Veiled Rose

by Anne Elisabeth Stengl

  And far down the hill, away in the low country, she could smell that Other unlike all others, could feel it with senses beyond the five natural ones. She muttered soft goaty noises to herself as she grazed. She’d been a goat as long as the girl had been alive, and ten years of eating anything that would fit in her stomach had wiped out any dietary scruples with which she might have been born.

  The girl slipped up beside her and placed a hand on her back. “He’s goin’ to be my friend, Beana.”

  “Bah.”

  “I’ll take you with us next time, right?”

  “Baaah.”

  “I will! And you’ll like him. He’s not much good at climbin’ and he’s loud as anythin’ in the forest. But he’s nice. He tells good stories and makes funny faces.”

  “And that’s the real measure of a friend, isn’t it?”

  The girl chewed her lip beneath her veil, biting a bit of the linen along with it. “I want a friend, Beana. A real friend. Who really talks.”

  The goat raised her nose and gazed up at the girl with as much tenderness as a goat’s face can express. “Times are changing, Rosie,” she said. “You’re growing up faster than I can blink! And I’m sad to say, there’s nothing I can do to stop it.” She nuzzled the girl’s hand, lipping at the ragged glove. “Promise me, girl, that you’ll not take the boy back to the cave.”

  Rose Red licked her lips. “He wants to, Beana.”

  “But he shouldn’t.”

  Rose Red shrugged.

  “We both know what it would mean should he see the monster, Rosie.”

  “Maybe he won’t see it?” The girl whispered this hope as though afraid to even acknowledge it. “Maybe he won’t see anythin’?”

  “Sweetest girl,” said the goat, “you’ll only hurt yourself if you become attached to this boy. Let him go. Let us keep to our simple life the way we always have. Quiet, to ourselves, watching over that man you call father. Yes?”

  Rose Red shook her head. “Leo’s goin’ to be my friend, Beana.” Tears pricked her eyes and dampened the cloth of her veil. “He’s goin’ to.”

  The goat huffed. “We’ll see, then, won’t we? But you’re not to go to the cave again. And you’re not to stake me out in the yard, Lord Lumé help you if you do! Agreed?”

  Rose Red nodded. “All right, Beana.”

  The man she called father came home well after dark.

  “Did you have a good day, Rose Red?” he asked her.

  “I did, Dad,” she replied, then fed him porridge for supper.

  He did not ask if she had seen the boy or not. He himself had watched the young mister enter the wood in a raincoat and hat and emerge again without the hat but carrying his beanpole. And the old gardener thought his own thoughts on the matter, ate his lumpy gruel, and creaked his way to bed.

  Rose Red checked to be certain her goat was bedded down for the night. Beana gave her a slobbery kiss on the cheek through the veil, and Rose Red patted her nanny between the horns. Then she returned to the cottage, banked the fire, and climbed to her little loft bedroom up above. She fell asleep to the sound of the old man’s snores as though they were soothing lullabies.

  And then she dreamed.

  Rose Red steps down the ladder like a spider descending its thread, then glides from the cottage on a breath of wind. No one, not even Beana, notices her passing, for she is dreaming and invisible. She glides into the wood and climbs the mountain, higher and higher, to where the rocks are dagger sharp. But they cannot hurt her, for she has no substance.

  She approaches the cave at last.

  In the odd, moonless light of dreams, it looks more like a wolf’s head than ever. But Rose Red enters without fear or hesitation, and now she sees as well in that close darkness as she does in broad daylight. The cave leads downward, and soon she comes to a subterranean stream. The water flows silently, not even a trickle disturbing the quiet. It pools in a hollow before continuing its long journey through the mountains. The water in this pool swirls and steams.

  She approaches. Till this moment, she has felt neither hot nor cold in this dreamland, but the steam rising from the pool is scalding. Nevertheless, she kneels at its edge, removes her veil, and looks into the turning water.

  A face not her own looks back at her.

  “Princess,” speaks a voice as smooth as the night sky, “you come again to visit me.”

