An Ornamental City

Gwynn craves the company of his violin, and the openness of the streets of Venice an hour earlier today that he did the day before.

Gwynn’s fingers are weary from wiring the strings on numerous violins, and gripping the tools too tightly in his fingers. Gwynn has thought that once he began working in the workshop full-time he would be accustomed to the calluses and squinting. But his eyes are still sore and his hands are red.

The violins had been especially difficult today; the tuning imperfect despite his best efforts, and his resorting to threats of violence, pleading, swearing, the last of which led to chastisement by his father.

Gwynn considers turning in early, retiring to his room with a cup of tea and a compress for his fingers, but the sky is speckled with stars, and the warm weather has drawn out nighttime crowds who like to hear some music.

Gwynn retrieves his violin from the wall and calls out to his father. “I’m going to go play for a while,” he says.

His father’s response from the other room is a simple, “Don’t be too late.”

Gwynn leaves quickly, before his father can interpret “too late” as a more specific time.

Gwynn takes a deep breath as he steps onto the cobblestones, into the steady stream of people rushing home beneath a darkening twilight sky.

The transition from the scent of sawdust and metal to marine water is increasingly welcome, recently.

Gwynn holds his violin carefully, keeping the case close to his side as he weaves in and around the crowds. The shop and the workshop above which he lives – owned for generations of violin makers and players before him – is pleasant in the dying day, and the morning, full of dust motes caught in the sunlight. He knows each corner and niche, each facet and stand by the wall, the register of each violin displayed in the shop window and on the walls.

Yet lately there has been a growing discontent in Gwynn. Whereas before the knowledge that he would continue the family business was comforting, now it leaves him unsatisfied.

He feels only hollow when thinking of staying and making violins in Venice until his old age.

He envisions a life outside the city. He envisions life in cities exotic and impossibly beautiful. Gwynn wonders how often Isabel does the same.

Gwynn and Isabel have discussed travel, and leaving the city, multiple times. Isabel is interested by his unrest, and they have planned many imaginary adventures with such detail that they could carry them out, from practical details to fantastical ones.

Gwynn often insists he will not leave Venice without Isabel. She lets him plan their most vivid adventures in his head, and listens as he regales her with escapades and heroism. Perhaps their plans of travel and adventure were merely a childish fancy to her, or maybe she was just humouring him. It would be silly to believe she remembers their conversations at all.

Gwynn stops on a corner with a steady flow of Venetians passing to and fro. The setting sun paints the canal with liquid gold, and the star above is fading to muted violet, dusted with stars.

Gwynn sets his case on the corner, opens it and removes his violin. Beneath his fingers the wood is smooth as glass as he rests it on his shoulder and strokes it with the bow.

In the time that passes the sun dips below the horizon and the frosted glass lamps on cobblestone corners cast fractal patterns across the water. The windows festooned with paper lanterns.

This is an ornamental city, he thinks, as he lowers his bow between songs.

Gwynn glances toward the violin case, glittering with silver coins. A small crowd has gathered on the corner, to pass the time in musical appreciation as the moon rises higher over the city.

Gwynn hefts his violin onto his shoulder and tucks his cheek against it. As he lifts the bow, glancing into the crowd, he pauses. And then the pause lengthens.

Isabel greats him with a warm smile. She wears a coat in a shocking shade of violet, and the hands that hang by her sides are covered in silver gloves.

The city around her, the avenues slick with rain and canal water and the drifting fog is a haze of silver lamplight and purple shadows. Yet still, Isabel looks out of place.

She is dressed too oddly to pass unnoticed on a deserted rain-damp street. Her violet gown has too much lace; her boots are too pristine and lined with fancy buttons.

Ever seeing Isabel reminds Gwynn of the first time he had seen her. Gwynn had thought her beauty was a trick of the light, that she was pretty and fascinating in the shadows and lamp-lit street. Then, in the pale dawn, when they had talked until morning and he had played violin into the early hours, he could properly see her sphinx-like expression and dark eyes.

