Woven

by Michael Jensen

  Tyra shrugged. “So what now?”

  “Try again?”

  “And what should I say to her? ‘Your son is a ghost. He has a message for you’?”

  “Not like that. Just … let her know I love her, and that she shouldn’t blame herself.”

  Easier said than done. “I’ll think of something.” Tyra knocked on the door again.

  “Her name is Norell, if that helps.”

  The door eased open again, enough for the woman to reveal her left eye and a portion of her annoyed frown. “Young lady,” she said brusquely, “I insist you harass me no further!”

  “Your son,” Tyra uttered. “This is about your son.”

  Norell widened the door. “You knew my son?”

  “Well.” Tyra tried not to shift her eyes at him. “Sort of.”

  “Come in, milady. You should not be out there alone.”

  Tyra entered, surprised by the woman’s quick insistence. The peasant followed as the door closed. A few lit candles revealed a cluttered room with cloth strewn about. A loom sat in the corner, its heddles laced with thread. Norell pulled up a chair and encouraged Tyra to sit down.

  “Mind your voice. I have a guest asleep in the back. I thought her mouth would never stop.” She walked into the kitchen and raised a kettle from the hearth. “Care for tea?”

  The peasant nodded at the princess. “A sip would be fine,” Tyra answered.

  Norell eyed her as she searched through a cupboard.

  “I don’t get it,” said the peasant. “She’s being nice to you.”

  Tyra waited for Norell to tip her kettle, and then she whispered, “Is that uncommon?”

  “Did you say something, dear?” the woman asked.

  “I — I, uh,” Tyra stuttered, trying to keep track of them both. “I like your tapestries!”

  “Why, thank you, child.” Norell carried two cups of steaming tea to the table, their brims lined with silver. Tyra quickly raised hers and sipped, surprised by the strong taste of honey and angelica root. The concoction was more delicious than she was expecting. “I am sorry for being so affront with you, my dear,” Norell said, taking a seat across from her. “I have not been myself since my son … passed …”

  Tyra lowered her cup. “I am sorry for your loss. It came as a shock to me.”

  “As it did for many,” Norell added. “How did you know my son?”

  “I met him in the village,” Tyra said. “Last week.”

  “At the festival, I take it. Would you remove your hood, please?”

  Tyra knew it was impolite to remain hooded in another’s household, but the peasant shook his head, insisting that she keep it on. She removed it anyway, exposing her yellow hair and soft complexion. The woman leaned forward, astonished, as Tyra’s strands settled.

  “Such a pretty girl. He made no mention of you. Were you fond of him?”

  “Oh — no, no,” Tyra said, blushing. “It’s nothing like that.”

  The woman nodded as she turned to the fire. “He was such a picky boy when it came to girls,” Norell said. “I never knew of him meeting you, a young noble girl. He must have been scared to death to say anything; I thank you for your condolences.” She closed her eyes and sipped from her cup. “I severed my ties with the Court many years ago. Perhaps the nobility is not as conceited as I remember.”

  The peasant backed away a step, as if startled by what the woman had said. “Severed ties with the Court?” He snapped his fingers. “I knew it! Her manners, the gowns in her wardrobe, the way she always knew so much about the nobility … Why didn’t she ever tell me about this?”

  Tyra studied Norell, finding it hard to accept the unlikely herself. “You’re a Lady?”

  “I was a Lady — of the Court, that is,” Norell said. “Perhaps I am saying too much, but I must make up for years of silence. If I had told him sooner, Nels may still be with us.”

  The woman raised a hand to her eyes while Tyra caught a shattered look on the peasant’s face, as if he refused to believe his mother’s words. Tyra had a hard time believing them, too. Why would this woman voluntarily leave the Court and live the life of a peasant? Tyra would rather die first than be a commoner. “Why would you renounce your title and live out here?” she asked.

  “I doubt you know what happened to my husband,” Norell continued. “He was murdered before the entire Court. Because of Lennart, my husband’s life was taken by a madman.”

  Tyra blinked. This was news to her. “No,” she said. “I’ve never heard of this.”

