The garden of the Lady – 2 – Outcast
.oOo.
The Lady is dreaming, her gaze plunged into the pale agates of a cat curled up in her lap. The woman's dark almonds furrow in the mirages that blur the feline opals on the lookout:
– "Here! A rascal is slipping into the alleys' darkness... he's quite pretty... but what a dishevelled outfit... and that worried, vindictive look... a real alley cat! ... and pursued by the watchmen's militia! "
A sharp note in its mistress's voice arouses the cat's attention, while the lady's dark eyes light up with sensual curiosity:
– "What dark secrets does this handsome fellow carry? ... Come on, my cuties, bring me this outcast gentleman!"
.oOo.
– They spotted me as soon as I came out! Damn that impotent judge! His minions won't let me go! It's getting dark, I've got to hold out until then...
Quick run through the alleys, right, left... furious barking of a dog at the entrance of a courtyard... Damned mutt! They'll come back, I have to get out!
... Control my breath, listen... there, in the shadow of the postern... breathe slowly... I hear the clicking of their chainmails, they are looking for me under the vaults of the wine merchant, it's very close! Quickly, lets' get to the causeway of the warehouses...
... Already a shadow creeping in my wake! Escape from it, accelerate, hook behind the wash house, then slow down, continue without making any noise...
... What's that shouting?... Branch off, hide in the shelter of the carriage entrance... but... the door is open... a godsend... close behind me, lock the bar... recover a moment...
Who is there? Nobody, the stable is empty... I could have sworn... Well, let's not rot here... The backyard... closed! Climb on the cart and go over the wall to the next yard! Impulse, pull! Fool, I'm not in the codition I used to be!
Landing on the filthy cobblestones of a recessed backyard.
The shadow thickens, I'll soon be out of trouble...
Again this sensation of a presence... Let's get out of here!
...
This alley is climbing pretty hard! I've never been here before...
A short growl snaps nearby, hoarse as the yelp of the great lynxes of Harad...
– My dagger! That thing is following me and it's not a dog!
The fugitive, pale and sweating, makes his way along the narrow alley, glancing back frequently.
At the end of the steps, a wall! To the right the rampart, illuminated by the moon, and its sentries... Quick, to the left then!
... My brain is buzzing... Is that the beast right behind me? ...
But in front, at the end of the alley, torches appear, brandished by the sergeants of the watch!
– Turn back!
The fugitive turns back and stops dead in his tracks. Opposite him, blocking the alley, two yellow opals glisten in the shadows, cold and hard.
I am chilled to the marrow but shall not let myself be devoured without a fight!
In the light of the approaching torches, the enormous beast, with its hypnotic pupils, seems to shrink to the size of a tomcat... which slips through a half-open door!
Where did this one come from? Never mind! No time to hesitate! ...
The fellow slips through the providential door...
.oOo.
To escape his pursuers, Bergil leans on the heavy damascene door which swings with a rusty squeak. That is boxwood and iron wrought!" he gloats, "Quite solid!
I need a lock, a bar to block the miraculous door…
The prince of jugglers looks around, sees a broken beam lying in heather. He grabs it and returns to the door. The stonework of the high wall is overgrown with ivy and brambles. He hadn't noticed it, a thick, gnarled vine obstructs the doorframe... which now seems blocked.
– "Ivy grows fast here"... Bergil notes with relief, tinged with slight unease…
Cursing is heard from behind the door, which is firmly anchored by the serpentine roots, soon muffled by a profusion of budding twigs.
Slowly a silence rises, gently rustling with the twigs' quivering and the roots' muted creeping. Bergil is feeling watched and turns towards the park. Silver carnations stare at him, palms bend gracefully, golden chalices open impudently. Cameos of jade and emerald quiver with vigilant gleams in the dark greens of this strange garden, worthy of the wildest forests.
A feline emerges from under the foliage! The animal's supple musculature undulates under the inky black coat, as it slowly approaches, staring at the intruder with its implacable opals. As the visitor does not comply quickly enough, the huge tomcat raises its powerful neck and let out a roar, opening its mouth bristling with impressive fangs.
Bergil moves away quickly, one hand on his cutlass. After all, maybe it's not a cat! And those low, threatening growls sound like the calls of the lynx haunting the far south…
With a last fierce look at Bergil, the feline stands in front of the door, which already seems to be fading under the white bindweed blooming at dusk.
.oOo.
– Hmm, that's fine, pussy mine!
The mistress caresses the beast with her soft voice and hypnotic gaze. The lynx cuddles at the side of the Lady, who calls up the agate mirror of its eyes.
