New page

The coastal road was not the bone-white shore but something older, a path worn into the living rock by feet that had walked it for centuries, the surface smooth as sea-glass but darker, the color of the stone that had been the foundation of the palace that was now dissolving behind him. Norland walked it with the jacket folded over his arm, the white thread catching the light that shifted from gold to silver to gold as the clouds that were not clouds moved across the sky that was not a sky, and he did not look back at the ruin that had been the hall of the queen of the still sea.

He walked inland.

The road curved away from the shore, away from the sea that had not moved, away from the tide that had not risen, away from the palace that had dissolved into a silhouette that was now a memory, that was now a grief that he carried in the hollow behind his sternum, that was now the only thing that he had brought from that place besides the jacket with the white thread and the heirlooms that were breathing against his chest.

He had not put on the jacket.

He held it folded over his arm, the fabric cool against his skin, the weight of it a reminder that there had been kindness in that place, that there had been a seamstress who had spent hours at the hem of his jacket, who had known before he had known that he would be cast out, who had wanted him to be warm.

The road rose.

The ground beneath his feet shifted from stone to packed earth, from earth to the first roots of the trees that lined the path, the trees that were not the trees of the forest that had rejected him but something else, something that grew close to the coast, their trunks twisted by the salt wind that came from the sea that had not moved, their leaves the color of the silver moss that had covered the kelp before the palace began to dissolve.

He saw the first elf.

The elf was trimming silver-leafed hedges that lined the entrance to a garden, the hedges shaped into forms that were not geometric but organic, the branches curving in patterns that resembled the movement of water, the leaves catching the light that shifted from gold to silver and releasing a scent that was not jasmine but something sharper, something that Norland did not have a name for, something that belonged to this world and not to his.

The elf looked up.

He was old, his face lined with the kind of age that Norland had not seen in the forest, the kind of age that was not decay but density, a life that had been lived through centuries that Norland could not count, a life that had accumulated in the creases around his eyes, in the grey of his hair, in the stillness of his hands when they stopped trimming the hedge and fell to his sides.

He looked at Norland.

He looked at the jacket folded over Norland's arm.

He looked at the white thread that caught the light.

He did not speak.

He lowered his gaze.

The movement was precise, ceremonial, the lowering of a gaze that had been held at the level of Norland's face and then dropped to the ground, to the roots of the silver-leafed hedge, to the earth that was packed around the base of the branches, to the space between Norland's feet and the garden that the elf had been tending. It was a gaze that said I see you. I will not look at you. I will honor what has happened by looking away.

Norland felt the weight of the silence settle on his shoulders, the weight of the pity that was in the elf's lowered gaze, the weight of the judgment that had been delivered not by the queen who had named him a vessel of vice but by the gardener who had seen the thread on his jacket and had known what it meant, had known that he had been marked, had known that he was a creature who had been cast out, who was walking away from the sea with nowhere to go, who would not be welcomed into any garden that was trimmed by hands that had been tending the same hedge for centuries.

He walked past.

He did not speak.

He did not stop.

He walked past the elf who was standing with his hands at his sides, his gaze fixed on the ground, his body a monument to the pity that he was offering, the pity that was the only thing that the Elvish world could give to a creature that had been exiled from the hall of the queen of the still sea.

The road rose again.

The trees that lined the path grew denser, their trunks thicker, their leaves the color of the silver moss that had covered the kelp, their branches intertwining above the road, creating a canopy that filtered the light that shifted from gold to silver to gold, that cast a pattern of shadows that moved across the packed earth in a rhythm that was not the rhythm of the wind but the rhythm of something else, something that Norland felt in the soles of his feet, in the hollow behind his sternum, in the space where the song had taken root.

He passed a fishmonger.

The elf was standing beside a cart that was carved from the same pale wood that had been the driftwood throne, the cart filled with fish that were the color of the sea that had not moved, their scales catching the light that filtered through the canopy and scattering it into points of white that were like the spores that had burst from the kelp, like the hope that had been a faint + when he crossed the bone-white sand and was now nothing.

The fishmonger was speaking.

