Shadow Though it Be: An Excursus – Chapter 8
Elisabeth jerked her head up. "Running away?"
He took up his napkin again and wiped his fingers delicately with it, looking up at her over his glasses. "Yes."
She recovered quickly. "I'm not running away," she said, lifting her nearly-empty glass. "I'm following the dictum of Ronald Reagan."
"Ronald Reagan, really."
"Yes. He says that if you lose your temper on the golf course, you throw your club ahead of you, so that you don't have to walk back to pick it up."
Giles nodded and picked up his own nearly-finished drink. "A nice dictum. Except you have to walk back anyway, if you're going to redo the shot."
"Except that I'm not a golfer."
"No?"
"No, I'm just a flinger of golf clubs."
He nipped a smile in the bud. "You know, some metaphors can be pressed too far."
"A lot of metaphors can get pressed too far," Elisabeth said. "I'm an English major, I've seen them. Grading student papers. 'This essay will show that my thesis about art and culture is true—as my thoughts taxi down the runway of my mind and finally take off into the blue yonder—'" She broke off, and looked at him levelly. "What if I am," she said. "Do I have to have a reason?"
"No," he said. "But people generally do."
He waited, but she merely met his eye without answering.
"People generally," he said, after a small silence, "have more than one."
She tapped her nose with one hand and pointed at him with the other; but the smile she put with it died quickly. He didn't press her.
The waiter came back to ask if they wanted more drinks. They did. He disappeared, and Elisabeth leaned back wearily in the bench seat, hands on the table picking at a hangnail. "I wouldn't call it running, exactly," she said. "I don't owe anything financially, unless you count student loans; I don't owe anything emotionally to speak of; and I'm not going under an alias or anything, so it's not like I'm on the lam."
"And nobody is chasing you?"
She blinked. "No. I hadn't thought of that."
The waiter returned with their drinks. Giles took a quick sip of his, then said: "Then perhaps I'm asking the wrong question. I should perhaps be asking you what drives you to move so quickly from place to place."
"Are you asking me that?" she asked him, glumly swirling the Grand Marnier around the sides of her glass.
He watched her a moment, and decided to relent. "No," he said. "I was hoping you'd be able to tell me on your own."
She raised her eyes to his face. He went on, "I don't normally pry into people's affairs. But as you may have noticed, the books aren't being cooperative with our research efforts. If I can find out why you're here—perhaps I can find out what it means, and how to…."
"—Fix it?" Elisabeth finished.
"Well, yes. You can't stay hovering between dimensions forever."
"No, I certainly can't." Elisabeth sighed.
"And this isn't exactly the safest dimension to be in."
"No," she mused, "but mine's no picnic either. There are things in my dimension that you don't have to worry about—no war, no September 11th—"
Giles sipped his drink. "What's so special about September the 11th?"
"My point exactly," Elisabeth said, and tipped back a generous swig of her drink.
"So can you tell me? About what drives you?" he asked gently.
"I don't think I know well enough to say," she said, drawing in the salt again.
A small silence fell between them; Giles cast his glance around the "pub," taking in the polished wood and upholstered booths, wincing only a little at the slightly-too-loud dance music. When he looked back at her he found that her eyes were on him, steady and troubled.
She said: "I find it very hard to keep my mouth shut as a rule. These past few days…" She shook her head, looking aside. "…there's, as Jane Austen calls it, an embargo on every subject."
"What period of English literature did you study?" Giles asked, and was rewarded when she brightened a little.
"Mainly the Romantics and the Victorians," she said. "The age of revolution, the age of conservatism, and the age of syncretism."
"Followed by more revolution," Giles responded, with one of his little smiles.
"Of course."
"And how far did you take your studies?"
"Through the Master's level. I had a TA-ship, taught writing—left that and did the library thing for awhile, left that and did temp work—and then I just left. It was more than time." She braced the short pedestal of her glass between her hands flat on the table, looked up at him with an expression that he judged to be more natural, less strained. "I still feel the call of academia. And maybe I'll go back sometime, when it's a less exasperating time to find a Ph.D. program and a tenure-track position to follow it. And," she said, twisting her mouth thoughtfully, "when I'm a bit older and maybe have some patience to hoe one whole row at a time. Right now for me it's the quick project—the single paper—the short story—wham, bam, thank you ma'am, and I say you're welcome and head out the door."
