The Book of Shadows (39 page)

This window did not give out on to the sea, as I'd expected; rather, this was the other side of the manor and the view was of the fields that sloped down to the bordering woodland of which I'd been warned. Those distant, densely packed trees shone black; the forest, I could see, was a lightless place. As for the fields, they'd not been farmed in some time, that was evident. They were, however, fenced, indeed, this was pastureland
still,
for I discerned a few graceless, angular shapes at a distance: cows. Of course, it made sense that a few cows would be kept at this isolated place; surely there were hens somewhere, pigs, perhaps goats as well. What other land I could see had reverted to its natural state: grasses grew tall, had been burned to a brownish-gold by the summer sun; wildflowers sprouted here and there in variegated patches; a stand of sunflowers, much nearer the house, bowed under the weight of their bright heads. Most striking were the bright red poppies that spread over the sloping land like rubies cast by a great hand.

…That noise again.

Down; and to the left. I leaned out over the casement so I could see nearer the house and yes,
there
…. A garden. Alternate bands of turned and unturned earth unfurling from the foot of the house. In the dead center of that garden stood Roméo; rather,
stooped
Roméo, turning the soil with a hoe.

I quite forgot about those creaking floorboards. Slippers in hand now—with those slippery bottoms I could only go so fast!—I quit the attic and descended those three flights of stairs. Taking a quick turn on the second-story landing, I ended up on a staircase much narrower than the one I'd climbed earlier; a servants' stairway. At the bottom of that dark, serpentine stairwell, I saw a doorless opening that gave out on to the grounds.

At long last I stood in the yard.

Not far from the doorway sat the strangest contraption—it seemed a scarecrow made of glass. Closer inspection showed it to be a multilimbed wooden
thing,
standing as tall as I did, built, apparently, for the purpose it now served: on it, hung by their mouths like hooked fish, were large glass jars. Hung there to dry after being washed? Or were they being seasoned, somehow, by the sun? Surely not the greatest mystery I'd encountered, but a mystery nonetheless. (Roméo would later tell me he'd emptied the jars of old preserves, washed them, and hung them on his “tree” to dry, in preparation for the fall's putting by of fresh preserves. He did this all by himself; I liked that, tremendously—I thought it romantic.)

Keeping to the cool band of shadow near the manor's wall, I moved toward the sound of Roméo turning the earth in the garden. Just around that corner. Slowly, stealthily….
There!
…A beautiful tableau it was, worthy of Sebastiana's beloved Raphael: Roméo in the garden, lit by a low, strong sun.

The garden was bordered on three sides by a tall hedgerow; the wall of the house completed the loose rectangle. Though the hedge obscured him from the shoulders down, I could see Roméo at work. Indeed, it was those strong shoulders that determined me to move closer. I had to see more. Of him.

But how to get closer, close enough to see all I could,
all
I could, and still remain unseen? I was conscious of my quickening heartbeat. This boy, his simple proximity, caused me to feel things I'd never,
never
felt before.

In its way, the garden was as beautiful as the boy who tended it. It was resplendent. And through the combination of Roméo's tending it, and Sebastiana's offerings of potent powders turned into the soil (not to mention a certain rite read each February), the garden bore outsized produce: tomatoes one had to hold in both hands, pumpkins that had to be carted from the garden in a wheelbarrow. What's more, things grew in that garden without regard to their proper season, and so Roméo might serve a corn chowder in May, fresh ratatouille well into winter.

Turning the corner, stepping from shadow into light, I saw several espaliered apricot trees, expertly tied and trained, standing flush against the wall. I crept ever closer to the garden, imagining myself hidden among the perfectly flat fruit trees. Finally: a full view of garden and gardener.

What I saw then, as I stood so perfectly still, as disciplined as one of those trees…what I saw then, what I drank so deeply in, was a sight I'd never seen: a beautiful and very nearly naked man. (No: the incubus does not count; his beauty was of a
quite
different sort.)

Roméo, as he worked under that hot sun, wore nothing but his old wooden clogs and a pair of indigo-dyed pants, cut off well above the knee and tied at the waist with a white cord.

