by Mez Blume
I tried to pass the time by peering out of the latticed window at the end of the hall in hopes of seeing the horse and rider again. I had no luck, though, so instead I tried matching up the different outbuildings to their labels on a plaque in the window ledge. By the time I’d spotted the stables, the kitchen garden, the dairy, the jail and the brewhouse, all three times each, my stomach had started grumbling. When would this tour finally come to an end and a trip to the café?
I felt so antsy waiting that, without really thinking, I pulled the I Spy pamphlet from my hoodie pocket and thumbed through it. There was the leopard statue; I put an X in the box beside it. To my surprise, the next page featured the painting of the girl with the big grey dog that had caught my eye. The caption beside it just said Portrait of Sophia Brunswick-Lüneburg, 1606. I put an X beside Sophia’s portrait, and kept flipping.
A few pages later, I stopped to look at a rather funny-looking object. At first it looked just like a wreath of leaves carved into wood, but on a second take, a pair of eyes, a flat nose and grinning lips appeared right in the middle of the foliage with leaves growing out of its nostrils and mouth and forming his leafy eyebrows. Green Man was all the caption said. So that was what the old man at the door was going on about. I peered up from the booklet at Nan and Pop; they still had all ears on the warden who was now treating them to a full lecture on each and every painting in the gallery. All the other visitors had moseyed on to other parts of the never-ending house. I shrugged, telling myself I was only playing this baby’s game because there was nothing better to do. But truth is, I felt just a little bit excited about finding this mysterious Green Man who was supposedly so tricky to spot. Maybe it awoke my inner detective.
I ran my hand along the wood-panelled walls, scanning them for the Green Man as I went. I retraced my steps to the corner where Sophia’s portrait hung, and then, aha! There in the panelling right above it was a Green Man wearing the very same moony grin. I put an X beside his box, and I looked up again. But something seemed different. Had the Green Man’s tongue been sticking out like that before?
I checked the picture in the pamphlet. Definitely not sticking out there. Had I got the wrong Green Man? But I was certain his lips had been closed just a moment before. I thought it must be my empty stomach making me loopy. But just to make sure, I reached up with one finger and touched his wooden nose. What happened next was the strangest thing that had ever happened to me.
4
The Green Man’s Secret
What happened when I touched the Green Man made me jump backward. The panel of wood on which both he was carved and Sophia’s portrait hung made the quietest creek and opened inward on an invisible hinge. I had heard of trap doors in old houses before — things like that are always turning up in mystery novels — but I never expected to discover one! I looked about, one way and then the other. There was no one in sight. I shrugged, then ducked down and stepped through the door.
I was in a small chamber with no other door than the one I’d come through. But there was one small window, more like an arrow slit, and a pale beam of light seeped through, catching centuries of ancient dust in its stream. The light glinted off the only other object in the sparse room — a rusty old chest — and lit up a single painting that covered a large portion of the wall to my right.
Something about that painting drew me in. The colours were so rich and real; it looked almost like a photograph rather than a painting. It was the landscape of Otterly Park with the Manor rising up in the background, and away in the distant hills was a tiny hunting party. A grove of trees grew near a river in the foreground, and under the trees was a wagon, like the shepherd’s huts I’d seen at some of the country fairs Nan and Pop took us to. A man in a flat, floppy cloth cap sat outside the wagon, smoking a pipe and dabbing paint onto a canvas, while a young girl with strawberry-coloured hair like mine watched over his shoulder. It was such a nice scene and made me feel a funny sort of hungry feeling in my stomach that wasn’t my appetite. It was longing to be a part of that picture, to have that girl’s adventurous life. What more could anyone wish for? The painter and the girl had a big, black horse for company and a lovely, smoking fire.
In fact …
I took a step back and blinked. Then stepped closer and squinted. I really need to get my eyes checked, I thought. The painting looked so real, I could swear that smoke rings were actually rising up from the embers! I stood glued to the spot, my eyes squinting then opening then squinting again. But as much as I squinted and glared, the smoke rings did not stop rising. My heart began to pound a little harder, and my eyes grew wider, transfixed by the rings circling upwards. Did I hear the faint sound of crackling flame, or was I imagining that too?
