Topaz Marigolds

Topaz Marigolds –

“Diamonds?” Copern whispered in wonder. “No.” He scolded himself at having forgotten that heaven held stars. “Think,” he commanded. Inhaling deeply, he steadied himself as he drank the newness in. The night breeze, the riffling stream, fragrant undergrowth, all stirred memories of a life before being imprisoned at St. Grindstone. That was seven years ago. He was taken at five.

Alarms clanged behind him. “I’m discovered,” he whimpered. His exhaustion and fear surged. Copern stumbled down the riverbed. On his right, a flicker of light beckoned. Frantically, clamoring the embankment, he tumbled into the maze of village streets. The slick cobbles rendered running difficult, as his bare feet slapped ominously down yet another meandering alleyway. Despair rose, but Copern pushed onward.

The baying of hounds closed in, sparking a new species of fear. He knew those beasts held no mercy. Suddenly, to his left, a small gate, shrouded in sickly vines, opened as if by magic. A faint, yellow light glowed. He dashed in, believing whatever lay beyond was less horrible than what awaited him were he caught.

Hidden, he shuddered and shivered for fear and cold. Pressing his back against an inner wall, he hunched in attempt to avoid detection. The howling hounds and reformatory guards huffed past without pause. He strained, listening as the hollering and cursing gradually melted to a faint din in some forgotten corridor further on.

He waited.

Partially convinced he was safe, at least from the guards, hounds, and brutes of St. Grindstone, Copern stood, creaking and groaning. Never had he run so hard or for so long in his twelve years. His blistered, bleeding feet limped along the sinister, inner corridor between the two walls. His first thought was he had entered a corridor, but further inspection revealed the inner structure to be a two-story house, for want of a better word, made entirely of steely-glass. A small bronze door, sporting a highly polished brass doorknob, led into the structure. He hurried past, into an open garden.

The grounds gave the appearance of simultaneously being overgrown, yet manicured. Outside, in the alleyways of Village Staink, it remained midnight. Inside, luminosity pulsated like a giant’s heartbeat. The trees and flowers swayed rhythmically. His experience with living plants was marginal, but these were species different than anything he had known. He touched a leaf; hard, metallic, cold, rigid. At his feet, the gravel sparkled a rainbow of jewels. He wondered aloud, “Dream, vision?” He walked on.

Statuary of variant shapes and species lined the paths. Animals, and humanoid beings, their faces shining with stately confidence and serenity, made Copern fall in love immediately. He caressed a small statue with long whiskers and fluffy tail. He thought it purred.

The stately tree in the center, like a resting giant, stood solemn. Its bronze trunk and branches bore leaves of silver. A massive swing hung from a low, spreading branch. He ventured over. Silver cords held a polished bronze seat. He sat and swung gently. In the boughs above, he noticed pearls hanging in clusters like grapes. A small silver shrub sprouted rubies the size of his thumb. The flowers were blown glass with intoxicating perfume. Bright yellow and orange marigolds, fashioned from topaz, bloomed along the pathway.

A bird, forged from green and red gold, flew to the birdbath. “This is too wonderful to miss.” He ventured closer. The bird cocked its head as Copern approached, and flitting up, landing on his shoulder. “You are heavy for one so small. You are built of metal?” The bird warbled agreement, flying off into an upper limb. Locked in the recesses of memory, these spectacular items held odd elements of familiarity. “Amazing!” Copern softly whistled. A scratching behind him lured his attention. To his surprise, a small copper rodent scurried past. Its fur moved like that of the rats back at school.

“The school!” He looked uphill to where St. Grindstone stood ominously in the pale grey of an anemic dawn. He shuddered. Its high walls and turrets constricted his breathing even at this distance.

He averted his attention toward the house. It comprised more than a simple two-story structure. The walls undulated in and out as if they were breathing. Copern’s fear grew. Was the house watching him? Made entirely of a silvery glass, the walls reflected the hues of the garden in swirls of colors like oil’s sheen on a puddle. They moved effortlessly in convoluted patterns that shifted with the slightest breeze.

Imperceptibly at first, movement appeared on the inside of the glass. One of the house panels began to vibrate. A small person, two feet tall, but in all appearance like that of a white hairy man, strode through the shimmering wall and approached. “Know how came you to this garden?” His voice a deep whisper.

Copern said nothing, having been trained by years of abuse to not provide information.

“You are from the prison on the hill, yes?” the miniature being noted.

Copern remained silent as his fear regerminated.

“We have been watching you. Please follow us.” The creature’s voice was barely audible.

“Who has been watching? Who is us?” Copern asked, his voice choked in fear.

