On The Story of Rimini
--by John Keats

Who loves to peer up at the morning sun,
  with half-shut eyes and comfortable cheek,
  Let him with this sweet tale full often seek
For meadows where the little rivers run.
Who loves to linger with that brightest one
  Of heaven, Hesperus--let him lowly speak
  These numbers to the night and starlight meek,
Or moon, if that her hunting be begun.
He who knows these delights, and, too, is prone
  To moralize upon a smile or tear,
Will find at once a region of his own,
  A bower for his spirit, and will steer
To alleys where the fir-tree drops its cone,
  Where robins hop, and fallen leaves are sere.

It was the time of early evening when the shadows lengthen. The time when the air goes from cool to cold as the weak autumn sun sets, making exposed flesh smart with the sting of wind. A brisk slap from the strengthening breeze made my eyes water and further blurred the fading palette of the day. The blue and purple of buildings mixed with the gray shadows of trees. Black wrought iron fences and pale sidewalks bled into each other through my squinting, watery gaze. The yellows and reds of the falling leaves provided the only bright contrast. But these, too, would meld with the rest of the dim world as night settled over the city.

I loved this time. Loved how the leaves rustled and scraped along the paved path. How the wind was bitter and whining in my ears. How the dying flowers just inside the garden gate shimmered in a silvery-gray wave as the rough wind shook them. How I loved to be alone in this formal, dimmed place. This dying garden.

With both hands I reached to tug open the heavy iron gate. The grating scrape of metal on stone was a strange, wondrous counterpoint to the high wailing of the wind. I could not feel the cold of the bars through my black velvet gloves, for which I was grateful. My ears and face were already tingling hot from the icy air.

Once inside, I braced my feet and pushed the gate closed. With a slow snap it latched. The garden was actually well-populated during the day, but this was a side entrance few visitors used. Even if it were not the quiet time of the evening, when shadows grow cold and strong, I would be undisturbed in this section of the garden.

I grabbed my elbows and shivered with delight. "Octobrrrrrr" I trilled through my stiff lips, and laughed. With a eager steps I headed away from the iron gate and the high brick walls and moved deeper into the garden. I could indulge my whimsy, here, alone, in the chill embrace of twilight.

My black leather boots tapped a steady rhythm on the hard-packed dirt path. I was warm enough in my gray-woolen suit. The skirt was long and tapered, but did not confine my quick strides. My jacket was nipped in at the waist and flared to cover my hips. Three black buttons fastened the garment snugly around me. The black velvet collar and cuffs matched my warm gloves, and a soft gray-felt cloche kept my shorn head warm.

I turned my attention to the floral arrangement and the topiary around me. Carefully sculpted hedges blocked and guided me through the gardens. It was an easy maze to master. I had been here many times.

Despite the first frost, the flowers still had color. The blue salvia were fading to gray, and curled white at the tip. While still vibrant, the red saliva rustled dryly in the breeze--the petals were beautiful, but dead. The marigolds had long-since turned black, and only their silver pointed stems stood defiantly against the chill wind. All the purples and golds and pinks were slowly bleaching to white and gray and black. What colored petals remained were trimmed with a crisp edge of brown.

But what music the wind and these dying flowers could make! Even the birds seemed to stop their song in favor of it. All but the mourning doves were quiet.

With each gust of cold air leaves would blow and flutter down from the clustered groupings of trees. These colors were still brilliant. I smiled as they tapped gently against my hat, shoulders, and chest. I dragged my boots through the lazy piles of yellow and red. Hush-hush-hush the dead leaves whispered to me. I stopped to stare at the half-bare trees. I imagined that each leaf ripped itself from the branch in some wild suicidal-ecstasy, dancing its own way down to the earth, greeting decay with a joyous silent shout of color.

My cold face split with a harsh smile. "Octobrrrrr," I muttered again, delighting in my solitude. Indulging my melancholia. How temporary all this beautiful rot was! Bittersweet delight. The precious agony of my aloneness.

I walked on.

I think it was because I was so keenly focused on my surroundings that I heard him coming. Just a faint whispering in the leaves behind me. A rustle that was more regular than that caused by the wind. The muffled thud of his shoes on dirt. Perhaps, even, the quiet exhale of his cloudy breath.

