by Jane Yolen
“You saw the king die? It is true?” Corrie asked.
As Sarana started to explain just what she had seen, and what she had not seen on her search, the room grew quiet except for her voice. Every one of the prisoners came over to listen, and she wove them a story-spell.
THE TALE:
Whenever danger threatened the Dales, King Cronin went into the New Forest, to the very edge of the Great Grove, and said a special prayer to the Anna, the queen in waiting. And in this way danger was always averted.
But at last and finally King Cronin was gathered, and the new king, Jemin took the throne. Whenever danger threatened the Dales, he too went into the New Forest, to the very edge of the Great Grove. But he had never been taught the special prayer to the Anna. Still it was enough. The danger was averted.
But at last and finally King Jemin was gathered, and the new king Solon took the throne. Whenever danger threatened the Dales, he too went into the New Forest. But he did not know the way to the very edge of the Great Grove, for it had been destroyed. And he had never been taught the Anna’s special prayer. Still it was enough, and the danger was averted.
But at last and finally King Solon was gathered, and a new and nameless king took the throne. Whenever danger threatened the Dales—well, he had never been taught the Anna’s prayer and he did not know the way to the very edge of the Great Grove for it had been destroyed. And in fact the New Forest had been cut down and houses built up in its stead. All the nameless king knew how to do was to tell this story.
But it was enough.
THE STORY:
Of course none of them actually believed her, except Jareth.
“I have been to the grove,” he said between coughs. “I have seen the Grenna.”
“That was many years ago in the middle of battle. We all remember impossible things in the heat of a fight. War is, itself, an impossible thing. Men killing men.” Piet turned away.
“And women,” Petra added.
“Perhaps what you saw were the tracks of wolves,” Corrie offered.
“Yes, wolves,” said a man in a guard’s uniform.
“A pack, circling them,” said another.
Sarana drew herself up. “I know wolf tracks,” she said huffily. “They are nothing like human …”
“Human!” Piet interrupted. “You see, she calls them human. Not little elves. Little green men. The Grenna. Which is something my old nurse used to talk about, when she wasn’t telling me stories about fairies. And wings. And the water horse who steals away pretty women. And the crier at the water’s edge who prophesies death.”
“I do not know about those—the fairies, the water horse, the crier,” Sarana said. “I only know what I saw.”
“What you didn’t see,” Piet said.
“I saw the tracks. The footprints. Where the sledge prints ended.”
“But,” Corrie said, his voice soft and muzzy, “you didn’t see my mother, the Anna. You didn’t see my father. You didn’t see them.…” He stopped suddenly.
Sarana put her hand on his arm, a gesture she would never have dared outside of the dungeon. “I didn’t see them dead, Prince Corrine, no.”
Corrie shook off the muzziness. “Then they are not dead.”
“But are they alive?” Piet asked. “That is the more interesting question.”
“Isn’t it the same question?” Petra was clearly puzzled.
Corrie managed a smile. “For us, here in this dark hole? Not the same question at all.”
A few of the listeners—the boys and some of the servers—moved away and one or two resumed their card game on a nearby pallet.
Furious that no one believed his memories, sacred as they were to him, Jareth left the barracks room and went through one of the archways into the red wine cellar where he brooded alone. But Corrie, Piet, Petra, and Sarana kept on talking with an audience of guardsmen and soldiers.
The conversation was desultory at first, rehearsing the days that had led them all to the dungeon: Jemson’s casual usurpation of the throne “temporarily until the queen returns.” The arrival of the Garun ships. The turncoats within the palace guard. Jemson’s welcome to the army from the Continent. The mastery of Malfas.
“It sounds like a bad song cycle,” Petra said. “I expect we will be singing of it anon.”
“If we are alive to do any singing at all,” one soldier grumbled. “We are corked up in here like bad wine.”
Another added, “The air is impossible. It is cold and damp. Old Jareth’s cough worsens. The rest of us will be coughing soon enow.”
