Read Child of a Rainless Year Online
Authors: Jane Lindskold
Child of a Rainless Year (27 page)
As I set Saturn’s kaleidoscope back in its place in the drawer, I wondered how one actually used these to divine. The dictionary’s entry had been complete, as far as it went, but offered no directions as to how these divining tools were to be used. Did I just gaze into them as a carnival gypsy did into her crystal ball, or did I need to say magic words or wave my hands or something?
In my reading, I had come across a reference to the need to smear oil on the divining tool in question—though that one had been a polished shield, rather than a mirror. Did I need to do something similar here? The kaleidoscopes were sealed systems, but maybe the elaborate casings played a role in the effectiveness of these divining scopes that they did not in a normal kaleidoscope.
And how did the teleidoscopes fit into my evolving theory that Colette had employed these as divining objects? Unlike the kaleidoscopes, teleidoscopes lacked an object chamber. Effectively, the world served as the object chamber for a teleidoscope. The type of lens set at the end—Colette’s all seemed to be spheres—affected how those external scenes were transmitted to the mirrors, but that was all.
I opened the drawer containing the teleidoscopes and studied their casings. They did differ from each other, but there was no tidy planetary symbol to tell me what each might be used for. I considered what the different names Brewster had given his creations meant—for although the word “kaleidoscope” has entered our general language, coming to mean any repeating image, or even any broad view, the word did not exist before Brewster coined it for his invention.
Brewster derived “kaleidoscope” from three Greek words meaning “to see a beautiful form.” “Teleidoscope” in turn meant “distant-form viewing.” Thus, the kaleidoscope seemed to be intended to be employed to see beauty, to create art. The teleidoscope’s purpose didn’t seem much different from a telescope, a “far-seer.” I guess Brewster must have been less impressed with the teleidoscope than with the kaleidoscope, or maybe any word he could invent that would mean “to see the world busted up into fragments and rearranged into interesting patterns” would simply have been too much of a tongue twister.
I studied the teleidoscopes in the drawer, hoping to note some sign or symbol that would give me a hint as to their use. Some of the cases were intricate, and there might indeed be magical symbols in their workings, but I couldn’t tell if there were. I’d have to do more reading in Aunt May’s books, mark pages that gave symbols, and do some comparing. Then there were kaleidoscopes other than those I had mentally dubbed the Cabalistic Seven. Were these also “magical,” or had Colette simply collected them because of their undoubted loveliness?
I didn’t believe it. Were Colette simply collecting them as decorative objects, she would have had them out on display. What now seemed certain to me was that, like the wicked queen in Snow White, my mother had been using mirrors for scrying—or for spying.
Did all the mirrors in the House serve this purpose, or just these carefully designed kaleidoscopes? And why had Colette chosen to use kaleidoscopes rather than simple mirrors for her divining? What use was there to a fragmented and repeated image?
Each time I found something that seemed an answer, it also seemed I also found more questions—questions so complicated that they all but invalidated my original question. “Why mirrors?” led to kaleidoscopes. “What use are these kaleidoscopes?” led to “Why kaleidoscopes at all?”
Sitting there at my mother’s vanity, methodically restoring the false bottoms to the drawers, I thought about my original questions. It seemed to me that both Aunt May and I had started with the same ones, “What happened to Colette Bogatyr? Is she alive or dead?”
Trying to understand Colette, and thus the reasons she had disappeared, had led Aunt May into a search for Colette’s background—and the warning from Mr. Hart that asking such questions was dangerous indeed. So Aunt May had turned to trying to find out the source of those enigmatic titles Mr. Hart had let slip—or perhaps had deliberately dangled as bait or distraction.
Following Aunt May’s lead and my own memories of Colette had brought me to mirrors, and through researching mirrors I had discovered some undoubtedly fascinating things, but none of what I had learned seemed to offer an immediate answer to my initial questions. Where had Colette driven on that day forty-odd years ago? Why hadn’t she come back? Was she still alive?
To these I added one more, “Why had Colette taken a teleidoscope with her that day?”—for I was absolutely certain that she had done so. If, like the kaleidoscopes, the teleidoscopes were used for some sort of scrying, then it followed that Colette had been looking for something—some “distant object.” What had she been looking for—and had it found her first?
I slid the drawers shut, locked them, and left the room, locking the doors to the suite. Frowning, I walked across to the room I had taken for my own, and dug the teleidoscope out from under the socks. I held it to my eye and looked around, but though the fragmented patterns were undoubtedly as lovely as anything a kaleidoscope could produce, they showed me nothing I did not expect. I slid the teleidoscope back into its protective concealment, and went downstairs.
The silent women hadn’t gotten to the point where they cooked meals, and I was hungry.
Wednesday morning the phone rang just as I was bringing in the coffee mugs from breakfast.
“Hello?”
“Mira, this is Chilton O’Reilly. I’ve finished the background work, and I was wondering how you felt about going ahead with the feature story on area Victorians.”
Actually, I felt a lot less enthusiastic about it than I had when he’d first proposed it, but I couldn’t say so without too much explanation.
“Sounds good,” I said. “By the way, one of my childhood friends got in touch with me after the last piece. We’ve been out to lunch.”
“Great!” Chilton said. “Listen, can I bring a photographer by on Friday? If things go well, we can do a big feature in the Sunday paper. If we get delayed, there will be room later in the week.”
“Friday morning will work,” I said. “I haven’t gotten a lot more done inside, but the outside is progressing nicely.”
“We’d really like some inside shots, too,” Chilton said. “After all, people can see the exteriors just by driving by.”
“I’m sure we can handle that,” I said. “I have the living room in shape, and I know my neighbors would like to get involved. Many of them have put a lot of work into their homes, and furnished them beautifully. Let me give you a few phone numbers.”
