by Nancy Chase
“What did you do that for?” Catrin wiped at the damp cider stain on the front of her dress.
The boy pressed his palms together and tucked them beside his cheek, miming sleep. He pointed at the spilled liquid on the ground. Now that Catrin looked more closely, she could see that there were flecks of some kind of herb mixed in with the cider.
“That dirty traitor,” Hugh exclaimed. “Remember when Max said he made the giant sleep? For the past four hundred years? Based on the herbs the villain put in our drinks, I’d say he was planning to do the same to us.”
“He swore to take care of us, to take care of the children. I thought he was helping.”
“Forget him, Princess,” Baldwin said. “We still have work to do.”
“Of course. Now, where do you suppose we can find this giant?”
The children showed them the way to the giant’s resting spot, far out into the desolate wheat field. He lay on his back snoring, an empty goblet cupped in his hand, a rusty scythe lying on the ground a few feet away. He had obviously taken a drink of Max’s special cider and fallen asleep while he was harvesting. He never had a chance to finish the job, which was why the dead crop still stood in the field.
Catrin stood over him, watching him breathe. “Are you sure this is a good idea?”
“Can you think of any other way to finish our task?” Hugh asked.
Catrin bent down and tugged on the giant’s sleeve. “Mr. Giant? Wake up, please. We want to talk to you.” When he didn’t respond, she shook his shoulder. “Wake up, the children need you.” The giant mumbled something and went back to snoring.
“Stand back,” Baldwin said. “I’ll get his attention.” He lifted his spear and with the sharp point prodded the giant sharply several times in the ribs. “Wake up, sir! There’s work to be done.”
The giant grunted in protest and swatted at Baldwin’s spear as if it were a biting fly. Groggily he sat up and looked around. “What’s the time?”
“It’s four hundred years since you fell asleep,” Hugh said. “I think that’s a long enough nap, don’t you?”
The giant snorted and clambered to his feet. “Who are you?”
Catrin stepped forward. “I am Princess Catrin, and these are my friends Baldwin and Hugh. What’s your name?”
“George.” He smacked his lips together and scratched the spot where Baldwin’s spear had poked him.
“I’m pleased to meet you George. My friends and I are here on a quest. We need to use your gristmill, but it’s too heavy for us. Will you help?”
He squinted down at her. “You want to grind grain?”
“Yes, please. We need to make a hundred loaves of bread before nightfall.”
He thought about this. “You are lost children? Doing the Ritual of Return?”
“Us? No. But we promised to help the children who are here, if they want us to.”
He nodded. “They want. Four hundred years, they are plenty hungry by now. Yes. I will help.” He picked up his scythe and goblet and shambled back across the fields toward the barnyard. Partway there, he glanced down at the goblet in his hand and turned to say over his shoulder. “Don’t drink the cider.”
Hugh hurried to catch up with him. “Grinding the grain isn’t our only problem. I’m afraid Max shattered the clay oven. How will we bake the bread?”
George detoured down to the riverbank where he scooped up a handful of slippery clay. He trudged to the shattered oven, shoved the broken pieces back into place—without even burning his hands—and slathered the wet clay over the cracks to hold them in place. He fed a few more slabs of wood onto the glowing coals, then plodded to the gristmill.
The great mill stone creaked and squealed when George heaved it into motion. Catrin poured in the grain and as the first trickle of flour came out, the waiting children cheered.
Once the flour was milled, it was time to make the bread. Catrin kneaded dough until her arms ached while Baldwin and Hugh tended the fire in the oven. When it was hot enough, George helped Catrin put the pale loaves in to bake.
While the loaves browned, Catrin asked the giant, “Aren’t you angry with Max for making you sleep for four hundred years?”
George shrugged. “The past is past. Max always was a troubled boy, but clever. The other children loved him.”
“Why? He promised to take care of them, then let them starve.”
