Along The Watchtower

by Litwack, David

  When she noticed me, she turned and smoothed her dress and expression in a single motion.

  "Oh, good morning, Milord. Or is it noon already?"

  I made a bow as if she were the royalty.

  "It's noon, but I've had a change of heart. Now that the time is upon us, I'm loath to bring you with me. I'm sorry, Rebecca. I should never have agreed to let you come. Whatever is to be done, I'll have to do it alone."

  Her eyes flared and she planted both hands on her hips. "Now what kind of gardener would I be to go back on my vow to the Goddess? And you so forlorn on the watchtower steps, thrashing at the air with your staff and dropping your sword to the ground. I've seen the burden you bear and won't let you bear it alone."

  I watched as she confronted me, shoulders squared and feet rooted to the earth like a swordsman braced for battle. Her look challenged me, insisting this world was full of goodness, and let all the demons be damned. And then, inspired by that look, a melody began to play in my head, the tune from the globe with the angels. It started as an undertone but grew in strength until I could no longer ignore it. And then from deep within my memory, the words came back to me like a song from the cradle, words of glory and Goddesses on high.

  Rebecca's magic at work? Or mine? Or better yet, magic from the both of us. I began to nod, slowly at first, and then faster.

  "Very well," I said. "If you still insist."

  I held out a hand but came no closer, still hoping she'd back away and return to the illusory safety of her village. But without hesitation, she filled the gap, foregoing my hand and looping her arm around mine. And so we proceeded to our fate, not like two people at the edge of despair, but like a couple walking down the aisle at a coronation.

  That changed once we crossed the threshold to the crypt. Rebecca's pace slowed until she was barely inching along. Her gaze flitted everywhere, up to the vaulted arches and across to the tombs of the kings.

  I tried to hurry her along. The less time we spent in the crypt, the better. But as we walked through the wrought iron gate and down the tunnel to the first chamber, her breathing became shallow and labored. I paused at the end to let her rest.

  "Not exactly a garden," I said. "You can still turn back."

  She gave a violent shake of her head, gripped my arm tighter, and drew me on. But when we came to the caskets of my parents, she stopped.

  "It's the king," she said. "Your father."

  "And beside him, my mother, the queen."

  She dipped a knee, a curtsy of respect, then her eyes widened as she took in the blush of youth on my mother's cheek.

  "But, Milord, your mother-" She struggled to breathe.

  I finished what she was unable to say. "Has been dead for many a year."

  "Then how is it she looks so alive?"

  I drew in a gulp of air, trying to breathe for the two of us. "I warned you, Rebecca. The demons are devious. They show her like this to remind me how much I've lost."

  I urged her to keep going. My family was only the first of the trials, and there was more to see. At the locked door, I slid my fingertips along the brass plate in the shape of a hawk, feeling for the keyhole, and then slipped the roots of the World Tree inside. I twisted. The lock released with a snap, and the door swung open.

  "The second trial," I said, as we stepped inside. "The Hall of Heroes."

  We passed the archangel and the four spears with the helmets on top. At the row of coffins, I bent my head, and Rebecca followed with a deeper bow.

  But though I tried to encourage her along, she lagged behind, dragging her feet on the ground and gaping at each of the corpses. She gasped at the last one when she saw the void where a face should be.

  "To overcome this trial," I said, "I had to embrace the shadows. These are the heroes who were lost, all known to me now and revered."

  I led her on until we were blocked by the stone wall.

  "What now, Milord?"

  As if in answer, the blue soldier appeared, his arm outstretched and beckoning.

  I raised my staff and tapped the wall, grasping the gardener's hand and praying the eagle's magic would extend to us both.

  It did. The two of us drifted through the wall like wraiths doomed to wander between life and perpetual sleep. On the far side, we rested beside the casket with the stranger inside. As icy fingers of mist swirled about our ankles, Rebecca shivered and huddled close. When she spoke, her voice sounded as if muffled by the fog.

  "Is this the final trial?"

  "Not yet. There's one more."

  I turned and pointed to the far side, to what I still believed to be an empty coffin.

