by Jane Yolen
“Hush,” Father said.
I hushed.
He pulled me into his comforting arms, all but whispering in my ear. “But have you never wondered why we of the Family never go on long trips, beyond the borders of this kingdom? Why we have never visited ancient monuments in the Far East or the new building in the West? Why we have not moved on from this glade?”
“We love it here, Father,” I said. “It’s home.” Though just earlier I’d been longing for far-off climes.
“Yes, we love it. And yes, it is our home. But that is not the reason.”
I stayed silent until Father, taking a deep breath, said, “We are tied to this land and cannot remove from it.”
I eased out of his sheltering arms and turned to stare at him, thinking that perhaps this was the story part or that he was making a joke. Not a particularly funny joke, though. But I knew that besides always telling the truth, elves are incapable of telling jokes. Though they can laugh. He was not laughing now. His face held the seriousness with which he spoke of True Things.
I bit my bottom lip. How could this tied-to-the-land thing be true? Hadn’t Father lived in Eire before he married Mother, somewhere over the Easter Sea?
Almost as if he had read my mind—though mind reading is not an elvish trait either—he said, “Once I married your Mother and we had our family, I became tied to the land as well. Family is what we have when everything else is gone.”
“Tied?”
“Tied with bonds of magick as old and secure as Common Law.”
I already knew about Common Law. Father had explained it recently when we were talking about highwaymen because I’d found them in a book under H. Common Law was what had been accepted as law before things got written down, before people—fey or human—had begun to write. It’s that old.
“But, Father—”
His dark eyes got darker, and he held up a hand. “Hush. We owe our fortunes—”
“What fortunes?”
A finger to his lips to shush me. “We owe our fortunes, such as they are, our long existence, such as it is, and the lives of our children to the rulers of this land. The original king took in Fergus and Banshee when no one else would, after they’d been thrown out by the other fey and had wandered around the countryside, camping by wells, couching in cowsheds, squatting in abandoned houses. And there they were, without protection, the two of them and their young family—they had two little daughters by then.”
“Gemma and Gerna?”
He nodded. “And they all could have been killed by humans easily, for their Shouting ability was not yet honed and they’d lost most of their magick coming above the Hill. Besides, Gerna was still an infant, and you know, I think, that a nursing fey woman is essentially without magick.
But our king’s great-, great-, seven-times-great grandfather made a bargain with Fergus and Banshee. He said, ‘You stay here under our protection and do a Bidding when we need it, which we will consider as binding as an Oath, and you will never be harmed by me or mine.’”
“Ah,” I said, not yet quite understanding.
Father ran his tongue over his upper lip, for his mouth had gone dry with the telling. “Over the centuries, custom has made that exchange into unbreakable law, and the Biddings—though in recent times capricious and unnecessary—have become our duty. We are bounden to do a Royal Bidding whether we agree with it or not.”
I leaned forward, now trembling with anger. “I’ve known about the Biddings for as long as I can remember, Father. But, tied . . .”
I thought of all the places I’d read about: the Hanging Gardens of Babylon, the Hellespont, China’s Great Wall like the spine of a dragon, the Eiffel Tower, The Golden Gate Bridge: things from the past, the present, the future. Was I never to see any of them? Not the geysers of the world, the Grand Canyon, the blue ice of the frozen Alaska, the Andes Mountains, the Alps? And I hadn’t even gotten beyond the H’s yet.
He shook his head. “I know, I know, darling child. During all the time I have been here, and before that as well, the Shouting Fey have been tied to this land. The royals could withdraw their protection and let us go. We are certainly strong enough now to withstand living outside of this domain without fear. But as long as the present royal family remains in power, can you see any of them voluntarily giving us up? They count on our magicks and spend them unwisely. But we made a promise. And a fey who goes back on an Oath . . .”
I whispered, “Bursts into a thousand stars.” I lifted my arms and made a motion with my fingers like stars falling, or rain. Then I thought a minute. “Is that true? I mean, we all say it as though it’s true, but has it ever actually happened? Not just in a story?”
He held out his hand and drew me to him again, which made me think he knew that what he had to say next was going to shock me or move me or both. So I let him pull me in.
“There were not seven but eight children in your Mother’s immediate family: the seven girls—”
“Mother and the Aunts,” I said, and he nodded. “Who all looked like their beautiful Mother, Gerne.” It was an old family story, but a good one.
“And a lovely, smart boy named Goldenrod.”
“A boy? Nobody ever said there was a boy.” I was astonished.
“He was the oldest, and when he turned seventeen, he said to the Family at dinner, ‘We never took that Oath to the king, you know. It doesn’t apply to us, only Grandmother and Grandfather.’ He meant Fergus and Banshee, of course.”
“Of course,” I whispered, hoping Father would stop right there. But he didn’t.
“Goldenrod set off down the path with Galda and your Mother, who was just five, trailing after him, begging him to turn back. He got as far as the road to Marbleton, which was then a separate kingdom. And no sooner had he set foot beyond the borders of the kingdom, than he . . .” Father stopped, took a deep breath.
