Journey's Middle

by B. K. Parent

  “When we were eating at the Inn of the Three Hares, Lady Farcroft had her evening bag knocked off the table, and the contents spilled. Something rolled across the floor and bumped into my foot. For some reason,” or at least a reason I was not willing to talk to Beezle about at this moment, “I didn’t mention it to those who were helping her pick the spilled items up. I managed to slip it into my shoe, and then as we were leaving, retrieved it and put it into your hat with the coins I gave you. It must have been a very important item because that is why her folk were searching for us later. So where is your hat?”

  “Let me think. I had Master Clarisse take the instruments and put them in the music room, and later Aunt took them back to Glendalen with her. I remember taking my bags and the hat up to the room Aunt had prepared for me. I tossed out the clothes I had worn in a back alley quite far from her place, but what did I do with the hat?”

  “Oh, please, don’t have thrown it away, after all the effort I took to slip you an object that I think is very important,” I exclaimed, growing more anxious.

  “What did I do with the hat? I don’t think I threw it out. Wait, I remember now. I had grown really quite fond of that hat and thought that since it was so much like a battered old one I used at home that had unfortunately become the nest for a family of mice, that I would replace it with the one I was wearing that night. I left it stashed in my bag. Now what did I do with that bag? I packed my good flutes up in one of the bags and sent it on with Aunt, but I saved my wooden whistle and a few other pipes out to bring along with me. I think the hat is on the bottom of that pack. I threw it in Master Clarisse’s wagon along with my other stuff the night of the storm. I’ll look for it later this day. I have to go set up the booth that will display our cheese as soon as I finish here. Can it wait?” Beezle inquired.

  “Since it has waited this long, it can probably wait awhile longer. It would most likely be best not to pull it out in broad daylight. See if you can locate it, and then let me know. We can decide what to do after dinner,” I suggested.

  “After dinner then. I’m done here, are you?”

  “Yes. Just let me pack up the brushes.”

  “I’ll walk you part way back, and then it’s work, work, work. No rest for the weary,” said Beezle.

  After parting ways with Beezle, I went back to my homewagon, threw open all the windows and doors, and strung a few lines between my homewagon and Master Clarisse’s wagon, to air out the bedding and hang up some laundry. Fortunately the wind was coming into the fairgrounds so the dust and other things kicked up by the wagons and carts pulling in would not settle on the wet laundry. Once that was done, I went inside the homewagon and settled down to finally find out what the Huntress had given me. It had looked like a book, but I really had only had a glance at the cover, and so I was anxious to see what was inside. As I carefully removed the book from the bag enclosing it, I had to take a long moment to look at the cover. I ran my hands lovingly over the design carved into a cover made of quirrelit wood. The carving was very similar to the type and designs I had seen in the Huntress’ home. I had thought at the time that I wished I had more time to copy them, and I had thought of all the projects I could use them in. I had hoped that someday I would be able to go back and ask the Huntress if I could do just that.

  Sitting there absently running my fingers across the wood, I thought of all the places I had been so far, and the folk I had met. How I longed for this to be just an ordinary summer, where I could make plans for after the fair season or could choose to linger somewhere for a time. Of course I realized if Da had not left home suddenly, I probably would have spent this summer at home, passing the days quietly working on wood projects, learning more about herbs and plants from Nana, and helping Da. We most likely would not even have gone much farther than the village. That certainly would have been safer, but was the life Da had chosen for us really the one I wanted now? Something to think about in more settled times.

  I carefully opened the cover of the book and found a handwritten note, from the Huntress I presumed, since at a quick glance I could see it was not signed.

  Nissa,

  Please accept this small token of thanks. I and mine will never be able to repay the gift you have given us. The designs enclosed are those which I can share with you unreservedly. Please feel free to use them in your craft. Some folk might recognize them as those used by my clan, or our small friends, and question your right to use them. Just let them know you are a clan friend. Be careful and be safe. Remember, if you have need of us, think hard, concentrate on the ring you wear, and we will come.

  After reading the note, I turned the blank cover page, and I think I stopped breathing for awhile. On the next page was a drawing of one of the patterns I had seen in the Huntress’ home, done in such detail that it looked as if you could run your hand across the page and feel the hills and valleys in the design. I just stared at it and began to imagine blanket chests, boxes, chair backs, and even decorative plaques done with this design. As I was about to turn the page, I noticed writing on the opposite page. In a script different from the Huntress were notes about the design. The one I was looking at, the note suggested, represented the arrival of spring. I had to take the note writer’s word for it, for I could not quite make out spring in the design, but I could not deny that the pattern was beautiful and unlike any I had seen outside of the Huntress’ home.

  I spent the next little while looking through the book, marveling over each page until my hands were itching to find some wood and try to reproduce one of the designs. It was then that I remembered the planks of aromatic wood I had stored in the cart that I could use for the bottom of a chest. It would keep bugs out of the linens and blankets that would eventually be stored in a chest like the one I wanted to make. I also thought I had enough clear pine boards for the rest of the chest. I was about to rush out of the homewagon to get started when it occurred to me that taking the whole book with me was not the most clever idea I had ever come up with. I reined in my impatience and set about copying the pattern I wanted to reproduce. My rendering was not as artistically done as the one in the book, but it was detailed enough for me to use for my pattern. I then hid the book where all but the most knowledgeable eyes could find it.