He was speaking to a customer, an elf who was standing beside the cart with a basket woven from the same silver-leafed branches that the gardener had been trimming, and his voice was a melody that Norland could not understand, a cadence that rose and fell with the rhythm of the fish that were still moving in the cart, their gills opening and closing in the air that was not their element, their bodies still alive, still fighting the death that was waiting for them.

The fishmonger saw Norland.

He stopped mid-sentence.

The word that he had been speaking hung in the air between them, a syllable that Norland did not recognize, a sound that had been cut off before it could complete its meaning, a silence that was louder than the words that had been spoken before it.

He looked at Norland.

He looked at the jacket folded over Norland's arm.

He looked at the white thread.

He did not speak.

He lowered his gaze.

The customer followed his gaze, the elf with the basket woven from silver-leafed branches, and she too looked at Norland, looked at the jacket, looked at the white thread, and she too lowered her gaze, and together they stood beside the cart of fish that were still dying, their eyes fixed on the ground, their bodies still, their hands frozen in the gestures of the transaction that had been interrupted, the transaction that would not resume until Norland had passed, until the creature that had been marked had moved beyond the range of their pity, until they could return to the business of selling fish that had been caught in a sea that had not moved for a thousand years.

Norland walked.

He did not stop, did not slow, did not turn to see whether they were still watching, still standing in the tableau of pity that they had created, still waiting for him to pass so that they could resume the life that had been interrupted by the presence of a creature that had been cast out.

The road narrowed.

The canopy thickened.

The light that filtered through the leaves was no longer gold or silver but green, the color of the forest that had rejected him, the color of the leaves that had parted around him and then closed behind him, the color of the memory of the stream that had refused to enter his body.

He passed two elven children.

They were standing at the edge of the road, their backs to a clearing where luminous shells were scattered across the grass, their game interrupted by his approach. They were young, their faces unlined by the centuries that the gardener had carried, their eyes wide with the curiosity that Norland had seen in the child who had asked him about the briefcase, the child who had said you have a king in your coat.

They stared.

They did not lower their gazes.

They stared with the wide, uncomprehending eyes of children watching a wounded animal, their heads tilted, their mouths slightly open, their hands frozen in the gestures of throwing the luminous shells that were now falling from their fingers, the shells hitting the grass with a sound that was not a sound but a frequency, a frequency that matched the song of the heirlooms, a frequency that said this is a creature that does not belong here, that has been marked, that will not play with us, that cannot be touched.

Norland opened his mouth.

He wanted to tell them that he had once been welcomed here, that he had slept in an elf's hut and been fed the translucent fruit, that he had walked the sea-glass corridors and stood at the threshold of the kelp chamber and waited for the learning that had begun but had not finished, that he had been a guest for the space of a month before the darkness had risen from beneath the throne and he had been cast out.

But his throat locked.

The truth that rose in him was not the truth that he had wanted to tell, not the truth of the welcome that had been given and then rescinded, not the truth of the kindness that had been stitched into the hem of his jacket.

The truth that rose in him was the truth that he had been welcomed.

He had been fed.

He had been shown kindness.

And the welcome had been rescinded, and the food had stopped appearing, and the kindness had been reduced to a single act of a seamstress who had known before he had known that he would be cast out.

He could not tell them that.

He could not tell them that he had been marked, that he was a vessel of vice, that he was a creature of the boundary, that he had nowhere to go but forward along a road that was narrowing, that was darkening, that was leading him deeper into a world that had rejected him, that was piling stones of pity on the cairn of his defeat.

He walked past.

The children watched.

Their gazes followed him until he was out of sight, until the curve of the road hid him from their view, until the canopy closed behind him and the light shifted from green to gold to silver and he was alone again, walking through the silence that was the only companion he had, the silence that had been with him since the moment he had stepped through the gap that had been the doors of the palace that was now dissolving, the silence that was the only thing that had not judged him, the only thing that had not pitied him, the only thing that had not looked away.

The road rose again.

The trees thinned.

The canopy opened onto a stretch of the road that was exposed to the sky that was not a sky, the light that shifted from gold to silver falling directly onto the packed earth, casting his shadow before him, a shadow that was the shape of a man who had been cast out, who was walking away from the sea, who was carrying a jacket with white thread and a bundle of heirlooms that were breathing against his chest.