I did so, rattling them off from a list I had near the phone. “You understand,” I concluded, “that the last thing I’d like to do is alienate my neighbors. We’re getting along very well.”
“Of course,” Chilton said. “I’ll call these folks and see what we can work out. September is often a slow season here, and I think the paper’s going to give us a good spread.”
We set that Chilton and his photographer would come by Friday morning around ten. After I’d hung up, I walked outside to let Domingo know. Some of his crew did not like to be photographed, and given the good work they’d done for me, I did my best to honor their wishes.
Looking at the exterior of the House with the upcoming photography session in mind, I couldn’t help but be pleased with the result of our labors. Yes, the exterior might be called gaudy, but it was gaudy in the way an old-style carousel had been gaudy. Colorful, but never garish. In Ohio, the color scheme might not have worked, but against the impossible blueness of a New Mexico sky, Phineas House looked just fine.
“It looks good,” I said to Domingo. “I like it better than I do the Castle. That was elegant. This is, well, splendid. I want you to get the credit, tomorrow. I hope you won’t mind.”
Domingo frowned. “The credit belongs to the House. I have only followed what she wants.”
“I don’t think she’ll mind,” I said, “and you must admit that wouldn’t make for a good newspaper story—or rather it would, but not the right kind of story.”
Domingo might be a bit fey, but he was not a fool, no matter what people thought. He smiled now, then nodded.
“Yes. I agree, but let us take the credit together. After all, you have supported this project, and selected many of the colors.”
“Fine,” I agreed. “Anything I can help with? I may go run some errands later, but the weather is so nice I don’t feel like going anywhere now.”
“We have found some more wildcats,” Domingo said promptly. “They’re along one of the oriel windows on the third floor. I had two of the crew put scaffolding there because we needed to work on some of the shingles. That’s done now, but I’ve left the scaffolding in place.”
“Great,” I said. “I’ll be out as soon as I get my coveralls on.”
I spent the rest of the morning and most of the afternoon in a happy dream state, painting a collection of leopards and lynxes that looked as if they could have been right out of Dionysus’s entourage. Midafternoon, the wind gusted up, bringing a few spits of rain, not enough to be considered a break in the drought, but certainly hopeful.
“Do the monsoons ever come in so late?” I asked hopefully.
“Not usually,” Domingo said, “but we are hardly into September yet, and there is often some rain during the State Fair.”
“Is that held around here?” I asked.
“No. In Albuquerque,” Domingo said. “Enrico is quite excited. A project his class did is going to be shown in the school art show, and he and his sisters had something to do with the San Miguel County display in the Bolack Building. He has something planned for the 4-H display as well.”
None of this made any sense to me, but I could tell Domingo was pleased.
“So you’re going?”
“Certainly,” he said. “I plan to enter tomatoes, squash, and maybe some beans in the Bolack Building show. Those have cash prizes, and stay on display the entire two weeks of the fair. I’m also considering entering some of the old rose varieties in the flower show, but I never decide with roses until the last moment. The competition can be fierce, and the long drive is hard on the blossoms.”
“Maybe I can help,” I suggested. “You’ll have to tell me what to do.”
“I accept,” Domingo said promptly, “though you don’t know what you’ve just gotten yourself into.”
Since the rain, light as it was, made further painting unlikely that day, I decided to keep my resolution to go into town. I hadn’t forgotten that strange, red-haired woman I had glimpsed down on the Plaza, and figured I’d go looking for her.
I’d thought a lot about what I’d seen, and had come to the conclusion that the woman had probably been sitting on a folding table set up near the gazebo. What had happened was that when I’d turned to talk to Domingo, someone had come along to claim the table. She’d probably hopped off her perch, picked up an end of the table, and gone. She might not even have realized the confusion she would create.
On the other hand, remembering the wildness I’d sensed about her, she may very well have known what she was doing, and had enjoyed giving the “gringa” a turn. However, I wouldn’t be comfortable until I took a look for myself.
Parking wasn’t that hard to find. I deliberately picked a spot across the Plaza from where I’d seen the woman, so I could retrace my steps. I did this, marvelling how little activity there was. I mean, I knew school was back in session and the tourists gone home, but surely this late in the afternoon there would be some activity.
I walked slowly, feeling a hitch in one calf from where I’d been balancing on the scaffold while painting. I bent to massage out a knot, and when I stood straight again and walked a few steps, I saw the platform.
Immediately, I dismissed my theory that what I’d seen had been a folding table. It was too big, too solid. It also had an extension of some sort that after a moment I recognized as a windmill in not the best condition.
When my gaze lowered from examining the windmill, I saw the woman. As before, she was seated on the platform base dressed in a colorful skirt, its tiers adorned with contrasting ribbons. Her off-the-shoulder blouse was snowy white and, as before, low enough to display an ample bosom. She was smoking a cigarette, and as I drew closer I saw it was hand-rolled. The odor was tobacco, though, not anything else.
Looking at the woman, I felt an odd mixture of jealousy and admiration. There was something so free and easy about her, a blatant sexuality that I myself had never been able to express—although certainly I’d felt the urges. I knew every man who saw her couldn’t help but be moved. Yet, though I envied her, it was admiration without resentment. I admired her as you would a beautiful flower: a California poppy or a particularly vibrant hibiscus.
As so many times in my life, I felt as if I’d been constructed from squares: awkward and graceless, female without being in the least feminine. This woman went beyond femininity and gave lie even to my claim of being female. I had the equipment, but I didn’t know how to tap into its power. Even my love of clothing and jewelry seemed more like an extension of my art, a thing unconnected to my inner self. Colette had known how to use the same tools to become a beauty. More than once I’d wondered if my lifelong love/hate relationship with her, my fear and desire of being her “mirror” had made me deny myself things I could have had.
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