Black Pearls - Louise Hawes [64]
She had not called, of course, but lay as always, a candied sweet. The jewels we had scavenged from our poor mine seemed cloudy against her lustrous throat. Day after day, the hope was fresh each time I looked inside the glass, each time I watched for the damp print of breath on its face. And so, telling myself I might have missed her cry, her muffled call, I swung open the casket and bent to feel her pulse.
Once so close, I kindled like an oil-fed blaze. Perm had made her bed long and broad, broad enough for two. Tingling with shame and a rough, unstoppable need, I climbed in beside her. Too late then to curb the hunger that guided my fingers. Too late to reprimand the wicked, insatiable dwarf who stroked and kissed and licked. Her hands, her face, her perfect breasts that waited just beneath the corded neckline of her loosened gown.
Is there a reward for taking the devil's hand but refusing to
dance? Is there a place in hell, less loathsome than the rest, for those too small of soul to finish the evil they begin? If so, I am spared the ultimate punishment that would be mine if I had once been able to take Diamonda in her bier the way I did each night in my restless, guilt-stained sleep.
Because I did not. Always, when I reached lower and, with a thousand tears and apologies, began to lift her skirts, I saw not my own dream but hers. As I touched her, shaking with fervor, I watched my hand become large and fine. The fingers lengthened and straightened into those of someone else, the palms grew lineless and white. And as I tried to lower myself onto her, I felt my body change. My legs were charged with power, thick and long and coiled with strength; my arms lost their withered crook and looked as smooth and graceful as an acrobat's.
And my face? I cannot tell you bow I saw it, but I did. And I felt the transformation as clearly as you feel an icy spring rush against your skin. My bloated head grew slender, handsome, my eyes and nose as perfect as Diamonda's. I was, for a moment, what I had always yearned to be—Diamonda's dream. Locked inside this new and chiseled form, I watched my sweet love reach out to me. She stirred in her sleep and put her arms around me. But as she drew me to her, blind and doting, the horrible dwarf twisted free and ran from the hut to stand sobbing with his back against the wall until his watch had ended.
Year after year, her dream vanquished me. Night after night, I lay in my bed, rubbing and rocking, while Diamonda, chaste still, waited for her prince. If I had been the one on watch when he came, I would have known him, disguised or not. As it was, he wore a deep-hooded cloak and told Gwiffert he was a healer from Wainport across the mountain. By the time my brother had raced to the house to fetch us, the stranger had the casket open and was holding her in his arms.
He had thrown the cloak back from his face, and his light, curly hair was like a flame above the dark tangle of hers. His features were as I had always seen them—bright, comely, and ripe with enchantment. She was already awake and looked, for one dazed moment, away from her redeemer toward the seven manikins clustered at her waist.
As she turned, so did he, and twin suns beamed down on us. Her lips parted but she did not speak, as if she had forgotten during her long sleep how to form words. Then, after roving over us all, her eyes seemed to fix on me. A nameless shadow darkened her smile, and the shame of my old longing swept me.
"How long have I been sleeping?" Now her eyes found his