Legendary

by Amelia Kibbie

  As they approached, Mrs. Balin ushered them into two lines, boys and girls, a phalanx of refugees tripping timidly up the drive. When they neared the bottom of the great stone staircase, the enormous door at the top swung open, and three figures emerged. One was a pot-bellied gentleman clad in a butler’s fine weeds, and the other two were female, one gray-haired woman with powerful forearms, and the other a stick-thin girl in a maid’s uniform.

  Mrs. Balin held up a hand for them to stop, and the children obeyed, clutching their suitcases while regarding the keepers of the mansion.

  “Welcome to Willowind House,” the balding butler greeted, his posture and pronunciation perfect. “On behalf of the Baroness Lady Barlow, myself, and the rest of the staff, we are pleased to have you here as our guests.”

  “Thank you very much, sir.” Mrs. Balin smiled, and it forced her blunt and weathered features into a face resembling a turtle with indigestion. “The children and their families are ever so grateful for your hospitality.”

  “I am Mr. Marlin,” the butler said. “Allow me to introduce our cook, Mrs. Galhad, and my lady’s maid, Miss Ivaine.”

  While the man spoke, Arthur’s eyes wandered up to the second story windows where a sudden movement caught his attention. As a cloud passed over the sun, he made out the figure of a bent old hag peering down through the glass, the wispy curtains clutched in her gnarled hands. Her owlish eyes stared back into his gaze, and a chill raced through him. Arthur dropped his head to break the spell.

  Once the introductions and drippy, yet obligatory thank-yous had been dealt with, the children were marched into the main hall, a massive foyer with a black and white checkered floor. Through an arched doorway, Arthur could see a grand staircase leading up to the second story.

  Mr. Marlin led them through another set of intricately carved double doors. Their shoes echoed over the marble floor and disturbed the grave-stillness of the house. The room they entered spanned almost the length of the back of the house, and was lined with row upon row of dusty windows providing sunlight and views of the back garden, now wild and overgrown, the fountain dry and lifeless. “I thought this would do for a classroom, and a place to take your meals,” Mr. Marlin said.

  “Plenty of light.” Miss Pelles admired the forest green and brown paneled walls and complicated plaster ceiling.

  “Rooms on either side of this one have been cleared,” Mr. Marlin went on. The calm softness of his voice appealed to Arthur, as did his gray eyes, which seemed to focus on everything and nothing simultaneously. “One for boys and one for girls. The chapel is down this way.” He indicated the doors at the end of the right side of the long, empty saloon. “Mrs. Galhad, will you be so kind as to show Miss Pelles the kitchen?”

  “Right away, sir. This way, if you please.” Miss Pelles and Mrs. Galhad disappeared through the far left doors.

  “Mrs. Balin, please inform me if there is anything further you require.” Mr. Marlin clasped his hands behind his back. “Mrs. Galhad will see to your provisions, laundry, and water for washing.”

  From somewhere in the distant depths of the house, the muffled tinkle of a bell reached Arthur’s ears.

  Apparently, the sound alerted Mr. Marlin as well. “If you will excuse me.” He disappeared back into the main hall, leaving the class alone in their new quarters.

  “All right, children,” Mrs. Balin barked, “boys, your quarters are to the left, girls to the right. There should be cots, mattresses, and bed clothes stacked there for you. Help one another set out the beds and prepare them. I’ll go speak to the cook and Miss Pelles about scrounging up some tea.”

  The boys filed into what had once been a drawing room, decorated with heavy red damask draperies that flowed over white panels. In the dim light permitted through the curtained windows, gold gleamed on mirror frames and small furnishings. Most of the furniture had been removed, and the fine carpet rolled away, replaced with two stacks of cots, a pile of mattresses, and several boxes of sheets. The room’s museum-like intricacy was oppressive, and Arthur was afraid to touch anything.

  “All right, boys, let’s get this room ship shape.” Miss Pelles called cheerfully as she emerged through the opposite door from a stairway that led from the kitchen. Morgan and his friends fell on the stacks without hesitation, and put their cots next to each other near the fireplace. The rest of the boys lined up their beds adjacent to the classmates they were friendliest with. Arthur and James held back and waited to see what was left. With quick, curious glances, Arthur looked around the room, scanning the chaotic activity of children settling into new surroundings. James, on the other hand, stood with his head bowed and his arms crossed, gently tapping an innocent dust bunny with the toe of his shoe.

