Sword and Song

by Kate Story

  “That’s it, that’s it!” Nancy cries. “Do you feel it?”

  Ophelia’s breath catches. The flame shrinks a little, still bright. The lamp closes, a day-blooming flower at sunset.

  “You connected!” Nancy actually flings her arms around Ophelia. “Oh, that’s good! That’s very good.”

  “What did I do?” Ophelia feels elated, but dazed.

  “You got out of your own way.”

  Pim is smiling, Pest is in awe. The Gor’s eyes gleam.

  “Keep this.” Nancy folds her hands over Ophelia’s where they clasp the Night Light.

  “I . . . what?” Panic fills Ophelia. “I can’t keep this. It’s too precious! What if it goes out . . . ?”

  “It won’t go out.” Nancy smiles. “Practice whenever you get a moment. You will fall into the current again; it will get easier every time.”

  “But . . .”

  “I know this.” Nancy’s eyes burn. “It is yours now. Things are unfolding as they should.”

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  What Happened A Long Time Ago

  The wind picks up, and then picks up some more. The Virgo has to tend to her crew.

  Ophelia waits on deck, the precious Night Light between her palms, for Paddy Whack to arrive and take her back to John Canoe’s ship. But she hasn’t come, and Ophelia is alone.

  No one is watching her; they’re all busy taking in the sails.

  It’s time.

  Taking a deep shuddering breath, Ophelia saunters casually to the door of the biggest cabin on the ship.

  She tries the latch. It lifts.

  Darkness, and the sweet scent of cedar wood.

  Ophelia slides in and shuts the door behind herself.

  She blinks, waiting for her eyes to adjust. The boat creaks as it rises and falls, rises and falls. Yes, over there in the corner—blankets, white pillows. A small pale face, head turned toward the door.

  Ophelia could take two steps and be right next to the built-in bed. But all at once, she is frightened.

  “Opheeeeelia . . .” comes the voice of Doctor Capricus.

  With a start, Ophelia sees him perched on a tiny stool next to the bed.

  “I’m sorry, I—”

  “Yooooou cannot beeeee here,” he bleats, his voice urgent, yet quiet.

  But from under the blanket, a small hand emerges. The Mender is beckoning her closer.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb you.” Which is a lie, because of course Ophelia knew she’d be disturbing the Mender.

  Doctor Capricus sighs. “You maaaaay approach the bed.”

  Ophelia kneels on the floor next to the tiny cot. The Mender fixes her with dark eyes. Startlingly dark, in that pale face.

  “She is unweeeeell.”

  Even in the dim light of the cabin, that much is obvious. Ophelia is shocked by how much the tiny woman has aged. Her cheeks are sunken, and her eyes burn in the thinness of her face.

  “I am sorry . . .” Ophelia begins again.

  But the Mender’s hand grasps Ophelia’s shoulder. Ophelia shuts her mouth.

  “I wish I could . . .” she says. Her voice is a wheeze, a whisper, hard to hear over the creaking boat and ocean wind, the shouts and footsteps on deck.

  Ophelia leans in. “You wish you could what?”

  The Mender makes a noise at the back of her throat, brow contracted, then shakes her head.

  Ophelia looks at the doctor. Does he know what she wants? He gently smoothes the Mender’s hair back with his hand. There is a real tenderness between them, Ophelia sees.

  The woman begins to push at the blankets, moving her body up the bed; she is trying to sit up. The doctor helps, rearranging the pillows and supporting the woman’s back. The Mender leans back, breathing lightly and fast.

  “Do not tiiiiire her,” the doctor warns.

  But again the Mender holds up her hand.

  “You know why I am here,” Ophelia says.

  The Mender nods.

  “You are from my world?”

  The Mender’s eyes do not waver. “No.”

  No?

  The woman has to be from the real world, she has to be. She’s the only hope of understanding anything about this insane journey, about how and why Ophelia got here, and how she can get back home. “But Pim said—”

  “My name is Ita.”

  Ophelia gulps. “You are Antilian?”

  The woman nods. Her head drops back; she closes her eyes. She’s dying, Ophelia thinks. Not right now, but soon. “I was a Virgo.”

