"My father used to say any memento of the dead is precious-that is, if you valued them when they were living. May I?" She picked up the picture of my family and studied it for a long time before looking back at me. "Did you value them, Freddie?"
I took the picture from her and rubbed the pad of my thumb along the plastic sheath. It was taken when we first moved to the Cape. I was ten years old, the youngest of the three. Richie was twelve, although he never behaved more than five and never would. Joey was fourteen. Mom wanted the ocean and Dad loved Mom. So after seven consecutive winning seasons, he gave up his coaching job in the city so she could raise us near the beach. He took a pay cut to coach at a smaller school, which meant all we could afford was the gingerbread house, a half mile from the water, with only one place with a view-the garret.
"Yeah," I said. "I valued them."
I braced for her to ask more, but she seemed to know better. When the silence grew awkward, she unwrapped the first package. Inside was a turquoise statuette of a mermaid the color of the sea on a summer day. The mermaid's hair flowed into waves and formed a circle around her that she dived through, arms extended and toes pointed. She was bare from the waist up.
Becky picked up the statuette and rotated it in her hands.
"You have to tell me the story behind this one."
"That's Gloria, my mother's favorite mermaid."
"Why's she called Gloria?"
"Open the second package."
She removed the paper from the next one, revealing a music box with a clear plastic pedestal that left the mechanism exposed. When Mom used to play it, Richie would watch mesmerized as the pins on the revolving drum plucked the gold tines of the comb. Above the pedestal was an old fashioned snow globe. But this one had glitter instead of snow, with two baby-faced cherubs floating inside. When the key was wound, the two cherubs would dance with each other while the music played.
"Your mother's too?" Becky said.
"She loved music boxes, and Dad liked getting them for her. Since they had little money, that usually meant finding one at Pick of the Litter."
"Pick of the Litter?"
"The second hand shop at the town dump. He'd browse there Saturdays after dump runs. Most of the music boxes he found were broken, but this one caught his fancy. The drum wouldn't rotate and it had no label, so we didn't know what song it played. After he lost his coaching job, he took a book out of the library on repairing music boxes and tried to make it work. One day he burst into the kitchen, cradling it like a crown jewel. Then with great pomp, he wound the key and slid the lever forward. Out of this little box came that Christmas carol: 'Angels We Have Heard on High.' Mom would bring the mermaid and the music box up to the garret, set the statue on the window sill, and sing the verses, while the three of us joined in the chorus. 'Gloria, in excelsis deo.' So my brother Richie thought the mermaid's name was Gloria."
Becky held the music box up to the light. Then, before I could stop her, she flicked the lever in the pedestal with her fingertip.
The music started to play, but the spring had wound down. The first notes groaned, more dirge than carol, and stopped.
I grabbed the box away before she could rewind the key and clicked the lever off.
"I don't want to hear it."
"I just thought-"
"Maybe you're a good enough therapist to fix my leg so I can limp along with a cane. But you can't fix this part of my life. Please don't try."
She glared at me, her lips stretched into a thin line.
"I'm sorry," I mumbled, trying to make up for being such an ass. "I know you're trying to help."
When her glare persisted, I raised the music box between us, shook it, and viewed her through the glitter.
"Mom knew all the words. After six notes, she'd begin to sing, 'Angels we have heard on high.' Joey made fun of her, but Richie snuggled to her side, too big to fit on her lap, and tried to sing along. All he knew was the chorus. In between, he'd hum. But he loved that song. He'd sing it all year round."
"What happened to them, your brothers?"
"Gone. Joey's dead, like my parents. Richie? Who knows?" I dropped the music box and collapsed back onto my pillow. "Now the archangel's gone too, and I can't even take care of myself."
I figured she'd stomp away. Why would anyone want to stay with me? Instead, she reached out and placed her hand in mine. She must've held it there for a full ten seconds before speaking.
"Your old life's in the past, Freddie, but we'll get you better. And then you'll have the rest of your life ahead of you."
I looked at her hand and squeezed.
