“Just a minute.” I pressed my fingers to my temple. “In your world?”
She nodded.
Nurse sighed, a deep inhalation that sounded like the tide, or the winter wind. I felt unable to move. What did N’tombe mean?
“Princess?” Nurse ventured into the schoolroom, something she rarely did when there was a governess in residence.
“I’m all right,” I brushed her hand away. “I’m just, surprised, that’s all.” I looked at N’tombe. “What do you mean – a different world?”
She blew on her drink. Her breath rippled the surface, a little storm. “I thought you realized.”
“I thought this was the only world.”
“Oh no. There are many worlds. They are layered like pancakes.” She smiled at me. “You have pancakes, yes?”
I laughed. “Yes. We have pancakes.”
“Good. I am partial to pancakes. Well then, worlds form when something happens. Something that has two possibilities. When I traveled I passed through a valley. It is very dry, and stony. A long time ago a group of humans lived there. They walked upright and used tools, just like us. A very clever man from a university told me that there, in this valley, lived the largest group of humans in the world. Maybe the only group. And I thought – what if there had been a storm and wiped out that entire population?”
I stared at her. “What?”
“Or a disease. Something, anyway.”
This was a bit morbid. “So?”
“Maybe that would have been the end of all humans,” she said in a faraway tone, and then, glancing at me, added, “That’s what I mean, anyway.”
“You mean what?”
“Maybe, in one world, a flood did come and wash them all away.”
“You just said a storm.”
She sighed. “My point is that the possibility existed there, at that moment, for two futures. One without people. Or the other. Who knows? Perhaps, somewhere, there is a world without people.”
This was all too strange. What was this woman talking about?
She laughed at my expression. “I never knew of other worlds either, until that cave. Rosa explained them to me. The cave was a junction point. There are a few such places, she says, where the fabric between the worlds is thin. Deep places, where the rocks have split, creating cracks where those with power may wander and step from one world to another.”
“Rosa? Who is Rosa?” I asked.
Nurse, back at the doorway again, dropped the metal tray with a clatter. The chambermaid crossed herself.
N’tombe set down her glass with a clink. “You do not know the Guardian?”
I shook my head.
“And yet she is the sister of your father. Your aunt. How can you not know her? It was her call that brought me here.”
I closed my eyes again, remembering fragments of dreams: a boy in a stiff collar, a woman with my grandmother’s face. And a girl who’d smiled as a necklace was placed over her shoulders. The flickering girl in the forest.
“There’s a necklace,” I said suddenly.
N’tombe nodded.
I was about to ask more, but Nurse, bustling with concern, interrupted. “That’s enough. Look at her! She needs rest.” She picked up my empty glass.
“No,” I said. “I’m fine. Tell me of your world.”
Nurse subsided, muttering.
I did not believe this strange woman who spoke of other worlds. It seemed foolish, farcical. A story fit for fairy tales, like the man who entered the world of the fae through the hole in the hill.
“Describe a world in a sentence?” N’tombe seemed amused, not offended. She stared out the window. “My world is crowded. We have different transport: metal carts that do not require animals to pull them but instead have engines that burn fuel to move across the land. They cough out smoke,” she pulled a face, “and are smelly and noisy. But they are faster than carts.”
“Faster than horseback?”
She nodded. “When the roads are good. And if they don’t break down.” I remembered the wheel falling from the cart and smiled.
“There is much sorrow, everywhere.”
“In my world?”
She nodded. “And mine too. Much sorrow. Children die for lack of food, or through disease or because adults do not care. In your world, though, in yours, ah ...”
“What do you mean?”
She waved her hand. “It is hard to explain in words. I walked long, long, to reach this place. First through my world, then through yours. And in your lands, everywhere I go, there is a great sickness: the smoke from houses burning, skulls piled in great heaps, cities ruined. There is a, how do I put this? A lack of joy.”
My mother had said something similar. And the boy Will, who had lost his family from the plague. Soldiers, beheading children.
“So in your world, everyone is happy?”
She shook her head. “Of course not. But, we are not like this place. Not like this.”
I looked around my classroom. Not a beautiful room, that was true, but still. The Castle and the Kingdom and the people in it were happy.
“I do not mean this small island,” she said. “I mean, everywhere else.”
“You know about my dream?” I asked.
“That was no dream,” she said bleakly. “Once, that was a village. Now there are only ruins. Smoking remains of houses. Scattered piles of skulls. Remember the river, and the city on its banks?”
I nodded.
“They destroyed it too. I wandered between the walls. The place was empty, its houses and shops ransacked.”
I shook my head, not wanting to hear more.
“Every manuscript, every drawing, even the carvings from the gates had been removed. I wanted you to understand. I’m sorry you were upset.” She smiled, a wry twist to her lips. “It was not a good beginning. Look.”
From her belt she pulled a small seed-like object. It was rough against my fingers and caught my skin when I picked it off her palm. Holding it close to my face, I could just make out the delicate carvings.
“Roses,” I said.
“An entry token. To your Kingdom.”
“I think,” I said slowly, “you need to teach me many things. What is this army that is trying to find us? Who was this general? What do they want with us?” And, come to think of it, why had this woman even come here? “You say you were called?”