  The doctor rubs his nose under his spectacles.

  Ophelia dares to reach out and take the woman’s hand.

  The woman, Ita, speaks again. “Nancy is the Mender.”

  Nancy is the Mender.

  The cabin fills with the thrum and snap of sails, a rush of water, orders called out and obeyed. Everything seems very clear and definite. I will never forget anything about this, Ophelia knows. Every detail is etched into her: scents, sounds, sights.

  Then Ophelia realizes the worst thing. This means Pim has been lying.

  Her own mother is from Ophelia’s world, yet she kept up this fiction. Doesn’t she trust Ophelia?

  Ophelia goes through interactions with Nancy, with Pim, trying to make sense of it all. She has never had an instinct that Pim was lying, not once. It doesn’t make sense.

  The woman turns her hand within Ophelia’s. Her skin is white, the veins blue.

  “Attempts on her life. She asked me if I would be . . . a decoy.”

  “Nancy asked you to pretend to be her.”

  A nod.

  “You were poisoned.”

  Another nod. “And shot.” She pushes at the blanket, revealing a long, puckered scar on her shoulder. “And stabbed, once. I am proud to serve.”

  “How can she?” How could Nancy watch someone suffer like that, for her own sake?

  “For the people. Always. For them.”

  The woman—Ita—reaches for something down on the floor. Ophelia tries to help, but the woman makes a noise of frustration. She is saying a word, over and over, what is it?

  “Fetch it, fetch it,” she finally gets out. She wants the doctor to get something? “You know, Capricus.”

  Doctor Capricus sighs. But he gets down on his knees and rummages under the cot, in one of the built-in drawers. He pulls out a canvas bag and opens it, releasing a faint, burnt scent.

  “This is what sheeeee wants yooooou to seeeee.” He unfolds two pieces of dense, light, coloured cloth over the bed. The edges of both are burnt.

  The Mender—no, Ita—strokes the cloth with her beautiful hands.

  “You have the lamp now. It is time for you to see.”

  Ophelia looks, trying to understand. And then she does.

  The cloths are two scorched tapestries, tapestries woven by the same hand as those from that room in the palace where Pim had her fit.

  Yes, yes, that’s what they are. Ophelia remembers the gaps on the walls of that room. These must be the missing tapestries.

  One piece is almost complete. It depicts the young man with the braid and the female knight with the white plume. They are holding hands, surrounded by light. They are suspended, or flying, coming out of the sky. A multitude of people stand on the ground, arms upraised, in greeting. Humans, centaurs, fauns, dryads, and mermaids in the woven lines of the sea.

  Like her welcoming committee, back outside Calabar.

  In the forefront two figures, holding a sword and a lamp, stand with faces raised. And behind them, two others: a man who is green and a woman who is red. They both have tattoos on their arms—the weaver obviously took a long time over this part—his are swords, and hers are dragons.

  There’s a burnt edge, but Ophelia thinks that maybe it depicted a fiery mountain. This land is Antilia.

  “You have a love?”

  It is hard to hear, but Ophelia is sure this is what the woman whispers.

  “No.”

  “But
you must. Have a love. From . . . your place.”

  She thinks of Rowan. Of course she does. But he doesn’t love her. Ophelia strokes the tapestry. “Is this what happened a long time ago?”

  Ita nods. “I rescued it. It was not right to destroy it.”

  “Who tried to destroy it?”

  “Nancy. These were woven by a predecessor.”

  “Her predecessor?”

  Ita shakes her head. “No. The Render’s predecessor, here.” She points at the woman-knight with the white plume. “Warrior and weaver.”

  Ophelia has so many questions, then. But she swallows them, and looks at the other piece of beautiful tapestry. It’s badly charred, and a fragment. But within its charred edges you can still make out the young man, face full of terror, covered in flames. Above him, an open maw full of teeth.

  “Does it show . . . what is supposed to happen?”

  “Yes.”

  A terrible pause.

  The little body is sliding to one side, Ita can’t hold herself up like this. The doctor helps her settle back down; she sinks with a sigh beneath the sweet smooth sheets. She breathes, Ophelia thinks she is asleep, but the woman takes her hand and squeezes.

