“Oh, certainly you did!”
“A likely story!” is repeated all around.
The bishop picks up the accusation and shouts as if it were established fact, “She pushed her in! She must have pushed the princess right into the deep water!”
There are gasps of horror, and someone cries, “The little vermin! Give her a good sound beating and see what that teaches her!”
Other voices chime in until there is a general cry, “Beat her!” Now, beatings are not such an uncommon way to discipline children in the Kingdom of Wildwick, where it is mistakenly believed to be a healthy means of building character. But, though Briar has known the occasional switch on her knuckles, she has never in her life been beaten, and the very words fill her with a bottomless dread.
The nurse, not wanting her delicate Rose to witness the spectacle, pulls her away, saying, “Hurry! We must get you cleaned up before anyone else sees you like this!”
Rose wants to object, though she is frightened by the rage of the adults. “No!” she cries helplessly, but the grownups are all-powerful, and they are not listening to her. She meets Briar’s agonized glance with mute misery as Lady Beatrice hustles her away, leaving Briar to the tender mercies of the eager bishop and his crowd of onlookers.
Bishop Simon often feels himself called upon to improve the characters of his young charges, and he will not shirk his duty now. In fact, such cruelty has become a source of deep satisfaction for him. It is a chance to vent his rage against all the imperfections. He calls for his cane, which is quickly fetched. Several volunteers, not wanting to seem remiss in the care of the young, hold the terrified Briar as the clergyman raises his arm. Then he rains down blows upon her tender young back, sowing seeds of a bitterness that will never entirely leave her. She cries out again and again, and the blows continue all the harder, while the impassioned bishop shouts, “Take that, you demonic thing!” and the onlookers nod with satisfaction. At last it is over, and she is freed.
She has only one thought, and that is to get away, far away, from them all, and though she feels near collapse, she forces herself to move her legs and run. As she is overcome with shame and humiliation, it does not occur to her that anyone might take her part. She runs down the stairs, back the way she has come. Past the kitchen. Past the stables and the mews. As she runs past the kennels, Master Twytty, the kennel master, calls out, “Lady Briar! What’s the matter? Won’t you come in and pet the dogs?” But she only shakes her head and runs onward, past the armory and away across the courtyard. Though she is observed by a few, no one thinks to stop her or comfort her. A crying child is none of their business, and her face, off-putting in the best of times, is unfortunately repellent in her grimace of pain and grief. Briar makes for the gatehouse unopposed and darts past the watchful Durwin despite his objection.
Out in the village, she barrels blindly into a crowd and nearly upsets a peddler’s cart. The peddler shoves her roughly out of his way, and a woman points at her face and screams. Everyone around her is looking at her with horror, crossing themselves to ward off evil. Though some have observed her sneaking through town with the princess, none have seen her up close until now, and they have not grown used to her as have those who dwell inside the castle. They see her through eyes of fear and superstition.
“Monster!”
“Goblin!”
“Changeling!” they cry as they make the sign against evil, and Briar realizes they are talking about her. She covers her face with her hands and dives in through the crowd to escape. They back away as if her touch is poison, and she bolts down the street, intent on getting past all the staring people, past the village, and finding her way back to the peaceful haven of the woods. Her body hurts with every move, with every jolt from the pumping of her legs, and she feels dizzy and weak. Before she can make it to the edge of town, she collapses by the side of the road to catch her breath and clear her head. A woman in a nearby cottage sees her there and gasps in loathing. She waves her broom at Briar and cries, “Shoo! Shoo! Get away with you!” So Briar picks up her suffering body and compels it to move.
Finally, she passes the very last cottage. She lopes on doggedly to the place where the woods begin, and looking to be sure she is not observed, she slips silently in among the trees and ferns. She finds the great oak tree near the stream, where she and Rose sat innocently waiting for unicorns, and she crumples beneath it, crying for a loss she cannot put a name to. The tears come faster and harder, and her whole body heaves with sobs. She will never go back. Not if she has to starve alone in the woods. Not if wild beasts come and rend her to pieces. She hopes they will. She hopes her mangled corpse is found and everyone who has been cruel to her will be racked with remorse.
