by Paula Guran
That was when the shaking started. The ballroom shook as though the earth were opening beneath it. Jaromila, who was standing by the French doors, clutched at the curtains to stay upright. The Queen fell on Countess Agata’s lap, which made a relatively comfortable cushion. The King, less fortunate, stumbled into the footmen, who toppled like dominoes. Most of the champagne glasses crashed to the floor.
A voice resounded through the ballroom. “Bring me the Princess Lucinda!”
The King, recovering his breath, said, “Whatever was that?”
Prince Radomir ran into the room and said, “Was it an earthquake?”
One of the footmen, who had fallen by the French doors, said, “By Saint Benedek, that’s the biggest dog I’ve ever seen.”
The King went to the French doors, leaving Prince Radomir to pick up the Queen and the Countess. There, on the terrace, stood a hound, as white as milk and as large as a pony.
“Bring me the Princess Lucinda!” he said again, in a voice like thunder. Then he shook himself, and the ballroom shook with him, so the King had to hold on to a curtain, like Jaromila, to stay upright. The remaining champagne glasses crashed to the floor, and the footmen fell down again in a heap.
Nothing in King Karel’s training had prepared him for an enormous hound on his terrace, a hound who evidently had the ability to shake his castle to its foundations (his training having focused on international diplomacy and the Viennese waltz). But he was a practical man. So he said, from behind the curtain, “Who are you, and what do you want with the Princess?”
“I am the Hound of the Moon. If you don’t bring me the Princess Lucinda, I will bite the head off the statue of King Karel in front of the cathedral, and the steeple off the cathedral itself, and the turrets off the castle. And if I’m still hungry, I’ll bite the roofs off all the houses in Karelstad—”
“Here she is, here is the Princess Lucinda!” said the Queen, pushing Jaromila out the French doors. Jaromila, surprised and frightened, screamed. The Countess, who has leaning on Radomir, also screamed and fainted.
But the hound grabbed Jaromila by the sash around her waist, leaped from the terrace and landed among the topiaries, then leaped through the rose garden and over the forest, into the clouds.
Lucinda never noticed. When the castle had shaken, all the dresses on the shelves of the dressing room had fallen on top of her, along with most of the shoes, and when she had crawled out from beneath them, she imagined that she had somehow shaken them down herself. And still the dress for the ball was nowhere to be found.
The hound dropped Jaromila on the floor of a cave whose walls were covered with crystals.
The first thing she said when she had regained her breath was, “I’m not the Princess Lucinda.”
“We shall see,” said the hound. “Get up, whoever you are, and take a seat.”
At the center of the cave, arranged around a table, Jaromila saw three chairs. The first was an obvious example of Opulentism, which had been introduced at the Exposition Universelle in Paris. Its arms were carved to resemble griffins, with garnets for eyes, and it was elaborately gilded. The second was a chair any Sylvanian farmer could have carved on a winter night as he sat by his fireside. The third was simply a stool of white wood.
Surely he didn’t expect her to sit on that. And as for the second chair, she wasn’t a peasant. Jaromila sat in the first chair, on its cushion of crimson velvet, and put her arms on the griffins.
“Can I offer you something to drink?” asked the hound.
On the table, she saw three cups. The first was certainly gold, and probably Lalique. The others were unimportant, a silver cup like those common in Dobromir, which had a silver mine, and a cup of horn that a shepherd might have drunk from. Of course she would drink from the first. She took a careful sip. The wine it contained, as red as the griffins’ eyes, gave her courage.
“I’m not the Princess Lucinda. You will take me home at once!”
“As you wish,” said the hound. “But the journey might be cold. Can I offer you a coat?”
In his mouth he held three coats. The first was a crimson brocade embroidered with gold thread, which she had seen just that week in a catalog from Worth’s. That was the coat she would wear, not the plain green wool, or the dingy white thing that the hound must have drooled on.
But as soon as she reached to take it, the hound opened his mouth, dropped the coats, and once again grabbed her sash. And then they were off, over the forests of Sylvania, over Karelstad and the croquet lawn, to the castle terrace.