  "There, the place I spoke of, so near but beyond my reach. Now we'll see how strong the power of our alliance may be."

  I pulled out Kingsbane, feeling its sorrow add to the gloom of the crypt. I shook it off, raised my hand above my shoulder, and flung the dagger across the chamber, expecting it to bounce off the barrier as it had done before. But this time, it sailed through and landed on the ground by the coffin.

  As I marveled at what we'd accomplished together, a bloodless hand reached down and picked up the dagger.

  The assassin.

  He greeted me like a friend he'd chanced upon in the courtyard on a summer day. His lips curled upward but the empty sockets showed no sign of joy.

  Then he turned to the gardener.

  "And so, my dear, we meet again, this time in the darkness of my world. But such darkness is not right for one such as you who awakens each morning expecting the sun to shine. Perhaps, we need something brighter."

  He twirled a hand, and an indigo glow appeared, replacing the gloom and letting me see more clearly. To my horror, the final coffin was no longer empty. The simpleton lay inside, his hands bound and his blue eyes open wide. The innocent smile still graced his lips. And at his feet, the purple monkshood.

  The assassin took the dagger and strode to the flower.

  "Time grows short," he said, "and this is the final trial. Now you will have to choose."

  With a flick of his wrist, he stuck the dagger's point into the stem of the flower and dragged it downward, making a gash that oozed with sap. When he raised the dagger, its tip glowed moist in the blue light.

  I stepped in front of Rebecca and drew my sword. But the assassin only laughed, a hollow sound that rose to the arches and scattered among their shadows until it faded away like a hiss.

  "It's your dagger, Milord," he said, mocking the gardener. "Do with it as you wish."

  He spun the dagger around so the handle faced me and offered it back.

  I glowered at him. "If you return this to me, have no doubt what I'll do with it."

  "If you mean to use it on your humble servant, you're more of a fool than I thought. Haven't you learned from our prior encounters? I'm nothing but air, an invention of your imagination, a non-player character in a game. Even if you kill me, I'd be back again the next time you entered this chamber. But this boy-"

  He turned and gestured to the casket, then stretched out a hand like the blue soldier beckoning.

  "You expect me to slay the boy?"

  "You've done it before."

  I felt the blood rush to my cheeks. "Never. That's a lie."

  "In your mind. To sacrifice the boy so you might become king. Such a small price. But it's not for me to decide. The choice is yours."

  This was the moment, the end of the trials, my chance to save the world from the Horde. The small hairs on the nape of my neck stood up, and I was struck by a solitude so profound my knees buckled. I recalled my father's words from long ago, as recorded by his advisor. There was only me and, like my father before me, I had to choose.

  "The sap has great power," the assassin said. "All it will take is a scratch."

  I reached out and accepted the dagger, then stepped toward the boy. I raised my arm. But before I could strike, I heard a gasp from behind.

  "No, Milord."

  I spun around, expecting a look of condemna
tion, but instead Rebecca beamed with hope. My mouth opened, but I had no words. She spoke for me.

  "It's wrong to destroy a flower while still in bloom. That's not the gardener's way."

  I turned back to the assassin, who must have read the uncertainty in my face.

  "Would you fail the final trial," he said, "save the boy and cast your world into darkness?"

  I wavered, looking first at the gardener and then down at the casket. The boy stared back at me with an unwarranted certainty that I'd save him.

  "I have until sunset tomorrow to choose," I said. "One more day to find a better way."

  "Ah. A better way." The assassin's smirk widened, causing dark creases around the empty sockets. "But what makes you believe tomorrow will be better? Tomorrow might bring a more difficult choice."

  "How could any choice be more difficult than this?"

  "Foolish dauphin. The dreadlord is bound by the treaty, but he's a gambler. He loves to raise the stakes. Something with a bigger reward, but at a greater cost."

  "And that is?"

  He pointed a withered finger. "The gardener."

  I froze. Behind me, I heard a sound escape, a combination of a gasp and a groan. My mouth became dry as wool and my stomach filled with wasps. The dagger in my hand turned to ice, its sorrow flowing up my arm and into the very chambers of my heart. I tried to let go, but my fingers seemed welded to its handle.

