for it, alright? Oh, please? Please?"
Suddenly the servant grabbed his hand and dashed towards the door. Startled, Brendan followed, out the door and down the stairs.
The invisible went quickly, keeping a brisk pace down long corridors flanked by suits of iron and Greek statues. Brendan tried to keep track of how many halls they went down, but was soon completely lost as he was led down a passage of stairs that he hadn't even seen before, half-hidden behind a massive tapestry. There were countless turns and twists, and three more flights of stairs they descended.
This place is even more immense than I had thought, Brendan wondered. He was peripherally amused by the sight of his arm floating before him, in the grip of his invisible guide.
They came to a great set of white double doors, which parted slowly. Brendan gaped in astonished delight. The servant pulled him onto the floor, and Brendan went followed, stumbling a little in his wonderment.
Mirrors. It was a Great Ballroom completely constructed of mirrors and gold filigree. A great chandelier hung from the mirror ceiling and brightly lit the reflective walls. Brendan looked down and saw himself from the feet up, for the floor too was a great long mirror, a white faience polished so highly it was as if he were looking into glass. He laughed and spun about, seeing a thousand other Brendans do the same and grinning back. Beast must hate this room, came a strange, unbidden thought.
Impatient, it seemed, to be on their way, the servant took hold of his hand again and led him past the brightly shining mirrored ballroom and through another set of doors, cunningly made to look like part of the mirrored wall. There was yet another long passageway, and then another door hidden by another tapestry.
He trotted down a very poorly lit staircase and found himself at the end of a short, dark, dead-end hallway. There were no adornments or artifacts lining the walls, just three doors; one on each side of the hallway. He felt the servant release his hand and lay its fingers across the small of his back. It gave him a gentle push towards the door in front of him. Brendan turned to look where he thought the servant should be, and ventured a smile in thanks.
Taking a deep breath, Brendan stepped up to the door. The wood looked old and uncared for, the twisted metal handle was broken and half-snapped off. There were deep gouges in the wood. Brendan had to put his full weight against the door to push it open. The hinges keened like a mourning widow and reluctantly fell open. He peered into the dark room, frowning.
"Now where is—oh, thank you," he said as a lit oil lamp was pressed into his hand. The efficiency and forethought of the servants was simply incredible. It was like they could anticipate whatever was needed.
Holding the light before him, Brendan entered the room. It smelled like dust and mice and lost memories. As his eyes adjusted to the dimness, he became aware that the room looked as if a storm had been through it, or a pack of wild animals, ripping the tapestries and scoring deep marks in the walls. There were overturned chairs and couches torn asunder, ragged fabric guts spilling onto the floor. Paintings had been ripped from their frames. The sheer fury of the devastation made Brendan falter back a step. The dust of ages coated every inch of the destruction.
The only thing in the room that was unharmed was a simple small table in the center of the room. A thin book lay there as if waiting for him, with a simple red cover without mark or title upon it. Brendan set his lamp on the table and opened the book eagerly, dust spilling into the air and causing Brendan to sneeze. The writing was spidery and fine, and with wide eyes he began to read.
"Once upon a time," he read aloud, "there was a handsome prince who lived in a great and beautiful castle. Now, this prince had everything he wanted, for he had many servants and chamberlains and vassals to do his bidding. His father, who lived very far away, provided a constant source of money, as he did for all of his sons.
"So the prince had absolutely everything that a young man could desire, yet his royal heart was cold and unkind. He was a cruel man who had no love for anything or anyone. He was prone to rages and great fits of temper.
"Many a young lady came courting, and each was mocked and turned away. The prince cared nothing for companionship and very soon, despite his wealth and station, no one wished to be his friend. He mistreated his servants, and neglected his duties as prince, and his people grew discontent.
"It was on the prince's twenty-second birthday that an old crone came to the castle doors, and would not be turned away by the servants. The prince came to see what all the noise was about, and found a hunch-backed old woman yelling at his doorman, screeching like a blue jay.