  “Lennart never had the backbone to confront his problems, after all my husband did for him. Now all he does is sulk in his castle like a coward, while my son is murdered by the man who killed his father.” Norell began to sob, softly. “It was a clear night. It was not lightning that brought down that tree!” The woman quickly composed herself. “My apologies,” she said, changing the subject. “Please tell me, young lady. Who are your parents? If they are native to this area, surely I would remember them.”

  Tyra didn’t know what to do. Telling the woman that she was the king’s daughter would be a terrible idea. Luckily, before Tyra could speak, a thump sounded on the other side of the cottage. A scrawny young girl appeared in the kitchen, her brown hair unkempt and her clothing tattered. This had to be the guest that Norell mentioned. The girl rubbed the sleep from her eyes and looked at them. “Who’s there?”

  The peasant winced. “Oh, great …”

  Tyra shot him a glance, wondering what the matter was. She watched the girl wander to the fireplace and sniff the warm kettle. “Company,” Norell said, releasing a deep sigh. “This is Jilia. She has been kind enough to help me these last few days. I honestly do not know what I would do without her. She and Nels were such good friends. You never did tell me your name, milady?”

  “I …” The situation had officially overwhelmed Tyra. “I’d better go.”

  “But,” Norell insisted, “you had something to say about my son?”

  “What about Nels?” The mousy girl ran closer to the table and stopped suddenly. Her brown eyes widened like huge apricots as she pointed at Tyra. “What’s the princess doing here?”

  Norell whipped her head back and locked her eyes with Tyra’s. “Princess?”

  With a groan, the peasant raised a hand to his forehead.

  “Yes,” Tyra admitted with a gulp. “I am the princess.”

  “Princess Tyra?” Norell’s kindly face changed to one of astonishment. “Carin’s girl?” She then placed a hand over her heart. “I never expected. In my house. Why are you here?”

  Tyra didn’t know how to explain, but she tried. “This will sound … strange.” She closed her eyes, knowing how absurd she might sound. “I saw Nels in the woods. He is a ghost now.”

  His mouth gapping open, the peasant stared at her. “What are you doing?”

  “I don’t know. What am I supposed to say?” she responded.

  When silence followed, Tyra’s eyes drifted to the girl and the woman. Both of them stared at her with horror in their eyes. An ember popped out of the hearth, making Norell jump.

  “Nels — a ghost?” Jilia said. “A ghost? Are you mad?”

  “I will not hear this.” Norell’s jaw clenched. “Leave my house at once!”

  Tyra caught her breath, stunned by their contempt. Even the look on the peasant’s face was exasperated. “I knew they wouldn’t believe me,” she said, glaring at him. She then stood up and turned to the woman, ready to leave. “He loves you and he doesn’t want you to blame yourself.” After that, she turned to the peasant and folded her arms. “There,” she muttered. “I said it.”

  “You have said enough!” the woman cried. “You humiliated my son, and now you insult my grief. You wicked, shameful girl — you and your entire family are nothing but a disgrace!”

  “How dare you!” Tyra cried back. “I could have you imprisoned!”

  “Leave my house!” Norell shouted. “Get out!”

  �
�Who are you to order me about, peasant?”

  The woman stormed around the table and seized Tyra by the arm. She yanked the princess to the door and cast her out. The door slammed before Tyra landed on the ground. A loud bawling sounded within the cottage. The door opened a crack, just enough for the girl to poke her head out.

  “You’re a vile, wicked trollop!” she said. “If you come back, I’ll make you sorry!”

  Again, the door slammed. Tyra dusted herself off, storming past the grave.

  The nerve of that woman, handling me like that!

  She should have left the moment she couldn’t find Arek in the clearing. The peasant started to call after her, but she went on. She had given into his plea once already, yielding to assist his problem, but she wouldn’t make the same mistake twice. She should not have come here.

  The peasant caught up with her. “Will you stop and listen to me?”

  “I did what you asked,” she said. “I did my best and it only made a mess of things. Are you happy now?” She kept marching. “I fulfilled my agreement; now you fulfill yours!”