He passed an old woman weaving rushes on her porch.

The porch was carved from the same pale wood that had been the driftwood throne, the rushes that she was weaving the color of the silver moss that had covered the kelp, her hands moving in a rhythm that Norland could not follow, the rushes coming together in patterns that were not patterns but something else, something that was the shape of waves that had never broken, the shape of the sea that had not moved for a thousand years, the shape of the grief that she was weaving into the fabric of the mat that was growing beneath her fingers.

She saw him.

She set down her work.

She did not speak, did not lower her gaze, did not look at the white thread that was catching the light that was falling from the sky that was not a sky.

She simply watched him.

Her lips pressed thin.

The line of her mouth was not a judgment, not a condemnation, not the scorn that Nargathriel had delivered on the day of her verdict. It was a recognition, a knowledge of something that she had seen before, something that she had watched walk along this road, something that had been marked and had been cast out and had passed before her porch, had passed through her gaze, had passed into the distance that was waiting for him, the distance that was the only place that he could go.

Norland felt the weight of her watching settle on his shoulders, the weight of the recognition that was in her pressed lips, the weight of the knowledge that she had seen other creatures like him, other vessels of vice, other wounds that had been carried through the veil and had been healed by the distance that was waiting at the end of the road.

He walked.

He did not stop.

He did not turn to see whether she had picked up her rushes, whether she had resumed the weaving that had been interrupted by his passage, whether she was still watching him with her lips pressed thin, her hands still, her body still, her gaze a stone on the cairn of his defeat.

The road curved.

The trees closed in again.

The canopy thickened until the light that filtered through was no longer gold or silver or green but grey, the color of the sea that had not moved, the color of the ash that had been the anemone, the color of the verdict that had been delivered and was now being enacted.

He stopped at the hut where he had spent his first night.

It was the same woven door, the same clay bowl for washing, the same roof of silver-leafed branches that had sheltered him from the rain that had not fallen, the same threshold where he had sat and watched the stars that were not stars move across the sky that was not a sky.

He stood before the door.

His hand rose to knock.

His knuckles hovered before the woven surface, the fibers that had been bound together by hands that had welcomed him once, that had fed him the fruit that had been left on the driftwood table, that had shown him the path that led to the coast, that had said the path to the west is the path you must walk.

His hand stopped.

The subtext of "I came back" rose in his throat, the words that he would have to speak if the door opened, if the elf who had welcomed him appeared in the threshold, if he had to explain why he was standing on the same doorstep, his jacket folded over his arm, his feet bleeding, his eyes carrying the weight of the exile that had been delivered by the queen of the still sea.

I came back because I have nowhere else to go.

The admission was a worse shame than exile.

He lowered his hand.

He turned from the door.

He walked along the path that led past the hut, past the clay bowl that was still sitting beside the door, past the place where he had lain on the first night, the moon that was not a moon moving across the sky that was not a sky, the heirlooms breathing against his chest, the hope that had been a faint + when he crossed the bone-white sand and was now nothing.

Night found him sleeping in a hollow between two tree roots.

The hollow was not a shelter but a dip in the earth, a depression that had been worn by centuries of rain that had not fallen, the roots of the trees curving around it like the arms of a creature that had been waiting to hold him, waiting to cradle him, waiting to protect him from the pity that was following him along the coastal road, the pity that was a weight that he was carrying in the hollow behind his sternum, the pity that was the only thing that the Elvish world had given him besides the white thread on his jacket.

He pulled his coat over his head.

The jacket was not his, not the one that had been stained with the copper-smelling residue of the kelp curtain, the one that had been left in the chamber of woven fronds. It was the jacket that the servant had carried through the ruin, the jacket that had been cleaned and folded and stitched with the white thread that caught the light, the jacket that was the only kindness that he had been given since he had crossed the veil.

He did not have a blanket.

He did not have a pillow.

He had the jacket folded over his head, covering his face, covering his eyes, covering the grief that was rising in him like the tide that had not moved, like the sea that had not risen, like the hope that had been a faint + and was now nothing.

He slept.

