by Ila Mercer
Ari shook his head. ‘You know I can’t, Katarin.’ He rattled the lock on his gate.
‘I have a key,’ she said, pulling a set of silver keys from her cloak.
‘I don’t think we should. What if the guards come back?’ He wondered, for a moment, how she had managed to procure the keys.
‘Have they ever come back before?’ Her jaw was set in a determined line.
‘No,’ he said softly. ‘Why tonight? Why is it so important?’
‘Please? I will tell you once we are in the orchard.’
He sighed. ‘Very well. But remember the Hunter is in the Keep. We will have to be careful.’
‘I know a secret passage out of the Keep. We used it all the time when we were children.’
*
She led him by the hand and if he had not been so fearful of being caught, Ari would have thrilled at her small, soft warmth. They crept along a dusty passage connected to the dungeon, with Ari favouring his good leg. His lop-sided gait caused Katarin to hesitate. ‘I should not have asked this of you tonight,’ she said as she came to a standstill.
‘It is not so bad.’ Then seeing that she might turn back, he added. ‘In fact, the act of Change will aid my leg with its healing.’
Her eyes widened for a moment, and he wondered about the thoughts that were passing through her head. She tugged his hand lightly. ‘Very well.’
At the end of the passage they climbed a short set of stairs and entered another dark corridor. This one led them all the way to the cellar where the scent of wine seeped from oak barrels, making the air pungent. In the gloom of Katarin’s wavering candle, spiders glittered within their webs.
They ducked through a partially concealed door at the far end of the cellar and once shut, stood in perfect darkness. The close walls and ceiling muffled their footfall as the path took them deep into the earth. After a hundred paces, it climbed steeply again and ended with another door. Katarin pushed and suddenly they were beyond the Keep and the moat, with the orchard before them.
Just above the mountains, the moon hung low and round and Ari could feel the slow thread of Change enter his body. ‘Let’s go,’ he said, pulling her along now.
They stole down the orchard lanes, stirring the fallen blossom. Shadows, made by the trees, striped their bodies, and every now and then they startled grazing rabbits. When they could no longer see the walls of the Keep, they stopped under the deep shadow of an apricot tree, and Katarin leaned against its trunk.
He was aware of her scent again: rich, like spiced cider.
‘Now will you tell me what happened this evening?’ he asked.
She hesitated. ‘A messenger from home, came. My father’s ship went down, and he was not amongst the survivors.’
‘Oh Katarin, I am so sorry.’
She was quiet for several moments and he wished he knew what to do. If she had been born in his village, she would have been surrounded by kinswomen now. Together they would cry, tell tales about the loved one who had died. Her sisters, a mother, or an aunt would massage her hands and feet; they would bring her sweet tea and feed her tasty morsels and they would remain by her side for three days. In the men’s hut it was the same. A grieving person was never left to suffer on his own.
But in Dracodia it was different. He did not yet understand their customs and so he floundered, when he would normally be so sure of his role.
‘That’s not all,’ she said, after a while, her voice thick with tears. ‘Worrel told me that I must stop seeing you.’
‘Oh. I see.’
‘Well I don’t,’ she said, sounding angry now. ‘Why shouldn’t I see you?’
Ari bowed his head with sudden shame. How could she not know? If she didn’t, she must have no feeling for him whatsoever. He knew it was an impossible love that burned within him. For what Dracodian woman could love a Beast? And Worrel was no fool; he had guessed Ari’s secret long before Katarin did. ‘He is to be your husband.’
‘Not any more,’ Katarin replied.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I told him so, just before I had news about papa.’
‘And what will happen now?’
‘I don’t know.’ Her shoulders crumpled. ‘Now that my father is gone, I will need to make my own decisions.’ In a smaller voice she said, ‘It’s what I always wanted – but not like this.’
‘Should we keep walking?’
She nodded, and they left the shadow of the tree, walking side by side down the grassy lane. Once again Ari felt the pull of the moon. ‘Why did you ask me to bring you here tonight?’ he asked.
‘I want to see you Change.’
‘But why is it so important?’
