WCMI Chapter 14: Metamorphosis
"Hmm, it looks like the wind is changing."
"Ah. Change is good."
"Yeah, but it's not easy."
The Lion King
Reginald had always liked the hours of nightfall. It may have been because the soothing darkness muted the shine and colors of what would otherwise distract him and drive him into an overexcited frenzy. Maybe it was simply because he was tuckered out from his frenetic daytime activities. He didn't know precisely why, but the 'why' of anything rarely concerned him. He only knew that his mindset was less questionable at night, his temperament more reliable. It was a time for critical tasks that a fluctuating mentality would otherwise botch up.
The road he walked was marked by the ceaseless come-and-go of carriage wheels and the beasts that pulled them. He could have called for a carriage himself, of course, but this was one of those splendid evenings that called for better than that. This particular night was a thing of beauty and to hurry through it on anything other than his own two feet would be nothing short of a crime. Besides, the gravel-popping roll of carriage wheels would have announced his arrival at her cottage. He wanted his approach to remain inconspicuous - bright orange coat and outlandishly large hat completely discounted - and so he walked.
His path carried him past a duck pond that looked like an enormous puddle of oil in the darkness. It would have looked like nothing at all if the moon and stars had not been reflected on its surface to illuminate a few eddies and ripples. He crept past it on tiptoe to avoid waking the sleeping birds that dotted the surface with their heads snuggled beneath their wings. Ducks were quite dangerous, that much he knew. Not quite as deadly as a hungry bear or swarming momeraths, of course, but still worthy of respect.
I know they’ll eat popcorn and bread too, his mother had once told him. But that’s just how they lure you to the water’s edge. That’s when the attack comes…not from the front, but from the side. From the two ducks you didn’t even know were there…
The better part of an hour slipped away before he stood beside her picket fence. He dithered there for a moment, rocking back on his heels with a thoughtful air. His eyes swept the cottage once, twice, three times. There was no unbalance in those centenarian eyes tonight. No lunacy, no absurdity, only a sharp intelligence that belied what the public had come to expect of him in recent years...and, for that matter, what she had come to expect from him. Perhaps it was just the calming effect of nightfall that brought about such a change, perhaps some new flicker of intuition or understanding. Whatever the reason it was no simplistic couch-leaping crackpot that hovered beside the fence that night. It was just a man, albeit an extraordinary man - one who had found himself troubled by a peculiar affliction that tends to weaken all men at some point in their lives.
He studied the cottage for long while, lost in deliberation. The windows were dark and no telltale noise touched his ears from within. Perhaps he was too late, then. Maybe...maybe not. He pushed the thought aside, ever the incurably optimistic fellow, and swept his hat off with a determined air. The low picket fence was vaulted over (ignoring the gate that was all of three strides away) with the great hat tucked beneath an arm. He flitted along the wall without a sound and sidled up to the great oak tree that still stood outside her second-story bedroom window. (He was admittedly surprised that she hadn’t hired someone to hack it down after last month’s fiasco. )
He glanced at the first-story window directly in front of him. It was firmly shut. He looked up and gloomily observed that the tree would not serve as a makeshift ladder tonight, if ever again. No stout branches ran close enough to the windowsill to serve any such purpose now. No matter. He peeped around the gnarled trunk and focused his gaze on the second-story window overhead, fully expecting to see it shut with the curtains drawn. What he expected and what was were two entirely - wonderfully - different things.
She was already at the open window, waiting.
He was suddenly unable to recall why he was here and what he had come to do. All of his carefully pre-meditated courtship plans evaporated in an instant. The moonlight seemed brightest at the window, gathering there as if drawn to her. It didn’t seem to illuminate her as it did the walls, the grass and the towering oak. She was not merely revealed by the glow; instead she seemed to be the source of the light, as if she - and not the full moon overhead - was the radiant object. Night had come, but the sun had never left her.
