Zel

by Donna Jo Napoli

  I close my eyes and dare to see what I fear in anticipation: The goose sits on but four lumps. She gets up now and checks them. I see the white and gray lumps. There is no doubt: rocks all! The goose has rolled the egg from the nest. My eyes search till they find it. This time the egg has cracked. The goose cannot raise another’s child. The gosling is dead. This is the message the youth gave to Zel—as a gift. Despised gift. Cursèd youth. I would wring the goose’s neck if I could. Oh, had I only left the goose tethered to her nest with the vine!

  But geese are geese and people are people. How a goose behaves has nothing, less than nothing, to do with how people behave. Geese are stupid and smelly and hateful. Geese know nothing. Zel will realize this. Zel need not take the goose’s message, the youth’s message, to heart. I open my eyes.

  “Mother, what is it?” Zel comes around the table and hugs me. “You look as though you would cry.”

  I pull my daughter onto my lap. “The world you know here, Zel, the world of our mountains and waterfalls, of our endless skies, do you love this world, Zel?”

  Zel’s head rises slightly higher than mine. I can’t remember when she last sat on my lap. She presses my head to her and rests her chin on top. “How can you ask? You know I do.”

  I hug her. “Our alm is the best world imaginable.” As the words leave my mouth, I regret their nakedness. I know in an instant that this is the moment I have dreaded. I must talk to Zel of the most important decision she will make in her life. I must give Zel the choice between a life with me forever and the ordinary life of stupid people who know no better. I must use the utmost care.

  “Perhaps,” Zel is saying slowly. “But I do love new places, new people.”

  I work hard to keep my arms from becoming iron like my teeth. As much as I would want to, I must not shackle Zel to me. I love her. That love must be returned freely. I cannot bear anything less. And I have a ready means of persuasion. Zel gave it to me yesterday when I made the cedar branch break and fall on the hedgehog. She wished for the gift of talking with animals. This desire resonates within her spirit. I speak with energy. I dangle the perfect hook. “If you could talk with animals, that would be much. You would give up certain things to have that gift, wouldn’t you?”

  Zel leans back so that she can look in my face. Her cheeks are red. Her eyes glow. “Oh, yes,” she says in a half whisper.

  I stroke her arms. “It would be worth choosing a life here in the country.”

  Zel smiles. “Choosing a life in the country is not giving up much, Mother.”

  I am encouraged. She is truly a mountain girl, unlike me. I dare to speak on. “It would be worth choosing a life without a husband.”

  Zel stiffens and sucks in air. I watch her eyes fight pain. Then in an instant, her face clears. “Oh, Mother, I would never abandon you. You must stop thinking that at once. When I marry, I will take you with me.” Zel claps her hands and laughs her relief. “We can all live together.”

  I swallow the bile that has risen to my tongue. I was mistaken; my daughter is not ready to choose. But that is no problem. There is time still. If I use enough skill and care, I will persuade Zel by the time her moon blood first flows.

  I shut my eyes. The gosling is already deteriorating under the roasting sun. Ants have invaded the shell. The smell of rot attracts them. “Zel,” I say, knowing now that I always knew I would eventually come to this lie, me, who has never allowed a lie to soil the air between myself and my blessed daughter, saddened by the unfairness of the price I have had to pay for this precious daughter, angry at that unholy price. “Zel, I must tell you a horrible thing.”

  Zel takes my hands. Her cheeks slacken. “What, Mother?”

  I open my eyes. “Death would knock on our door.”

  “Death?” Zel squeezes my hands.

  “Yes.” I am amazed at the ease with which the lie comes. The ease exhausts me. Evil is heavy, indeed. “There are those who wish you ill, Zel. Who have always wished you ill.”

  “Mother!” Zel stands up. She looks around the room as though she would run away. “What are you saying?”

  I know we must keep holding hands. “There are those who would push you from one of our cliffs, those who would kill you.” I speak with a certainty not my own.

  “Me?” Zel shakes her head. “But why, Mother?” Her words come out slowly, like stones rolling in wet grass. She shudders.

  “We must protect you.”