And a third added his plaint. “My old wound aches, young prince. My leg draws up in the damp. We will either die here or Jem-Over-the-Water will have us executed.”
The first soldier came in again. “There is nothing we can do for we are weaponless and with no way out.”
“That,” Corrie whispered conspiratorially, “is not entirely true.” He waited until the announcement had sunk in, then he reached under the cloak and produced the sword.
“But that’s …” Piet said.
“My father’s short sword,” Corrie said. “From the Gender Wars. So we are not entirely weaponless. And as for a way out, there is a small oriel window behind the Basilion Red. My brother and I discovered it one day as children when we were playing hide-and-then-seek. The window is quite small. Child-size really. And it drops down to the rocks that sheer off into the sea. Father had the poor wine shifted over there after Jemson dared me to climb out and I got stuck halfway.” He smiled and patted his ample stomach. “I was rather a pig in those days. Screamed bloody fratricide until the wine steward heard me. Jem had long since scampered off to his room. Declared he had nothing to do with the jape, not that anyone believed him. The window was too high up for me to have gotten to it alone.”
“I remember that,” Petra said. “I thought your father had the window walled up.”
“What is walled can be unwalled,” Piet said.
Sarana laughed aloud. “Especially now that we have something to dig with.”
“Not the king’s sword!” Petra was scandalized. “It’s from the wars!”
“Of course his sword,” Corrie said. He held it aloft. “We will do it now.”
“Not yet,” cautioned Sarana. “They will be feeding us soon. But after that they leave us alone for the rest of the night.”
Corrie nodded and quickly disappeared the sword back under his cloak, but he could not disappear the lightened mood of the group. Jareth was persuaded to return from the wine room reluctantly, led by Petra. But when he heard the news, he smiled and joined in the chatter.
Things seemed suddenly so improved, the prisoners even sang songs and told stories till the food arrived, brought in by three servers under the watchful eye of the heavily armed Garun guard. If the guard thought the prisoners somewhat uplifted, they put it down to the new addition to their ranks. A prince, even an imprisoned one, could well charge the atmosphere.
However, one of the Garuns dutifully reported the change of mood to King Jemson who was alone in his chamber. The Garun particularly mentioned how the prisoners had been singing.
“They was going on and on with tunes about the Wars,” the man said. “Not very melodic, sire; but they sung them with gusto. There were ‘King Kalas and His Sons’ and another were ‘Well Before the Battle, Sister.’ And others I didn’t know. Never made it over the sea, I guess.”
“Corrine has always been a fool,” Jemson said. “He will go to his death joking and singing.” And having thus made the pronouncement, he quickly forgot about it, neglecting even to mention the guard’s report to Malfas, who might have put a different face on the news altogether.
The food given the prisoners was rough: porridge and goats’ milk. The spoons were wooden as were the porringers. Clearly the Garuns were taking no chances that the gaoled soldiers might make weapons from their implements. In fact the bowls and spoons were counted out when they were distributed and again at their colle
ction.
“I have had worse,” Corrie said cheerfully.
“When?” Petra asked.
He winked at her.
“So have I,” declared Sarana. “For most of my childhood.” She dug into the porridge with an enthusiasm Corrie had to pretend.
As soon as they were all done eating, they piled the spoons and bowls by the wooden door. Two servers, guarded by Garuns, collected them and the door was once again locked tight.
“They will come in the morning with new torches and food,” said Piet. “We will have the long night to do what needs be done.” He snatched up a bottle of red wine and brought it back to the barracks room. Hitting the neck against the stone wall, he broke it cleanly and raised the bottle high.
“To the queen,” he said. “She who was and she who is.” He did not name Jenna and Scillia, but they all knew who he meant. He took a deep draught and then passed the bottle to Corrie.
“Can’t we arm ourselves with broken bottles?” Corrie asked.
“Against their long swords?” Piet answered. “It would be an awful slaughter. And to no end.”