  “Silly,” says she. “I always come.”

  “And always it is such a pleasure to me. How fares your lonely life?”

  She shakes her head and shrugs. “Right enough. Nothin’ much different.”

  But he gazes at her from his pool and sees many things in her face. “What secret are you keeping from me?”

  She licks her lips and shrugs again.

  “I see that you are hiding something. Tell me, my princess. Why should we have secrets from each other?”

  “You knows that you hadn’t ought to call me ‘princess,’ don’t you?” she says.

  “That is what you are,” speaks the one in the pool.

  “That’s a silly game from when I was a bit of a girl! I’m grown up now; I’m nearly ten! I don’t need to play games no more. No pretend.”

  The one in the pool looks upon her with narrowing eyes. Then he says, “You will always be a princess to me.”

  “Hogwash,” she snaps. “Beana wouldn’t approve of such things, not even in dreams, if she was to know.”

  “Beana doesn’t need to know.”

  “I don’t keep secrets from Beana. I even told her about the boy.”

  “What boy?”

  Rose Red gets to her feet and backs away from the pool, not wanting to look in his face anymore. The steam rises like thin hands beckoning her back, but she crosses her arms and turns away, moving all the way to the cave’s entrance. Standing in this spot, she looks out on the vast spread of the kingdom below her, its detail impossible outside her dreams. She sees the twelve baronies separated by deep gorges. She sees all the shining white bridges—built by Faerie hands, the legends say—that span the gorges so that no one ever need enter the dark woods that grow below. She sees the beautiful houses of the barons, more beautiful even than Hill House, which, in her mind, is very fine.

  But her gaze lingers longest on the Eldest’s House, with its tall minarets and gleaming gates, and its gardens and parks extending over more than thirty acres. How she longs to see that place up close, especially to see the magnificent garden of roses about which the man she calls father has told her so much.

  Yet even in her dreams Rose Red dares not travel down from the mountain. She has promised Beana that she won’t. Besides, the Eldest’s House is no place for the likes of her.

  “What boy?”

  She shivers at the voice, the only sound besides her own voice that she can hear. Even the wind touching her bare face is silent.

  “Just a boy.”

  “A friend?”

  “I think so.”

  The voice says nothing for some time. Then it says in a whisper that could carry across miles, “You will forget me.”

  “No!” Rose Red cries. She marches back to the pool, her hands on her hips as she glares down at the face in the water. “That ain’t fair, and you shouldn’t say such things! I ain’t goin’ to forget you. But remember, you’re just a dream. Cain’t I have any real friends?”

  “I am your only friend.”

  She shakes a finger at the pool. “I have Beana, and she’s the best friend I could ever have.” She opens her mouth to speak of her Imaginary Friend but finds she does not like to. Instead she finishes with, “And I have old Dad.”

  “They are not the friends to you that I could be, princess. They do not know who you truly are.”

  “Ah. And who am I, truly?”

  He does not answer.

  “See? You say things what sound nice in dreams. I want to think that I’m more than I am. That I was meant for more than this hidin’ away all the time. That somewhere I can walk wi
thout wearin’ . . .” She stops and shakes her head violently. “But I know the difference! I know the difference between this world and the other. I’m a big girl, and I know.”

  “They will never see you,” says her Dream, and his eyes are sad as he gazes up from the pool. “None of these others you call your friends. They will never look upon your true face.”

  Her scowl deepens. “You say one more word against my dad or my Beana, and I’ll spit in your pool, so help me!”

  “Very well,” says he in a voice most gentle. “We’ll have no more of that. Let me kiss you and end our differences, princess.”

  She wrinkles her nose. “Ain’t kissin’ you, that’s sure. I’m mad at you now.”

  “Don’t be mad.” The speaker’s voice is as kind as his face. He puts out a hand, though it does not break the surface of the churning water. “You know how I care for you.”

  “A likely story.”

  “You know how I long for your visits. You would not leave me alone up here, would you?”

