by L. R. Patton
“And the light?” says the white-haired man. His black eyebrows furrow around his eyes, as if he is lost in constant thought. Yerin is a thoughtful man, and he has much more time for thinking now than ever, trapped in this dungeon.
Calvin passes the candle between the bars. The man looks at Aleen. “We will have to preserve the light,” he says.
“I can get you more,” Calvin says.
Aleen nods. “Please do, my boy,” she says. She gestures to the children behind her. “The children are afraid of the dark.”
He certainly understands that. Calvin, for one, is glad he is not tasked with turning down all the torches of the castle. It is a job for another. He hopes it will never pass to him.
Calvin watches them for a moment. And then he turns to go. He stops at the bottom of the stairs, gazing up at the blind way before him. He did not think about bringing a candle for the return trip up. He looks back at the children, gathered around the tiny bit of light and the extra food laid out before them as if it is a feast. It is, perhaps, a feast for bellies that have not tasted much besides bread and water for so many days.
Surely he can brave the dark this one time? Surely he can make it up one set of stairs, though they number in the hundreds, when the children have sat in darkness for many days? Surely he can summon his courage?
Calvin climbs the stairs, one at a time, careful not to stumble. Creatures scuttle across his path, but he hums a tune Cook is always singing and tries not to think about what they might be or whether they have claws or what might lie in wait for him around the next turn.
He reaches the top and breathes, in, out, in, out, for several moments. It is as if he has won a battle for his life, which, of course, is exactly what battling a fear feels like, is it not?
The castle is dark, but the moon is bright tonight. He finds his way to his rooms easily, stokes the fire and crawls into his bed.
Proposition
TALK reached Maude all over the town, about the man who had showed up in White Wind. He was said to have wrestled bears in the enchanted forests that wound throughout the land. He was said to have battled dragons single-handedly and survived. He was said to have swum the Violet Sea, the very place where so many of the men of White Wind had disappeared on a voyage that had become legendary in their history. Maude did not know how much of it was true. He seemed a bit small for all that.
Arthur made his home at the local inn, which charged a mere penny for every night of stay. Her father, she knew, paid him ten pennies a week, which left him ample money to feed himself, but still Maude brought him bread and porridge and, on occasion, a roast leg of lamb, when her father permitted it at their own table.
Every morning Arthur showed up at her door with a handful of yellow roses and the wink of an eye, and then her father would walk him out to the workshop behind their cottage. Arthur would work all day. Sometimes she would watch him. Sometimes she caught him watching her. She was a beautiful young lady, after all. Perhaps he wondered why she was not yet married, as most of the young ladies her age were. His wondering, however, did not stop his pursuit for her heart.
It did not take much to convince Maude to lose her heart. For many days, as she watched young Arthur whittle his furniture, she could see the magic dripping from his fingers, smoothing an edge here, extending a curl there, widening a leg in the most efficient manner. He had only to touch the wood. She wondered, at first, how this worked, for she had always supposed that magic came from the magician’s staff. But when she ventured closer, she noticed the staff propped on his right foot while he worked.
So he had magic enough to use it when the staff did not touch the object he was transforming. It must be powerful magic indeed.
When her father entered the workshop, which was not so often anymore, for he had no need to dirty his own hands with the work (Arthur was not only a skilled craftsman but a quicker woodworker than any had ever seen), Arthur shoved the staff into the shadows. Maude did not think it mattered so much, for her father was not an observant man, and had he noticed the staff, he would have likely thought it was nothing more than a walking stick. That is what it appeared to be, after all. There were no ornate markings. It looked as if, on his travels, Arthur had plucked a branch from a tree and commandeered it into his service. It was curved in the slightest, with a large knobby bump near the top. Old men used sticks such as these to hold their backs straight. Though he was a young man, it was an inconspicuous prop.
Maude watched Arthur and waited for her opportunity.
And one day it came.
Her father had traveled up the village road to visit the king, who had heard of the new woodworker’s elaborate furniture and asked about a new bedpost for his son. Her father was negotiating the sale. Arthur worked alone. The king would keep her father for a time, she knew, for theirs was a kind king who served his guests dinner and wine and desserts she had not the capacity to even imagine.
She stood silently in the doorway of her father’s workshop for a time, watching Arthur, for she did not want to startle him. What did magic do when it was startled? Arthur turned a table over and worked on a leg. He put it right-side up and bent eye-level with it to make sure it did not lean. When he faced the doorway, as if sensing someone was there, Maude spoke.
“I want you to teach me,” she said.
Arthur smiled, that lopsided grin that turned his eyes smaller. “You want to make furniture?”
She shook her head. “Not furniture. Magic.”
He stared at her for a time. He could not possibly think she did not know about his secret. He had, after all, turned the air into a rose at their first meeting. She supposed it could not have been air. There was no magic powerful enough to turn air into something you could touch. She held up her staff. “I have magic, too,” she said.