For a long time she pours out her pain on the patient earth, while the treetops rustle soothingly in the sweet breeze, whispering to her of timeless peace. As her sobs grow quieter, she begins to hear another sound, faint and ethereal, something like chimes or panpipes or a multitude of harps, but even more exquisite—something so tantalizing that it makes Briar sit up and cease her crying so that she can listen. She pushes herself painfully to her feet and looks around through tear-bleary eyes, trying to discern where the music comes from. Taking one faltering step, then another, she finally sets off in the direction of the waning sun, making her way through the scrubby little thicket of woods. Staying close to the streambed, she goes farther from home than she has ever gone. Still she continues on, the way through the thickening trees and underbrush seeming to open before her, and slowly but surely, she enters the deep forest.
Here the light is dim and tinted with green. Above her, in the canopy, she hears the leaves rustling and whispering to one another in sweet harmony with the music. She hears birds chirp excitedly as she passes. A red fox appears ahead of her, opening a narrow path, and she follows it over fallen logs, ducking under low branches. She can no longer see the stream, but she pushes on after the fox. Her feet sink slightly into the carpet of moss and dead leaves while the smell of damp humus fills her nostrils.
Sometimes the music seems to come from one direction, sometimes another. She hums to herself, trying to imitate the melody. It is high and sweet and has a complex, repeating rhythm, like a round. Briar is so absorbed with it that for a few moments she almost forgets how desperately unhappy she is. She goes on humming for some time and then, pleased with the effect, suddenly feels moved to sing. Her clear young voice, though it is tremulous and sad, resonates in perfect harmony with the music in the air, and the fox waits for her as she stands still for a while, just listening and singing. The turmoil in her heart eases a little, and her voice becomes more full and vibrant, resonating through the forest and silencing the birds with its pure beauty. After a time, she continues in the wake of the fox, even deeper into the forest, and croons softly to herself as she peers through the half-light, looking for the source of the music.
She tries to keep track of the stream, but she is thoroughly lost and far from the familiar thicket where she began. Since she has no plans to return home, she hardly cares. After some time she hears the sound of rushing water, and it mingles with the notes in the air to form a breathtaking harmony. The fox has disappeared, but she follows the sound, which is quite close now, and finally comes to a wide clearing by a waterfall.
It is a place of tranquility and loveliness. A wall of rock faces her from across the clearing, and the sunset has dyed it a rich golden orange, while at the edges of the clearing, blue shadows are deepening. To her left, the waterfall pours down the cliff into a wide lagoon, giving rise to a light mist. Briar stops a moment to take it all in. She listens to the spellbinding sounds that fill the air, and she feels a response welling up from deep within herself.
Briar steps out into the clearing and begins to dance, her feet moving almost of their own accord. It seems as if her whole body is made of music. Her pain falls away, and she feels as free and innocent as if she had awakened from a bad dream. She sways and twirls and tosses
her head, casting a long, dancing shadow while the sun slips toward the horizon and the sunlight on the wall of rock deepens to red. She feels that she is shining, radiant. Opening her arms to the sky, she reaches after an idea that is tickling at the edges of her mind. Some lovely thought is right there. She longs for it, but it is just out of reach, and it eludes her.
The sunset turns to violet, and the blue shadows lengthen. The music fades, and Briar slows and meanders to a halt. Sitting down in the middle of the clearing, panting slightly, the girl realizes how tired she is, and how hungry. Now she looks around in the gathering shadows and wonders what to do. She knows she can’t find her way home, but somehow she no longer wishes to be devoured by wild animals. She wonders if she might spend the night in a tree.
As she sits lost in contemplation, she hears a rustling at the edge of the clearing and takes fright, raising herself to a crouch, getting ready to run. Out of the shadows comes Jack, her loyal squire of only a few hours before.
“God’s feet!” he exclaims. “What a dance that was! If I could do that, I’d make me a livin’ dancin’ for the king and queen!”
