The Beatryce Prophecy

by Kate DiCamillo

  It was evening. The sun was setting, sending out long rays of light that set the whole world on fire.

  Did he think he would find Beatryce?

  He did not know.

  But he thought it mattered that he should look for her, that he should never give up searching for her.

  Brother Edik walked through the dying light.

  He thought about the Chronicles of Sorrowing and the small illuminated mermaid who waited in its pages.

  Her hair and tail were strewn with jewels.

  And her face?

  Her face was the face of Beatryce.

  They were in a tree again.

  Not in the branches of a tree, but in the trunk of it. They had walked through a door hewn into the side of a massive tree, and they were inside it now.

  For the rest of his life, Jack Dory would remember the wonder of it: what it was like to open a door and enter another world, a world hidden inside of the world he already knew—the impossibility of it, the rightness of it.

  Inside, in the snug hollow, there was a rough-hewn table and a chair, a bed among the tree roots, and bearskin rugs on the floor.

  “Oh,” said Beatryce. “It’s beautiful.”

  “Sit,” said the man named Cannoc. He pointed to one of the rugs.

  Jack Dory and Beatryce sat.

  The goat, however, remained standing. She looked around her suspiciously.

  Cannoc gave Beatryce and Jack Dory each a piece of honeycomb.

  “Eat,” said Cannoc.

  “Thank you,” said Beatryce, but a moment later, she was asleep, her back against the goat, the uneaten honeycomb still in her hand.

  Cannoc stared at her. He watched as her free hand reached out for something. The goat lowered her head, and Beatryce took hold of her ear.

  “So, she is dressed as a monk,” said Cannoc. “Her head is shaved. And yet her name is Beatryce.”

  “Aye,” said Jack Dory. “And yet she is Beatryce.” He took a bite of the honeycomb. It was sweet and dense.

  He looked at Cannoc—his great beard, his unlined face, his huge hands resting loosely upon his knees.

  Beatryce trusted him, and as for the goat, she was not trying to kill the man—which evidenced some degree of trust, he supposed.

  Jack Dory said, “She can read. And she can write.”

  Cannoc nodded.

  “The king is looking for her. We are not going toward the king at all, but rather away from him. I believe the king wants to harm her.”

  “Kings,” said Cannoc, “do not know what they want. Except for one thing, of course: they want to keep being kings.”

  The piece of honeycomb slipped from Beatryce’s hand. She kept hold of the goat’s ear.

  “So,” said Cannoc.

  “So,” said Jack Dory. “The monks of the Order of the Chronicles of Sorrowing shaved her head and dressed her in a monk’s robe, but they were afraid to harbor her. They were glad to be rid of her. Except for a wild-eyed monk named Brother Edik. He did not want to send her away. But the head of the order, the man in charge, told me to make sure she did not return to them. Who would think that men of God would be so fearful?”

  “It could well be that writing the history of the world as those monks do, detailing the terrible things that men do to one another, could make any person afraid,” said Cannoc.

  Answelica’s eyes were closed, but she made a small snort that sounded like agreement.

  “Beatryce,” said Cannoc very quietly. “Oh, Beatryce.”

  “Beatryce,” agreed Jack Dory. He liked to say her name.

  Cannoc leaned forward. He put his face close to Beatryce’s.

  Answelica opened her eyes and regarded the man coldly.

  “Careful of the goat,” said Jack Dory.

  “You may be certain of it,” said Cannoc. “I have a great deal of respect for the goat.”

  “Why do you stare at her so?” said Jack Dory.

  “Only to learn her face,” said Cannoc. “I have looked at many faces in my lifetime, and most I have looked past, never seeing them at all. Now I am attempting to make up for it; I am working to truly see.”

  There was a bee buzzing around Jack Dory’s head. He held out his finger, and the bee hovered near it—humming—and then it flew past him and went to Cannoc and disappeared into the depths of his beard.

  Cannoc leaned back. He smiled.

