A Short Walk Through a Wide World by Douglas Westerbeke

Author:Douglas Westerbeke
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Avid Reader Press / Simon & Schuster
Published: 2024-04-02T00:00:00+00:00

48

The Wish

Beside her is a woman. Aubry feels her chest constrict at the sight of her, the beauty of her, her long dark hair, her voice like a scent.

“How far did you go?” Aubry asks her.

“My family and I were fleeing our homes—war, you see.” They step away from the others, whispering. “We came south through mountain passes, followed the Arabian coast, crossed lakes so salty you couldn’t sink in them.”

“How do you know the Prince?”

“We are old friends. When he needs help, I show up.”

“Just like that?”

“He may not even know he’s in need, but then, suddenly, there I am.”

“Does he need help now?”

“He will.”

Her arm seamlessly interlocks with Aubry’s and then, before she knows it, Aubry is being escorted through the oblivious crowd. The two of them together are breathtaking to behold, whispering close enough to be lovers, yet no one seems to notice them pass by.

“Our Prince once made a birthday wish and I happened to overhear. Would you like to see what I got him?”

Aubry is led through three doorways, into a dark uninhabited wing of the palace. The rooms rattle and moan. Currents of air seep in from outside. Windows are covered, yet curtains billow anyway. The raga echoes down the hallways, mixing with the sounds of the storm.

“Look around,” says the woman, holding out a candle, lighting another for Aubry. “What do you see?”

“A palace,” says Aubry, her candle flickering. “Furniture. Tapestries.”

“The tapestries are dyed wool.” She points to the wooden sculptures in the corner. “The emerald inlays are colored glass.” She turns, points again. “The clock on that mantel hasn’t worked in three years. And his servants—all volunteers from the village.”

“What are you saying?”

“The Prince is supposed to collect taxes from the people to pay the British for their protection.”

“Protection from whom?”

“Yes, you understand.”

Aubry walks along, quietly unnerved for reasons she doesn’t fully believe. But later, she has it all confirmed—Krishna, the servants, all locals plucked from surrounding villages, all unpaid, all devoted to their Prince. Later, she will examine the diamonds on his embroidered turban and find every other gem to be a replacement, a bit of glass with colored tinsel coating the back.

The woman leads her to another room. On the wall, a collection of small framed pastels. Aubry leans close, candlelight revealing portraits, landscapes, abstracts, still lifes. These are not ancient works, but fresh and masterful. And the colors—golds like hot molten ore, greens like crushed jade, reds like the fire within fire. A room full of butterflies could not be so enchanting. The woman points to one.

“What do you think of this?”

“It’s beautiful.”

“It’s mine,” she says and leads her to another. “So is that one. And this.”

Aubry is amazed. One in particular draws her near.

“This one, too?” asks Aubry. She leans in close to a painting of a black river—behind it, a thick jungle, painted in swirling green lines that churn and tangle. In the center of all that green, a tall lean-to made from broad jungle leaves stands, a handful of people under it warming themselves by a fire.

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