'What is the meaning of this?' the handsome prince demanded.
'Oh, good sir,' said the ugly old woman in her querulous raven-voice, 'I am just a poor old woman with no place to call home. My children were too poor to keep me, so they turned me out in the street. It is cold and my old bones ache. Might I stay here for the night, good sir?'
"The prince laughed at her. 'You, an old crone, stay here at the palace? For this you bother me on my birthday? Go back to the street from where you came, hag!'
'If you turn me out, good sir, I will surely perish in the cold. Have mercy on me, and let me stay the night! I can cook and I can mend things, if such services you need.'
'I have servants for that. I need nothing from an ugly old woman,' the prince was becoming impatient, 'Again I say no! Now be gone before I have the guards on you.'
'Do you three times turn me away, cruel prince?' The old woman looked at him with a glint in her crafty eyes.
'I turn you away a hundred times, you feeble thing. Begone!'
"But before the prince could call his guards, the old woman stood tall and threw off her rags, and her ugliness melted away. A young woman more beautiful than the moon stood there at his doorstep, her black and silver eyes hard and unforgiving as ice. She was clad in shimmering gossamer and her silver-onyx hair danced as if alive.
"Even in his pride, the prince fell to his knees before her, for it was clear that she was a powerful sorceress, and an angry one at that.
'You have three times turned away a person in need, arrogant prince.' Her voice was the tinkling of slow waterfalls, crystalline like stars. 'And thus you are three times cursed; once cursed with bondage, twice cursed with solitude, and thrice cursed with ugliness. For you and those that willingly serve you are bound forever to these castle grounds, to which I give a life of their own. You shall be ever alone with yourself, for your faithful shall dwindle and diminish till they are naught but invisible wraiths, bound to your service. Your family shall not know you, and your father the King will support you no more.
'Because your beauty is a lie, your heart shall be turned inside out,' she declared, and the prince felt a great pain come upon him, and he writhed on the doorstep and screamed as he was twisted into a monstrous form.
'Now you are truly a Beast,' the lady told him.
'Oh, great lady,' the prince-beast begged, 'do not leave me forever this way! I am sorry I turned you away, I beg you, please! Have mercy on me!'
'You did not show mercy when you thought I was but a harmless old crone. You have showed that there is nothing but ugliness in your heart. But I do not leave you without hope, o selfish and pitiless prince.
'Like a Beast you shall remain, forever, frozen in time as your heart was frozen in bitterness, until the day comes when you learn to love, and are loved in return, in spite of what you have become.' With a sound like the rustling of a thousand feathers, the sorceress disappeared and was never seen again.
"And the Beast despaired, and secluded himself in his great castle with his invisible, silent servants. Soon his people, glad to be rid of such a terrible monarch, turned to other lords and soon forgot about the prince.
'What woman will marry such a thing as I?' moaned the Beast in anguish, and grew ever more insular and even more quick to rages than he was before. And so it was such for two hundred years.
"But then there came—"
Brendan flipped the page breathlessly. It was blank. He thumbed through the remaining pages, all of which were equally empty. Of course, he told himself. The story isn't finished yet.
Closing the book thoughtfully, Brendan picked up the lamp and turned away from the book and the battered room, which he knew now was destroyed by the Beast himself. Contemplatively biting his lip, he walked out of the room and pulled the worn door shut. He paused to run his fingers over the long scratches in the woodwork. He felt the unseen hands take the lamp away from him, and a certain kind of questioning flowed from the servant to Brendan.
"Yes. Yes, thank you. I understand now."
"I'm afraid I'm going to have to disagree with you there. When Michael Drayton wrote Poly Olbion, he was trying to preserve antiquity, as so many Renaissance poets did. He wasn't disparaging druids and bards; he was lamenting their loss."
"Ah, but then you are classifying Drayton as an antiquarian." Beast clicked a talon on the table, making a rebutting point.
"Well, of course he was."
"I beg to differ. He's a monumental historian."
