Candlewax

by C. Bailey Sims

  “Where would you camp for the night, Menard?” asked Catherine. The counselor scanned the terrain ahead, thoughtfully evaluating the possibilities.

  “Mmm.” He rubbed his chin. “If we go off the trail down there—see right where it curves and then dips a bit”—he pointed—“we’re likely to find water, good timber for fires, and if you look closely, there’s a clearing that will give us some space between our fire and the woods. Important for visibility. It might help if our friends decide to pay us another visit.”

  “You think like a fairrier cat,” said Spelopokos.

  “Then that is where we shall set camp,” decided Catherine. “Thank you, Menard.”

  The counselor smiled broadly and clapped his hand on Cyril’s back with affection. “See sire, some folks listen to me.” He looked at Cyril and goaded, “First one there doesn’t have to build the fire!”

  Before Cyril could say anything, Menard dashed down the trail at breakneck pace, flying through the air and bounding off turns with acceleration. Cyril took off after him. Bessie and Catherine and Spelopokos watched the spectacle from above.

  Menard, with his head start, just barely beat Cyril into the clearing, hollering and whooping and then doubling over to catch his breath. Catherine and Bessie laughed and started down. Spelopokos followed behind.

  The clearing was well chosen. A tiny mountain spring bubbled up and meandered some fifty feet before it disappeared beneath a large rock. Catherine took Cyril’s and Menard’s water skins and filled them.

  “We’re sitting pretty here, all right,” said Menard.

  Bessie eyed the meadow plants. Spelopokos disappeared into the woods to hunt. Cyril started to collect firewood and Catherine joined him. He whistled nonchalantly, but Catherine saw his eyes brighten when she began to gather up dry spruce branches beside him.

  He looks too smug. “You didn’t have to come, Cyril—” she said. He stopped whistling. “—but I’m glad you did,” she hurried to add. “I mean—” She wasn’t sure what she meant. Cyril resumed whistling, a curious look of satisfaction on his face. He reached for the same bunch of twigs that she did and their hands touched. Catherine withdrew her hand, embarrassed. The whistling paused.

  “Would the princess like a little kindling?” He offered her the twigs, his eyes filled with mirth. And something else. Catherine took them and spun away from his gaze, catching her toe on a root and toppling sideways. She felt Cyril catch her around her waist. His breath was in her ear.

  “Thank you,” she mumbled, regaining her footing. As she hurried away, she heard soft whistling behind her.

  As dusk fell, Cyril built a crackling campfire, cheering everybody except Spelopokos, who was cross because he had found but one rabbit and a few grouse to eat. He ate first, grumpily spitting the fur and feathers out of his teeth.

  “Why, this is wonderful game, Spelopokos!” said Menard, winking. Pokos grunted. Menard laughed as he and Bessie set about preparing the remaining birds for the rest of them. Bessie had dug up some edible roots, and with Catherine’s salt, the dinner was palatable. Cyril sat and poked a stick into the embers of the fire. Catherine was busy mapping the day’s travels and landmarks on parchment.

  “May I suggest we take turns at watch tonight, sire?” Menard had once again donned his advisor’s mantle, and continued after a nod from Cyril. “Can’t say as I fancy any more thefts. Bessie, you take the first watch and wake me when the moon is high. I’ll wake Catherine, and Catherine, you wake Cyril for the predawn watch. Spelopokos, I imagine you’ll do what you see fit. Maybe it would be a good idea to send out a few of those fairrier cat cries.”

  Spelopokos stared wistfully into the dark forest and sniffed the breeze.

  “Go on, Pokos,” Catherine urged. “See what you can find out there.”

  Pokos looked at her with an odd expression—as close to a mixture of doubt and expectation and hope as she had ever seen—and headed off into the woods.

  That night the starlight yielded to a blazing moon. By the time Menard woke Catherine, it had crossed the sky and sat coolly in the crook of two peaks. The craggy mountaintops appeared sharp and forbidding beneath it. You won’t find this place on any tutor’s map, she told herself. Catherine huddled deeper into her sweaters, shrugging off the cold and the longing that thoughts of home had stirred. She noted the moon and its position and realized she needed to adjust the east-west coordinates on the rough map she had done earlier. Soon she heard Menard snoring.

