The Goose Girl

by Shannon Hale

  Geric

  A postscript scratched at the bottom read, “I have failed you twice. The horse you had regard for was already taken away when I arrived yesterday.”

  Ani folded the letter and put it in her pocket. Tatto was watching her face. Curiously, Ani did not feel like crying, or running away, or sighing. Instead, she felt anger burst open inside her, an overripe fruit. She felt like picking up the fist-size rock that lay by her foot and throwing it, hard. She did. It made an unsatisfactory thump on the ground.

  “Not good news,” said Tatto.

  “I should be used to it. But right now I’d like all my troubles to stand in front of me in a straight line, and one by one I’d give each a black eye.”

  “Oh.” Tatto stood by, waiting to see what she would do.

  She kicked her beech tree. The trunk was as thick as two men, the smooth bark as hard as a city stone. She could not even make the branches shiver. She shouted and kicked it again as hard as she could, knowing she could not even dent the bark. She was reminded of one of her temper-prone ganders that had tried to attack a carthorse, only to get kicked by a rather large hoof.

  Ani stopped and pressed her forehead on a branch in a kind of apology. The pressure of the tree on her face soothed her. She closed her eyes and thought she could hear a kind of breathing echoing all around her, from leafless branches and the thick trunk and below her feet. She opened her eyes and saw Tatto staring.

  “You’re angry,” he said.

  “I think so,” she said with some satisfaction.

  “I saw my ma do that once"—he pointed at the tree trunk—"but to a milk pail. Kicked and chased it clear across the yard, crushed it to a ball of metal. Really.”

  “Yes, well . . . “ Ani looked off to where some geese paddled on the pond, though the water was near freezing. I cannot love you as a man loves a woman. Her heart twisted at that. And not coming back, she thought. Put him away, with the others who will not come back. Aunt, father, Selia, brothers, sisters, Talone, the guards, Falada. Put Falada away.

  “Tatto, do you know where they sent the princess’s horse?”

  “Yes, the knacker two over east from your pens.”

  Ani thanked him, and when Tatto had left, she told the geese to stay put. She found the knacker’s yard first by smell. The place reeked of discarded parts of animals—an odor sour and mean that lodged in her throat. Bits of coarse hair and feathers tossed around on a ground breeze and lay on the dirt thick as dust on a floor unused. A man in a heavy apron was sharpening his ax on a whetstone, even as she had imagined he would be.

  “Sir,” she said, “the white horse, the royal one, has he been killed?”

  He looked up from his ax.

  “Aye.” He stepped forward. Clumps of animal hair stuck to his boots and to the dark stains on his apron.

  “Yes,” she said. “I thought so. Yesterday.”

  “A friend of yours, was he?” said the knacker, expecting her to laugh.

  Ani winced. “Yes, actually. A good friend. But I’ve spent two months mourning and can’t cry anymore.”

  “What are you, a misplaced stable-hand?”

  “Goose girl,” she said.

  The knacker nodded and pumped the pedal of the whetstone.

  “Sir, a favor,” she said.

  “Favor,” he mumbled, and kept it spinning.

  She removed the gold ring, the one Gilsa had refused, and held it out to him, letting the afternoon sunlight flicker on its edge like a halfhearted star.

  “For payment, for a proper burial.”

  He looked up again and let the wheel spin down. Ani crossed the yard, conscious of the animal hair under her boots, and put it in his hand. His fingers were the dirty brown of unwashed blood. Ani swallowed at the touch. It could be Falada’s blood.

  “He was a noble beast and shouldn’t die to be dog’s meat. Give him the honorable rites due the mount of a princess.”

  The knacker stared at the circle of gold and shrugged.

  “All right.” He gave the wheel another pump. “Do you want to see him?” The hand with the ring motioned to his right, and Ani noticed for the first time the hind leg of a white horse, the white hair stained all colors of brown from blood and dirt. It lay on the ground, severed from his body, being readied for dog meat. She took a step forward, her hand to her mouth. She saw the tip of another leg, the rest hidden by the hut.

  “No,” she said, “I’ve seen enough. I have to go.” She turned her back and ran.