"Thanks for the optimism, but you don't understand."
"What don't I understand?"
"It wasn't just my old life. It was all I ever had."
I clammed up after that. Becky waited for more, and when nothing more came, she rewrapped the mermaid and the music box and went to put them back in the box.
"Wait," she said. "There's one more thing."
She fumbled with something stuck in the bottom flap and pulled out a Ziploc bag with a sealed envelope inside. She looked at me, questioning, but I couldn't remember what it was. When I struggled to recall, my head began to throb, like the air in the room had become thin. My brain whirred in a panic like Jimmie's vending machine, frantically searching.
"Are you all right?" she said.
"Fine," I lied.
"Should I throw it out?"
My brain cramped with the strain. All I could recall was a card with charred edges and a flower in the center.
"No," I said so loudly she must've thought I was mad at her. "Just leave it."
She bit down on her lower lip, as if to suppress a response. For the next minute, the only sound in the room was the soft thud as she placed each item back into place. Once she finished repacking, she stored the box in my closet. Before she left, she came over and patted my hand, then told me tomorrow would be better than today. I was skeptical.
When she was gone, I felt like a glow had left the room, leaving it bare and sterile. I sat alone on the bed and stared at my left hand, the hand Becky had touched. All she wanted was to help and I'd driven her away. One more time, I eased into the garret of my mind, into that place I was terrified to go. A flower in the center. And then I saw it-a white rose. But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't remember anything more. Instead, Mom's Christmas carol started playing in my head. I could hear Richie like he was standing next to me, singing along. I pressed my hands to my ears to stop it, but the music kept on. A song not of glory but of false hope.
In excelsis deo.
Chapter Eleven
Mementoes of the Dead
I left the royal gardens with a lighter step and found my way to the armory without further incident. No assassins, no elves, no butterflies. When I arrived, the armorer greeted me at the door as a long-lost son. He'd been a lot more vigorous when I began my training, but the years had not been kind to him. Now he was hunched over and walked with a limp.
"Dauphin." He bowed. "May the Goddess be kind to you in these dread times. How may I serve you?"
"I seek a second weapon, something I can slip into my belt. One that comes free easily and is nimbler than a sword."
"Then you seek a dagger." He rubbed the scar that crossed his face from ear to chin and hobbled over to a wooden chest. There, he sorted through a pile of weapons, all the while mumbling to himself, "A dagger worthy of the dauphin." After clattering about for a few moments, he straightened. "Ah. I know."
He pulled at a key ring on his belt and picked the largest one, then wagged a finger at me to follow. At the end of an alcove stood a stout wooden armoire. He managed to slip the key into the lock but his knobby fingers had trouble turning it. He beckoned for me to come closer.
"If you please, Dauphin."
I twisted the key and snapped the lock open with no effort. From inside, he took out a plain-looking dagger. He must have noted my disappointment.
"Don't b
e fooled by appearance, Milord. This is Kingsbane, the dagger that killed King Llane Wrynn, master of Stormwind in the First War."
He extended it to me, but as I reached out, he pulled it back.
"A caution. Kingsbane has great power but may be wielded only by one of equal skill. And it comes with a deep sense of sorrow."
I snatched the blade from him before he could withdraw it again and whirled it through the four ready positions. The dagger lacked beauty but had a strong heft and good balance.
"Thank you, master armorer. This will do."
He bowed his head and limped back to his work after once again beseeching the Goddess to protect me.
With the sword at my side and Kingsbane in my belt-with no sheath to bind it in place-I set off for my midday meal and a rest before resuming the trials. But my mind dwelled on the girl in the garden, the way her hair swished about as she shook her head, and how her eyes glanced down but kept returning to mine. I'd fetch her a proper apron from the royal provisions. And something more. I pictured the flowered shawl my mother used to wear and imagined it lying softly on the girl's shoulders.
I'd become distracted and suddenly noticed my passage through the tunnel was taking too long. And worse, it had begun to descend.