I did not stop or slow for him. I knew he would approach when he was ready. So, I kept on, weaving among the hedges, the small stands of trees, the clusters of dying flowers, trying to adjust to the fact that I was no longer alone. I was reluctant to let go of my melancholy.

But there was also a strange thrill at his presence behind me, his cautious steps. Another soul in this dying garden. Another solitary wanderer. Another exile. What lonely walker does not secretly wish for a companion to silently share in the glorious decay of an autumn stroll? What bitter heart does not crave a counterpart to mournfully listen to fall's last dry-throated ululation?

He came up behind me and slid his arm in mine.

"May I walk with you, mon ange?" he asked.

"Bein sûr, Rimi" I replied.

We proceeded in silence for a while. I looked over at him. His blue eyes were bright, presumably watering from the blustery wind. His long dark red hair whipped about his face and neck in clumps. I imagined some airy autumn nymph tangling her fingers in his thick locks with delight; a mischievous sprite knotting an angel's hair. And what kind hand would loosen the tangles, later?

I frowned, slightly.

And at this Rimi took my arm more securely and pulled me a little closer. He was wearing his royal blue velvet frock-coat again. The velvet rubbed deliciously against the dull gray wool of my sleeve. I noticed he wore my gray calfskin gloves. I swallowed hard, thinking of this strange intimacy of my gloves, tight on his slender hands.

He was gazing at me intently, his mouth slightly parted. He wanted to tell me something, I was sure. Or, more likely, to ask something. Rimi, darling Rimi, always asking, coaxing. Rimi, so persistent. Carefully bold. I decided I would not make the asking comfortable. Let him speak of his own volition. Let me be patient. Summon the will to wait for his plea. Do not make it easy.

His expression was one of tentative questioning. I walked steadily next to him, arm and arm. My face was neutral.

"I ask forgiveness," he said.

I stopped, surprised. "For what?" I blurted out. For which wrong, I wanted to ask, for which insult should I forgive you?

He bowed his head and avoided my eyes. "I ask forgiveness, {jxwxl}."

It was on the tip of my tongue to say no. Not for the great offense, nor the smaller ones. Why should I ease his conscience when I have not been forgiven? Why should I grant him a measure of peace during his exile when I have been cast out forever? Why should I indulge his wishes?

Can the damned forgive the blessed?

He dropped to his knees and touched my skirt. "Forgive!" he cried. When I did not speak he lay prone in the bright piles at our feet and stretched out his arms. His face was buried in the crisp, drying leaves. "Forgive, forgive!" he begged.

My face twisted. Rimi was always so dramatic. Everything he did, he did with grand style. He felt everything so deeply and acted out with such great flourish. And yet, despite the display, he was not acting. Rimi was always sincere. It was one of the reasons we loved him so much. There was no deception in him. Not really.

"Get up," I said quietly. Then again, a little louder so as to be heard over the scrape of leaves and branches in the wind, "Get up. It's all right. Please."

He tossed his head, now decorated with bits of orange and red leaf, and laughed. His eyes sparkled. So easy to please. Rimi was always quick to recover. Resilient. I suppose it is why he has survived his temporary exiles. I supposed it was why he kept breaking the rules.

He took my arm again and we walked on with speed. There was a buoyancy in his step. He now seemed invigorated by the cold air. Was it always so easy for him, I wondered?

"Thank you," he smiled.

The night was almost fully upon us, now. Thin, wispy clouds moved across the sky, distinguishing the black swaying branches from the encroaching darkness. No stars were visible, yet. Hedges and shrubbery became strangely shaped masses, nearly impossible to separate from their grotesque shadows. The dry, rustling flowers became one with the messy drifts of leaves. And occasional burst of light would illuminate the scene in a lurid silvery glow when someone in a nearby house would open the curtains on some brightly-lit upper storey window.

"I see you are still bound," I said, needing to establish why he was here, with me. The wish for forgiveness could not be his only reason.

