The Sleeper Part 2

Chapter One

Beneath blue silk awnings a menagerie whirrs into life. Velvet coated leopards pad behind screens of un-wilting silver trees and do not disturb in the least the enamelled, jewel eyed peacocks who fan their feathers and dance around each other. Still the band plays on their sightless polished eyes staring at their music sheets, their instruments plucked and pressed in precise movements intended to bring nothing more than the appropriate climax. Merciless, no sooner have they finished than they return to the beginning. These are the achievements of an age of clockwork and steam (see how realistic the leopard’s moist breath is). They will certainly be a highlight of the ice fair. Every year, Montenoix holds its ice fair because every year the river through the capital and the little lake which adjoins the river freeze solid. Perhaps one day the river will fail to freeze but this seems unlikely. The Weather here obeys its own laws. No one can remember the first fair but the history books speak of a brave and enterprising pie maker who crept out onto the ice one morning and set out his stall. Nervously, slipping in their clogs, his customers came and continued to come. They were emboldened by pie and, to a far greater extent, by a barrel of good strong ale dragged out by the local bar keeper. They began to craft makeshift sleds and skates, lit braziers and talked in the dark blue hours of twilight about how they would do this again next year if the waters froze. Unfortunately, although history clings to this charming story the names have been forgotten. They vanish out of sight like pennies slipping through cracks in the ice never to be seen again. Such is the way with the lives of peasants. Someone should write a book about this. No matter, we are with Camille now and Camille’s principal concern is whether or not her clockwork menagerie will sell. There are certainly many boastful dandies who might believe such lifelike creature to be the perfect garnish to a banquet or a ball. The question is: can they be persuaded to part with real gold to make their vision a reality?

The only person she knows for certain will visit her pavilion is her brother Jon. She also knows for certain that he has not got any money. He is after all but a humble librarian. Albeit, a librarian to a noble family. Sadly, by his account not one likely to be swayed by such outré art as she has produced.

‘No one will know,’ Jon says as he helps Louis down from the cab they rented. ‘We will see my sister’s clockwork and then we shall vanish into the crowds.’

‘Yes.’ Louis said. How he longs already to vanish. How he longs for the strangest things. He longs to run away, with Jon, into the woods and grow a pelt like a fox. Freed from all convention they can sleep out the winter in a deep den underground. But he takes Jon’s arm, holds it tight as they wind their way to Camille’s pavilion. He is dazzled as they step in. Against his will, for he would rather have had an excuse to slip away, he stands entranced by a cage of flapping calling exotic birds as Jon goes to make his greetings to his sister. It seems inappropriate now for Louis to introduce himself. How would he describe their relationship to her? He should think of some clever and cunning pseudonym, the kind a romantic heroine might have, something long and elegant. He toys with the idea of sweeping in clad in a flowing black cape and silken mask. He would sweep off the mask as he takes his hostess (or indeed his hosts) hand. Showering kisses upon the fingers as he introduces himself as La Comte Mystere. The brush of a Leopard against his leg and the brief shock of such intimacy with a predator bring him back to his senses. He really must go to the theatre less often it is utterly clouding his senses but there are times when he would rather live in a world of dreams. The pavilion is filling up now. Little crowds of people knot around the birdcages; women in feather plumage which seems somehow less magnificent than its imitation and men in fur collared coats which merge with the moving animals. There is a general clamour of excitement as children dare each other to pet the big cats. Little hands fly out, little cries of delight are heard then the hands plunge back into the safety of gloves and pockets.

The sound of trumpets cuts through the air. People jump back and Louis feels Jon’s hand in his again gently tugging him back into the shadows. A leather clad finger presses to his lips and demands his silence. 