  Again and again Catherine found her eyes upon Cyril as he slept, despite her attempts to ignore him. But how many chances would she have to freely drink in every nuance of his face? His expression had softened in his sleep, as if the weight of command had slipped from it. Something about his countenance tugged at Catherine. He looks his age, she realized. How hard it must be for him to bear the responsibility of ruling alone. For she knew, better than most, that no matter how many officials or advisors or servants surrounded the king, he remained a solitary figure. Unless there is also a worthy queen. She blushed at the thought.

  Cyril’s dark eyebrows arched over long lashes. She wished that she could trace them with her fingers. His full, sensual lips were tempered by a strong jaw and the hint of a cleft chin. His crossbow was nestled in his hand across his chest, reminding her of a boy who cannot bear to part with a favorite plaything. There was a scar on the knuckles of his right hand that she had noticed before. To look at him felt curiously nourishing.

  She heard Pokos’s haunting cries carrying softly in the thin mountain air and turned toward the sound. He must be ten or fifteen miles away. She listened intently to the silence that followed. No answer. Yet.

  Catherine felt a chill and built up the fire. As she watched, the blaze cast its flickering light on the meadow around them, and her breath caught in her throat. Is the light playing tricks? She blinked and looked again. What was that? All around them in the meadow, blurry shapes were moving. Within the shapes she couldn’t see the detail of the grasses. Her heart jumped.

  “Cyril! Wake up!” she whispered. “Bessie! Menard! You should see this.” She nudged Cyril without taking her eyes off the meadow.

  “What is it, Catherine?” asked Cyril, instantly alert.

  “Look there. Do you see them?” They’re really here. We’ve found our fairrier cats! I can’t wait to tell Pokos.

  Cyril peered into the meadow grass. Catherine counted under her breath. Seven. There were seven shimmering shapes out there.

  Menard had leapt to his feet and was standing with his back to the fire, gripping his unsheathed sword.

  One of the shapes disappeared into the tall grass.

  “Menard, put away your sword! You’re frightening them,” said Catherine.

  “Frightening them!”

  “By the trees of Candlewax, she’s right, Menard,” said Cyril, putting down his crossbow. Menard reluctantly sheathed his sword but he kept his hand on the pommel.

  “Please, show yourselves!” said Catherine. She held out her hands to the nearest shape.

  “I hope you know what you’re doin’,” whispered Bessie at her side.

  Catherine took a step toward the shape. She heard a rumbling.

  “Don’t, Catherine!” urged Cyril.

  She took another step. I’ve got to make them understand. The rumbling sound caused the hair to rise up on the back of her neck. It was the beginning of a growl. She could feel its vibrations hitting her skin and fought back nausea.

  Behind her Bessie had begun to hum nervously. Why is she doing that? Catherine could feel more vibrations in the air. If one fairrier cat’s growl could kill, what could she do against so many? Catherine reached in vain for her necklace, forgetting it was not there; her knees felt weak.

  Bessie hummed loudly. Somewhere in the back of her mind Catherine realized it was “Wind of Tabrek.” Cyril and Menard joined in the humming and Bessie started singing the words in a high, clear voice. The rumbling stopped.

  It was then tha
t Catherine saw the fairrier cats for the first time. Their eyes were yellow and unforgiving. In spite of their ragged coats, their bones were clearly visible. They were shadows of Pokos, gaunt and mean. Catherine backed up until she felt Bessie grab her by the arm. The cats were staring at them, listening to the old Tabrekian melody, their tails swishing.

  Bessie was on the second verse now. Catherine tried to sing with her but her voice got stuck somewhere between her lungs and her throat. She swallowed.

  Cyril broke off from humming and whispered, “What are we going to do next? They don’t look friendly.”

  Catherine sputtered, “We’ve got to keep them here until Pokos gets back.”

  The fairrier cats paced in the meadow grass, just at the edge of darkness.

  “Keep them here? I think not, Catherine. I’d rather they were just a little bit afraid of us,” Cyril whispered fiercely.

  “Do something else! They’re getting restless!” Menard urged.

  Catherine closed her eyes and tried to think. This isn’t supposed to be happening.