Briar, who is both relieved and affronted by his presence, hardly knows how to respond.
“You saw, squire?” she says, not sure whether to be embarrassed.
“I couldn’t help it! It was just that fine an’ awesome I had to watch. Me ma set me to followin’ you again when she seen you all alone and headed for the woods. She said it boded no good, an’ I ought to bring you back. So I followed your singin’. It was like bein’ under a spell, it was—”
“I am never going back!” Briar interrupts him. “I’ll sit in a tree tonight!”
“Oh, that wouldn’t do at all, miss! It gets damp and chilly at night here. Can’t you feel it comin’ on already? You’d catch your death! And, why, just think what would happen if you fell asleep. You’d fall right out of the tree and break your head! And won’t everybody be lookin’ for you an’ wonderin’ what’s become of you?”
“No! Nobody cares a fig. Well . . . maybe one person,” she says, thinking of Rose and the agonized expression in her eyes as Lady Beatrice dragged her off. Then she starts thinking about her dear eccentric godmother, Hilde, and wonders if she has heard of Briar’s crime and her terrible punishment, and whether Hilde still loves her. The queen too has often been kind. Would they care what had become of her? Not ready to think of home, she wipes her moist eyes with the back of her hand and pushes the thoughts from her mind.
“Why don’t you come home with me, then?” Jack says. “Me ma will greet you kindly, though there ain’t much to eat. Only you’d better decide quick, as these here woods will soon be dark, an’ I’ve no mind to be caught in the deep forest at night.”
It takes very little time for Briar to consider that this boy’s home, however common, would be a better place to spend the night than the wild forest. “Your most gracious offer is gratefully accepted,” she answers in her best court manners.
“Oh, are you still Sir Lancelot,” he asks her timidly, “or should I call you something else?”
Briar shies away from introducing herself as Lady Briar. She instinctively feels it would be like bragging to this humble boy. “Just call me Briar,” she says simply. “Lead the way!”
Taking her by the hand and leading her, Jack heads back toward the setting sun, into the woods, and onto a narrow path. They fumble between the trees in the dim light. Their ears are attuned to every sound, but it is twilight, the time when everything is draped in tints of cobalt blue and the creatures of the forest pause in their motions and pray. All is hushed except the noise of their own soft footsteps on the packed earth and the occasional swishing of ferns and small branches as they pass by. After a while they are walking in near darkness, but Jack is still able to make out the path. They continue on until they have reached the edge of the little thicket where they played that day. Suddenly Briar feels shy. How will Jack’s mother react when she sees her face? She hesitates, but Jack pulls her along by the hand, saying, “C’mon! We’re almost there!”
Out of the woods and up the road they go, and soon Briar makes out the dim shape of a hut in the gloom and a figure leaning out over the lower half of a door.
“Jack? My Jack? Is that you, son?” the figure calls.
“It’s me, Mother. I’m back safe and sound, and I’ve brought someone with me!” Jack answers. He drags Briar forward to the door and on into the house, where his little old mother gets her first good look at the girl. She does not recoil or make the sign against evil or send her away like the other villagers did, but she takes a moment to adjust and then envelops Briar in her bony embrace, noticing as she does that the child winces with pain.
“Come in, come in, Little One. Thank heaven you are safe! There are wild beasts abroad in the night forest, you know! Come and share our fire—and welcome. I’m called Mother Mudge.” In the feeble light, the woman’s hollow-cheeked and careworn face glows with its own kind of beauty, transmuted by love and kindliness, and Briar feels welcome. She looks around her and sees two cows stabled at one end of the hut and chickens running loose about the one room, scratching in the straw spread over the earthen floor. One cow chooses that moment to lift her tail and expel a pile of dung, and Briar is struck by the strong smell that quickly permeates the air. As Jack and his mother take no notice of it, she does her best to ignore it too.