"Oh, semantics. Now you're just playing Devil's Advocate." Brendan grinned widely.
"Not at all. Drayton could not admit to a forgotten past; nor could he allow a foreign history to take place of his own."
"Mmm. Well, he was British, through and through." The pair sat, their cider gone cold and their dessert forgotten. They were both leaned forward over the table in avid discussion, as they had been for hours after they had eaten a fine dinner.
"Exactly," Beast nodded with satisfaction.
"I can see your point. Drayton adhered to the Galfridian tradition, because it gave Britian such an old, illustrious past, I'll give you that. But I still say that he wrote Poly Olbion with an antiquarian slant."
Beast's mouth curled in thought. "Hmm. I suppose I can see that. Still, John Seldon shared Camden's outlook on Galfridian mythology…"
And so on and so forth. It wasn't until much later that they both came to an agreeable concord on the subject of Renaissance poets and then paused for reflection.
Brendan watched the Beast sip his cold cider from under his lashes. With his fork he played uninterestedly with his strawberry crepes, and thought, So he wants Beauty so she can fall in love with him, and he can be freed of the enchantress' spell. It makes perfect sense now. He mulled over that for a while, then smiled at his next boyish notion; I'm dining with a prince!
There was a question regarding Beauty that niggled at his brain, and he cleared his throat. Beast looked at him expectantly.
"Ah- I've been wondering this for a while now." Beast's oddly expressive face grew cold, closed. I'll bet he expects me to ask why he's a Beast, Brendan thought, and felt a strange mixture of pleasure at finding the answer on his own (well, with a bit of small help) and a smidgeon of shame for prying.
"When you caught my Father, and told him to send Beauty, well, why did you ask for her? How did you know that my father even had daughters?"
Beast blinked with surprise. It seemed this boy caused that reaction a lot). "He told me himself he had children."
"Oh." Brendan's brow furrowed. That didn't exactly fit with what his father had told him. "But why did you…" he waved a hand, searching for tactful words. "Why did you demand her like that?"
The Beast didn't like this sort of questioning. He didn't need to explain his actions to this whelp of a boy. He snorted angrily and answered in a huff, "Look, I won her fair and square. It was my right to demand—"
"Whoa, whoa, whoa! Hold on!" Brendan held up his hands and interrupted. "What do you mean, 'won her'?"
Beast cocked his head to the side. "You mean your Father didn't tell you?"
Brendan had a black, sinking feeling in his stomach. "No. Tell me what?"
"When I caught him wantonly destroying my roses, he begged me to spare him. He even went so far as to offer me a card game, to win his life back. This amused me most greatly, so I agreed. Your Father, might I add, is the worst gambler I've ever had the misfortune of playing. He lost so much that he became desperate and wagered his own daughter."
"Beauty." Brendan breathed. He stared at the table, eyes glazed over.
The Beast made a noise of affirmation, then leaned forward to get a better look at his guest's blank expression. "Are you alright?"
Silence.
"He didn't tell you that?"
"Ofcoursehedidn't!" This exploded from Brendan all in one quick word, and he threw up his hands in ire. "If I'd have known—of all the—that…that…man—I swear to God—it's—he's…" The words bubbled haltingly like lava, Brendan's livid face growing crimson. "His own flesh—sent to certain—I can't…how dare he!"
Beast was taken aback. The boy was absolutely furious. How fascinating. "I can't say I'm surprised that he didn't see fit to tell you."
Brendan pushed his chair back and folded his arms across his chest, sucking on his teeth and every now and then shaking his head in disbelieving anger. His blue eyes flashed with fury. He would say nothing more, except for harsh, disgusted sighs.
Beast shifted on his haunches in this sullen, tense silence. He opened his mouth and found himself at a loss for words.