Here comes the Princess Amandine stepping down from her carriage in a fanfare of trumpets and a cloud of heady oriental perfume. Her long velvet train ripples over the ice. The colour is bright, vivid blue as dazzling as a sapphire, seeming to twinkle with as many facets. She looks as if she has been carved out of the ice. Her guards follow after her, hands poised on their glittering swords, heels clicked together. They are toy soldiers but not quite so uniform. Look a little more closely and one might see how the captain inclines more towards his Princess, how his eyes pass over her as if contemplating something truly remarkable. Look more closely at the Princess herself and one would see how little she sleeps. Her eyes are tired; her skin glistens a little less beneath them. She tries to hide this. She is here to do her duty for it is her job to open this fair officially as she does every year. One swift snick of the scissors a few words upon the beauty of the season (how closely this land is allied with winter) and how wonderful the invention of these stalls will be. Now she moves amongst them her duty done but her curiosity not yet satisfied. It would be inaccurate to say that she is only human but she is by no means immune to boredom. So she visits each pavilion in turn. She lingers when she reaches Camille’s fantastical animals. She pauses to examine, at a proximity which would make a mortal nervous, the musicians. She looks at their fingers upon the keys of their pianos, she looks at their lips upon the lips of flutes, she examines their mother of pearl fingernails and their polished glass eyes, and she touches their hair made from delicate strands of silk, finer and glossier than any head of human hair.

Their chests seem to her to move as if they conceal hearts and surely their velvet upholstered lips are made for kissing? What is a human being? Not just the tangle one sees on a surgeons table surely. Can a thing be made to be human? She has never thought of this before.  Now it seems quite possible to Amandine that she has missed something rather obvious. If fate will not bring her brother’s true love to her door then why should she not build him or her within the hall? A suitor already there, perfectly tailored to suit the specifications of her brother’s heart. Ah, but how to know those? No matter, she will cross that bridge when she comes to it.

              

‘Madam, would you come with me?’ Camille looks up from the snake she is winding and sees a Guardsman standing over her. He has thick sideburns which border upon the English fashion for mutton chops and steel coloured eyes. His tall hard hat is tucked under his arm. She lets the snake go and it writhes from her hands onto the floor, vanishing off amongst the fair goers skirts. He will give someone a shock like that.

‘Why?’ Camille has never done what she is asked to do without first asking her own questions.

‘The Princess,’ here the Guard pauses to inhale deeply and clicks his heels together loudly, ‘would like to speak with you.’

‘What about?’ Camille asks. The guard looks utterly horrified at this. He plucks at the plume on his helmet.

‘That is not for me to know.’

‘Very well then, so who are you? I suppose that is a question you can answer?’

‘Certainly,’ he says, ‘I am Captain Albert San Valentine.’

‘What an elaborate name.’

‘It was my father’s name and his fathers and his father’s before him.’ The Captain says with a glimmer of pride.

‘And I take it that if you have a son you will also call him Albert san Valentine?’ Camille says as she puts on her coat and adjusts her fur hat on top of her elaborate coiffure.

‘I have not thought of the day I have a son.’ The Captain sighs. ‘However, were I to have a son I think it is high time that we added a new name to the family tree. It is becoming rather hard to read.’   

   

The captain of the Guard in his stiff uniform twined and buttoned with gold leads her across the ice. He offers her his arm from time to time in a stiff show of chivalry. They are heading towards a vast carriage the colour of summer violets. The coat of arms painted beneath the silk curtained window tells Camille at once whose carriage this is. A shiver runs up her back. The lives of Clockmakers and Princesses usually do not cross. Has she offended her sovereign with her wind up menagerie? The guard knocks on the window, a little too softly at first and then with flushed cheeks he knocks a little harder. The window is lowered and from the depths of the carriage the Princess leans forward. She rests her gloved hand on the sill. She smiles very briefly before the smile is dashed from her face by a strange twist of regret. Papers spill from the Princess’s lap down into the body off the carriage like autumn leaves from a tree.

‘You are the clockmaker who made the peacocks and the violinist?’ The Princess asks. ‘They tell me you are but I would have you say it yourself.’

‘Yes, I am the clockmaker.’ Camille says.

‘And do you believe that you can fashion anything out of clockwork?’

‘Most things, yes, your highness, I believe that I can.’

‘How real might they be?’ the Princess asked. ‘I saw that your automata seemed to breathe. They seemed to smile at times but still their eyes were silent. Could you make them more alive than they are now?’

‘With time.’ Camille said. She had considered the problem of thought before. She had created things which seemed to think but she had destroyed them all.

 ‘Time.’ The Princess sighed. ‘Well, I have waited long enough what is another dozen years or a dozen more on top of a hundred years.’

‘I am not sure what you are asking of me, your highness?’ Camille said.

‘I am not sure myself. Not entirely. The idea has only just entered my mind as I looked around your pavilion. I saw, I think the solution to a question which I have long asked myself.’ There is a long pause. ‘Would you accept a commission from me, madam? There will be no penalty if my hopes proof foolish. They often have before.’