  Rose Red sighs and slowly shakes her head as her irritation fades away. She feels too sorry for the speaker in the pool to stay angry. “You know I’ll come back. I always do.”

  “And you’ll not tell anyone else about this place?”

  She thinks of the boy and their trek up to the cave, and the Dream in the pool watches her face. But that was in the waking world, so she nods and says, “I won’t. In any case, Beana don’t like me to come up here when I’m awake.”

  “Beana doesn’t know about me.”

  “No. Beana don’t know.”

  “And you’re not angry with me anymore, are you?”

  “No.” She kneels down again and puts a hand out to the water. The steam curls through her fingers, and she feels the heat rising through her glove. The Dream extends his hand as well, but their palms do not meet. Then Rose Red rises again. “I’m goin’ home now.”

  “Won’t you let me kiss you good-night?”

  She snorts. “I ain’t forgiven you that much.”

  With those words Rose Red leaves the cave and drifts back down the mountain. Back down the steep rock face, down through the forest and back around to the places most familiar to her in waking life. Back to the cottage nestled in its clearing, and onto her straw pallet in the loft above the place where the man she calls father snores.

  Back to dreams less vivid.

  5

  WHY DID YOU BRING a beanpole to breakfast?”

  Leo and his cousin sat in the breakfast room with only themselves for company. Dame Willowfair, Foxbrush’s mother, considered herself too delicate to rise before noon and rarely showed her face (and then, only carefully powdered and pinched) before suppertime. It was not uncommon for Foxbrush and Leo to go through an entire day without catching a glimpse of the good dame, or she of them, which suited all parties admirably. Dame Willowfair was a little frightened of boys.

  So Foxbrush sat at one end of the breakfast table, eyeing his cousin, who slouched at the other. Leo, who was not a boy Foxbrush would accuse of being overly couth, had come to breakfast with the beanpole in hand and propped it against his chair while he ate. Leo had not spoken two words together, which normally would suit Foxbrush fine. His chatter tended to unbalance Foxbrush’s daily mental exercises, and it was a mercy when his cousin started the day in a silent sulk.

  But today, Leo wasn’t sulking. He was merely quiet.

  Foxbrush sipped his coffee (he drank it black and had done so since he was five years old, considering sugar and milk to be signs of a weak mind. Leo, by contrast, liked a little coffee flavoring in his milky sugar-water) and waited for Leo to answer. But Leo was staring out the window and chewing his toast in a distinctly thoughtful manner. “I say.” Foxbrush set his coffee cup down with perhaps a little more force than necessary. “I say, why did you bring a beanpole to breakfast?”

  “A what?” Leo gave him a stupid look. But then, Foxbrush thought all Leo’s looks were stupid, so that was no surprise.

  “A beanpole.”

  “What beanpole?”

  “The one propped against your chair.”

  Leo looked at it, still chewing, then took another bite and answered with his mouth full. “That’s my sword.”

  “Your what?”

  Leo swallowed. “My sword.”

  “You’re an idiot,” said Foxbrush, or at least he thought about saying it. The fact stood that—beanpole or sword—Leo’s stick was the only weapon in the room, and it was just long enough to reach across the breakfast table for a good smack on the head, which Foxbrush did not doubt Leo would be willing to give. So Foxbrush instead smiled in a superior manner and was annoyed to see his cousin smile back.

  When Leo rose from his meal, took up his beanpole, and headed for the door, Foxbrush called after him, “Where are you going?”

  “Out,” Leo said with scarcely a glance over his shoulder.

  Without thinking (which never happened to him) Foxbrush said, “Can I come with you?”

  Dragon’s teeth! What was this? Could his slouching cousin’s secret enthusiasm for who-knows-what truly be that catching? What about algebra? What about the economic patterns of the last three decades? What about that enormous history of the second-class farmers’ tax records, which he had only just begun? What about—

  “No.”

  And Leo was gone.

  Foxbrush stared as the breakfast room door swung shut.