  I turned slowly, terrified of what I might find. But when I looked, she was gone.

  "What?"

  The assassin waved a hand over the casket. The boy had vanished, replaced by the gardener.

  "What evil is this?" I said. "And how could this be a bigger reward?"

  The blue glow now shone through the assassin's eye sockets, a sign of pleasure.

  "One simple scratch, Milord, and the war between the Alliance and the Horde will be over, not only for a generation, but for all time. You have the dreadlord's word."

  I bent low over the casket. Rebecca wasn't frightened at all. Instead, her look said, "Give me your sadness. I'll take as much as you need."

  All the sorrow that Kingsbane had absorbed became like a leaden weight. The dagger slipped from my fingers and clattered to the floor with an unnatural sound, an echo that did not abate. Then I lifted the gardener from the casket, turned my back on the assassin, and, holding the eagle staff high, swept her out of the crypt.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Dreams of the Cape

  After the outing to the Common, I threw myself into my goals. I worked out daily, more than my new trainer Chuck had prescribed, pounding out repetitions like I was trying to punish the weights. I ordered thick texts on architecture and stayed awake late into the night, prepping for grad school entrance exams. I even consulted the chaplain about my discharge. But I stayed away from Becky.

  At first, Ralph or Dinah would come by on their lunch break to see how I was doing. Then before leaving, they'd drop off a sealed envelope from Becky, cards wishing me holiday joy. But the holidays came and went and I couldn't bring myself to respond. The cards turned to messages on brightly colored notepaper. Hope you're doing well, Freddie. Keep up your rehab. Believe in the future. Spring will come. Then even those stopped.

  But not the flowers. Every Monday and Thursday, when I'd come back to my room after details, a fresh daisy would adorn a jelly-jar glass at my bedside, as if some elf had snuck in and placed it there. And leaning against the glass, an unaddressed envelope. Each time, I'd squint at the daisy's petals, trying to make them glow in the fluorescent lighting while I decided what to do. Each time, after a minute, I'd give in and open the envelope. And each time, inside, I'd read a hand-written note with two simple words.

  "I'm here."

  ***

  The first week in January, a storm blew through, leaving a fresh coat of snow in its wake. The next morning, icicles hung from the eaves of the advanced rehabilitation facility, and the branches of the trees were glazed, transforming the hospital grounds into a wonderland. All that was missing was the ice sculptures. Despite the bitter cold, I put on my army jacket and went outside to look.

  The sky was a shade of blue that appears only when there's hardly a drop of moisture in the air, and puffy clouds floated across it, so crisp they looked like cutouts from a storybook. As I glanced up toward the main hospital building, a glint of sunlight reflected off a window on the fourth floor. The physical therapy room. It was 11 a.m. Becky's third patient of the day would be arriving-some kid with a limb blown off who was convinced his life was over. Or a tough veteran cursing the brass and questioning if it had been worth it. And Becky would greet them with her gentle touch and her faith in the future.

  Should I go? My eye followed the ribbon of black pavement that led to the door nearest PT. No more than a couple of hundred yards. But then I looked higher, to the topmost turret of the hospital, to the forbidding windows keeping watch over the land, and a raw wind gusted and tore through me. I kicked away a chunk of icicle that had fallen in my path and turned back.

  Like all things, the cold snap passed and was followed by a drizzly thaw. The wonderland was reduced to a grayish slush, which soon turned black from the exhaust of cars. I stopped going outside or seeing anyone other than the guys on my detail. Until one day, Ralph came by.

  He rapped on the doorjamb to give me a heads up.

  "I brought you a visitor, Freddie. Is that okay?"

  I tensed, afraid of what I should wish for. But it wasn't Becky. Instead, he brought in a stranger, a small balding man with a thin mustache. In his hand, he held a tweed cap he kept twisting as if wringing out a wet towel.

  I hoped I was done with surprises, but couldn't be sure, so I nodded politely, giving him a pleasant smile. It was the kind that said, "I don't think I know you, but just to be safe, I'm not going to let on one way or the other."