Then, like getting caught up in a whirlwind, several things happened at once. There was a creak and a slam. I whirled around to see the door of the secret chamber slam shut behind me. In a panic, I turned back to the painting. Thank goodness! It had stopped moving … or so I thought until, ever so subtly, the gypsy painter’s face turned towards mine; the fire’s smouldering embers lit up his dark eyes, and then, though I hardly believed my own senses, he winked! Before I could scream, run or faint, or any mixture of the three, I fell forward as if my whole body were being pulled straight into the painting!
You know that feeling you get when you’re nearly asleep and you think you’re falling? That’s a bit what it felt like falling into the painting, only there was no jolt to wake me up. The dream just kept going. I kept falling through a swirling blur of colours spilling into each other. There was a loud whistling in my ears, like the sound of traffic whooshing past an open car window. At some point, the pull released me, and, for one instant, I was in free fall all on my own. The next second there was a flash of light. I felt wet, papery fingers whip across my face. Then, thud! Cold, hard ground came up to meet me.
I couldn’t open my eyes at first. My head was spinning, like I’d just been tumbled about by ocean breakers. I wasn’t sure which way was up and which was down. I just lay there, catching my breath. The chirping of birds told me I was outside. Sun rays lit up my closed eyelids, and I felt the dampness of morning dew making my hair stick to my face.
When at last I thought I could move again, I propped myself up on my elbows, wiped the wet strands of hair out of my eyes and slowly opened one lid then the other. Staring back at me, just inches away, was a pair of big, brown eyes and a wet snout. The doe kept a watchful eye on me, but carried right on munching her mouthful of grass.
When I got to my knees, spitting out a mouthful of bracken, the doe froze, then darted off into the undergrowth, just in time for me to feel the boom boom of galloping feet approaching from behind.
WOOF!
I swung around just in time to close my eyes again before a shoe-sized, dripping wet tongue slurped across my face.
A girl’s voice rang out somewhere in the distance. “BRITANNIA! TO ME!”
The enormous grey dog — biggest I’d ever seen — obeyed immediately, turning on its long, gangly legs and galloping off towards the voice. That gave me a chance to wipe my slobbered face on my sleeve and get to my feet.
But the sun was so bright by now, I couldn’t make out who had called the dog. And where was I? I tried to get my bearings, but the park looked so different somehow. Yes, there was the front of the house, but where had all the cars gone? And where I thought we’d sat for our picnic earlier, there was a patch of dense forest. What was going on with my head? Had Nan managed to mix up those bottles of ginger beer with Pop’s strong ale? I shaded my eyes to try and see the person approaching me through the wet grass and bracken. Perhaps she would be able to help me sort out where I was and how to get back to Nan and Pop.
The figure walked steadily towards me — a small woman in a great big gown. But as she got closer, I realised it wasn’t a woman but a girl, probably not much older than me from the look of her plump, rosy cheeks. She was a solid-looking girl, and very pretty, I thought, feeling just a
tinge jealous of her golden hair that beamed in the sun’s rays.
The huge dog was at her side. Its pointed ears nearly reached the girl’s chin which stuck out the top of a high, lace collar. The very sight of it made me scratch my neck without thinking, but it did make a nice frame for her flushed face and her golden hair which was woven around her head in braids like a basket.
As she got closer, there was no mistaking her for a girl no older than twelve or thirteen, though her eyes looked like they belonged to someone older. Those eyes were familiar. I almost felt as though I’d met her before … somewhere.
She was still too far off to call out to her, but I could make out her costume. It was so fancy and grown up! A beige silk gown with green embroidery climbing up the bodice like vines. The long cuffs on the sleeves matched her lace collar. But as beautiful as the dress was, it did look quite uncomfortable, like the clothes in all those stuffy portraits I had seen in the Great Hall.