Giles said, "I can certainly understand the impatience with academia. I couldn't quite stick it, myself."
"Yes," she said, "I know."
"You know a lot about me, don't you?" His incisive eyes came back to hers.
She pressed her lips together and regarded him carefully. "More than I ought to know about a stranger. But I don't know much why. They left that for people to guess at."
He smiled a little. "That's right, I forgot. The stories are mainly about Buffy."
She sighed. "Xander pretends to mind, but I don't think he really does."
Giles shook his head, agreeing.
"And I'm pretty sure you don't," she said.
"The male ego does not comprise the entirety of our souls, no," he replied, grinning more with his eyes than his mouth.
She responded with a silent laugh.
"So," he said, "I take it your lunch with Willow and Tara was difficult to get through."
Elisabeth shut her eyes briefly, fervently. "Oh, please. The less said about it the better. It was just…so painful. I can't even explain…."
"Because of what you know," he said gently.
She gave a small nod and lifted her glass for another long sip.
"Willow mentioned to me on the phone that you seemed very disorientated."
"Disorientated," she repeated. "I hate that word."
"Yes," Giles said, "it isn't a very nice state to be in. But, be that as it may—"
"No, I mean 'disorientated.' I don't like that construction. Why can't it be just plain 'disoriented'?"
He blinked, thought. "I don't know. Is it a British/American English difference?"
"I don't know," she said. "It seems to be."
"Yes, those Americans," he said, looking slyly at her, "ever innovative; always looking for ways to simplify speech and orthography. You'll have heard of Teddy Roosevelt's failed political efforts in that area, I suppose?"
"The Spelling Reform fiasco?" Elisabeth said. "Yes, I remember. I seem to recall that failed project nevertheless resulting in Americans' dropping the 'u's out of words like colour and honour and valour and stupour—or did that happen earlier?"
"Next century it'll be all grunts, and—"
"And hobo symbols. Yes, yes. I know. Do you want me to break into a rendition of 'Why Can't the English'?"
"Please don't."
She smiled.
He smiled back. "You're very talented."
"Oh?" Elisabeth's brows arched. "At what?"
"At changing the subject."
"What subject?"
"Yes," Giles said, "very talented."
Elisabeth lifted her Grand Marnier and drained it. Then she set down the glass and looked across at him, triumphantly.
He smiled wryly, lifted his glass, and saluted her with it before swallowing the last of the drink. "Shall we go?"
"Yes, please."
Elisabeth sat quietly while Giles settled the bill. Two Grand Marniers and she was feeling a bit…disorientated. She didn't think it was noticeable, but then when Giles got up, he politely offered her his hand to help her rise. She took it without cavil. She had told him, after all, that she couldn't take very much.
The night air outside was relatively quiet, fresh, and chill. Once inside the car, Giles put down the windows but left the ragtop up. He turned to her, his face and glass-rims faintly limned by the light from the bar windows.
"Well," he said, "now where shall we go?"
*
"Oh, I don't know," Elisabeth said carelessly. "Let's just drive around."
He gave an acquiescent tip of the head and put the car in gear.
Elisabeth had learned the art of town navigation the hard way; so as Giles's car sharked gracefully through the streets of Sunnydale, Elisabeth paid careful attention to the street names and the landmarks. It gave her a better idea of the town, and, additionally, kept her mind from going too diffuse.
She said suddenly, "Do you think this dimension extends all the way around the world?"
Startled into—or out of—thought, Giles uttered: "Well—"
"I mean, for me. Or would I leave this dimension if I left Sunnydale?"
"I don't know," he said, and she could tell from his tone that the idea puzzled and intrigued him.
A silence passed between them while they thought it over. Almost in the same moment they turned to one another to speak.
"Can we try it?" she said.
"Do you want to try it?" he said.
She studied his features as he turned his face back to the road ahead. "D'you think it will put you in danger?" she asked him.