  “Who wants such a thing? How do you know? Maybe I can talk to the person. I have done no harm.” Zel frees her hands from mine. Frenzy lights her eyes. “You can come with me. Together we . . .”

  “Yes, together we can protect you.” I stand. The pronouncement rises from my lungs, through my throat and mouth; yet I know what I say only as I hear it. “The gosling is dead.”

  “The gosling?” Zel stares at me. Then she runs to the window. The goose sits on her nest. Zel cannot see the egg, but I know she realizes I am right. I stand beside her and watch the tears move down her cheeks. “Tiny life, tiny bones.” Zel presses her palm against her mouth. When she releases it, she turns to face me. Terror tightens her jaw. “What has the gosling to do with me, Mother?”

  “You cannot take gifts people offer.”

  “I asked for the egg, Mother.”

  “But the youth insisted on giving you something.” My voice is so quiet, it is barely audible. “You must not be near people.” My fingers take Zel’s braids. “You will grow your golden hair.” I speak without yet knowing where my words lead.

  Zel twirls around. She raises her fists. “I don’t see any sense to your words.”

  My confusion was equal to Zel’s, but now it is past. I am already calling together the powers I know. They pulse in my veins, soak through my muscles. They tell me of a tower abandoned centuries ago. “A safe place. You will see.”

  Zel’s tears stream now. They drop to her smock. They make dark circles over her breasts.

  Chapter 9Zel

  urry, Mother,” Zel whispers into Mother’s ear. Did she just hear a cry behind them, an evil cry as of a hungry predator? The stalker comes. “Hurry.”

  Zel clings tighter. There is water all around. Water below them. Water that would suck them under, yet Mother races over it as though it is solid. Oh, merciful water that supports Mother’s weight. Zel’s feet do not touch the water. Her arms are wrapped firm around Mother’s neck. Mother’s cloak shields them both.

  But Mother’s cloak is not thick enough to ward off a dagger. Mother is stronger than Zel realized, for she carries her now without huffing and puffing. Still, Mother cannot fight off an enemy. “Flee faster, Mother.”

  Zel listens hard. She hears nothing but the slap of water on water. She dares to peek from the cloak upward. The sky is aglow with stars and a full moon. In this glow she and Mother must surely be visible to whoever follows. She shivers and ducks inside the cloak.

  “Get down and run, Zel. But stay close.” Mother is already racing along the shore. She scrabbles up the slope, pulling Zel by the hand.

  An insect lands on Zel’s cheek and crawls to her hair. She swats at it. It is so hard to keep up with Mother. Where did the woman’s speed come from? And, oh, Zel is grateful for that speed. She uses all her strength to run. The pine branches scratch at her face. The forest is dense here. But that denseness is wonderful, for surely, oh, surely, it hides them.

  And now Zel hears: Their running is loud. Twigs snap underfoot. They are as thunder. The stalker will have no trouble following them by sound alone. He needs no moonglow.

  “Hurry, Mother.”

  But Mother stops. Zel yanks on her cloak. Then she sees. She swallows the scream in her throat. There before them looms a tower. Near the top are tall windows going clear up to the overhang of the roof.

  Mother sits on the ground.

  “What are you doing, Mother? Do you know this tower? Is this the safe place you spoke of back in the cottage?” Zel pulls on Mother’s arm. “Get up. Oh, Mother
, get up.”

  Mother sits, silent.

  Zel looks around quickly. She sees no door into the tower. She races around the base. The door is on the far side. She pulls on it. She pulls and pulls with all her strength, but the wood does not budge. It is hard as stone. This must be the right place, but how will they get in? Zel rushes back to Mother and kneels beside her. “Mother, you must get up. We have to work together to open the door.”

  “Hush. Forget the door.” Mother’s eyes glitter hard in the moonlight. She stares beyond Zel at something. Something.

  Zel spins around. The sapling walnut tree beside the tower, which was only half the height of the tower only moments ago, is growing, growing. It thickens and reaches; it grows. Zel cannot believe her eyes. She pants.

  Mother stands and pushes Zel. “Climb. Fast. It is the only way in. Climb!”

