Candlewax

by C. Bailey Sims

  “A liar, but not a thief?” asked Bessie. She laughed.

  “Yes, a liar, but not a real thief. I did take these clothes. But I promise you, if you help me, you will be doing Lackanay a service. I can’t tell you who I am or what I seek, but I can tell you that my purpose is good.”

  “How do I know if you are tellin’ the truth?”

  “I can’t prove it to you, but soon I will be leaving and you’ll not have to worry about me anymore.” Catherine looked directly into Bessie’s eyes. “I swear it.”

  “In that case, Clara, I will take care to watch you while you’re here. Don’t do anythin’ foolish.” She turned back to the door.

  “Bessie?” Catherine reached out, touching Bessie’s arm. “Thank you for holding your peace.”

  For the first time Bessie smiled at her. Like her mother, she was quite pretty when she smiled. “It might be a bit early to be thankin’ me for that,” she said sternly, but her smile did not fade.

  Catherine and Bessie emptied their heavy buckets into the washtub to mix with the scalding hot water Mrs. Brine had already poured. It was dark, and Bessie lit an oil lamp to place on a tiny shelf, while Mrs. Brine pulled a curtain across the doorway. Catherine was left alone to undress. On a bench next to the shallow tin tub was a towel and Bessie’s spare nightdress. Exhausted, her hands shook as she removed her clothes and the pendant.

  Catherine lowered herself carefully and let the heat slowly penetrate to her very bones. She splashed as she scrubbed away a thick layer of dirt and closed her eyes. Mercifully, for a few minutes, the events of the last few days melted away. There was no planned marriage, no running away, no accident, no thieves, no Pokos, no clouded destiny. I’m just a girl in a tub, she thought gratefully.

  She lathered her hair with a bar of soap that smelled deliciously of lilacs and dunked her head under the water, rinsing it free. The water had grown cool. Regretfully, she stepped out, dried off, and put on the pendant, Bessie’s nightdress, and her coat. Gathering up the rest of her things, she pulled the curtain aside and walked toward the sound of voices coming from the kitchen.

  Catherine paused and made a little coughing sound before she stepped into the room.

  “Well now, Clara dear. You look mighty fresh.” Mrs. Brine beamed at her. Bessie smiled, and Tim and Kaylee looked up from the game they were playing on the rug in front of the fire. A short, stocky man, built like a barrel, rose from the table. His hair was graying, but his full beard was jet black.

  “Glad to meet you, Clara. Me name is George Brine and I am real sorry to hear about your father.” He had big, soft brown eyes. Catherine shook his huge outstretched hand, which surrounded hers like warm stone, hardened by fieldwork. She felt a twinge of guilt.

  Mr. Brine continued. “Just as soon as you’re able, I’ll arrange for some of us men to accompany you back up to the place where your dad was killed. You’ll rest easier knowin’ he’s proper buried and all.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Brine,” murmured Catherine. Bessie was studying her intently. “Just as soon as me things are ready at the cobbler’s I can show you the spot.”

  “Dear, remember what Mr. Schepper heard the other night? Don’t go up into the mountains right now.” Mrs. Brine looked at her husband, her expression filled with hidden meaning.

  “What, Mum? What did Mr. Schepper hear?” Tim was pulling on her apron.

  “Tell us, Dad. Mum thinks we’re too little. I am not too little!” Kaylee stamped her foot.

  “I always think it good to tell of danger if it might make the little ones more careful,” said George Brine. He turned back to Kaylee, Bessie, and Tim. Mrs. Brine scowled.

  “Mr. Schepper was out huntin’ for deer when he heard somethin’ he hadn’t heard in nigh about thirty years—since he was a boy himself,” said George Brine. “The screams of a fairrier cat.” Kaylee’s mouth dropped open. Tim leaned into Kaylee and grabbed her hand.

  “Dad, I thought you said there were no more fairrier cats in Lackanay!” said Bessie.

  “No one knows for sure. They used to be some of the worst killers in the forest. Twenty men would go into the woods to hunt them and none would come out.”

  “Maybe the cats just didn’t like being hunted!” Catherine burst out.

  Mr. Brine looked at her solemnly and then guffawed. “No, I don’t suppose they liked being hunted. Hadn’t ever thought of it that way.” He wiped his eyes, still chuckling.

