The Secret's Keeper and the Heir

by Jackie McCarthy

  Having no money, the boy could only look around at the signs and shops on either side of the wide, cobbled street. The scent of pastries filled his nose as he walked past a bakery. He breathed in deep, joyous breaths of the heady aroma. It smelled so fresh, so bright amidst the light of the day.

  The boy walked happily on, smelling the wares of the apple sellers, watching the blacksmith pound the red-hot metal at his forge, and blushing at the pretty girls in their slightly moth-eaten dresses. And then he saw it—the small, out-of-the-way sign of a Book Lender—the kind of shop he missed most.

  He’d been brought many books and was promised anything he wanted, it was true, but it was impossible to know what he wanted when he didn’t first know what was available. The Book Lender’s shop was overflowing with old volumes, half gone to mildew, but still mostly readable. The tall boy browsed for a time, lost in a paradise of stories, before settling upon a pirate adventure. As he browsed, he couldn’t help listening to the Book Lender, who was haggling with a burly customer.

  “You’ve a dozen of my volumes, Junke,” said the Lender adamantly, “I’ve been more than fair. You can’t have no more ‘til you bring the others back.”

  “Alligus, come now!” Junke complained, “It’s my wife what keeps ‘em. I’ve just had an aphid infestation. If I don’t learn how to kill ‘em, I won’t have no barley come spring.”

  “Bugger aphids and bugger your wife,” the Lender replied tersely, wresting the book from Junke’s meaty palms.

  Suddenly eager to get back before he was discovered missing, the boy brought his tome to the Lender’s desk. As Junke watched, the youth searched his person for a trinket that the shop might hold while the book was lent. He felt out just such a thing: a shiny button all but forgotten at the bottom of his pocket. Upon it was the seal of a small bird. He held it out questioningly to the Lender, hoping it would be acceptable.

  Alligus seemed startled to see the golden button, and closed the boy’s hand around it quickly. He handed the volume back. “Please, your promise is enough for any book I have. Don’t part with such treasure for an entire library,” he said of the boy’s offering. “Keep it always.”

  Junke, still upset at the Lender’s refusal, grabbed at the youth’s hand, snatching from it the shiny trinket. “What’s this, boy? What’re you doing carrying the Mallar bird? What’s your name?”

  “Luc—” the boy started without thought. The Lender gave him a sharp look and the name was cut from his lips. “Luben,” he corrected, feigning a sneeze.

  Both men nodded at him to leave, each eying the other tensely. The tall boy backed away, stepping from the shop and then rushing back to his apartment prison. He pushed through the open door, unthinking, where he was met by a panicked old man.

  “Where have you been, boy?” demanded his gray-haired guardian, his tan eyes wild. “What happened?”

  “I think…I think a man recognized me,” the boy cried. “I’m sorry Fenric! I just wanted a book.”

  The man named Fenric looked at the moldy tome in the boy’s hand. “You wanted a book? Then ask me. I’ll get you a book.”

  “But I didn’t know which book I wanted…” the youth explained lamely. “I needed to look through them…”

  “Then I’ll buy you a hundred books and you may read only one,” Fenric yelled. “You know you’re not supposed to go out.”

  The tall boy looked guiltily at the floor, “Yes, I know.” Thinking back to a day several years ago, he began, “Ever since…” but he was forced to stop. Such thoughts were forbidden. He said instead, “This isn’t what I thought it would be.”

  “No,” Fenric agreed. “No, it’s not. Yet, we must go on.”

  “Must we?” asked the boy, frightened tears coming to his eyes.

  “Oh yes,” the man named Fenric said with a serious nod. He spoke as though to a small child when he added, “Perhaps it’s a good time to leave, now that you’ve been seen. What do you say we look at a map and choose where to go next?”

  “I don’t want to go!” the boy cried. “I’m so tired to moving around!”

  “Lucivak!” Fenric wailed, aghast. “When one tires of moving, one tires of living. You think you can say your name aloud, looking as you do, and not draw the attention of enemies? You’re young, it’s true, but I didn’t think you were a fool.”

  “I’m not—”

  “Look here,” the man named Fenric said with a wag of his finger. “You may be the one they’re all looking for, but I’m in charge here.”