Mother Mudge leads her to the dreary peat fire that burns in the center of the room. The little woman sits on a three-legged stool and stirs something in a pot suspended above the fire. “You must be hungry,” she says to the children. “Sit down. Let’s get some food in you, and then you can tell me all about your adventure.” She ladles the thin soup she is cooking into heavy wooden bowls for them as the children sit cross-legged on the floor. Briar thanks her most sincerely, as she has had nothing to eat since the blueberries earlier in the day and feels quite ravenous. She sees that the soup is made of beans and peas, with a limp piece of cabbage floating in it, but she is so hungry that she hardly cares, and she drinks it up eagerly. It is not very good. Still, she thinks she could easily consume another bowlful, but the pot is empty.
“But you didn’t have any,” Briar says, suddenly remorseful.
“Oh, I already had my fill. Don’t you mind me!” she responds, but Briar doesn’t really believe her.
“Thank you,” Briar says again. “You are very kind.”
They sit in comfortable silence while Jack sips slowly at his soup, trying to make it last as long as possible. The chickens cluck restlessly as the peat fire sizzles and smokes. When Jack finishes his paltry meal, Mother Mudge takes Briar’s hand in both of hers and looks into her eyes. “Now won’t you tell me your story, child? How did you come to be wandering in the forest alone at such an hour?”
Briar hesitates. This woman is a stranger, however kind she might be, and Briar, even aside from her fear of being returned to the castle, is still too hurt and humiliated to want to speak of what has befallen her. But as she meets the woman’s friendly gaze, she sees only comfort and compassion.
“I got a beating!” she blurts out, her eyes tearing up. Her story comes out disjointedly, telling of the bishop’s accusation and the others who joined in. Then she backs up to explain about what had really happened in the water with the Lily Maid of Astolat. Finally, watching Jack’s mother for signs of judgment or censure, she ends up with her escape from the castle and the music in the woods that made her want to sing and dance.
“I didn’t hear no music,” Jack says. “Just your singin’.”
“But it was everywhere!” Briar says, her eyes shining. “The most beautiful thing!”
Jack and his mother exchange glances and look at her in a peculiar way, until Briar, deeply embarrassed, thinks she shouldn’t have spoken of it. Finally, Mother Mudge nods her head. “I have heard, long ago, of stories like this, tales of gifted ones who could hear the music of the spheres. The stories have it that such people, at
times of great emotion, can hear music in the very air, a sound so heavenly that it has the power to heal the soul. Was it like that?”
“Yes, it was just like that,” Briar whispers in awe.
“An’ you should have heard her singin’ and seen her dancin’,” Jack says excitedly.
Mother Mudge thinks that this must be a very special child. Since she has always made it her business to know everyone in the village and everything about them, she has of course observed Briar and Rose on their expeditions to the woods. She knows full well that Rose is the princess, and she thinks that Briar might belong to the nobility in the castle, but she would never guess that they are sisters. The girl’s fine manners and speech and the make of her ruined tunic and shoes give her away as well, but Mother Mudge gives no sign of her knowledge. She is very poor and very hungry, so it is understandable that she wonders if she might receive some sort of reward for returning the girl, but the castle drawbridge has surely already been drawn up for the night, and looking at Briar’s trusting face, she concludes with a sigh that she will not compel the child to go back until she is ready.
“So you heard this music out in the forest?” Mother Mudge asks. “Have you ever heard it before?”
Briar thinks hard. “I’ve heard musicians play, but it didn’t sound like that. I don’t know how to say it. I wish it would come back.”
“Never mind, dearie. Perhaps someday you’ll hear it again. You’ve had quite a time, all told. I think what you need now is a good night’s sleep.”
Briar glances around quickly and sees that there are two straw mattresses rolled up in opposite corners, and she thinks she will have to sleep on the hard earth floor. But Mother Mudge discerns her expression and says, “I’m sorry, child, that we have no real bed to offer you. You wouldn’t think it, but back when Jack’s father was alive, we used to have a fine house, and nice things and real beds. That was a long time ago, before the giant began to rob us. Now we’ve become poor, forced to give half of what we own for the king’s Giant Tax.”
Briar and Rose and Jack Page 5