All Sweet Things

       Alice finished her penmanship assignment first in the class and was dismissed to prepare for her Ancient Languages lesson. As she walked between the rows of desks, she could see a most unwholesome envy in the eyes of her classmates. As if there were anything to envy! She now had a full half-hour to be dreadfully bored in the monastery school’s corridors. Perhaps she might go into the garden? Maybe an unknown little bird with a beautiful whistle or a yellow breast might fly down and drop a tiny, colourful feather? In short, perhaps something might happen. And so, she found herself at the far end of the garden, where the fruit trees grew. And there, something did happen. Something utterly outrageous. Right in the middle of a lawn with a sign that read ‘KEEP OFF THE GRASS’, on a tree (was it an apple or a pear? A pity there were no natural science lessons at a school for well-bred orphan girls), a stranger was stretched out. In the first few seconds, Alice saw only eyes that glowed like a cat’s in the twilight, only they were blue. And a sort of half-smile. Then she made out a reddish-brown hat above a face that was dark, like a vagabond’s (she had seen beggars by the gates of the main temple, she knew!), a green garment that was either a jacket or a dress, and in the shade of the tree there must surely be legs in trousers, but well-bred young ladies from a respectable boarding school are not supposed to gawk at the legs or trousers of strange gentlemen. It is simply not done. Although, perhaps the gentleman up there couldn’t see the sign? But he certainly must have noticed the high fence around the garden! In any case, being a well-bred girl, Alice addressed him directly: “Respected sir, this is the garden of the Monastery of St. Fufelka. Outsiders are not permitted, especially gentlemen. And one must not climb the trees, because the trees are on the lawns, and one must not walk on the lawns!” The stranger let out a low whistle (which was most improper) and murmured, “Well, isn’t this a fortunate find… In that case, I shall make a point of climbing over this fence, walking on the lawn, and sitting in the trees—precisely because one must not. Tell me, child, is it permitted to eat the fruit from the trees?” “It is,” Alice replied, casting a wistful glance at the pale red pomegranate on the branch above him. She didn’t care for the taste of pomegranates, but they were terribly pretty, like small chests of rubies. “But only for the best pupils, for dessert after luncheon, with the express permission of the Headmistress and the Mother Superior, and they must be washed first. You most certainly may not eat them straight from the branch!” The vagabond grinned from ear to ear (Alice believed she saw canine teeth rather like a dog’s), raised himself up on the branch to pluck the very fruit above him, and sank his teeth into it (no, she had not been mistaken). But his teeth got stuck in the tough rind, and he froze with the pomegranate lodged in his mouth. It was so comical that Alice couldn’t help a little giggle. But she immediately covered her mouth with her hand and apologised for the tactlessness. “That is not an apple, sir, but a pomegranate, which, translated from the Ancient Tongue,” she couldn’t resist boasting her knowledge, “means 'an apple with many seeds'. One…” She paused, thinking. How does one eat a pomegranate according to the rules of etiquette? Come now, they covered this last year! Ah, yes. “One serves the seeds cleaned into a compote dish and eats them with a dessert spoon, and the pips…” She didn’t finish, because the stranger split the fruit’s skin open with what were unmistakably actual claws. Then he bit into the shiny red jewels within. He chewed thoughtfully, swallowed everything — pips and all — and tossed the remains onto the ground. “No, a bit tart and far too much bother,” he pronounced, wiping the juice from his chin with his sleeve. “Have you any proper apple trees?” Alice was flustered. Should she inform him that this was not a cultured way to dine, or should she answer the question of her elder, as a well-bred girl ought… “We are not permitted to speak with strangers!” she remembered the most important rule. “Especially not with gentlemen.” But then curiosity got the better of her. “You aren’t a human, are you? You’re a beast, right?” She knew that besides humans, there were also hemulens, gaffsies, whoopers, mymbles, and a great many other strange beings. But the teacher of Divinity said one ought not to associate with them because they had no souls. And there were no beasts at the school. Well, hardly any. One of the groundskeepers was a stortass, with big ears and big, funny paws—he wore gloves on his feet instead of shoes! And the milk delivered to the refectory was brought by a fillyjonk with a long rat-like snout. “Oh, what an observant little thing,” he smiled, showing all his teeth, and fell from the branch. Or did he jump? In any case, one moment he was there, the next he was on the ground, stepping towards Alice, his old, cracked shoes treading directly upon the forbidden lawn. He turned out to be a little taller than her. And certainly older — he carried himself with such calm assurance. “Fortunately for me, not a human. You Humans think too much of yourselves, though you’re dreadfully put together. Well, except for young ladies.” And he gave a bow and extended a paw towards her. Or rather, a perfectly ordinary hand with smooth skin and ordinary nails (though rather dirty). “I am Joxter. Now we are acquainted and may have a chat.” “Very pleased to make your