"Er." He tried again, extending a paw forward in a conversational way. "Well, ah…hmmph." No good. I was almost looking forward to hearing him play some music tonight. Now it looks as if he's too angry to do so. Beast beckoned for a servant to refill their cider mugs. Over the last few days, Beast had very, very grudgingly admitted to himself that things were a touch more interesting and maybe, yes, just the teeniest, tiniest bit less lonely with the boy's company. The absolute smallest bit, of course.
"I can't believe that man." Brendan piped unexpectedly. "He's never brought our family anything but misery. To think--! To think that he wagered his own favorite daughter! I mean, to do such a thing knowing that if he lost, Beauty would be turned over to a…" he paused, mouth open. His anger apparently caused him to speak before thinking.
"To a Beast?" his host asked in a rumbling timbre. He quirked one furry eyebrow in amusement.
"That's not what I—well, yes, that is what I meant." Brendan looked up at the Beast, trying to explain properly. "He wagered her to a Beast. And he thought you were going to eat him, or subject him to some cruel torture, yet still he put Beauty in that same danger! It doesn't matter whether or not the true case of your…er, appetite tended toward humans, what mattered is that he thought it did. He didn't even know what I know, that you're a—" Oh, damn. Why do I say such things? Brendan wondered wildly.
"A what?" Beast lowered his head, and unconsciously Brendan's eyes swept over his horns and mane, those dauntingly wide shoulders.
"A…well, that you're not as my Father thought you to be." We were discussing poetry not thirty minutes ago, Brendan thought, if that's not a sign of humanity, then I don't know what is.
Beast's voice was laden with sarcasm as he rose from his chair. "I am gratified you think so highly. It has grown rather late; I should like to retire to my quarters."
"Oh," Brendan also stood up, placing his napkin on the table. His eyes were disappointed.
"I thought you would care to join me in the Music Room, my cordial host, as you indicated yesterday eve." I don't want to be left alone again with that invisible phantom. There's only so much one-sided conversation I can stand before I go mad. I wonder what it'd be like to live with only mute invisible servants for two centuries? God, probably awful. No wonder he's so…well, beastly.
Beast's brows lifted with gracious surprise. "I had assumed you were in no fit state to engage in recreation tonight."
Brendan ducked his head and smiled diffidently. "Oh, I am always in a fit state to play for an audience."
"There was a youth, a cruel youth,
Who lived beside the sea,
Six little maidens he drowned there
By the lonely willow tree.
"As he walked o'er with Sally Brown,
As he walked o'er with she,
And evil thought came to him there,
By the lonely willow tree.
"O turn you back to the water's side,
And face the willow tree,
Six little maidens I've drowned here,
And you the seventh shall be.
"Take off, take off, your golden crown,
Take off your gown, cried he.
For though I am going to murder you
I would not spoil your finery.
"Oh, turn around, you false young man,
Oh turn around, cried she,
For 'tis not meet that such a youth
A naked woman should you see.
"He turned around, that false young man,
And faced the old willow tree,
And seizing him boldly in both her arms,
She threw him into the sea.
"Lie there, lie there, you false young man,
Lie there, lie there, cried she,
Six little maidens you've drowned here,
Now keep them company!
"He sank beneath the icy waves,
He sank down into the sea,
And no living thing wept a tear for him,
Save the lonely willow tree."
Brendan came to the end of his song, looked up from the violin and shook his chestnut hair from his face. The room was merrily bright, the old chandelier lit and also all the candles along the wall. It was quite a change from how Brendan had first seen it, all dust and age and darkness.
"The Irish are certainly a tragic people, aren't they?" Beast remarked, something very like a smile upon his face.
"Oh, that wasn't even the really sad version.." Brendan laughed. "Nearly all the songs I know are just tragically romantic, full of clay-cold lovers in the grave and mountainsides of blooming heather."
"You play the violin well enough. What else can you play?" The Beast waved a hand at the assorted instruments.
"Just about anything with strings," Brendan claimed, a tad boastfully.
"Ah. Play something on the cello then. I rather like a sonorous tune on the cello." The Beast reclined on his side upon the red divan, propping up his bristly chin with a paw. He looked at Brendan expectantly.