  Who was this man that a Granny Bibspeak bee would hide in his beard?

  “Who are you?” Jack Dory asked.

  “Cannoc, as I said.”

  “Aye,” said Jack Dory. “As you said.”

  Cannoc nodded. He put his hand to his beard and stroked it.

  From somewhere inside his whiskers, the bee hummed.

  She dreamed.

  She dreamed in the warm hollow of a great tree.

  She dreamed beside a man with a beard that came down to his knees.

  She dreamed before a boy with a sword propped against his leg.

  She dreamed leaning against the warmth of a goat.

  She dreamed to the sound of a bee buzzing.

  What did she dream?

  She dreamed of herself.

  She watched from a distance.

  She watched herself standing in front of the tutor.

  She watched herself looking down at the seahorse in the tutor’s hand.

  “A seahorse,” said the tutor. “A horse of the sea.”

  “Does it live?” Beatryce asked.

  “It is dead,” said the tutor.

  “Make it live again,” said Beatryce.

  “I cannot do that, Beatryce.”

  The tutor had dark, curly hair. Balanced atop his head was a circle of daisies. The tutor did not know that the flowers were there.

  Beatryce’s brothers were off to the side, laughing.

  They had put the daisies on the tutor’s head. They thought him an overly solemn man, and they felt it would do him good to be made a fool.

  Asop and Rowan thought that everyone should be made a bit of a fool.

  Asop! Rowan!

  Beatryce looked down at herself from the height of the dream. She saw that her hair was long, auburn. The sun shone upon it.

  The world was so bright.

  How could it be that the sun would shine as a nightmare unfolded?

  The seahorse was in the tutor’s hand, and then it was in Beatryce’s hand and she saw it had only the one eye.

  Is he made so?

  The daisies atop the tutor’s head trembled.

  Asop and Rowan laughed.

  The light shone down.

  Rowan’s hand jostled the tutor’s elbow.

  A soldier burst into the room.

  The seahorse fell.

  Beatryce watched it twist through the air, turning and turning.

  It hit the ground and bounced once, twice, three times.

  Make it live again!

  She watched the great sword of the soldier fly through the air.

  Light flashed off the blade of it.

  The tutor fell to the ground, and Beatryce went down on her knees beside him.

  She screamed once.

  Rowan and Asop fell atop her.

  Daisies were strewn on the floor. Blood was everywhere. She pretended to be dead.

  The sun, unbelievably, continued to shine.

  The soldier said, “It is done,” and she knew his voice; it was the voice of the man in the dark room at the inn.

  Not far from her head was the seahorse. It shone as if it were made of gold.

  She heard someone say her name.

  Beatryce.

  Who was calling her?

  Beatryce.

  She wanted to answer, but she should not.

  Beatryce!

  She opened her eyes.

  She woke to Jack Dory and Answelica and the man with the beard, Cannoc, staring at her intently.

  She woke in the warm heart of a tree with a bee buzzing beside her ear.

  “Yo
u fell asleep,” said Jack Dory.

  “You were dreaming,” said Cannoc.

  The goat, of course, said nothing. But she did what she did best: she looked at Beatryce with conviction and strength and love.

  Beatryce started to cry.

  “What is it?” said Jack Dory.

  But she was crying too much to say what it was. She was weeping an ocean. She would drown in her own tears.

  “Can you not say it?” said Jack Dory.

  “I remember,” said Beatryce.

  “What do you remember?” asked Cannoc.

  “Who I am.”

  “Aye,” said Jack Dory. He smiled at her. “You are Beatryce.”

  She cried harder. She nodded.

  “What else?” said Cannoc.

  “He killed them,” said Beatryce. “The soldier came and killed them all. He killed Rowan and Asop. He killed my brothers. He killed the tutor. He intended to kill me. He thought he killed me, but he did not kill me.”

  A wave of grief crashed over her.

  How was it that she was alive and they were dead?

