Зимородок - [13]

Is that world of mysterious beings.

The woodchuck’s fur is stippled with starlight,

The unnamed translator’s face is serene.

Surely, she knows what I can utter

Only as a hesitant question:

“Is the difference between our worlds

In the direction of the gaze?”

Reading “A Day Comes”

A day comes

when the mouth grows tired

of saying “I”.

Yet it is occupied

still by a self that must speak

Jane Hirshfield

I wish it were I

Who wrote this poem:

Spare

Like a Japanese long sword.

Centered.

True to its reason for being.

But somebody else

Crafted and honed it.

Can I make it my own?

I would write a translation!

But try as I might,

I am unable

To reforge this poem

In another language.

I find that its strength

Cannot be extricated

From the words it is made of,

From their multiple meanings

Folding and melding

Across the lines.

I will seize this poem,

I will learn it by heart,

Enlighten my listeners

As I recite it,

Cut through the ignorance

Of my opponents.

But what really happens

Is that the poem,

True to its purpose,

Slices deeply

Into my own

Self.

I gasp,

Laugh ruefully,

Watch the blood

Well up and run freely.

The Keeper of the Keys

I am the Keeper of the Keys. I am the one who unlocks and locks the portals of all the worlds, greets everyone who enters, and wishes good fortune to everyone who leaves.

Yes, you have been here; you have met me before, and more than once. That’s how I know your name and remember that you like lemon balm tea with a touch of clover honey. You yourself are the one who told me your story – the story of your city, Naori-Laaren – the reason why you are looking for the fugitive Alalli. If you survive your next journey, if you are able to come back, we will see each other again, and I will be glad.

Of course not! I practice no dark magic, no magic of any kind. But when you are not here, when you are in one of the worlds where your fate unfolds, I do not exist in your time and space, so there is no one to remember. Then, I am merely an image from a dream, a nameless feeling that arises within you when you smell lemon balm and clover honey.

I am sorry to deny your plea. But no, I will not do this. The Keeper of the Keys may not detain or mislead anyone, may not pass any message from one traveler to another.

Now you speak in frustration, in anger. But deep inside yourself you know that your words are unjust. I do believe you, and I do understand what will befall your city, if you fail in your errand. Pain and destruction, no matter where they strike, do grieve me. But the one who is entrusted with the keys may not cross the threshold in word or deed without breaking the laws that make it possible to unlock and to lock. The Keeper of the Keys must open each door when the time comes. It is my duty to greet equally everyone who enters and with the same blessing bid farewell to everyone when they go. I must leave each traveler, each world to their own fate.

Indeed. So it is.

No, no; not all alone. My predecessors and their predecessors are all here. Some are memories preserved in the words that I read, in the shapes of the stone arches, the layout of the gardens. Some are living presences who still teach me and care for me, and who need my care. The ones who will be the Keepers after me, they are also here – growing and learning. And, of course, there are the travelers. Some, like you, pause in this space between the closing of one door and the opening of another; notice me, stay to have a cup of tea. They tell me what they have seen and done, what drives them to travel, what torments them or gives them joy.

You are welcome to stay as long as you wish. Outside the portals, the time you spend here is not marked on any calendars, not measured by any clocks.

Yes, certainly. Follow me.

I am glad you think so. Perhaps you feel that way here because a little bit of this garden is in your cup each time we have tea together. The beehives are on that hill. The white clover in the grass is like a dusting of snow. There, by the brook, is the lemon balm. Lemon balm loves moist soil; clover thrives in bright sunlight.

Ah, yes. This is the peak season for peonies. These wine-colored ones are my favorites. That windchime was made by my late great-grand predecessor. She was a true master. This one I am still working on: I feel some tone is missing when it harmonizes with a soft rain. But on a sunny day like today, it does sound quite complete, doesn’t it?

You are right: in my realms, no keys are necessary. All the doors open freely at any time.

But we are not dressed for the weather that is likely to greet us behind the next door. So, let us just peek in.

Good, the snow storm passed at last. You know, one traveler taught me an expression in his language for this kind of darkness and silence: “You can hear every constellation.”

Well, that is a different realm, so why should it have the same time of day, or season of the year as this one?

Depends on what you mean by real. You have told me that the flavor of the honey that the bees gather in the garden here is as intense, as the honey that is brought to the River Market from the upland farms.