She clasped his fingers between her own. ‘I need to know.’
‘What do you need to know?’
She smiled and shook her head.
‘If that is what you want, then I will do it,’ he said. Deep inside he felt he knew. She wanted to know if she would be repulsed when he became a lion, and suddenly, for the first time in his life, he wished he was something other than a Beast. ‘I want you to do something for me too,’ he said, letting go of her hand, stepping into the full splay of the moon’s silver light. ‘After I Change, I want you to climb onto my shoulders and hold on tight. If you want to know who I truly am, I can only show you this way.’
‘Yes.’
‘You won’t be afraid?’
‘No.’
Soon after this, Ari’s body surged with power. It was as though a fire had been lit inside him, with the heat and flames igniting his muscle, sinew, blood and bone, until he burst into a swirling spray of particles and though he could no longer see Katarin using his normal senses, he was aware of her. He recognised the spike of her shock, quickly followed by the gentler presence of wonder.
He drew in the swirling particles, making them pulsate in time, slowly at first, like the beat of a heart. Then he spun his light faster and faster, winking randomly, until the air surrounding her shimmered with his light. He sensed her delight. Encouraged by this, he strung them out until they whirled through the trees like fireflies. And then, because he was afraid that he risked losing himself if he carried on any longer, he reigned in all the motes of light and focused his mind to the task of Change.
In the place where Ari had stood, a lion as tall as a pony shook its mane and opened its mouth, as though grinning.
‘Is that really you?’ Katarin asked, reaching out to stroke the locks on his shoulders.
Ari lowered himself to the ground and rubbed his head against her hip.
She climbed onto his back, gripping his ribs with her knees. She wrapped her arms around his thick neck and pressed her body close to his. ‘Ready,’ she said, leaning into his ear.
And with that, he bounded off through the trees.
Pretence and Parody
Seven caravans, painted like a flock of gaudy parrots, lurched down the track. The drivers and passengers tooted tin whistles, thumped drums and blew horns. In answer to the call, the folk of the Keep gawped from the wall walk. ‘Troubadours,’ they buzzed, as the troupe set their camp in the meadow below.
Lita leaned dangerously from the battlement scanning for any sign of Old Hodder and MaKiki, but finally had to admit that their wagon was not amongst the caravan.
The leader of the troupe, a man with flowing hair and clothed in hide breeches, leapt from his seat and strode across the bridge. At the gates, he met Senna Worrel and Yaron. As was customary, the troubadour’s fee was set too high, and the Keep’s counter-offer was scandalously low. The chief troubadour shook his burly head and spat repeatedly into the dirt until Senna Worrel’s offers came closer to his liking. All through the barter Senna Worrel maintained a wooden visage, until finally, the terms were settled with a barrel of cider and a small bag of silver. The folk of the Keep cheered then, and the air hummed with expectation, though there would be no performance until the following day because the troubadours needed time to set-up their stage
and exhibits.
Lita and MaKiki had met many troubadours on the road but she could not remember ever encountering this troupe. Also, it was unusual for troubadours to tour so late in the fall. They would have to contend with storms if they continued their route much longer. Lita knew all too well what that meant. It was one thing to travel on well-worn roads but quite another to set up in soft, silty fields. More than a day of rain and the wheels of a carriage could sink where they stood.
From a distance the troubadours’ caravans had appeared charming and gay but from the wall walk their poverty was evident. The men wore trousers with patched knees and patched seats. Their horses though plump enough had matted manes and tails and the paintwork of their vans hung here and there like fruit peelings. Lita hoped that their entertainments were of a higher standard than their appearance.
A couple of ragged urchins peered from behind a wheel rim, and Lita imagined their eagerness to meet new playmates, as she had each time she and MaKiki rolled into a new town. With that thought, it occurred to her that perhaps the troubadours had met MaKiki during their travels. Hope flared for a moment, until she reminded herself of Tipple’s words. But, she thought, I will ask them anyway.