The King was still trying to soothe the Queen, who was crying, “What have I done?” Prince Radomir was waving smelling salts under the Countess’ nose. The footmen were trying to sweep up the shattered glasses.
Upstairs, Lucinda had finally found her dress. It was in the Queen’s own dressing room, behind an ermine cape. She sighed with relief. Now at last she could go to the party.
Just as the hound landed, Jaromila’s sash ripped, and she dropped to the terrace.
“Bring me the Princess Lucinda!” said the hound. “If you don’t bring me the Princess, I will drink up the fountain in front of King Karel’s statue, and the pond by the Secondary School that the children skate on, and the river Morek, whose waters run through all the faucets of Karelstad. And if I’m still thirsty, I’ll drink up the Danube itself—”
“I am the Princess Lucinda,” said a voice from the garden. Bertila walked up the terrace steps. She had woken early to see the preparations for the party, and had been watching all this time from behind the topiary stag.
“Isn’t that the gardener’s daughter?” asked Prince Radomir. But at that moment the Queen screamed (it seemed her turn), and nobody heard him.
Under ordinary circumstances, no one would have mistaken Bertila for a princess. Her dresses were often patched, and because her mother had died when she was born, she sewed on the patches herself, so they were usually crooked. But today all the servants not needed for the party had been given a holiday, and she was wearing an old dress of Lucinda’s. Lucinda had been allowed to give it away because it had torn on a tree branch. Bertila had mended it (with the wrong color thread), but the rip was toward the back, so she hoped it would not be noticed.
“Climb on my back then,” said the hound, and climb she did. She twisted her fingers into the hair at his neck, and held on as well as she could when he leaped from the terrace over the forests of Sylvania.
“Mama!” cried Jaromila, at which the Countess revived. But the Queen went into hysterics. And that was when Lucinda finally came down the stairs, holding her train, and stared about her, at the footmen sweeping the floor and the sobbing Queen.
“What in the world is going on?” she asked. King Karel tried to tell her, as did the Queen in broken sobs, and even the Countess, who clutched Prince Radomir’s arm so hard that he could not answer. Jaromila tried to powder her nose in the mirror, because after all Prince Radomir was present.
“Radomir?” said Lucinda. And then Radomir explained about the hound and Bertila’s deception.
“Well,” said Lucinda, when the explanation was over. She turned to the King and Queen. “I think it’s time you told me everything.”
Bertila looked about the cave.
“Will you take a seat?” asked the hound.
“Thank you,” said Bertila. Which chair should she choose? Or rather, which chair would Lucinda choose, since she must convince the hound? She had read Lucinda’s copy of the Brothers Grimm, which Lucinda had left on the croquet lawn. This was surely a test. Her hands were shaking, and she could scarcely believe that she had spoken in the garden. But here she was, and the deception must continue. Whatever danger Lucinda was in, she must try to save her friend.
Surely Lucinda would never choose a chair so gaudy as the gold one. And a stool did not seem appropriate for a princess. But the wooden chair looked like the one her father had carved for her mother. Lucinda had sat in it often, when she came to the gardene
r’s cottage. The wood had been sanded smooth by a careful hand, and ivy leaves had been painted over the arms and back. That was a chair fit for a princess of Sylvania. She sat down.
“Would you care for something to drink?” asked the hound.
“Thank you,” said Bertila. “I really am thirsty.”
Lucinda would make fun of the gold cup, and the cup of white horn was like the stool, too plain. But the silver cup, with the snowdrops in enamel, might have been made by the silversmiths of Dobromir, who were the finest in Sylvania. It was a cup fit for the Pope himself. She paused before taking a sip, but surely the hound would not hurt her. He had treated her well so far. The cup was filled with a delicate cider, which smelled like peaches.
“Thank you,” she said. “And now I think I’m ready.” Although she did not know what she was ready for.
“Very well,” said the hound. “You must choose a coat for the journey.”
Lucinda would never wear the crimson brocade. But the coat of green wool, with its silver buttons and tasseled hood, looked warm and regal enough for a princess. There was another coat beneath, but it looked tattered and worn.
