Into These Waters of My Soul

They came ashore, and the demon fed ice cream with fruit slices to the little, growing devil. It was indescribably hot. The ice cream was melting with each passing moment. But. You will have more ice cream than you can eat. You will have boats, horses, plush rabbits, and tame writers… all until you grow for something more. Ciel had already sensed a certain note in their relationship, and, either unconsciously or not, sometimes he behaved deliberately like a child. His laughter, his gestures, his jokes. His whims. His shadow of the blue-eyed angel, which neither of the two was worthy of, even Arthur with his stupid face and knightly manners. There was as much vulgarity about Arthur as sloppiness and absurdity. However, he fell for Ciel’s tricks like a sheep — he would blush or feel in the seventh heaven every time Ciel was gracious with him. Just like a little boy. “You remind me very much of my younger brother,” he explained timidly when his hand involuntarily touched the top of Ciel’s head, his gesture like an impulse of the heart. The young man took the touch calmly and only looked up at Arthur in surprise. “Do I? Where is he now?” “He lives with our mother. He’s studying hard to become a veterinarian.” “Do you miss him?” “Y-yes.” “Mr. Michaelis has no siblings, but — what a curious thing! — I seem to remind him of somebody, too.” “Why would you think so?” asked Arthur. “Sometimes, he touches me, too.” The demon behind the man laughed, as if he heard a good old joke, and Sebastian raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Touch… you?” Arthur hastened to retreat, apologising again and again as he muttered something like, “I mean… you are like a brother to me, I feel bad, I made you… uncomfortable.” “Do you deny it?” The blue eyes sparkled mischievously, looking up at the black-haired man. “No… I say I don’t remember.” “Is that so? Buy me some more ice cream, please.” “It is too cold. Isn’t it bad for your health in this heat?” “And still…” Ciel turned his face to Arthur, asking his opinion about the appearance of some trimmed bushes in the distance. “…Cats” “And I see a giant octopus… with glasses? Is it holding… a snuff box?” “What imagination you’ve got there.” Thus, Sebastian was given to understand that the conversation was over and ice cream was being expected. That day, Sebastian’s role was clear. Ciel accepted the ice cream served in a cone with both hands, as if it were a treasure. Like a helpless kitten, whose weapon in a human world was that same helplessness. Alluring. Elusive. “You are very kind, Mr. Michaelis. Thank you.” “You are welcome.” In the end, Arthur got all the attention while Sebastian wasn’t allowed to say a word to interfere in the conversation. When they returned to the hotel, Arthur brought down his writings: stories and drafts. Ciel had inflamed the author’s fervour with his interest and praise. “You are an excellent narrator! I think, Mr. Wordsmith, that you have an original, fresh way of seeing things.” “D-do you really think so?..” “Of course! I am eager to know more about your work right now. Perhaps it will distract us from the heat.” Ciel took his seat in the shade of a garden-house and put his straw hat beside him. When the man rushed into his room to get his work, Sebastian chuckled out loud. “Have you decided to keep Sir Arthur on a lavish diet? Attention is meat and drink to young writers; it is enough to keep them fed for years.” “I really find his vision and his style interesting. He writes about good things, Mr. Michaelis. High morals. By the way, I highly recommend the story about the knight and the bag of kittens. It is a heartfelt, witty piece that teaches noble deeds and goodness.” “Well, serve it to me, and I’ll eat it alive. All this morality of yours is good for nothing. You, of all people, should know it, Ciel. Deep inside, of course. In that charming blue wilderness where a righteous, obedient boy has never set foot. You are like that bag of kittens that needs to be untied.” “But it’s not a knight who should untie it, is that what you are saying? Then who do you believe should save the innocent and dying kittens? Who, Mr. Michaelis? Tell me.” “Not a priest and not a knight, Mr. Phantomhive. Maybe you can figure it out yourself?” “I want to hear you say it.” “I want you to come to the answer yourself.” “Do you know what I think?” “Mm?” “Mr. Wordsmith’s company will benefit us both. I won’t go so deep into your… darkness, let’s call it that, and you will take your mind off it.” “If you truly believe it, I will do anything you wish and go anywhere you want.” “Then I’m asking you to be a little patient and friendly with him. You need friends like Arthur.” “Naïve… simpletons?” “Kind and bright people who have a lot to teach you. At least, they won’t lead you to bad things. Besides, if that is what you think about Mr. Wordsmith, what do you think about me?” “I do not think about you, I feel you.” Ciel was about to answer, but it was at that moment that Arthur returned. With an energetic gait, he walked around the lush flower beds, hitting and overturning a garden stone toad, which no one seemed to hit before, and put a pile of papers fastened with a bright blue ribbon on a table. That blue ribbon was like Ciel who connected a pile of scattered and alien papers. Mr. Wordsmith was thrilled, and his eyes were alight with enthusiasm. Sebastian remembered himself in his youth, in the moments when his muse would visit him — and that it would do often. The sleepless nights when he was