  “They’re comin’ closer!” cried Bessie, song forgotten. Catherine looked at the cats. Two of them were crouched down and ready to jump. The others had resumed a deep rumbling growl, teeth bared.

  “Get your weapons!” ordered Cyril, snatching his crossbow from the ground and loading a bolt. Catherine heard the blade of Menard’s sword rasping as it was pulled from the scabbard. Things are going horribly wrong! She grasped for her dagger. Cyril glanced at it.

  “You’ll be dead before you can use that.” He pulled out the sword at his belt and handed it to her. “This has more reach.” His eyes begged her to take it. Catherine sheathed her dagger and took Cyril’s sword, thinking it might make the difference between being eaten and staying alive.

  Bessie seized a burning branch from the fire and brandished it in front of her. The rumbling was getting louder. Soon it wouldn’t matter what weapons they had.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Catherine saw a rushing blur. Cyril shot. A cat tumbled only feet from the fire and lay still. As she looked on in fascination, the blur became a dead fairrier cat, tongue lolling. She could see ribs protruding from its skeletal frame. Its once majestic fur was sparse and its skin covered in sores.

  “Menard?” Cyril said.

  “Right here, Cyril,” murmured the old counselor. His sword was drawn.

  Phhtt! Another bolt flew to its mark and Catherine started as a fairrier cat slid and fell at her side, lifeless.

  Bessie threw more branches and logs on the fire until it was a roaring blaze.

  Suddenly the cats looked out at the darkness, heads stretched high, ears twitching, tensely silent. In an instant they scattered soundlessly. A large, white head surged toward the camp through the meadow grass. Cyril had loaded a bolt and was poised to shoot. The cat paused.

  “It is I, Pokos.”

  Cyril lowered the bow and let out a long breath. Pokos bounded toward them.

  Then he saw the first fairrier cat corpse. Skidding to a halt, his eyes wide with horror, Pokos looked from the dead cat to the sword in Catherine’s hand and let out a howl of rage.

  Catherine shrank back against Bessie even as Cyril lunged in front of them, his crossbow still loaded but pointed at the ground. Pokos padded slowly to the second dead cat and licked its lifeless face. He closed his eyes, moaning in sorrow. For several moments no one moved or uttered a sound.

  Pokos began to tremble. Catherine put the sword on the ground and took a step toward him. He whirled to face her, his eyes a blazing yellow.

  “WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?”

  He roared again, loud and long, eyes flashing. The sound was deafening.

  “We had no choice, Pokos. They attacked!” Catherine reached out and touched him on the shoulder. He spun his head around and grabbed her arm firmly in his jaws. Stunned, Catherine froze until he let her go. Then she saw that his coat was dark with blood.

  “You’re hurt!”

  “A scratch. There are hunters here, Catherine. Different than the Cinnans who entered my mind. One of them threw a spear, but I was too quick. I came to tell you of these men, but now I see that while I was gone you were doing killing of your own.” Pokos’s eyes were full of hurt and disbelief. “How could you do this?”

  He turned to the darkness and disappeared.

  “They were going to kill us, Spelopokos!” Cyril shouted after him. There was no response.

  Catherine sunk to the ground and cried.

  At dawn, a reddish glow tainted the clouds. Catherine watched the eastern sky and toyed with her dagger, which was growing too cold to touch. She sheathed it and shoved her hands deep into her sheepskin coat. Bitter air seared her lungs and she exhaled with clouds of freezing water vapor. Her eyelids still looked puffy from lack of sleep and crying, and her hair was a tangled, oily mess.

  After Pokos had gone, the prowling cats had resumed their attack; Cyril had been forced to shoot two more, and Menard had impaled a leaping cat on his sword. The corpses were strewn on all sides of the campsite. I wish I could wake up from this nightmare.

  All night long she had waited for Pokos to return. Why hadn’t he believed her? We had no choice. They were going to kill us.

  Bessie hovered around the dying coals of the fire, swinging her arms and bouncing on her feet to stay warm.

  “What shall we do with these?” Menard gestured to the skeletal fairrier cat corpses.