"Yes," he replied, sadly. The movement of his fettered wings was like the creak of branches, the rattle of iron gates, the scrape of dead leaves on brick. "I am afraid it is very bad, this time. I have done something ...something quite monstrous, I suppose. They are very angry with me. I am not sure, I am not certain that..." he trailed off.

He turned and looked at me anxiously, "You have no idea how bad it is!"

I felt my eyebrows raise and a sneer twist my face unpleasantly. Immediately, Rimi was contrite. "Of course," he stammered, "you would know, mon ange. I am such a fool. I apologize. The pain makes me hasty and stupid. The situation is nearly intolerable."

"I know," I said, before I could stop myself. But wasn't I standing here, proof that the unbearable could be borne? One small thin gray figure standing on earth in a dying garden, despite the efforts of Heaven and the passions of Hell.

He smiled tenderly at my unconscious sympathy. He took my gloved hands in his, the calfskin and velvet sliding smoothly together. I could sense the shape and texture of his palm through the glove and trembled. "Oh, mon ange, we can help each other, now! You need no longer be alone. And you can help me. I know you can!"

I tried to pull my hands away, but he held me tightly. "No," I said firmly.

"You won't...?" he was stricken. Deep blue eyes clouding over with hurt. The desperate need, so close to the surface, bleeding through the wrinkles on his brow, around his soft mouth. His wings strained, but the bonds of smoke and dust, metal and spit, held. Rimi was on the verge of tears. I felt my heart contract painfully. He was just like a child, or a passionate suitor, standing before me. Begging. Pleading. Wanting me to comfort him.

"I will not help you Rimi. Do not ask."

"Why not?" he cried, tears beginning to fill his eyes. "Why not?" His long thin fingers crushed mine. The sensation of his powerful grip suffused me with a faint warmth and a pleasant ache. How I wanted to be broken in his hands! Devoured by an angel's love!

My desire and anger increased proportionally. The wish to comfort and be comforted was nearly uncontrollable. Two earthbound angels--each of us could be a little bit of heaven for the other. We could provide what the Host had denied us. But I knew if Rimi found solace with me the Kingdom's Keepers would never let him return. They would not allow him to compromise his punishment, especially if his offense was as dire as he had hinted.

And my own longing for the touch of an angel--how much more severe than poor Rimi's! For my absence from the Host was long, much longer than all of Rimi's temporary expulsions put together. How dare he use my suffering as an excuse to ease his own? How insolent of him to view my pain as a convenient salve for his own ache!

My rage and desire were also tinged with a slowly increasing blood-lust. The hot tears now welling up in his blue eyes, the pulse of blood in his slender neck and wrists, the rapid, agitated rasp of his breath--were driving me mad. I could hurt, perhaps even kill, him. With one eager, loving embrace I could crush Rimi. I wanted to hold him like a precious, holy cup and drink him to the dregs. I wanted to do something abominable to him. I wanted, oh, how I wanted him!

But as much as I wanted to break him, I also desperately wished to protect him. He was defenseless, here on earth. No power to fly. None of the ever-present joy that comes from the Host, that infuses all angels when we are in our Home. Poor wounded Rimi, coming to me in such terrible need and pain. Innocently asking me for help. Standing before me in a dark garden, crying out. Crying out to me!

The tears spilled over on his face. Woe betide the one who makes an angel cry. I wanted to kiss the tears away. I wanted to slap them off of his face. One drop fell on his blue coat and began to smolder.

"Please!" he choked, and embraced me. I stiffened. He had knocked my hat off and I could feel his wet face buried in my short peach-colored hair. I thought I could feel the tickle of his long lashes on my scalp. His breath was warm on my cold ear.

The bits of colored leaves were still in his hair. I inhaled the scent of him, of decay, of loam and wood and ink. A few strands of his auburn hair stuck to my lips. I could almost taste him. My arms were moving around his back of their own accord. My eyes rolled up to see that silvery clouds had nearly blocked out the sickle of the autumn moon.

I was shaking with conflicting desires. Fight madness with madness, I thought. So I delicately

pricked

my lower lip with one of my diamond teeth. The delicate puncture was an ecstasy in itself. Cautiously I opened my mouth an infinitesimally small amount--just enough to withdraw the tip of my tooth. A bead of blood formed on my lip.