acquaintance, Mister Joxter, I am Alice,” she mumbled, performing a curtsey as was proper—though wait, no, that was for one’s betters or equals who were older, and beasts were considered a class below humans. And just in case, she decided to tentatively offer her own hand. But instead of shaking it, he very softly and deftly raised her palm to his face and touched the back of it with his lips. Oh dear, by the rules a young lady ought to be wearing gloves for this, and allowing a gentleman to kiss one’s hand is improper! Although—if he is a beast, does that disqualify him as a gentleman? Just then, the bell marking the lessons began to ring, saving Alice from this terribly complex point of etiquette. Squeaking “I must go!”, she snatched her hand back and ran down the gravel path towards the school, hidden behind the apple trees and cypresses. “Until we meet again, Miss Alice!” a velvety, soft voice called after her. A very nice voice. But when she glanced back at the turn into an alley, the lawn was empty. *** Joxter watched the fleeing girl from the shadows. The black hem of her dress swayed, her ankles in grey stockings flashed beneath it, and the ties of her apron flapped back and forth like a mouse’s tail, stirring the instincts of feline ancestors of the mumriks to give chase, to pounce… Nah. First, too much effort. Second, the girl was still turning into a woman; nothing had properly grown in yet, nothing to hold onto, and she hadn’t accumulated any plumpness on the orphanage fare. All in all, utterly not to his taste, and he knew his tastes exceedingly well. Something soft, round, ripe. But… The high fence, the signs on the lawns, all the ‘must nots’ this girl had unloaded on him within a few minutes. Humans could sometimes be more tedious than all the hemulens and fillyjonks put together. A spirit of contradiction sparked and simmered within him, and Joxter even unsheathed his claws, his imaginary tail fluffing out. No speaking to strange gentlemen, is that it? And what about kissing them? Sleeping with them? All these prohibitions surrounded this… what was her name… ah, yes, Alice, with a powerful magnetic field, and Joxter realised he wouldn’t be leaving this corner of the world until he’d sampled this particular fruit. Precisely because one must not. *** She would never have found Joxter herself if he hadn’t tossed an apple core at her feet and poked his head out from the dense leaves. “Good day, Mister Joxter,” she said, performing a curtsey after all. “I have a small request for you… Let’s agree that I shan’t tell Madam the Headmistress that I saw you in the garden, and in return, you won’t tell anyone that I spoke with you.” Thoughts of their last meeting and a sudden fear had kept her awake all night: she was obliged to report any strangers to the Headmistress! But she had forgotten. And now it was too late: they would be cross with her for not reporting it sooner, she would get a scolding and a mark on her record. Or perhaps even be denied dessert for a week. Maybe it was better to stay silent, even though it was wrong, and confess it later? “Hmm,” he tilted his head, examining Alice. “Not a very equitable bargain. You fear exposure, I don’t. I’ll simply go to another garden, while you remain here alone, to cram… I don’t know what children learn in schools, never been to one. For the deal to be fair, you must offer something else.” Alice clutched at the frills of her apron. Was he going to suggest something… indecent? “For instance,” he continued, “you don’t tell anyone about me, and you come to the garden to chat with me. How about that?” She was flustered again, but only for a moment and not terribly so. What a relief! She wouldn’t have to lie to her elders—just remain silent. And she didn’t want to be alone, and it was interesting to observe a wandering beast, to listen to his stories. He didn’t seem to want to hurt her and didn’t seem frightening in the least. On the contrary, he rather resembled the senior cook’s cat. Surely no harm could come from simply having a conversation? “Very well, Mister Joxter,” she whispered. But he heard her even from his perch on the branch, and dropped down all soft and quiet. He pulled an apple from his pocket, golden with red stripes, sweet and juicy-looking. He offered it to her, after first taking a loud, crunchy bite that removed nearly a third of it. “To seal the agreement.” Alice hesitated again, out of habit. But it wasn’t she who had picked the apple from the tree. And she wasn’t accepting it from a complete stranger, right? So it was perfectly legitimate. Even if it was strange to eat a fruit already bitten by someone else. It wasn’t proper etiquette. “Why do you always break the rules, Mister Joxter?” she ventured to ask the tactless question after chewing one small piece. But they had agreed to chat, hadn’t they? The apple, incidentally, was sweet not only in appearance. “Hmm.” He sat down right in the grass, tucking his legs underneath him. “Because I was created free, and I won’t let anyone take my freedom away. And rules… They are invented by other people for their own purposes, all the while lying to themselves and others that the laws exist in reality and are the same for everyone. So, what good do these rules do you?” “Well, first,” Alice began with the simplest answer from her Divinity lessons, “it is beneficial for the soul and will be rewarded in the afterlife. And second…” She was a little embarrassed by the second answer, but surely a near-stranger, a beast, wouldn’t gossip or tease? “If I am a good, well-behaved girl,” she confided in a