His black hair, shoulder-length and loosely curled, draped his face as he bent over, working the iron blade through the dark soil. Though I could not see his face, I already knew its beauty well: the high forehead, the wide-set blue eyes with their long lashes, the almost-broad nose, the lips red and thick, and…
Mon Dieu!
My blood races now at the recollection!

As I could not see Roméo's face, I assumed that he could not see me where I stood, against that wall, between two of those flattened trees. (I was like a child who, wanting to hide, covers his own eyes with his hands.) I've no doubt I stared at him, took him in brazenly, boldly. Took in those broad shoulders,
so
very broad, and the muscles moving beneath his tanned and sun-freckled skin, moving just so, with every toss and pull of the hoe…Took in the rippling plane of his torso…Took in the taut fan of his back, tapering down to his tight waist…Took in the thickly muscled thighs and the rough fabric of those half-trousers…Took in the high muscles of his calves, and their descent to the ankle, to the soft and thickly veined instep that showed just above the worn leather of those clogs…. I took it
all
in.

And yes, standing there in the full-on sun, Roméo not fifteen paces from me, my blood coursing from my brain to places unknown…yes, I am willing to concede that, once or twice, I turned to that stone wall for support, perhaps even held to the stunted branches of the apricot trees. But at least I did not faint, as I had when set aflame by Asmodei at dinner.

Eventually, Roméo stood up straight. Cupping both hands over the top of the hoe, he leaned on it and squinted into the lowering sun. He shook his head and sweat flew from his brow; I saw these as shavings of silver, chips of diamonds, and—shamefully—I
yearned
for their salt taste. The hoe at rest against his chest, its handle against his heart, Roméo ran both dirty hands through his thick black hair. He then trailed one hand, lazily, over his chest, and I heard,
felt
my breath seep from me as a sigh.

Throughout, Roméo was attended by an extended family of roosters, hens, and chicks. The hens worked the earth with their talons, undoing Roméo's work, raking it into random piles, places to roost, places for the still-downy chicks to play. The chicks wandered underfoot, and Roméo nudged them away. The vicious-seeming hens chased each other in crazed paths, clucking, bounding waist-high off the ground. The roosters, so regal, stood to Roméo's knee, their feathers shining black and gold and red and green in the sun, the points of their combs burning back off their narrow heads like flames. Their cries, so easily imitated, broke forth, unprovoked, to crack the sun-white silence of the day.

Letting the hoe fall, Roméo moved to stand on the archipelago of blue, green, and gray slate that led from the garden. Stepping from his clogs, he started to walk, flag by flag, toward where I stood. I flattened my back against the wall…. Still, he came on.

I
willed
myself to disappear. Failing that, what could I do? Step forward as though I'd just arrived? Stand as though I were admiring the expertly tended trees? Or should I run, run to the far side of the property and fling myself into the sea?

I'd all but decided on this last plan of action when Roméo, without a word, without a glance, passed within five paces of me. Turning to his left (a right turn would have brought us face to face!), he made his way toward a pump, a curl of black iron that rose up from the earth like a question mark.

I watched from my station as Roméo bent to pick up an old wooden brass-studded bucket. Placing the bucket under the mouth of the pump, he started to work the handle. He stood with his back to me. Drawing on what reserve of nerve, what lack of caution or discretion I've no idea, I took first one, then two, three, four steps toward him, till I stood flat against that wall, beside the very last tree in the row.

Did I have a plan, an excuse at hand? What would I do or say when Roméo turned to see me standing there, staring, as he invariably would? If I did know what I would do, I've no such memory now, thankfully: if I could recall what it was I was thinking I'd feel duty-bound to record those thoughts here, increasing by a factor of ten my already considerable embarrassment.

Roméo filled the bucket. He stood. He untied the knotted cord at his waist: his blue trousers fell fast to his ankles, and he kicked them away.
Naked,
he was! The blue of the fabric was replaced by the alabaster of his untanned flesh, his firm and rounded buttocks. His back still turned to me, he bent to lift that bucket up. He raised it high, high over his head, holding it with both hands. Then, with a shiver—mine, not his—he tipped the bucket and poured the well water down over his head, over his back, over his whole body.