  Rowan. Asop. The tutor. The seahorse. The daisies. The light.

  It would have been better not to have remembered.

  “What of your parents?” said Jack Dory in a quiet voice.

  “My father has long been dead,” said Beatryce. “He died at war when I was small. I do not remember him.”

  “And your mother?” asked Cannoc.

  Beatryce saw her mother’s face—her fierce eyes, her slow smile, the great blazing strength of her.

  Oh, her mother!

  Beatryce felt as if someone had brought something heavy down upon her head.

  “My mother,” she said slowly. It was hard, suddenly, to breathe. “My mother was not there. She was not in the room where we were tutored.”

  “Maybe she lives,” said Cannoc.

  “Maybe she lives,” repeated Beatryce. Her lips felt numb as they repeated the words.

  “Aye,” said Jack Dory. “Maybe she is even now searching for you.”

  Beatryce started to cry again.

  Cannoc took hold of her hand. Answelica leaned up against her, with her warm, dense, and rough-coated self. Jack Dory took hold of Beatryce’s other hand.

  The four of them sat together in the tree while Beatryce wept.

  In the silence, Beatryce heard her mother’s voice: “You must always remember that you are Beatryce of Abelard. Powerful blood runs in your veins.”

  And then Beatryce remembered the dark room at the inn, the white of the parchment before her, the words written there:

  I have killed.

  Beatryce looked at Jack Dory. She said, “I am Beatryce of Abelard, and the man who wanted his confession written is the one who killed my brothers. He is the one who killed the tutor and intended to kill me. It was all done at the command of the king.”

  The bee came again and buzzed at her ear.

  “The king,” said Beatryce. “The king wants me dead.”

  Cannoc cleared his throat.

  He said, “Perhaps now is the time for me to speak of who I am.”

  He looked at Jack Dory and then at Beatryce and then at the goat.

  He said, “Once, I was king.”

  Beatryce wiped the tears from her face. She looked up at Cannoc. “You were king?” she said.

  “This was long ago. I was king and then I was not. I walked away.”

  “How does a king walk away?” asked Jack Dory.

  “I said to the counselor and to the court, ‘I will return momentarily,’ and I walked from the throne room. The crown was upon my head. I walked through the great hall, and the servants bowed deeply. I walked out of the castle and to the drawbridge, and the guard there saluted me. I walked across the drawbridge and heard my feet sounding against the wood of it, and I liked the sound of my walking so much that I thought: I will keep walking.”

  “And you did?” said Beatryce.

  “I did,” said Cannoc. “I kept walking. I walked into the forest, and the ground beneath my feet felt wondrous—better even than the wood of the drawbridge. I thought: I will keep walking.

  “I walked unaccompanied. I walked without being accosted. I walked without anyone needing anything of me. It was glorious.

  “The birds sang above me. The deer moved past me. I smelled bear and moss and wild honey, and I came to a body of water, a lake I had never seen, and I stood before it and thought of the last words spoken to me. They were from the counselor. His words were ‘We shall await your return, sire.’

  “I stood for a long time at the lake and considered those words, and then I took the crown from my head and threw it in the water and watched it disappear. I felt, then, as light as air. I had the thought that without the crown upon my head, I would not be able to keep my feet on the ground.”

  “The king who could not keep his feet upon the ground,” said Beatryce. “It sounds like a story someone would tell.”

  “Yes, yes,” said Cannoc. “It sounds like a story, but it is the truth. I sat down on the ground and laughed and laughed. And, oh, it felt wondrous to laugh. I could not remember the last time I had laughed. I took off my shoes and threw them in the lake along with the crown. And then I put my feet in the water and moved them about and laughed some more, and I thought: I will never return. I will laugh as often as possible. I will grow my beard. That will be my purpose on this earth: to laugh and to grow my beard and to never, ever return to being a king.”

  “Did they not come looking for you?” asked Jack Dory.