“No one must know I have magic,” Arthur said, turning back to his table.
“No one would know,” Maude said.
“Hush,” Arthur said. “It would be far too dangerous.”
“A man like you? Frightened of danger?” Maude said. She did not know quite what to think. A man who had, by the villagers’ account, braved bears and dragons and the Violet Sea, afraid of magic?
“You do not know what kings will do to eliminate a magic man from the pages of history,” he said.
Yes. Perhaps this was something she did not know. But she knew a place they could go. “I know a place,” she said. He looked at her. “No one would know.”
“Where is this place?” he said.
“I will show you,” she said. “This eve.”
He dipped his head. “As you wish,” he said.
“And you will teach me?” she said, for he had not yet agreed. Arthur shook his head.
“First, I must see this place for myself,” he said. “And then we will make our plan.” She knew him, then, to be a man of caution. She admired that about him, but her longing to practice magic did not diminish in light of danger. She would find a way. She must.
“Meet me behind the inn after my father is done with you,” she said, and she turned to leave. His voice stopped her in the doorway.
“Tell me,” he said. “Why is it that you have never learned magic yourself?”
Maude’s skirts shifted as she faced him again. “My mother died when I was a babe,” she said. “And my father...” She glanced behind her, as if her father had magically appeared. She lowered her voice. “My father forbade the practice of magic in his house.”
“Why?” Arthur said.
Maude shook her head. “I do not know.”
“Very well then,” Arthur said. “This eve.”
Maude returned to the cottage and tried her best to wait patiently for the sun to set, though we know that when one is waiting for something for which one longs, it is not always particularly easy to exercise patience. But Maude set to work on supper, knowing she would likely eat alone, for when her father returned from his castle trips, the wine in his belly always sent him into
a deep sleep that would be her gift this night.
Hidden
SIR Greyson and his men move at first light. They comb through the forest, which is not so sinister in the light of day, though it has grown colder in recent days, and the sun does not shine as it did before, when Fairendale still wore vibrant colors rather than muted ones.
And though they feel eyes watching them (the eyes of sprites? Fairies said to lure men to a place where children rule the land? Goblins? Dragons?), they do their work, as the king commanded. Sir Greyson joins them, unwilling to let his men risk their lives, if that is what they are doing, without him.
He knows, this captain, that he and his men cannot hope to possibly catch all of the animals of the forest, though it is, perhaps, what the king expects. And if they were able to catch all the animals in the forest, how would they know which ones were children under a spell of magic?
Sir Greyson strides through the forest. He looks for unusual signs—tracks, a lost scrap of clothing, perhaps, or, better yet, children who have grown tired of hiding. He could never have lasted this long in hiding when he was a child. He admires the children, though they have made his job more difficult. Though they are the reason he has not seen his mother and does not even know whether she lives. Sir Greyson is not a man to hold grudges. And if he were, what justification would there be in holding a grudge against innocent children who merely want to save their own lives? Sir Greyson understands, you see. He knows why they hide. He urges them to hide, in fact, though he would not speak such words aloud to his men or to the king. He does not, in truth, want the children found, for there is a feeling in the pit of his stomach that says it would be nothing but disaster.
Stay hidden, he whispers into the air. Stay hidden, whatever you do.
THE children, of course, cannot hear our captain, for they hide, still, beneath the ground, cut off from the forest, protected by a tiny shoe. They can feel the vibrations of horses, the walking of men, the springing of traps, though they do not know them for what they are.
Maude looks at Arthur. “Movement,” Arthur says. “Someone is out there.”
The children are growing hungry. They have not yet had their breakfast, but they need wood from the forest. Arthur cannot make his daily gathering voyage until the movement ceases. So they wait. And wait. And wait.
Finally, finally, finally the ground grows silent. And still they wait.
“Father?” Hazel says. She looks at Arthur, her blue eyes growing large. “Why must we continue waiting?”
Arthur stares at the ceiling. “To make sure,” he says. He looks at Maude. Maude nods her head. “Alright, children. I will gather our supplies for the day.”
“Let me go with you,” Mercy says. She pushes through the crowd to stand before Arthur.
“Do not be foolish, child,” Arthur says. “I am not a child. I am not important to the kingdom.”
Maude lets out a sound much like a sob, and the children turn their heads to her, but Arthur pulls her into his arms and hides her face from their eyes. He whispers in her ear. He turns back to the children. “I will return shortly,” he says. “Stay here.” He pulls away from Maude. She has, it seems, composed herself. He holds her elbows and shakes her gently. “If I do not return,” he says. He looks at the children and then back at Maude. “Remain here. Remain hidden.”
Maude gives one nod of her head, and then Arthur steps through the portal and is gone.
The children wait. It seems that all they ever do anymore is wait.
And when the waiting grows too long, Mercy jumps from the fold, shouts, “I shall go after him,” and disappears through the portal, her staff gripped tightly in her hand.
Maude stares at the place where the girl had been.
