by David Ward
Yeats reached for the tray. “Love to.”
Gran didn’t let go. Her grip was strong, as powerful as her smile. “Mr. Sutcliff will eat two of the cookies. Don’t eat the remaining two. I will collect those tonight when I take him dinner. Later you may have as many as you like.”
“Why doesn’t he eat all of them?”
Her gaze flickered to his parents. “He is waiting for someone.”
Odysseus yowled.
“My, my, Yeats.” Gran shook her head. “Flaxen hair! And just look at those eyes. They’re William’s! Insatiable curiosity. That will lead to adventure. Off you go! The tea is growing cold.”
utside in the garden and high up in the tallest tree, a crow bobbed on an evergreen branch. The bird spotted a grub clinging to an enormous pinecone. The crow pecked at the cone and set it spinning on its slender stem. After a second round of pecking the grub fell and landed on the ledge of a short wall far below.
The ledge formed the lip of an old well long overgrown by vines and branches. The crow cocked its head and began to shift from foot to foot, weighing what to do next. When the grub squirmed tantalizingly from the ledge, the crow made up its mind. It flew down with a raucous cry and landed on the well top.
Just as it stretched out its beak to snatch the grub, a blast of cold air suddenly shot up from the well mouth and set the crow’s feathers blowing. The bird flinched and waited for the wind to stop. Several seconds passed and the wind suddenly blew itself out like a breath. There was a pause, and then, from the deepest depths, there came a low moan. The lament echoed ominously and rose upward, vibrating and shaking the foundations of the well.
The crow froze. It cocked its head first one way, then turned the other way to listen. When the next blast struck, the crow flinched and prepared to fly. The grub was bounced by the shaking stones to the edge of the well mouth and then hurled skyward the moment it hit the wind. Just as the crow made to follow, the moan transformed into an unearthly intake of breath. The wind changed direction and fled down the well.
The crow felt the pull immediately and found itself caught in the grip of a vortex at the center of the well mouth. The bird flapped its wings with all its strength. Its tail stuck out earthward, straight as a poker, as if some unseen hand had taken hold of it.
The crow began to tire. In another moment its wings would cease to beat and it would be sucked down into darkness and to calamity. With Herculean effort the crow leaned to one side and found the wind not quite so strong as in the center. It leaned farther still and found a last burst of energy. With a final stroke the crow pulled free of the well and shot out into the brightness and safety of the garden. The ground trembled and then fell still. The moaning turned to an unhappy murmur and finally died away.
High up on a branch the crow preened itself soothingly. It hunted no more grubs for the rest of the day and settled down for a nap to sleep off the recent horror. The garden fell quiet.
Near the well was a set of tiles leading up to the remains of a fountain. Water had long since stopped flowing and all that could be seen of the basin was a single corner, peeking out from a thicket of grass. The earth around the tiles was loose and cracked. One of the tiles was broken and dislodged from the others and shook from time to time, as if something was pushing up against it from below.
There was a scraping sound, like a metal tool working against pottery. Soon, there came a series of chipping noises, like a pickax attacking a ceramic surface. From time to time the well would shake and moan and the sounds beneath the tile would stop. As soon as the moaning ended the scraping and chipping would begin again.
High in the tree the crow raised a wary eye from beneath its wing. The tile began to rock a little on its edge. Seconds later an object—sharp, metallic, and no longer than a sewing needle—burst through a growing crack in the tile and into the garden light. It was a sword.
eats made for the hall. The fresh scent of the kitchen gave way to the odor of old books, leather, and mothballs. While the outside of the house appeared to be rotting, the inside was full of treasures. Brightly painted tribal masks stared at him as he passed through a sitting room, while opposite them, knights grimaced from a floor-to-ceiling painting. There were carvings and colored stones on every table. The floor creaked beneath his feet and he wondered if he should have removed his shoes. No one had said anything about that.
