The Secret's Keeper and the Heir

by Jackie McCarthy

  “What?” Rose asked the Scribe, thoroughly out of her depth. “Wait, what?”

  “Find a way, Master Rose,” Fenric said simply. “Begin tending your garden. That’s how you earn your keep.”

  Rose opened the carriage door and hopped out. With a noise from the driver, the horses jumped forward, keeping time with the limping Fenric and his niece. The gate opened to admit them, and then closed again.

  Rose approached the entry, not so much trying to think of how to complete Fenric’s tasks, but struggling to understand them at all.

  “What be you?” asked a woman’s voice from the overgrowth of vines that covered the gate’s high wall.

  “I’ve been asking myself that same question,” Rose mumbled under her breath, seeing the thickness of the imposing iron entryway and despairing that she would ever hope of sneaking inside. What was she supposed to tell them—that she’d been tasked with sneaking in?

  When Rose didn’t give an audible answer, however, the woman became concerned. She called to the hut by the gate, “Mr. Potts, I think you oughta come right on out here.”

  “I just set down to me tea, Mrs. Potts,” said a deep voice from the small structure. “Can’t you see to it?”

  “There be a strange boy, Mr. Potts,” the servant woman said, her voice now worried. “I’d feel much more comfortable with you here.”

  “Hebyss and Hyminee,” said the man’s voice with a sigh. A large servant with prodigious gut swaggered his way out to the gate. He spied Rose from behind the bars and inquired, “What you looking for, boy? What be you?” When Rose failed to answer, he took a step closer, towering over the already frightened girl. Louder, he spoke, “Didn’t you hear me boy? I asked what you be.”

  Realizing that she’d been asked a similarly incomprehensible question mere minutes before, Rose gave the only answer she could think of. “I’m…” she stammered, “I’m the gardener?”

  *

  Chapter 6:

  The Gardener

  * * * * *

  The Mighty Crawl

  Tales from the Most Ancient World

  Edited by Teodor Vess

  *

  When Illiamna was flat and the gods lacked interest in it, the land belonged to the spirits. There were spirits of water and spirits of land, spirits of riverbeds and spirits of dells, and, towering over the rest, were spirits of plants. Plant spirits were tall and slender, holding in their raised arms the green leaves of life, feeding them sun when they needed sun, water when they needed water, and earth when they needed earth.

  The plant spirits moved upon a wide set of crawling legs, each spread wide to provide the tall creatures their balance. They moved with slow deliberation from one place to another, practicing their magic across the land.

  A great time later, when the abundance of spirits drew the attention of newborn gods looking for a land to rule, Illiam, Arion, and Misero came to have dominion over the continent. The sibling gods had no patience for the plans of bothersome spirits when deciding how to populate their new realm, and the plant spirits grew angry at the newcomers.

  Talking with the other ancient guardians, the plant spirits began collecting an army, intending to expel the trio of gods from the land. They schemed carefully, but some of their members liked the gods, and so when the spirits began their rebellion, their plan had already been betrayed.

  The plant spirits were treated with particular harshness, as they were demonstrated to be the instigators of the plot. Arion, god of the land, instructed the earth spirits to swallow the feet of the plant spirits. As their legs were sucked down, becoming rooted in the soil, the gods cursed them for two thousand years. The plant spirits were put to sleep, their trunks becoming stiff like stone and their many arms still upraised, soon covered by leaves.

  It was thus that the plant spirits were forgotten. They were now called trees, and were thought to be unmoving and unaware. They slumbered for two thousand years, and then another two thousand. A few more hundred years passed, so deep in sleep were they, and the gods began to think they had killed their rivals once and for all.

  One day, however, an old elm awoke. He felt his leaves first, and then his deep roots. Slowly, inch-by-inch and year-by-year, he pulled himself out of the ground, and then began to slowly move across the land.

  This plant spirit hadn’t been alive when his kind had been put to sleep, but rather had been born from the unconscious powers of seed and wind. He had, however, his own deep racial memory, and he set about waking his brethren.