  “Come looking for me?” said Cannoc. He laughed. “My child, please understand. No one comes looking for a king. For as soon as a king disappears, those who would replace him start to scheme and calculate about how to take the crown for themselves. Who knows how many kings there have been since I sat upon the throne? Who knows how many schemers and liars have worn a crown? No. No one searches for a missing king.”

  There was a long silence.

  And then Cannoc cleared his throat and said, “That sword.” He pointed at the sword leaning against Jack Dory’s leg. “That sword bears the mark of the king I once was and am no more. I suppose it has been handed down from a soldier father to a soldier son.”

  Jack Dory studied the hilt of the sword. He looked at the design embedded in it. “This?” he said, tracing the line with his finger. “What does it mean?”

  Beatryce leaned forward. “It is an E,” she said. “It is the letter E.”

  “I do not know it,” said Jack Dory.

  “How can you not?” said Beatryce. “Asop is half your age, and he can read whatever you put before him.”

  “Perhaps you do not remember, Beatryce,” said Cannoc. “Or maybe you never knew. The people cannot read. Only men of God can read, and the king. And tutors and counselors. The people do not know their letters.”

  Beatryce shook her head. “I remember only that my mother insisted we learn and that we keep the learning a secret. It is not right that the people cannot read. It is not right at all. I will teach you, Jack Dory. I will teach you to read.”

  Jack Dory felt something small and glowing inside of him—to read, what would that be like?

  He looked at the sword, at the letter upon it, and then he held the sword before him, up high.

  “Put it down,” said Beatryce, her voice suddenly hollow and cold. “Put it down.”

  She stood. Answelica stood, too. “I will not be near that sword. I will not have it near me.”

  Jack Dory laid the sword at his feet. “What would you have me do, Beatryce?” he said. “How should I rid myself of it?”

  She stood trembling before him, and he understood her trembling. He knew what it was to watch someone you love die. The robber’s dark-bearded face flashed through his mind. He saw, again, the knife clenched between the man’s teeth.

  The goat lowered her head. She made a low noise of despair.

  The bee flew back and forth, back and forth, between Bea
tryce and Jack Dory and Cannoc, as if it were tracing some invisible line.

  At last, Cannoc spoke. He said, “It could very well be that the sword belongs with the crown.”

  “Do you mean that we should throw it in the lake?” said Jack Dory.

  “No,” said Beatryce. Her voice was fierce, certain. “No. I know what must be done. The sword belonged to the soldier; the soldier belonged to the king. The soldier was told to use the sword against me. We will take the sword to the king. We will return his dark deed to him.”

  “We will?” said Jack Dory.

  “Yes,” said Beatryce. She stood up very straight. “The king does not need to send his soldiers in search of me.”

  Answelica looked up at her.

  Cannoc, too, stared at Beatryce, but Beatryce kept her eyes on Jack Dory.

  “I will tell you what will happen with this sword,” she said. “I, Beatryce of Abelard, will hand it to the king. I will make him account for what he has done.”

  In the dungeon of the king’s castle, the counselor stood holding a candle. His robes were as dark as the dungeon itself.

  The counselor spoke into the darkness. He said, “You will perhaps be happy to know that the king has made up his mind that Beatryce should live. We are searching for her, Aslyn. And when we find her, I will let the king have his way. At least for a while.”

  There was a muffled sound of rage.

  The counselor waited a long time before he spoke again.

  “It may interest you to know that in my role as counselor, in my search for wisdom to lead the king, I did read in the Chronicles of Sorrowing a prophecy that may concern your Beatryce. Would you like to hear this prophecy?”

  Silence.

  “Very well. It goes like this: ‘There will one day come a girl child who will unseat a king and bring about a great change.’ I read those words and I thought, I have made good use of one prophecy. Why not bend another to my ends?”

  He laughed a small laugh.

  “Only in this case, I will not make the prophecy come true. No, rather with this overlooked girl-child prophecy, I think I will assure that it does not happen as it is written.”