  Fear strengthens Zel’s hands, makes her foothold sure. She goes from one thick branch to another, easily, as though this tree were made to have the branches at just the right distance apart for her legs. One branch leads directly to the wide window ledge of the tower. Zel jumps down inside and turns to help Mother into the room.

  Her arms meet empty air. Mother isn’t behind her.

  “Mother!” Zel climbs back onto the window ledge.

  But the walnut branch already retracts. It is too far from the window for Zel to reach.

  Zel screams. “Mother!”

  The tree is now shrunk to its normal height.

  “Mother!”

  Chapter 10Mother

  put my fingers in my ears and run. I stumble. I hear Zel’s scream still. I look for friendly ferns to stuff my ears, but the forest floor is covered with pine needles. I dig beneath them to the dirt and spit on dry grit. I plug my ears with the mud. And still I hear her scream. It is within my head.

  I run to the shore. The water plants that rose beneath my feet to form a path for us across the lake are still in place. It is deepest night; no one can be about at this hour. The risk that anyone will see me is small. And if someone does see, I’ll dive and wait till he passes. He’ll think it was his imagination. He’ll forget it.

  I cross the lake, walking from one plant to another. Once my foot hits the rocks on the other side, I close my eyes and see Zel, her back pressed against the side of the tower room, tears streaming down her face. She is safe. I check the door. The wood is petrified; it can never be moved. I have done well. Zel is safe.

  The frenzy within me gradually subsides.

  In its place comes a bitter taste. I saw Zel in my head only for an instant, yet I know the terror she chews now. My daughter is frightened beyond thought. Oh, if only I could comfort her.

  A weariness far more thorough than any I’ve known before invades my bones. I must climb the hillside and return to the cottage for a good sleep. In the morning I must plant an extensive herb garden. I do not know yet why, just as I did not understand each task tonight until I found myself performing it.

  I climb.

  I stop and close my eyes. I see my daughter.

  Zel is in the room. Her breath is loud as storm winds; her heart is loud as unripe fruit dropping from trees in those winds. She puts one hand over her mouth and the other over her heart. She presses. I know she strives to hush herself.

  The tower room is utterly dark. Zel jerks as an owl hoots. She lifts her chin blindly toward an answering hoot. She shakes.

  She dares to look outward over her shoulder. Shadows of bat wings cross at the top of the pines. Nothing else moves.

  Slowly Zel slides one foot along the floor close to the wall. She pulls the other after it. She keeps her back to the tower wall and moves in this fashion the full circumference of the round room. She passes four windows in making the circle, ducking below each so that she cannot be seen from without. She keeps one hand on the cool stone of the wall behind her and the other hand stretched out in front toward the dark.

  She stands immobile now, back leaning against the tower wall. Gradually, gradually the room becomes light. There is nothing in the room. Absolutely nothing. Stone walls, stone floor. But one stone is different. Zel kneels and touches.

  It is a hatch. My heart contracts. I see the staircase leading down beneath it. Instantly I release energy into the wooden hatch. It hardens to stone, like the door at the base of the tower.

  Zel digs at the edges of the hatch. She cannot lift it. No one can lift it. She works like a fiend. Finally, she slumps back on her heels. Then she crawls to beneath a window. She stands beside it, pressing herself against the wall, and peeks out. The predawn forest rustles. Animals scurry in the underbrush. The owl gives a victorious screech. Zel puts her fist in her mouth and bites down hard. Her eyes glisten. She breathes shallow and rapid. She lifts the edge of her smock and twists it. Her foot taps the floor silently, evenly. One two three four . . . On and on.

  I open my eyes. My daughter is as terrified as the rodent paralyzed in the owl’s talons. I will not watch this.

  I climb.

  I stop again and close my eyes, but I refuse to see Zel. Instead, I check once more: The door is rock hard; the hatch is rock hard. Safe.

  I climb.

  Chapter 11Konrad

  won’t marry her.” Konrad sits across the table from Father, his hands tense on his knees.

  “You give me no explanation, yet you expect me to accept refusal. Your behavior is outrageous.” Father’s face is red again.

