There came a strangled cry.
“I am not of noble birth, Aslyn of Abelard, as you once pointed out to me. But it does not matter, does it? I rule in any case. I rule the king. And he who rules the king rules the world.”
Brother Edik was lost.
Of course he was lost!
How could he be anything but lost?
He, who had set out to find someone with nothing as guidance but the smallest gesture—the innkeeper’s wife pointing reluctantly, grudgingly, in the direction of the dark woods.
He, who had always felt so lost in the world in any case.
And the dark woods were so dark!
Always, always, Brother Edik had loathed the dark. He could see things hiding in it—contorted shapes, malignant beings.
His father had known how he feared it.
He had said to Brother Edik’s mother, “The boy must learn not to fear so much. Do not take him a light. Do not ever bring him a light when he calls for it. Let him scream. He will get over it soon enough.”
But he did not get over it. And every illumination that Brother Edik painted in the Chronicles of Sorrowing—every rising sun or light-dappled tree or shining letter—was in celebration of the beauty of the world and also in defiance of the darkness that had so terrified him as a boy, and terrified him still.
Brother Edik stumbled on a tree root. He righted himself and stumbled again.
He could hear his father laughing. He could hear him saying, “Who are you to think that you could rescue someone? And why, in any case, are you attempting to find the girl? Because of some prophecy that has issued from your own strange head?”
“No,” said Brother Edik aloud. “Because she is Beatryce.”
Beatryce.
Beatryce, who had looked up at him and promised that she would write the story of his mermaid.
He must find her.
He had to go forward. He could not, in any case, go back. He could not return to the monastery. He would never again be welcomed there.
There was, truly, no place for him. The home of his childhood was long gone, and it had never been his home, even when he was a child.
His mother had often said to him, “Do not anger your father. Try to do as he says. Try to be who he wants you to be.”
But he had not known how to do that, had he?
He still did not know how to do that.
He knew, only, how to be himself.
And shouldn’t home be the place where you are allowed to be yourself, loved as yourself?
These were the thoughts swirling through Brother Edik’s head when a man suddenly appeared on the path before him.
It is wrong, of course, to say that there was a path.
The dark woods were pathless.
They would not hold a path.
Suffice it to say that suddenly, in the dark woods, there was a man in front of Brother Edik.
The man had a beard. There was a knife clenched in his teeth.
Oh, Beatryce, thought Brother Edik, I tried. I did try.
In Cannoc’s tree, Beatryce was listening to Jack Dory tell her why it was that she could not go to see the king.
“You will end up dead,” said Jack Dory.
“It is foolhardy,” said Jack Dory.
“It is idiotic,” said Jack Dory.
Cannoc, though, was silent. He sat with his head lowered and his hands resting on his knees.
“You must tell her not to go, Cannoc,” said Jack Dory.
Cannoc raised his head and looked at Beatryce. “You said that you are an Abelard.”
Beatryce nodded.
“That is an old and noble family,” said Cannoc, “a family with much history.”
“Well, then,” said Beatryce, “who better than me to bring the king to account?”
Jack Dory let out a hiss of exasperation.
“She has a will that can be dangerous,” a tutor had once said to her mother.
“Yes,” her mother had said in return.
“Should I rein it in, then?” asked the tutor.
He was the first tutor, an oily man whose every word seemed laced with menace.
“You should not,” said Beatryce’s mother. “She will need it.”
“It is a dangerous thing for a girl child to be so set on having her own way,” said the tutor.
“Let her have her dangerous will,” said her mother.
That tutor had, in the end, left Castle Abelard. He had been dismissed by her mother.
And then, after much time, came the second tutor—the one with the curls. He had with him a bag of wonders. Each day, he took something from it. The final thing he had removed from the bag was the seahorse.
That tutor—the second one, the last one, the good one—had said to her mother, “Beatryce is in possession of a beautiful and agile mind. There is nothing she is not curious about, nothing that she cannot learn.”
Her mother nodded. She smiled a small smile. She said, “Teach her everything you can. Let her be as powerful as she can be. Let her be true to what runs in her blood.”
“Beatryce?” said Jack Dory now.
“Leave her be,” said Cannoc.
Beatryce looked into the goat’s eyes. The goat stared back.
Answelica’s eyes glowed like strange, shadowed planets.
Beatryce knew of planets.
The last tutor had a special glass that he used to stare up at the stars.
And one early morning, when it was still dark, Beatryce had stood in a field, the tutor beside her and the special glass in her hand. The dew made the hem of her gown heavy. Her feet were cold. She had held the glass up to her eye as the tutor instructed her to do and had seen a glowing orange ball floating in the sky.
“What is it?” she asked the tutor.
“That is something that most people do not even know exists. It is called a planet. It is another world, far from us.”
Beatryce had stood looking—her shoes wet, the weight of her dew-dampened gown pulling her to earth, the magic glass to her eye, the tutor breathing beside her—and it was as if someone had pushed aside a dark, heavy curtain and revealed to her a dazzling thing.