The boy faltered, looking troubled. "The cello?"
"Why, yes! I thought you could play anything with strings," The Beast jibbed. "Isn't that so?"
Brendan set aside the fine cherrywood violin and ran a slow hand over the cello. "I will play it." He took it back to his chair, positioned it on the ground before him, and took up the bow in his hand.
Beast sighed. "Stop dallying and play, will you?" Now that he was aware of it, Brendan recognized the imperious command that only one born to royalty can make.
"I will play it," Brendan repeated softly, and stroked one long, tenuous note on the straining strings.
He played a slow and tender song where singing had no part, and would only mar the pure aching notes. He skillfully stretched out the resonance, drawing each longing note out like moans, the cello's breath catching mid-note and sighing sweetly. Beast found himself inexplicably moved.
When Brendan was finished, he leaned the instrument on the side of his chair and folded his hands in his lap. His eyes had gone dark and his lips were pale.
"Hmm. Well played," Beast rumbled, inwardly thinking that Brendan's piece was one of the loveliest tunes he'd ever heard. It was morose and grieving, yet sweet as summer and just as warm.
"Thank you," Brendan said quietly. He looks quite tired, thought Beast.
"Perhaps you can play again tomorrow?" Beast politely inquired, making it quite clear by his tone that he personally couldn't care less one way or the other, and he was simply humoring an unwelcome guest.
The boy allowed a smile. "Perhaps. I'd like to try my hand at the harpsichord. It'll need a lot of tuning, I'd imagine."
"Very well." The Beast rose to his feet, and Brendan was again taken aback by his great size, though he was coming to be familiar with the bent-backward knees and golden pelt. It was the fangs and claws that he still had problems with. "Good night, boy."
Well, he wasn't used to being called 'boy' all the time either, and it still irked him. "Good night, Beast."
Brendan sat at the foot of his bed, looking in the dancing fire. Why do I torture myself by dwelling on the past? Why can't I just let it go? His eyes burned, and he rubbed them with the back of his hand and swallowed a heavy leaden lump in his throat. With a sigh, Brendan turned and rolled down the covers, but before he could slide into the soft oblivion of sleep, he felt a cold, timid hand rest upon his shoulder. He nearly jumped out of his skin.
"Ahh! Blessed Virgin, don't do that!" He clutched his chest, heart racing like a frightened mouse. There were two long depressions in the bed, the only evidence that someone was kneeling on the mattress next to him. Brendan felt considerably uneasy, as if the servant might pounce on him or something equally ridiculous.
But the invisible did nothing other than lightly touch one finger to Brendan's cheek. Brendan flinched and pulled away, his hand unconsciously following the servant's example and felt the dampness on his face.
"I wasn't crying," Brendan snapped defensively. His father's voice came into his head unbidden; You cry too much, What kind of a boy likes flowers, What is wrong with you?
"It's just…well. That song I played. On the cello. It always makes me think of the person who taught it to me. A friend I had at school." The invisible sat silent, its knee-grooves in the bed unmoving. Brendan felt strangely compelled to keep talking, to pour out everything to a silent listener who wouldn't judge or demand any explanations; wouldn't name him unnatural or wrong. His memories sat heavy in his chest, needing to be said to someone. Anyone.
"Well, not a friend. More than a friend." Brendan rose and stood near the window, looking out at the dark snowscape and bruised, starlit sky.
"His name was Kieran. I'd been three months at the University, and I was a very shy when I was sixteen, so I didn't have many friends. The teachers were very kind to me, but some of the older boys were not. I got teased mercilessly for being small the first week, until I fought back and roughed up one of the bullies. They left me alone after that, for the most part, but I didn't have any friends.