I was about to retrace my steps when I heard a sound, the voice of a man singing. Intent on not being caught weaponless as I was in the first trial, I withdrew Kingsbane and continued on. The singing grew louder, an unthreatening tune, not quite cheery but workman-like. The sort of song a guildsman might sing while doing something mindless and repetitive. As I stepped closer, the clank of metal on metal joined the rhythm of the song.
The tunnel ended at a stone archway, the entrance to a steep ramp leading downward into what looked like an abyss. I peered behind me, thinking I should turn back. But what if at the bottom I might find some weapon or enchanted ring, the secret to overcoming the next trial? I had to risk it. And so, I started down, setting my boots lightly on the ground, toe first and then heel, so they made hardly a sound.
At the bottom, a chamber spread before me appearing as vast as Stormwind Keep. It had dungeon lighting, not darkness, but a twilit gloom-a fitting place to find a demon. As I began to enter, a pungent odor struck my nostrils. It seemed to be coming from overhead, where a grid of corroded pipes crisscrossed the low ceiling.
I glanced out across the maze above and searched for the source of the song.
Behind a series of valves stood a man with his hands covered in grime. His thick neck supported a massive shaved head, though his face was out of proportion. His warm, brown eyes were set deep in their sockets and stuck so closely together, they were nearly lost beneath an overarching brow. He sang as he twisted a wrench around a section of pipe, making the muscles in his forearms stand out like ropes. Periodically, he stroked his skull, wiping away sweat and smoothing it down as if he had hair.
When he saw me, he nodded as if he knew me, but kept working. He'd tap a pipe, listen for the echo, and then make an adjustment with the wrench.
"Are you spirit or demon?" I said.
"Neither. I'm a plumber, just doing my job."
"And what job is that?"
He tapped once more, then looked me over before answering.
"Checking the pipes."
"I . . . see."
He went back to tapping.
"Where do these pipes come from?" I said.
He squared his shoulders toward me, revealing a hairy chest bearing a medallion. To my surprise, it was an image of Nordrassil, the World Tree-the mark of a Druid.
"Cemtries," he said.
"Sorry, I don't-"
"Cemtaries." His thick lips contorted as he struggled to say the word more clearly. "You know. Places where people's buried."
He waved his hands across the maze of pipes. "All the cemtries in the kingdom." He wandered around, tapping each pipe with his wrench as he described it.
"Sure. This'n be the guild cemtry. Peasants here. Royals. Pets. Livestock."
"I don't understand. Why would there be pipes under cemeteries?"
He came closer and placed a thick hand on my upper arm.
"See here, those big muscles of yours. Be sludge someday. Where do you suppose it goes, all that sludge? Into the pipes. Comes together here and flows out to the sea."
Sweat began to run down the small of my back as recognition grew. The pungent odor was the smell of decaying flesh. I breathed through my mouth in an effort to diminish it.
"How do you know?" I finally managed to say. "Are you a demon?"
His forehead furrowed. "Don't think I'm a demon." Then he chuckled to himself. "More likely an angel, though my wife might say otherwise."
"You don't look like an angel."
"Everybody says that, but how'd they know what an angel looks like? Besides, somebody's gotta do the dirty work. Can't have all the angels flying about making sunshine."
A Druid? Unlikely. But some Druids were shapeshifters. I waited for him to say more, but he lost interest and resumed his work. As I stared past him, I noticed a pipe at the far end of the room. Unlike the others, it was shiny and new, with no hint of corrosion.
"Where does that one come from?"
He wiped his forehead with a greasy rag that left streaks on his face, then walked over to where I was pointing.
"Why do you ask? Does it need fixing?" He tapped the new pipe with his wrench. "Sounds okay to me."
"But where does it come from?"
"You should know. It's your pipe."
Perhaps a Druid, sent by Malfurion Stormrage. A great secret might lie here.
"I don't remember. Why don't you tell me?"
He shook his head and chuckled.
"'Don't remember,' he says. More likely wants to forget."
Sir Gilly had cautioned that weapons would be useless during the trials. I began to see he was right. My sword and Kingsbane together might be of no avail.