Her headdress, weaved with jet curls, is crowned by a silver tiara. An ebony mantilla veils her pearly neck to the graceful arch of her shoulders. Her face draws a perfect oval, softly gleaming like pearls under the moon. But her dark eyes scan her mirror to dispel boredom. The withered purity of hope has blighted her cheeks. The delicate coral of her mouth has tarnished with tiny bitter wrinkles. In order to alleviate her spite and avenge the vain promises of youth, she searches for vice and spies on men in the capital's slums. And look who has been attracted tonight by her tricks…
A disillusioned smile lights up the Lady's haughty face:
– Our knight is looking good! What a promising confidence in his male bravery! Yet in what jail would he be rotting without my followers' help? ... Let us subdue his morgue without discouraging this vigorous plume...
.oOo.
Bergil climbs the foliage-covered hill, watching his back. The path is winding through rowan beds overgrown with laurel, past arbours armed with long-stemmed roses. But everywhere follows the rumour of the wild beast on the hunt. The adventurer watches the coppices, where rodents twitch, disturbed in their nocturnal quest. He crosses beds of pale agapanthus crowned with black palms, bends under overloaded vines exuding heady vapours.
Along the labyrinth of living foliage, a tortured will seems to have married the heady essences of the South with the fleshy fruits of the valleys of Gondor. As the visitor is passing, the groves whisper strange melodies, spiders fall from the eucalyptus trees onto his shoulders. Bergil feels like an intruder, surprising the designs of an enchantress in the secret of her island.
The peach trees perfume the breeze of the Anduin Vale, but the lemon trees rustle with the zephyr of other parts of the world. Local ferns sway softly under splayed trunks transplanted from arid lands. A grove of cypresses encloses a heavy, flat stone, marked by a thin, frightfull moonbeam. Is this a sepulchre where the remains of unwanted visitors are piled up? And always an impatient roar forces the intruder to continue.
At last Bergil reaches a paved road. Umbrella pines once lined it, humming in the ocean breeze. Now they lie in heaps, oozing thick, fragrant resin.
A hamlet huddles at the top of the hill besieged by the hostile garden. A luxurious villa, with tortured architecture, has replaced part of the tiers of an ancient circular theatre. In the centre of this arena stands a majestic canopy surrounded by torches, near a pool. Plants of all kinds have invaded the former stage, now a perennial island of greenery bordered by ruined marble.
The Lady is waiting for him there, probing her feline mirror in the midst of her guardians...
.oOo.
Blue volutes rise from a silver censer. A harp plays vaporous arpeggios, lost from another era. Probably some servant staying in one of the thatched cottages...
The Lady cuddles her cats, watching her mirror carefully. The lynxes circle around her, competing for her caresses. The felines, tabby but dark as a moonless night, are very different sizes. Ah, so he wasn't dreaming! Except for one, white as alabaster, hieratically sitting at the bedside...
This setting, touching in its ridiculousness, would almost make one forgive the beast unleashed after him... But the gallant feels desired and that is the most formidable remedy for common sense... This woman intrigues him. This luxury calls to him. This enchantress is to try his magic wand!
Bergil takes one last look down the aisle. The almond-shaped opal eyes quickly vanish.
Keeping his dagger within reach, the young man dusts his sleeve, adjusts his attire and puts on a brave face...
The handsome guy of the common room puffs out his chest. The bad boy with that kinky smirk, the charmer of judge's wives, already a conqueror, descends into the arena.
.oOo.
Young oaks and rowan trees have invaded the terraces. Bergil pushes his way through myrtle and arbutus bushes, pushing aside brambles and ivy with his dagger. The arena has fallen silent. Only the cracking of broken branches and the stumbling of the man's heavy feet can be heard in the twilight.
When he reaches the stage, the Lady faces him, haloed by rockrose flowers.
Her hair glitters with a deep jet colour that overshadows the stars. A haughty reserve hardens the fineness of her features. Grievances have hollowed out her alabaster cheeks. But her dark gaze pierces any heart climbing the steps of her garden.
Thin and adamantine under the rays of the moon, the little Lady draws up her figure as black as obsidian, veiling her faded beauty in anger.
The subjugated visitor stops under the cork oak. A pale, disillusioned, slightly cruel smile chases away the bitter lines on the Lady's cheeks. Her eyes light up with a harsh and powerful charm. Her lynxes have surrounded Bergil in a silence of ambush.
The Lady raises her sharp face and stretches out her arms in front of her, as if to seize the object of her desire:
– No one wields his dagger in my house, except in my service!
The glittering weapon, as if tarnished by a curse, falls at the man's feet, sinking deep into the ground, lost between roots.
Bergil frees himself from the ivy carbuncles clasping his calves. Under the sparkling gaze of the felines lurking under the laurels, the adventurer frees his hands from the broom, kneeling gallantly:
– A landless knight begs for asylum in your court!
A light laugh, mocking but satisfied, silences the muffled rumblings of the lynxes that were about to pounce on the intruder.
.oOo.
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