  “Oh my, you’re a strapping lad, aren’t you?” Miss Pelles patted Arthur’s swollen bicep. “I’ll be happy to have your help around the vegetable garden... Arthur.” She read his name from the tag on his coat. “I’m sure you’re quite strong. Why don’t you help James with his bed?”

  Arthur nodded, nearly imperceptibly, and did as she asked, fetching two cots and mattresses. James retrieved the sheets and handed a set to Arthur without looking at him.

  “Oh, the strong silent type.” Miss Pelles winked at them. “The girls go mad for that, don’t they, gentlemen?”

  Morgan made a sound of dismissal. “He’s always silent, Miss.” He took a tone of concerned confidentiality while Tommy handed out pillows to his mates. “Never says a word, so don’t take it personal. He’s an imbecile.”

  Tommy, Kenneth, and some of the other boys tittered, but Miss Pelles hushed them. “Make those sheets tight. I don’t want to see a single sloppy bed,” she warned.

  Arthur and James made their beds, which had been shoved farthest from the fireplace and closest to the door leading back to the saloon. The two outcasts smoothed their blankets and passed inspection.

  The schoolchildren helped carry a long wooden table into the saloon and outfitted it with chairs. They also brought in smaller tables and other fine, but mismatched, furnishings to serve as their classroom. Mrs. Balin opened a crate sent by the government and began to assemble the blackboard while Miss Pelles unpacked the primers and paper.

  At long last, late in the evening, they sat down to supper. Though the bowls were heaped with a chunky, vile-looking stew, the children were ravenous. Mrs. Balin forced them to wait, however, and the table was surrounded by lolling, covetous eyes as fingers itched to snatch up spoons.

  Mrs. Balin rose next to her chair. “Children, you have all been very brave today. We expect you to continue this and be on your best behavior while Britain fights off those nasty Germans. Now, I know Miss Pelles has referred to this trip as a holiday. Of course, there will be time for fun and games, but we will continue our studies as well. The best way we can work to defeat our enemies is to carry on as if life has not been disrupted. His Majesty’s armies need intelligent boys, as well as dependable and capable girls to hold the country together while the men are away. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Balin,” they chanted. All but Arthur, who simply mouthed the words.

  “Now, understand these rules,” she droned on. Arthur’s mouth watered as the grisly soup’s steam reached his nostrils. “Lights out will be at 8:30. No talking or mischief of any kind will be tolerated. You will be awakened at 6:00 to wash up. Breakfast is at 6:30 and lessons begin promptly at 7:00. Keep your bed, your clothes, and your bodies clean. You will also be assigned certain chores about the house, whatever Mr. Marlin needs us to do. This is to help pay the gracious Baroness back for use of her estate-” she cut herself off sharply, “Jane, if you touch that bread, I’ll thwack your knuckles until they bleed!”

  Jane put her hand back in her lap, and bowed her head with a whimper.

  “Speaking of Lady Barlow,” Mrs. Balin continued, “I have been informed that she is elderly and infirm, and is, for the most part, confined to the upstairs of the mansion. It is imperative that we do not disturb h
er in any way when going about our daily business. Do not wander away from the designated areas we have been assigned, and keep the shouting during recreation time to a minimum. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Balin,” came the dirge of childlike voices.

  “Good. Now, let us say grace.”

  Arthur’s stomach roared so loudly that the girl to his left shot a disgusted glance his way. She put her hand in his with intense reluctance as they bowed their heads.

  “Bless, O Father, Thy gifts to our use and us to Thy service; for Christ’s sake. Amen.”

  “Amen.” the schoolchildren cried, and took up their spoons.

  An hour later, Arthur lay on his bed while his feet dangled from the bottom edge. The room was dark, save for a twinkle of moonlight that seeped in through the heavy draperies. A lantern burned near the door to the loo. The dark air filled with little noises and rustlings as the boys tried to get comfortable on their hard cots, wrapped in scratchy sheets. They were used to city sounds; the ear-shattering peace of the nighttime countryside provided no comfort.