She had understood then that the world—and the space beyond it—was filled with marvel upon marvel, too many marvels to ever count.
Beatryce, remembering, shook her head. She took hold of the goat’s ear.
She looked at Jack Dory and said, “I will see the king. I will hand him the sword. No one will stop me.”
The bee buzzed in circles around Jack Dory’s head. Jack Dory looked at her without looking away.
Here was this boy—alive and staring at her.
Rowan was dead. Asop was dead. The tutor was dead.
Beatryce’s mother was she did not know where.
But this boy was alive, sitting before her, and he did not know the letter E.
“These planets, these other worlds,” said the tutor to her that early morning when she looked through the magic glass, “must surely have inhabitants with stories of their own. It is only through ignorance that we do not find our way to them.”
Beatryce looked down at her hands, at the dark spots on her thumb and forefinger, the ink.
What world is this I now inhabit, and how shall I live in it?
She looked back up into Jack Dory’s waiting face.
She said, “I will go and speak to the king. I will find my mother. No one will stop me. But first, I will teach Jack Dory his letters. I will teach him to read.”
Each letter has a shape,” Beatryce said. “And each letter has a sound. And you put these shapes and sounds together, and they become words. Do you understand?”
“Aye,” he said to her. His heart was beating fast. He did not know—he had not understood—how much he wanted it, to know this secret of letters and sounds and words.
But his heart, pounding against his rib cage, was telling him.
He and Beatryce were bent together over a piece of parchment. Answelica wa
s leaning over them, staring down at the parchment, too.
She gave off a tremendous smell of goat.
“You,” said Jack Dory, “are in my way.” He gave Answelica a small shove.
She butted her forehead against his, shoving him back.
Cannoc was gone. Where he had gone, they did not know. He was off on whatever mysterious errand a man who had once been king and was king no more might need to attend to.
“It begins with this,” said Beatryce. “This is the letter A, and it is the first one.”
She formed the letter.
“A,” he repeated. He smiled.
“There are twenty-six letters in all,” she said. “You will learn each of them, and once you know them, you can mix them as you will, and then use them to form the words of the world and the things of the world. You can write of everything—what is and what was and what might yet be.”
Jack Dory nodded.
The inside of Cannoc’s tree was snug. There was the smell of beeswax burning, and also, of course, the smell of goat. The bee buzzed around Jack Dory’s head—Granny Bibspeak, beside him, saying, “Learn it, my beloved; learn it all, light of my heart, river of my soul.”
“A is for Abelard. That is my family name. A is also the letter that begins the name Answelica.”
The goat let out an approving grunt.
“The next of the twenty-six is B.” She bent her head and formed the letter. “B is the first letter of my name: Beatryce. And from there to C.”
“What word begins with C?” asked Jack Dory.
“Cannoc,” said Beatryce.
“And when will we get to the Jack Dory letters?”
“Soon,” said Beatryce.
He watched the letters appear one by one beneath her hand, and he felt as if each letter were a door pushed open inside of him, a door that led to a lighted room.
“The world,” said Beatryce to Jack Dory, “can be spelled.”
She dreamed of standing on a cliff.
Answelica was beside her. They were looking out to sea.
The wind tasted of salt; it blew Beatryce’s hair around her face.
She had her hand on Answelica’s head.
The sea was green and then blue, and then a deeper blue and then green again.
She heard someone call her name.
She turned. Jack Dory was coming toward her. She smiled at him, and then she looked back at the sea.
And now Jack Dory was beside her, next to her. His shoulder brushed up against her.
“There are seahorses in the sea,” said Beatryce.
“Seahorses?” said Jack Dory.
“Yes,” said Beatryce, “horses of the sea.”
And with those words, the wind blew harder, meaner. The sea went from green to black, and then it tilted and became a dark hallway, and Beatryce was running down the hallway—running away and also running toward.
Where was she going?
She was running to the tower room. She was looking for her mother.
“Mother!” she shouted. “Mother, please!”
She was in Castle Abelard, and she was running down the hallway. But the hallway was so long—longer than it had ever been before. There was no end to it.
She ran and ran, and then, suddenly, she was in the tower room, but her mother was not there.
A blackbird sat in the window. He blinked his dark eyes and opened his black beak and said, “He has taken her.”
Beatryce fell to her knees.
“Who?” she said to the bird. “Where?”
A cold wind blew through the room, and the blackbird was gone, and there was nothing anywhere. The entire world was empty.
“Please,” she cried.
And then she was awake, and Jack Dory was staring at her.
“You fell asleep again,” he said, “sitting up.”
Beatryce shook her head. She felt the dream inside of her: the terrible emptiness of the tower room, the wind that blew through it, the blackbird turning to look at her with his dark eyes.
He has taken her.
Where was her mother?
Answelica pushed Jack Dory aside. She offered Beatryce her ear, and Beatryce took hold of it.
“I want my mother,” said Beatryce.
“Shhh, now,” said Jack Dory. “Tell me your name.”
“I am Beatryce of Abelard.” The words felt heavy in her mouth.
