by S D Smith
After she had sprinted away from King Whitson’s Garden and the overheard rumors, the stray pieces of her family’s painful secrets, she had run to her room. She had tried to think, tried to reason out answers to the riddles surrounding her.
Giving up, she had run to Hallway Round and then to this porch, hoping to speak with Maggie Weaver, the Sage of Cloud Mountain. But all she had done for an hour was wait. Wait, and peer off into a cloud barrier that summed up all her frustrations. She glanced at the artists, painting their imaginary scenes of beauty, and wanted to spit at them. She didn’t, but she felt like she might scream. Maybe then someone would pay attention to her and give her some answers.
She sat on the mossy stone, leaning against the grey mountainside, and wept quietly. She worried and wondered and, finally, dozed off.
* * *
“Are you all right, dear?” It was Maggie Weaver, bending over her and touching her face tenderly. “You were calling for your father.”
Heather came awake, saw that she was still on the porch and that Mrs. Weaver’s kindly face was before her. “I’m sorry,” she said, not really thinking.
“Don’t be sorry, girl,” Mrs. Weaver said. “Just come along and let’s talk a moment.”
Heather rubbed her eyes, still wet, and followed behind the hunching form of Mrs. Weaver. They sat down.
“I’m sorry,” Heather said again.
“For what?”
“I’m not sure,” Heather said. “I think …” She hesitated. “I want answers, but I’m afraid of what those answers might be.”
“This is from wisdom, child,” Mrs. Weaver said. “Growing up is terribly wonderful. But often it’s also wonderfully terrible. Ha, a riddle of words amounting to nothing. A stuttering cleverism that falls as short as my feeble steps. But this is true. A teacher could become rich if he ever perfected the art of helping mature students unlearn many awful things. Enjoy your innocence, my dear. Even if it only lasts the day.”
* * *
Picket limped through Hallway Round, hurting in a dozen places. Hobbling through the door, he made his way past the bending, intent painters, up the stairs to the level where Mrs. Weaver always sat on the far side. His vision was still spotty from the dirt kicked in his eyes, and one eye was all but swollen shut from a rock that had struck him dead-on. He was near the steps when he realized that Mrs. Weaver was with someone. He turned quickly to try to slink back and wait his turn, but he heard her say, “Come along, Picket.”
Picket turned again, wincing at the pain, and made his way slowly up to where Heather—he now saw it was her—sat alongside the sewing sage.
* * *
When Heather saw Picket, her hurt turned to fury. “What has that villain done to you?” she shouted, springing to her feet and sprinting to his side. “It’s outrageous!”
“Heather, it’s—” Picket began, but Heather was just warming up.
“I’ll show him! He should know better than to do this!” She crossed quickly to her brother and examined his swollen eye and then the rest of him.
“Heather, listen to me—”
“I can’t believe Lord Rake allowed this!” Heather said. “After all you’ve been through—”
“Heather, seriously, if you’ll—” Picket tried, but Heather wasn’t done.
“He’ll get what’s coming to him, if it’s the last thing I do. I’ll—”
“Heather,” Mrs. Weaver said with some authority.
“Yes ma’am?” Heather said, a little stunned by Mrs. Weaver’s tone.
“Be quiet,” she said firmly, but with a smile. “And sit down, girl.”
“Yes ma’am,” Heather said, a little puzzled and put out. She sat down, seething like cold potatoes in a hot pan.
“Picket, son,” Mrs. Weaver said, turning slowly to him, “how was your day?”
Picket looked up at her through his swollen eye. He looked over at Heather, then back at Mrs. Weaver. He smiled wide. “It was wonderful.”
“Good,” Mrs. Weaver said. “I’m eager to hear all about it.”
Heather’s jaw hung open.
“Heather, please be a good young lady and latch that trap of yours. I’m not a doctor, and looking down your throat, as nice as it is, isn’t on my list of things I prefer to do today.”
Heather shut her mouth.
“It was a perfect day,” Picket said, still grinning. Was that blood on his teeth?