“I’ll wear this one,” said Bertila.
“You’re not the Princess Lucinda,” said the hound.
Bertila stood silently, twisting the coat in her hands. “No” she said finally. “I’m sorry. I hope you don’t blame me.”
“It was brave of you,” said the hound. “But you must return to the castle.”
When he landed on the terrace with Bertila, Lucinda was waiting.
“You don’t have to threaten anyone this time, or break any glasses,” she said. “I’m Princess Lucinda, and I’m ready to go with you.”
The Queen was sent to bed with a dose of laudanum. The King cancelled the invitations for the party. Countess Agata had a lunch of poached eggs with the Chamberlain and asked what the monarchy was coming to. Jaromila tried to find Prince Radomir. But he was sitting under the chestnut tree with Bertila, asking if she was all right, and if she was sure. Bertila was blushing and admiring his eyelashes.
“Will you take a seat?” asked the hound.
“What a strange stool,” said Lucinda. She had never read the Brothers Grimm, although Bertila had handed her the book with a reproachful glance. “The wood seems to glow. I wonder where it comes from?”
“From the mountains of the moon,” said the hound. “Down the slopes of those mountains flow rivers, and on the banks of those rivers grow willow trees, with leaves as white as paper. When the wind blows, they whisper secrets about what is past and what is to come. This stool is made from the wood of those willow trees.”
“This is where I’ll sit,” said Lucinda.
“Can I offer you something to drink?” asked the hound.
“What a curious cup,” said Lucinda, picking up the cup of horn. “It’s so delicate that the light shines right through it.”
“On the slopes of the mountains of the moon,” said the hound, “wander herds of sheep, whose wool is as soft and white as thistledown. This cup is carved from the horn of a ram who roamed those mountains for a hundred years.”
Lucinda drank from the cup. The water in it was cold, and tasted of snow.
“And now,” said the hound, “you must choose a coat for our journey.”
“Where are we going?” asked Lucinda. “Oh, how lovely!” She held up a coat that had been lying beneath the coats of crimson brocade and green wool. “Why, it’s covered with feathers!”
“The rivers of the moon flow into lakes,” said the hound, “and on those lakes live flocks of herons. They build their nests beneath the willow branches, and line them with feathers. There, they lay their eggs and raise their children through the summer. When winter comes, they return to Africa, leaving their nests behind. This coat is made from the feathers of those herons. As for your question, Princess—to meet your mother.”
“My mother?” said Lucinda, sitting abruptly back down on the stool. “Oh, I don’t know. I mean, until yesterday I thought Queen Margarethe—what is my mother like? Do you think she’ll like me?”
The hound seemed to smile, or at least showed his teeth. “She’s my mother also. I’m your brother, Lucinda, although we have different fathers. Mine was Sirius, the Dog Star. Yours was a science teacher at the Secondary School.”
“And my mother—our mother?” asked Lucinda.
“Our mother is the Moon, and she’s the one who sent me for you. Put on your coat, Lucinda. Its feathers will warm you in the darkness we must pass through. Now climb on my back. Mother is eager to see you, and we have waited long enough.”
As though in a dream, for nothing in her life, not even the books on airplanes and mountain climbing, had prepared her for such an event, Lucinda put on the coat of white feathers and climbed on the back of the hound. He leaped to the edge of the cave, and then into the sky itself. She was surrounded at first by clouds, and then by stars. All the stars were visible to her, and the Pleiades waved to her as she flew past, calling out, “She’s been waiting for you, Lucinda!” Sirius barked and wagged his tail, and the hound barked back. Then they were landing in a valley covered with grass as white as a handkerchief, by a lake whose waters shone like silver.
“Lucinda! Is that really you?”
The woman standing by the side of the lake had silver hair so long that it swept the grasses at her feet, but her face looked not much older than Lucinda’s. She seemed at once very young and very old, and at the moment very anxious.
“It is,” said the hound. “Go on,” he said to Lucinda, nudging her with his nose. “Don’t you want to meet her?”