"Let me go," I said, thickly.

Rimi reluctantly stepped back, his arms slowly dragging themselves across my back, down my sides, then free. He raised his wet, pale face to look at me. His eyes were shining and his hair was a wild nest of leaves and knots. His breath caught as he looked at my face.

I wanted to speak but was afraid to. Instead I lightly pressed my lips together, then parted them slightly. I was careful not to let my tongue touch the blood now smeared on my lower lip. Rimi's eyes were on my face. Did he realize the significance of this? Did he know his death was on my mouth? Did he know I was one lick away from madness? Did he know the obscenity that existed in my blood?

I cannot say if he knew it or not, but the blood on my lip must have shocked him. He sensed something. He knew I was at the breaking point.

With great tenderness, he reached over and cupped the side of my face in his hand. We stared at each other. The branches groaned and we were showered with sharp-edged, cutting leaves. Dead flowers rattled their crisp petals and the wind whistled through the empty maze. Gently he drew his thumb over my lower lip, wiping away the blood with my glove.

I closed my eyes.

And then I felt him reach behind me, to touch my invisible wings. The ones no one can take away. Not even the Heavenly Host.

There is nothing like the feel of an angel's wings. For us, to touch--oh, there!--is something so intimate...it is like making love.

My eyes snapped open and I struck him with my invisible wings. He rolled back and crouched, with a cry of pain. He lay in the leaves panting, with one velvety arm raised in self-defense.

"How dare you," I cursed him. "I am not yours to touch and hold. You may not touch me there. You may not take comfort in me. I am not for you. I am not your refuge. I will not protect you from the storm of heaven nor the agony of exile. Selfish Rimi! Always concerned with your own suffering. Your self-centered impulsiveness has ever been your downfall."

Rimi stared at me. I loomed over him.

"Arrogant angel! Has it never occurred to you that you could find comfort in giving comfort? Did you never consider that in giving love and solace you receive it? You may not take from me. I will not give it. You have placed your pain above all others and I will not carry this burden for you."

Rimi sobbed. I stood, implacable. I hated myself for what I was saying, for hurting him this way. But I must drive him from me. He must not be permitted to touch me. And through my inner tumult, I knew it was my heart speaking to beloved Rimi.

Slowly, he stood. He looked at me with regret.

"Say you love me," he said.

"I love you," I replied without pause. And I knew that was the truth, too.

The garden was completely dark, now, and the air bitterly cold. All the birds had gone to bed and the branches groaned their lullaby.

He smiled as I reached in my pocket and handed him a linen handkerchief. "Wipe your eyes," I told him. And he did, the delicately embroidered flowers changing color at the touch of his tears.

He tried to give it back to me. "Keep it," I murmured. "A gentleman should always carry a handkerchief."

Time slowed and we simply stood across each other for a long moment. The garden was strangely silent around us. No breeze blew, and the flowers had stopped singing their autumn-song. The trees no longer moaned. I wished suddenly that I could stand and look at Rimi forever.

Then he smiled, and looked at me with an emotion I could not decipher. His eyes were clear. His voice, steady:

"I may be a favorite son in the Kingdom, {jxwxl}, but you were always the strongest of Us. You are the strongest."

I felt my lips part with the shock of his statement. No, I had been the weakest...! Wasn't my fall clear evidence of that?

Rimi reached into his frock-coat and pulled something out. He handed it to me and our gloves brushed, calfskin to velvet, once more. It was a sprig of violets. Slightly crushed from his pocket, but fresh. Where would he get violets at this time of year...?

"Remember me, {jxwxl}. Think of me with fondness," he said, then hastily walked off, disappearing into the garden-maze.

The wind whipped around me. I retrieved my cloche and settled it on my bare head. I turned and began walking back the direction I had come, pressing the moist violets to my face.

Breathing deeply the scent of spring flowers, I thought of Rimi and allowed myself to love him fully, without reservation, with my whole heart and soul.

center

copyright 1996 by Julieann M. Brown-Micko

crown o' gems | introduction | center | master index

jewel@gleeful.com+dragon@gleeful.com
a seraph+dragon production