  “Ophelia. Nancy is wrong to think we can end things.”

  “She wants to fix things.”

  “No.” Ita is firm, even as her voice weakens. “Nancy wants to end the cycle. But the cycles of Antilia must not be ended.”

  A long pause. Ita’s eyes are bright, bright as jet.

  “There are always two Chosen from your world. They come to heal Antilia when the mountain speaks. Nancy came in with her Chosen one, a man, her lover.”

  “Nancy has never mentioned this, not once.”

  “But you should know. Nancy and her lover—I do not know his name, she will not speak it—quarrelled. They healed Antilia, but the healing was not complete. And they did not leave Antilia and go back to their world—your world—as they should have. And he—the Render—has become twisted.”

  “Evil,” Ophelia breathes.

  “Perhaps.” The cabin is still, and only the gentle creaking of the wood, and the sound of orders and footsteps overhead, fill their ears.

  “Am I Chosen, the way Nancy was?”

  Ita nods. “Always, when it is time, two Chosen are born in your world.”

  “Two Chosen?” Rowan—could it be Rowan?

  “They are linked to Antilia from birth, and by their friends from Antilia.”

  Friends. “Pim.”

  “Yes. And there was another. Pim had a twin brother.”

  Ophelia forces all the whirling thoughts to recede, breathes a long, low exhale. She feels the lamp jump in her hand. She looks down to see it unfurling, of its own accord.

  The three gaze upon the lamp with its three pairs of figures, circling the steady blue flame.

  “You see there. The lovers, from your world. Their friends, the twins. And the Mender and Render, with their lamp and sword. The two Chosen from your world are trained in the ways of Antilia, and in their role: to divert, sacrifice, absorb the terrible energy of the split, which is embodied by these twins.”

  Ophelia looks closely at the figures. The twins are not quite identical, she sees. Their arms are engraved with the finest of lines. One has swords etched on its arms; the other, dragons.

  Like the tapestries.

  Like Pim.

  “The twins gradually transform: one into the Dragon—fire, the volcano—and the other into the Green Knight—the earth, the island. Left alone, with no Chosen from your world, they would destroy each other. Antilia would split, and be no more. But the two Chosen from your world change everything. Chosen are sacrifices, diverters of energy. The twins—Dragon and Green Knight—instead meld into one. The split is healed. The Chosen become the new Mender and Render, keepers of the lamp and sword.”

  “Antilia is quiiiiiet, then. For a veeeeery long tiiiiime,” the doctor bleats softly.

  “Then what happens?” Ophelia asks.

  “The new Mender and Render return to their world,” Ita answers. “Your world. There, they bear twins. They bring the twins back to Antilia.”

  “And maaaaany, maaaaany years paaaaass, here.”

  “Yes. Time moves differently between your world and here. Long time here, short time there.”

  “And sooooometimes, I have beeeeen told, it moooooves so far forward that it comes behind.”

  The woman and the goat-man look at each other and smile.

  They are enjoying this on some level, Ophelia thinks. They are in love with their world, with the fragile crazy magic of it.

  Ita sighs, and speaks again.

  “The cycle begins again. The Chosen leave their twins to be brought up by the Virgos. And these new twins are linked to new Chosen in your world. And when the volcano threatens to split again, these new Chosen come here. They have grown up alongside their friends, the soon-to-be Dragon and Green Knight. They are mentored by the Mender and Render. They in turn divert the clash between Dragon and Knight, and become the new Mender and Render . . . and on.”

  “Aaaaand on. A cycle of maaaaany years, repeeeeeating and repeeeeeating.”

  Noiselessly the lamp closes, concealing the six figures: lovers, twins, Mender and Render. It becomes a hollow, metal thing, seamless.

  “But . . .” Ophelia struggles. “Pim isn’t a Dragon.”

  Is it her imagination, or do Ita’s eyes fill with tears?

  “And I have no lover.”

  Ita makes a small noise deep in her throat. “You have been inadequately prepared. The schism between Nancy and her loved one has disrupted the cycle. We know there was a boy. Pim’s twin. But we do not know if he yet lives.”

  “Then what do I do?”

  No one speaks.

  The ship rolls, the cabin creaks, and they hold hands, heads bowed.

