Blackberry Blue
Page 8
Hearing her sobs, the queen entered her chamber. ‘Ah, my little princess,’ she cooed. ‘Sleep, my little daughter. Now you’re mine.’ She passed her hand over Joy’s eyes. ‘Forget everything else. You belong here now . . .’ And she slid silently from the room as Joy fell into a deep sleep.
When she awoke she remembered nothing – not her home, her mother, the forest, not even Emeka. For a while, Joy thought that she was indeed the daughter of the sorcerer and his wife. Yet despite being dressed in the finest clothes and adorned with precious jewels, she insisted on having round her neck a simple cloth pouch containing six acorns, and she always left a little pile of seeds on her window ledge for the red squirrel that visited every day.
The queen cosseted her, played with her and called her ‘Joy of my life’. She took her into the garden, wandering among the flowerbeds and fountains, and pushing her on the swing. In the afternoon the queen took her daily nap in the rose bower, and Joy wandered off alone, feeling a deep and unaccountable sorrow.
At the sight of the little red squirrel cocking its head at her and rubbing its paws, she felt a surge of recognition; yet her memory was still trapped behind a veil of forgetfulness.
The squirrel chattered and squeaked and sprang towards a small wooden door in the garden wall. It seemed to want her to follow.
Joy stepped forward and opened the door to find herself staring into the deep wild forest beyond.
The squirrel bounded to and fro, urging her to follow, and after a while she found herself at a place where six paths crossed. The squirrel pawed at a small mound of earth on the path leading northwards. Suddenly, she felt the pouch of acorns burning into her breast, and a voice came from beneath the earth:
‘I am Emeka the Pathfinder –
Find me.
Emeka the Pathfinder –
Find me.’
Now she remembered everything. Like a thunderbolt striking her brain, Joy remembered who she was; she remembered her real mother and her little home, and the time when she was happy. And she remembered Emeka.
‘Emeka, my brother!’ she wept. ‘And you are Kuckroo!’ She watched Emeka’s pet, the little red squirrel, hopping over the mound and scraping at the earth, and she too began digging frantically with her hands until she had uncovered Emeka’s head, which faced north. How she wailed with grief and cradled it. But now the pouch of acorns around her neck rattled as if trying to break free, and a voice seemed to be whispering,
‘I am Emeka the Pathfinder . . .
I am Emeka the Pathfinder –
Plant me.’
Joy took out an acorn and placed it inside Emeka’s mouth and covered his head over with earth again. Then she heard the queen calling her. ‘Joy, Joy! Where are you?’ And hastily, she ran back through the gate into the garden.
‘Where have you been, my darling daughter?’ asked the queen when she returned.
‘Oh, just planting acorns in the forest. I want so much to see them grow into oaks.’
The queen laughed. ‘Why, you silly little goose, oaks take hundreds of years to grow. You will never see your acorns become oaks. But off you go, if it makes you happy.’ Her red mouth opened in a smile, showing her iron-black teeth.
The next day, while the queen slept, Joy followed the squirrel into the forest again. They came to the place where the six paths crossed, and the squirrel leaped onto another mound of earth along a path running to the east, and once more she heard whispering:
‘I am Emeka the Pathfinder –
Find me.
Emeka the Pathfinder –
Plant me.’
She went over to where Kuckroo was scraping the earth and, as before, dug with her fingers till she had uncovered an arm. It was Emeka’s right arm, its hand open and stretching towards the west. She took it up and kissed it, weeping profusely, then placed an acorn in the open hand and covered it over with earth again. Then she turned up the soil to the east and found his left arm. Kissing it tenderly, she placed the third acorn in the outstretched hand just as she heard the queen calling for her.
‘Joy, Joy, where are you, my darling girl?’
The following day, as soon as the queen fell asleep, Joy again entered the forest. There was the squirrel, hopping over another mound of earth and pawing at the soil, and she heard the whispering:
‘I am Emeka the Pathfinder –
Find me.
I am Emeka the Pathfinder –
Plant me.’