She nodded.
“By Rosa? My father’s sister?” The woman beside Daddy, the one with the necklace. Why was everyone so scared of her?
Nurse started, reached out a hand as if trying to stop me speaking.
N’tombe smiled. “So many questions.”
Chapter Thirteen
Dancing, Fighting
Will stood beside the kneading trough, punching the soft warm dough, savoring the yeasty smell. Almost in surprise, he recognized his emotion: happiness. His hands continued working while he contemplated this strange fact. Surely he could not really be happy, living here in this strange land?
Like a tongue running over a sore tooth, he thought of Aunt Agnes, and her unfriendly bony body that stayed staunchly upright at all times. She probably slept that way, with her jaw set tight, her mouth in a straight line, like a puppeteer’s manikin. Except a manikin was funny, and Aunt Agnes saw humor as a sin, something to be punished.
Will shook his head. He was here now, he didn’t have to worry about her rages and sour tongue. Mayhap the world was becoming a kinder place. He’d had a lucky break last month, beginning guard training at the same time as the baking. Although the hours were hard. Would the Princess be up yet? Unlikely. Royalty did nothing all day yet feasted well for the effort. Forget about her soft voice, boy, and her sweet smile. Doubtless she’s forgotten about you.
“Think it’s kneaded now.” Will looked up with a start. The senior apprentice, a lad a few years older than Will, held out his hand. “Should be molded into loaves. You watch, I’ll show you.”
Will, who’d seen his fa
ther do the molding near to every day of his life, nodded. The lad worked the dough clumsily, not quite stretching it enough. The loaves would rise, but they would be misshapen. Will hoped he wouldn’t be blamed for it and realized in resignation that probably, he would.
“There.” The apprentice straightened, looking with satisfaction at his malformed creations. “Off with you now, boy. You’re wanted in the field.”
Will was the only kitchen ’prentice to lead this double life of training in baking and soldiery. Strangely, he enjoyed both, although he could have done without the early rising, for every evening it seemed no sooner had he closed his eyes than he was being shaken awake again. Fortunately, Cook had taken a liking to him and allowed him to eat as much as he needed; lucky indeed, as Will was always hungry.
The practice field, set between Castle walls and moat, was warm in the early morning sunlight. Mist curled from the nearby water, wreathing around the boys who stood at the field’s edge, blinking and rubbing sleep from their eyes. Will, though, was wide awake. One of the benefits of rising early.
Will enjoyed the drills on the field and, somewhat to his surprise, found he was good at them. Certainly Sergeant Ryngell appeared to think so. He often singled Will out for sparring practice. This was a mixed blessing, as the Sergeant didn’t hold back; he seemed to think that bruises built skill and speed.
Today was different. Instead of the normal tilting at the manikin or fighting with wooden swords, the Sergeant decided to try a different form of combat. A tall, heavily built man with a big nose and a loud voice, he stood in the center of the field. “You have no weapons on you. Are you weaponless then?”
The boys looked puzzled.
“What about your teeth, eh? Your fists? Your feet? They are weapons, are they not? I’ve seen you fighting. You think I don’t see, but let me tell you lads, I’m always watching. What else can you use?”
Josh shouted, “Elbows.”
“Elbows. Good. You can get in a good blow with an elbow; sharp point into the belly or the temple, see. Very effective. What else?”
In sharp succession the boys suggested: thumbs (eye gouging), dust (temporarily blinding) and knees (into scrotum or head).
Will remembered wrestling with his father’s apprentices, trying to keep on his feet while they tried to push him over. “Fingers and feet, sir. And bodyweight. Lean into them, tip them backwards.”
“Exactly. Just because you have no weapons, you are not weaponless. Now. We practice.”
Will, pitted against Barry, struggled mightily, but his lighter frame told against him. At seventeen, Barry was near full-grown, the largest boy in the group. Pushed face down into the dust, Will pondered his options. If he could only use his body more efficiently, keep himself at a distance from Barry’s arms, he might stand a chance.
Barry lumbered in. Will ducked, hooked his foot around the larger boy’s ankle and tripped him. When the boy wobbled, Will stepped in, leant into Barry’s weight and threw him to the ground.
“Good, lad. Very good,” said the Sergeant.
Will stood panting as Barry lay, inhaling dust. When he looked up, he saw a dark figure on the wall watching him. When it stirred, he saw her face. It was the woman who’d thrown thunder at the gate. The Enchantress.
* * *
Intrigued by the raw energy of fighting without weapons, the boys practiced with enthusiasm, provoking each other into wrestling matches, exploring holds, trying new kicking styles. Marven, a lanky lad of fourteen who was aggressive with swords and staves, spent hours kicking and punching the jousting dummy. Will watched as Marven moved against the dummy, ducking his head, turning his body so only his shoulder approached the stuffed hay sack.
“Can I try?”
Marven, panting, nodded.
Will tried to imitate the other lad’s posture. “Is that right?”
“I think so. I want to keep from being buffeted, see, but want to give the thing a swift punch. Seems to be best if you turn away, slightly, so your shoulder is toward it.”