half-whisper, squeezing her eyes shut and trusting him with her most cherished dream, “I shall have excellent references, and some young, rich, and handsome widowed count will engage me as a tutoress for his children, he will see how modest and diligent I am, he will fall in love and… and marry me!” Here she peeked open one eye to see how Joxter was taking it, to see if he was laughing. Joxter was half-lying on the leaves and grass, looking at Alice from under his hat with interest and a phantom smile. But no laughing at least. “Or,” he said suddenly, raising a finger skyward, “you will be hired by an old, ugly duke, who will pester you, and the old, ugly duchess, out of jealousy, will plant a silver spoon into your belongings and accuse you of theft, and you, being so very proper and honest, will end up in prison.” “That’s not true!” “Why, it is.” Joxter stretched like a cat. “I knew a nanny to whom all that happened. But she realised she’d been foolish, escaped from prison, and from then on followed only her own rules and was perfectly happy.” *** Joxter hadn’t lied. Inventing things that never happened is far too much effort. It was simpler not to mention that he’d met that particular young woman in prison (yes, sometimes one doesn’t manage to escape the guards), that he’d significantly influenced her change of priorities, and that he’d helped her escape—or rather, taken her with him (the hairpins ladies use in their coiffures are terribly useful for picking locks, much handier than claws). That girl had later become a bandit, had a marvellous time, caught up on all of life’s joys, and died in a shootout. This young lady, Alice, was clearly impressed and had wandered off deep in thought. Splendid. Joxter hoped the seeds of doubt would sprout and crack the wall of her prejudices, and preferably sooner rather than later—before the fruit ran out and winter storms set in. *** And so, Alice tried to be in the garden as often as possible, which wasn’t all that simple. Either she had lessons, or the other girls had no lessons and also wanted to take a wholesome stroll under the apple and plum trees. Fortunately, Joxter could sense strangers better than she could and simply didn’t show himself. But when the stars aligned, and she, with her textbooks and exercise books for cover, went to meet him in the thick of the cherry or honeysuckle bushes, on a little clearing that was either trampled down or naturally formed, it was lovely. Just rather difficult to sit down without getting her dress dirty, so he placed his hat on a tussock and invited the young lady to sit. Very courteous of him. And Alice, in return, tried to entertain him: she told him about life at the school, about the other girls and the teachers, and about the curriculum. Well, how could she not try to acquaint a pagan beast with the Scripture? Though, right in the middle of a sermon, Joxter might open one eye and ask such a tricky question that everything she had just been talking about suddenly seemed ridiculous and implausible. And he would pick cherries and offer them to her. The berries were a bit tart, but so beautiful. And it was such fun to see who could spit the stones the furthest! And she really ought to confess her doubts about the faith before the weekly communion, but Joxter said there was no sin in doubting, or in thinking, or talking, or laughing at jokes, or flicking another living creature on the nose, or patting them on the knee. Dry leaves and blades of grass got caught in Joxter’s thick chestnut hair, and Alice couldn’t resist picking them out, trying to smooth down the mess at the same time, and the vagabond would lean into her palm, purring, laying his head in her lap so it was easier for her to run her fingers through his hair. Just like a cat! And he himself told her so many amazing things, even though he’d never been to school. Or rather, he said he had learned 'by practice' exactly what he needed and found interesting. Unlike, for example, the conjugations of ancient verbs. Here, Alice would sigh in understanding. A butterfly would flit past, then another, and on a late dandelion they would join together into one quivering white flower. Joxter would nod towards it, say there’s nothing improper here, this is how the whole world is made; butterflies, dragonflies, birds are as innocent as on the first day of creation, and only people invent prohibitions for themselves, even though they all—yes, including himself, Alice, and even the Headmistress—had come to life through that simple act of love. From his pocket, he produced a pomegranate and said it was surely ripe now and would be sweet. And again, a sharp claw split the skin of the fruit, opening a casket of ruby brilliance, with sparks of sun on the scarlet juice. He devoured his half whole once more, while Alice picked out the seeds one by one. But one must learn how to love, too, he said, licking his fingers, for what if a handsome widowed count did come along, and she didn’t even know how to love? And do you know how, Alice returned the jab. But a mysterious smile, smeared with pomegranate juice, was all the response she got. “So… can you teach me?” Again, instead of an answer, he gently took her by the wrist, guided her hand to the back of his neck, and his eyes, that glowing blue, were close, so very close, and his lips were sweet from the pomegranate. *** Joxter lay back on the grass, his breath heavy. A pleasant business, to be sure, but awfully exhausting. A languid fatigue still enveloped him completely, the wind licking his hot, damp skin with its cold tongue, and the enticing