  Four mornings later, Ani and Conrad herded their flock to the pasture, anxious to let them graze while the weather held clear and kept the winter rains and snows in abeyance. Ani liked to hurry into the sunshine of the pasture, not idling longer than needed in the shaded street.

  That day, she stopped. Her eyes were drawn to the curve of wall above the arch. There, fastened to the stones, his neck attached to a round, polished board of dark wood, was the head of Falada. Ani grabbed at the stones in the wall to keep herself standing.

  His mane was washed and combed straight down his disembodied neck. He was scrubbed clean of the blood of death and the mark of the ax. His head was imposing, bright white, nose pointed forward, like the proud carriage of a horse at a run. His eyes were glass balls, black as new moons.

  “Look at him,” said Conrad. He did not seem surprised.

  “Why would they do that? Hang him there as they do the criminals?” She could not look away from the cold, glass eyes.

  “Some favorite animal of a rich man, no wonder, though I don’t know why he’s hung by the goose pasture gate. You’ve never seen inside one of those fancy estates? Full of stuffed animals, dead pets, big deer heads.”

  Ani could not leave the spot. Conrad and the geese were far down by the pond, and still she stood. Cruel, cruel, she thought. This is a proper burial? These are honorable rites? She was angry and torn and heartsick and blamed herself and everyone in the world.

  Falada, she said.

  For a moment, the head seemed to agitate, like heat haze shimmering on a road. The dead face did not turn toward her. The dead eyes did not look. In that place in her mind where she had often heard his voice, she thought she felt a word spoken, soft as a spider’s footstep. She could not understand.

  Falada, look what they’ve done to you.

  The eyes stared blindly; the stiff nose pointed forward.

  Chapter 14

  Winter came at last. The cold formed rain like knives that tore at the skin. Snow had topped the mountains in the west for weeks, white harbingers of the coming months, and then the first ashy flakes fell into the city streets. The geese stayed in their pens. The workers shoveled snow out of the west streets. When the snow stopped falling but stayed stubbornly on the fields, the workers stayed in the hall.

  The winter Forest did not permit easy travel to visit their families. The restless ones wandered the city without coats, loitering outside taverns because they were not permitted inside, overhearing news to bring back at supper. There was talk of the wintermoon festival and the preparations for the royal wedding come spring. Tatto supped with them occasionally, full of palace news that they listened to eagerly, if with a healthy amount of incredulity.

  “My da’s company of soldiers doubled since harvestmoon. They don’t train as much in the winter, but they’re all in the city. There’s going to be war.”

  Razo snorted. “Even if his company’s bigger, that doesn’t mean there’ll be war.”

  “War in spring, that’s what I’ve heard.”

  Worse was Mistress Ideca’s news, some days after the first snow fell.

  “This afternoon in came two of those strange warriors, what arrived with the yellow girl. They said they were looking for another yellow girl, one of their own that got lost in the coming.” Ideca scowled at the thought, as though too many yellow girls could ruin anyone’s day. “That’s right, a second yellow girl, and said she’d have the hair and the accent and all. ‘Course, I sent them on their way, s
aid we don’t keep foreigners around here.”

  “There’s a dolt for you,” said Razo. “Why’d one of the princess’s girls be here? Try two places: the palace or the graveyard. That’s what I say.”

  Razo looked to Ani for support.

  “Two yellow girls,” said Ani, “who would’ve thought?” She felt giddy suddenly, happy with her secret and her disguise. Ungolad had seen her at the palace, but she would not be going back. They had killed Falada. They could not do worse. She felt strangely free.

  There was no reason now to stay in Bayern. Falada was gone. Geric was gone. Every month she collected her thin gold steed, and come spring thaw, she would have saved enough to buy supplies and her way into a company of traders going to Kildenree.

  She was not looking forward to spring. Her mother and Calib would doubtless welcome her home, and it would be nice to see her sisters again, but Ani had nothing real to return to in Kildenree. Still, Ungolad was searching, and if she stayed in Bayern, he would find her sooner or later. Besides, Ani knew that the families of the slain guards needed to know of their fates, and the murders and treachery of Selia and her followers should not go unpunished. Knowing it was right did not make the decision easier. She looked around at the workers and realized she would miss them terribly.