"Then Kieran came, mid-semester. He was the second son of a very, very wealthy Irishman, and was sent to Paris to be educated properly. I remember when the Headmaster introduced him at assembly. He was everything you'd ever think a real Irishman would look like, green eyes and red hair and freckles and everything. I remember being so nervous when the Headmaster introduced me at assembly, but not Keiran. He just grinned, just radiating this kind of charm. Everyone was taken with him, the teachers, the students, everybody. He was small for his age, like I was, but the older students respected him regardless. The younger children looked up to him, worshipful. I didn't like him at all, then, I just hated him. He was good at everything, and I felt threatened and jealous.
"Then once after lunch, during free time, I saw him sitting with his back to a tree, looking very concentrated over a workbook. I was curious, so I walked a little closer and saw that he was struggling with a music assignment we'd been given, a few bars that we had to compose ourselves.
"'You can't put that sharp note in after the half-rest,' I told him. I'd meant to be spiteful about it, proving I knew more than him, but he didn't take offense at all. 'Oh yes?' he asked, wrinkling his nose at me. 'And what would you put there, then?' 'Well, if you're going to do a crescendo like that, it should start with C,' I answered, a bit less venomously. 'Anything else would sound funny.' And he looked at his workbook with this concentrated intensity, and pointedly changed the note to a C. Then he smiled at me again. 'I've seen you around. Brendan, isn't it?' Kieran scooted over on the grass, giving me room to sit next to him. I resisted his innate charm for all of two seconds before I plunked down on the grass. 'Doesn't the music professor have a nose exactly like a pickle?' he said very seriously, and I laughed.
"And well, then we were the very best of friends. We did everything together, and told each other our life stories. He came from a simply enormous family, with three younger sisters and two younger brothers, one older brother and five older sisters. Eight sisters, by God, can you imagine? I have three, and that's bad enough. He didn't have any sort of responsibilities ahead of him, because his elder brother would inherit the family estate, so Kieran was just out to have fun with life. He…he was my first real friend. I could just talk and talk for hours and he'd devour my every word like it was scripture.
"Then I started to…I don't know. I loved the sight of him. I liked to watch him brush his hair out of his face, to hear him talk in that lilting accent, I liked the way he moved, I liked…I liked the way he looked at me sometimes, when we were alone, just talking or working on schoolwork, or when he taught me Irish songs. I didn't understand why, of course…I just knew I liked to be near him.
"I didn't fully understand why until one day after classes were over, and we were walking back to the dormitories. I was chattering on about nothing, and he suddenly pulled me into a side hallway, pushed me up against the wall, and right there where anyone could have seen, he kissed me. I was stiff with shock, at first, but he pressed his lips against mine so fiercely and with such fire that I…I just melted against him and we were kissing right there in the hallway. A girl kissed me once back in my town, but this was nothing like that; I just…it was wonderful.
"After that, our friendship was changed. It took on this secretive, exciting allure, and he'd squeeze my hand quickly when we parted for class, or sneak kisses behind trees, or… I can't believe I'm telling you all this."
Brendan laughed self-deprecatingly and turned away from the window. The invisible had moved closer to the edge of the bed, poised as if listening intently. "I've never told anybody about this before." He ran his hands through his tangled hair. "It's good to have someone listen.
"This went on for about two months, this…courting. I came to understand that the way we liked each other wasn't exactly normal, but of course you heard about it now and again, in whispers and insults. But Kieran told me that he'd kissed a boy before, and that he knew about men back home who lived together and were happy in love, and like a fool, I believed him.
"Love. Yes, I was in love with him. It was impossible not to be. He just had this fire inside of him, and I was like the moth that would burn itself just to be close to that fire.
"When we turned seventeen we were given our own rooms and didn't have to sleep in the common dorms anymore. So one evening, greatly daring, I snuck over to Kieran's room and rapped on his door. He opened it a crack, and then pulled me inside. He laughed—it seemed like he was always laughing, looking back—and I kissed him with my fingers in his hair, kissed him with my lips and tongue and…God, how I burned. I couldn't imagine anything more splendid than kissing him."