How could one say no to such an offer?

‘Yes, your Highness.’ Camille said. She moved to kiss the Princesses hand but her gesture was waved away.

‘There is no need. It is a hand like any other it has done good and it has done bad but I have never known it to do those who kiss it the least good or evil either way. You should know, if you work for me, that I am not actually a stamp.’

Though Camille thought, now that she saw the Princess up close, the stamp captured a remarkable likeness but not the warmth or brightness or those eyes. It was almost as if a fever burned through them.  

‘I will send a carriage for you tomorrow. You do not need to tell me your address. I know where every one of my subjects is.’ He fingers squeeze Camille’s fingers. The gesture is strangely human and undignified but it makes her easier to like. ‘I thank you.’

 The carriage rattles off up the bank; the plumed black horses that draw it straining up the incline with foggy snorts. The Guards come jogging after the carriage to push its wheels free before they freeze to the spot.

Camille turns and makes her own way back across the ice. Skaters were beginning to cut patterns and swirls amongst the tents. Tiny female Domovoi, less often seen than their men folk, wrapped in rose printed shawls and thick felted skirts have pulled a painted sledge (its pattern matching their shawls exactly) bearing great silver samovars into the midst of the crowd . They are serving tea in cups and saucers none of which match, all of which are patterned with roses. They are charitable to those who look too poor to pay the penny price of a cup but woe betides those who can pay but hope to get something for nothing. Small hands slap and claw at them, strange curses in a tongue most do not understand rain down on them till they are forced to pay, blood staining the coins in their hands. Soon the pockets of the Domovoi’s white starched aprons are bulging with coins. Not greedy creatures themselves they do not even taste the tea they serve but from time to time, when unobserved, they take swift, ecstatic sips from the milk urn. Their tea is marvellous, lightly spiced and sweet. Camille pauses for a cup. Sits on one of the benches hewn from logs and considers the Princesses proposition. She has not yet been told what she is expected to make. She knows very little about the Princess save what everyone knows from reading the Saturday illustrated papers; she is as good a ruler as they have ever had but then, as she has ruled for a hundred years or more there is no one who can recall a time before her. She is beautiful and sophisticated but then she should be should she not when her mother was the most beautiful of the fae and her great, great grandmother was a mermaid of such renown that there are still stories told about her. There are also myths told about the Princess, that she will vanish into thin air someday as her mother did before her and what will they do then with no clear heir to take over the country? There are myths that her brother does indeed lie in a deep sleep somewhere in the palace and will wake who knows when. Though, ideally he would wake when she vanishes and then they will all be saved.

Out of the corner of her eye as she stands she thinks she sees her brother and the young man who accompanied him gliding along on skates. Their arms are twined about each other’s waists and their heads rest upon each other’s shoulders. She smiles for them. How very like Jon it is that he should forget to tell her a little thing like his being in love.

The Sleeper. Part One

Prologue

Silver snowflakes graze the gilded curves of the old Baroque palace where the Prince still slumbers, dreaming a century of dreams whilst his sister rules in his place. She is twice the Prince, so the people say, than any Prince who came before her. Still she has an unquiet mind. Even now in the dead of night, she walks the halls and galleries trying discover, amidst her sea of thoughts, the secret which will wake her brother for it is she who set him sleeping. Oh, but for the best of reasons. She is possessed of magic more instinctive than skilled. The books she has read and the witches she consulted are in complete agreement; he will only be awakened by a true lovers kiss. Sadly she has found that his true love is slow in coming.

She pauses at the long windows of the hall of glass now and draws the furs she wears high around her golden neck. Her dark hair tumbles like a waterfall and merges with the furs in one great breathing swathe of silken spears.

Still the snow falls. No longer just a few dancing flakes the snow grows thicker all the time. In the house of the Duc Du Murelle, the Duc’s brother Louis creeps from his bed. He shivers in his light silk night robe but he does not pause to wrap himself against the cold. His heart beats like a bird at his ribs as he tiptoes down the passageway, down the great spiral staircase. He is spurred on by feelings which transcend the momentary discomforts of cold. A few mice that have clawed their way through the rotten skirting boards of the kitchen seeking sanctuary from the snow scatter as he approaches. From the shadow of the clock, they watch him with their dark bead eyes. It is just striking midnight. Although it should be noted that this clock may not be accurate as it is wound so irregularly.  Nevertheless, midnight or not it is a magical hour. Louis finds his way through the labyrinth of the library without light, just by the touch of the volumes against his fingers. He sees a flicker of golden candlelight ahead. His lover, the librarian Jon, is waiting for him. He has scattered rose petals on the pillows of his bed. Who knows where he found rose petals on a night like this. The cold has chilled so many roses; frozen them like elaborate glass ornaments. One brush of the finger and they will shatter and fall in a shower of confetti knives.