halo of prohibition surrounding the girl had already faded. All that remained was a skinny body with purely symbolic breasts and a tear on a pink cheek. Oh, these women, just give them a reason to cry… Well, her skin was all nice and silky, but that wasn’t enough to make him stay. And the nights were already far too cold for sleeping in trees. He needed to hurry south, chasing the summer. True, the quince and persimmons hadn’t ripened yet, but they were late fruits anyway, and he’d already sampled everything else the monastery garden had to offer. The girl opened her mouth to speak, but Joxter was too tired for conversation. Placing a finger on her swollen lips, he reminded her that she still had her embroidery to finish and her hair to put in order. And that night, he headed south, hitching rides on passing carts and stagecoaches. Without a ticket, of course. Another time, a year later, also at the dawn of autumn, his wanderings brought him back to those parts. The familiar silhouette of the bell tower on the hill, the familiar curly head of the garden, cinched by a tall, ornate fence… Joxter immediately remembered how many fruits and forbidding signs there were. And something else? Oh, yes, the local pupils, the green, forbidden fruit. What was that one called? Ah, what did it matter. But he was curious what she was like now. Perhaps she’d grown a bit juicier? In the moonlit twilight, Joxter climbed the poplar tree in front of the dormitory, peering from the branches into the bedroom windows. None of the heads on the pillows sparked recognition. Oh well. The main thing was, the orchard was still there and just as paradisiacal. …He saw her from an apple tree in front of the distant building of the monastery infirmary. The moonlight fell through a barred window into an empty room with a single bed, where a girl with loose, tangled dark hair was curled into a ball on the sheets. Alice—memory suddenly awoke, and the sight of the bars spurred a desire to overcome the barrier, to talk to her, to get a closer look, and perhaps to touch and all the rest. If he climbed onto a higher branch, his weight would bend it down right to the required window. The bars and the window frame were no match for him. Claws were good, but the penknife in his pocket was even better. Whether from the creak of the window or the gust of night air, the girl woke and sat up in bed. Deeply sunken black eyes stared at the intruder on the windowsill. “You!” she suddenly shrieked, curling into a ball and clutching a pillow. “Don’t come near! Be gone, fiend! You won’t deceive me again, you’re not a cat, no, you’re a serpent, how did I not see it at once! The serpent and the apple, the Fall!” Her face crumpled in an ugly way, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Get thee hence! I have sinned, but you won’t get the child!” And she pressed the pillow even tighter against her chest, diagonally, the way all women in the world hold an infant. Joxter froze. He knew what to do with offended, angry, or crying ladies. But this… This was wreckage. The shattered pieces of a mind, a personality, and how was one supposed to interact with that? And looking at the wreckage was… unpleasant. Painful, even. Like walking on broken glass. His instincts told him to get away from where it hurt. So he jumped back onto the branch, slid down the tree, and bolted. And just in time. The girl was still screaming, a lamp flared in her room, the voices of other people reached him… But Joxter was already far away, swallowed by the night’s shadows. No. This wasn’t his fault. He hadn’t done anything unnatural; the blame lay with all those people who fancied themselves judges. They were the ones who had filled the poor girl’s head with nonsense and driven her mad. He had to leave. Find a new valley or an island, climb all over it, eat his fill of fruit, clear his head. Maybe borrow a bottle of something stronger from somewhere, just to rinse away this vile, sour feeling inside. But first, to distract himself, he could verify an amusing little fact. For that, he’d need to loiter around the monastery by day, chat with the simple workmen from there, casually ask where the nuns sent the extra little children from their infirmary. And then, at night, take a stroll to the neighbouring village, slip into the unguarded hovel that served as an orphanage, wander along the rows of cots, sniffing the air… A year or two ago, Joxter had been stuck on one island long enough to see his own offspring born. And the curious thing was that the kitten had had no scent. No, it smelled normally of milk and wet nappies, but it had no personal scent. Joxter had occasionally met other mumriks; they had a personal scent, except for one strange wanderer. Perhaps their noses were wired not to perceive the scent of a close relative. A brother. Or a son. Aha, there he was. The kit smelled of nothing in particular, but Joxter knew, even without a scent, that he was looking at a mumrik, not a human. Probably from the way the infant was confidently watching him in the rather dark room and yet keeping silent. Ought to leave him something. A name, for instance. Something ridiculous, like the child himself. He’d made up a silly name once, just for such an occasion. What was it? Snuf… Ah, yes. On the side of the cot, Joxter scratched with a claw: 'His name is Snufkin.' And he signed it: '– Snufkin’s Papa.' There. That was that. The little fellow would manage on his own now; Papa had no more business here. And he ran for it, just as one of the other infants decided to start crying in the middle of the night.