  “Leave them.” King Cyril’s rough voice still held the night’s struggles and a tone that brooked no argument. He slung the water skin around his neck and shoulder. “Let’s find the Cinnans, get the pendant back, and return to Candlewax. These cats are completely intractable. Cinna holds nothing for us now.”

  Catherine’s head snapped toward Cyril, her mouth open in surprise. “Sire, you can’t mean that. Just go back home? I will find Pokos. I will complete my duty.” Her voice came out louder and stronger than she had intended.

  Determination flashed in Cyril’s eyes. Menard opened his mouth and then closed it. The king took a step closer to her, a fierce warrior, towering in height and suddenly much older than his years. Catherine kept her eyes fixed to his and refused to blink. There was a long silence.

  Cyril waved his hand at the dead fairrier cats and asked, “And how do you propose to bring back one of these, Princess Catherine?”

  “I don’t know, Cyril. I only know it must be done. Lackanay is held in the balance, and whether you help me or not, I am here for this purpose.”

  Cyril’s face blanched and his lips pressed together.

  Catherine lowered her eyes. “I meant no offense, Cyril. Without you and Menard, we would have been torn to pieces last night. Thank you.” Her eyes lifted again, searching his face. His dark eyebrows were drawn together in a scowl and his hazel eyes were red-rimmed with smoke and fatigue. A black stubble of a beard had grown overnight. In spite of herself, Catherine caught her breath. Upon my word he is a handsome man.

  “We’ll at least have to wait until we find the amulet, won’t we?” asked Bessie, her teeth chattering. She was wearing two of Catherine’s sweaters, a hat and mittens. “We can’t go home without it.”

  Cyril looked at Menard, who stomped his feet and shoved his hands under his armpits. There was a long silence. Finally, Menard started to cut one of Cyril’s bolts out of a dead fairrier cat. “You’re going to need every bolt, sire.” Cyril nodded and bent to help the counselor retrieve them. The corpses had begun to freeze.

  “What about the f-f-fire? We need more wood.” Bessie hugged her knees. “My t-toes are really c-cold.”

  The clouds were lowering. Something wet landed on Catherine’s nose. She opened her mouth to speak when a swirling gust spiraled down from the clouds like a sweeping curtain of white. It was snowing.

  Bessie shrieked and pulled her hat lower, looking in vain for a refuge from the wind. Menard squinted at the sky with a grimace on his face.

  “Take shelter in the trees!” sh
outed Cyril over the wind, which was suddenly whipping around them.

  “Aye—it looks like a bad’ un!” yelled Menard. It was hard to see more than a few feet with the snow hurtling down so fast. They ran under the pine grove.

  As she peered back through the trees, it seemed to Catherine that something was moving in the meadow where they had just been standing. But then the wind whipped the snow to a blinding whiteness, and if there had been anything there at all, she couldn’t tell anymore.

  The four of them huddled in the forest as the blizzard worsened. Menard and Cyril hacked pine boughs from the trees with their sword blades, which Catherine and Bessie used to build a crude hut. Still, the wind whistled through the cracks and the driving snow found its way to their faces. Catherine thought of her companions and was filled with guilt. I have brought them into this mess.

  A sound came from the meadow, louder than the howling wind. Catherine rose to the balls of her feet, moved a branch aside and in a low crouch, left the meager warmth of the hut. Everything was completely white in the meadow. Then, inexplicably, what looked like a long, thin, black shape appeared to be swinging back and forth. A tail.

  “Pokos!” shouted Catherine incredulously. She poked her head into the hut and said it again. “Pokos.”

  Cyril scrambled after her. Menard roused Bessie, grabbed Catherine’s pack, and tore his way out of the hut. Bessie staggered to her feet and wandered after them.

  “Here are his tracks! Quick, before they’re blown away,” bellowed Cyril.

  They kept after the cat but could not seem to draw any closer to him, no matter how fast they ran. He was always just at the edge of visibility, leading them on. The wind bit at their faces. The agony of the cold was lessened only slightly by the exertion of keeping up with the black tip of Pokos’s tail.

  The fairrier cat was not alone. Ahead of him on the trail there were eight figures dressed in white. The trail twisted and turned as it descended the rocky terrain that was dotted with pine trees.