"More to the point, will it put you in danger," he amended.
"I care about that a little bit less," she told him. "You're important to this dimension. I'm not."
"You don't know that."
"Giles," she said, "I'm not in any of the stories. I'm expendable."
His shoulders hunched, and she wished briefly she had been a little less blunt. "All the same," Giles said, "—I'd rather not play roulette with your life if I can help it."
"The roulette wheel has already started," Elisabeth said. "We might as well choose a square."
"You and your penchant for distending metaphors," Giles muttered. "Very well, we shall try it." He made a left turn at a sign pointing the way to the state highway.
Elisabeth relaxed in her seat. Finally, finally she was having fun. Giles ramped onto the highway, headed north, and she turned her face to the window, watching the light-poles blur by ever faster, watching the lights of the city change as they passed.
The city-limit sign whipped past them.
"Feeling all right?" Giles asked her.
"Just fine," she said. And it was true. The smooth rhythm of the car's speed; the quick alternation of light and shadow; the faint hum of the engine; and the changing glint of Giles's glasses all presented themselves as a drink to be imbibed, more intoxicating than even the Grand Marnier. She was comfortable, she was having fun, she was pleasantly tipsy: running away, she thought—
With Giles, no less.
The chorus of a song suggested itself to her, and she leaned her head back sideways against the headrest, watching the changing night landscape and singing softly:
Get out the map, get out the map and lay your finger anywhere down
We'll give the finger to those we pass on the way out of town
Don't drink the water, there seems to be something ailing everyone
I'm gonna clear my head…
"It isn't 'we'll give the finger'," Giles said idly. "It's 'We'll leave the figuring.'"
She raised her head and turned to him in shock. "What?"
"I checked the lyric myself once. It's 'We'll leave the figuring to those we pass on the way out of town.'"
"You know the Indigo Girls? Get out!"
"Oh for God's sake," he said, rolling his eyes. "Give me some credit. I know 'Casey at the Bat' and I know the Indigo Girls—their earlier albums, anyway."
Several streetlights passed overhead while Elisabeth stared at him.
"You know," she said finally, "it's when you say stuff like that that makes me think I'm dreaming all this."
"What?" Giles said. "I can't have layers?"
She stared at him; and all at once the whole thing seemed to unravel before her eyes: the glint of his glasses, the vibration of the car, the sweep of the streetlights over them. And inside she was unraveling too—too swiftly to fight with her thoughts.
He was taking quick glances at her. "Elisabeth," he said sharply.
She shook her head in a vain attempt to clear it.
"It's much less real now," she mumbled to him.
"Less real how?" His voice was quickly becoming the only clear-edged thing in her consciousness.
"Less—real. You…this…."
"You're certain it's not one of your attacks?"
"No—it's more than that. I feel like—the earth is trying to rotate backwards—" She sat back in her seat, hugging herself tightly, and groaned.
"Damn," Giles said.
"Are—you all right?"
"I'm fine," he said sharply. "We'd better get turned around."
"Okay," she whispered. She felt the car slow as Giles looked for an exit. Shadows, shadows dancing—like George Macdonald's story…what did the shadows have to tell her? Had she done something wrong? Or had someone done something to her? Conscience, conscience, consciousness—in French, two words in one…two meanings married. The shadows were marrying, headlong, inside and outside her.
The car was turning around; heavy inertia dragged her body to the side; Giles's jacketed elbow flashed in her vision, hauling at the steering wheel.
They were on the highway again, speeding now; or at least Giles was. Elisabeth was not entirely sure where she was, or even if she was; and she was far too confused to be properly frightened.
Fairy tales—faërie. The White Rabbit, late. Time was a factor. There was something about time, something about the marriage of shadows and the still, small point of tangential contact between worlds.
"Fortune favors the brave," she heard someone say; possibly herself. Then, "What time is it?"
"After moonrise," she thought she heard Giles say.
They were moving very fast, and the wind was whipping in harshly through the open windows. They were moving very fast, and a steam, or a fog, was rolling coldly off them, as if they had gone through a cloud and cut it, carrying some of it with them as they went. They were moving very fast, and Elisabeth blinked and lifted a hand to adjust her glasses, as if they were about to whip off her face in the wind.
