The Stranger - Max Frei [173]
“I know of many deserted places with vile drinks. My house, for instance,” I laughed. “It wasn’t as far to seek.”
“This is a special place. It used to be the Country Residence of the Order of the Secret Grass. Back then, Echo was much smaller than it is now, you know. I’m sure you’ll like it. Here it is.”
We passed through the gateway, the appearance of which was none too promising esthetically. The first impression was deceiving. A narrow dark flight of stairs leading to a neglected garden, illuminated by the bluish light of tiny glass globes filled with some incandescent gas. Here there were none of your ordinary small tables—only low benches nestled among the evergreen Kaxxa bushes, which resembled the juniper of my homeland. The air was wonderfully cold and transparent. It didn’t slow the blood, but just chilled the skin, like menthol. My head spun. It seemed to me then that I was amazingly young, and the world around me was full of mystery. If you think about it, that was the honest truth, and just what I should have been feeling.
I broke into a smile.
“You’re right, this is a marvelous place!”
“Yes. But don’t even think of ordering kamra. It’s disgusting here. Better get something stronger—a drink like that can’t be spoiled under even the most adverse circumstances.”
“Stronger? Don’t forget, it’s still morning for me.”
“Oh yes. Of course . . . well, all the worse for you, Sir Max. I’m going to indulge, with your permission—it’s already long since evening for me.”
“Indulge to your heart’s content. I hope they can find water from some sort of sacred spring around here. That’s what I need right now.”
They didn’t serve water there, alas, so I was forced to content myself with a glass of some kind of sour fruit compote. Melamori and I made quite a couple—she, a delicate creature gulping down the most potent Jubatic Juice, and me, the hefty fellow in the Mantle of Death, sipping bland fruit compote.
“If you want to talk, this is where to do it,” Melamori blurted out, already blushing from the effects of her drink.
Then she went quiet, as though frightened at the sound of her own voice. Just as I was about to nudge her back to life, she started up again unexpectedly.
“As for my fears, Max—I’ve dug up a few things. So tell me, what color are your eyes?”
“They’re . . . brown, I think,” I stammered.
I was stunned. Sinning Magicians! What was happening to my memory? How could I forget the color of my own eyes?
“Um-hmm. You see, you don’t even know yourself. Take a look,” said Melamori and held up a small mirror she pulled out of the folds of her looxi.
A pair of gray eyes, round with surprise, stared back at me.
“What’s gotten into me? I completely forgot! Amazing!”
“You forgot? It’s no wonder you forgot. Yesterday they really were brown. In the evening, that is. And in the morning they were green, like a descendant of a Draxx. When I went to Headquarters three days before the End of the Year, they were blue. I even fancied they looked just like Uncle Kima’s.”
“It’s very sweet of you to pay attention to such trifles, Melamori. But it’s news to me. It’s even hard to believe. Are you sure you’re not confused yourself?”
“Do you want to bet?” Melamori said, grinning. “Look in the mirror an hour from now. They change constantly!”
“I’m not going to bet with you,” I mumbled, handing back the mirror. “You’ll have me penniless. But for the life of me, I don’t understand why that should fill you with fear. So my eyes change color. You call that a miracle? Your whole family is from the Seven-Leaf Clover. You can’t seem to get used to it.”
“That’s just it. I know a lot, but I’ve never heard of anything of the kind. Yesterday evening, when I finally realized I wasn’t just imagining it, I even asked Uncle Kima. I didn’t mention your name; I said I had noticed it in one of the messengers. Kima also told me I was imagining it, that such things just don’t happen. I didn’t want to insist, but today I asked Sir Juffin. You know what he said?”
“Let me guess. ‘The world is full of