Sarana shook her head. “We have spoken of this before you came, my prince. I say we should rather die fighting than languishing in prison. But Piet—the head of the army, mind you—says no.”
Piet glared at her. “The head of the army needs to know when to fight and when to wait. Drink, Corrie.”
Corrie lifted the bottle and glanced at the label. He nodded approvingly. “An hour makes a difference … Piet is right. To the queens!” He drank and passed the bottle to Petra.
They drank the bottle to the end; even the boys had a sip. Then Piet took the empty bottle back, set it carefully on the ground, and turned to Corrie. “Now we must work. You and you,” he said, pointing to two of the taller soldiers, “and you three,” he added nodding at two burly men and Sarana, “come with us. And Corrie, show us where that window used to be.”
In the end the seven were joined by Jareth and Petra. The rest of the prisoners were cautioned to stay in the barracks room. “Too much noise could sink us,” Piet warned.
The Basilion wines had long been drunk up, but Corrie knew the wall nonetheless, for it was the western wall, the one alongside the sea.
“Here!” he said, pointing to a great floor-to-ceiling rack of mostly undistinguished northern reds. The rack on the eastern wall held the better vintages, some dry reds that were quite acceptable table wines and about a hundred bottles of a heavy, sweet red from vineyards from the area south and east of Berick. He was glad they did not have to move the drinkable wines.
Forming a single line, with the two tall soldiers at the rack, they passed the wines silently down the line till they reached Petra, who stood in the archway into the barracks room. She handed each bottle to one of the boys who then had the task of placing them upright against the walls.
“Silently,” Petra reminded them again and again. “Do not let the bottles clink together,” though she knew very well that the greatest danger was not there but in the wine room, so much closer to the door and to the ears of the Garun guards.
It took them a quarter of the night to remove the bottles and then the rack as well. But when they were done, Piet held up a torch to the wall. There was indeed a square patch boarded over with wood.
“Give me the sword,” Piet said.
“No, ’tis my father’s. I will do the damage,” said Corrie. Then he laughed. “It is not so high now, this window. Look it comes barely to my shoulders. That Jem and I found it such a labor before!” He took the sword and using it as a pry, stuck it between two of the boards and levered one of them off with a single solid wrenching. The board clattered to the ground before anyone could catch it and the noise that it made on the stone floor was horrendous.
Everyone froze except Sarana who quickly crept through the archway into the next room, the room that was filled with the white wines. She stood for a long time in an attitude of listening, before returning to the still frozen group of prisoners.
“It is all right. No one seems to be stirring. My captain would have had our heads were we so lax. But we best not have any such noise again.”
The next board was taken down with two sets of hands holding on. And a third board revealed the window itself, too dirty to see out but with a cold sea wind seeping in through some cracks.
“Better than we could have hoped,” Piet said. “I expected it to be mortared.”
“I am sure Father expected that the boards and the racks of wines were more than sufficient to keep us from attempting another sortie,” said Corrie. “I was certainly not to be caught twice that way, and Jem only wanted someone else to try the escapade. He had no such courage on his own.”
“But it is too small for one of us,” Petra pointed out. “And we dare not send one of those boys.” She nodded toward the barracks room.
“Why not?” asked Jareth. “I was a boy when I fought in the war. And surely we are at war again now.”
“But they are small boys. Not near man’s estate as you were,” said Petra. “And what would I say to their mothers …?”
“I believe I can fit,” Sarana said. “Take out the glass and the casing and I can surely slither through. I have been in caves and tunnels. We’ve a lot of them on the coast. It’s all a matter of knowing when to twist—and how. If my shoulders can get through, the rest will follow.”
“It is a drop onto the rocks, and into the sea thereafter,” warned Corrie. “I remember now why I was happy I had become stuck!”
“We can make a rope out of your cape and any extra clothing we can find,” Sarana said. “I am a strong climber.”