"I've had enough of riddles," I said. "For the sake of Stormwind and all we hold dear, pray tell me."
In answer, he smiled a simple smile and spoke a simple thought.
"Your castle, Milord. Your pipe. It's for you to figure out."
I hoped he'd say more, but he began banging the pipes instead, this time so hard, the clanging filled the room. I covered my ears, but the sound still rang in my skull. The stench of decay grew stronger as if the pipes had burst. My head throbbed. Black spots swam across my vision and the room began to blur.
The man with the medallion of the World Tree on his chest merged with the pipes. I covered my eyes as a rush of air roared through the chamber. The last thing I heard was the sound of dogs barking.
Then silence.
***
Somehow, whether by the grace of the Goddess or the magic of the great elf, I was transported to the safety of my bedchamber. When I could see once more, I was alone. The pounding in my head had subsided, replaced by a more well-mannered knocking. I went to the door, withdrew Kingsbane, and released the latch.
A young page stood before me with head bowed. He fell back a step when he noticed the dagger in my hand. A look came over him I'd seen before-pity for the poor dauphin.
"The advisor," he stammered, "he sent me to fetch you." When I continued to gape, he made a second, deeper bow. "It's nearly sunset, Milord. Time for the watchtower."
Chapter Twelve
A Need for Goals
Weeks passed. My leg was healing, or so they said. With the brace on, I could hardly feel a difference. I still relied on the wheelchair when not in bed. And the dreams continued. Lingering effects of the concussion? Or the pills Dr. B. was giving me to sleep? Most dreams were of the other world, but more recently, jumbled memories had begun to mix in.
This morning, I dreamt I was preparing for a patrol in Al Anbar, going over intel with my squad in a haze-filled room. When I was done, they peppered me with questions, but I couldn't recall the details. I fudged my way through the briefing-something I'd never do outsid
e of a dream. Then, with my confidence shaken, I donned my equipment, the Kevlar helmet with the night goggles, the flak jacket, the M-4 carbine and the M-9 buckled to my waist. But when I stepped outside, I wasn't in Iraq at all but on the green in front of the gingerbread house.
I started running, scanning for faces in the garret windows and snipers in the trees. I raced up the stairs to the tabernacle, M-4 locked and loaded, and searched under the pews and behind the altar. I called out names: Joey, Richie, Mom, Dad. I even yelled for the archangel. No answer, no wind, no sound. Everyone had vanished without a trace.
When I awoke, my heart was pounding, and my fists were clenched. I closed my eyes again, trying to stay in the dream. I wasn't finished. I wanted to go back to the tabernacle, to overturn the altar and hurl the holy relics to the floor, to watch the candles set fire to the fine linen altar cloth. To destroy it as God had destroyed everything I held dear.
My heartbeat slowed. The dream turned into memories.
After Dad died, I'd tried to tell Mom she couldn't mourn forever, that she needed to get back to life.
"It takes a long time for those we love to die," she'd say. "Like waves to the shore, the memories keep coming. And they only stop when the tides turn back to stillness."
A long time.
I decided enough time had passed and tested my memory. I eased my mind toward that instant-the flash, the smell of C-4, then silence. The gentle spirit that had been the archangel draped over me, a final act of healing. And his blood flowing like a magic elixir to save my life. It was an atomic moment, unique to itself, no before, no after. My time in Iraq had become a separate reality. Like the dream.
Then all at once I realized it. Other things had happened in Iraq, things that had stayed buried in my brain. I could probe their ragged edges but not touch them. Like Jimmie, the TBI patient, I had memories I was unable to reach.
I shook it off and thought instead about my dad.
After his funeral, we went back to the basement of the tabernacle, where our neighbors had arranged cookies and pies and plates with slices of ham. Beside them sat white bread and rye, fanned out in a circle with mustard in paper cups. I waited in the receiving line before the food table, next to my mother and brothers, while people I hardly knew offered condolences and assured me my father was in a better place.
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