“The cloak,” Vincent demanded, a hand on his cheek, the blood issuing forth from that buried part of him that was still flesh.
“Of course, of course.” The dwarf grabbed the cloak and threw it at him, never taking his eyes off the gold.
Thus the deal was made.
Vincent rode off, holding the cloak out before him. It was in tatters—holes, tears, stains, loose threads. It reeked. “I scarred myself for this?” he said to Orin, holding his nose. “What are we supposed to do with it?”
“You’re going to use it to get a job at Mr. Barlow’s home. You’re going to work whatever position you can get. And you are going to excel. Over time, I hope, you will stand out for your achievements, endearing yourself to him. Then maybe, just maybe, he will reveal how to defeat the witch.”
“Can’t we just search her woods, track her down?”
“Many have tried before you, and all have failed. You see, there is something else to it that we are missing. Mr. Barlow has the key. He knows.”
“You said I have to hide my body from him. Am I supposed to do that with these rags?” he asked, dangling the cloak before the horse, obstructing his view.
“Put it on,” said Orin. “Then go have a look at yourself over there in the river.”
Vincent slipped the cloak on over his gold body and, feeling no different, walked doubtfully to the river and peered into it. But immediately upon glancing at the water’s surface, he snapped his head back to see if someone was standing over his shoulder. He stood, hands closed in fists, prepared to defend himself. But there was no one there. “Did you see anyone just now?” he asked Orin.
“There’s only you.”
Hesitantly, Vincent looked back at the water. The same man had returned. It’s me, Vincent realized, touching his face. The reflection was of an old man, a beggar. Gone was the gold skin; gone were his youth and his handsome features. Amazed, he ripped the cloak off and peered back into the water. And there he was again: the golden boy.
“Come,” said Orin, “we don’t have much farther to go.”
Vincent walked back to his steed, running his arm in and out of the cloak, watching it change from gold and taut to pale and wrinkled, and back again. “Astounding,” he muttered.
“Let’s just hope it gets us what we need.”
A few miles later, far removed from any cities or towns, they approached a large iron and gold gate, the letter B prominently displayed in the center. “Quick,” Orin said, “before anyone sees. Put the cloak on. Remember, you are an old man looking for work. Sell yourself. Get us inside.”
With the cloak concealing the boy beneath, Vincent peered out from the hood, past the gates and in at the palatial estate beyond. It was a far grander home than he had ever seen before. There were too many windows to count, there were columns and arches and balconies and statues, there were separate quarters and several wings, there were stables and gardens and fountains, and that was just what he could see from the gate. The mansion must have sat on dozens and dozens of the most finely kept acres in all the country. There had to be some job he could do on such immense and immaculate grounds.
From down a long drive a finely dressed servant approached.
“Confidence,” Orin whispered to Vincent. “He will succumb to confidence.”
“Yes?” the servant asked when he reached the gate, blatantly scrutinizing the old man sitting upon the ragged horse.
“I’ve come seeking work,” Vincent said, his voice naturally disguised by the cloak. It now rattled with age, a dying croak.
With a snide look the man said, “We have nothing for you,” and began to walk away.
“Please,” Vincent called out. “I work hard. You could hire no one better.”
“I find that very hard to believe. Now, please disperse before I send for the dogs.”
“Just give me a chance. I promise I will not let you down. I will complete the work of three men half my age.”
The servant stopped and turned around. “You sound very sure of yourself. Have you gone senile? Has your mind withered like your body?”
“Please. Give me one day to prove myself. If I do not work to your liking, if I do not astound you with my abilities, you can let me go.”
Curious, the man looked him over yet again, this time much longer. Finally he sighed. “You’ll work at half the pay.”
Vincent nodded. “Half the pay.”
“Can you garden?”
“I can. I have had much experience in gardening. From the time I was young.”
“That must have been some time ago.”
Vincent smiled. “I remember it all like it was yesterday. In fact, I feel as if I haven’t aged a day.”
“Senility.” The servant snickered. “Very well, come inside. By the end of the day I will let you know if you still have a job tomorrow.”
He worked hard every hour, every minute of the day, forgoing breaks and meals, and was the very last one to set down his tools. And he did so only when the garden looked flawless and beautiful, and his entire body ached so badly that he could hardly lift his arms or move his legs. Late in the evening, when he finally had a chance to eat, he ate a small meal all alone under a tree, his hands trembling with exhaustion.
He kept his job that day. And he would each day after.
Months passed in this manner. Whenever Vincent had free time, he used it to read from the gold book that practically burned through the leather sack he never removed. The first time he wished to read it, the binding refused to give, as if all the pages had been glued together. A curious thought ran through Vincent’s head: Does the book find me unworthy? Does it believe I am not ready? He glanced up at the sky and sighed. I don’t care what it thinks. If the answer to finding and helping my mother lies in here, I need to find it. And just like that, the book opened up. The pages fluttered and flapped as if ruffled by a strong wind, and when they finally settled, Vincent was staring at a strange illustration. Encompassing the entire page was an intricately detailed drawing of a very old man, his arms like the branches of a tree, and, above him, illuminated by a great light, hundreds of birds carrying a sword and a bow. Not thinking much of it, he tried to turn back to the beginning, but the book wouldn’t budge. He tried again. Nothing. “A sword and a bow,” he muttered, running his fingers over the glistening weapons. With that, the book snapped closed on his fingers, and from then on he could open to whatever page he wished.