Odysseus waited at the bottom stair. A stained glass window provided kaleidoscopic illumination to the yawning darkness above. It was a narrow passage, each step worn by countless footfalls. Natural light caught the edge of the top. Odysseus padded up.
The first stair creaked horribly. Yeats cringed and a drop of tea splashed his leg. Still warm. His steps turned into a cacophony of squeaks and squawks. “Come on, Yeats!” he scolded himself. He took a deep breath and scowled.
A resounding silence followed the last squawk at the top of the stairs and the air stopped moving. It felt as if the room had been closed for many years. An old man sat near the window with Odysseus at his feet. His hair was whiter than Gran’s and came down past his shoulders. He stirred and his eyes widened.
“William!” he exclaimed. His knuckles whitened on the chair arm. “I knew it! I knew you would come back. Good boy! And where is Shaharazad? Is my granddaughter with you?”
“I’m Yeats.”
“Yeats?” Mr. Sutcliff stood stiffly. He searched Yeats’s face, his disappointment obvious. “No, you’re not Yeats. I did think at one time that you should have been Auden or Milton. But your grandmother told me to mind my own poets. Your father, now he was Yeats.”
“That was my grandfather,” Yeats said. “Yeats William Trafford.”
The old man regarded the cat. Odysseus rubbed against his legs. Mr. Sutcliff sighed and leaned down to scratch the animal’s ears again. Then he did something even more alarming.
“Is he there, Odysseus?” he asked. “Is there a boy standing, holding my tea? Or have I imagined him?”
For an answer, Odysseus trotted over and rolled his tail along Yeats’s legs. Mr. Sutcliff nodded. He sighed again, reached into his pocket, and pulled out a pair of spectacles. He smoothed the front of his shirt and straightened his back. “I see. So, you are Yeats and you look the spitting image of William. Well, come here, boy!”
Startled, Yeats stumbled forward, spilling more tea down his leg. He desperately wanted his arms free for protection, but they were holding the tray. The old man stood, peering into his face. Mr. Sutcliff suddenly reached out and took his chin and Yeats stifled a gasp. His grip was as sure as Gran’s. His eyebrows were horrifically bushy.
“Hmmm,” he murmured. “Intelligent. Curious. Reliable.” He shifted Yeats’s chin to look at his profile. “Burgeoning courage as well.”
Yeats turned his head aside. “I brought your tea,” he said. Mr. Sutcliff did not seem to notice. Instead, he tapped his lips thoughtfully with his fingers. Yeats considered laying the tea and cookies on the floor and bolting for the stairs. He had met many quirky people at the university, but Mr. Sutcliff was rapidly rising to the top of the list.
“Is William downstairs?”
“Yes.”
“And he is a man?”
Yeats lowered the tea to the floor. “He is my father.”
The old man grunted. “I see. And your mother?”
“Her name is Faith.”
“Faith?” Mr. Sutcliff felt for a pipe on the table without releasing Yeats from his gaze. “Now there’s a good name. Plain, mind you, but solid—versatile, even. The stuff of all good poetry. Yes, indeed!” His last words were muffled as his lips took the pipe. Yeats waited for him to light it, but Mr. Sutcliff merely sucked the end comfortably. “‘Now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love.’” He returned to his window. “I believe in that. I really do.”
Yeats gritted his teeth. Gran wanted the tea delivered and Yeats was determined to see it through. “Would you like your tea, sir?”
The old man motioned with his pipe. Yeats took a few hesitant steps, then hastily set down the tray. He returned to the door. He needed to get downstairs and make sure his parents weren’t fighting.
“William … is a man,” Mr. Sutcliff murmured. He shook his head. After an uncomfortable silence he added, “Will he see me?”
“I don’t know, sir,” Yeats answered. “I imagine he would.”
“Imagine?” The old man spun quickly.
