Graven Images

by Paul Fleischman

  Instantly Nicholas took to his heels. Each flower, he recalled, bore its own sentiment. And undoubtedly Juliana hadn’t worn just any bundle of petals but had carefully chosen honeysuckle, out of all the plant kingdom, for the message it carried.

  He reached the bookshop and charged through the door.

  “Nicholas, my scholar, good morning to you!”

  Mr. Flinders, baldheaded and bespectacled, lowered the book he was perusing point-blank. “Thirsting for knowledge as always, I see.”

  “Yes, sir,” Nicholas answered quickly, aware that Mr. Quince was awaiting him. He glanced about, struggling to remember where he’d seen the book on flowers. Then he made a dash for a shelf in the corner.

  “It’s a fine thing to see a youth like yourself so ravenous for books and learning.” Mr. Flinders gazed upon Nicholas as if beholding the hope of the future.

  “Thank you, sir,” mumbled the apprentice, desperately hunting the book.

  “No doubt,” asserted Mr. Flinders, “you spotted my notice in the Gazette and have come to inspect my latest shipment.”

  Combing the shelf, Nicholas gradually stooped out of Mr. Flinders’s sight.

  “You’ll be glad to know that Pipkin’s Path to the Temple of Wisdom has come in at last.”

  Just then the apprentice ceased his search and pulled from the shelf the book he sought.

  “Plus a fine edition of Plutarch’s Lives. And the works of Homer as well.”

  Nicholas turned to the index. “Very interesting,” he tossed out in answer.

  He ran his eyes down the list of flowers and gulped when he came to honeysuckle. He flipped to its page, and beneath a description, a sketch of the plant, and a summary of its various uses, Nicholas found, with trembling fingers, the sentiment it was said to express: “Boundless and devoted affection.”

  The book fell from the apprentice’s hands.

  “Mr. Pye’s Discourse on the Diseases of Cattle has come in as well,” Mr. Flinders continued. “You can find it next to his Treatise on Swine.”

  Nicholas snatched up the book. “Excellent,” he replied.

  He turned again to the entry on honeysuckle, peering in awe at the message it bore and offering thanks to Mr. Quince, upon whose advice he’d opened his eyes and beheld all about him an unsuspected world alive with signs and meanings.

  “‘Boundless and devoted affection,’” he murmured to himself. Then suddenly Nicholas realized that he must reply to the message, and quickly. The public ball in honor of the king would take place the following night — a precious opportunity meant to be shared with Juliana. But first he must reveal to her the receipt of her message and his own matching passion.

  Briskly, Nicholas leafed through the book, seeking the proper flower with which to convey his feelings to Juliana.

  “Hogg’s Commentaries on Luther has also arrived,” Mr. Flinders noted.

  Nicholas came to a sketch of a clump of Canterbury bells and stopped at once. He’d seen some growing in a garden that morning. He noted its message, “Acknowledgment.” It was appropriate, he told himself, but something slightly stronger was needed.

  “And a fine edition,” the bookseller went on, “of Coddington’s Commentaries on Hogg.”

  “Truly,” replied Nicholas absently.

  He considered the cowslip, whose sentiment was “I waste away without you.” Too strong, he decided. He mustn’t affright her. Then he flipped to verbena, whose message was “Enchantment” — and knew that his search was over. Quickly, he read the flower’s description: five petals, from pink to violet in color, toothed leaves, hairy stems. Recalling that he was long overdue, he studied the sketch of the plant, replaced the book, thanked Mr. Flinders, and hurried on to the shoe shop next door.

  “Well, well!” crowed Mr. Quince from his bench. “Look who’s come through the door at last.”

  Nicholas lowered his guilty eyes and speedily emptied his basket.

  “Tell me, Zeph,” said Mr. Quince, aiming a wink at his brawny journeyman. “Does the boy seem to have grown since he left?”

  Zeph scratched at his grubby whiskers and clamped an eye on Nicholas. “I believe you’re right, sir. Shot up like a beanstalk.” He raised his mallet and returned to pounding the leather on his lapstone. “One more chore on his list of errands and I’m afraid he’d be stoopin’ to get through the door.”

  Nicholas cast a glance at the doorway and Zeph let out a gravelly laugh.