  “Well, if a bunch of men were tryin’ to kill you, wouldn’t you try to kill them first?” Bessie piped up.

  “Don’t you girls get any silly ideas in your heads. If you see a big cat in the woods get yourselves inside right quick.” Mrs. Brine sounded very cross.

  “What do they look like?” Kaylee asked.

  “Just like that skin Kallik was wearin’ last time he came through our village,” grumbled Mr. Brine. “Remember? Your ma and me had you hidden in the house. You peeked out through the curtains and asked me what that cloak was. It was a fairrier cat skin. Rumor has it that he even sleeps with it on top of him. Some say that is why he has lived so long. Kallik is older than Ely Wade.” He shuddered.

  So Kallik wears a fairrier cat skin!

  “But Ely is more than a hundred. He told me so!” Kaylee blurted out.

  “Some say that Kallik should have died a long time ago. Instead he grows stronger and stronger. Only the Crystallia and Candlewax kings together can keep him from rulin’ all of Lackanay. Oh, how I wish the two of them would join forces. They could beat Kallik,” said Mr. Brine.

  “What’s the matter, dear? You look like you’re nigh to faintin’!” Mrs. Brine was pulling Catherine into a chair and making her sit. “Are you all right? Let me get you some hot broth.” She busied herself in getting Catherine a mug.

  Catherine’s head was spinning. Her planned marriage to the Candlewax king would have brought about just such an alliance. Was that Father’s plan? Was that why it was so important to him? Has Kallik become a threat to Crystallia? I wish Pokos had told me everything.

  “I’ve never seen anyone go so pale so fast!” said Mrs. Brine. “As soon as your hair is dry I want you to go straight to bed, Clara. With all that you have been through... no wonder you’re feelin’ a bit weak.”

  “Yes ma’am,” Catherine mumbled. Bessie was staring at her again. Catherine began to run her fingers through her hair, gently shaking it to help it dry. It relaxed her to be doing something so normal. Maybe I was wrong to run away. Maybe there are things that are more important than my own happiness.

  If it weren’t for Pokos, she would already be back at home preparing for the wedding. She thought of the big mysterious cat and smiled. In spite of his great strength and intelligence, he needed her. That is what the prophecy said. The Candlewax king will just have to do without me. And Father will have to find a way to beat Kallik on his own.

  Mrs. Brine shooed the two littlest Brines to bed and Mr. Brine sang them a soft, low song about harvesting apples. Catherine’s eyes started to droop. Bessie grabbed her by the elbow.

  “Time for bed, Clara. We are goin’ to pick apples tomorrow. The whole village helps with the harvest.”

  Mr. Brine had put an extra straw mattress on the floor of Kaylee and Bessie’s room. Mrs. Brine bustled in with blankets and a feather pillow. Catherine looked enviously at Bessie’s comfortable feather bed and settled in on top of the prickly straw mattress. I hope Father can beat Kallik. She brushed her fingers on the pendant and closed her eyes.

  In what seemed like a mere minute later, Bessie was shaking her awake. “Get up, Clara,” she hissed. “We’ll be late!”

  Catherine rolled over, groaning. I ran away. From a castle. What was I thinking? Reluctant to leave the comfort of the warm blankets, she counted to three before forcing herself to fling the covers off. Kaylee was still snoring gently in her bed. The Brines’ house was icy. How early Clara must have risen just to build the fire in my bedchamber so that I could be warm in the morning! Catherine sa
w that Mrs. Brine had laid out her clean shirt and undergarments. She started to dress.

  “Is that why you left? Your father beat you?” Bessie nodded at Catherine’s arm and shoulder and then looked modestly at the floor.

  “Oh, it doesn’t hurt much anymore,” Catherine replied groggily. “I know it looks horrible, but it was just an accident. My father would never hurt me. He loves me.”

  Bessie was suddenly quiet. Catherine realized with alarm that she had used the present tense.

  “Loves you? He’s alive isn’t he! You can tell me, Clara.” Bessie was leaning forward, her eyes wide.

  A little truth is better than a big, fat lie. Catherine took a breath. “Well, I was attacked and robbed. I can tell you that. The thieves took all of my valuables except the dagger. And I have learned that there is something I must accomplish. Something important that no one else can do. If I fail, Lackanay will suffer more than anyone can imagine.” Catherine looked at Bessie earnestly. “You and your family have been very kind. I will one day repay you for the help you have given me.”