"This reminds me of 'Restless,'" she said, through the cracking and whipping of the wind.
"Restless?"
"The name of the story in which you were all attacked by the First Slayer in your sleep."
"God," Giles muttered. "I'm sorry."
She said, dreamily, "Willow dreamed of being shamefully exposed; Xander dreamed of being out of the loop; Giles dreamed—sad things…'It's all your fault,' she said…."
Her eyes had somehow cleared enough that she could see his face; the orange light of a streetlamp passed over it, and there were hard, unnatural grooves about his mouth. Grief lines. Elisabeth thought, I shouldn't have said that, about the dreams.
"Where are we now?" she said, to cover the painful moment.
"Nearly back within city limits," he said.
"Okay," she said. Her eyes were getting clearer.
"You're looking a little better," he said, glancing at her.
"Feeling a little better," she said.
"You came here from the north, right?"
"Yes."
"And we were headed north." He began muttering, mostly to himself: "From the north…it must mean that the nexus of the two dimensions is where you caught the bus…but then, why would you be most at home in Sunnydale?...Maybe we should have tried going south…but maybe then again, the nexus is both in Sunnydale and the bus station up north in your dimension…in either case, I don't think I can conjure the link myself without seriously endangering your spiritual integrity…possibly it may take all of us to create a strong enough focal point to balance the energy, when we do—whatever spell it is we do….Damn!...I wish I knew what spell….And where to do it without killing you…."
A whirl of red and blue lights sprang up from behind them. "Bugger!" Giles uttered, glancing at the speedometer. He slowed down and began to pull to the side. To their surprise, however, the police car sped up and passed them, turning off its lights as it went.
"A good omen, I think," Elisabeth said. She looked over at Giles.
He accelerated again, but to a more modest speed than before. "I think so."
He glanced over at her, and she started to laugh. "Fortune favors the brave," she said again.
He chuckled too. Then his face sobered. "I'm sorry," he said. "I shouldn't have done this to you."
"Done what to me?"
"I shouldn't have gone on with this experiment while you were in such a relatively fragile state." The worry lines on his forehead were sharp.
"Oh, please," she said impatiently. "Giles—"
He began to stammer: "I realize that sentiment is not entirely copacetic with right-thinking feminist philosophy, but—"
"It's not that," she said. "It's—If I waited till I was unfragile to do things, I'd never do anything. I decided that a long time ago." She waited, but he still didn't look convinced. "We did this on my terms. Didn't we?"
"Yes," he agreed, reluctantly.
"'Copacetic with right-thinking feminist philosophy.' Puh." She shoved him gently in the shoulder. Startled, he gave a small laugh. She grinned back. He returned the grin, tentatively at first, then as he saw her laughing at him, more confidently.
By the time they reached Giles's apartment building and parked at the curb, they were howling with laughter.
"'Copacetic…'" She stumbled and almost fell out of the car, unable to finish it.
"How many Grand Marniers did you have?" Giles sobbed, lurching out of the car himself.
She lifted two fingers, facing him across the shiny red hood of his car. "How many fingers am I holding up?"
"Two, of course," he said.
"Then that's how many I had."
"No, wait, it looks more like seven."
"You patriarchal hypocrite, you let me drink seven Grand Marniers?"
He sputtered and started laughing again, his face reddening.
"We'd better get inside before we make a ruckus," she said.
"I think it's a bit too late for that," Giles said, recovering enough to stand up straight and head toward the courtyard. She followed him; as they went, one or the other of them broke into another mild fit of giggles, setting the other off again.
Finally, Giles drew a deep sigh and dug in his jacket pocket for his keys. She lengthened her stride to keep close to him in the shadows of the court: so when he stopped bolt-short, she cannoned hard into his back. He put a hand back to steady her; she grasped the wrist and peered round from behind him into the shadows around his front door.
Buffy was standing before them, arms crossed, feet planted, looking very deadly indeed.
"Where, exactly, have you been?" she inquired, conversationally.
*
Chapter 9