Gwynn gives her a smile, feeling his ears go hot as he raises his bow again and begins to play, watching the crowds response, though his eyes return, frequently, to Isabel’s.

When he is finished, Gwynn gives a small bow of his head to some light applause and returns his violin to its case, after collecting the coins into a bag in a sewn side pocket lined with silk. The modest audience disperses, and soon it is only late-night walkers and couples on the streets, and Isabel in front of him.

“Good evening,” Gwynn says as he straightens, the violin case in hand.

“Hello, Gwynn,” Isabel says.

She is visibly agitated, but before Gwynn can ask her what is the matter, she says, “Would you come with me? I want you to see something.”

“What is it?”

Isabel seems to hesitate, glancing down the street as though to check for someone there. “I want you to meet my father.”

Gwynn must hold back his surprise. Isabel always remains purposefully vague when Gwynn asks her about her family. She evades questions easily and distracts him well enough that though Gwynn is sure he knows more about her than anyone else, she may come from the stars, for all he knows.

“Now?” Gwynn asks.

Isabel watches him nervously, biting her lip. “I had something to ask you. I wanted to give you time to think about it, but its getting late and I’m not sure how much time you’ll have.”

While Gwynn has a number of questions on his tongue, only “Yes, alright,” seems appropriate.

Isabel nods and turns down the street, and after a moment, Gwynn follows.

Isabel leads Gwynn around the labyrinth of cobblestone streets, beneath frosted street lamps casting ray-like patterns of light across the streets.

When they come to a stop, beside the bridge that arches over the widest part of the canal, Isabel kicks open the door of a dilapidated copper green building. The building was obviously not made with the intention of keeping young men and women out of it, for the door swings open with the force of her boot, and Isabel gestures for Gwynn to follow her inside.

The building is abandoned and decrepit. There are no walls, save for the four that stand and encase them like a courtyard. There is no evidence of any presence there beyond themselves.

The walls are covered with a tangle of climbing roses, sharp with thorns, sweetly scented. Briar roses grow in abundance at the foot of crumbling walls.

The only light that reaches over the rudimentary walls is that of the setting sun, and it edges the red roses with soft bronze light, like the tip of a flame.

“This is what you wanted to show me?” Gwynn asks, quietly, to disturb the silence as little as possible.

Isabel shakes her head. Even in the fading light, Gwynn can see she is visibly distressed.

“What’s wrong?” he asks. “You don’t have to show me whatever it is, if you don’t want to.”

“It isn’t that at all,” Isabel says, then frowns. “Well, it isn’t mostly that. It is mostly something else.” In response to Gwynn’s expression she only laughs, looking the least troubled she has since Gwynn saw her first this night. “A dreamer is one who finds his way by moonlight, and his punishment is to see dawn before the rest of the world,” she quotes, and a warm smile accompanies the cryptic sentiment.

Isabel leads Gwynn along the wall, and more than once he stumbles over a bramble path, or must tear his clothes from the thorny grip of predacious roses.

What Gwynn had thought was a niche in the wall is actually a staircase, spiraling down into darkness. They descend, their footfalls on each stone step echoing in the quiet.

At the bottom of the passage is a wooden door decorated by peeling blue paint the warm colour of twilight.

Isabel grasps the handle, then seems to hesitate, but she swings the door open and steps inside.

Gwynn follows closely, unwilling to lose Isabel, but as his eyes follow her movement, his feet stop mid-step, and he stumbles to stand.

The ground on which he stands expands into floor, then walls, then ceilings, made of stone and hung with tapestries that do not disguise the earthen quality of the space. The scent of hundreds of candles wafts through the air, mixed with petrichor and a deeper scent of old, musty books.

Candles and books sit on every surface, and where some books become tables or desks, candles burn atop them, wax dripping over spines, flames coming precariously close to pearlescent covers.

A small brook bubbles through the centre of the cave, disappearing down the side of a rock that spans between two bookcases. The cases themselves are crammed together, as though the person residing there fears there will not be enough space to keep all of his books.