Of course! This girl had to be a historical reenactor, paid to dress up and act as if she lived in Otterly Manor’s old days to make tourists feel like they’ve really travelled back in time. It all made perfect sense. We’d been to medieval reenactments at castles before, with jesters and jousting knights. Maybe this girl was dressed up like someone from the days of Queen Elizabeth or King Henry VIII. I’d seen costumes like hers in my history book at school.
The funny thing is, though she was just an actor, I felt the urge to curtsey when the girl stopped in front of me. She was just right for the part, like a little princess with her sweet smile and her blue eyes sparkling. But I just stood there, feeling rather soggy.
“I do hope she did not frighten you?” she asked with what sounded like a bit of a foreign accent. “She is still a big puppy and ever so excitable.” She held a scolding finger up to the dog. “But you must learn your manners, Tannia, or you shan’t have any friends.”
The “puppy” licked its drooping jowls, closed its lion-sized jaws and sat down obediently.
“It’s ok. She didn’t frighten me.” I was alarmed to hear my voice quavering after my tumble. “I love dogs.” To distract from my wet, slobbery appearance, I pulled off my backpack and took out Oscar’s ball sling. “Does she play fetch?”
The girl cocked her head to one side. “Fetch?”
“I mean, will she chase a ball and bring it back to you?”
“Ah, I see! Naturalich.” The girl’s eyes sparkled. “Yes, her breed is designed to retrieve fowl. But she doesn’t do it much. I claimed her for a Kammerhunde.”
“I’m sorry, a what?”
“Oh, my apologies. It is German for chamber dog. I chose Tannia from her litter to be my companion. She was a gift from my Papa when I came to live here.”
“That’s a nice gift,” I said, still a little unsure whether she was acting or if the dog really did belong to her. “I wish my dad would get me a dog.”
She cocked her head again, still smiling but with a slightly confused expression.
“Oscar — that’s my Nan and Pop’s dog — loves his ball sling. Can I throw it for her and see if she likes it?”
“Oh please!” The girl clasped her hands. “I have never seen such a contraption. I should like to know how it works!”
I held the ball to Tannia’s nose to let her sniff it, then flung it in a rainbow arc through the air. She was after it in a heartbeat and brought it back with a wagging bottom to drop it at my feet, eager for more.
The girl laughed a musical laugh and clapped her hands. “It is most extraordinary! Could I try?”
For all her lace and ruffles, the girl was surprisingly agile and got the hang of the ball sling in only a couple of tries. We laughed at Tannia’s lanky legs and overgrown paws as she lumbered after the ball, and laughed again when she set it down in a pool of slobber on the girl’s leather shoes.
At last she handed the ball sling back to me with a little curtsey. “I hope you do not think me impertinent, but where do you come from? I’ve never seen such a jigger as that … er, ball sling did you call it? And your dress and speech are unlike anything I have encountered since I came to England, though I have not travelled much in the northern shires ...”
I was sure the girl really could guess at my accent, but she was acting her part so well, I decided to play along. “Oh I’m not English.” She watched curiously as I opened my backpack to stuff the ball sling down among my books and journals. “That is, my mum is English, but I live in America. I’m just here on holiday visiting my grandparents.”
“A-mer-i-ca.” She sounded out each syllable slowly, then folded her hands over her highly decorated tummy. “My tutors have wronged me. They say I am excelling at Geography, but this America I have never heard of.”
“Well,” I began, trying to keep as straight a face as she was managing throughout this game of make-believe, “it is quite far, across the ocean in fact.”
Her eyes widened as if in true disbelief. “You mean you come from the New World?”
I shrugged and nodded. “Sure. The New World. What about you? Where did you live before you came to England?”
“I lived in Wolfenbüttel Castle. In Saxony.” She must have noticed me biting my lip, because she added, “It is a German principality. And most beautiful. I had a very happy childhood with my three elder brothers there. But—” she lowered her eyes and began stroking Tannia’s smooth, grey head—“a year ago, when I turned eleven, my mother and father sent my brother Frederick and me to live at Otterly Manor as the Earl’s wards.”