  Many hundreds of years passed as he woke the other trees, one by one. It began as a murmur, started by the old elm and spreading through groves and forests. Before long, however, the trees began chattering with one another, sharing what the old elm had learned in his travels and recalling to those with poor memories all they had used to be.

  Before long, many trees were excited to pull themselves from the ground. It was time, they said, for revenge on the gods. It was also time, said some, to fight back against the race of man, who thoughtlessly cut down their kind and used their sleeping bodies for firewood.

  It was decided that the trees would gather to discuss what they should do. Those who could do so pulled themselves out of the ground, and as one slowly crawling group, they moved over mountain and field together, spreading their numbers across the western side of the Illian Continent and leaving the east all but barren.

  There was no shortage of humans to notice this movement, and those who brought out axes to stop their trees were quickly defeated by the very same tools. Man grew to fear trees, and eventually, when a group slowly passed them, the men did nothing. They prayed instead to their gods to put the trees back to sleep.

  Illiam, now the revered god of his vast peoples, flew down from the sky to meet with the old elm, leader of the plant spirits. They demanded that man be removed from the earth and that plants once again be given the land. Illiam loved his people, and he refused.

  The trees once more began to prepare for battle. They raided many towns as they crawled west, crushing the lives of countless humans beneath their great bulks. Man ran in terror, pleading to their gods to save them.

  The trees were more difficult to subdue than they had been. They were awake for the first time in thousands of years, and relished their freedom. A great war broke out, gods against spirits, and humans had to flee from their homes, seeking out the treeless shores. The battle continued for ten dark years, the land falling into disarray. At last, the sky god called upon the other spirits of the land for aid.

  In a final, mighty clash, the plant spirits were subdued once more. The earth opened to bind their legs into the depths. The god of Illiamna repeated his curse of two thousand years upon his enemies, vowing that he would keep a more careful eye on the tree spirits when next they awoke and crawled.

  That, reader, was two thousand years ago. You, human, must now be careful when entering a vast forest of the gathered trees. Be always listening for a murmur in the breeze.

  * * * * *

  Cricket’s mind roused itself from sleep with a gentle post-nap languor. He let out a delicious yawn and stretched his arms, feeling rested and powerful. It seemed to him that everything would soon begin going his way.

  Auk would take a little convincing, he knew, though he thought he might already have the ill-suited Second on the run. The shipboys were well on their way to ruin, however. Hadn’t that oaf of a Baxler punched the living daylights out of the savage by his word alone? They’d be under his thumb in no time. Cricket felt lighter than usual, somehow, almost as though he was really beginning to grow into his promotion to shiphand.

  Lost in such thoughts, Cricket strutted out from under the decks and into the mid-day sun, his boots landing heavily on the wood of the deck. He didn’t notice that the other shipmen were staring at him, or if he did, it was with the assumption that their attention was due to confidence in his step. Some of them made catcalls in his direction, which seemed strange, but he supposed his w
ell-trimmed physique could potentially make others jealous.

  Near the mast where two of the shipboys toiled, Cricket saw Auk standing in conversation with several of his sailors. The red-haired boy saluted a hello. It was met with derisive laughter.

  “What do ye think ye’re playing at?” asked Auk, resting his hand on a halyard. “Do ye mean to shock us into respect, boy? I’m not sure this pathetic display is the best way to do it.”

  “I wonder why you’d find my confidence so threatening,” began Cricket, “but I suppose you must be afraid of your own smallness.”

  “M-my smallness?” Auk stammered, hardly containing his laughter. He pointed down, “and what do ye call that?”

  A breeze passed by that felt particularly crisp on the skin of Cricket’s behind. He followed Auk’s pointing. It was only then that the former shipboy realized that, with the exception of his boots, he was entirely naked from the waist down.

  As quickly as Cricket had come to feel on top of the world, he then dropped to its very bottom. His hands, which had come to rest confidently at his hips, shot out to cover what was exposed of his fair, freckled skin. His face flushed the deepest crimson.

  * * * * *

  Rose fought back a blush of embarrassment as the gate was opened to admit her to the grounds, her entry under the careful eye of Mr. Potts. “I don’t remember calling for no gardener,” he said with intense scrutiny. “You really ought to be talking to the groundskeeper.”