He did not know whether the sleep was a mercy or a wound, whether the darkness that came behind his closed lids was the same darkness that had risen from beneath the throne of the queen of the still sea, whether the dissolution that was spreading through the palace was now spreading through his body, through his bones, through the hollow behind his sternum where the hope had drained and the truth had entered and the learning had begun.

He woke to dew on his cheeks.

The moisture was cold on his skin, the droplets forming on his eyelashes, on the bridge of his nose, on the corners of his mouth, and he lay still beneath the jacket that was his only shelter, his only warmth, his only evidence that there had been kindness in the world that had cast him out.

He reached up.

His hand rose from the earth, his fingers moving toward his face, toward the moisture that was on his cheeks, and he touched the dew, his fingertips pressing against the cold water that had settled on his skin, the water that had come from the air, from the mist that had risen from the sea that was still and black, from the breath of the world that had rejected him.

The dew was cold.

The dew was saltless.

The dew was not tears.

He felt the disappointment rise in him, a taste that was not copper, not jasmine, not the memory of the translucent fruit that had filled the hollow behind his sternum. It was a taste that was empty, that was hollow, that was the shape of the grief that had been growing in him since the moment he had stepped through the gap that had been the doors of the palace that was now dissolving.

He had wanted it to be tears.

He had wanted the moisture on his cheeks to be his own, to be evidence that he still could cry, that he was not already hollowed out by the distance between her throne and this dirt, that there was still something in him that could weep, that could grieve, that could feel the weight of the exile that had been placed on his shoulders.

But the dew was cold and saltless.

And he lay in the hollow between the tree roots, his hand still touching his face, his fingers still pressing against the moisture that was not tears, and he felt the emptiness that was the distance between the queen who had judged him and the earth that was holding him, the distance that was the only thing that he had left, the distance that was the only thing that had not abandoned him.

He rose.

He folded the jacket.

He put it on.

The fabric settled over his shoulders, the white thread catching the light that was beginning to filter through the canopy, the light that shifted from grey to silver to gold, the light that was the beginning of the second day of his exile.

He walked.

He walked through the morning, the shamed man beneath elvish trees, his feet carrying him along the road that was not the road that led to the west, not the road that led to the forest that had rejected him, not the road that led to the stream that had parted around his hands and had refused to enter his body.

He walked through the pity of every elf he passed.

They were stones.

Each elf was a stone added to the cairn of his defeat, a weight that settled on his shoulders, that pressed against his chest, that accumulated in the hollow behind his sternum where the hope had drained and the truth had entered and the learning had begun.

He passed a weaver.

He passed a shepherd.

He passed a woman drawing water from a well that was lined with the same pale wood that had been the driftwood throne.

Each one saw him.

Each one saw the white thread.

Each one lowered their gaze, pressed their lips thin, stood still as he passed, waited for the creature that had been marked to move beyond the range of their pity, to walk into the distance that was waiting for him, to disappear into the curve of the road that would hide him from their sight.

He did not speak.

He did not stop.

He walked through the morning and into the afternoon, the light shifting from gold to silver to gold, the canopy opening and closing above him, the trees that twisted and grew thin and thickened and twisted again, the road rising and falling, the air that tasted of copper and jasmine and the memory of the honey-light that had been fading since the day he had crossed the veil.

And he understood, as he walked, that the exile was not a single moment, not the flat words that Nargathriel had spoken from her throne of driftwood, not the dissolution of the palace that had been the spine of a creature that had been torn from the bed of a sea that no longer existed.

The exile was the walk.

The exile was the pity that he carried on his shoulders, the stones that were added to the cairn of his defeat by every elf who looked at the white thread and lowered their gaze, the accumulation of looks and silences and pressed lips that were the architecture of his separation, that were the shape of his exile, that were the only thing that the Elvish world had given him besides the white thread that was catching the light that shifted from gold to silver to gold.

He walked.

And the crushing sadness that had been a cold tide rising from his chest did not stop, did not ebb, did not recede.

It remained.

It was the ground beneath his feet.

It was the road that he was walking.

It was the distance that was waiting for him at the end of the path, the distance that was the only place that he could go, the distance that was the only thing that had not judged him, the distance that was the only thing that had not pitied him, the distance that was the only thing that had not looked away.