  “You and your secrets,” said Bessie with a sigh. “Here. Wear these until you have your own. I’ve got two pairs,” she said. Bessie handed her some socks and sturdy brown leather shoes. Catherine put them on and noted how well they fit. She thought of the twenty pairs of shoes she had at home. They would probably all fit Bessie judging by how well Bessie’s shoes fit me.

  They entered the kitchen where Mrs. Brine was ladling hot porridge into bowls. Catherine had never cared for porridge, but just now it looked delicious to her. She and Bessie gobbled it down. If I ever see Cook again I will have to tell her I’m sorry for complaining about her porridge.

  “It won’t be long before the first freeze and we’ve got to finish pickin’ the orchards. You’ll come with us, Clara,” said Mrs. Brine. It was not a question. Catherine nodded briskly and wondered if she would know what to do. How hard can it be?

  Mr. Brine was waiting for them outside with a pushcart. He gave Catherine a nod of approval and they began the walk to the orchards. I don’t get the trodlik dreams when I’m not with Pokos, she thought absently, admiring the landscape. Perhaps I was just exhausted. The early morning sun brightened the colors of the valley and warmed their backs. Mrs. Brine kept looking over her shoulder and squinting suspiciously at each field they passed. Mr. Brine kept his eyes on the road ahead, but Catherine noticed that he wore a long, sheathed blade attached to his belt. A harvesting tool? Probably not.

  “What kind of apples are we picking?” asked Catherine, trying to lighten the mood.

  “Swiggins, just like our village. Phineas’s ancestors settled here and planted the orchard. Sweet an’ crisp with lots of juice to ‘em. Real good to eat,” boomed Mr. Brine. “You’ll see.”

  “Of course!” said Catherine softly to herself, surprised she had not already realized the connection to her former life as princess of Crystallia. Her father made a point of buying carts of Swiggins every year. It only struck her now how far away the apples were grown. The road that leads to Crystallia is much longer than the maps imply. And it’s impossible for a cart to go over the rough terrain I traveled with Pokos.

  The orchards beckoned ahead. Even from a distance Catherine could see the bright red apples clustered on the branches. In spite of the porridge she was suddenly hungry again.

  Bessie was thinking about food too. “They make good tarts,” she said. “Especially if you use the real red ones with the yellow streaks. Then there are apple cakes, baked apples, turnovers, applesauce, pork and apples...” The list of apple dishes grew until Catherine laughed in amazement at the sheer number of them. Bessie knew more things to make with apples than anyone she knew. Even Cook would be impressed.

  Gnarled old apple trees grew in rows at the base of the mountains. Villagers were already busy picking the fruit. Even Tim and Kaylee could reach the lower apples, but that didn’t stop them from scrambling into the branches. Bessie and Catherine used ladders and climbed up into the trees to reach the top.

  At midday Mrs. Brine called them down to eat bread, cheese, and hard sausage. They quenched their thirst with ladles of cold brook water from a bucket. All around them villagers ate together in small clusters and stole glances at Catherine.

  Catherine bit into an apple, warm from the sun, and felt the juice run down her chin. Crunching down on the apple gave her a lovely, untamed feeling. Perhaps after my quest is complete, I could return to Swiggins.

  At the end of the day, Catherine helped the Brines load their share of the apples into the cart. Her shoulders and back ached and her hands were blistered and red. Back at the cottage, she and Bessie carried the apples to the cellar and stored them in layers of sawdust and wood shavings.

  In spite of her fatigue, Catherine realized that she had truly enjoyed this day with the Brines. I won’t be able to say good-bye tomorrow. As soon as her head hit the straw mattress on Bessie’s floor that night, she was sound asleep.

  Catherine put on her coat and felt the hilt of the dagger in one pocket, the promising weight of drats in the other. Underneath the drats was a huge clump of Pokos’s fur that she had salvaged from her tattered socks that first day in Swiggins. With one last, slow look around, she slid on her empty pack, and she and Bessie left the house in high spirits. It was time to collect her boots and dagger sheath, as well as to buy the warm garments she would need for winter. Today she would slip away and meet Pokos at the falls.