  “I think he may’ve said something about the trees looking limp,” Mrs. Potts offered to her husband. “Maybe he called for somebody?”

  “Limp trees?” Mr. Potts said with a thoughtful sniff. “I suppose they’re looking a bit sad in the head. But what’s a gardener know about trees?”

  “I’m not simply a gardener,” Rose said, trying to sound more confident than she felt. “I’m the gardener. And what silly, treeless gardens have you been in?”

  “Not many, to be sure,” Mr. Potts admitted, removing his hat respectfully. “Say, what does it take for a body to become the gardener anyway? That sounds mighty auspicious.”

  Rose didn’t know what auspicious meant, but she’d heard something about those who were educated. “I spent six years at university, I’ll have you know, under the most respected tutelage.” Having struck upon a vein of inspiration, she continued, “I so impressed all my teachers that they gave me a special name. Surely you’ve heard of it.”

  “Not I,” said Mr. Potts. He threw a sideways glance at his wife, as though ashamed to be proven ignorant in front of her. “I don’t reckon we’ve heard any such things here. I sure would like to know of it, though.”

  “Be silent. Have I given you permission to speak?” Rose said, trying to play to the man’s insecurity. She searched her memory for the most impressive speech she’d ever heard, and recalled Jas’s poetical rant from the day before. “Who am I?” she began, throwing all of her passion into the performance. “I’m the whispering will that calls upon the winds. I’m the towering tree that stands against the fateful storm. I’m the tiny bud that that holds within it all of creation. And I’m the life-giving rain that feeds a hungry world. I am earth and I am water. I am the Rosenwaller.”

  Rose had flung her arms open proudly at the last. Hearing the absurdity of her words, however, she fully expected her audience to throw their heads back in laughter. As it was, Mr. and Mrs. Potts stood, their jaws dropped, and turned to share a confused look. Fearing she was about to receive her first beating, she considered taking a quick step backwards.

  Instead of laughter, however, she heard an impressed, “Oooh.”

  * * * * *

  Lucy clapped her hands in excitement and sat with bated breath as Fenric pulled the long-expected package from under his cape.

  “Oh Uncle!” she cried, falling upon it. Ripping at the packaging, she sent bits of paper and wrapping into the air. With a final excited tear, the box was rent in two and from it fell the bright ruffles of Fenric’s gift.

  “P…pink?” Lucy asked, disoriented by what she saw. Her uncle’s packages had never before contained a garment so clearly made by an elderly, half-blind seamstress. No, she thought, an elderly, half-blind, one-armed seamstress. Her previous dresses had usually been overflowing with embroidering that had taken a handful of women nearly a year to complete. If she hadn’t know any better, she’d have thought this gift was from an entirely different person. She looked up at her uncle, the stranger, disappointment written across her devastated face. “It’s so…pink…and fluffy…”

  “Pink is very becoming for young girls in all kingdoms,” Fenric said happily, as though this explanation ought to be enough to cure the girl’s keen disappointment. “Take a look in the mirror, sweet child, I should think you’ll look very fine.”

  Lucy stood and did as she was told, holding the pink monstrosity before her. The mirror only served to illustrate that the situation far was worse than expected, however, for when standing she saw that the dress only came just past her knees. Jaw dropping in horror, Lucy tossed the garment roughly to the floor. “What are you playing at?” she demanded.

  Fenric blinked. The satisfied smile fell from his lips. “Pardon?”

  “There must be a mistake,” Lucy said, her breathing shallow. She searched her mind for a reasonable explanation, and lit upon one at last. “That’s the dress you brought to make me laugh, right?” she asked with a manic giggle. “And you see, now I’ve laughed. Where’s the real one?”

  To Lucy’s horror, her uncle gestured to the floor, his face now stern. “This is the real one.”

  * * * * *

  Mr. and Mrs. Potts were delighted to find themselves in the presence of a real, live Rosenwaller—even if they’d never happened to hear of one before. They paraded her shamelessly across the grounds, calling out to other servants that someone important was about.