She dug into the earth and found his right leg stretching towards the south-west, and then his left leg pointing to the south-east. As before, she placed a fourth and fifth acorn between the toes of each foot. There was just one acorn left to plant, but again she had to return as the queen woke and called for her.
It was the fourth day. The queen had settled into her rosy bower for her afternoon nap, and Joy was desperate to set off for the forest so that Kuckroo could show her where she should plant her last acorn. The queen’s breathing had become soft and steady as one asleep, and Joy was about to steal away when the queen’s eyes flew open and she sat up reproachfully. ‘Where are you going, my darling daughter?’
‘Just into the forest, Mother, to plant acorns. I do so want to see them grow into oak trees.’
The queen embraced her. ‘I don’t yet feel sleepy. Why don’t we take a walk in the forest? You can show me where you have planted these acorns of yours.’
Joy had to think quickly. She had to plant her last acorn.
But the queen took her arm and went towards the small wooden door in the garden wall. ‘Well, where did you plant them?’ she demanded.
‘This way,’ said Joy as they walked out into the shady forest, and she led her along a path in the opposite direction. It took them into a deeper and darker part of the forest, and soon the queen was tugging her gown free of the thicket, and giving little gasps of unease at the sounds of rustling and grunts in the undergrowth.
‘Aren’t we there yet?’ she demanded impatiently.
‘Oh dear,’ sighed Joy. ‘The forest is so big, and everywhere looks the same. I can’t remember which path I took and where I buried them. I’m so sorry.’ And she looked as if she were about to cry.
‘Come, come, my dear. I’m not surprised you can’t find them in this wilderness. We’d better go back before we get lost.’ And the queen hurriedly tugged Joy round and they returned to the palace walls.
It was still warm and sunny in the garden, and at last the queen yawned. ‘We may not have found your acorns, my dear,’ she murmured, ‘but the exercise has made me sleepy.’ She stretched herself out on her bed of rose petals. ‘Stay with me while I sleep a little, my child – you are so beloved.’
So Joy stayed with her, though she was desperate to leave. She soothed her brow and sang a soft lullaby, feeling nothing but dread for this sorcerer’s queen, with her blood-red mouth and iron-black teeth. And at last she slept.
Joy crept away and sped from the gardens into the forest to see where she should plant her sixth and last acorn. There, at the very point where the six paths crossed, was the red squirrel, pawing at a small mound of earth. The last acorn in the pouch around her neck began to burn with such intensity that Joy ripped it off. She scraped away the earth, and there was Emeka’s heart.
‘Oh brother, Emeka,’ Joy wept as she planted the last acorn and laid his heart over it. ‘Dear brother, live!’
Then the queen’s voice called to her from the palace: ‘Beloved daughter, why did you leave me? Where are you?’
Joy fled back to the little wooden door and into the garden. ‘I’m here, I’m here!’ she cried. ‘I was only trying to remember where I planted my acorns.’
That night, when the queen was preparing Joy for bed, she exclaimed, ‘Why, my darling daughter, how came you to have such a mark on your chest?’ And, sure enough, there was a burn, the shape and size of an acorn. ‘It wasn’t there before!’ The queen’s eyes narrowed to slits, and her red mouth twitched with suspicion.
But as soon as the queen had gone, Joy heard a scratching at her window, and there was Kuckroo, his tail quivering with agitation, rubbing his paws together and giving little jumps. Joy understood his message: You must leave now. Escape while you can!
She climbed out of the window, and scrambled down the twisted vine onto the grass. Bounding and twirling, Kuckroo led Joy to the wooden door and out into the forest. ‘Run, run!’ the squirrel urged.
Meanwhile, the queen had gone to her husband the sorcerer. ‘I fear this child cannot be my daughter after all, the little witch. What shall we do with her?’
When Abiteth heard that Joy had been planting acorns in the forest, and that she had an acorn burn on her chest, he suddenly understood and shuddered with fear. The power of the pathfinder had not yet been totally destroyed.