There seemed to be countless stories in the book, many written in foreign languages, and what little Vincent could translate didn’t mean much of anything. It was riddle after riddle after riddle, all of them powerful and tantalizing. Other sections, however, were completely indecipherable, the sentences scrambled upon the page, random word following random word, sometimes not even arranged in a straight line, but jagged swirls and zigzags and clusters. It was as if the words were loose upon the page and shaken around into new forms every time the covers closed. There were illustrations throughout the book, and he tried to make sense of everything by analyzing these, although this too proved difficult. There was a lot of adventure, a lot of blood and death, anger and betrayal. But at parts there was peace, such unbelievable peace that Vincent wished to be absorbed into the pages. The book, he surmised, must have been hundreds of years old, and the stories—the ones he could read at least—even older than that.
When he couldn’t read anymore without dozing, he would wander over to the stables so that he could say good-night to Orin, who had grown quiet and testy since their arrival. The horse, unhappy with his current sleeping conditions, looked longingly at the mansion. Not that Vincent’s were much better; he slept outside, under his favorite tree on the estate, the stars spread above him, the warm air surrounding him like a thick blanket.
Every morning Vincent repeated his routine, setting himself far apart from the other workers, who wanted nothing to do with him, likely because his work ethic consistently put theirs to shame.
And yet he was
still unable to gain an audience with the owner of the home, the ever-elusive Mr. Barlow. In fact, after several weeks he still had never even set eyes upon the man, although all the other workers acted as if he were standing over their shoulders. They spoke of him only in whispers, and not a word of it flattering. They spoke of a neglected son and a subjugated daughter. They spoke of a family tragedy. Vincent of course just kept his head down and toiled through it all, despite no indication that Mr. Barlow noticed.
There was one person, however, who couldn’t help noticing him. And that was Stella, the young daughter of Mr. Barlow.
One day, in the middle of the hottest week of his life, with temperatures well over one hundred degrees, when all the workers were taking lunch in the servants’ wing of the house, fans on full blast, as it was their ritual to do, and with Mr. Barlow reportedly away on business, Vincent decided to take a rare moment of being completely alone. It was his birthday, and he decided to have a quick dip in the pool.
With no one around, he slipped off his cloak, his youth and gold body immediately returning, and jumped headfirst into the cool water. Being so heavy, he found it difficult to keep afloat. But the exercise was good for him, and he decided he would do this whenever he found himself alone.
As he was swimming, what he didn’t realize was that Stella was on her balcony that very moment, watching his transformation take place. She couldn’t take her eyes off him. Every day after, she hid out there from morning till night, waiting for the old man to remove the cloak one more time and reveal the golden boy beneath. And when he did, Stella just about swooned. She had to meet him.
And so, one afternoon, in the middle of his relentless gardening, while the other workers retreated inside, Vincent found himself face-to-face with Stella for the first time.
“Old man,” she said, in a haughty voice, her hands on her hips, “why do you toil out here in the sun when everyone else is cool within their quarters? You never stop for lunch, never take a break. Surely, a man of your age needs to rest.”
Vincent couldn’t believe his eyes. The girl was like no one he had ever seen before. He wondered if she had come from a different time or place, pulled out of the gold book perhaps. She was enchanting, like the stories he read each night, fascinating in every way imaginable. Meeting her did something to Vincent, to his perception of reality. It was as if within seconds of his locking eyes with her, the world had tripled in size.
The girl kept her eyes fixed on his, as if she could see the real Vincent through the decay of age. She refused to look away, and suddenly Vincent found it very difficult to speak. He stammered and stuttered, completely captivated by this beautiful girl standing so self-assuredly before him.
“Well?” Stella said.
To speak, Vincent found that he had to look away. “I wish to leave an impression upon Mr. Barlow.”
Stella laughed. “My father notices nothing. And why on earth would you ever wish to impress him in the first place? I’m sure you’ve heard how wicked he is.”
“I also heard he is a wise man, that he knows many things. Including information that I need.”
“In this entire world, is there no one else you can ask?”
“I’m afraid not.”
Deep in contemplation, Stella brought a finger to her lips. Finally she asked, “What is your name?”
“Vincent.”
“My name is—”
“Stella. I know. We all know. I’ve heard your name spoken many times. But why is it I have never seen you until now?”
“Oh, I suppose there are many reasons for that. Maybe I haven’t wished to be seen until now—a girl must have her privacy, you know—and for some time there was certainly nothing of interest around here to pull me out of hiding. Until now. Or maybe after so long I just couldn’t take being alone anymore, and I had to speak with someone, even an old man like you. Or maybe my father has forbidden my mingling with the help these many years and I sneaked out of the room, having decided to take a chance on you, test the waters, so to speak. But just maybe, since my brother’s tragic incident my father has forbidden fun of any kind. He has locked me away. No friends my age. No venturing outside those gates. Total isolation from the outside world. And maybe in you I see escape.”