  So in the meantime, Ani meant to enjoy being the goose girl. When the others were making plans for wintermoon, Ani took part, as eager to go with them as they were eager to show off the activities to a newcomer.

  “Are you sure you should?” said Enna behind a silencing hand. “Won’t the guards be there, and they’re looking for you now.”

  “I can’t hide forever,” said Ani. “Besides, I’m not who they’re looking for. I’m Isi, the goose girl, and I’m going to wintermoon.”

  It was as though marketday had exploded. The festivities began in market-square and flooded outward, consuming street after street in their color and tumult. Doorways and windows burst with giant paper flowers, and colorful ropes were thrown from window to window and building to building. On top of every turret blazed a paper sun dripping ribbon rays. People wore their best clothes, dazzling with strings of glass diamonds. Improvised bands of flute, harp, and lyre played in the streets. Children lit noisy bucket bombs and strings of purple star-mirrors. Magicians drew designs in the air with the weaving pattern of their balls. Drummers sat at the feet of sorcerers, giving rhythm to the pulling of apples from their boots and the turning of pigeons into bursts of flame.

  “You’ll see,” said Bettin, one of the sheep girls, “even Forest folk are welcome everywhere at wintermoon.”

  Razo walked ahead, pulling on Ani’s sleeve. “Come, Isi, we’ll show you the witches.”

  Ani had never before seen a sorcerer or heard a drum, and she lingered, mesmerized by the strokes of his hands and the beating of the drum that insisted itself into her heart’s rhythm. Is it magic? she wondered. Or tricks? She watched the sorcerer transform a walnut inside his clenched fist into a scarf. She looked to the faces of the crowd around her and saw that they laughed where she had been in awe and grinned to see the rat become smoke and the child spit a coin from his mouth. I tell strange stories, she thought, and they marvel, but to them a sorcerer is nothing unexpected.

  Then she saw one spectator with a face that looked as incredulous as she felt. His pale blue eyes were unblinking, afraid to miss any movement of the sorcerer’s hand. He turned slightly, and Ani flinched, lowered her head, and walked away. Yulan. Standing not two persons from her side. The drum beat a faster tempo, mimicking her heart. She walked at that pace for two streets before daring to turn around, face the throng, and try to pick out his face. Yulan was not there.

  Ani found her companions near the witches, dozens of women in nearly identical garb—headscarves and long skirts and heavy loop earrings—sitting on the ground and on crates at the mouth of the square. Customers knelt before them and paid a copper for the witch to shake a glass bottle of black seed oil and tell the future or prick their palms with sharpened bird bones to divine their ailments. They then prescribed which herbs to take to heal the ailments and supplied those herbs for immediate sale.

  Ani asked if it was magic.

  “I guess, more or less,” said Razo. “Enna, get your future told.”

  “Not a chance,” said Enna. “I’ve got two coppers to spare, and I want an almond cake.”

  “Do it, Isi,” said Razo. “Don’t you want to know the future?”

  Ani shook her head. “Can’t spare the coin. I’ll just have to wait and see it for myself.”

  Razo stuck his hands in his pockets and leaned in to eavesdrop on a stranger’s telling. Ani pulled Enna aside.

  “I saw one of them,” she said, “a guard named Yulan. I don’t think he saw me, but keep an eye out.”

  Bettin and the other boys tugged on Razo’s sleeves, and they continued to walk through the festival. If Enna and Ani glanced around more than before, the boys did not seem to notice.

  “There’re the javelin dancers,” said Conrad. A circle a few paces wide had been dug three steps deep into the ground. The crowd around it was cheering and stomping their feet in unison.

  “Let’s see who’s dancing,” said Razo.

  “Just see you don’t try to claim kinship with those boys again, Razo,” said Enna. “You’re as Forest-born as any of us.”