Lucinda walked forward, awkwardly. “It’s nice to meet you . . .”
“Oh, my dear,” said the Moon, laughing and taking Lucinda in her arms, “I’m so happy to have found you at last!”
The Moon lived in a stone house surrounded by a garden of white roses. A white cat sat on the windowsill, watching Lucinda with eyes like silver Kroners.
“The soup will be ready in a moment,” said the Moon. “I find that the journey between the earth and my home always makes me hungry.”
“Do you travel to the earth?” asked Lucinda.
The Moon laughed again. Her laughter sounded like a silver bell, clear and sweet. “You would not have been born, otherwise! In a shed at the back of the house live my bats. Whenever I want to travel to the earth, I harness them and they pull me through the darkness. Perhaps later you’ll help me feed them. They like the nectar of my roses. Here, blow on this if you think it’s too hot.”
She put a bowl of soup in front of Lucinda. It was the color of milk but smelled like chicken, and Lucinda suddenly realized that she had forgotten to eat breakfast.
“Tell me about that,” said Lucinda. “I mean, how I was born. If you don’t mind,” she added. There was so much she wanted to know. How did one ask a mother one had just met?
“Well,” said the Moon, sitting down at the table and clasping her hands. “Your father’s name was Havel Kronborg. When he was a child, he would lie at night in his father’s fields, in Dobromir, and look at the stars. But even then, I think, he loved me better than any of them. How glad I was when he received a scholarship to study astronomy in Berlin! And how proud when his first paper was published in a scientific journal. It was about me, of course, about my mountains and lakes. But when his father died, the farm had to be sold to pay the mortgage, so he worked as a science teacher at the Secondary School. Each night he wandered on the slopes of the mountains about Karelstad, observing the stars. And one night, I met him in the forest.
“How well I remember those months. I could only visit him when the moon was dark—even for love, I could not neglect my work. But each month that we met, our child—that was you, Lucinda—was closer to being born, and his book, Observations on the Topography of the Moon, closer to being completed.
“When you were born, I wrapped you in a blanket I had woven from the wool of my sheep, and laid y
ou in a basket of willow branches. Your brother slept beside you and guarded you, and all the stars sang you lullabies.”
“Was it this blanket?” asked Lucinda. Out of her pocket she pulled a blanket as fine as silk, which the King had given her in the course of his explanation. Her name was embroidered on one corner. She had been carrying it with her since, but had almost forgotten it. How far away Karelstad seemed, and the Queen, and her life as a princess.
The Moon reached out to touch it, and her eyes filled with silver tears. “Your father asked me to leave you with him for a month. How could I refuse? But I told him to set you in the moonlight every night, so I could see you. One night, while he was gathering mushrooms in the forest for a botany lesson, he placed your basket beneath a tree. I watched you lying there, laughing up at me. But suddenly a cloud came between us, and when it had passed, you were gone.
“You can’t imagine his grief. He searched all that night through the forest around the castle. When the gardener found him in the morning, he was coughing, and could not speak. The doctor told him he had caught pneumonia. He died a week later. I found the basket by his bedside. It’s the only thing I’ve had of yours, all these years.”
Silver tears trickled down her cheeks. She wiped them away with the blanket.
Lucinda reached out her hand, not knowing what to say. The Moon took it in her own, and smiled through her tears. “But now we’ve found each other. How like him you look, so practical and solemn. I searched the world for years, but never saw you until last night, lying beneath the tree where he had left you. I knew who you were at once, although you’ve grown so tall. Will you walk with me, Lucinda? I want to show you the country where you were born.”
The strangest thing about being on the moon was how familiar it seemed. Lucinda learned to feed the bats, gathering white roses from the garden, tying them together in bundles, and hanging them upside down from the rafters where the bats slept through the night, while the moon was shining. She learned to call the sheep that roamed the mountains, and to comb their fleece. The Moon spun the long hairs caught in the comb on a spinning wheel that sang as it whirled. She learned to gather branches from the willow trees and weave them into baskets, like the one the Moon had shown her, saying, “This is where you slept, as a child.”