“He didn’t burst . . .”
Father nodded. “They watched until the last star had faded from sight, then trudged home, too stunned to weep until they were safe in their mother’s arms. She died soon after. They all believed that the shock killed her. And not six human months later, in his deep grief, their father—who was a human—died, too.”
I, too, was shocked, but I didn’t weep. I’d never known Grandmother and Grandfather, and as for Uncle Goldenrod, not till this very moment had I even heard of him. Though Aunt Galda had taught us all a jump rope rhyme that went:
Goldenrod on the road,
Golden stars all explode,
Skip to the left, skip to the right,
Take one step and out of sight.
Out of sight, indeed. It had never occurred to me that the rhyme celebrated a tragedy in the Family. I’d always thought it was a nursery rhyme about a flower spreading its seed. I wasn’t going to weep. I couldn’t weep. I was too angry for that.
“Was there ever a time that the kings of the kingdom were good to us?”
“Oh, sweet child, Carmody the First saved Fergus and Banshee, which means he saved the Family. He told them that they must never go outside his borders because he could only protect them within his kingdom, and they swore they would not. And he further asked them to swear to come when he Bid them, so he could keep an eye on them and be sure they were all right.”
“They swore?” I gasped.
“Yes, Gorse, they swore an Oath for their entire family. And though Carmody was a good king for all of his life and never actually Bid them do anything, that Oath has stood all these years.”
So we’d done this to ourselves, to all our descendants for . . . well, forever, I supposed, and said so, loudly and with passion.
“King Carmody never knew that a fey Oath means something more than a human Oath,” Father said, “which means next to nothing.”
I thought of my Uncle
Goldenrod, and those thousand stars. I thought of Aunt Galda and Mother as a young child watching what happened. “And the other kings?” My voice had gone very soft.
“His son Crom was a very wise ruler who built a great library. But he knew about the Oath and what it meant. He’d read about it in one of his books. When he was an old, old man—he lived to be nearly a hundred, as had his father—I came through the kingdom on a visit to some far-flung relatives who lived across the border, though really I wanted to visit that library. It was quite famous by that time. Of course, that’s when I met your mother, and I never got to see my birth family again.”
“A library . . .” I mused.
“Yes, I became the king’s librarian for the rest of his rule. We spent many happy hours discussing books, the king and I. He left me some of my favorites in his will. The rest, I’m afraid, were burned by his successor for taking up too much space, a space that he turned into a ballroom for dances and games.” He shuddered. “Carmody the Second he was called and, while not a bad man, quite a stupid one. Took after his mother. He knew about the Bidding because his father had told him, and he knew about the bursting into a thousand stars as well. So began the history of the abuse of Bidding that the royal family has used on us till this very day.”
He stood and began pacing while continuing his story of the Family. “Now, burning the books was ultimately disastrous for the kingdom, but at least Carmody the Second let me take the books set down for me in his father’s will. I sneaked a few extra out as well. This was before I discovered the library hole. It was already in the belvedere wall. And the belvedere had been built by Old Crom, so I have often wondered . . .”
“But after that?” I held out no hope for a positive answer about the Biddings and got none.
“Alas, child, the king and his heirs since have developed into a dynasty of idiots, louts, greedyguts, and fools. In my estimation, it all comes down to burning the books. An awful fate, but there it is. No one has ever said that Fate is kind.”
“Why didn’t Mother want to tell me this herself?”
He took up both my hands and held them. I could feel him trembling. A lock of his thinning hair fell over one eye, giving him a piratical look. “Because, Gorse, the telling of it makes her physically ill. Not for what it means for herself, not anymore, but for what it means for me and for you children. She’d thought that, long before we had any of you, the duty to the king would have been resolved. Otherwise, she mightn’t have married me and certainly wouldn’t have had you children. And after that, she trusted me to find a solution, and I have failed her.”
“So far, Father. But you have me to help now.”
He wasn’t listening. “She should have remained one of the unmarried and childless Shouters,” he whispered. “It would have hurt her less.”
“Like Great-aunt Gilda,” I whispered back, reaching out and catching his hand. But I didn’t want to believe him. Believing him would mean that I’d been mistaking Mother all these years. Ever since that conversation I’d overheard, I’d thought she hadn’t married Father for love, when now I clearly understood that she had.
And yet, I did believe him. And believing, I forgave her entirely.
Father kissed me on the brow and walked out of the library to let me think. I sat there until the light faded and evening settled in around the pavilion, the home that now felt an awful lot like a prison.
• • • • • • • •
For hours, the phrase we are tied to the land ran full circle around my brain, and it was not a comforting thought. The Biddings were an annoyance, a tithing, and we were sworn to them. But to be tied to one place by law and not by choice was a hateful thing. So was the knowledge that there was nothing I could do about those ties.