Yeats readied himself against the door frame. Mr. Sutcliff brushed long strands of hair from his eyes. “Yes, imagine. That’s the key. Has he the courage, I wonder?” He tapped the pipe against his lips. “I don’t even know if it’s possible. We don’t know enough, do we? Perhaps … perhaps with enough sincerity it might … I don’t know.” He was silent for so long, Yeats thought Mr. Sutcliff had forgotten him. Then the old man tapped his temple with an idea and spryly spun around. “Can you? Can you, Yeats? Dare you, I wonder? Would you have enough courage?”
“I’ve got to go now,” Yeats stammered.
Mr. Sutcliff pointed his pipe. “Remember the words, my boy? Do you remember?” The old man closed his eyes:
“‘Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world’s more full of weeping than you can understand.’
“That was William Butler Yeats—your namesake. But I’m sure you knew that.”
Yeats fled, landing on the stairs two at a time and making such a commotion he expected them to break at any moment. He slowed near the kitchen only to find Odysseus trotting alongside him. The cat glared disapprovingly.
Yeats gasped. “Don’t look at me like that!” When he realized his hands were shaking he turned them into fists. He glanced back at the stairs, then stepped into the adult conversation.
His parents were sipping tea. He was comforted to see them sitting next to each other and his father’s glasses back on his nose. Odysseus demanded to be picked up.
“How did that go?” Gran asked.
Yeats couldn’t tell if she was speaking to him or to the cat.
“I gave him his tea,” he said.
“Good lad.” Gran put the cat down. “You must be more careful on those stairs, dear. They aren’t used to such youthful energy. My goodness, you sounded like an Oliphant in distress.”
Still panting, Yeats stammered, “He thought I was someone else. He thought I knew his granddaughter. Shaharazad or something?”
His father’s cup rattled violently, followed swiftly by a curse as the tea shot over his knees. His mother’s teeth were clenched and the blood drained from her face. His father looked as if he was going to faint.
ran rested her hands on Yeats’s shoulders. Her words, however, were directed at his parents. “You are being silly—both of you. He is her grandfather, after all. And it is high time we all heard that name again.” She stopped Faith’s protest. “I know what you are thinking. I understand your fear.”
William rose slowly. “Mum, I came here to fix me. This has nothing to do with Yeats.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because he wasn’t there!”
Yeats appealed to Gran. “I wasn’t where?”
She squeezed his shoulders. “Patience.” She looked at William. “He needs to know. Look at him! If anyone can help, it is this boy.”
“Mum … ,” William protested. “We’ve just stepped in the door.”
“And the name that has pierced your heart for twenty years, William … twenty years, has surfaced in that time. You, my son, like Frodo, were wounded indefinitely—in dark circumstances. And you have endured the hurt beyond merit. But now, the time for healing has come.”
“Mom?” Yeats whispered.
His mother faced his father. “She’s right. Everything she said is right. No more running, William. I am tired. This is it. Do something or changes are coming. I mean it.”
Yeats silently cursed himself. Why couldn’t he have kept his mouth shut about the girl? Mr. Sutcliff was obviously crazy. If only he hadn’t taken the tea to him. Now his mother was ready for a divorce if his father didn’t change.
William glanced furtively past the kitchen to the back room. The house had grown peculiarly quiet. The clock ticked loudly, its pendulum swinging like the indecision written on his face. Finally he lifted his chin. He looked at Gran, then at his wife. “All right.” Yeats looked up hopefully.
In the garden, there was a loud cracking sound. The echo reached the house. Faith sat bolt upright. “What was that?”
Gran shrugged and then motioned to the dining room table. “It’s an old place, Faith, with many sounds. I tune them out most days. Most likely it’s the well. It was broken many years ago. Lord knows how many old wishes are still rattling around and trying to get out. More cookies and tea?”
“I remember that well,” William said miserably. “It certainly never granted my wish.”
They moved to the table in uncomfortable silence.
After refilling the teapot Gran tapped her lap for Odysseus. Yeats regarded his father. Only twenty-four hours ago Yeats had been pleasantly contemplating the eternal month of August. And then his father had sprung a surprise trip, “for a day or two,” a car ride to the country. He knew something was wrong; his parents were arguing over something. But the summer sun and the hope of new friends had soothed his worries.