  “Your job’s making shoes,” barked Mr. Quince, “not wearing ’em out. To work with you, lad!”

  The apprentice sat down and commenced beating leather, staring raptly across at his master, who was finishing up a shoe brought in for repair by Juliana herself. Dreamily, Nicholas eyed the shoe’s buckle, as if beholding in the glint of the brass the sparkle in Juliana’s own eyes.

  “And remember, lad! Alert as a hare — a hare with hounds at its heels!”

  A butcher’s wagon stopped in the street. Mr. Quince stepped out to inspect the meat while Nicholas endeavored, as best he could, to put a harelike look in his eyes.

  “Spring be late this year, apprentice,” boomed Zeph above the noise of their mallets.

  “Yes, sir, it is,” replied Nicholas.

  In unison they pounded their lapstones, softening pieces of sturdy sole leather.

  “Aye, the courtin’ season be short.” The journeyman grinned at Nicholas. “Not a moment to lose, lad!” he shouted out. “Take a lesson from Zeph and be bold with the girls!”

  He launched into whistling a merry tune. Then he stopped his pounding. Nicholas stopped too.

  “Now, take the case of our Mr. Quince.” He leaned toward Nicholas and lowered his voice. “His suffering heart’s in thrall to Miss Catchfly, and has been now for six full years!”

  The apprentice gaped at Zeph in shock. Such an unlikely possibility, like that of the sun falling out of the sky or the oceans draining into the earth, had never before occurred to him.

  “Why, that sulfur-tongued spinster would snatch up a suitor quick as a frog would a fly. And yet our master is still accumulating the courage to speak his heart to her. And has been ever since he first took her size — and beheld her delicate pair of feet!”

  The journeyman burst out into a laugh and returned to beating his leather.

  “‘Ethereal,’ I’ve heard him call ’em. ‘Fit for a goddess.’ ‘The pinnacle of beauty.’ Whispered to his workbench, mind you, instead of to the woman herself.” He shook his head and returned to beating his leather. “Nay, boy, take your learning from Zeph. Don’t dally about with the girls. Be bold!”

  He flashed a grin at Nicholas as Mr. Quince walked in, empty-handed.

  “Poor-looking pickings?” Zeph inquired.

  Mr. Quince heated a burnishing iron. “On the contrary, the meat was of the highest quality — if you were looking to make it into boots.”

  He rubbed the hot iron along the heel and sole of Juliana’s shoe, vigorously bringing a gloss to the leather. Then Nicholas watched as Mr. Quince quickly applied a coat of tallow, dismayed that his master should handle the shoe with such familiarity, instead of the reverence it deserved.

  “No, my lads, no meat, I’m afraid. But Nicholas has guaranteed we shan’t starve.” Mr. Quince eyed the shoe, set it on a shelf, and lit his pipe with an ember. “That is, if our dreamy-eyed provider remembered to purchase bread at the bakery.”

  Nicholas pricked up his ears. “Yes, sir.”

  “And the sole knife the cutler repaired?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And honey?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And a half-dozen candles?”

  Nicholas froze, panic-stricken.

  “For the illumination tomorrow night?” Mr. Quince refreshed his memory.

  Suddenly Nicholas recalled the words, licked his lips, and put down his lapstone.

  “I’ll fetch ’em right this instant, sir! And be back as quick as —”

  “Back to your poundi
ng!” Mr. Quince aimed his pipe at Nicholas. “You’ll do no more expeditioning about until you’ve finished a full day’s work!”

  Reluctantly, Nicholas returned to his leather. He longed for a chance to pick some verbena, present it to an awestruck Juliana, and arrange to meet the next night at the ball. Contemplating this course of action, he waxed a shoe, mixed lamp soot and egg white, blacked two boots, warmed glue for his master, was instructed in the art of carving a last, was told the grim tale of a daydreaming apprentice whose last was too small and whose shoes were too tight and whose unspeakable end might serve as a warning, and finally was released out the door, with money for candles in his pocket.

  He hurried down the walk, then stopped. He knew there were candles at Miss Stubbin’s shop. But where could he find what was more important — a bouquet of verbena for Juliana?

