The Fairy-Bower

I can't see the ceiling from here. I can hear the dull whirr of the fan overhead, spot the faint shimmer of the mosquito-net in the darkness from the moonlight without. The pillow exudes a warmth that suddenly seems terribly stifling and not even the fan's efforts can make up for it. My chest is damp with sweat, and my upper lip fringed with the same. One more sigh, and I close my eyes, reopening them once again. I can see the open windows on the other side of the room - two large doorways that frame a strange milky glow outside.

I turn over onto my side. She's still asleep - I can hear the steady, even breath that escapes her nostrils, even see in the dull gloom the slow rising and lowering of her breast. My mouth curves itself into a smile inexplicably, and I close my eyes again. It's time to sleep, I tell myself. It's late - quite, quite late. A yawn, and I open my eyes. For awhile, I'm staring at her inert form, just staring vacantly. It's empty inside, not a single thought as I gaze at her, not a single emotion bubbling over or even cascading gently in a trance. A blink, and the heat from the pillows is too much to bear.

Tucking the ends of the netting back underneath the mattress, I step back and stand for a second, surveying the neatly packaged bed and its contents for awhile. A hiss of exhaled breath, and I paddle softly on down the corridor. I'm not wearing any slippers, I've lost any idea I ever had about where they could possibly be. The noiselessness suits me just fine, anyhow. I'm walking through billowing curtains and stepping on cashmere rugs, up stairs and down corridors. For awhile, I forget where I am in the darkness. It's so strange - this is the house I grew up in... A hand extends itself and feels the smooth edge of a glass table - I'm in the main hall. Almost simultaneous with the mental recognition, my senses start to kick in. My eyes spot the glint of moonlight on the crystal centerpiece, the smell of stubbed-out cigarettes comes assailing me from the ashtray pushed underneath the drapes, I catch the soft rustle of the wind on the gauze curtains, and my arms seek out the contours of the velveteen sofa...

I bask in the warm glow of the refrigerator light as I open the door. A tall pitcher of juice. Covered remnants of dinner. A huge hunk of pomegranate. A bottle of water. I retract the water and stifle the amber glow of the refrigerator once again. Somehow, I'm content to simply stand there in the pitch blackness - in spite of the same sultry warmth that drove me from my bed. Somehow, I'm in that same place I found myself earlier gazing and not seeing her face, as I lay next to her in bed. A drop of water condenses, rolls down the length of the bottle, and falling on my foot, pierces my thoughtless reverie. Suddenly, bottle and dark, empty room flood back to my consciousness, and I leave hurriedly. I knock down the little carved stool next to the ottoman, but I don't notice.

They're all asleep. As I roam up the stairs, paddling along silently, I can feel their thoughts resting serenely in their beds next to their hearts. In spite of the sultry weather, and in spite of the barking dogs outside on the road. I stop there at the head of the stairs, listening to one of them howl outside. It's a strange call, I conclude, a call bespeaking so much of anguish to my tired human ears, but actually borne of probably nothing more than a missing gnawed-out bone from last week's treasure-find. I shrug my shoulders at the strange disparity between my perceptions and what really happens out there, and take a gulp of water from the bottle. The water helps to assuage the mugginess somewhat.

I open the door softly, and step in. The netting on the bed makes it look like some strangely ornate shrine. My room is bare, save the treasure that lies asleep within her fairy-bower, oblivious to this incessant dampness that torments me. My windows are bare too, and the dull milky shine of the night sky pours unabated into the room. I stoop to place the bottle of water on the floor, at the foot of the bed, and amble over to the tall windows. They look on over the neighbor's compound, dotted with tall palm fronds that I can't make out in the dark. As far as I can see, there's only rough tangled undergrowth looking equally forbidding before me - somehow, I get the feeling of being this savage witch-doctor of eons ago in some grim and mysterious part of the world. These are my secrets lying before me, shrouded in the deepest, blackest veils that not even the clearest beam can pierce through. Perhaps not even a stone's throw away, the forlorn night-lights of some other houses down the block shine in the gloom - in this atmosphere, I find it so easy to forget that I walked down there just this morning and picturize instead far-away watch-towers and their messages of ill-tidings come swiftly forth. An aboriginal atmosphere in a supernatural frame of mind.

A slight snort from within the packaged treasure throws a stone at my mired consciousness. I turn bodily, and spy her form beneath the shimmering netting, turning over onto her side now. Her slender hand reaches forth to my side of the bed, feels about for a few seconds and then stays put. I can hear the sigh of contentedness issue forth from her lips, even now, as far as I am away from her. A blink, and the silence of the sleeping house becomes a living entity with me. I look out over the window again, but the witch-doctor's domain seems to have been washed away in invisible smoke...

My eyes follow the path of the smoke and affix onto the strangely curdling sky overhead. It's as if a nebula has opened up before me. Soft and silent, ringed with colour and shine. A slight breeze, and somehow the witch-doctor becomes quite, quite redundant. Somehow, the open doesn't permit any more shrouded mysteries of the deep - somehow, there's this very real urging to open Thineself to the wonders abroad - as terribly weird and tailor-made as it may sound. This is not a line from a Rebel Song of the Sixties, nor a pot-induced spot of spontaneously optimistic thinking - in some strangely haunting way, this is the truth. The truth out There that calls to the one in Here. And all of it because of some optical phenomena reflected in the nocturnal sky of one hot, muggy night in April...

Another gulp of cool water, and I set the bottle to rest on the floor again, amidst the converging concentric rings of condensation. And then, I enter through the veils of the glimmering bower and take my place in my bed.