‘Bring the girl here,’ he ordered.
But when the queen went to Joy’s bedchamber, she saw the empty bed and the open window.
The sorcerer squawked and hissed with fury; it was the caw of the crow, the spitting of the serpent – a howl of the devil. He spread out his arms and his black flowing cloak, and quickly turned into a monstrous flying creature.
He knew his only hope was to catch Joy and destroy her.
Joy ran and ran, deep into the forest, while Abiteth called on all the wild beasts to find her and kill her. The trees swished and swirled, and acorns rained to the ground.
She came to the Wolf Princess’s cottage, and burst inside, crying, ‘Save me, save me!’
A snarling wolf crouched, ready to spring, with bared teeth. Joy saw the silver chain and glass stone that she had left for the princess, and snatching it up, she flung it around the wolf ’s neck. Immediately, the spell was broken, and there stood Princess Flora.
But the trees were rattling, and all the wild beasts were howling and roaring. ‘Find the child!’ screamed the sorcerer, bringing darkness to the forest with his billowing cloak.
Princess Flora grasped Joy’s arm. ‘We must go to my brother, the bear: he will save us.’
They came to the Bear Prince’s cottage, and Flora rushed inside. When he saw her, the bear lunged forward with a shattering roar, about to eat her up. But Joy grasped Emeka’s little wooden horse, which still stood on the table, and held it before him. ‘This is the horse made by Emeka the Pathfinder. Save him!’ she cried, and she ran outside.
In an instant, the bear turned into Prince Florian, and the little wooden horse became a noble oak-brown stallion with a mane as shiny as acorns; he pawed at the earth, eager to be off.
Florian and Flora leaped onto the horse and reached down for Joy, but the sorcerer descended like a tempest and enveloped her in an impenetrable darkness, separating her from them. All she could hear was their frantic voices fading into the distance.
The forest crackled as if on fire. ‘Kill her! Kill! Kill!’ Abiteth ordered the wild beasts.
Gleaming eyes stared out of the darkness, but nothing moved to attack her. ‘Obey me!’ shrieked the sorcerer, but suddenly, there was Kuckroo, scampering at her feet.
‘Follow me, follow me!’ The gleaming eyes of the beasts lit up a way through the forest till Joy came full circle, back where the six paths met; where she had planted the six acorns over Emeka’s limbs. A bright moon lit up the sky.
To her amazement, she saw that the acorns she had planted had grown into six giant oaks, and from every tree ran a path, each in a different direction.
Abiteth billowed towards them like a tornado, waving his black and gold wand.
Joy sank to her knees at the very centre of the crossed paths and called out, ‘Emeka!’
Out of the burial mounds came, firstly, a head from the north, then arms from the east and west, and two legs from the south, and from the very centre, pointing up to heaven, a heart. They merged together and became one body: Emeka, singing at the top of his voice, ‘I am Emeka the Pathfinder!’
The branches of the six oaks reached out from all points of his body, their greenery stretching towards earth and sky, and became the Green Man, scattering the clouds in a burst of thunder. The sorcerer Abiteth disintegrated into thousands of hailstones, which fell to earth and melted away.
All around, more paths suddenly emerged, like prisoners coming out of the darkness of incarceration; paths that ran in all directions through the forest, taking travellers to their destinations.
‘We’re free, we’re free! The paths are free – the travellers are free.’
Emeka and Joy flew into each other’s arms, and Kuckroo leaped up onto Emeka’s shoulder and nibbled his ear.
The sorcerer’s queen stood on the castle wall surrounded by the ravens. She gave a great howl of grief. ‘Oh Joy, how I wished you had been my child, my beloved daughter!’ She raised her arms as if to wave goodbye and, with the ravens, rose into the stormy sky and flew away. And suddenly the sun shone, the birds of the forest broke into song, and everything looked golden.
A rider came out of the forest along a path from the south, mounted on Emeka’s horse. It was the king, looking upright and strong, his face brimming with happiness. Holding the bridle on either side were Prince Florian and Princess Flora.
