Lady of Deep Waters (Early Draft) (A Free 'Verse New World Story)

Scene 2

The knocker recalled Mr. Ayers to a sense of self: A tangle of snakes with one head, formed into a scaly loop; new, red, and once shiny, now smudged with grime from dark places.  He shuddered, wrapping arms tight around himself, as if he could hide the culprits beneath more filth.  Sodden filth.  The damp feel to his skin, reassuring moments ago, made him shiver.

But not with cold.

His body felt it but did not mind it any more than the earth itself did.

Not anymore.

Not since “yesterday.”

The door opened slowly, silently, and sourness filled his mouth.  Nothing good came from leisurely silence.  Not anymore.

A man stood exposed in the now open doorway.

His benefactress had a twin.

Or a scion, he corrected himself.  Though both inhabited the same final spring of middle years, she was frozen in time while this man obviously was not.  She was styled after bygone centuries, and this man modeled pristine modern fashion: Starched, pure white cravat. Well-fitted coat and wine-colored waistcoat.  Breeches, stockings, and shoes, all without a wrinkle, crinkle, or smear.  And, oh, those supple gloves, how they made Mr. Ayer’s own bare fingers clench.  How they reminded him of everything he had lost and the little that was left.

But the gentleman did not dispose of the trash on his doorstep.  Instead, he smiled, not any smile, but that goddess smile, and reached out for him.  “Oh, it will not do to stand out there freezing, sir.  Please, come in.”

And with those simple words, Mr. Ayers gained a benefactor.  One of flesh and blood, not stone and sweet, deep waters.  “Thank you,” he gushed.  “Thank you, good sir.  I--thank you.”  And he stepped over the threshold into a bone white corridor.  “I will do whatever I can to repay your kindness, sir, if you but give me your name.”

 “Oh, such a pretty address.  Your servant--” The gentleman bowed, and the movement betrayed the one flaw in his benefactor’s otherwise perfect appearance: hair as long as the goddess’s, but bound in queue woven throughout with a white ribbon.  “Sir Bennic Daga.  And you are?”

“Ayers.  Niccla Ayers, formerly of Morning Rise.”  While Mr. Ayers spoke, his benefactor glided behind him toward the door, forcing Mr. Ayers to turn away so he wouldn’t have to witness its closing.  “B-b-back h-home in A-arcana Major.”  Shuddering, he wrapped his arms tight around himself and whispered, “But I’m afraid I don’t have even a card to prove my claim.”

“Oh, I’m sure you lost more than a few calling cards in the New World, Mr. Ayers.”  

A touch had him drawing his coat tightly about himself.  He had not expected the gentle brush down his side.

Nor for it to continue despite his own withdrawal.

“Oh, you must be cold, Mr. Ayers, but I’m afraid this is so terribly sodden it does you no good.”

“Yes.”  He relaxed.  “Sorry.”  Watermelon-scented waters had plastered the coat upon his being, yet under his benefactor’s hands, it glided inch by inch down his arms as if there were nothing to resist; every move the gentleman made was that way, slow and graceful and perfect.  And hypnotic, but not to the point he missed the tug at the back of his waistcoat.  He stepped away, hands fisted, and winced as a misstep sent pain, like a hot poker, up his tired legs.  “Yes, sorry, for the impropriety--mess--my state, sir.”  Arms wrapped around himself, he found himself eying his coat resting upon the gleaming hallway table.  It was so far away. “I partook of your fountain.  If it weren’t for her, I would never have found you.  And I don’t know what would have become me.”

“Oh, I am glad.  She serves as a guiding star to the lost.  You are wet through, aren’t you?  Oh, please, come with me.  I’m afraid I’m a little short staffed; I have given the maid the night off.  Perhaps, though, we can make do and settle in more private quarters.”

On the heels of that promise, Mr. Ayers followed his benefactor down the long corridor spare in furnishings and decorations but rich in texture.  Extraordinary patterns swirled down the walls like strands of wandering hair, giving movement to the stationary.  The bannister added its own touch of grace, curving upwards, gleaming, red as the goddess’s hair.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” His benefactor waited for him three rooms down.  “Oh, I’m quite proud, as I am of this room, too.”  He gestured toward an open door.

Mr. Ayers flinched, and his muscles twinged as he made up for the lapse.

Same as the hall, little occupied the offered room except for more textured walls and shiny furniture.  The fireplace (with a fire just starting to stir), a wardrobe, dressing table, washstand, and bedside table broke up the off-white that flowed even through to the carpets.

His benefactor’s patience must have worn out, for he gripped his arms and stepped him into the room.  He drew him to the bed.  At some point during Mr. Ayer’s distraction, his benefactor must have circulated the room, picking up a nightshirt from the wardrobe and a towel from the washstand, for these he disposed upon the bed before dipping a hand toward Mr. Ayer’s waistcoat.

Mr. Ayers’s stomach clenched for reasons other than hunger, and he backed away, hit the bed, and sat down hard.  Blinked.  Blinked again.  “No, I undress myself.”

“Oh, I don’t mind, Mr. Ayers.  But if you are sure?  You seem terribly exhausted. Oh, I’m not sure if you’d make it through a meal.”

“Food.  No, I can’t eat.”  He wasn’t sure he’d ever be hungry again.  

“In the morning perhaps, but, oh, do undress.  I fear a cold despite the fire.  Unless this room or clothing is not to your taste, Mr. Ayers?”

Mr. Ayers looked down at his filthy self and understood the hint, but he simply prayed that a token effort with the towel would suffice.  Even a few seconds’ glimpse of bare skin left him fumbling and shaking, a betrayal of nerves that lasted through closing the drawstrings beneath his throat.  But he could not complain.  The nightshirt was clean and whole; everything he wasn’t.  When he turned to express his gratitude, he bumped into his benefactor.

A misstep that did not change his benefactor’s smile or unblinking gaze.

Mr. Ayers back toward the bed.

“Oh, pardon me,” his benefactor said, unmoved and unmoving.  “Now that I have seen you safely dressed, I’ll leave you to your rest.  But I cannot rest easy unless I remind you that if need assistance, you must seek me out.  Just wander a few doors down the corridor and, oh, you’ll discover my room.  The one with the oltoggoldaga carven upon it.”

“Oltoggoldaga?”  Mr. Ayers knew little of the myths of madmen that the Unknown God had saved his people from.

“Red Water Serpent; that is, oh, my family crest.  You can’t miss her.”  He headed toward the door.

And Mr. Ayers started after him, knowing what would come next.  “Don’t--please, if you would not shut it?”

The smile grew.  “Of course.”  

With that, his benefactor withdrew, leaving Mr. Ayers to the safety of a man-made room, clean clothes, and a warm bed.  

But it took most of the night before Mr. Ayers could submit to it all.