“I’m sorry to hear such things, but you are mistaken. I can’t help you.”
Stella ignored this. “You’re not from here, are you?”
“No,” Vincent said, a hint of sadness in his voice. “I miss my home very much. I too feel like I’ve been locked away for so long. As beautiful as this place is, I long to see the mountains of my childhood again, the forests, the rivers. There are great wonders outside these gates.”
“So I’ve heard. Thank you for pointing out what is kept from me.”
“I didn’t mean . . . look . . . I’m sorry, forget it.”
Stella smiled at Vincent’s awkwardness. She so badly wished to see his gold face blush. Stepping forward, she reached up for the hood. “Aren’t you hot with that on? Why wear something so heavy on a day such as this?”
Vincent jumped back, his hands holding the hood firmly in place. “My skin, it’s sensitive to the sun.”
“Is it now?”
“It is.”
“But I can hardly see your face. At least lower the hood for me.”
“I cannot do that.”
“And why not? Are you so hideous under there?”
“I am like nothing you have ever seen.”
She paused, taking him in. “I’ll bet you are.” She nodded curtly, and Vincent watched as she walked away.
After this conversation, Stella was at Vincent’s side every day. She sat with him while he worked, helping out wherever she could, getting her hands dirty for the first time in her life. She followed Vincent to the stable to see his horse, although Orin was always fast asleep. She even brought Vincent food when he refused to rest. Never once did she seem concerned about disobeying her father. Only when all the other servants went inside did Stella retreat to her balcony with some odd excuse. And with Vincent believing he was alone once again, he jumped into the pool. If he had not been underwater, he would have heard her sigh.
One day, while they were digging up soil so that they could plant some azaleas, Stella said, “I can help you, you know. I can get you an audience with my father.”
Vincent stopped working and looked at her. “You can?”
“Yes, but I would need three things from you first.”
“What are they? Anything.”
“First, I want to know why you so desperately wish to speak with my father.”
And so Vincent told her the truth, or a version of it. He explained how he sought the witch, how he wanted to set all her evils right and avenge his mother. It bothered him to state that his mother was dead, but keeping in mind he appeared to be an old man, he thought this was necessary, as was making sure not to give away any further details about his travels, only suggesting it all happened a long time ago and he had been on this quest ever since.
“What is the second thing you ask of me?” he said when finished with this tale.
“I want you to lower your hood.”
“I told you—”
“I know you did.”
This time, when Stella reached for the hood, Vincent didn’t pull away. Her small hands grasped each side and pulled it down, revealing Vincent’s golden face.
“I’ve seen you from my balcony,” Stella said in an awed whisper. “Why do you hide who you are?”
“I was told what would happen if your father were to see me. I couldn’t take that chance.”
“My father is very sick. He cannot even leave his bed.”
“But I thought he traveled for business all the time. I heard he keeps close tabs on just about everything we do.”
“Lies. My father has been sick for some time now, ever since he lost his son, my only brother. I’m sure you have heard that he is a hard man, and he was. All his life he wanted more and more. He w
as never satisfied, and he ran down anyone who got in his way. But my brother’s vanishing, my father’s illness: they have softened him. He keeps me in isolation only because he fears something happening to me. If I tell him you can cure him, he will see you.”
“But I can’t cure him.”
“If you seek to destroy the witch, then you can.”
“She struck him ill?”
“She did; ever since he has sought her dead for my brother’s disappearance. Before that, he had been searching for her almost all his life, but to a different end. Back then he craved her power, her abilities. Like I said, he was covetous of all that wasn’t his, and she had plenty. But now he believes it was she who took my brother, and he only wants her vanquished. Sadly, all efforts have failed. If you can change that, surely he will grant you whatever you wish. He can make you very wealthy.”
“I do this for my mother and no one else. I seek no reward but her rescue.”
“That is quite admirable, though you just told me you wished to avenge her death. Is that true, or do you believe she is still alive?”
“I do. I have to.”
“You love her greatly.”
Vincent, welling up, shifted the conversation back to her requests. “What is the third thing you ask of me?”
For once it was Stella’s turn to blush and shyly turn away. When she spoke, it was softly, with all her hardness and edge removed. “I don’t want you to leave just yet. Stay with me. Like you are now.” And she reached out and grasped his hand.
It wasn’t supposed to be for very long, but the two of them spent the next three weeks together, every moment they could get. Now, when it came time for the other workers to go off for lunch, Stella did not retreat to her balcony. Instead, Vincent removed his cloak, and the two of them ran off to be with each other. They exchanged stories and gazed upon the stars; they got lost in the giant hedge maze; they swam in the pool; they played hide-and-seek. They danced.
It was a wonderful time they shared, the two of them growing closer every second. But with nightly visions of his mother, the possibility of her death or torture, Vincent soon felt the day had come for him to set out for the witch, and so Stella, as promised, arranged the meeting with her father.
The Dyerville Tales Page 13