A queer feeling stole over him and made him sway a little where he stood. If pressed to elaborate he might have described it as similar to the slow burn beneath one’s sternum that a sip of good aged brandy brings about. The cool night air seemed to warm perceptibly and he dully wondered if he should have left his waistcoat at home.
Alice was unaware of her silent admirer. The hour was late and the need for sleep had begun to blunt her senses. She folded her arms on the windowsill and laid her freshly-scrubbed cheek atop them, content to let herself be lulled by the mournful calls of lonely crickets. Her eyes began to close.
“Belle femme...” The words whispered out of the night, hardly audible above the cricket chorus.
She was instantly alert. Her eyes snapped open and searched the yard below. There, behind the oak. His arrival wasn’t remotely unexpected. What was unexpected was her reaction…or lack thereof, as was the case. She didn’t bolt upright and glare from her window with an array of verbal defenses at the ready. She merely watched him slip out from behind the tree and approach the window, her expression carefully schooled into ambiguity. “Manners, Reginald," she chided coolly. "Most people would think it rude to speak a language that their company isn’t familiar wi -”
“Belle femme, Alice? It means beautiful woman."
She went very still and very, very pink. Reginald took note of this and promptly forgot all about that little thing called propriety. He stepped into a bright swath of moonlight and stared up at her with such longing that she almost backed away from the window for the sake of decency. His eyes caught the weak light and seemed to reflect it in a way that reminded her of a nocturnal animal. She bit at her bottom lip and suddenly seemed to find the wood grain pattern beneath her hands excessively interesting.
He saw this, all of it, and he knew. Just as he knew that her fluster during their afternoon walk had nothing to do with falling sports equipment. That mutual awareness changed everything. Unspoken understanding passed between them; an acknowledgement communicated by the eyes alone. The game had changed, the rules were being bent and broken if not thrown out entirely. A new line had just been drawn in the sand and they both knew he would toe it without hesitation.
“Are you going to sing again?” Her tone was wary at best.
“Do you want me to?” He spoke soothingly, lightly, as if he were trying to coax a frightened animal out of hiding.
She said nothing. When her stubborn silence stretched into the third minute he optioned to take the decision out of her hands. He shrugged out of his coat and hung it on a thin branch that was helpfully offered by the tree (he stopped to glare at the oak for a beat of time. Oh ho, so now it decides to be helpful...) His hat was tossed carelessly to the earth - which elicited a flurry of startled blinking from Alice - and his gloves stripped off. Her eyes tracked them as they disappeared into a pocket and then followed his hands as he loosened his tie. She couldn't recall ever having seen his hands bare before; he had been without his gloves at the dance, yes, but she had simply never looked, never noticed. His hands were expressively articulate, broad of palm and long-fingered. They bore a certain weathered character that attested to years of work. The hands of an artist, she knew. And why not? Haberdashery was something of an art form, wasn't it?
His rising voice interrupted her thoughts.
This was not the first time she had been subjected to his singing. Her memory of that first disastrous serenade was still fresh in her mind. This time, however, his musical courtship efforts seemed somewhat...different. It was less of a rhymed bellow and more akin to actual singing. She reasoned that he might have had some practice since then - - or maybe it's just your perception of him that has changed. Your ears were plugged by contempt that night. She hushed that thought in a hurry and buried it in the mental equivalent of an unmarked grave.
But she let him sing, at least. His choice of lyrics ran the gauntlet from classic melodies that she herself sang as a child to exotic songs that she didn't recognize. They were songs from another time and place, lyrics written far beyond the boundaries of their realm. Only one of his chosen tunes tickled her interest to any degree; a rich and heavy ballad with lyrics that weighed on her senses like wet velvet on the skin. Her begrudging curiosity grew until she interrupted him to inquire about the author of said song. "Elvis, by name." He cheerfully explained. "Born here as one of our own. He traveled to another world once and was gone for quite some time. They made him their king there, or so I've heard it told. He gave all of that up and came home some time ago. He owns a dandy chain of sandwich shops now."
