Patricia McKillip - The Lion and the Lark

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2024-11-24 0 0 38.41KB 18 页 5.9玖币

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THE LION AND THE LARK

Patricia A. McKillip

Patricia A. McKillip, winner of the World Fantasy Award, is one of the

very finest writers working in the field today. She has published many

wonderful books, including The Forgotten Beasts of Eld, Stepping from

the Shadows, Fool's Run, and The Cygnet and the Firebird. Her most

recent works are Something Rich and Strange and The Book of Atrix Wolfe,

both highly recommended. McKillip grew up in America, Germany, and

England, and now livcs in the Catskill Mountains of New York.

"The Lion and the Lark" is a literary fairy tale reminiscent of such old

folktales as "Beauty and the Beast," "The Falcon King," or "East of the

Sun, West of the Moon'' It is a thoughtful and poetic story that poses

the question How much can love stand? The story is reprinted from The

Armless Maiden.

There was once a merchant who lived in an ancient and magical city with

his three daughters. They were all very fond of each other, and as happy

as those with love and leisure and wealth can afford to be. The eldest,

named Pearl, pretended domesticity. She made bread and forgot to let it

rise before she baked it; she pricked her fingers sewing black satin

garters; she inflicted such oddities as eggplant soup and barley muffins

on her long-suffering family. She was very beautiful, though a trifle

awkward and absent-minded, and she had suitors who risked their teeth on

her hard, flat bread as boldly as knights of old slew dragons for the

heart's sake. The second daughter, named Diamond, wore delicate,

gold-rimmed spectacles, and was never without a book or a crossword

puzzle at hand. She discoursed learnedly on the origins of the phoenix

and the conjunctions of various astrological signs. She had an answer

for everything, and was considered by all her suitors to be wondrously wise.

The youngest daughter, called Lark, sang a great deal but never spoke

much. Because her voice was so like her mother's, her father doted on

her. She was by no means the fairest of the three daughters; she did not

shine with beauty or wit. She was pale and slight, with dark eyes,

straight, serious brows, and dark braided hair. She had a loving and

sensible heart, and she adored her family, though they worried her with

their extravagances and foolishness. She wore Pearl's crooked garters,

helped Diamond with her crossword puzzles, and heard odd questions arise

from deep in her mind when she sang. "What is life?" she would wonder.

"What is love? What is man?" This last gave her a good deal to ponder,

as she watched her father shower his daughters with chocolates and

taffeta gowns and gold bracelets. The young gentlemen who came calling

seemed especially puzzling. They sat in their velvet shirts and their

leather boots, nibbling bumt cakes and praising Diamond's mind, and all

the while their eyes said other things. Now, their eyes said: Now. Then:

Patience, patience. You are flowers, their mouths said, you are jewels,

you are golden dreams. Their eyes said: I eat flowers, I burn with

dreams, I have a tower without a door in my heart and I will keep you there....

Her sisters seemed fearless in the face of this power--whether from

innocence or design, Lark was uncertain. Since she was wary of men, and

seldom spoke to them, she felt herself safe. She spoke mostly to her

father, who only had a foolish, doting look in his eyes, and who of all

men could make her smile.

One day their father left on a long journey to a distant city where he

had lucrative business dealings. Before he left, he promised to bring

his daughters whatever they asked for. Diamond, in a riddling mood, said

merrily, "Bring us our names!"

"Oh, yes," Pearl pleaded, kissing his balding pate. "I do love pearls."

She was wearing as marly as she had, on her wrists, in her hair, on her

shoes. "I always want more."

"But," their father said with an anxious glance at his youngest, who was

listening with her grave, slightly perplexed expression, "does Lark love larks?"

Her face changed instantly, growing so bright she looked ahnost

beautiful. "Oh, yes. Bring me my singing name, Father. I would rather

have that than all the lifeless, deathless jewels in the world."

Her sisters laughed; they petted her and kissed her, and told her that

she was still a child to hunger after worthless presents. Someday she

would learn to ask for gifts that would outlast love, for when love had

ceased, she would still possess what it had once been worth.

"But what is love?" she asked, confused. "Can it be bought like

yardage?" But they only laughed harder and gave her no answers.

She was still puzzling ten days later when their father returned. Pearl

was in the kitchen baking spinach tea cakes, and Diamond in the library,

dozing over the philosophical writings of Lord Thiggut Moselby. Lark

heard a knock at the door, and then the lovely, liquid singing of a

lark. Laughing, she ran down the hall before the servants could come,

and swung open the door to greet their father.

He stared at her. In his hands he held a little silver cage. Within the

cage, the lark sang constantly, desperately, each note more beautiful

than the last, as if, coaxing the rarest, finest song from itself, it

might buy its freedom. As Lark reached for it, she saw the dark blood

mount in her father's face, the veins throb in his temples. Before she

could touch the cage, he lifted it high over his head, dashed it with

all his might to the stone steps.

"No!" he shouted. The lark fluttered within the bent silver; his boot

lifted over cage and bird, crushed both into the stones. "No!"

"No!" Lark screamed. And then she put both fists to her mouth and said

nothing more, retreating as far as she could without moving from the

sudden, incomprehensible violence. Dimly, she heard her father sobbing.

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