And so Emeka the Pathfinder and his sister, Joy, broke the power of the Abiteth the Sorcerer and restored a kingdom to its king and a father to his children.
The king and his children begged Joy and Emeka to stay with them for ever, and for a while they lived in great happiness. But one day, Emeka went before the king. ‘Sire,’ he said, bowing low. ‘The time has come for me to go. I am a pathfinder, and must seek my own path of destiny.’
Joy wept to see her brother go, but her path had ended at the palace, where she and Prince Florian had fallen in love and pledged to marry.
Princess Flora also wept to see Emeka leave. How she hoped that, perhaps, his path would one day lead him back to the castle, where she would be waiting.
They all stood on the castle ramparts and watched as Emeka mounted his oak-brown horse, and set off along a path, following wherever it would take him.
ODDBOY
Is anything more important than the love of family and a home? When other things seem more valuable and each wants something that another has, jealousy and deceit bring havoc. Can there ever be redemption?
A magician saw a beggar boy in the street playing a one-stringed instrument with such skill that he stopped immediately, and conjured up a beautiful violin of shining gold, with four strings spun from spider’s thread, and a bow with hair from a unicorn’s tail. He said to the child, ‘Do you want to try it?’
The boy couldn’t resist, and as soon as the bow touched the strings, his fingers hardly seemed to be his own as they ran up and down, making the most beautiful sounds he had ever heard. He felt he must have it. It was as if a spell had been cast over him.
‘If you come with me, I’ll give you this violin,’ said the magician. ‘I need someone to play to me in my lonely kingdom.’ And before the boy had a chance to reply, the magician whisked him away to his abode in a dark, gloomy country.
Looking in horror at a grey, barren land of mist, which seemed to have no people or animals or trees and flowers, the boy begged to go back to his home. Only now that he had left it did he realize what a wonderful land of colour, smells and sunshine he came from. But it was too late. Instead, the magician took the violin and, inside the body of the instrument, painted oranges and lemons and dark green leaves, and white snowy mountains that ran down to an azure sea. ‘This will remind you of home,’ he said.
Every day, the magician commanded the boy to play, and he obeyed. But every now and then, the magician would go away and he would warn the boy sternly, ‘Never go down beyond the mist which encircles my kingdom, for if you do you will lose your voice.’
Sometimes the boy, longing for
home, would go to the very edge of the curtain of mist and listen to the sounds drifting up to him from the village far below – especially in the summer, when he heard the happy sounds of fiddlers and dancers, and families enjoying themselves on the village green; just like the sounds of home. How he yearned to join them. And he began to think, What use is my voice if I have no one to talk to?
One day, the magician had to go away. The boy took his violin and went down to the very edge of the curtain of mist. Sounds of music, dancing and merriment rose up the slopes, and he too began to play and jig around. When he heard the laughing voices, he laughed too, and sang along with them until night fell. Then the sounds died away as everyone went home. The boy looked up into the sky – which was no sky, but more like a shroud that bound him to this hard rocky earth. Just as by day he saw no sun, by night he saw no moon or stars; only the impenetrable grey fog becoming darker and darker. Suddenly, he knew he must escape this barren, colourless mountain, where no birds flew, where the only sound to be heard was the music of his violin. He knew he must go, whatever the cost, and burst through this mist to the other side, even if it meant losing his voice.
What a surprise when, the next morning, the villagers at the foot of the mountain awoke to find a boy standing in the middle of the market square, wearing only white cotton pyjamas, with a violin tucked under his arm. His skin was as dark as India, his eyes as black as Africa, and his hair as tangled as unkempt brambles.
Children found him first and laughed. ‘Who’s that odd boy?’ When he seemed unable to tell them his name, they called him Oddboy. The dogs didn’t growl at him, but sniffed around his bare feet with their tails wagging. Soon a crowd gathered, and asked his name, but he shrugged and shook his head. They asked where he had come from; having no voice, he simply tucked the fiddle under his chin and began to play.