  “We’ve a mighty significant person here,” Mrs. Potts called, happy to find herself at the center of attention. “Don’tcha all wanna be seeing this?”

  As servants thronged to join them, Rose realized the only way she was going to get away from this crowd was for her ridiculous character to demand it. “Enough of this nonsense!” she called with impressive authority. “I must see your eldest tree at once.”

  Mr. Potts nodded knowingly and the parade veered to the estate’s rear yard. With great ceremony—having gathered nearly a dozen odd maids and manservants—they stopped in front of what Rose could only assume was the largest, most twisted tree in all of creation.

  “Fenric, what have you gotten me into?” she whispered under her voice, taking several steps nearer the old oak. Reaching out to it, she felt its dry, cracked bark under her hands. It felt nothing at all like the tree at the end of the world—the one under which she’d left her twin far too often. It felt instead as though it had been rooted deep into the ground and grown larger with each year, layer upon layer. This, she supposed, is exactly what it had done. Rose’s breath caught in her chest. “Benson, I wish you could feel this.”

  “Oy, what’s he doing?” demanded a kitchen girl from the crowd behind.

  “I can’t tell,” said the barrow boy. “Whispering, methinks.”

  Rose blinked the tears from her eyes. “You! All of you, cease your speculative prattle,” she demanded, recalling herself to her role. “Clearly, I’m talking to this tree. It hasn’t had a proper talking-to for ages. I can tell! Don’t any of you know that if you don’t talk to the trees, they’ll begin talking to each other? You ought to be ashamed of their condition. Who do you have on retainer to talk to these poor trees?”

  The crowd behind her was silent.

  Finally, the old groundskeeper spoke up, “N-no one, sir.”

  “No one!” Rose echoed. She stomped an angry foot on the ground, then marched up to them, shook her fist, and marched back. She stared at the tree, doing all she could to appear visibly upset, and then walked slowly back to the dejected group, a grieving hand over her mouth.
“I don’t know what to say,” she said, pretending complete shock. “How long has this been going on?”

  “For…” the groundskeeper murmured uncertainly, “forever, sir.”

  Rose gasped so loudly that she almost fell over. “I demand to speak with your master at once!” she yelled. “He should be ashamed of this oversight. We must make an immediate plan of recourse before the worst becomes reality.”

  “What be the worst, sir?” asked the frightened kitchen girl.

  Rose let the question hang in the air as suspense was built. She looked each man and woman in the eye, taking her time. Final she uttered the most absurd word she could think of:

  “Rebellion!”

  * * * * *

  “How can this be happening?” Lucy cried, pacing the floor of her sitting room, moments away from hyperventilating. “I-I don’t have time to have another one made! Not that I have the coins for one anyway! Uncle, you must give me the coins!”

  “Why would you need another when this one is perfectly fine?” Fenric asked, growing angry.

  “Fine? Fine?” Lucy shouted. “It’s hideous, Uncle! It looks nothing like what I’m supposed to be wearing!”

  “Admittedly the shop where I bought it was…somewhat out of the way…” Fenric admitted, attempting to be gentle, “but you’re a girl yet, and while it may please you to wear the current fashions, it’s in no way expected.”

  “Of course it is!” Lucy cried, continuing to stamp about. “I’m not a little girl anymore. Wearing a frock last year was difficult enough! Emibelle is practically my age and she’s already been presented. Do you have any idea how awful it was to stand there with the children while she was becoming a woman? Her Papa had a gown specially made for her first Birthday Ball as an adult. I have to at least look as good as Emibelle or I’ll—”

  “Dear thing,” sighed Fenric, “an ‘Emibelle’ is not a universally recognized unit of measure.” Standing with difficulty, he retrieved the dress. “In fact,” he added, “it seems entirely silly. I met the woman who made this dress. To her it was a bloom of color in a bleak, gray world—a symbol of hope—”

  “Oh stop it, for the love of the gods,” Lucy huffed, ripping the dress from his hands and tossing it across the room. She plopped herself down and crossed her arms, speaking into them a spiteful, “I hate you.”