  “If you won’t stop, I’ll —”

  “What will you do, ghost? Walk through me?”

  “I’ll … I’ll haunt you. That’s what ghosts do. I’ll haunt you for the rest of your life!”

  Scoffing at him, Tyra proceeded into the woods, hoping to find Brooklet in Cobblestown. The peasant persisted, walking in front of her with every step. She refused to acknowledge him, and she refused to think of him haunting her, following her wherever she went, so she hoped his threat was an empty one. As they reached the edge of the woods, he ran ahead and stuck his leg out in front of her. Unhindered, she walked right through it.

  “What were you doing?” she asked, finally acknowledging him.

  The peasant grumbled back.

  “I can’t hear you, ghost.”

  “I was trying to trip you.”

  Tyra laughed. “There’s a problem with that — you’re dead!”

  Without looking back, she walked over the quarry hill and finally descended into the village. The peasant didn’t follow her this time. Perhaps the edge of the woods was as far as he could go. Master Wussen, one of her instructors trained in ghost lore, mentioned how ghosts can only go to certain places. The peasant could stay in the woods. She would not have it any other way, even if the thought of leaving him gave her no comfort.

  She had tried to help, and she had failed — miserably.

  How can anyone expect me to rule? I can’t even help a dead peasant.

  Tyra figured it was midnight by now. The moon was still high and bright. Upon entering the village, Tyra found her mare drinking from a trough. The princess approached Brooklet, stroked her mane, mounted, and guided her toward the castle. They rode for a while and then stopped. At the east end of the village, Tyra turned to see the silhouetted hill once more — for the last time.

  “I will never again go into those woods.”

  Slipping quietly into her soft bed and feeling the down of her countless pillows, Tyra blew out her candle, pulled the long silk sheets up to her chin, and closed her eyes for the night. Her thoughts lingered on Arek as she listened to the quiet.

  The silence was rather comforting.

  “Excuse me, I’m looking for a ‘witchy’ princess.”

  Tyra sat up with a start, her eyes peering into the darkness.

  A tall figure stood in the center of her room, staring back with dark eyes. Moonlight bled through the windows behind him and reached the foot of her bed. He should have cast a shadow on her sheets, but there was none. Master Wussen was mistaken. Ghosts could go anywhere — and he had found her.

  He stepped closer. Tyra clutched her pillow. Her heart raced.

  She wanted to scream, but what good would that do?

  No one else could see him.

  Tyra wanted to lay her head on the table the moment she sat down for breakfast — not a comfortable place to rest, but if given a moment, she would have fallen asleep effortlessly. Sunlight bled through the stained-glass windows, splashing color on the bland stone walls.

  “My goodness,” her mother said. “Are you still in your nightclothes?”

  Moaning, Tyra sat upright.

  So much for that idea …

  Wrinkles covered her beige robe, and dark circles drooped beneath her tired eyes. She had brushed her hair some, but Tyra refused to slip into a dress with unwanted eyes watching her every move. The peasant had proved himself a complete nuisance by keeping her awake all night. No matter how many pillows she threw at him, he would not stop. The peasant didn’t sleep, so neither could she, and Tyra’s back ached terribly. Falling off Brooklet had certainly not helped, but being forced to endure the peasant’s voice for hours had proved far worse. She couldn’t tolerate his pestering for much longer.

  If this goes on for another night, I will lose my mind.

  Father tapped a shelled egg with his silver spoon. Mother had one, too.

  Tyra stared at it. “You know I don’t eat eggs.”

  “We expected as much,” said her mother, signaling for Tyra’s meal to come.

  From the side door emerged a fat scullion wearing a white apron that draped over his protrusive belly. Tyra simpered. He walked to her chair, placed a dainty platter on the table, and removed the cover. An inviting aroma wafted into her nose — an assortment of sliced fruits and a fresh pastry. Her empty stomach grumbled. Such a lovely spread. If she hadn’t skipped out on her last meal, she wouldn’t be starving now. Tyra reached for a fork and held it delicately.