  Frantically, Nicholas glanced about. And suddenly it occurred to him that verbena might not grow in Charleston or might be only exceedingly rare. It could take him days to find some, or weeks, unless he chanced to search the right spot. Disheartened, he turned a circle in the street, wondering which point of the compass to follow. Then something caught the apprentice’s eye and he tilted his gaze to the copper image of Saint Crispin, whose hammer glinted in the sun — and at once he knew where to point his feet.

  After all, Saint Crispin watched over him. Mr. Quince himself had told him so. It could therefore hardly be accidental that among the eagles and angels and roosters and the rest of the mixed flock of weathervanes only Saint Crispin faced north at the moment. On the contrary, he reasoned, the meaning was clear. The saint knew where verbena grew and was showing him the way.

  Nicholas squeezed the nutmeg in his pocket and set off in line with Saint Crispin’s hammer. He scanned every window box he passed. He surveyed every yard and every garden, and drew up beside an iron fence. On the other side he spied violet flowers. Squatting down to inspect them more closely, he remembered the description he’d read of verbena, stuck his nose between the bars, and all of a sudden drew back. The petals were the proper color, but the leaves were broad, not thin like verbena’s, and Nicholas quickly moved on down the street, dreading to think of presenting the wrong flower and inadvertently shouting out some blasphemy in the language of petals.

  Block after block he walked along, while the afternoon shadows stretched out toward the east. Sighing, he turned and sighted Saint Crispin, continued on, and then stopped.

  He got down on his knees and studied a clump of flowers growing beside a brick walk. The petals were violet, five to the flower. The stems were hairy. The leaves were toothed. In wonder, Nicholas realized he was staring at verbena.

  Stealthily, he looked around, dug out his jackknife, and cut four stalks. Then he sprang to his feet and turned a corner, muttering thanks to his patron saint.

  Grinning, he darted down the street. He stopped at Miss Stubbin’s shop for candles, then struck out toward Miss Catchfly’s grocery. Picturing the potent effect his bouquet would have on Juliana, the apprentice spotted the shop just ahead and anxiously hurried his steps. He smiled to think of the girl’s surprise, cleared his throat, put his hand on the door latch, pressed down his thumb — and found the door stuck. He jiggled the latch. Then he raced to his right, peered through a window, and realized that the shop was closed.

  Stunned, he glanced at the sinking sun. He’d hardly noticed the lateness of the hour. And with a holiday on the following day, Miss Catchfly had no doubt closed up early.

  Nicholas cast a last look through the window, then moved down the street at a despondent pace. The shop, he knew, would be closed the next day. And although he’d chanced to see Juliana arrive at the grocery early one morning, where she lived was a mystery. Yet somehow he had to find her, and soon — a problem he gnawed on unceasingly while he returned to the shoe shop, put the flowers in water, ate supper, and finally climbed into bed.

  A mockingbird burst into song from a treetop. Nicholas shook off a dream and sat up. Startled to find the sun long risen, he threw on his clothes, dashed toward the stairway, prepared to face Mr. Quince below — and recalled that it was a holiday.

  Relieved, he wandered drowsily downstairs. The shop was silent and would stay that way, though the door was unlocked for anyone with shoes or boots to be picked up. Instantly Nicholas spun around and stared at Juliana’s shoe.

  Mr. Quince had finished repairing it. And he’d told Juliana when she’d brought it in that he’d have it done by the holiday. No doubt she’d stop in to get it that morning. The apprentice beamed to realize that the problem of hunting her down was solved.

  Reverently, he picked up the shoe, running a finger along the brass buckle and over the glossy black leather. Then it crossed his mind that Juliana might, by chance, have forgotten about it. Or perhaps she wouldn’t have time to retrieve it until the day after the ball.

  His spirits wilted. He put the shoe down, knowing he couldn’t be certain that she’d come to the shop in time. Working his brain for a way to find her, he found himself absently eyeing a hammer — and suddenly remembered Saint Crispin.

  Nicholas charged upstairs, seized the verbena, and scurried back down, sure that Saint Crispin, his guide and protector, would show him the way to Juliana.

  “Good day to you, Nicholas,” said Mr. Quince with a smile, entering the shop from the kitchen. “Fine weather for the militia to march, is it not?”