Brendan stared into the fireplace as he continued, clearly transported by the telling, almost unaware that he was still talking aloud. "While I was kissing him, he tugged at my shirt and I barely noticed until he broke away, pushed my arms up and pulled my shirt off over them. I was suddenly shy, and he touched my skin gently until I relaxed. He ran his hands slowly and almost reverently over my chest and stomach, like… like I was something precious. I stripped off his shirt and kissed his throat, touching him softly like he had touched me.
"Then he closed his open mouth over mine and guided me towards his bed. I was very afraid of that bed, for I knew that it might mean something that I wanted very badly, but was too afraid to do. But Kieran laid me down and soothed my nervousness away; and after long minutes of kissing and twining our limbs together, very soon neither of us was wearing any clothes at all. I remember…God, I remember how I could feel his bare rasp of stubble when he mouthed my collarbone…and I remember exactly how the bones of his hips felt when I ran my hands over them. Exactly.
"And we touched each other, silent but for our breath, and we pressed together…I remember how he said my name with his lilt, and—" Brendan suddenly shook his head as if driving off the lingering memories. He was silent for long minutes, his arms loosely crossed over his chest. The servant shifted very slightly in the silence, and the sheets rustled minutely.
Brendan broke out of his reverie. He strode over to the fire and folded himself in front of it, legs crossed butterfly-style. He grabbed the iron poker and prodded the glowing logs malevolently.
"He left school, you know. Last year. His brother died, the older one, so he went back to Ireland to claim his inheritance. He sent me letters. At first they were very ardent, love-letters, and he promised he'd be back or he'd arrange for me to visit him…and then he sent a letter that said…that he…" Brendan swallowed hard.
"He got married. To a girl. The letter he sent was like…it was like there was nothing more than schoolboy friendship between us. It was as if he were pretending the whole thing had never happened. It was completely platonic and friendly and he said he was very much in love with Aileen," he sneered a little as he said the name. "Something that was so wonderful and made me feel, I don't know, like my heart was overflowing with happiness—I've never been so happy –we had that, and he pretended like we'd just been good school chums. After I made my peace with myself and with God for having such anomalous desires, to receive a letter like that…! I was so angry with him. I didn't sent back a reply, and I never received a letter from Kieran again."
He spread his fingers in a gesture that said 'that's all there is' and fell into a sullen silence. He felt those cold tentative fingers being laid on his shoulders, offering comfort. "Thank you for listening. I am really very gratified. I hope you weren't too bor—mmMPH!"
The invisible had slid off the bed, grasped Brendan's face between its hands and kissed him, hard and fast, on the lips. Alarmed and seriously disturbed, Brendan wriggled backwards like a trapped animal until his back slammed painfully into the footboard of his bed.
"Mmmph!!" he protested, effectively trapped between the servant and the bed. It was one thing to be waited on by an anonymous, voiceless and bodiless person; it was a completely different matter to have one make romantic advances towards you.
Brendan felt hands grasp his shoulders as the mouth bore down on him. He squirmed a bit, too stunned to really struggle. Then a hand dropped to his thigh, and Brendan squealed as he forcibly shoved the invisible off of him and jumped to his feet.
"Oh, good Lord!" Brendan exclaimed, extremely unnerved. He was breathing heavily, adopting a hands-up warding-off sort of stance. The thought of…that with a person he couldn't even see or talk with…he didn't even know what gender it was, though he suspected that it might be male. Women usually weren't that insistent.
"Okay, NO. Just—I—that—not good. Not good at all. No. I…Look. I'm, ah, very, um, flattered, but that kind of thing is going to have to…stop. All right? I appreciate the, ah, the s-s-sentiment," he stuttered with the shock of it, "but really. I can't return the…Good God, I'm talking to an empty room, aren't I?"
He tentatively reached out a hand and groped around. There was little doubt that the servant had bolted. Brendan was left blessedly alone. Or was he? How could one possibly tell? Was there someone there, watching him, haunting him?
Suffice to say, Brendan didn't sleep very well that night.