  He rose and, telling himself he wasn’t really interested, stepped to the window, which overlooked part of the garden. Craning his neck, he saw his cousin, beanpole in hand, march resolutely across the lawn before he disappeared from sight.

  A boy climbed one path and a girl, some distance off, descended another, each hoping to meet again and neither certain whether or not to expect such a meeting. The mountain was quiet, but it observed them with an interested, even eager gaze.

  All the eyes of the wood, both visible and invisible, both friendly and not so friendly, watched the children’s progress. Some watchers trembled. Some merely wondered. Neither Leo nor Rose Red was aware of this, however, and each pursued his or her path with blissful ignorance and hope. The morning grew bright around them.

  Rose Red, the boy’s floppy hat jammed on her head, her veils draped beneath, carried two pails as she made for a mountain stream a short ways from the cottage. Her large pails had iron handles and were heavy even when empty. Yet they did not encumber Rose Red, despite her tiny frame. If her gait was awkward as she hauled them along, it was no more so than at any other time.

  As she reached the stream, a wood thrush sang in the branches above her. Looking up briefly, she half smiled, though none could tell behind her grimy veil. She waded out to the middle of the creek, where it was deep enough to quickly fill her pails. Her soft shoes, stockings, and skirt were soaked up to the knees, but she made no attempt to remove them to keep them dry. She filled both pails and, with no apparent strain, carried them back to the bank. But instead of returning home, she set her pails aside and settled herself down on a moss-covered stone to wait.

  And to listen.

  Beana, back in the cottage yard, dozed contentedly most of the morning but came suddenly awake when she realized the girl had been gone much longer than necessary. Grumbling, she trotted into the forest, following the unmarked trail down to the creek, and there found Rose Red sitting on her stone, twirling the floppy-brimmed hat about one finger.

  The goat bleated in relief. “Going to take all day, are you, Rosie?”

  Rose Red spared her not a glance. “I’m waitin’ for Leo.”

  “That boy you met yesterday?”

  “Yup.”

  “He’s not coming to visit you. Is he?”

  Rose Red shrugged and continued as she was, doing nothing with all that was in her. Beana grumbled again and went to browse the underbrush along the streambed, flicking her tail and shaking her ears to ward off mosquitoes. “Fool girl will daydream her life away!”

&nb
sp; But Rose Red wasn’t daydreaming.

  She was listening.

  Rose Red did not listen like other children her age. For one thing, she was significantly better at it. She heard all the regular sounds of the forest around her. She heard the babbling creek, the hum of a million mosquitoes. Beana’s hooves squelched in the muddy bank and clicked against pebbles. The wind blew in the trees, rustling the leaves in soft shushing, and the birds chattered to each other back and forth in their many bright voices.

  But Rose Red heard more.

  While she sat still as the stone beneath her, her eyes closed behind her long veil, she listened to the songs.

  There were hundreds of songs all over the mountainside, playing constantly for anyone who had the ears to hear them. When the birds sang, Rose Red did not hear sweet chirpings and chatters; rather, she could understand the melody and complex harmonies of an entire chorus. When the trees sighed, she heard them whispering songs of longing, songs of love, songs of sorrow for bygone days.

  And this morning, when the sun broke through the canopy of the forest and fell upon the creek in blinding, sparkling light too bright for her to gaze upon, the wood thrush began to sing, and Rose Red recognized the voice of her Imaginary Friend. His song blended with the sound of water in a harmony beyond description, and she understood the words without quite realizing that she did.

  Beyond the Final Water falling,

  The Songs of Spheres recalling.

  Will you answer me?

  She did not answer. She only listened. But Rose Red listened so hard that soon the other sounds faded away, Beana’s grumbles, the creek’s trickle, the birds’ caroling, and even the mosquitoes’ whining. The gold and silver music filled her ears and warmed her heart so that even her loneliness backed into the far corners of her mind.

  Until a loud voice cut through the song, chasing it from her thoughts and bringing her scrambling to her feet.