Veiled Rose

by Anne Elisabeth Stengl

  “Her what?”

  “Her first life. According to stories, all the kings and queens of the Far World have three lives. That’s why they live so much longer than mortals do. They get three lives before they have to cross the Final Water. Sometimes they live all three lives at once in three different bodies. Most of the time, they save them.”

  “That’s very odd,” said the girl.

  “It's normal for Faeries,” Leo replied. “Now listen. Etanun did not want to believe his brother. He determined that the Dragonwitch had to be dead because he had killed her with his magic sword. He was angry at Akilun for even suggesting that she would come back. But that anger was just the dragon poison in his veins.

  “Generations passed. And the Dragonwitch returned. This time, she was more powerful, more dreadful than ever, and her destruction was greater. Once more, Akilun and Etanun set out to hunt her down. They found her on a beautiful plain known as Corrilond Green. But after their battle, the fertile green fields were wasted into dry desert. That’s why the old kings and queens of Corrilond were called the Desert Monarchs. And now that Corrilond is gone, we call it the Red Desert.”

  “I ain’t never heard of Corry-land.”

  Leo shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. That’s not part of this story anyway. The important thing is, Etanun killed the Dragonwitch a second time. But before he did, she cut him with her claw, into the shoulder. Akilun tended to him again, but when the wound healed over, there was still poison inside.”

  “That don’t sound good,” said the girl.

  “It wasn’t. When Etanun recovered, he once more declared, ‘I have killed the Dragonwitch!’ ” Leo bellowed this in his best heroic voice. Then he changed his tone to be deep and wise. “ ‘No, my brother,’ said Akilun. ‘You have merely killed her the second time. The Dragonwitch will return once more.’

  “Etanun flew into a rage, inspired by the poison inside him. He flung Fireword far from him, saying, ‘Who can trust such a sword, when it could not even kill the Dragonwitch?’ Then he fled from Akilun, far, far away. But Akilun knew where he was going.”

  “Where?”

  “The younger brother was determined to find the Dragon who fathered the Dragonwitch. He wanted the power of the Dragonwitch for himself.”

  Leo pointed toward the mouth of the cave. In the deepening twilight, it looked even more like a wolf’s head to him. But it was just a cave. And this was just a story. “In my book,” he said, “there is an engraving of the Gateway to Death. It looks like that. Like a wolf’s head.”

  “Folks say it’s the face of the Wolf Lord,” said the girl.

  “This all happened long before the Wolf Lord,” Leo replied dismissively. He continued his narrative. “Etanun walked through the gate as he sought out the Dragon. What he did not know was that Akilun, following the light of the Asha Lantern, pursued him.

  “The path to the Dragon’s Kingdom is long and perilous. But Akilun caught up with his brother at last and held him tight. ‘I won’t let you do this,’ he said. ‘I won’t let you destroy yourself.’

  “ ‘Ha!’ said Etanun. ‘My Prince abandoned me when he gave me that faulty sword of his! You will soon abandon me too! I will offer myself to the Dragon as his servant, for his power is the only power that lasts!’ Then he wrestled against Akilun’s grasp. His strength was much greater than that of his brother, but Akilun’s love was greater still.”

  Leo rolled his eyes, suddenly embarrassed. “I know that sounds silly. That’s the way it was in the book.”

  “It don’t sound silly. It sounds pretty,” said the girl, exactly like a girl.

  Leo rolled his eyes again and continued. “They battled a long time on that dark pathway. The book said their battle lasted through generations of mortal men, but that is probably just book talk. At last, Akilun forced his brother to gaze into the light of the Asha Lantern. ‘Look at it!’ he cried. ‘Look at it and know the truth once more!’ The light nearly blinded Etanun. But it was so pure and so bright that it drove the dragon poison right out of his veins. He stopped struggling, and both brothers collapsed.

  “When Etanun came to himself once more, he was no longer poisoned. He realized that he’d been wrong to doubt the power and strength of his Prince, to throw away his gift so quickly. And he realized what a narrow escape he had had, thanks to his brother. But when he turned to him, he found that Akilun was dead.”