“But can you swim?” asked Petra.
“Like an oyster,” Sarana said laughing.
“Meaning you will sink to the bottom?”
“And crawl along to the shore, if necessary,” Sarana replied. “But I do not expect to go into the ocean at all. It is too cold for my taste. And too filled with salt.”
So while the two tallest of the soldiers helped Corrie prize out the window, halting between attempts when things got too noisy, and bemoaning the ruination of a good weapon, Sarana and Petra organized a search for clothes to knot and plait together into a rope. It was necessarily a makeshift strand, but Sarana continually tested its strength and declared herself pleased at the end.
They wrapped one end of the line around the burliest of the men, once around his waist and once over his shoulder. “To serve as anchor,” Piet said.
The other end Sarana tied around herself, up under her arms. Then, boosted up to the oriel window—but a hole in the rock wall now with a brisk wind blowing in—she twisted head and shoulders through first.
“What the shoulders go through, she said …” the tallest soldier commented.
“The rest will follow,” said the rope handler.
“I surely hope so,” Corrie whispered, “though that is not what happened the time I tried.”
But clearly Sarana was more agile than the young Corrine had been. And not near as thick around at the waist. She shifted a bit, kicking her feet, and suddenly slipped through the hole and was gone, down faster than anyone could see out the window. But the rope grew taut around the soldier’s waist and shoulder and his companions helped him hold on.
Suddenly the rope was loosened and Corrie whispered, “May the goddess speed you, Sarana; Great Alta at your heels.”
They coiled the makeshift rope back up and spent the rest of the night setting up the wine rack again and reshelving the bottles. The broken glass and window casement, plus the boards, they put under the pallets. If it made sleeping thereafter uncomfortable, not a one of them complained.
Only Corrie worried about the missing window. But at dawn, when the wind died down, he forgot about the problem as they all laid bets on how soon Sarana might make her way out of Berick and find Scillia and her loyal troops.
THE BALLAD:
THE BALLAD OF CORRINE LACKLAND
Har
ken to me, gentlemen,
A ballad I shall tell,
Wherein two brothers royal born
In Berickshire did dwell.
The one of them was Jem the Bold
Who fought with either hand,
The younger was Prince Corrine
Who was left with little land.
As they were drinking ale and wine
Within his brother’s hall,
Prince Corrine pointed to a port
That opened in the wall.
“That green gate is to Faerieland,
Where Mother dear does dwell.”
“Nay, brother,” quoth the bold Jemson,
“That is the gate to hell.
“But if you’re sure, my brother dear,
Then you the path shall find.
And as I am king on the throne,
I shall remain behind.”
He pushed his brother through the port,
Far down Lackland did fall.
His portion was six feet of earth
And death to bear his pall.
THE STORY:
The difficult part had not been wriggling through the window, though Sarana had cut her knee on a piece of broken glass that had somehow resisted the enlarging of the portal, and was sticking out at an angle beneath the outside edge.
Nor had the descent been a problem. The makeshift rope had held.
Held too well, actually. It had taken her precious moments getting the knots under her arms undone, and her increasingly cold fingers made the problem worse. But when she finally was able to shrug out of the harness, she gathered up the prince’s cloak, which had been one of the end pieces, un-knotted it, and put it on. It warmed her at once.
She looked to her left where the sea was muttering in its rocky bed.
Low tide.
At the turn, she would be long gone, and glad of it. She had not told the other woman, but she was petrified of water. Her father used to half-drown her as a punishment, sticking her head down in the horse’s trough until she was forced to breathe in the dirty water and rise spluttering, coughing, and vomiting up everything she had eaten for days. The very thought of falling into the sea had almost undone her. But she had known that of the few who could get through the small window, she was the only one who could find the queen. None of the boys would have had a chance. So when she had stuck her head and shoulders out and seen with the light of the full moon that the tide was low enough for her to wade around the rocks, she had twisted through the window without another bit of fear.