“Good, my boy,” Mrs. Weaver said. “I thought it might be. Let it settle on you, Picket. For the rest of today will be hard.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Darkness in Lighthall
Every time Heather tried to speak, Mrs. Weaver gave her a discouraging look. While Picket gushed about being pelted with stones, hit in the face, whipped with a jacket, and insulted with names like “Ladybug,” Mrs. Weaver just sat there nodding.
“It was fantastic,” Picket said, for what felt to Heather like the fifteenth time.
“It sounds lovely,” Mrs. Weaver said. “I especially enjoyed the part where he kicked dirt in your eyes.”
“If only,” Heather blurted out, “he could have killed you! Then we’d throw a party!” She was angry and tired of holding it in.
Mrs. Weaver shook her head. “Picket,” she said, “will you excuse us, my boy? Perhaps ask lovely Emma to take a look at your eye and your foot, and, well, your everything.” She laughed, and Picket did too. “You’ll need to be ready for more of the same tomorrow.”
Heather’s eyes bulged, but Mrs. Weaver gave her an authoritative gesture to be silent.
“Thank you, Mrs. Weaver,” Picket said, getting to his feet again. “Thank you so much.” He smiled apologetically at Heather and limped off.
When he was gone, Mrs. Weaver smiled up at Heather. “You must let him be who he is, Heather. And you must let him become what he will become.”
“Like Helmer?” she said, astonished.
“No, dear,” she said, “like Picket.”
* * *
When Heather finally made it down to dinner an hour later, she found Emma, Picket, and Heyward all sitting down to eat.
“We waited for you,” Picket said, his mouth full.
“Thanks,” she said, a little smirk showing. “You’re here laughing up a storm with a gang of friends, smiling like you found lost treasure, and I’m stomping around getting lectures about correcting my attitude.” She threw her hands up. “Did someone throw the world in reverse today?”
Everyone laughed, including Picket. Picket laughed! This showed her that she had been wrong, somehow, and that Mrs. Weaver was right. Heather felt a spark in her heart as she saw a small glimmer of the old Picket. Maybe even the new Picket. Maggie O’Sage, she thought. How well she has earned that name.
Heather went to get some soup, a delicious-smelling mix of parsley, potatoes, and broccoli. She was still angry at Helmer and mistrustful of his motives and tactics. But she had other things to worry about now, and she knew at least some answers would come in a few hours at the initiation.
She sat down to eat with her friends, thankful to have them. She laughed with them as Picket told them about calling Helmer “Masterchild” and “Wasp” and all about his day of training. Emma had early apprenticeship tales of Dr. Zeiger’s strange language and confusing orders. Heyward talked of a new method for calculating the straight edge and how it would only take him six months to build and how he’d saved half the coins to buy the supplies. Everyone laughed, and, after a moment, Heyward joined them. Heather relaxed. For the moment, she almost forgot about her absent father’s honor, her brother’s crazy mentor, her own crippling fear of doing what she felt inspired to do, the deadly dangerous world, and all the horrible mysteries surrounding her like an evil army in the dark.
Almost. Her smile was real, but a labyrinth lay behind it.
* * *
It was dark. Heather and Picket walked through King Whitson’s Garden and up to the front door of Lighthall. Picket was still limping a little. The garden was as lovely at nightfall as it was in the daylight. The moonlight added a glow to everything, making the garden all blues and blacks with a silver glint. Heather was heavy-hearted, while Picket was smiling. She hadn’t felt like she should burden Picket with what she had overheard earlier, especially on a day when he was happy. The only day he had been at all happy since their adventure began.
Heather knocked. After a few moments, Lord Rake opened the door and beckoned the two to come in.
They came through a dim, narrow hallway that ended in light. Heather walked, head down, behind Picket. She bumped into her brother.
“Picket,” she said, annoyed, looking up at him. As she raised her head, she saw what had caused him to stop. The room was lovely, both serious and arresting. It was round, wood-walled, but set off by stunning multicolored glass scenes of incredible height.
