A Room With the Lock Inside
Written for several persons.
At night, when all the colours die,
they hide in pairs
and read about themselves--
in colour, with their eyelids shut.
~Craig Raine, "A Martian Sends a Postcard Home"
A witch's house, with stained-glass children.
How did she make them? he wondered blurrily, trying to see them better. Then suddenly the picture and the thought passed from his mind, and he was left wondering what it was he'd dreamt of. Stained-glass--stained-glass something... child? hand? what?
Now there were great jewelled waves rising up, higher and higher--so high!--and there were faces coming out of the waves, smiling wickedly and barring their teeth--and it seemed that he knew them, some of them, so familiar he could almost shout their names--but not enough, not quite. Something was still hidden and he didn't know what--names, names, names, the faces had something--names--
He cried out, shouting one of them--a name, that was--one of the names--was that what they were? A name. He knew a name, and he called it out as the waves came crashing down at last and threw burning spray at him.
"Archie!"
The two men speaking to one side of the room froze, and the younger started noticeably. He was immediately turning, moving, in a flash of blue jacket.
"He spoke! He's said my name--do get out of my way, Matthews--" he said eagerly, and Matthews obeyed without annoyance. Mr. Kennedy was entitled to be a bit pushy, seeing as how Mr. Hornblower'd been sick for a week now, and this was the fever that had to break if he was to live.
Of course, Matthews knew that Mr. Hornblower was going to live. All the men of his division knew it. Styles and Smith and Reynold and Matthews himself (Oldroyd had been killed in action near a month ago) had all placed bets on when, exactly, Mr. Hornblower was going to be up; but no one even thought of betting on whether or not he'd die, because they all knew quite well. But Mr. Kennedy did not know, because though he was a good man, he seemed to force himself to keep away from the men, and so to him, there was always a possibility.
Mr. Kennedy was standing by the hammock, peering down anxiously with those big bluish eyes Matthews had always thought must be the pride of his mum, and his hand was creeping closer to the limp, sweaty one that belonged to Mr. Hornblower. Matthews thought this quite decent of him, though it was usually womenfolk that clung to hands. But here on the Indy, there weren't womenfolk, and a man still needed someone to support him. Besides, Mr. Kennedy was discreet about it, taking Mr. Hornblower's hand gently-like and holding it by his head so a fellow coming in couldn't rightly tell unless he looked.
Matthews came over closer to stand beside Mr. Kennedy, and heard him say softly,--
"Horatio."
He was on a lake now. He was kneeling on ice that was hot to touch and looking down--but what was funny about it was that he was looking down and seeing banks and trees, as though he were looking at a reflection of what must be behind him. Suddenly feeling sick, he turned about, and realised he was kneeling under the lake and looking up. That made him panic, and he was scrabbling wildly at the ice, cutting and burning his fingers--but he had to get out--he was trapped under here--
Then he could hear voices, lots of them, talking very quickly and all at once and shouting, shouting at him, for he'd done something wrong--something very, awfully wrong--something he'd done hadn't succeeded, and someone was hurt because of it... Some--some action, the voices were shouting, an action that was supposed to be done an entirely different way and he'd done it wrong--someone was hurting, dying, because he'd done something wrong--who was hurt?
He tried to lift himself. He was lying in a boat now, draped over something that was sticking up and hurting him. The voices were still shouting about whatever it was he'd done wrong, but now they were shouting with the boat to help them, because that was why someone was hurting--someone else was in the boat--someone else was being hurt like this, and dying, and it was his fault, his fault--what had he done?
And there were eyes, too, thousands of eyes, blue eyes mostly, but brown eyes too, looking reproachful and angry because of something--the eyes--had he hurt the eyes? was that who he'd hurt?--Oh! He tried to stand straight and look at them, but he couldn't straighten himself out--he wrinkled his forehead and drew in his face, as though he were looking into the sun, but it didn't help--so many eyes!--
And children... Children made of glass... Coloured-glass children, shouting at him, too, throwing stones--but there was one child who was sitting apart from them, a coloured child who was made of golden glass--it was naked and pulled in very close to itself, shivering, and he tried to take off his shirt to give to it, but his hands wouldn't work properly--the child lifted its head and he saw its eyes--
Again he thought of names. Names, names, which he couldn't remember but desperately needed to... Someone important had an important name, and he must remember it--finally he said something that didn't sound the least bit like a name, but stopped his head from screaming 'name' once he had.
"Archie..."
Archie didn't jump this time, but he bent a little closer.
"Do you think the fever may be breaking, Matthews? Does he recognise me, or is he just saying my name?"
"I'd say he's just saying it, sir, but I expect the fever is breaking, sir."
"Thank God." Archie straightened up again. Horatio never got ill, and this whole week had terrified him. For what did one do? He hardly knew a thing about illnesses, saving that one could use cobwebs for bandages and chamomile for colds, and that the heat in the head could be lowered by a bath of cold water. That was all, and it wasn't as though it was useful, so he had danced anxiously about Dr. Raine all week and known he was getting in the way, but found it impossible to care.
Matthews surely thought him the most foolish of men. He'd been in every night he was allowed, standing by Horatio's hammock and reciting plays in his best speaking voice.
His mother had used to read to him when he was ill, and he liked the sound of her voice going on and on steadily, and occasionally coming out of his cloudiness enough to recognise something; but of course now he didn't have any books on hand, so all he could do was recite. So he did. Horatio didn't seem to mind, but neither did he respond, not even when Archie cursed him soundly out of Macbeth as Lady Macbeth, and praised him lovingly out of Much Ado About Nothing as Benedick. Archie even recited Faust, but Horatio still never so much as turned to him in the fever.