  “Oh!” The girl shook her head. “Not really dead?”

  “Yes. Really dead. As the book said, ‘His spirit was flown across the Final Water.’ ”

  “That’s sad.”

  “I never said it was a happy story.”

  “What’s the good of a story that ain’t got a happy endin’?” the girl demanded, crossing her arms.

  Leo considered. “Maybe it does have a happy ending. At least, when it’s actually complete. I mean, this part of it is sad. But maybe something good will come from it still? I suppose you have to read all the legends together to know for sure, but I don’t know all of them. This one is sad, but there might be a story out there somewhere to make it happy.”

  The girl nodded. “I’d like to know that story someday.”

  Leo didn’t answer. He leaned against his beanpole, eyeing the mouth of the cave once more.

  “What happened to the younger brother?” the girl asked at length.

  “Oh, he buried Akilun right there on the path’s side. Put a stone marker on the grave and set the lantern on top. It’s supposed to shine for those who walk Death’s Path, offering hope. Something like that.” Leo’s hand moved up and down the beanpole, knuckles whitening intermittently. “So . . . there isn’t really a monster in this cave, is there?”

  The girl didn’t answer for a long moment. Then she said, “You’d have to go in to find out.”

  Leo nodded. “It’s getting dark now,” he said. “I . . . I should probably retire and plan my assault first. Come back again tomorrow when I’m better prepared, right?”

  To his great relief, she nodded. “That’s good. But you won’t find the cave by yourself.”

  “I won’t?”

  “Nobody finds this place on their own.”

  This thought didn’t bother Leo as much as she seemed to think it would.

  “You’ll need me,” she went on. “I can lead you here in a snap, any time you like! Just so long as Beana don’t catch on. Beana don’t like me to come up here without her.”

  “Who’s Beana again?”

  “My nanny.”

  Oh, that’s right! Leo breathed with sudden relief as he stepped away from the cave mouth and followed her back through the rocks. This girl made up wild stories. And that’s all this cave was too . . . one of her fantasies, one of his legends. The stuff of Faerie tales and nothing else. There wasn’t really a monster either, just like Foxbrush said. It was a folktale, and right now, Leo thought that was just fine. But he could pretend. The farther he got from that cave, the better this idea sounded. He could pretend to be fierce and brave, pretend there was a monster, and let all those pretends stay in the realm of imagination where they belonged.

  The girl took his hand again at the cliff and guided him safely to the lower ground, but only after he made certain he knew the direction of Hill House’s chimneys. “It’s easy enough to find,” she told him, though he did not mention where he was from or where he was going. She seemed to know without being told. “That big old house is hard to miss, and you’ll see the path again soon enough. If you have any trouble, sing out, and I’ll come get you.”

  She may have been nothing but an odd child, but somehow this offer comforted Leo more than he would have admitted. He responded with a curt nod and started on his way.

  “You’ll come back, won’t you?” the girl called after him.

  He looked about and saw her standing small again in that manner of hers, huddling into herself as though she could huddle away into nothing.

  He shrugged. “I’ll come back.”

&n
bsp; “What’s your name?”

  “I’m Leo.”

  “Do you want to know my name?”

  “I suppose.”

  “I’m called Rose Red,” she said. Then she was gone, vanished into the rocks and woods.

  Leo descended the mountain, crashing through the underbrush as fast as he could go. Sure enough, he found the path; sure enough, he reached the garden gate not long after the sun set; sure enough, he was late to supper, scolded, and not given any pudding.

  4

  ROSE RED HAD THREE PEOPLE in her life who loved her: the old man she called father, her pet nanny goat, and her Imaginary Friend.

  And of course, there was her Dream. But Rose Red did not like to think of her Dream during waking hours.

  She found the boy’s hat as she climbed back down the mountainside. Such an odd contraption, ill fitting and useless in the rain. But she picked it up and smiled. Perhaps he would come back tomorrow. He’d said he would. He would come for his hat at least. She took it with her, plopping it on her own head, over the veils.