nothing but perpetuum mobile. Ciel sat closer to Mr. Wordsmith. With their heads bowed over the papers, they were like two accomplices on an island cut off from the world. Sebastian didn’t care what Arthur’s writings were about, he already knew that there was nothing there worthy of attention, either for the mind or for the soul — that same soul everyone stubbornly chases sometimes if they happen to remember about it. The most sacred part was hidden down below, about a foot away from where the soul lay. A sunbeam rolled down the dark blue hem of his shorts and, as a maid passed by with a polished tray, up to his delicate hand. That hand was sheer bliss; it was it that held the highest things: secluded gates, seductive charm of power, inviting whip, and teaching hand… And, as if on purpose, it was these writer’s words that reached Sebastian’s ear: “…and I thought that the main characters would be a knight and an evil dragon. The cunning beast wants to tempt the knight and make him a king who will conquer the world, but blood ties with his brother save the hero, and together they defeat the dragon. Too ridiculous, isn’t it?” “What I like about your stories, Mr. Wordsmith, is that good always triumphs over evil!” “What age is this meant for?” Sebastian interfered. He took out a cigarette, but Ciel asked him not to drown out the aroma of rhododendrons and lilies. “You won’t allow me? Alright.” “I am surprised that you agreed. Thank you.” “Surprised? Are you?” “Of course, for the sake of your health, I would prefer you didn’t smoke at all, but I understand that this is too mu…” “Then I don’t smoke. No more.” Ciel cast a piercing, curious look at the man, as if in an attempt to see the catch, but then he broke into a wide, angelic smile. “If so… Mr. Wordsmith, you are a witness to this. Mr. Michaelis seems to believe that he can easily throw his words. So if you or I see him smoking, he will be in trouble.” “I hope the punishment will be severe.” “And fair, don’t doubt it.” Arthur looked from the man to the boy and back for many moments before remarking that his grandfather tried to give up smoking, but to no avail. He even died from choking on tobacco. “Heavy smokers have a strong addiction. It isn’t easily defeated.” Ciel shrugged. “Then we shall test it on Mr. Michaelis.” He asked a passing waiter for ice cream. That was his third for the day. “I see you have a sweet tooth,” smiled Arthur. The young man sighed heavily. “And I accept this addiction with patience.” He smiled. “I’m on holidays, Mr. Wordsmith. I don’t have ice cream very often.” “I would add more blood,” Sebastian continued their interrupted conversation. Arthur, in all his simplicity, was genuinely surprised. “Into ice cream?..” “No. Into that… into that story of yours. Suffering, anguish, despair. What other horrors are there?” But this surprised the young writer more than blood in ice cream. “Never mind, Arthur. Mr. Michaelis had an odd sense of humour. Of course, one ought to write about good, and we all think so.” “So what age is this meant for?” Sebastian repeated his question, trying to ignore Phantomhive’s friendly gesture. Now he absolutely didn’t like how close those two were sitting to each other. “I-I was thinking about writing a Christmas story for children,” Arthur responded readily. “Children like something spectacular,” nodded the black-haired man. “Nothing surprises them these days. More violence, as I said earlier, and you will be successful.” “You must be kidding!” Arthur opened his mouth, amazed. It was big enough for a fly to get in. “If children were told normal stories, they would grow up to be extremely mature and to see this world with clear eyes.” “You can’t be serious! What’s good in being extremely mature? Besides… Christmas, Mr. Michaelis, is time to believe in miracles…” “My nanny — the devils are drowning her soul in a cauldron — had a special story in store for such cases. It was called, mm… if I remember right… The magic umbilical cord and the rib of a donkey kindly eaten by a lion. It was literally veined with magic, like the drool of a beast.” “Don’t even tell me the plot. I believe that stories should teach only kindly.” “Believe what you like. I was only suggesting, after all. By the way, the story was about the friendship of a lion and a donkey. You shouldn’t have been quick with judgement.” “Of course, it was! With such a title.” “It was by listening to such stories and walking in the woods that I learnt the laws of nature.” “And yet it’s not for children’s ears. I have a younger brother, and I can’t even imagine myself telling him something like that.” “Are you sure that you know your brother?” “What do you mean?” “I mean that children can pretend to be what adults want them to be.” Sebastian winked at Ciel. The young man coughed into his fist and intervened. “Mr. Michaelis has neither children nor siblings. I think, Mr. Wordsmith, that we have a right to forbid him talking on this topic.” “Ha!” nodded Arthur, who had begun to feel more confident. “Indeed!” They folded their arms on their chests in unison. Just like two little boys. Sebastian sighed with a smile: “Not a big deal.” He asked for a cup of coffee. If he couldn’t smoke anymore, the strong drink remained his consolation. They spent another hour reading Mr. Wordsmith’s stories. Ciel was more emotional and open than usual. “A brilliant story, Mr. Wordsmith! I’m amazed! I wish I could have read it as a child with my brother. We are twins like the characters.” “Oh, I didn’t know you had a twin.” “Now you