Matthews surely thought him the most foolish of men, but he thought carelessly that he did not give a damn what it was Matthews felt. After El Farrol, he'd avoided the men, because he was still ashamed of himself, and now he saw that because he'd avoided them, he didn't need to feel responsible to them. They could think anything at all they liked.
But he also saw that he couldn't do that. If he were ever to do anything--ever to become more than a m'man or acting lieutenant--he must speak with them and know them. He must know his fellow officers, too. He'd been avoiding them all for far too long.
When Horatio awoke again, he would--not exactly tell him this, but he would try to be more friendly. He would do his best to be more of a companion to Horatio and less of a child; someone who could be respected and loved rather than protected. He really would try.
Archie moved his hand a little and touched Horatio's hair. When he awoke...
"Horatio?"
The coloured-glass children were back. There were fifty of them, all colours imaginable--little green children and tall purple children and some who were five different colours at once--but the golden one was still hiding from the others. Half-hidden by glass grasses and flowers, it was shivering and looking at him quietly. Its eyes were blue like the ones that had been staring at him, but they were not reproachful or angry. They were quiet eyes.
Perhaps he had been forgiven--for whatever it was he'd done that had hurt someone--perhaps he'd hurt the glass child--
No, he couldn't have done that. The coloured-glass children could not be hurt. They were carrying on together, shouting and laughing and knocking each other down; all without a sound, but they were happy. And the golden child was not hurt, either. It was very calm.
Just crying, he realised. That was why it was shaking. It was not frightened or scared or really even upset. It was just crying because it was so calm. He tried again to speak to it, but his voice was silent like the other children, and he was afraid it wouldn't be able to hear him.
It looked up and went so far as to smile. No, it could hear him, he could see that. It uncurled itself and he saw that it was not naked any longer; it was wearing a long golden smock made of glass, and he was ashamed that he'd tried to give it his cloth shirt.
But it shook its head and gave him a look that showed him it was all right, and suddenly he found he could move again. He began to walk away, back towards nothing--because the glass grasses and flowers went on forever, as far as he could tell--and turned back to see what the golden glass child was doing.
It was creeping steadily towards the other children, who were already holding out their hands and laughing, and it never looked back at all. So he went on.
While he was walking, something occurred to him. Names. There were hundreds of thousands of names and they all wanted him to remember them--this was clear because they were still clamouring in the back of his mind, names he couldn't remember and names he couldn't understand--but that nonsense name, which he hadn't believed in--it sounded like a real name now.
He put the sounds together and they actually sounded quite reasonable. He said it a few times in his head, and finally tried it out loud.
"Archie?"
Matthews cocked his head. Mr. Hornblower was moving about quite a bit, and it looked as though they were going to have a right time holding him down if he suddenly decided he wanted up.
All the same, the fever might really break any moment. Mr. Hornblower had now said Mr. Kennedy's name three times, and if that weren't sign, he didn't know what was. Things always came in threes, good things and bad, but as Mr. Hornblower, obviously, was going to live, it was likely a good three, and to that end, he was waiting rather interestedly. Any moment, now.
Mr. Kennedy looked very pale, and Matthews shook his head a little sympathetically. The poor man really did need to learn that Mr. Hornblower already came out of everything all right. Devil's own luck indeed! It was only a bit of time, yet, and they'd have him staring up at them both and smiling, saying, 'Hello, Matthews. Archie. How are you?' quite proper. Mr. Hornblower always kept his head.
Matthews could wait forever. He waited very patiently. But Mr. Kennedy was pressing Mr. Hornblower's hand a little tighter, and Matthews could see he was sweating a bit.
"Now then, sir," he said, "it's only a moment and he'll be up right as you please."
"Do you think so, Matthews?"
"'Course I do, sir. He's our Mr. Hornblower, isn't he? Begging your pardon, sir."
"I suppose you're quite right about that."
"Yes, sir."
Just then, Mr. Hornblower groaned loudly, and Mr. Kennedy jumped what must've been a foot. Matthews just smiled. He'd been waiting. What's more, he'd just won his bet with Styles, if that was six bells ringing as he knew it was, having been on a ship that long.
Mr. Kennedy didn't seem sure, though, as he was bending very close to the hammock and there was worry all over his face. He whispered something soft to Mr. Hornblower, and then passed a hand over his eyes in relief as Mr. Hornblower's eyes began to open, the lids flickering summat.
"Archie?" he asked quietly.
"That's right; me."
"How good it is to see you again. And Matthews," he added, glancing over and the corners of his mouth turning up in a weak sort of smile, "how are you?"
"Very well, sir, and just that glad to see you."
"Well? I'm pleased to hear it. Archie--do come a bit closer; it's dreadfully hard to see you. My eyes are tired."
Matthews smiled cheerfully and saluted, before quickly leaving. Any decent fellow did that, went out when he could see there was going to be mush and tears ahead worthy of a man seeing his wife again after seven years at sea. All the men knew that, and liked Mr. Hornblower just as well for all he got something stupid about Mr. Kennedy. Besides, Matthews needed to go rag Styles over being wrong. He was just in time to hear, as he went out, Mr. Kennedy saying, in a funny voice that seemed to be all full of all sorts of things at once,--
"Horatio..."
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