  Life was lonely in the high country, and Rose Red lived a lonelier life than most. Every morning before dawn, she woke and fixed a lumpy porridge for the man she called father. Just as the sky began to lighten, he would wake, eat what she fed him, and make his way down the narrow, almost nonexistent path from their cottage to Hill House, where he worked until after the sun set. During the time between, Rose Red kept the cottage in repair, tended their meager garden, found food for her nanny goat, and kept to herself.

  Away from the main road.

  Deep in the forest.

  “Why do I have to wear these things?” she had asked her Imaginary Friend once, plucking at her veils.

  You don’t, said he. He was a prince, of course. Rose Red, being a romantic child at heart, would hardly imagine anything less. But he always appeared to her in the form of a wood thrush. You never do with me.

  “Me dad says I do. If I go out and about, he says I’ve got to wear them.”

  Your father loves you. Trust him. Obey him.

  “I do, but . . .” Rose Red plucked at the veils again and huffed loudly. “Gets awful hot sometimes!”

  Her Imaginary Friend sang gently in his silvery voice. You needn’t wear them with me.

  He really was a wonderful friend. But unfortunately he remained imaginary. And sometimes—such as when she dreamed—she couldn’t conjure him up at all.

  Rose Red never saw other children. Once in a while she would climb a certain tree that grew high on the mountain slopes, and from its topmost branches she could see the shepherding valleys, where young boys and girls tended the family flocks. She could also see the main road that wound down the mountain to the village of Torfoot far below, and on still days in autumn or winter she could hear the town bells ringing, announcing fetes and feast days, weddings and funerals.

  “I wish I could see them up close,” she had told her Imaginary Friend one spring. He sat in a branch by her cheek. “I wish I could dance with the other little girls round the Maypole.”

  You will, sang the thrush. In good time.

  “But not today?”

  No, my child. Not today.

  She scowled at the bird through her veils. “I want a real friend,” she told him.

  I am a real friend.

  “No you ain’t.”

  Why say you this? Being a prince, albeit a bird, he had a pretty way of speaking. Very different from the man she called father.

  “Because you ain’t really here!” she said. “You come and go as I picture you, but you’re only in my head. I’m the only one what sees you. I want a friend that everyone knows and everyone sees is my friend.”

  I am more real than you know.

  “No you ain’t,” she said again, turning away from him. When at last she looked for him again, he was gone. But that may have been because she wanted him to go. She climbed back down from her tree, returned to her goat and the cottage, and prepared a meal for the man she called father. For those things at least were real.

  But now, maybe things could be different.

  Rose Red climbed the familiar branches of the old tree as swiftly as she climbed the ladder to her loft room in the cottage. The limbs extended almost like hands to help her, and she scaled all that dizzying way to the top, only stopping here and there to disentangle her long veils when they caught on stray twigs. She climbed until she nestled high above the rest of the world and could watch the garden gate of Hill House farther down the mountain. She saw when the boy arrived and crept quietly through the gate and across the yard. Despite the folds of her veil, she saw with eagle-eyed clarity as a red-faced woman met the boy at the kitchen door and shook a finger at his nose. She saw him propelled inside and the door shut.

  “I wonder if he’ll come back,” she whispered to the tree. It swayed gently, soothingly. Rose Red sighed, adjusted her veil once more, and descended to the forest floor. At the base of the tree, where she had dropped it, lay the boy’s broad-brimmed floppy hat. She plucked it up again and carried it home.

  Her nanny goat waited in the cottage yard and let out a great bellowing bleat the moment Rose Red emerged from the wood. She was an ornery creature and disliked above anything being staked in the yard all day. But Rose Red had not wanted her pet tagging along behind her today and, despite the goat’s irate protests, had left her in a patch of clover before venturing into the wood that morning.

  The goat gave the girl evil glares and stamped her hooves. She’d demolished the patch of clover and grown bored with chewing her cud, and now strained at her tether, shaking her ears. “Bah!”