  Enna led the way with her arm through Ani’s. She pointed at the circle. ‘"Thumbprint of the Gods’ is what they call this. It’s supposed to be sacred, though I don’t think anyone remembers why. I heard the kings used to be crowned here. Now they do it privately with nobles only and where they won’t get velvet slippers dirty.” Enna grinned, then remembered what Ani was. “I didn’t mean to say all royals are like that. That’s just how they are here, or at least, that’s what I’ve heard.”

  Ani smiled and lightly knocked Enna with her shoulder.

  “Do you think we should go?” said Enna. “Aren’t you worried?”

  Ani shrugged and stood on tiptoe to see in better. Razo shoved them from behind, and the group crammed into the crowd. The inner circle of watchers was holding javelins pointed inward, making a deadly ring of spikes. A boy of fifteen, naked but for a cloth around his hips and a strap covering his eyes, danced wildly in a space of not more than two paces. He had two shallow wounds on his back that bled freely. A drummer sat on the ground at the feet of a javelin holder, and the crowd stomped to his beat. Ani found she wanted to join the rhythm and forced her feet stay still.

  “It’s supposedly a mark of honor if a boy survives the dance untouched,” said Enna.

  “And if they don’t? Can they be denied the javelin and shield?”

  “Just if they die, but that’s happened.”

  The dancer finished and was followed by another boy who also was bit by a javelin tip, and then another who blindly flung himself on a point and cried out, stopping his dance. “Keep going, Wescelo,” shouted an older man from the crowd. The boy’s face was lined with pain. He tipped his head back and kept dancing.

  Ani pushed her way out of the crowd, and the others followed.

  “That’s awful,” said Ani.

  “Not so bad,” said Razo. “If they can’t stand the dance, they won’t stand a war, and then why should they be given a javelin and shield?”

  “I’d do it,” said Conrad.

  “So would I,” said Razo. “If it earned me a javelin, I’d do it right now.”

  “Oh, look,” said Enna. “It’s the royals.”

  Ani saw a grouping of palace guards in their red-tipped yellow tunics and polished javelins. In their middle she caught a glimpse of several well-dressed, well-groomed, self-satisfied nobles. The feathers in their hats bobbed as they walked, and the lace-trimmed parasols of the ladies swayed delicately.

  “They hardly ever come out in public,” said Bettin. “I’ve never seen any of them. Must be because the new princess wanted to see the festival.”

  “Why don’t they come
out?” asked Ani.

  “They’re so high and mighty, is all,” said Conrad.

  “My ma said that in the Eastern War the king lost all his brothers and his father,” said Razo, “and then he became king and there hasn’t been a war since. She thinks he’s being protective or something.”

  “The prince’ll be there,” said Bettin. “Isi, don’t you want to see the prince?”

  “The prince,” said Ani. “Yes, I do, very much.”

  Enna nudged her. “You’ve never seen him?”

  “Oh, don’t be so high-ish, Enna,” said Razo. “Neither’ve you.”

  Ani outpaced Razo to where the crowd thickened. Others had the same notion, and an ever tightening ring of onlookers hemmed in the royal party. Razo put his hands on two of his friends’ shoulders and hopped up and down.

  “No way through,” he said. “But they’ve stopped to game.”

  He led them out of the mass and around behind the game booth. They crouched behind a wagon and peered between the backs of guards. In a moment a young boy in lavender velvet walked into their view and tossed miniature spears at a wooden boar.

  “Watch it,” said Enna, pushing back against Razo, “or we could get a spear in the eye.”

  “Which one’s the king’s son?” said Ani.

  “The boy there in the purple,” said Razo. “Tatto pointed him out once.”

  Ani laughed. “Truly? That’s him?” He could not have been more than thirteen. His face was round and still softened with baby fat, and he grinned with boyish delight whenever one of his thrown spears hit the wooden boar.

  Enna leaned to her ear and said, “Narrow escape.”

  “Indeed.” Ani felt a surprising thrill of gratitude to Selia for having saved her from that marriage. With a low laugh, she thought of how delicious Selia’s surprise must have been when she met her juvenile groom. Of course, Ani had no doubt that Selia would wed for the title but keep her Ungolad ever close.