Done, he stood still, holding the bucket overhead. The last of the water coursed down over his skin. He glistened,
glittered
under the sun. Finally, wildly, he shook out his hair, as a dog does when it's come from a puddle or pond.

Watching,
staring,
I saw that he was shaking. Could the water, drawn up from deep in the earth, have been as cold as that? Or was
my
Roméo (I'd thought of him as
my
Roméo from the first time I saw him, coming from the kitchen, soup tureen in hand)…was my Roméo crying?

No, he was not. As he turned, suddenly, startling me, I saw that he was
laughing
! Yes, he stood returning my stare, smiling a smile broad and bright.
“Bâtard!”
I said, but embarrassed as I was, I couldn't look away from his…from
him
.

Only when he lowered that bucket, tucking it up under his arm like a game ball, only then did I look away. Indeed, I stood staring into the dirt as he said lightly, in an admixture of Breton and French, “We don't all have Turkish baths tucked behind our rooms, you know.” He said something else—something about “the open air”—but by then I was quite beyond comprehension.

Again, I did not faint, thankfully. But neither did I die, as I wished I would, right then, right there. No, instead I stood dumbstruck. Couldn't hear, couldn't speak, couldn't walk or turn away. Dumb as those turkeys that drown staring up at the falling rain. Yes, there we were: me, slack-jawed, stupid, staring, and Roméo, smiling and quite comfortably naked.

He came to stand beside me; but not before he drew on those blue pants and recovered his sabots from the garden path, which acts I witnessed as though they were the very Creation.

Standing beside me, Roméo said, simply, “Come,” and, appraising the sun's height in the sky, he added, “We have some time yet.” He placed his hands on my shoulders. We stood face to face and one step apart. It seemed he might kiss me—I'm embarrassed to say I readied for it—but instead he turned me around and I felt the green robe slide from my shoulders.

“May I wear this?” he asked. “Will you be warm enough without it?” I somehow managed to smile my assent, standing there in only that thin white shift. The robe looked improbably beautiful on Roméo, tight though it was across his chest and shoulders. His tanned skin seemed to
burn
through the silk, deepening its emerald color. He tied it off at the waist, loosely. Following Roméo's gaze downward, I saw that the tips of my breasts bespoke my excitement. Roméo's smile spread wider. He grabbed me by the wrists as I raised my arms, readied to cross them over my chest. “Why?” he asked. Having no answer, I let my arms fall.

I was conscious then of feeling many things for the first time.

“Let's go!” said Roméo, and I followed him. His sabots drummed over the packed dirt of the path that led from the garden. Quicker and quicker till finally he broke into a run, the green silk spread out behind him like wings. We ran along a length of sun-lit wall. Down past the studio windows and the roseraie. Roméo ran faster and faster and I followed, not knowing where we were going. He turned back toward me—he was smiling still—and he slowed, offering his hand; but when I reached for it…
alors,
I was too far behind him to take it, and he may have been teasing anyway. I drew up beside him as he slowed, stepped out of his sabots, and slung them against the wall, gracefully, barely breaking his stride. Happy to lose my silly slippers, I followed suit.

Beyond the roseraie, as we neared the bordering dunes, Roméo reached behind him again, and this time I took his hand. We ran on side by side, both of us barefoot, both laughing. I felt the silk of the robe he wore wash over my legs like waves…. Waves, yes. It was to the sea that we were hurrying…. I stopped. My
body
stopped—and only then did I understand, for fear quickly overtook my
whole
person. It was a memory of Peronette. Recollected too were the many real and metaphorical tides that had so recently turned, bringing me to danger, and very near to death. Ah, but hadn't those same tides carried me here, to this sweet refuge, and set me down beside this beautiful boy?

“What is it?” Roméo asked, turning back to me. “It's nothing,” I said, and on we ran.

That afternoon Roméo and I descended from Ravndal, down its dunes to the sea. We followed a path, but still the tall grasses cut, snagged at our silk and our skin.