Gran sipped her tea.
Faith patted her son’s hand. “Don’t worry.”
“About what?”
“Just don’t worry. And stop scowling.”
Gran said to Yeats, “You like stories, don’t you?”
He nodded.
“Then I will tell you two stories, for they are very closely attached. Make yourself comfortable.”
Yeats settled in his chair. He was used to stories.
“A long time ago, in ancient Arabia, India, China, and Persia, stories were told and written down. They have been told and retold over the centuries and no one is certain of their original versions, much like Grimms’ fairy tales. Some of them you have heard before: Aladdin and his lamp? Perhaps even Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves, or Sinbad? You have? Good.”
She continued. “But what many children of today do not know is that some of the stories are linked by one: the story of Shaharazad and One Thousand and One Arabian Nights.”
William groaned.
Gran said, “Shaharazad was the daughter of the royal adviser, or vizier, to the King. She was both courageous and beautiful—blessed with the extraordinary gift of insight like her father. Her wisdom, however, came into question one day when she put herself in mortal danger to save her people.”
Yeats reached for a cookie.
“The King was happy, living in love and wealth. Then one day he was betrayed by his wife and his brother. A terrible madness seized him. Furious, he gripped a spear and hurled it at his brother. The blade missed its target and drove into the heart of his wife. Stricken with grief and anger, the King banished his brother. In the days to come nothing could ease the King’s pain. By law he was required to marry again or abdicate the throne. But his heart could not find the courage to trust anyone again.”
“What did he do?” Yeats asked.
“He devised a spiteful plan. A dreadful plan. He decided that he would marry again, according to the laws of the land, but that this time he would kill his bride on their wedding night.”
“Not exactly fair, is it?” Yeats said. “And how would that keep him married? If he killed her, he wouldn’t be married anymore.”
“Right you are. But if the King took a different girl each night …”
“He killed one each night?”
Gran nodded. “He did. When Shaharazad heard of this she immediately offered to be the King’s bride.”
“So, she was crazy as well as beautiful?”
Faith rested her face in her hands. “Shhh. Listen, Yeats.”
“Oh, s
he wasn’t crazy,” Gran assured him. “She had a plan. Her father tried to dissuade her. As the royal vizier he knew the volatile condition of the King better than anyone. But his daughter was persuasive. It wasn’t long before she married the King.”
“And he killed her?” Yeats asked.
“On the wedding night, the King told Shaharazad that it was time for her to die. But, wise girl that she was, she answered, ‘Come, my lord, you are tired and ill at ease. Let me tell you a story to calm your mind.’ The King did not know what to do with this proposal, so he answered, ‘If your story allows me to sleep peacefully without the nightmares that plague me, I will let you live another day.’ And it did. For the girl had studied the poets and stories of many countries and could tell a tale like no one else. Story after story she told, night after night, calming the King, until a thousand and one nights had passed.”
Odysseus purred loudly.
“Then what happened?”
“Ah,” said Gran. “The King dealt with his brother, through battle, and he finally gave his trust to his queen. The story ends with Shaharazad telling the King’s story to their own children.”
“So she lived?” Yeats asked.
“She did. And she became an Eastern heroine of the highest standing.”
Yeats thought again of the old man upstairs. “What does all that have to do with Dad?”
William cleared his throat. His eyes shifted again to the back room. “Over twenty years ago,” he began, “when I was your age, a girl came to live with us. Her parents had died a year or two before in a car accident, and her grandfather, Mr. Sutcliff, asked if she could stay.”
Gran said, “I’ve known the Sutcliffs all my life. I couldn’t turn them down.”
“Her name … ,” William continued, “… was Shaharazad.”
“Shaharazad,” Yeats whispered.
“Indeed. Though we all called her Shari. That’s her there.” He nodded to a picture.
A shapely face, white teeth, long black hair. Her eyes challenged.