“Oh.” She looked so sombre, I almost forgot we were playing a game. “But why did they send you away?”
“As a ward, Frederick is to be the Earl’s heir and make a good, Protestant match here in England.” She looked up with a determination in her eyes. “And when I am older, I shall go to Court to wait on my aunt the Queen.”
“The Queen is your aunt? Wait, do you mean Queen Elizabeth?”
“Oh no. But didn’t you hear?” She looked shocked. “Queen Elizabeth died in 1603, three years ago now! My aunt, Anne of Denmark is the Queen Consort, the wife of His Majesty King James.” She looked at me with wonderment. “America must be very far indeed ... How did you come to Otterly Manor?”
“I came with my grandparents. They’re National Trust members.”
“Ah. Natürlich.” Now she was the one biting her lip. “Is that a guild of some kind?”
I laughed, but thinking it was probably time to cut the game short and find out just where Nan and Pop and the rest of the tourists had got to, I changed the subject. “We didn’t know there was a reenactment going on today. I should really go and find them. Nan’s probably worried by now.”
“Of course. But before you go, allow me to introduce myself. My name is Sophia Matilde Hedwig Brunswick-Lüneburg, but do please call me Sophia.” She curtseyed so low this time, it looked like her legs melted right out from under her. “And I hope you will come again, er …”
“Oh, it’s Katherine. But you can just call me Katie if you like.” My attempt at returning her graceful curtsey felt more like miming a wobbly scarecrow. Sophia didn’t laugh, but only smiled a friendly smile at me, her round pink cheeks glowing in the sunlight.
“You’re really are an excellent actress,” I added as we turned towards the house.
She wrinkled her forehead. “An actress? I am not much of an actress, though I do enjoy the plays of Master William Shakespeare. You must have heard of him? He is a favourite of His Majesty’s.”
“Of course I’ve heard of him. We did Midsummer Night’s Dream at my school last year.”
“So then you are an actress?” she asked most seriously.
“Not really. I just played one of the fairy chorus members.”
She seemed to be thinking very hard, and I wondered what I had said that could be so very confusing.
“Actually,” she giggled, sounding for the first time like a girl of twelve rather than a proper little lady, “Frederick and I did sometimes
put on the most absurd comedies for our parents.” She sighed. “But no more.” She smiled a little sadly. “One day I shall be an actress. When I become a duchess, I shall have to learn to act in a courtly manner all the time.”
Sophia’s performance was interrupted by a woman’s shrill, metallic voice calling out from one of the house’s countless windows. Tannia’s ears pricked up as the woman screeched, “Sophia, make haste! Master Van Hoebeek is ready to make your portrait! He says the muse is upon him. For heaven’s sake, make haste!”
Sophia set her jaw. “I am sorry, Katie. I am wanted inside, but I do hope you are soon reunited to your kinsmen. God speed!”
She picked up her skirts and made for the house, but as she did, a strange sensation came over me. Talking with the girl had felt very…real. Not like she was performing at all. Besides that, everywhere I looked, Otterly Manor was different from how it had been that morning. Sure, it was the same house in the same park. But the stones and windows of the house were brighter, newer. Smoke chugged from the chimney stacks. The road leading to the house wasn’t paved; it was smooth dirt. And coming up the hill at that very moment was not a car, but an ornate carriage drawn by two white horses and driven by a stiff man in a white wig. There was most certainly no sign of a car park or picnic tables, and not another normally dressed person to be seen.
I whirled around looking for any sign of Nan and Pop and Oscar, any sign of normal life. How could I, an aspiring detective, have failed to notice the world around me had transformed? I turned back to call after the girl … what had she said her name was? Sophia something something something? Sophia. That had been the name of the girl in the painting. Then it clicked. She was the girl from the painting! It all came rushing back to me: the Green Man, the secret chamber, the landscape painting, the gypsy’s wink. Falling.