“The stomach is not the only part that hungers. I give them food. But Max, he told them stories. They had hard lives, to end up here. But in his stories, they were heroes and kings. In their imaginations, he gave them luxuries.”
“For that they let him betray you? Don’t they know he’s the reason they were trapped here? The reason they couldn’t go on to their next lives?”
“They may be eager now, but perhaps at one time they did not want to go.”
“That’s silly.”
The giant just looked at her. “You have known life’s pain, I think. Would you be in a hurry to go back and risk it all again?”
“I would do what needed to be done,” Catrin said. “It’s childish to avoid it.”
“As you say.” He bent his back and pulled the first fragrant loaves from the oven.
When they finished baking, Catrin, Baldwin, Hugh, and George heaped the bread in baskets and carried them to the stone wheel. The children gathered in the barnyard, their eyes hopeful and their stomachs rumbling.
One by one, Catrin laid the baskets of bread at the base of the stone. “There,” she said. “My task is complete. One hundred loaves made from a single handful of grain. Now, I want the answer to my riddle:
“Reap your harvest, day by day,
What is the chaff that blows away?
Keep your harvest, grain by grain,
What are the kernels that remain?”
She waited, but nothing happened. The children shuffled their feet and pushed at each other, trying to see what was going on. Catrin turned to George. “What should I do now?”
He scratched his ear. “The children are hungry. If you want to help them on their way, give each one a loaf and send him through the wheel.”
“Is it so simple? I thought such a powerful ritual would be complicated.”
“Magic is simple. Mostly, it is people who make the complications.”
She smiled. “I suppose you’re right. Come along children, one at a time now.” They jostled into a ragged line, dirty hands extended to receive the bread.
Before the first one could take his loaf, Max jumped out from behind the stone. “I am tired of being hungry. Give me the bread instead.”
“Never,” Catrin said. “You’re a liar, a traitor.”
“I will make a trade with you.” He swaggered up to her, and Catrin realized that, scrawny though he was, he overtopped her by several inches. Through his ragged clothes, the ropy muscles of his arms revealed a taut, wiry strength.
She stepped back out of his reach. “There is nothing you can trade that I want.”
“Don’t be so sure. I can give you the one thing you truly want. I can give you a second chance.” His predatory smile revealed once more the jagged remnant of his broken tooth.
“What do you mean?” She hoped to keep him talking to forestall any other tricks.
“You know how the children leave here, yes? They go through the Giant’s Wheel to get to their new lives. But that’s not the only way. Give me the bread, and I’ll show you how to go through the wheel in the opposite direction and travel back into your past.”
“My past! Why would I want to do that?”
“Really, Princess, you surprise me. Is there nothing that you regret? No decision you would like to change? No moment, when, if you knew then what you know now, you might have averted all this trouble?”
“The book!” Catrin gasped. “If I hadn’t turned the pages of the book and broken the Magpie’s rule, I wouldn’t have lost my Story. The ship wouldn’t have been wrecked, and Geoffrey would not be dead. If only I hadn’t
turned the page!”
“I could send you back there.”
“Could he really do that?” Catrin asked George. “I could go back and do it all over again, but differently?”
The giant shrugged. “Perhaps.”
“How do you know it would turn out better?” Hugh protested.
“Geoffrey is dead, and I’ve lost my Story. How could it turn out any worse?”
Baldwin nodded toward the children. “They could be stuck here forever, for one thing.”
Catrin stopped. The children stared at her with great, sad eyes. One by one they turned and walked away. “Told you she was just like the others,” one of them muttered to the boy who looked like Geoffrey.
“They speak?” Catrin asked the giant. “I thought they couldn’t.”
“Of course they can, if they choose. But many of them come from lives where words were used to hurt or deceive. They seldom talk aloud here.”
The little boy who looked like Geoffrey tugged at Catrin’s sleeve. “You promised,” he complained. “You promised to help send us on.”