  “Enjoy your breakfast, Your Highness,” said the scullion.

  Just then, from below the table, a head jutted up — right through her platter. “There you are!” said the peasant. Tyra let out a shriek and her fork slipped from her fingers. He then belted a laugh and turned to the startled scullion. “What … No sour custard?”

  “Go away!” Tyra slammed the cover over her platter. “Meddlesome spook!”

  With a flabbergasted frown, the scullion reclaimed the meal and dashed back into the kitchens. Tyra cried for him to stop, but he was too quick, and she watched as her beautiful meal vanished behind the swinging door. She stared at the peasant with a look of severe contempt.

  “What are you doing now,” she cried. “Trying to starve me to death?”

  The room fell silent. Tyra looked at her father and mother. Both of them stared back, their brows creased. Father’s mouth hung open, while Mother had a goblet pressed to her lips. The queen lowered it slowly. “Was something wrong with your meal, darling?”

  Tyra bit on her lip as she sank deeper into her chair.

  “Honestly, Tyra.” Mother shook her head. “What has come over you?”

  “She went out last night,” Father said. “Longer than usual.”

  “On the full moon, Tyra? What an absurd thing to do!”

  “The guards also told me you conversed with yourself in your room all night.” Father resumed eating his egg. “I would advise against going outside on the full moon, Tyra.”

  The peasant laughed again. “You should tell them who you were really talking to.”

  Tyra felt her face turn red. “I couldn’t sleep.”

  “Well,” said Mother. “That explains your mood. It is bad enough having to repair the damage you caused in Cobblestown. No one will take your word seriously if you break it.”

  “I know I won’t,” the peasant chimed in. He walked behind the king and queen and stood between them. “What do you think would happen if they knew a peasant had tossed you on your arse?”

  Tyra slammed her fist on the table. Having suffered embarrassment from his mother the night before was enough. “Bite your tongue!”

  Mother pressed a hand over her heart. “What did you say to me?”

  Feeling like a buffoon, Tyra closed her eyes, wishing to disappear. Idiot. No one can see him but you! Speaking to him in front of others surely made her look strange. “I — I didn’t mean —”


  “Enough,” Father said. “You obviously do not feel well. Take rest today.”

  Tyra sat up straight again. “I will be fine, Father. I don’t want to miss archery.”

  “I wish you would. I would rather not have you spending time with him.”

  The peasant shot Tyra a curious look. “Who’s him?” he asked nosily. “Arek?”

  “Really,” Mother continued. “What I have done to deserve such a resentful —” The royal scribe entered the room, carrying under his arm a thin book that contained the daily report of the kingdom’s affairs. His entrance saved Tyra from having to explain further — an appreciated distraction. Mother’s stormy mood instantly became sunny. “What news do you bring today?”

  “Much, Your Majesties. First, there is a couple who wish to wed.”

  “Wonderful! How wonderful,” Mother said. “Grant them our blessing.”

  The man nodded. “I have disturbing news as well. There was a death.”

  It was Father who looked up this time. “What of it?”

  The ghost anxiously glanced at Tyra. She scowled back as the scribe cleared his throat and opened his book. “An accident claimed the life of a young man of seventeen years from the outskirts of Cobblestown. The villagers say an oak crushed him after it was struck by lightning.”

  A sullen expression washed over the peasant’s face as Tyra glimpsed at him. What would it feel like, having someone speak of her death in such a casual way? A knot wrenched inside Tyra’s stomach, but not from hunger.

  “Cobblestown,” said Father. “Did this lad have a name?”

  “His name, uh … here it is! His name was Nels.”

  Unlike his usual slump during other reports, Father sat up. “The lad from the match?”

  “How dreadfully careless,” Mother said, tsk-tsking. “Letting a tree fall on himself.”

  “I didn’t let anything fall on me!” the peasant cried. “I was murdered!”

  Tyra smirked at the peasant before she turned to her mother. “Indeed.”

  “I have some sensitive news, as well,” the scribe added.

  Father abandoned his egg. “How sensitive?”

  “A murder was reported.”