  “No you’re not. I’m the pri—” Lucivak began.

  “Shut up you silly boy!” Fenric said. He slapped the boy across the face. “What madness is this to tempt the fates?”

  “Fates be damned!” Lucivak cried, holding his reddening cheek. “I stopped before I said my name. They’ll soon forget.”

  “You could’ve been followed,” Fenric disagreed.

  “No one followed me,” Lucivak shouted, rushing away from his guardian to the dingy room in back. “I’ve been in hiding for years, I know what I’m doing.”

  * * * * *

  Moonlight happened at the end of the world. The boy sat in his usual collection of shadows beneath the ancient tree while the girl endeavored to be impatient, her arms crossed against the bother.

  “I hate it here,” she said at last, pushing her pouting lip towards her brother. “You always leave so suddenly.”

  “Well, you always show up so suddenly,” replied Benson tersely. “Have you ever considered that?”

  Rose had not. She paced carefully beneath the towering Elder and towards her shaded brother, whose face remained dark despite her advances.

  “I’m no good at planning pranks without you,” she said finally, plopping down beside him. It was too dark in the depth of the tree’s shadow to see one another, so they stared instead at the moon’s reflection on the placid river. “I always think too small. You were best at the big picture.”

  “You mean I think too much?” Benson asked wryly. “Well, that’s true. Maybe it’s a sign, though, that you’re getting too old for pranks.”

  Rose’s brow furrowed. She dealt her brother a hard smack upon his surprised head. “It’s a sign that I’m not with you,” she cried defensively. “I thought you wanted to help.”

  “I do want to help,” said Benson in his own defense. “But doesn’t it seem like a bad idea to play a prank on a sailing ship? Aren’t you the lowest ranked member of the crew? Won’t you get in trouble?”

  “See, there’s that big picture thinking,” sighed Rose, who had been secretly worried about this herself, though she wouldn’t have admitted it. She considered her concern of being kicked off the ship, and then pushed it from her mind once more. “There’s this sailor—a boy named Cricket—who really needs to be put in his place.  He’s such a bully, Benson.”

  “Have you tried talking to him?”

  Rose blinked. Her brother’s suggestion sounded so logical that it was almost absurd. In that moment she doubted every action she’d ever taken around the red-haired boy, wondering if her own lack of tact had brought about his violent nature. But then, her emotional mind asked, hadn’t they all tried talking to him?

  “Gods, Benson,” Rose cried, exasperated, “if I’d known you were actually twins with stern Sara all this time…”

  Benson could tell he’d upset his sister with his suggestion that she move on from their childhood occupation. In case he was in any doubt as to her disapproval, however, she stood quickly and huffed away. Stomping to the riverbank, she wrapped her arms protectively around her body.

  Rose heard Benson’s footsteps behind her, but she stared resolutely ahead.

  “You’re right,” he said contritely. “I don’t need to force you to grow up…or to behave in a certain way. You’ll do that when it feels right.”

  “It used to be that it felt right so long as we were together,” Rose said softly through trembling lips as moisture overtook her eyes. “We never even had t
o ask or explain…we just knew.”

  Benson said nothing. There was nothing to say. He too watched the unmoving moon that hovered above the water.

  “I suppose…just keep it simple,” he attempted after Rose’s tears had passed. “A prank, I mean. The best trouble is usually caused by the simplest of devices. Do you know much about him?”

  “Besides that he’s awful?” Rose asked roughly, swiping wetness from her eyes. “Tappan had a thought. They share a cabin. He says Cricket is pretty alert every second he’s awake, but once he’s asleep, even the roughest storm at sea can barely wake him.”

  “That’s it then,” Benson said triumphantly to Rose’s back. “You must catch him sleeping.”

  “And do what?” Rose demanded, the hopelessness of so many other unanswered questions audible in her voice.

  “I can’t plan everything!” Benson scolded suddenly, in a voice of irresistible play.

  Rose grinned and sniffled, though she still didn’t turn from the moonlit river. Instead, she took those smiling moments to gather herself to the thing she most wanted to say: “I miss you, Benson.”