The cavernous room is furnished with an assortment of mismatched pieces. Desks and chairs and tables in style ranging from Victorian London to Medieval Japan and rural Africa, adopted into the purgatory at some point in time.

Arches of rock make doorways that lead to adjacent rooms, through which Gwynn can see other lights and bookcases.

While the cavern looks undoubtedly lived in, it maintains a semblance of wildness in the tuberous tendrils hanging from the ceiling, and the glittering dew-cold rock walls.

“It always seems to take a moment to adjust,” Isabel’s voice comes from behind Gwynn. When he turns to her she stands at a desk, drumming her fingers on a book, with an air of concealed nervousness. “I forget how unusual it must look at first glance.”

“Unusual is an understatement,” Gwynn says, moving toward her, weaving around piles of books and stepping over the brook. He feels the ground tipping beneath his feet, like a ship on the high seas, but it steadies closer to Isabel.

Isabel’s drumming fingers quicken, the sound echoing like soft rain the cavern. She opens her mouth several times to speak before she sighs heavily, the movement of her fingers ceasing.

“My father is a collector. He collects dreams, Gwynn,” Isabel says.

Gwynn blinks.

“He collects dreams, every night. It’s his living,” Isabel elaborates, coming around the desk. “He-“

“Would like to be informed when strangers are invited into his home,” says a voice from across the room.

Isabel and Gwynn turn to the owner of the voice, a man in a suit with tails, with just the beginning of age showing in his face. He approaches them slowly, his eyes sparkling as he smiles with practiced charm.

“You knew he was coming,” Isabel says, abandoning the books as she circles around the desk and stands next to Gwynn.

“But I did not know he was here. And now I must make an impromptu introduction,” the man replies. He stops before them, extending a gloved hand to Gwynn, who hesitantly takes it. The man’s grip is tight as he shakes it.

“Orpheus Gray,” the man says, still shaking. “Pleased to meet you, Gwynn. I’m delighted you’ve agreed to help us.”

Orpheus releases Gwynn’s hand, and Gwynn lets it drop to his side.

“He hasn’t,” Isabel says, before Gwynn can open his mouth.

Orpheus looks back and forth between Gwynn and Isabel in surprise. He regards Gwynn with considerable interest. “Perhaps then, Isabel, we should explain ourselves.”

“Explain what?” Gwynn asks, turning to Isabel. A flush is creeping into her pallor.

“I was about to, father,” Isabel says, to Orpheus, though she is looking at Gwynn.

“This will be interesting,” Isabel’s father remarks, to nobody in particular. He sounds so amused, Gwynn almost expects him to pull up a chair and take a seat while Isabel struggles to provide and explanation.

After a minute of silence, Isabel sighs again. “Father collects dreams. It is an old magic, and incredibly rare. He went to a special school that educates on the way of the world. The real world. He’s been collecting dreams for years. Keeping them in these,” Isabel picks up a book and holds it in front of her. Gwynn takes it in his shaking hands, uncertain if he wants to open it.

He flips the deep blue cover open, and the first page is blank. He flips the page, then another, and another, but each page is wordless. Gwynn looks up questioningly at Isabel, but she is watching his fingers, holding the edges of the pages delicately.

“There isn’t anything in here,” he says.

“Only because you do not know how to look,” Orpheus says, from where he stands with his hands clasped behind his back.

Gwynn flips more of the pages, searching for some indication that it is more than paper bound into a book.

“They really are dreams, Gwynn,” Isabel says, drawing his attention back to her. “I know it is strange, and I can’t explain it. There are dreams, even if you can’t see them, just like you could not see this,” she gestures to the cavern around them, “from the streets of Venice. You’ve been taught not to see them, or the way the world truly is. But this is magic, or enchantment, as you would call it. It is real, Gwynn.”

In the silence that follows, Isabel’s father coughs pointedly, and Isabel looks away.

“How do you collect them?” Gwynn asks. He has many more questions, but only some are pressing immediately on his mind.