She knelt down in front of him. “I know I did, and I am truly sorry. But don’t you see, everything that has gone wrong in my life, I can make it right by doing just this one thing.”
“I see that you are just like all the other grownups,” he said. “You say things, but you don’t mean them. You make promises, you brag, you apologize, but you don’t ever actually do anything. You’re no better than Max.”
Catrin froze. “What did you say?”
“You’re just like Max.”
“That’s it!” Catrin exclaimed. “I know what I have to do. Children, take the bread, go through the wheel.” One by one they obeyed her, and disappeared into their future lives. Last of all was the boy who looked like Geoffrey.
“What changed your mind?” he asked.
“I know the answer to the riddle now.”
Max shoved between them, snatched the boy’s bread away, and gulped it down. The boy began to cry, but Catrin hushed him. She took out the charm Kae had given her and handed the boy the little crust of bread. “This one will work just as well.” He swallowed it, and George lifted him up and passed him through the center of the wheel. He glanced back, smiled, and vanished.
Catrin watched the empty space where he had been, wishing him well and wondering what his new life would bring him. Then she turned to Max, who cringed away as if he expected a beating.
“Relax,” she said. “I know the answer now:
“Reap your harvest, day by day,
Words are the chaff that blows away.
Keep your harvest, grain by grain,
Deeds are the kernels that remain.”
She took Max by the hand just as he became a Magpie. Holding tight, she stepped through the stone wheel and opened her eyes in her own bed. “I don’t suppose you will give me my Story?” she asked the Magpie.
“You know I can’t, Princess.”
“Very well. Get in the sack.” She just had time to tighten the strings and hide the sack under her bedclothes before Megan bustled into the room, with the king close behind her.
“There, you see, Your Majesty? How pale she is? How thin? She sleeps day and night, yet each day she seems less rested than the day before.”
“Little Bird, are you ill?” the king asked.
Catrin’s first thought was one of relief that Megan still believed she spent all her time sleeping. But she couldn’t let them bring a healer who would ask questions about the mysterious disfigurement of her hands and leg. “No, Papa, I am not ill. My dreams trouble me and disturb my rest.”
“Have the servants been filling your head with their foolishness about the queen’s ghost?” he demanded. “Haunting the stable, of all places, and riding my warhorse, indeed! As if your mother ever set foot in the stable even when she was alive! It is idle nonsense. There is not a speck of truth in it, and I forbid you to worry about it further. Come, shall I tell you all the lovely things the cook is preparing for your wedding feast? There are only four more days left....”
The next morning when Catrin went to the stable, Hobb popped out from behind the door, wheezing, “See! See! Tell me I’m crazy. Her Majesty is back, just like I said!” From the loft above, two serving wenches squealed with delighted terror.
Cursing their curiosity under her breath, Catrin snatched the horse’s reins and vaulted into the saddle before any of her unexpected audience could get close enough to discover her real identity. She soon left them far behind, but her heart was still pounding miles later when she halted in the forest clearing.
“It pains me to see you struggling so,” the Magpie said, sounding anything but pained. “You are wearing yourself out, and ruining your pretty looks. Why don’t you just admit that the bet is too difficult? There’s no shame in failure. Not much, anyway.”
“I haven’t failed yet,” Catrin said. “Tell me the riddle.”
“You won’t like it. But since you insist, here it is:
“Stolen bones, drowning deep,
What drags souls down to bitter sleep?
Becalmed upon a stagnant sea,
What fills the sail and sets you free?”
He was right. She didn’t like the sound of that, nor did she like imagining what terrible task she would have to do to find the answer. Although she tried to keep her expression calm, the bird cocked its head and winked at her. “Run off to your witch friend now,” it chuckled. “I’m sure she’ll tell you what you need to know. Oh, don’t look so shocked! Did you think we didn’t know about her? It doesn’t matter. She can help you all she likes, but you’ll still fail in the end.”