*
The players bowed, bending low from their waists, a string of clasped hands held aloft. Swords and shields lay strewn across the stage, and the hapless maiden, for whom a kingdom had been lost, rose from her watery grave, reunited with her love beyond the borders of the tragic tale, resurrected so that she might play her part another day. The Keep’s folk clapped and cheered. Despite ragged costumes and a shabby set, the troubadours’ performance had been well crafted.
‘What a lot of ballyhoo,’ Sal said, as she heaved herself from the grass. ‘If only he’d left her alone and married one of his own.’
Lita laughed. ‘But that would make for a pretty dull tale.’
Vicca scurried towards them. Her face was as white as her bonnet. ‘You gotta come see the Beast,’ she wheezed, once she had caught her breath.
That word, so unexpected, sent a ripple through Lita.
‘What Beast?’ Sal drew herself to full height, puffed out her chest and stuck her hands on her hips. She scanned the troubadours’ camp.
‘There’s a Beast in the tent over there,’ Vicca said with a backward flick of the wrist. ‘They’re charging a coin for a peep.’
‘I knew there was something hokey about this lot as soon as I set eyes on them,’ Sal said.
Madea sidled up to Lita and whispered in her ear. ‘Have you heard?’
‘The Beast?’ Lita replied, eyes sliding to check whether Sal was listening. She dearly wanted to see what one looked like.
‘It’s gotta be fake,’ Madea hissed and handed Lita a coin. ‘Go look for yourself.’
Sal loudly announced, ‘Well I’m leaving. And make no plan to return. Any folk who profit from scamming decent folk don’t deserve my coin! Coming Lita?’
‘Soon Sal. I want to see if any of them have come across MaKiki or the wagon.’ She blushed as she said it because it was only partly true, and once she could no longer see Sal’s broad backside, Lita followed Madea to the tent.
‘Be one of the few to see a live Beast!’ the troubadour leader called as he strutted in front of the crowd. ‘Stronger than three men, wild as a bear, and more cunning than a fox. For one coin, witness why these savages are made denizens of the Shindalay mines.’
Perched on an upturned bucket outside the tent, a wizened old man collected the entry fee. He spoke to no-one, but his jaws remained busy, champing against each other like a meat grinder. When it was Lita’s turn, the old man held out his hand for her coin and graced her with a gummy smile.
Inside the tent, it was dark and smoky. A small fire had been lit and a child fanned the smoke so that it swirled around the cage and then spiralled away through a hole in the apex. Lita’s eyes watered, and she pressed a sleeve to her nose. Through the blur, she failed to see a rock and tripped. In bracing herself against the fall, she clasped the bars of the cage. The thin poles crackled with her weight and sagged inwards but did not break all the way through. It was pretty flimsy, she thought, for such a fierce creature. As she squinted through the smoke, the Beast lunged and roared. She leapt away clutching her hands to her chest.
‘Better go, before you make it real mad,’ the child urged.
Instead, Lita stepped closer to the cage. The Beast roared again and thrust its snout close to the bars, baring a set of long, woody fangs beneath dull, dead eyes. It raked its quilled claws through the air and rolled its head from side to side as though insane.
She was not fooled.
Through the murk, the smoke, and the showmanship, she noted the leather straps that fixed the brindled bear shroud to its human carrier. She caught a glimpse of long pale legs glistening with sweat under the heavy costume, and the shaven jaw, beneath impotent fangs.
‘What happened?’ the troupe leader barked, as he pulled aside the tent flap. His eyes quickly surveyed the tent and then landed on Lita. He scowled and grabbed her sleeve. ‘You need to leave, so the next can see.’
‘I’m going’, Lita said, extricating herself from his grip. She marched through the opening of the tent.
Outside, the folk of the Keep hustled and jostled, hoping to catch a free glimpse as the tent flap opened. Shrilling with excitement Tilly said, ‘What does it look like?’
‘Like a man, pretending to be a Beast,’ Lita said, as loudly as she could. ‘Save your coin.’
Seric, the tallowmaker, then stumbled from the tent. ‘Terrible, terrible,’ he gasped, jowls jiggling as he shook his head and loosened his collar. Tilly turned her back on Lita and put her coin into the gummy man’s outstretched palm. ‘I’ll see for meself,’ she said.