During the following hours, I would think, There has to be something. And find a bit of hope. Then as suddenly my traitor brain would counter, It’s always been this way. Even Father says so, and he has not found anything to break that tie. And then all hope was dashed. Round and round I went.
The moon rose, and a shaft pierced the gloom, like a prophecy. Suddenly I remembered the actual prophecy, which I hadn’t given any brain space to in years. That’s when I understood for the first time why Mother and the Aunts had so wanted me to be the One:
The One comes into the daylight veiled,
So long awaited, hoped for, hailed
Where others tried and always failed.
And from a deep and darkened space,
A Savior of an ancient race,
The One will, wingless, come apace.
With brand-new wings, the One can fly,
Makes truth come out of ancient lie,
So severs bonds and every tie.
“Severs bonds and every tie.” I said it aloud. “They meant that literally. And I failed them.”
Had I not tried hard enough?
I’d already forgiven Mother, but that was much easier than forgiving myself, something I didn’t even try, at least not then. Not till much, much later.
But I did weep, long into the night, long past the setting of the moon. I wept for the Family and for me. And for Father, who hadn’t been born this way but had chosen it out of love.
I think I wept for Father most of all.
• • • • • • • •
Once I’d finished weeping, I sneaked around the pavilion, spying on everyone. My brothers and sisters were all asleep, which seemed unjust to me. Surely they’d already known about being tied to the land, and no one had ever thought to warn me. One little warning, maybe, like, “Gorse, there’s something you should know.” I mean, they passed on every other little bit of gossip and innuendo that came their way. The boys were the worst, actually.
Or perhaps, I thought, this is just a rite of passage. If no one else had thought to warn me, why hadn’t Dusty? He was not just my big brother, he was my best friend.
I could almost hear his voice, saying, About to turn thirteen, Goosey? You have a tremendous surprise in store! Almost, but not quite, since he’d never said a blessed word.
Gritting my teeth, I kept sneaking about the pavilion, tiptoeing from room to room, getting angrier by the moment. Suddenly I heard a strange sound, something between a wind wuthering and a crow’s call. I followed it, as if it were a thread that needed winding up, and found myself standing before Mother and Father’s bedroom.
Only then did I realize the sound was Mother crying.
I don’t think I’d ever actually heard her crying before, at least not like this—harsh and unending.
I stood for a long time listening, until there was a whisper from Father.
“Darling girl,” he said.
I’d never heard him call her that. That was what he called me! This was a strange time, with new revelations at every turning.
“Darling girl, keep your voice low. Please don’t Shout.”
“I . . . am . . . not . . . Shouting,” she said. She wept between each word. “You would know if I were Shouting. The children would know. The Aunts would know. Everyone would know.” She gulped back another sob. “Mab’s breath, even that disgusting king would know if i were shouting!”
She was right. But he was right, too.
“For the children’s sake,” he said.
“It’s for their sake that I’m crying.”
“Still . . .” He didn’t finish the sentence, but she knew—even I knew—what he meant.
She swallowed the cries. “But it’s not fair.”
“You sound just like Gorse.”
That shut her up entirely.
• • • • • • • •
After some long, tense moments, the silence was so deafening, I left and went outside. After all I had to think about, sleep was not an option.
I fluttered down the hill to the l
ittle meadow that was my refuge. Lying in the dewy grass, I gazed up at the night sky. The moon was all but gone, though I could still see the three stars of Mab’s Crown showing directly above me and, off to the right, the cluster Father calls Puck’s Handkerchief. As I watched, there were some quick flashes of light as asteroids sped across the dark bowl of the heavens. I’d learned about them years ago, in the Astronomy section of the library. Comforted by the familiar far-away, exhausted from all the new feelings and frustrations I’d discovered, I fell asleep in the grass and did not wake till long past dawn.
Of course, when I awoke, my nose was running, my eyes streamed as fast as any little brook, and my forehead blazed with yet another ague.
I trudged home and put myself to bed. Every bone in my body felt miserable, and that seemed about right. After all, I knew sickness. Understood it. It was a familiar upset. Not like that other thing.
I refused to think any more about being tied to the land.
• 5 •
GIFTS
In the morning, the Family was to gather in the dining hall to discuss the possibilities of what each of us could bring to the christening. And the morning after that, we were to go up to the castle.
I wasn’t there, of course. It turned out I was horribly sick with fever, my body racked with alternate hot and cold shivers rushing like a spring spate across my skin. Who would have believed that a single starry night in a wet field should become so important to the fate of us all?
As I lay sipping the hot tisane that Father had made for me—trying not to shake it all over the bedclothes and my nightdress with my trembling hand—I knew Mother and Father, my brothers and sisters, cousins and Aunts were all in the Great Hall of Great-aunt Gilda’s belvedere, receiving the few implements of Old Magick we had to use at the princess’s christening.
I was simply too sick to care. If I could have lifted my head from the pillow, I might have cried out for help. But that was not going to happen till the fever broke. I lay felled by ague and something else.
I think it was relief.