Clearing
THE sun did finally set, as all suns are wont to do, and Maude slipped out of her father’s home when she heard his snores carried on the wind that moved through their windows. Arthur was waiting for her behind the inn.
“We must use no light,” Arthur said. “Do you know the way without it?”
“Yes,” Maude said. She had traveled this way nearly every day since her mother had died. It was a place, by the river, where her father used to bring her when she was a child, a place he said her mother sat and penned great long letters to her family in Lincastle. No one from the village ventured to this place beside the river, for it was deep in the forest, and many stories had been told of the creatures of the forest. Maude was not frightened. She had been inside many times and had always made it back out.
“Hurry, then,” Arthur said, and they both took off running. They reached the woods only by the light of the moon. “In there?” Arthur said.
Maude took his hand. “I know the way,” she said. “I have been here many times before.” She brought him to the very banks where her mother sat. Arthur looked at the water.
“Part of the Violet Sea?” he said.
“Yes,” she said.
“Are there no mermaids in this one?” he said.
“I have never seen them,” she said. She had only heard of the magical creatures who lured men to their deaths beneath the waters.
“And you have been here many times,” he said. His eyes were difficult to see in the darkness. Though they stood in a clearing, the moon remained hidden behind the trees.
“Yes,” she said. They stood for a time, Arthur looking behind them.
“We must be sure no one has followed us,” he said.
Maude nodded and waited, while he circled the trees. When he turned back to her, she said. “Is it true that you swam the Violet Sea and lived?”
Arthur laughed. “You cannot believe everything you hear.” But he did not answer one way or another. (In truth, dear reader, no man has ever survived the swimming of the Violet Sea, for there are sea creatures a human eye could never even imagine. But that is a story for another day.)
“No, I suppose you cannot,” she said.
“Now,” Arthur said. “Magic.”
“How is it that you have managed to keep your magic hidden for so long?” Maude said.
“It was not always so,” Arthur said. “I did not always need to hide my gift. Until it became a danger.”
“Is it not always a danger?” Maude said.
Arthur looked at her. There was something mysterious about his eyes, but perhaps it was simply the moon. “Yes,” he said. “I suppose it is.” He drew a stick from his pocket, and at his touch, it became a staff. She stared in wonder, having not noticed that he did not carry his walking stick to the woods this night. He had carried it in his pocket instead.
“How?” she said.
“Not everyone can,” he said. “I have learned from many masters.”
She envied him and his travels. Were she permitted to travel, she might have learned from masters, too.
“I know nothing,” she said. “I know only that I possess the gift.”
“I shall teach you,” he said. “But it must be our secret.”
She could keep a secret. She had been keeping a secret for thirteen years.
Sleep
ARTHUR is anything but happy to see Mercy. He grabs the girl, throws her behind him.
“Do you see what they have done, child?” he says. “Do you see?”
Mercy looks around. She does not see anything out of the ordinary. There is the forest floor. There is the tiny shoe one could not see if it were not known to be there. There is the spot Ursula spread her concealment spell in the dark of night. But wait. The sheep. She can see the sheep. What had happened to the spell?
She turns to Arthur. “How—” she says.
He points to the tops of the trees. “There,” he says. “Up there.”
And she sees the rest of the sheep, dangling from nets, bleating from the trees. “How did they come to fly?” she says.
“Traps,” Arthur says. “And I am certain there are men watching. We must make haste.”
“But what must we do?” Mercy says.
“But it is too high,” Mercy says. “You will injure them.”
“They are no good to us up here,” Arthur says. He looks down at her. “And you have magic.”
Yes. She does have magic. She will make a soft place for them to land. And this is precisely what she does, following Arthur to every tree, pointing her staff, hiding behind the trunks as he bids her, though she does not know from what she is hiding. If it were men, would they not have seen her by now?
“Take care,” Arthur says when Mercy steps behind another tree. “There is one still waiting for its prey.”
Mercy glances at the ground. A net, covered in leaves, lies just beside her foot. She steps away. “And how do we hide the cut traps?” Mercy says.
Arthur lets go of the tree he is climbing and thumps to the ground. “We take them with us,” he says. “We use them.”
“Why are the men not watching their traps?” Mercy says.
Arthur looks around the forest, as if he, too, has wondered the very same thing. “I do not know,” he says. “Perhaps we have fortune on our side. But I do not think it will be for long. Sheep do not roam woods without a shepherd.”
“I can cast another concealment spell,” Mercy says.
“I fear your strength will be needed for something far more important,” Arthur says. “Let the sheep be found.” He slaps one on the back, but it does not move. “Go on, then,” he says to the animal. “Run.”
Though they are in a grave circumstance, Mercy cannot help but smile. “Perhaps they wait for your daughter.”
Arthur looks at the girl. “Yes, well,” he says. “Hazel will not be coming up.”
The air shimmers around them, and suddenly, unexpectedly, the very girl they speak of is before them. She looks from one to the other.