The man pointed to the trees and statuary. “We all see,” the quiet voice spoke authoritatively. “You have been observed.”

Copern dutifully followed. His senses raced. Fear that his every action, maybe even his thoughts, were open to be read by the world around him, created great unease. At least at St. Grindstone, one's face could hide emotion. Here, everything was laid bare.

Together, Copern and the miniature being walked toward the narrow passage on the same side of the house where Copern had entered the garden hours before. Terror enfolded him.

“The gate,” he blurted. “It opened . . . the gate . . . it opened.” And for the first time in a long time, Copern crumpled into a ball and began sobbing. “Please don’t send me back.”

The miniature man turned around and, a bit surprised, stated, “Back? My dear child, we would never do such a thing. Your heart opened the gate You were summoned.”

Copern, through red eyes, stared as if he had not heard properly.

“You were summoned . . . here. You still do not realize this?”

Copern only stared.

The small man walked up to Copern and gently took his hand, in what looked more like a paw. “I am called Ab-Rab. I am of the Sagheer tribe. Is it possible you do not know who you are?”

Copern shook his head weakly. “At school I am called Scabs, but I think my name is maybe Copern? I remember little of my life before St. Grindstone.”

Ab-Rab raised his finger and stated authoritatively, “They have stolen your name from you. We shall restore it. That is a prison, not a school, but we are awaited.” He turned toward the small door, clasped the brass knob and silently opened it. “Please follow me my Lord. Welcome to the Armillary Spheroid of her highness, Beryl Lucida.”

Upon entering, Copern was immediately struck by the degree of dissimilarity from everything that he had ever known. He stopped. Bracing his hand on the door frame to adjust his equilibrium, he took in the newness. The order and cleanliness were jarring, almost nauseating to his mind. So deep and for so long had his mind been imprisoned that it began drowning within his surroundings. His eyes, wide, drank in this new world with a mixture of love, revulsion, and anger. Terror, unlike any Copern had ever known, even at St. Grindstone, gripped his heart and squeezed. He locked onto Ab-Rab’s face with the look of one who has been betrayed, and blurted, “What have you done to me?” Copern collapsed onto the highly polished stone floor, unconscious.

As Copern slowly came to, his mind refused to open his eyes. Awareness crept in. Odors: fresh, clean, sharp, pungent spices, soothing florals, hearty musks. Copern trembled. “This is real.” His eyes had been covered by a scented, velvety cloth. He grabbed for it, but thought better of it lest his disequilibrium return full force.

Ab-Rab’s voice entered his darkness. “Apologies, my lord. Unfortunately, there exist no other means whereby we might ease admittance among us. You have been birthed anew.”

Copern slowly lifted the blindfold, and peeking underneath, saw Ab-Rab and several others of his species gathered around. “Is this real?” Copern weakly spoke.

“Far more real than anything you have yet known.”

The blindfold slipped as Copern sat up. Dizzy, he looked around. Statuary moved. Two in particular seemed to be having a hearty conversation, but Copern heard no vocalization. Ab-Rab assisted him to his feet. “My Lord, we are awaited,” he spoke softly.

Copern noticed the walls were, in fact, stained glass windows. Images of animals, mythical creatures, birds, undulated in slow motion. On either side of the hallway, thin doors, every three feet, held bronze plaques, inscribed in multiple, exotic scripts. None did he recognize. Dials, clocks, and levers lay underneath each name.

At the end of the hall, tall filigree gates opened into a large glass conservatory. Plant species from all over the world, and many looking as if they were from other planets, flourished. A lady, as wide as she was tall, sat in a large, elevated chair cushioned with pillows. Exotic birds fed from her hand. A snow-white owl sat on her right shoulder, a black as coal raven, on her left.

“You stole nothing in the garden?” she asked with genuine interest. “Explain.” Her voice sang lyrical, twinkly, far away, like what a star would sound like if stars could sing.

“Nothing was mine,” Copern heard himself say.

“But one jewel would be enough to liberate you from the Grindstone.”

“It was not mine.”

“What is yours?”

“Nothing.” His voice, quiet and fragile, quavered, as if speaking might shatter him.

“What about yourself.” The lady sat up high in her chair, and cocking her head to one side, demanded, “Who owns YOU?”

“I . . . don’t . . . know.” Copern trembled searching for an answer at his feet. He loved the lady’s face, but he could not tolerate the stare.

A smile spread across the dowager’s face. Addressing the pair of birds on her shoulder very respectably, she uttered, “Gentlemen, we have indeed found our next pupil.”

And so began Copern’s proper education.