Heather gaped, walked forward, and slowly spun around, trying to take it all in. She imagined it must be all breathtaking bursts of light in the daytime. Here in the moonlight, the scenes were duller, more subdued, but still beautiful.
She walked around silently, reverently. Here was a place for contemplation, for humility. She read a thousand calls to awe in that room, before she knew anything about why it existed. She gazed at the high ceiling, the carefully carved wooden walls, and the bright gigantic windows of colored glass.
She walked to the middle of the room, where Lord Rake stood alongside Uncle Wilfred. She spun again slowly and tried to take it all in. The colored windows were pictures, clear and fine. There were scenes of war, of armies colliding, of single combat. There were characters, most notably a tall brown rabbit with a crown glittering in the sunlight and a burnished blade in his hands. Heather noticed that these windows were tales, and each told a story of some event. There were eight on display.
A huge cloth covered two others, glazier’s supplies neatly stacked on the floor beneath the tenth. Was it incomplete? Heather was already thinking of it as the Room of Ten Tales. Ten windows. But each window had several scenes, so each was a complex story.
“It’s King Jupiter, isn’t it?” she asked, pointing to a window made up mostly of red. It featured a beaten wolf and the heroic rabbit descending on him with his death-dealing sword as the red sun set behind them.
“Yes,” Uncle Wilfred said, his voice a little hoarse. “It’s the king.”
“Garlacks?” Picket asked, as they looked at the wolf. Uncle Wilfred nodded.
“I understand you came across his son, Redeye?” Lord Rake said. They nodded. “He is a deadly ally of Morbin Blackhawk. That must have been frightening.”
“It was,” Heather said, glancing around at the many windows all around the room. She caught Picket’s eye, and he looked down. The old gloom was settling over him again. Is that all it takes? she thought. One mention of that awful day by Seven Mounds in Nick Hollow and he’s back to brooding?
The several scenes included in the eight visible windows each featured a central image in the round, with related images above and below. The shape of each mural was the same, tall rectangles with a bulging circle in the center, bursting past the rectangle’s confines. King Jupiter’s triumph over Garlacks made the final scene. It was featured in the center, large and plain, the two combatants and a red sunset. But the images above and below were of other heroic rabbits, of other animal allies, of fights with wolves, and one of what looked like rabbits signing a document at a table. Heather, with a shock, noticed a grey rabbit at the table, beside the king.
“Who is the grey rabbit?” she asked, trembling.
“That’s part of what you’re here to learn, my dear,” Lord Rake said.
Uncle Wilfred tried to smile, but he looked down. She looked from window to window, noticing the grey rabbit in many scenes. The sixth window’s central image featured the grey rabbit with the king, side by side, looking out over a vast land. At their feet were broken swords and spears, shattered bows and cast-off shields. Before them were plowed fields, children at play, works of art, and people working.
“It’s a vision of peace,” Lord Rake said, smiling regretfully at the sixth window. “It’s one we’ve tried to recapture here in this community.”
“It’s a lie,” Uncle Wilfred said, sadly. Lord Rake said nothing, but only hung his head.
“What happened?” Heather said, unable to keep the questions inside any longer. “Please, just tell us what happened.”
Uncle Wilfred looked up at the image of the grey rabbit with King Jupiter, shook his head sadly, and then turned to face Heather and Picket. “Our family betrayed the king.”
Chapter Thirty
The Green Ember
Part of the purpose of initiation is to tell the whole story and help you see your place in it,” Lord Rake said, motioning for the young rabbits to sit in the center of the room on two stools. “I will move rather quickly tonight, in view of your eagerness to hear how your own family came into this tale. If you have heard some of this before, please bear with us.” They nodded.
“Lord Rake will tell you of the first eight windows,” Uncle Wilfred said, “and I, sharing your blood, will tell you the tale of the ninth.” They nodded, swallowing hard, and looked up at Lord Rake.