He went back to his singing.
I dream a world where you understand
That I dream a million sleepless nights
But I dream a fire when you're touching my hand
But it twists into smoke when I turn on the lights
I'm speechless and faded It's too complicated I
s this how the book ends? Nothing but good friends?
This is the place in my heart
This is the place where I'm falling apart
Is this the last chance that I'll ever get?
I wish I was lonely Instead of just only
Crystal and see-through and not enough for you...
Her expression flickered indistinctly. She dropped her gaze to the windowsill and fidgeted with her fingers. Reginald went quiet. The sudden stall in his crooning pulled her attention back to him and for what seemed like a very long time they simply watched one another. She noticed that she could see him breathing and was absurdly intrigued by this.
"Cricket." Just that one word. She jumped slightly, startled by his voice after the quiet interlude.
He grinned. "A jumpy little cricket."
"Why..." She steeled her expression against the twitchy urge to return the smile. "...do you call me that?"
His grin widened. "There's a cricket living in the floorboards beneath my bed that chirps all night long. I can't catch the bloody thing, try as I might, and the chirping keeps me awake. For two or three nights in a row, at times. It's not an unpleasant sound, that I'll admit, but a fellow does need his sleep."
Alice arched a blonde eyebrow. "You've named me for something that vexes you, then. Very fitting. Well, I may very well chirp from time to time but I certainly don't go creeping about beneath beds."
"True, that. As best I am permitted to know at least."
"Nor do I keep you awake at night. Rather, it seems to be the other way arou..."
The grin disappeared. "Oh, on the contrary..." His tone dropped an octave. "...you do."
She shut her mouth so fast that there was an audible click of teeth meeting. Nothing further passed between them for a stretch of time.
Reginald was at a loss. He turned his attention upward and contemplated the indigo sky as if he could extract an answer from the stars. They were as enduringly distant and silent as they were a century ago, of course. They gave him no comfort then and they would give him no comfort now. He leveled his unearthly gaze back to her window and lifted his hands to implore her with open palms. "Is it really going to take a bear, Cricket?"
She didn't miss a beat. "Two bears."
“Ah. Must they have rabies, too?"
“Of course.”
“Well why bother, then? Even if I was victorious I would surely suffer a bite wound, thereby requiring that you take me out back and shoot me. I would prefer a happier ending, personally.”
Alice had to bite the inside of her cheek. “What may or may not constitute a happy ending is in the eye of the beholder, sir. I myself doubt there to be any bears in these parts. I’ve yet to see one and I’m fairly certain that you haven’t, either.”
He grunted. “No bears, eh? I take it then that you’ve never encountered me at a time when the tea has run out.”
She buried her face in her arms with an unladylike snort ...and laughed.
He knew that laughter was a powerful force when applied scrupulously. Laughter could alleviate pressure in any social situation and dig a broken mind out of despair in all of a few seconds; it was a failsafe icebreaker and was rumored (or so he had heard) to have the ability to help heal the ill. Why, it was even said in the history books that a war was once averted because someone cracked a jolly good joke about an elephant’s toenails on the front lines. Culture, age, language, species or gender, it didn’t matter - any and all barriers could come crashing down under the simplicity of a shared titter. This evening held no exception to that rule. At that pivotal moment he saw more than mirth in her response; he saw the collapse of one more wall between them and, with it, a breakdown of her defenses. He saw his chance, and he took it.
“Come down, sweet cricket.” She stifled her giggles and locked down into guarded silence.
“Please come down. We will sit on your porch swing and watch the fireflies dance. We’ll talk, too…or perhaps we won’t talk. We can sit in perfect silence, if it pleases you.”
Alice immediately found herself in an odd state of bewilderment because her mind was loudly informing her that she did want to go downstairs and sit on the porch swing, she did want to watch the fireflies dance, and that she wanted to tuck her head beneath his chin to see if he still smelled good, she wanted see if he still felt as warm as he did at the dance, she wanted -
How did it come to this? What’s wrong with me?