“Like this?”
“Aye. Put your fist up, see, against your jaw. The dummy whirls back if you hit it right. This stops it clouting you.”
Will tried again.
“Try punching it.”
Will made a fist, poked at the straw man. Marven snorted. “You won’t do much damage like that.”
Will pretended the dummy was a cousin.
“That’s better.”
The two boys practiced for the rest of the afternoon, taking it in turns, the watcher advising the fighter.
“Try again tomorrow?”
Will nodded. “Aye.”
They progressed gradually from dummy to each other. Sometimes the Sergeant watched. “Get in closer. Round the waist; that’s right. Grab hard. One foot behind his ankle. And twist!”
They practiced the movements slowly. This taught them control; overextension of a movement when done with speed could be corrected, but when performed slowly, there was the danger of losing one’s balance, giving the opponent a real advantage.
The other boys tried to copy Marven and Will’s moves, but none could move with their skill.
“Looks like you’re dancing,” Sergeant Ryngell muttered. “Only the music is missing.”
* * *
Gradually, the seasons changed and Will turned fifteen, the day unnoticed by all save himself. The autumn mornings were chill and, rising early, he was grateful for the heat of the bread oven.
“Not bad,” said the senior apprentice. Will had to restrain himself from punching the smug face. His loaves were perfect.
* * *
As usual of an evening, the boys lazed in the training barracks, trading yarns and playing dice. Will lay stretched on a wooden settle, idly watching the flames of the open fire. The talking made a dull, homely roar, and Will’s eyelids closed. A hand shook his shoulder and, jerking in shock, Will rolled off the bench.
“Sleeping, lad? Someone wants to see you,” said Sergeant Ryngell. The other boys stopped their joking and in the sudden silence, Will clambered onto his knees, then up onto his feet.
“Who is it?”
The older man jerked his head toward the door. Framed in the entranceway was a figure, dark against a dark background. Will caught his breath. He’d seen that shape before.
“She wants to talk with you, lad.”
“What does she want?”
“How should I know? Maybe she wants to turn you into a frog. Off you go, not good to keep a lady waiting.”
Next to the mess hall was a small teaching room, used mainly for disciplinary purposes, although it was rumored that classes were held in here when the weather was particularly bad. Will doubted this. It seemed that the wetter the weather, the more reasons the Sergeant found to get them outdoors.
The figure motioned to the doorway of the small room and Will slipped in, creeping slowly around the door, seeking an early escape path should the talk become nasty. He stared at the cracked slates on the floor, lest eye contact should be seen as a challenge. Would he be happy as a frog? It wouldn’t be too bad a life, as long as one had a liking for flies.
The Enchantress put back her hood and despite his firm intentions otherwise, Will could not help staring at her. Her skin was dark, the shade of the shadows of the Castle walls at eventide, but her eyes were gray-blue, the color of the sky. Her head was braided in tiny rows; striped brown scalp alternating with thick black ridges. Small beads were set at the end of the braids and rattled when she turned her head. They shone brightly in the dimly lit room: red, yellow, green and white.
She seemed so exotic. Was this place equally strange to her? Then he realized he was staring and lowered his eyes again.
“I keep being surprised.” Her voice was rich and deep, consonants uttered precisely, as though she was building what she was saying in her head before she spoke. Except for his own, it was the first strange accent he’d heard here in the Kingdom. She must come from far away.
&nb
sp; Will realized she’d stopped speaking.
“Surprised?” he asked quickly.
“Everything here is different from my home. The weather, the smells, the people. Do you know what is the strangest of all?”
Will shook his head.
“The food.”
“Food?” Will felt like an echo.
“At home we eat goat, maize, maybe roots. We make stews. They are very spicy. My aunt cooks the most beautiful stews. Sometimes monkey, from the jungle. Not often, for it is hard to get. Aunt Zissi makes monkey stew for a special occasion.”
Will swallowed. “We don’t, ah, we don’t have many monkeys here.”
The woman smiled again. “No. No monkeys.”
Nervously, Will shuffled his feet. Hopefully she wouldn’t start to talk about other animals she could eat. She might get hungry and turn him into one. Hopefully, she wouldn’t make him a frog. A wolf or a lion would be better; at least as a predator he might retain some dignity.
The woman laughed. “Why would I turn you into anything?”
Will felt his face grow hot. She could read minds. Fervently, he tried to empty his mind of all thought; Sergeant Ryngell didn’t seem to think that was difficult. But now that he was trying to think of nothing he couldn’t stop the thoughts. Seemed as though the more he tried to empty his brain, the more things rushed in to fill it. The weather, the evening meal, how tired his feet were, another fighting move to try on Marv.
“That,” said the Enchantress, “is what interests me.”
“What?”
“Your fighting. That’s why I wished to see you.” She indicated a battered wooden bench. “Shall we sit?”
Nervously, Will settled onto the edge of a bench; the Enchantress sat opposite. The firelight from the next room fell onto one side of her face; the other half was in the shade, obscure and unknown. Her eyes glittered.
“My name is N’tombe.”
Such a strange name. “What does it mean?” Will asked curiously.
The SoulNecklace Stories Page 11