“Tell me again,” said Jack Dory.
“Beatryce of Abelard. I am Beatryce of Abelard.”
“Aye,” said Jack Dory. He took hold of her hand. “You are Beatryce of Abelard.”
“I want my mother. I want Brother Edik. Where is he?”
“I do not know,” said Jack Dory.
Beatryce felt, again, the wind from the dream—a cold wind blowing through an empty room.
“There are too many people to miss,” she said.
Jack Dory nodded. “Aye,” he said. “There are.”
He kept hold of her hand, and Beatryce kept hold of Answelica’s ear, and they sat so for a long time.
And where was Brother Edik?
Just where we left him—in the pathless woods, face-to-face with a black-bearded robber.
And what was Brother Edik doing?
He was remembering the words of his prophecy.
There will one day come a girl child who will unseat a king and bring about a great change.
The words appeared before him; they illuminated the darkness around him.
Brother Edik was certain that he was now going to die.
But he was not afraid!
He, who was afraid of everything, was not afraid.
“Can you see me now, Father?” he said aloud. “I am, at last, not afraid!”
He laughed.
The bearded man took the knife from between his teeth. “Funny, is it?”
“It is,” said Brother Edik.
“Stop your eye from rolling about like that,” said the robber.
“I cannot,” said Brother Edik. He laughed again.
“Kneel,” said the robber.
Brother Edik went down on his knees. He closed his eyes and saw the mermaid brush, the mermaid’s jewel-strewn hair. He saw, for some reason, his father’s hand—heavy and battle-scarred. He saw a field of elderhist flowers, bright and glowing.
And then there appeared in his mind the illuminated letter B.
B for Beatryce.
He saw her face.
Beatryce, who wanted to write the mermaid’s story.
Beatryce, who would unseat the king.
And then an image of Answelica appeared before him.
That terrible, wonderful goat.
Her ears were glowing. She looked beautiful to him.
Everything looked beautiful—the mermaid brush, his father’s hands, the flowering elderhist, the letter B, Beatryce, the goat.
Everything he saw was outlined in gold, illuminated as if he himself had painted it for the Chronicles of Sorrowing.
“Stop smiling,” said the robber.
Brother Edik nodded. Yes, yes. He must stop smiling.
The words of the prophecy scrolled through his mind.
There will one day.
There will one day come a girl child.
There will one day come a girl child who will unseat a king.
There will one day come a girl child who will unseat a king and bring about a great change.
He was glad that those words had come to him.
He was glad that Beatryce had come to him, and that he had saved her.
Well, that he and the goat had saved her.
He was glad to have been a part of the story.
Was that enough?
That would have to be enough.
He opened his eyes and saw, in the gloom, the robber’s knife above his head.
“Close ’em,” said the robber. “I cannot stand how that one eye rolls about.”
Brother Edik smiled. He closed his eyes.
And t
hen there came laughter.
Brother Edik wondered if he himself was laughing.
Had he gone mad?
Well, his father would not be surprised.
He held his hand up to his mouth and touched his lips. His mouth was closed: it was not him laughing. But somewhere in the dark woods, there was laughter. It echoed. It went on and on. It seemed to fill the world.
Brother Edik held still. He kept his eyes closed. He felt the outline of Answelica’s hoof on his chest. It burned slightly.
Oh, that goat. He would miss her.
“Take care of her,” Brother Edik whispered to the goat. “Guard her.”
Suddenly, the laughter ended and the only noise was the rustling of the leaves on the trees.
Brother Edik stayed on his knees, his eyes still closed.
Perhaps he was dead, and he did not yet know it?
There came a hand on Brother Edik’s shoulder—warm, solid.
“You are a monk of the Order of the Chronicles of Sorrowing, are you not?” said a voice. “I believe that we have mutual friends.”
Brother Edik opened his eyes.
It was so dark! But Brother Edik could see that the black-bearded robber was gone, and that in his place stood a man with a long gray beard.
This man was smiling.
“Come with me,” said the man. He held out his hand. And then he laughed and said, “Oh, won’t you come a-gallivanting with me?”
Brother Edik took hold of the hand and rose to his feet—alive.
Beatryce was sitting with Jack Dory, showing him his letters, when Answelica stood suddenly, knocking the quill from her hand.
“It is only Cannoc returning,” Jack Dory said to the goat.
Cannoc hunched over and entered the tree through the small door, his long beard preceding his body.
“Someone is with him,” Jack Dory whispered.
And then Cannoc was standing before them, and behind him was Brother Edik. The monk stood smiling at them, his wild eye dancing in his head.
“Beatryce,” he said.
She flung herself into his arms. He smelled of wool and ink and something sweet—maple.
“Beatryce,” he said. “I’ve been looking for you.”
She held him as tight as she was able. Her brothers were dead. Her mother was missing. She had lost everything from her life before. But here, unbelievably, was Brother Edik—who loved her, whom she loved. She held on to him while Answelica did a stiff-legged dance of joy around the two of them.
The Beatryce Prophecy Page 8