“No.” She had to cough the word out. Her eyes turned to the stars, the moon, the tree. Anywhere but him.
"Why not?” He mentally kicked himself for not bringing a small gift to tempt her down from the window. A paperclip perhaps, or a shiny bottle cap.
“Because it’s cold out there.”
“I’ll keep you warm.” Again, that soothing inflection.
“Don't TEMPT ME!“ she fairly shouted. Panic gave her tone a cutting edge. She recoiled and clapped a hand over her mouth, stunned by her outburst.
Reginald didn't flinch. All he did was serenely wait for her to look his way again before mouthing Oh really now? with a teasing air. Her attempt at a scowl was a spectacular failure. She swallowed thickly and closed her eyes for a moment to calm her nerves, forcing her tone into a less abrasive pitch. “I‘m sorry, but I can‘t. And please stop doing that.”
“Stop doing what?”
“Looking at me like....like that.”
“Why not?”
"Because...." She swallowed hard. "...because I like it.”
She instantly regretted her words. Reginald responded to her admission by closing the distance between them until he stood with his toes to the wall. He tilted his head back and proceeded to look at her 'like that' with such potency that he seemed to be tending a low fire in his skull. She gasped aloud and scooted away from the window with eyes that approximated the size of teacup saucers. He pressed forward, hooking one booted toe onto the narrow ledge of the first-story window and levering himself up to stand on it, his frame stretching toward her until he thought his spine might pop. One ungloved hand inched upward until he could reach no further...and all the while he looked at her as no one had ever dared look at her in the nineteen years she'd been alive.
Alice returned his stare with an expression that walked the fence between girlish excitement and outright terror. She hugged herself with arms that shook with more than just cold. Her heartbeat stumbled into a gallop and took to battering itself against her ribs like a frantic bird.
Reginald hesitated, his expression cooling and softening. He could see her trembling and faltered visibly, terribly dismayed that he should be the cause of her stress. It was understood then that there wouldn’t be any firefly watching that night. Not only that, but he understood that there shouldn't be, even if she were suddenly willing. Now was simply not the time.
His shoulders slumped under the weight of a deep, dispiriting weariness. "As you wish, then. I'll leave you be." He stayed his perch despite his words, his hand still stretching toward her along the wall. S
he wanted to draw herself up haughtily and tell him to stop behaving like this, to go back to being the silly lunatic that was so easy to refuse. That’s exactly what she wanted to do and what she should do, right away. Right now. But that’s not what she did. She was still in the habit of giving herself good advice, after all…and likewise, still in the habit of seldom following it.
What she did was rest her belly on the windowsill and lean out into the night until her bare feet left the carpet. She stretched an arm toward him to bridge the distance between their hands, her expression unreadable. Their fingertips met.
- and then she was gone, the window snicking shut and the curtains drawn.
Reginald blinked at the window for a long minute, fingers tingling furiously. He drew a deep breath, carefully gathered his scattered wits into something that could be called order…and promptly fell off the windowsill.
Now, one would assume that he picked himself up and began the long walk home. Alice assumed the same and had no cause to suspect otherwise. In the eventful years that were to follow she would come to know a great many things about him. More than he knew of himself, really. The one and only negligible thing she would never know is that he didn't walk away that night. He would never tell her that he instead selected a fallen twig as his weapon of choice and seated himself on the ground with his back to the wall.
She would never know that he held vigil there while she slept, consumed with a fierce desire to defend her from any bears, momeraths or savage ducks that might happen by. Only the oak tree stood witness as he shivered alone through the long hours of cold and dark, ever steadfast with his twig at the ready. Her guardian didn't disappear until the sun crept over the horizon to paint the skies a fiery pink and transformed the cricket chorus into birdsong. The dying night seemed to carry him away with it as though they were one and the same.