“Father follows them each night. All around the city, and traps them in these books. But that isn’t why I brought you here, Gwynn.” Isabel holds out her hand for the book, and after a moment’s hesitation, Gwynn hands it to her.

“You take dreams without asking?” Gwynn wonders aloud. “Isn’t that stealing?”

Isabel’s eyes glance briefly toward her father. Orpheus looks at Gwynn with considerably less amusement, but he does not move as he speaks.

“Dreams are my livelihood. It is a very old talent to be able to track and contain dreams, let alone keep them stable. There is considerably more to be gained from my stealing, as you call it, of dreams than from the dreamers’ keeping them.”

“And you’re his accomplice?” Gwyn asks, turning to Isabel.

“No. I’ve almost never assisted him before. That isn’t why you’re here,” Isabel repeats, resting a hand on Gwynn’s arm, gingerly, unsure of its reception. “We need your help.”

“What?”

“We need your help. Father’s done something stupid and I need your help to fix it.”

Isabel’s father moves suddenly, circling the desk and grabbing a smaller pile of books, hefting them at his side.

“What did you do?” Gwynn asks, eyeing the books in confusion.

“He sold me,” Isabel says, with a shaking voice and bright eyes. “Before I was born he promised to give me away, for the love of my mother. To a man, to the devil, sort of. And now he’s come to collect, and father struck another, equally impossible bargain, to save me.”

“You what?” Gwynn cannot seem to comprehend it. Isabel’s words feel as delicate and insubstantial as the steam over tea. He turns to Orpheus, and his expression of careful neutrality. “You sold your daughter to the devil!”

The dream thief turns on the spot, fixing Gwynn with startlingly bright eyes. “He is not exactly the devil. And had I known I was going to love her as much as her mother – more in some ways – I would not have bargained with her.”

“But you did.”

“And now we have a way out of this contract. And I assume you care for my daughter, which is the only reason I am allowing- asking for your assistance.”

Isabel glares at her father, removing her hand from Gwynn’s arm. “Considering the position we’re in, father, I don’t think you have the right to be anything but extremely polite.”

Isabel’s father does not even glance her way, but instead holds out the stack of books. Gwynn does not take them.

“We have to collect three souls,” Isabel says, speaking softly, as though the words frighten her. “Three… vibrant souls. The ones with the most vivid dreams. The most colourful. The ones whose souls would be most fulfilling to have. In exchange for releasing me from the contract.”

Isabel does not sound happy at all with the arrangement. She cannot meet Gwynn’s eyes.

“These are the most vivid dreams I’ve in my collection,” Isabel’s father says, filling the silence. He holds the books out again, and Gwynn accepts them, glancing at the glossy spines and rainbow-hued covers.

He looks back up, into Isabel’s anxious face. “What would happen if I said no?”

“If we don’t find three souls, I’ll have to leave. I won’t see you again, and I have no idea what he would do with me. But he’s a shadow of the devil, so I imagine nothing good.” She pauses, then says, quietly, “I need your help, Gwynn.”

If Gwynn had held any notion of refusing her, he knows now that he cannot. That he would help her with anything.

“Alright,” Gwynn says.

Isabel’s shoulders fall. “Thank you.”

“Indeed,” says Orpheus briskly. “Now that the matter’s settled, I have other obligations. I’ve left a list, Isabel.”

“What? Are you not coming?” Gwynn asks, he thinks the thief is obligated to go, since it is his fault they are in need of three souls.

“I have to get some materials for the separation. A soul will not willingly leave its body. They are not anywhere in the immediate vicinity, nor are they stocked by my regular clientele. Isabel knows what you are supposed to do.”

Isabel gives Gwynn a smile that is not entirely reassuring, but he smiles back and follows her into an adjacent room equally full of books, as Isabel and Orpheus navigate their way through the library, pulling this and that from the shelves.

Gwynn stands still, certain that something is about to happen, though uncertain as to what it is.

Around him books rise and fall like colourful birds, their pages rustling like wings.

Art by Vincent Van Gogh

Text by Lucie MacAulay