“King Walter Good had the Whitson Stone, as had all his fathers before him. This ruby, which signaled the right to rule, was passed from father to son and heir for hundreds of years. King Good was Lord of the Thirty Warrens and the father of King Jupiter Goodson,” Lord Rake said, motioning toward the first window. The window center was edged in black, and in the center stood two figures, an old rabbit, King Good, and his son, Prince Jupiter. “King Walter Good, in the twentieth year of his reign, privately named his third son, Jupiter, to be his eventual heir. The oldest son, Bleston, was furious. He believed the crown was his inheritance. A gloomy resentment settled on him, along with a resolve to revenge himself against Jupiter, whom he named Upstart. He was stronger than Jupiter then, it must be said. He was a brave warrior, and none could best him in battle. But he had his wicked grandfather’s way, and King Good could not allow this to be his legacy. He hated the idea of a swift return to the cruel lordship of the Thirty Warrens. So he denied the throne to his eldest son.”
Lord Rake motioned to the top of the window, where a muscular rabbit in warrior’s garb huddled with several others. “Bleston bitterly contemplated a revolt against young Jupiter, even while their father lived. Jupiter was troubled terribly by the strife. After hot words were said and no peaceable solution managed, Prince Bleston left the First Warren with a large company of malcontents.
“King Walter Good was saddened by this tumult and promised to make the succession clear, as had been the custom in the past. He called a great gathering of all the nobility in the wood, along with allies from far and wide. When all were gathered, he took off his crown. The king’s crown had been worn by his father and father’s fathers for many generations, the line unbroken back to Whitson Mariner himself, even though it had waned and become corrupt over time. The crown was all of gold, its points waving like so many flames. It’s a lovely crown, as you can see.” Lord Rake motioned toward the crown, more clearly visible in the second window, atop King Jupiter’s head. So bright and beautiful was the crown, it appeared the king’s head was wreathed in flames. The wreathed points of gold were the flames. At the front of the crown, along the base, there were many gems. Most of these were a fiery orange.
Then she saw it.
The center stone was an emerald. A large bright stone. Heather’s mouth fell open.
“I think you begin to understand,” Lord Rake said. “The stones along the bottom serve as sort of embers for the fiery crown, and the center stone, larger than the other embers, is an emerald. It is the Green Ember. It
is the ancient symbol of succession, going back to the kings of Golden Coast.
“At the assembly, King Walter announced that when he had picked his successor (and they did not all know that he had done this), he would honor the old ways and remove the Green Ember, bestowing it upon his heir. This the heir would keep safe, a down payment of the stewardship of authority he would one day fully own. The people began to whisper, asking if he would do this now. He smiled and asked Chancellor Perkin to come forward. Chancellor Perkin—father of Perkin One-Eye, if you’ve heard those legends—came forward and, with a special knife, removed the emerald. He handed it, bowing, to the king. King Good raised his hands, and the room was silent. ‘My son, my life, my heir, my glory: Jupiter Goodson, rise and come forward. Receive this token of your calling.’ The people cheered, for Jupiter was well-known and well-loved in the wood, and they had feared the stern and selfish nature of Prince Bleston.”
“So he became king then?” Heather asked.
“No. He only received the symbol that he would one day become king,” Lord Rake answered. “He kept the Green Ember for another five years. Then, when his father was killed, he was crowned, and the Green Ember was restored to the crown of fire at his coronation.” He pointed at the second window again. The scene was august. King Jupiter stood in the center, crowned with the wreathing flames of gold and dazzling in golden armor, with his solemn soldiers behind him.
“So he ruled and reigned with great power and goodness. There is more to tell,” he said, walking past the windows and vaguely motioning to the scenes, “when we are able. For now, let us say that King Jupiter was great. He was everything his own father imagined a king could be, and more. He won great wars, like this one in the Red Valley against Garlacks,” he said, pointing to the fifth window. “That was a brutal struggle. I remember it well. Garlacks could not believe what was happening to him. He was very proud. To be defeated by a rabbit in single combat was the ultimate shame. His son, Redeye Garlackson, is full of resentment and bent on revenge. He serves Morbin Blackhawk, but his true and deepest desire is to blot out King Jupiter’s line and memory from the earth. How they were thwarted! What a victory the Red Valley saw.”