  Ralph introduced us. "This is Mr. Shapiro, Freddie. He came to the hospital because of this."

  Ralph showed me a crinkled and slightly grimy newspaper that looked like it had been salvaged from the trash. The Cape Cod Times. Below the fold was the picture of me receiving the Silver Star.

  I looked back at Mr. Shapiro with my mouth open.

  The man made a little bow but hesitated to shake hands, still too preoccupied with his cap.

  "An honor to meet you, Lieutenant. Wow. A real American hero. An honor indeed."

  A fan? Just what I needed. I was about to thank him and explain how busy I was, but Ralph warned me off.

  "He might have some news for you, Freddie."

  News? I hadn't received much news in the past few years, and what little came my way had been bad. I ground my teeth and waited.

  "May I have a seat?" Mr. Shapiro said. "This weather's bad for my arthritis."

  I nodded and motioned to the one option in the room, a gray folding chair along the wall. He settled in, lowering himself slowly, and then looked around for a place to hang his cap. I was about to grab it from him when he settled it on his lap. Only when the cap was safe did he begin.

  "I run a small business, Lieutenant-souvenirs, tchotchkes, some people would call it junk. But tourists like it. I don't feel bad, you understand, because a lot of people get pleasure from my stuff, a cheap memory of a few good days on the Cape. Several years ago, my son got the idea to sell merchandise online. DreamsoftheCape.com. Do you believe it? Me, with a website. And you know what?"

  He paused, hoping to build suspense.

  "What?" I finally said before I screamed.

  "It took off, became 87 percent of my business. So now I run a little year-round shipping operation in the back of my store. People love to get beach stuff for Christmas. Reminds them of summer."

  "Excuse me, Mr. Shapiro, but what does this have to do with me?"

  "Well, the agency sends me kids-I give them jobs other people don't want to do. I get stacks of old newspapers from the dump and have the kids wrap the tchotchkes for shipment, the ones that are breakable. The souvenirs,
I mean, not the kids. I got this one boy, great kid, been with me two years. Does a nice job, never complains, always grinning.

  "One day, he drops a tchotchke, a porcelain mermaid that shatters on the floor. Never happened before, so I don't get mad or nothing. I just tell him to sweep it up. But he's so upset. It was a picture in the newspaper, he said. An old copy of the Cape Cod Times. He claimed it was his brother and pointed to a wounded soldier receiving the Silver Star."

  He asked Ralph for the newspaper, then smoothed out the wrinkles and looked from the picture to me and back.

  "That's you, all right. I wanted to meet you first. Didn't say anything to the kid yet. I didn't want to disappoint him."

  "What . . .?" Something caught in my throat. I reached for a bottle of water I'd been sipping and took a long gulp. "What's his name?"

  "They call him Andy." I must have flinched because he quickly explained. "A nickname. I guess they thought he had a grin like Andy Griffith. You know, the guy on that TV show, the sheriff of Mayberry." When I gaped at him, he dismissed me with a wave. "Ah, you're too young. You wouldn't remember." And then when I looked disappointed, "I'm sorry. I don't know his real name. I'm not sure anyone does. I pay the agency, and they pay him. A lot of these kids come from tough backgrounds, so I try not to be too nosy."

  "And what . . . does he look like?"

  He fidgeted in the chair and reached into his pants' pocket to pull out a photo in a plastic sheath. His knobby fingers reached out and offered it to me. I craned my neck for a peek, then stood and took it from him. My heart was pounding harder than when I went on patrol.

  There, in the palm of my hand, was a picture of a boy. The hair was the right color but had grown too long and merged with a beard to conceal most of the face. I tried staring into the eyes, hoping to see through them to my brother. But it had been over six years since Richie ran off. We both would have changed, and I was afraid to get my hopes up.

  I looked for a long time, until Mr. Shapiro interrupted.

  "You can keep that." He pulled a card out from his wallet. "Here's my number. If you think it might be him, give me a call and I'll tell you how to set up a meeting."