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Why Hasn’t Anyone Told Me?

  Ophelia slides out of the cabin. The doctor comes right behind her, deftly closing the door.

  The sky is darker, now.

  Ophelia turns to say something, anything. The feelings inside her—sorrow, rage, confusion—disappear when she looks at the doctor’s face. He is so sad that Ophelia flings her arms around him.

  “Sheeeee does not have looooong.”

  Ophelia releases him from her embrace. She looks around the ship. They are not being observed; everyone is busy, and they have the little stretch of deck to themselves. “Doctor, if Nancy is from my world, why hasn’t anyone told me?”

  “Becaaaaause they do not knooooow.”

  “You know.”

  Capricus nods.

  “And Ita does. And Nancy herself, of course. And Pim.”

  Capricus shakes his head. “Nooooot Pim.”

  “But that’s impossible. It’s her own mother—”

  But the sadness in the doctor’s eyes stops her. He really believes Pim doesn’t know.

  And with an awkward, apologetic pat on Ophelia’s shoulder, Doctor Capricus ducks back into the cabin.

  Ophelia has a glimpse of a small white figure on the bed. Ita raises her hand.

  The door closes.

  —

  In the short time Ophelia was with Ita, the weather changed entirely. The sun has gone behind clouds, the wind has picked up.

  Bewilderment beats inside Ophelia like a drum.

  She is glad to see Paddy Whack coming alongside, rowing the dory that takes Ophelia to and from the starfish ship for her lessons with Nancy. No. With the Mender. The woman from her own world.

  Everything is different, knowing that.

  “How were the lessons today?” Paddy Whack calls up, as always.

  “Terrible. As usual.”

  “It couldn’t be that bad. Look, you’ve been given the lamp!”

  Ophelia looks at the precious thing in her hands. “True.”

  “Get in now, dear. We’d better be getting back.”

  “I just need to . . .”
Ophelia looks around desperately for Nancy. She’s there, at the bow of the ship with her first mate. She must talk with Nancy; she has so many questions. . . .

  “No time, my dear. Weather’s changing.”

  Ophelia climbs over the side and gets into the dory. Maybe it’s better this way. Maybe she should talk to Pim first.

  When they get back to John Canoe’s ship, the cook, Dim Dorothy, comes shrieking down the deck to welcome them. “Darling!” She kisses Paddy Whack on the nose and scratches behind her ears. “It’s been an age!”

  “Half an hour,” says Paddy Whack.

  “But I’ve missed you.” Dim Dorothy deposits another kiss on Paddy’s nose. “And you, too, of course,” she says to Ophelia. “You want something to eat before I have to put my fires out?”

  Ophelia shakes her head. She isn’t hungry.

  John Canoe welcomes them with a wave, but he doesn’t come down to talk. He’s busy. The dark cloud from the volcano has joined another cloud in the sky. It’s very far away but periodically the cloud lights up inside. Lightning. It must be going from unseen mountaintops to sky and back again, Ophelia thinks. If she was right there, underneath it, it would be terrifying.

  That’s why Dim Dorothy is putting her cooking fire out. That is a storm out there, and it is coming their way.

  “It’s going to be a big one,” Paddy Whack says, confirming Ophelia’s speculation. She looks hard at the cloud, then glances behind at the eternal tumble of ocean. The last bit of blue is slowly leaking from the sky. “You will be sick again.”

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Rougher Still

  Ophelia makes her way to the back of the boat (which she has learned means going aft, to the stern), and finds a corner out of the wind, and out of the way. She sits on the wooden deck, nestles the Night Light between her bare feet, and lifts her face to the sky.

  She will have to talk to Pim, and soon.

  But she sits, and sits, letting the boat’s rocking smooth her spinning mind into something rhythmic and almost calm. Like the calm before a storm, she thinks. Is that what these last weeks have been?

  It gets rough, and then rougher still. There’s an excitement, or maybe tension, in the crew—orders called out, adjustments to the sails. A smaller sailboat off to one side does a happy little loop-the-loop, sailors grinning and showing off at the rest of the fleet. It will be hard for all these vessels of different sizes and designs to stay together in a storm, Ophelia thinks.