do. I am sure he would like it. But the other him… when he was a child… You know what I mean,” he muttered in embarrassment. The sight of him was so bewitching that even Arthur was lost in admiration. “People change as they age…” “They become mature, is that what you mean?” “That’s too. In any case, your story is funny, instructive, and good… You surprise me, Sir Wordsmith!” Ciel was shining like a little star, and now and then he touched Sir Wordsmith in a friendly way — his tie, his sleeve, his shoulder. “I’m sure that you will be successful.” “D-do you really think so?” “Yes, yes! Our country needs writers like you. I can see a future genius in you. I have good intuition when it comes to such things.” “To hear you say it! Mr. Phantomhive, thank you! I will try even harder!” “I am very glad that I met you.” “And I am very glad that I met you.” Look at this bloody idyll. Sebastian wanted to smoke, but suddenly he couldn’t take the cigarettes out of his pocket, as if he had lost them or become unorganised like that Arthur, and then he remembered his promise. I should throw them away altogether. Michaelis, like Ciel asked him, was looking for the positive sides of Arthur’s company, which he expressed in favourable estimation of his work. Even when there was nothing to say and Sebastian began to yawn, Ciel reminded him about their agreement with his eloquent glances. Then Mr. Michaelis would wake up and make Mr. Wordsmith redden to the tips of his ears with a couple of well-spoken phrases. “I am not worthy of such praise…” “I think that your strong point is to write adult literature, not children’s. You don’t have many stories like this, only a couple of drafts, as I understand it?” “Y-yes. I have many ideas in my head… In fact, I believe that children’s literature is harder to write. It’s hard to keep your eyes clear and, being a grown-up idiot, tell a story in the language that kids understand… This is a special talent.” “You are right. Children’s authors stand apart from others.” “Have you ever tried to write children’s stories? I think many authors have tried their hands at this.” Sebastian pushed Arthur’s journals away and took a sip of coffee. When she was pregnant, Victoria softened so much that she seemed able to embrace the whole world. There was enough love in her for everyone. She was smiling more than ever with her head in the clouds. She knitted booties and bonnets, humming under her breath, and always received guests to warm up everyone who came. For some reason, his wife’s peculiar behaviour started to annoy Sebastian. She was never angry; she was always quiet, soft, obedient, comforting, loving, and gentle. She was an angel in the flesh. The angel with whom he conceived a child. The child who had to be given a name. There was only one name spinning in his head. As if an inflamed nerve, it pulsed to give him unpleasant sensations. Sometimes, he dreamt that it wasn’t his child in his wife’s womb, but Emilia. In those dreams, she was laughing at him and his attempt to live an ordinary life. Pretending to be what he was not. He paid too high a prise — his mother’s love, his sister… but to forsake himself when he had come so far?.. It was too much… too much… “Could you write a bedtime story or a lullaby for our baby? It would be wonderful,” smiled Victoria. Her words were molasses. Her embrace was molasses. He was sick of it. “I can’t write children’s stories, you know that.” “But you wouldn’t write it for everyone, but only for our son… or a daughter. You know, Mrs. Pattinson used willow branches to tell that it’s a girl. Curious… I don’t care if it is a boy or a girl. What do you think?” “I want an heir.” Liar. “Well, maybe God will hear your prayer.” Sebastian couldn’t remember what had gotten into him that day. Victoria only began to playfully insist on him writing a fairy tale, hopping to dispel his gloom. The woman wrapped her soft arms around his neck — she smelled of caramel, — and that was the last straw for Sebastian; he left for a walk. He remembered a red carpet on the stairs that he hit with his foot. A dangerous bump, especially in their house. A tickling thought crossed his mind: From all possible accidents, this will be the one, and then he closed the door. Emilia laughed behind his back. The girl who lived no more. Victoria who lived no more. And the child who was never important for him in the first place. The curtains fell. Sebastian Michaelis was a disgusting part to play, he would play it no more. Not like that. You should enjoy the game if you have no guts to forsake your own nature, whispered the black head. “No. As you have said, it requires a special talent to write children’s literature,” answered Sebastian. “Then it must be that I love children very much. I want to have a lot… in the future,” Arthur said before he reddened for some reason. One might lose count of how many times the man turned red that day. He was indeed an odd specimen. Sebastian looked at his watch and got up. “Well, I had a great time, gentlemen, and now, if you excuse me, I have a meeting with Mr. Phantomhive’s father. We have a vendetta.” “Is it croquet again?” Ciel yawned into his palm and apologised. “I never thought you liked it.” “Doing something for a change is what is important here,” said Sebastian. “Don’t lose to him.” “It’s difficult, but if you ask…” “In the meantime, Mr. Wordsmith and I will go to the sea, right?” “To the sea? Oh, y-yes. I will be glad to keep you company.” “Well, have a nice time.” With a heavy heart, the man turned and walked away.