  It was said in a tiny, faraway voice—almost a whisper.  She felt the weight of a cool hand come to rest on her shoulder, but no words accompanied it. At the touch she shivered and turned, effectively pushing the hand away.

  Rose stood then, face to face with her brother in the silver moonlight. Despite the light that fell upon him, Benson’s face remained obscured by shadows. She jerked back in surprise and disgust, and then felt herself being pulled out of their secret place entirely.

  Desperate to stay, Rose grabbed hold of Benson’s shoulders and shook him. She was still shouting for him to stay when she felt herself leave, waking once more upon the sea and sensing that her brother was falling even further from her reach.

  * * * * *

  Chapter 5:

  The Nobleman’s Son

  * * * * *

  The Little Sty Maiden

  Little Tales for Little Heroes

  Edited By Hepsiba Hasnagle

  *

  There once was a beautiful girl whose father died when she was very young. Her mother was a poor farmhand and for many years the two worked the fields and farms of whichever Liege Lord would have them. Because she had a special skill for cleaning the pigpens, the girl became known as the Little Sty Maiden.

  As fate would have it, the Little Sty Maiden’s mother caught the eye of just such a Liege Lord, who had lost his first wife the year before. The two were wed and the girl was taken into the grand estate, cleaned from head to foot of caked mud, and given her own fine room. She had little time to get used to her new station, however, as her mother soon grew ill and died.

  Though the Liege Lord was more than happy to take care of the pretty orphaned girl, the Sty Maiden was inconsolable with grief. She ran from the fine house and into the room above the pigpens, where she felt closest to her dead mother. Servants were sent to fetch her, but she refused to go.

  As the years passed and the Little Sty Maiden grew more and more beautiful, she forgot her connection to the Liege Lord and his family. Seeing herself as the meanest of servants, she watched his three children in awe and admiration. There were two girls who were sweet and kind, whose clean blond hair fell to their backs like flowing gold. There was a son, also, with whom the maid fell in desperate love.

  The boy was of equal beauty to the Sty Maiden, though none could discern her loveliness under the layers of mud. He liked her quite well despite her dirty appearance, however, and spent many an afternoon in her company, working his land. Her stepbrother spoke to her of many things, but as he grew older, he began to talk primarily of a painted girl at court, who he dearly adored. The Sty Maiden would listen in awe of his raptures, imagining what it would feel like to be so loved. One day he spoke to the girl of an upcoming ball at which he intended to ask for the hand of his beloved, and thereafter make her his wife.

  The Little Sty Maiden, devastated to learn that her love was to be lost forever, cried bitter tears into the high tide of the sea. From the ocean’s brine arose a water-guardian, a kind spirit who had pledged allegiance to the beautiful girl. She floated above the girl, giving the Maid protection and shelter, and asked what was wrong.

  “My love is going to the ball,” cried the Little Sty Maiden, “and I think I shall lose him forever.”

  Girl and guardian both dissolved into miserable tears, but unlike the Maid’s ineffective drops, the magical tears of the spirit rained down in torrents and cleansed the soiled girl of her farmyard mud. When the Maid was refreshed, the spirit fashioned her a shimmering gown made of swirling blue water. It flowed most prettily when the Sty Maiden moved, and she forgot her sorrows momentarily.

  The water-guardian then took from the sand an empty shell and turned it into a carriage. She took squawking gulls from the air and turned them into footmen. She took fish from the sea and made from them powerful steeds. It was then that the Little Sty Maiden was ready to attend the ball.

  When her carriage arrived at the palace, the girl’s presence was marked by all. In her shimmering blue dress that flowed like the sea she shone above every other woman there. Her heart rose in a frantic flutter as she looked around for her beloved, so that he might see her dress, but he was not to be found in the ballroom.

  While the Little Sty Maiden searched, she was approached by a tall, dark young man. Before she knew what was happening, she was dancing with him. She learned that he was the Duke’s son, almost a prince. Looking for her stepbrother all the while, the girl smiled prettily at the nobleman’s son and entertained his jokes. Though he was soon speaking to her in words of awed adoration, she was too distracted to hear his overtures, and he became jealous of her inattention. Bringing the back of her hand to his mouth to kiss, he instead bit her delicate skin, causing her hand to bleed. She looked at the wound, startled, and saw the fouled blood dripping down upon her blue gown, where the stain swirled and grew.