  “Be back before noon!” called out Mrs. Brine after them. Catherine cringed. But I won’t be. And I won’t be able to give the Brines a proper thank you. They will think me an ungrateful wretch.

  The morning air was frosty and clear, and Catherine let the beauty of it assuage her guilt. Bessie led the way into the heart of the village. She picked up her boots. The new sheath on the right boot fit her dagger perfectly. Phineas gave her the drats he owed her and sent her off with good wishes. Bessie helped her carry parcels of cheese, sausages, salt, and bread and Catherine knew her friend assumed the provisions were for “Clara’s” journey back home.

  Bessie gabbled on about Swiggins and her family, showing Catherine the more notable sights—the square where the apple festival would soon take place, the magistrate’s house, a wishing well set back in a courtyard that was said to bring a well-favored man into the life of any maiden who threw in a coin at the full moon.

  Catherine pulled Bessie into the shop for woolens and looked around. Without Pokos’s fur in her socks, she could no longer smell the orange tabby cat. A woman with a pronounced widow’s peak greeted Bessie and Catherine. Her hands were callused from years of weaving and spinning.

  “Perchance do you have any garments ready-made in my size, ma’am?” Catherine asked.

  “Has a cat got whiskers?” the woman responded in mock indignation. In no time at all she had Catherine completely outfitted. Catherine pulled out the bag of drats to pay her.

  “Now, what sort of wool is that stickin’ out of your pocket?”

  Startled, Catherine followed the woman’s gaze down to her pocket and saw a huge clump of Pokos’s fur sticking out. Somehow the fur had worked its way over the bag of drats.

  Catherine shoved it back inside and mumbled, “Oh, it’s just goat hair.”

  “Well, here. There’s a bit more on the floor.” Before Catherine could stop her, the shopkeeper bent down and grabbed a wad of Pokos’s fur. Catherine’s heart sank. She pasted what she hoped was an agreeable smile on her face.

  The woman felt the texture of the tuft and looked at it closely.

  “So, you had black and white goats with very soft hair.”

  Catherine stuck out her hand, hoping that the merchant would give her back the fur. “Curious. This is very strange wool indeed. First rate. If you ever find those goats of yours, missy, I would be very interested in buyin’ some. It almost reminds me... Oh well, that’s ridiculous.” She stopped herself and placed the clump of fur into Catherine’s still-outstretched han
d.

  “Reminds you of what, ma’am?” Bessie urged.

  “Well, I know this must sound strange, but a very long time ago I had a wee pair of socks made from wool like that. Always felt like I could run faster and climb better than all of the other children. Me mum used to tell me that they were made of a special wool. An uncommon special wool.” The shopkeeper laughed. “Just stories I’m sure.” Still, she looked at Catherine with renewed interest. “Why she used to tell me that—”

  “I am afraid we are in a bit of a hurry, ma’am,” Catherine interrupted.

  “Why of course, me dear! With me goin’ on about fairrier cat fur and such while you’ve got things to be doin’.” Catherine cringed at the word fairrier and Bessie gasped. She looked at Catherine as if she herself might be a lethal fairrier cat.

  “What? What did I say?” asked the woman.

  “Nothing,” Catherine replied, sending Bessie a significant look. She quickly paid and dragged Bessie out of the shop.

  Once outside, Bessie grabbed her sleeve.

  “Fairrier cat fur? Who are you?”

  Catherine ignored the questions, until Bessie’s chiding “You’re goin’ the wrong way, Clara!” made her stop so abruptly that Bessie bumped into her.

  “I’m sorry. I can’t tell you. It is for your own good, Bessie. There is too much at stake.”

  Catherine watched as Bessie feigned indifference. They turned down a side street, not speaking for some time.

  “Just tell me one thing,” Bessie finally snapped. “Is there a fairrier cat around our village? Will it hurt us?”

  “No harm will come to anyone if no one knows. Anyone trying to kill it would die. You must not say anything,” implored Catherine. Bessie threw her an incredulous look.

  I have to tell her! Catherine thought desperately. She will surely spill the tale to her father about the fairrier cat fur, and then the whole village will be after Pokos! “Bessie, do you know what a trodlik is?”

  “Everyone knows what trodliks are. ‘Tis said they destroyed Devona.” Bessie sounded nonplussed, as if she believed the question was meant to distract her.