  Konrad almost speaks Zel’s name. But he stops himself. All he knows of the girl is her name, and a name is not an explanation. “I cannot marry this girl, this girl you found for me, Father. I cannot.”

  Father is silent for a moment. When he speaks again, his voice is changed. Konrad has seen him make this shift in public debates; he knows his father summons his powers of persuasion. “Listen well, Konrad. You told me you think of women now. Those thoughts have consequences, especially in these days of church reform. If you want a woman, Konrad, you must wed.”

  Konrad does want a woman. But he doesn’t want this unknown wife, nor does he want a woman’s attentions in exchange for money. “You don’t understand.”

  Father stands, all semblance of patience gone. “I will not coddle any longer. Your refusal is intolerable!” He leans toward Konrad. “I have already made the pact, Konrad. Think of the strain on the relations between me and the girl’s father. He is not just a duke, but a representative from his city-state to the highest legislature, the Diet of the Cantons. I am forced to see him regularly.”

  Konrad stands as well. “I cannot bend my life to meet the curves of your politics, Father.”

  Father’s eyes bulge in anger. “Get out of my sight. And don’t come back till you are ready to talk rationally.”

  But Konrad is already running, out the door, up the stairs, to his room. He lies in bed and does not sleep, for the second night in a row. Konrad should marry this girl. Yet the thought of the wedding bed with the duke’s daughter unnerves him. He argues with himself, taking first his father’s side, then his own. And in the midst of the debate comes the image of Zel.

  Konrad thinks of the moment at the smithy when he said he owed Zel something and she finally agreed that there was something she wanted. He would have given her double any sum she sought, just to show her she was ordinary. But she asked for a warm goose egg. And her request spun him around like a top.

  How can he explain to Father that the thought of a girl who asks not for money but for a goose egg pushes all thoughts of other girls from his mind? Father would laugh. And with good reason. A chance encounter with a peasant girl. It is laughable.

  But Konrad cannot laugh.

  Like the speck of life in the fertilized goose egg, Zel entered Konrad’s world and left a mark that changed him.

  When Konrad rises the next morning, he pulls his clothes from the carved chests, snorting their woody smell, and runs down the stairs.

  Father is closed in his accounting room.

  Konrad eats and goes to h
is classics tutor. The poet Ovid makes little sense today, though Konrad gives his best effort. Between Latin lesson and Greek lesson, Konrad seeks Father out. He will bargain for time somehow. He holds his voice steady. “I am ready to talk rationally.”

  “Good. I will send word telling them to set the date.”

  Konrad flinches. “It is irrational to set the date for a wedding that cannot take place.”

  Father stares at Konrad. “Do your lessons teach you nothing?” He shakes his head in disgust. “Leave me. Now.”

  Konrad cannot concentrate through the rest of his lessons, nor through jousting practice. He sits at last at the midday meal, elbows on the table, hands in his hair. His head feels as though it would explode.

  Father enters and sits as well.

  Konrad waits with dread for the pronouncement he knows must come. But his mother speaks first. “I consulted the stars last night.” Her quiet voice dominates the room. “It is destined for Konrad to make his own choice.”

  Father wants to argue; it shows in his face. But he will not argue with the stars. In his view and in the view of most of the people Konrad knows, the stars determine plantings and harvests, trading and exploring, even conceptions and deaths.

  Konrad views the reading of the stars with skepticism, and his parents know that. He studies the work of Copernicus, and he agrees with that Polish-Prussian scholar that every bit of evidence suggests the sun doesn’t circle the earth, but vice versa. So the organization of the universe may be entirely different from what his parents think—and their reading of the stars may be hopelessly flawed, even if there be merit to the notion of reading the stars. Still, he sits silent now, content to reap the unexpected benefit of his parents’ beliefs.

  Father’s eyes study Konrad. It is clear he doesn’t miss the irony of the situation. All the same, he cannot argue. The stars guide life. And, by Father’s own admission, Konrad’s mother reads the constellations better than anyone. It was she who stopped Father from traveling under the new moon one spring, thus sparing him the terrible hailstorm that fell on Stuhlingen.