  Nicholas halted and looked out the window. “Yes, sir,” he answered. Then he ran for the doorway.

  “You too like to watch the review, do you lad?”

  Nicholas froze with his hand on the latch. “Yes, sir.” He shuffled his feet impatiently.

  “Well then, no doubt I’ll see you there.”

  “No doubt,” he replied, and rushed through the door.

  He sped down the walk, then looked up at the vane. It had shifted direction during the night, and Nicholas found that it now faced south. Orienting himself accordingly, the apprentice set off down the street, his eyes alert for Juliana.

  He wondered whether she’d turn a corner and suddenly appear in his path. Or perhaps he’d catch just the merest glimpse of her face in a second-story window. Nicholas glanced about, wary as a hunter, then abruptly stopped.

  He lowered his eyes, viewing a patch of verbena growing beneath a rosebush, along the wall of a church. Deciding the four stalks he’d brought along hardly made a proper bouquet, he squatted down and pulled out his jackknife.

  “You, boy! Rascal! Away from those flowers!”

  It was a woman’s voice, half a block behind him. Fearing to turn around and be seen, Nicholas quickly shot to his feet, ripping the back of his shirt on a rose thorn, and burst into flight down the street.

  Leaving a trail of verbena petals, he sprinted until his sides ached, then stopped. He looked behind him and saw he was safe. Catching his breath, he tidied his hair and assessed the lengthy rip in his shirt. He hadn’t had time to pick more flowers. His scanty bouquet would have to do.

  The apprentice pushed on, following the street until it ended at a park running along the water. Unable to travel any farther in the direction Saint Crispin had pointed him, Nicholas struck out down a path to his left, aware of diverging from his course but reasoning that to explore the park was no doubt what the saint had meant him to do.

  The path was crowded with people strolling and taking in the view of the sea. Yet after walking from one end to the other without catching sight of Juliana, Nicholas began to wonder whether Saint Crispin might have pointed south for some other reason or some other shoemaker. Resting himself, he leaned against a tree. And then he saw her.

  She was alone, gazing glumly at the water, musing on the inconstancy of the villainous Winthrop Whistlewood.

  The apprentice stared at her in awe. His heart broke into a trot, then a gallop. Intending to surprise her with his bouquet, he hid the flowers behind his back, licked his lips, breathed in deeply, and stepped up quietly behind her.


  “Excuse my intruding on —”

  “Mercy!” she cried. She whirled about, pale as skimmed milk. “Such a fright!” She blinked and gasped for breath.

  “Forgive me,” fumbled Nicholas. “Please.”

  He looked down, and suddenly realized that his entire supply of words had fled his mind like a frightened flock of birds. He glanced around, ransacked his brain for something to say, and finally, in desperation, mutely thrust the bouquet at Juliana.

  “Scoundrel!” she muttered between her teeth. For behind the apprentice she spied the figure of Winthrop Whistlewood strolling her way, in the company of his latest sweetheart.

  “I’m afraid I must go at once,” she announced. Having decided that morning never to look on the face of her former suitor again, she lowered her eyes, turned briskly around, and bustled away from the baffled Nicholas.

  Astonished, he watched her vanish from sight. Had he said something wrong? Was his manner too forward? Had she noticed the rip in the back of his shirt? He stared at the bouquet in his hand, wondering what had become of its magic.

  He set off toward the shoe shop, then slowed to a stop.

  There were petals on the ground — verbena petals. The very ones, the apprentice suspected, that had fallen when he’d streaked down the street.

  In horror he gaped at his bouquet. No wonder Juliana had fled! Verbena might signify “Enchantment”— but verbena had five petals to the flower. Having sat overnight, then been shaken about, his verbena had lost so many petals that she’d taken it to be something else!

  Terror-stricken, he threw down the flowers and darted to Mr. Flinders’s bookshop.

  “Nicholas, my scholar — step right in!” Mr. Flinders lowered the book he was reading. “The shop is closed, you understand. Except, of course, for those like you. Those who crave knowledge as others crave food.”

  Nicholas rushed toward the volume he sought, pulled it out, and opened it up, determined to find out what message Juliana had read in his bouquet.