  For the next few hours, I felt the cares of the last week melt away as I glued the boards together to form the walls and lid of the chest I was going to construct. At one point, I looked up from what I was doing and noticed one of Bertram’s young daughters was standing shyly nearby. I had to really concentrate on what her name was. She was so shy and so quiet amid her more boisterous brothers and sisters that she was quite often overlooked. What could not be overlooked at this moment was the longing I saw in her eyes. When she noticed that I had seen her, I saw her begin to turn as if to flee.

  “Wait, ah, Shyla.” Now why it had been hard to think of her name I do not know, for it fit her. An old name from the high hill country, not much heard of these days. I wonder if her parents named her that and she grew into the name, or if it was just a coincidence. “Please stay,” I said in my gentlest voice, like the one I would use to talk to a wild animal poised for flight. I watched her as indecision tore her, her need to escape notice and her need to come closer. I was surprised when she moved closer.

  “Would you like to make something in wood?” I asked.

  Shyla’s head first started moving in a negative motion, and then changed direction, and signaled yes, as she stepped closer. I picked a few much smaller boards out of my cart and showed her how to make a dovetail, carefully explaining how to use the saw and then the chisel. Surprisingly, Shyla showed no awkwardness using the tools and took to them as if she were an old hand. We sat cutting dovetails into our boards, the sun beating down on us, oblivious to what was going on around us. Shyla was not a talker by any means, but was certainly a good listener and a fast learner.

  By the time the others be
gan drifting back from their various errands and the smell of roasting meat and fresh baked bread penetrated our concentration, we had put together Shyla’s box with a slide-in top. I told her to come to the booth in the morning, if it was alright with her father, and we would glue her box together. While I did not mention it to her, I also meant to talk to her father about her spending more time with me. She had a natural talent for woodworking and a good eye for matching the grains. While I was no expert, I would be willing to teach her what I knew.

  At dinner, it felt like old times, sitting around together with the Jalcones, Oscar and Bertram and their families, Beezle, and Master Clarisse. Only Evan was missing, but he had left early afternoon to go seek out his friend Clare and had not returned yet. I wished Da could be here, and it was hard knowing that he might be in town, so close once again. My ruminations were interrupted by the arrival of Evan, who snatched the last berry tart out from under the nose of Oscar, and started talking with his mouth full, upon being asked by Mistress Jalcones if he had had a good day.

  “It was glorious. I got to see the baking and pastry kitchens where the head royal baker is preparing his specialties, and I got to meet him. Clare then gave me the grand tour of the baking grounds, and she’s pretty popular with the various bakers. She says it’s because she’s apprenticed to the head royal baker, but I think they just like her because she’s nice. Anyway,” Evan said swallowing, “they made us sample their baked goods, I guess hoping Clare would get word back to her Master, but she always politely refused the sample, but would hand it to me, saying I was a growing lad and needed to bulk up. Am I too skinny?” Evan asked, standing and posing like someone who had entered a weight lifting contest.

  “You’re just fine, lad,” Oscar said, “but what I can’t understand is where you put that tart you stole away from me after hearing your tales of eating sweets and pies all afternoon. Where do you put all that food anyway?”

  The group carried on with the friendly banter for awhile longer, but soon one, and then another, drifted away, heading for bed. I stopped Bertram when he was about to walk over to his homewagon and asked if I could talk with him. After telling him what had transpired in the afternoon with his daughter Shyla, he agreed that she could spend as much time with me as she chose. In true rover fashion, he was letting his child choose her own path concerning a craft or talent and would in his own quiet way encourage her.

  Once again, this day seemed so normal that it was easy to fool myself that Da was not a hunted man and that there was not trouble brewing in Sommerhjem. I was concerned that Evan had seemed almost too jolly concerning his visit with his childhood friend, so I was not surprised when he and Master Clarisse both knocked on my door shortly after I had entered.

  “Do you have a moment to talk?” Master Clarisse said without preamble.

  “Yes. Come in.”

  “I have had a chance to talk with Evan about what he observed this afternoon. Go ahead Evan, tell Nissa what you told me.”

  “There are a great many royal guards about the closer you get to the royal manor where the Princess is staying. Some might be expected, but some were dressed in uniforms just a bit different than those worn by the guards we saw on the fairgrounds. Clare says they’re a unit attached to the Princess and a rather recent addition. She says they make her nervous, especially the man in charge. From her description, he sounds a lot like the man you described called Raven. She referred to him as Captain Kråke. There’s more too. Clare said that the Princess has a sweet tooth and at the palace in the capitol would often come down to the royal bakery to see if she could get a sample of whatever the head royal baker had created. She and Clare had talked during those times, and the Princess seemed to enjoy herself. Since they have come to Snoddleton, the Princess is always accompanied by one or more of the special royal guards, and has been discouraged from spending any time with what Captain Kråke refers to as ‘the help’. They seem to have a pretty tight rein on her. Clare says she looks strange but couldn’t really describe what she meant. I’m going to spend some time with Clare tomorrow, so maybe I can find out more.”