  In pain, the Little Sty Maiden rushed from the ballroom and out to the gates, desiring to return home to her pigpen. Her blind haste to escape led her to knock down a kneeling man. It was only when her stepbrother’s voice called out that she realized she had interrupted his marriage proposal. Her stepbrother stood, ready to shout in annoyance, but he was stopped by her beauty. His senses filled with the enchanting aura of the girl in blue, whose delicate hand, he saw, was lightly bleeding.

  Thinking that the proposal had taken place and that her beloved was already engaged, the Little Sty Maiden was beside herself with grief. She ran back to her pigpens, her watery dress dripping away to reveal her barnyard frock, and worked furiously in the mud until she was exhausted.

  Her stepbrother, meanwhile, had left the ball and was slowly making his way through the town. He searched each cobblestone carefully for a trace of blood that marked the trail of the beautiful girl who had stopped his misbegotten proposal. To his great surprise, the blood led back to his own home, and back to the simple buildings of the farm. Stepping inside the familiar barn, he saw the Little Sty Maiden sleeping, her injured hand bandaged against the mud.

  He shook the Sty Maiden awake, bringing water to wash her soiled face. From out of the mud emerged the woman who had so enchanted his heart. Forgetting his girl at court, he declared to her his most passionate love, and brought her into his father’s house so they could be married at once. For a time the Sty Maiden was very happy, and the two were wed in a beautiful ceremony.

  Mere days after the nuptials, however, a decree was sent from the Duke’s house. It declared that the Duke’s son—a nobleman in his own right—had fallen in love with a mysterious woman at the ball. It was demanded that the province be turned upside down in order to discover this legendary beauty. She would be known, the decree concluded, by a particular scar upon the top of her hand.

  The Little Sty Maiden, now a Liege Lady, cried upon reading this. Her fingers traced the scar given to her by the Nobleman’s Son, knowing that sh
e must be the one he sought. By the law of the land, the command of a nobleman’s son superseded her marriage, and so she wept bitter tears.

  Surprised by her strange reaction, her husband grabbed the offending hand and saw the scar as well, realizing that his wife was to be claimed by another man. Not to be so soon without his beloved, he called to his eldest sister, who presented herself before him.

  With a sharp dagger, the Liege Lord pierced the skin of his sister in the approximation of his wife’s scar. When the deed was done, he sent his sister to the palace. There was no word from their sibling for several weeks, but soon after a wedding was announced and there was rejoicing throughout the realm.

  A year went by and the eldest sister was not heard from again. Assuming that this was due to the happiness of the nobleman’s son in marriage, they were not troubled. It was around this time, however, that a second decree was issued, this one with the same message as the first.

  Now expecting his first child, the Husband refused to let his wife go. He called upon his youngest sister, cutting her hand as well and sending her off to the palace for the nobleman’s pleasure. Again, there was a wedding and his sister was forgotten.

  Another year passed before a third decree was issued, once more with the same message as the other two.

  Worried that her husband’s sisters had come to harm or trouble, the Sty Maiden insisted that she must go. Leaving her child and spouse, the Maid ventured to the palace. She reached the imposing turquoise doors and was accepted into them. Immediately, she was escorted into dinner.

  The large dining room was dim, having within it a long, narrow table. At the table was seated the tall, dark nobleman’s son. A chair was pulled out for her at the other end of the table, and the Maiden sat. She was careful to be complimentary of her superior, and took pains to praise the finely crafted table settings and cutlery.

  The nobleman’s son was not to be distracted. He spoke in pleasantries for a time, recalling her to the dance they had shared at the ball those years ago. His tone soon became dark, however, and he expressed his anger that she had sent decoys who were nowhere near as beautiful as she, the true object of his affections.

  All the while, the Sty Maiden’s eyes adjusted to the dimness of the dining room. She began to see, on the walls to each side of the table, heads and antlers of game trophies. There was every kind of creature hung on display, preserved in expressions of snarling fury or surprised pain. It frightened her to be under the stares of such cruel beasts, and yet she could not retract her gaze.