  “Right, right, I’m comin’,” Rose Red said, picking up her pace. Despite the heavy gloves she wore, she undid the lead with nimble fingers and set the goat loose. The old nanny bounded away like a kid, kicking her back feet and shivering her shaggy coat.

  “Baaah!”

  “Don’t give me that,” Rose Red said, looping the tether into a neat pile and hitching it on the stake. “It’s not like you’re goin’ to starve. Looks like you’ve eaten down half the lawn just this afternoon.”

  “Baaaah!” said the goat, prancing over to a patch of thistles and dandelions that she set to demolishing with a will. Rose Red left her grazing and began building a small fire in the yard, over which she would boil her porridge, as it was much too stuffy inside to cook. She did not speak as she worked, for her mind was taken up with the day’s adventures.

  This was unacceptable.

  The goat trotted over to where Rose Red crouched before her fire pit and gave her a nip on the shoulder.

  “Hen’s teeth, Beana!” Rose Red exclaimed, lost her balance, and sat down hard. She pushed the goat’s long nose away angrily. “Hen’s teeth! I know you don’t like it when I leave you but . . . but honestly, cain’t a girl take a walk by herself once in a while? Fool goat! What’s eatin’ you?”

  “Bah!” said the goat. She stamped and shook her little horns. “What’s eating me, she asks? Cruel, cruel girl! Running off like that without so much as a by-your-leave, and leaving me tied to a stake all day! In the rain! Like some animal !”

  “Beana, you are an animal.”

  “You do that again, and you’ll just have to find yourself some other goat to talk to, so help me!”

  “I weren’t in no trouble.”

  “Whoever taught you to speak?” The goat snorted. “ ‘Wasn’t in any trouble.’ You sound like you were raised by a bunch of sheep!”

  Rose Red shrugged and clambered up from the dirt, brushing off the back of her skirt. The goat followed her to the cottage door and stood on the threshold bleating while Rose Red found a safe place for the boy’s floppy hat and started rooting around for her cooking pot and materials for a meal. “Where did you go, Rosie?”

  “Up the mountain.”

  “Up the mountain, did you say?”

  “Yes, up the mountain, Beana!” She found a small bundle of dried leaves and took them down from their nai
l on the wall. “I know better than to go down; you’ve told me often enough.”

  “Well, if you were going up the mountain, why didn’t you take me with you?” Beana’s eyes narrowed and her slitted nostrils flared. “Did you go up to the cave by yourself?”

  “No.”

  “Where did you go, then?”

  The girl took a few more herbs, slipped them into a raggedy pocket, then carried her pot and foodstuffs back out to the fire, which was starting to blaze to life. She took a moment to tie the long ends of her veil back behind her head, out of her way. Now she wore not so much a veil as a mask. Tiny slits in the fabric at eye level provided her only line of sight, yet she moved gracefully enough for a country bumpkin. She tied the knot of fabric carefully, stalling for time as she chose her words. But she hadn’t been brought up to lie.

  “I did go to the cave,” she said. “But not by myself.”

  Beana stared with all the potency of a goat’s gaze. Then she baaahed again and tossed her head. “You know I don’t like you to use those Paths, Rosie! Who, by Lumé’s crown, did you go with?”

  “Leo.”

  “And who is Leo? Another imaginary friend?”

  “A boy.”

  “What, the boy who gave us such a fright in the wood yesterday?”

  “Yup.”

  Beana snorted. “Now you’re making up stories.”

  The girl took a stick and moved the ashes in the fire pit to smother the fire, leaving behind glowing coals, over which she placed her pot. “Why does everybody think I make up stories? I went up the mountain to the cave, and I took Leo with me! He wants to hunt the monster, and now he thinks it lives in there, and now he’s my friend, and I’m goin’ to help him.”

  “Hunt the monster?”

  Rose Red nodded.

  Beana backed away from the fire pit and walked out to a far corner of the yard. She fell to nibbling the grass in a thoughtful way, her tail to the cottage. And still the scents of the mountain drifted to her, the smell of Hill House’s kitchen fires and the sloping gardens where the old man worked.