  We discussed what Evan had heard and observed a little longer, and then they left. I was just about to get ready for bed when a light tap came on the door. When I looked out, it was Beezle.

  “I found my hat and the coins were still in there along with this,” he said, as he held out his hand and dropped an object into mine.

  Chapter Forty-One

  I quickly grabbed Beezle’s shirt front and pulled him inside the homewagon. It may not have been proper to have him in the homewagon, but I suspected my reputation was worth far less than what he had just dropped in my hand. Not that I could tell what it was, since it was a plain flat metal container about an inch in diameter and about a half inch in height. At least I thought it was a container at first glance.

  “Have you looked at it? Do you know what it is?” I asked Beezle.

  “Not an inkling,” Beezle replied, “and I have tried unsuccessfully to open it too.”

  I motioned Beezle to follow me and sit down at the table. I lit the lantern, for the interior of the homewagon had grown dim. I tried twisting the upper and lower parts of the container apart, but that did not work. I tried to wedge the fine blade of my knife into the seam and pry the two parts apart, but that also did not work, and I nearly cut myself trying. I did not want to use too much force for fear I would damage whatever it was. I was getting rather frustrated, and as a puzzle box builder, I think my pride was taking a huge hit because this was a puzzle, and I was not finding the solution. I was about to give up and hand it back to Beezle when I noticed a small hole on the side near the top edge.

  “Here, hold this for me, I’ll be right back.”

  I left my homewagon, quickly crossed over to my cart, and rummaged near the back looking for a box of tools my Da had made. I thought I had thrown them in the cart when I had packed what seemed half a lifetime ago. Not there. Now where would I have put them? It was then that I remembered I had put them in the cupboard above Da’s bed with the other gifts for the Neebings when repacking to travel to Crestbury. In the box, if I remembered right, were small carving and woodworking tools that Da had forged for me for delicate work, and he had also made very miniature tools, small axes, small spoke shaves, and others. I remember him joking with me, saying they would come in handy if we ever took to the road again, and we could gift the Neebings with them. I recall there was a very, very small awl. I walked back into the homewagon and took down the box which was, of course, just where I had put it, in the cupboard over Da’s bed.

  Sorting through the small items in the box, I did not so much find the awl by seeing it but rather by sticking myself with it. Holding on to it between thumb and forefinger, while sticking the damaged finger in my mouth, I walked back to the table and began to explain to Beezle what I thought the hole I had found meant.

  “I think this has a spring or latch inside, and something needs to be inserted to release it,” I told him.

  I gently inserted the tip of the tiny awl into the hole. Nothing happened, and so I applied a bit of pressure, something clicked, and the top half separated from the bottom half. Just as I was about to open the container, a knock came at the back door of the homewagon, so I quickly put the semi-opened container into the box holding the tools and slid it into an upper cupboard.

  “Who is it?” I asked.

  “Master Clarisse. Could I come in for a minute?”

  “Come in and welcome,” I said, and I truly meant it. Over time I had grown to trust both Beezle and Master Clarisse, and having her here when we discovered what the object was that I had picked up at the Inn of the Three Hares made me feel better.

  “I spoke with Master Rollag this day, and he asked me to ask you if you would come to the Hall of Master’s tomorrow night after the fair closes. The Glassmakers Guild is in charge of security tomo
rrow night, and he thought we could keep him company over a late dinner.”

  I told Master Clarisse I would be happy to join Master Rollag for dinner. I wondered if Da would be there also as a member of Master Rollag’s team for watching the Hall of Masters. I could only hope, but right now there was a more important task at hand. As Master Clarisse turned to head back out, I said, “Could you stay a minute, please?”

  “Of course.”

  “Join us at the table,” Beezle suggested, moving over on the bench seat to make room.

  I got up and retrieved the box from the cupboard containing the object. While I was taking it out of the box, I gave a brief history of where it had come from. Master Clarisse listened intently while Beezle, with small patience, listened to me review the story. Very carefully, I lifted the now unlocked lid off the container. Now that I could see inside, I had no more clue as to what I held than I had had before, but from the choral gasps that came from my two companions, that was not the case for either of them.

  “No wonder you, Jonzee, and Beezle were being searched for in every nook and cranny of Crestbury,” exclaimed Master Clarisse. “I cannot imagine that is the real one, but it sure looks like it.”

  “The real what?” I asked, with what I know was a touch of frustration in my voice.

  Master Clarisse leaned very close and whispered so softly that at first I thought I had not heard her right. Had she really just said that what I had tucked in my shoe and dropped into Beezle’s hat was the royal seal? No, that could not have been right.

  “The what?” I repeated.

  “It looks like the royal seal. The seal that is pressed into wax to make documents or other items officially from the Crown. This is the Princess’ seal, which was made when the old queen died, her seal being destroyed upon her death. For most of the official documents and other items that needed a stamp of approval from the Crown since the death of the queen, the Regent’s seal has been used. The Princess has only used her seal for more social occasions or needs, such as she will this week when she gives her approval to the top winner in a number of categories of baked goods,” said Master Clarisse.