“We’ll see,” Catrin said.
When she arrived at the crone’s hut, the old woman was sweeping the floor with a bundle of twigs, pitching the litter of old stew bones and dead leaves out the door with such vigor that it scattered onto the princess’ shoes.
“Oh, pardon me, my dear, are you back again? More troubles with the Magpies, is it? Well, just give me a moment to finish up here, then we’ll see what we can do for you.” The crone lifted a pail from the doorstep and carried it inside, where she proceeded to sprinkle clean sand—and one or two dead starfish—onto the hut’s bare floor. When she was satisfied, she beckoned Catrin in. “There! Nothing like a good cleaning to brighten up the place. Now, what seems to be the problem?”
Catrin told her the riddle, and the old woman nodded. “Hmm. That will take some doing, yes. But first, the matter of payment.”
“You can’t have what’s in my pouch.”
“No, of course not. But you’ll give me your other leg, yes? So we’ll each have a matching pair?”
Catrin consented, and the exchange was soon complete. “Now for the riddle,” the crone said. “Take the little boat you will find at the edge of the marsh that lies east of the White Tower. Travel deep within the marsh until you reach the Isle of Bones. There, you must seek the Flute of Souls. Play one hundred songs upon the flute, and you will find the riddle’s answer.”
The water over the causeway was up to the horse’s knees during the crossing, but Baldwin, Hugh, and George met her on the other side, so she soon left fear behind.
Leaving the white horse once more by the tower gate, she set out with her companions into the east. They did not have far to go before they reached the edge of the marsh. There, floating in a shallow backwater ringed with reeds, rushes, and willows, they found a sleek, single-masted skiff just big enough for the four of them. George held it steady for the others, then followed them aboard.
“Untie the rope,” Catrin said, “and let’s be on our way.”
Baldwin looked over the gunwale. “There’s no rope.”
“Oh. Well, pull up the anchor, then.”
The knight shook his head. “There’s no anchor, either.”
Catrin frowned a little. “I guess we can just hoist the sail and go.”
“Uh, Princess?” Hugh looked up at the boat’s empty mast. �
��There aren’t any sails.”
“Oars?” she asked, without much hope.
He glanced around the boat’s interior then shrugged. “No. Sorry.”
“Then how are we supposed to—”
George reached out one long arm, braced it against the muddy bank, and gave a shove. The little boat swung around, caught a whisper of current, and drifted away from shore.
“That answers that question,” Catrin said.
“Are you sure that was a good idea?” Hugh gripped the gunwale. “How are we supposed to steer this thing without oars or sails or a rudder, or anything?”
“I don’t think we need to.” Baldwin said from the bow. The boat drifted into deeper water. Without any visible guidance, it navigated through the narrow waterways, slipping silently between gray-green hummocks overgrown with cattails and straggly trees. “I think the boat knows where it’s going.”
Hugh watched the safety of solid ground recede behind them. “Somehow I don’t find that particularly comforting.”
The boat drifted for a long time along one narrow channel after another, past boggy mats of vine-strangled saplings and the naked, limbless spires of long-dead trees. Amid tall clumps of bulrushes and pickerelweed flourished colonies of water hemlock, pitcher plants, and butterwort. The muddy bottom slid past beneath them, choked with twisted roots as thick as Catrin’s leg and furred with brown algae, then a sandy patch with yellow-green fronds rippling like the lank hair of the sailors’ Drowned Woman. Once, a five-foot black snake rippled a zigzag path through the tea-colored water and disappeared into the vegetation before Catrin even had a chance to cry out. The thick, somnolent air reeked of growth and decay. Except for the occasional splash of a startled turtle launching itself from a half-submerged log, everything was silent.
“How long are we—” Hugh began.
“Shh!” Catrin hissed. Up ahead, a dark, wet shape in limp, tattered clothing skulked behind a clump of weeds, watching them approach. “Who is that?”