How warmly these two lovers’ lips touch sharing the flavours of wine and coffee and sleep. Louis knows that, as the Duc’s younger brother, should his love be discovered he will be disowned, and dishonoured. A lowly librarian people will say, can you imagine it? Louis does not care. Love holds his heart more strongly than can be imagined and his only thought as his hands embrace the scarred flesh of his love is contentment.

Still the snow falls. As it does so it wraps conspiratorial fingers of silence around the library.

Still the snow falls and fills the streets of the old town. Wood frames sag and lunge out over stalls and shop fronts in alleyways built to accommodate butchers and bakers amidst a labyrinth of red brick and faded play bills. Where the snow is thickest the only markers of a street lying beneath come in the form of bottle necks and battered hats pushed hard against the wall. Does the snow hide some drunken tragedy? Only the thaw will tell. Until then people will conspire not to see as they hurry past. For now the winter provokes that strange reaction, eat, drink and be very merry. Hold back the cold and the darkness with cheer. Fissures of golden light spill out onto the snow here and there. Shadows dance and sway behind the drawn shades of bar rooms. Notes of music come and go like dream snatches.

 Snow falls at the doorstep of the clock makers shop and greys a little from the sooty footprints which have accumulated there. The wind blows and the lantern above the doorway swings on its chain giving out a strange funereal creaking.

The clockmaker, Camille, still works. Though it is late, she sits by the fire. Tiny cogs spread glinting on the dark blue of her skirts. It is not a clock upon which she works now. All the clocks are finished and set on their shelves. They all tick at once, in one voice they cry out the hours with a thousand chimes. Once, twice, again, again, twelve times they cry. It is definitely midnight now for the clockmakers clocks are, without doubt, accurate; that is why they sell so well. The witching hour truly has arrived; the hour when spirits creep and tug the corners of the night. In the far off sea a silvery tail lashes the waves and laughter cries out, unseen and unheard. Translucent figures pass each other in the streets and cellars dancing ancient minuets around the dust laden barrels and the forgotten trunks. The dancers are still as nimble as ever and always will be so long as they glide back to their tombs before dawn cracks the horizon.

The clockmaker pauses in her work. The tiny tools of her trade in her hands, oil stains on her fingers. Is that a mouse she hears tiptoeing behind the wall, bedding down in the darkness? No doubt it is. The mice are not afraid of the ghosts. They are used to them. They are no longer disturbed by their revels. She should go to bed herself. She makes one last alteration so slight another might not even notice it but she is a magician of her trade. Besides precision is wanted here for this is not a clock. This project is her dream, her life. She has worked on it every evening since the idea first came to her as a girl. She was already in love with clockwork then. She fashioned toys that ran about the house on little metal wheels or ground out tinny tunes. Marvellous things which never seemed to wind down (ah the magic of a child’s memories where time is not itself at all). Now her great work is nearing completion. Ready, in fact, to be unveiled to a paying public. It is worth considering that the mouse behind the skirting board may not be a thing of flesh and blood at all but one of her first creations. Is this a wind up mouse that went tearing off into the darkest recesses of her workroom? Did it escape into the mechanical wild? In a few months it may have picked up the quirks of its living fellows along with their scent. Now accepted and indistinguishable from its fellows (for they have conspired to ignore the key which sticks from its back) it has begun a new life with a new family. Its brood of infants only differentiated from the others by a curious clicking noise when they turn their heads or stretch their legs and a tendency to choke hungry cats to death.  What would such a creature survive and thrive upon? Scraps of iron and shavings of steel perhaps?

The snow is still falling as the clock maker climbs the stairs. For a few minutes she watches from the window which looks out over the courtyard between shops. Everything is so still. A slender fire bright cat pads across the snow leaving tiny heart shaped marks.

Tomorrow, the world will be unrecognizable; a dream world beneath which the familiar will slumber.  At least, it will be fitting weather for an ice fair.