  Arthur knew sleep would not come. He did not try to coax it. Yes, the country was too quiet, the bed too small, the linens dreadful (not to mention, his rations weren’t nearly enough to fill his stomach) but his insomnia came from a different place. Whenever he closed his eyes, he saw his father’s face, twisted, monstrous, disfigured by the gout of fire from a Nazi flamethrower. Nothing had been the same since Papa had come home from Norway. The scarred face, the scarred heart, all of these things were strange to Arthur. His powerful, vigorous father, reduced to a trembling invalid, his features unrecognizable, his laugh slaughtered and buried. It was as if Papa had died trying to defend the iron mines and they’d sent someone else back in his stead.

  A gentle sniffle wafted over from his left. There was only one bed between Arthur and the wall, where James lay, folded into a protective ball, covers yanked up under his chin. The moonlight fell over his heart-shaped face as he shifted, turning towards Arthur’s cot, near sleep but not fully in its grasp. Tears streaked his face and glimmered as his features relaxed gradually into slumber.

  Arthur stared at him until he drowsed and slept; one face replaced with another.

  Chapter 11

  Days marched by, marked by schedule and routine. Lessons continued much as they had at school back in London. James' marks were nearly perfect, as usual, though he’d learned some time ago the importance of making purposeful errors. It kept Mrs. Balin from the terror of not having anything more to teach him, and prevented classmates from thinking him too stuck up. It was best not to call attention to yourself when your name was James Wilde, the class queerie.

  They ate, they washed up, they learned, they read, they recited, they prayed in the chapel, they slept. They took turns tending the victory garden, washing dishes and sheets, and cleaning the blackboard and classroom floor. A little mail would arrive here and there, and when Jane’s parents sent a tin of biscuits it was a momentous occasion. For the most part, each day was like the next, save the temperature, which dropped a degree or two with each turn of the sun as the earth prepared for winter. It was a rare thing to see the Baroness at her window, and sightings of her were recorded as though she were a mythical beast. The girls suspected she was a witch. The Baroness looked the part—folded skin, talon hands, and cavernous eyes. Whenever she noticed the children pointing at her window, the curtains whispered shut. Sightings were uncommon.

  Part of the daily monotonous ritual was that James would be accosted by Morgan and the boys, whether at recreation time, out in the garden, or before bed. The strain was enormous; there was no respite, no mother to run home to, no sweet solitude of his bedroom in their flat. Every hour he had to be vigilant.

  Each day, as they filed out the east door for recreation, they passed a fourteen-foot replica of Polykleitos’s Doryphorus, the Spear Thrower. The girls always averted their gazes, forming visors with their hands to protect their tender vision from the statue’s exposed stone manhood. Most of the boys were too busy anticipating football to notice the house’s accoutrements, but James always took a moment to look at the statue’s classical beauty, strength and humanity portrayed in stone. Every few nights, he dreamt that he was Pygmalion, praying to Aphrodite for a magical kiss to bring the statue to life. A spear-thrower could protect him from Morgan and his gang.

  As soon as Mrs. Balin was out of sight, and Miss Pelles was distracted by the girls and their games, Morgan and his friends encircled James before he had a chance to pull out his book or sketchpad and disappear into the tangled garden.

  Kenneth tore James' book from his grasp and tossed it in the dirt. “You’re sick!” He waggled a finger in James' face. “Staring at that naked statue like that!”

  “He looks at it every day.” Tommy roared through his snaggle- toothed jester’s grin. His blonde curls whipped in the brisk autumn wind. “I’ve seen it. It’s disgusting! What in God’s name is the matter with you, anyway?”

  “Well, he fancies it, that’s why he’s always studying it so.” Morgan laughed and slapped his friends’ shoulders.

  Their taunts fell on James as he stood with his head bowed and waited for the blows to come. When they shoved him to the ground, he was surprised to see, through the forest of legs kicking at him, that Arthur had rescued Treasure Island from the hedge and held it against his massive chest, the tome dwarfed to the size of a prayer book.