‘So?’ Madea asked, clasping Lita’s wrist, pulling her away from the throng.
‘No wonder folk are scared of Beasts - if that’s what they think they are. I feel sick,’ she said, pressing her palm to her stomach.
‘It’s just the smoke,’ Madea said, pulling Lita away from the others. ‘You’ll be better in a moment.’
‘We should say something. They shouldn’t be allowed to do that.’ She watched two men carry the swooning Tilly from the tent.
‘I hate Beasts. I don’t care how they’re made to look,’ Madea said. ‘Other than kooks like Sal, nobody cares. Who would work the mines if there were no Beasts? You? Besides, if you stop the troubadours today, they just take their show to the next Keep, the next port, or the next town. And who would you tell? Senna Worrel? Yaron? Do, and you’ll just give them cause for suspicion.’ Madea gave her a gentle shove, her tone cajoling, ‘We have our own battles to fight.’
‘That’s it though. We will never be truly safe if others see us like that.’
‘Listen,’ Madea hissed through her teeth. ‘You might think you’re a Beast, but I certainly am not. Say anything and you’ll ruin it for both of us.’ She turned on her heel and stalked off towards the Keep.
Lita stared after her. Was she right? Were they Beasts or not? Now that she no longer Changed, did it mean she had rid herself of the part that was Beast? And even if she had, did it mean she no longer had a responsibility to do what was right?
After Madea stalked off, Lita sought out the squinty eyed fortune-teller asking whether the troupe had met a tinker on the road, but the woman said they had seen no-one matching MaKiki’s description. And yet, Lita knew the troupe had travelled through Tanglewood and stopped in Yawmouth. Artisans and tinkers always asked for news of other travellers, to avoid recently peddled towns and Keeps. That they had heard or seen nothing of MaKiki struck Lita as unlikely. But why would the fortune teller lie? It could only mean that they had never crossed paths with Hodder or MaKiki, and that made no sense.
She was about to leave and go back to the Keep when she saw Yaron striding rapidly across the field with a grim expression on his face. It appeared he was on a trajectory with the tent where the fake Beast was h
oused.
Curious, Lita drew closer to the tent again. By this stage, there was a queue of twenty outside the tent, with several of them evidently coming back for their second or third look.
Yaron pushed his way to the front of the line and confronted the old man sitting on the upturned bucket. ‘Where’s the leader of this troupe?’ he barked.
The old man shook his head and glanced over his shoulder.
Yaron barged through the hole in the tent flap. From inside, there was the sound of something shattering, and then a protesting squeal.
Lita dashed to the tent, scrabbling to push her way through the others – who had surged forward. After she managed to push her way past Tilly and Sedric, she saw Yaron emerging from the tent, grasping the brindle-furred man by his ear.
‘Is this what you’re wasting your coin on?’ he addressed the folk of his Keep. ‘A charlatan, dressed as a bear?’
Lita shrank behind Tilly, hoping that Yaron had not seen her. She did not want him to think ill of her. For how could she explain that her reasons for wanting to see the Beast came from different motives?
‘What the hell are you doing?’ a gruff voice snarled.
Lita peeped between the bodies shielding her, to see the leader of the troubadours push his way through the keep’s folk.
Yaron turned to face the leader, his face dark with anger. ‘I want you out of here by nightfall,’ he said, releasing the brindled man, who immediately put his hand to his ear and began rubbing it.
‘What offence has our Beast caused? Did he paw one of your women folk?’
Lita felt Tilly shiver at the suggestion.
‘You know as well as I, this man is not a Beast.’ Yaron replied. ‘And I’ll not have you cheat my folk out of their hard-earned coin.’
The leader smiled, sly and knowing then. ‘I’d heard this Keep had a fondness for Beasts.’
Lita wondered what this could mean.
‘Get out now,’ Yaron said, almost spitting his words.
‘What’s going on here?’ Yaron’s uncle said, bursting his way through the throng.