  “Gentlemen.”

  The even, measured voice was cool and calm, but still managed to cut through the bullies’ mad laughter as they prodded and stomped on James with their feet. The boys snapped to attention, their hands behind their backs in a posture of innocence.

  “Please join the other children near the oak tree.” Mr. Marlin held out a directing hand.

  “Yes sir,” they chorused, and raced away, leaving Arthur hulking to one side and James in the cold dirt. As he picked himself up and dusted off his trousers, James noticed Arthur drift away to join the others, wary of the adult intrusion, the book tucked under his arm.

  “What is your name, young man?” Mr. Marlin asked, fixing his cool gray gaze on James' scuffed knees.

  “James Wilde, sir.” He tried to stand up straight, but the pain in his side made it difficult.

  “Lady Barlow requests a young man to come upstairs and read to her,” Mr. Marlin said. “She would like to extend her invitation to you.”

  James hurriedly brushed grime from his elbows, or tried to. “M- me, sir?”

  “Yes. Will you come this way, please?”

  James gulped and nodded. He followed Mr. Marlin back into the mansion and up the grand staircase. They twisted and turned through a series of ornate hallways before they arrived at a bedchamber door. Mr. Marlin knocked gently. “The boy is here, my lady,” he said.

  A time-ravaged voice rasped, “Send him in, Mr. Marlin.”

  The butler nodded his balding head. James licked his lips and put his fingers on the cool door handle.

  The exquisite chamber had ivory damask walls and an enormous green and gold oriental rug. Lavish cream silk bed hangings rippled in a gentle draft, and polished wood gleamed everywhere. A monstrous armoire loomed next to a pristine vanity which displayed bottles of ancient perfumes and a jewelry box inlaid with opals and mother of pearl. The air was stuffy and medicinal.

  The Baroness, Lady Barlow, sat in an overstuffed chair near the window, and the chair from the vanity stood opposite, a small table between them. Several books were stacked in a tower on its shining surface, along with a silver plate of tea and watercress sandwiches. James eyed them, hunger mixing with his dread-tinted curiosity.

  “Come.” As the crone’s gnarled hand rose from her lap and beckoned him closer, her rings flashed in the sunlight that streamed in through the lacy curtains.

  James did not respond immediately. He continued to take in the room, the finery, the sight of palatable food. Mr. Marlin put a gentle hand on his back and guided him forward. James
snatched his cap from his head in a moment of sudden remembrance, and patted his hair down as best he could before he sat opposite the Baroness.

  “Will there be anything else, my lady?” Mr. Marlin asked, bowing forward slightly.

  “No, thank you.” She fixed her watery blue eyes on the thin boy before her. Mr. Marlin quietly shut the door behind himself.

  They regarded each other for some time in silence. James tried with all his might to be the picture of politeness, but he couldn’t help staring. The old woman was draped in a cavernous blue dressing gown, her bony feet enveloped in soft slippers. Her silver hair, however, was perfectly coiffed into an old-fashioned chignon on the top of her head, and a large diamond brooch hung at her wrinkled throat.

  “What is your name?” she asked, raising her ring-heavy hand again.

  He swallowed noisily and wished away the dirt on his clothes. He forced his body into proper posture. “James Wilde, ma’am,” he said. “M-my l-lady,” he tried instead.

  “Will you take tea, Mr. Wilde?”

  It didn’t take him half as long to answer that question. “Yes, please.” He coughed, and used a napkin to clean his soiled hands, praying it was the right thing to do. “May I serve you, my lady?”

  She smiled, weathered lips climbing over her brown, nubby teeth. “Indeed you may. Two sugars, if you please.” She took the cup and saucer with shaking hands, and steadied them on the chair’s arm.

  The tea was different than what the children were given, delicate and citrusy, and the sandwiches were divine. The plate was empty before James knew what had happened. “Thank you very much, my lady.”

  “Mr. Wilde, I am not long for this world,” she said, handing him back her teacup to be refilled. “Let us not stand on formalities. We live under the same roof, do we not? May I call you James?”

  “Yes, of course,” he replied with a nod. “And I shall call you...”