by Julie Berry
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leaves thick and glossy, thorns curling out from the stalks like scimitars unsheathing. I stepped back, just in case.
How to describe this delicious power, this heady freedom, to speak life into being! Sunshine broke through the fog in my mind, and my own memories unfurled like these tender plants. With them came more than flowers, but feelings, snippets, whole mornings of pottering around these walks, teasing my puppy, doting on my mother.
"Over here were... peonies, I think." Lush pink and white blossoms opened on green stalks that rose from the ground. Those had been Mama's favorites. Blowsy and bold, like her.
I spun around. "I don't remember all the names. But there were violets and pansies and daffodils and tulips in every shade, all around here. And there were little trees that blossomed in the springtime. And honeysuckle, and morning glory." Wherever I pointed, shoots poked through the soft mold and uncurled heavenward; vines wrapped themselves around the Grecian columns and opened yellow and blue blossoms. The more I spoke, the more the light around us grew, and color and perfume filled the air. Bees and butterflies caught flecks of sunlight from no sun that I could see, but the light danced over them as if it were mid-morning.
"I'm afraid I've gotten this a bit muddled," I told Beryl. "I probably have everything blooming out of season."
"None of it blooms in winter anyway," she said, smiling. "You've done a wonderful job."
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"Oh, but I'm not done," I said, my heart pounding. An idea had planted itself in my mind that refused to be brushed aside. "There was a little house, over here, with screens instead of walls. We often took our tea there." The house appeared, complete with chairs and a steaming tea service set on the table. "And here on this bench," I said, through the lump in my throat, "was where Mama and Papa would sit in the evenings and talk."
I closed my eyes, squeezing them hard. Oh, please, please. I opened them slowly, so slowly that through the tangle of lashes I couldn't be sure of what I saw first, and almost didn't dare find out.
And still, when I saw, I didn't dare believe. Maybe desire had painted them in my mind, and they'd flicker away like dreams do when I wake suddenly. But, no, they didn't vanish.
I opened my eyes, and my parents were there.
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Chapter 29
No other sight in the garden was half so lovely.
Mama sat on the bench, her face upturned to Papa's. Papa's arm stretched out to slip a daisy behind Mama's ear. He looked a bit comical, concentrating on where to put the flower. At last he got it to stay without falling into her lap. She made a teasing face and pretended to return to her book and ignore him.
There they were, so alive, so real. I ran to embrace them.
"Wait," Beryl called.
I ignored her and flung out my arms to squeeze them both together. How surprised they'll be to see me now! "Mama! Papa!" I cried.
They didn't respond.
I halted just inches away from Mama and stretched out my hand to touch her cheek. My fingers buzzed and tingled.
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Papa tried reading over Mama's shoulder, and she elbowed him good-naturedly. Beryl appeared at my side. I hadn't heard her approach. I did not turn. The pain in my chest wouldn't let me. "I'm sorry" she said. "I should have thought to warn you."
I filled my eyes with the sight of them. So real, I could smell Mama's perfume. Their voices felt like ancient lullabies.
"I'm glad you didn't warn me."
She placed a hand on my shoulder. "It's best that you let them go now." I closed my eyes. When I opened them, Mama and Papa were still there, talking quietly with each other. "Must I? "
"You're seeing a memory" Beryl said, "sweet as it is. But for your kind, memories of the dead are best seen through the cloudy glass of time and dreams."
In other words, not seen. Longed for, but unseen.
"There is nothing more I want to see." With a heavy heart, I said to my parents, "You aren't here anymore." They faded and vanished. Mama's book fell open on the bench.
"I'm sorry, Lucinda," she said. "I didn't mean to hurt you again." The flowers that had enchanted me seemed drab and wretched now. "You've done beautifully," Beryl said. "This garden reminds me of my home." I sank down onto the garden bench. Mama and Papa
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sitting, talking--the image hovered before my eyes, so real, so taunting. And yet, for all this fresh hurt, I would do it again. If Beryl's stone were mine, the temptation to do this every day would be irresistible.
Beryl sat beside me, watching me with concern. I wiped my eyes and blew out my breath. I needed something, anything else, to think about. An idea struck me. "Beryl," I said, handing her the stone, "can you show me your home?" She was reluctant to take the stone from my hand. "I... stopped doing this long ago," she said, slowly. "Many, many years ago. It was too painful." I understood, too well. "Never mind," I said. "I'm sorry I asked." She shook her head. "No. I want you to see." She reached for my hand and held it. Once again I felt the full sensation of her--living marble, breathing glass, cold and yet full of fire.
"Close your eyes," she said. I obeyed, and felt the sweep of heat and pain followed by blissful, dewy coolness, and the scent of spring blossoms. "Open them," she said.
I opened my eyes.
* * *
We stood on a mountaintop, overlooking a valley that stretched forever, with woods and pastures seemingly lit
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from within themselves. A river curled across the valley, and where it bent and ran off into the mountains, a city rose up as if carved from the ground itself. Its towers and walls shimmered with color and swayed gently in the wind, like trees.
No smoke rose into the sky. No filth ran out its water gates. No cemeteries dotted its hills.
The city was far from me, filled with many thousands of buildings, and the lands beyond it farther still, yet I could see it as clearly as if distance had no meaning. In all this vastness I could see every leaf, every berry, every pebble and fish in the bed of every stream.
In the city, children played in the streets, and adults rested and talked and worked among them. Some were reading, some teaching, some building and sculpting and making music. Animals of all kinds moved freely among the people--bears and wolves and badgers lolling on the ground where infants crawled, snakes draped lovingly over women's shoulders, falcons nibbling from girls' hands.
I turned to Beryl, and saw her for the first time.
My heart broke.
She met my gaze, then pointed beyond the city. I looked and saw another mountain, white as cotton. One face was hollowed to form a natural amphitheatre. On the grass inside the hollow stood a well of dark gray stones. I remembered what she'd told me about banishment. "Is that... ?" 262
She nodded quickly.
I turned back toward more pleasant sights.
I could have stayed in that illusion forever, but Beryl was suffering. "Shall we go back?" I asked.
Beryl hung her head. It was, for her, an unanswerable dilemma.
I reached for her hand. "I'll be with you." I said. What weak comfort I must be to someone born in this paradise! She squeezed my hand, closed her eyes, and reached for her stone.
A voice called to us.
Beryl's eyes flew open.
Five people ran toward us, ascending the mountain as easily as I might run down a grassy slope. I looked at Beryl. She stood transfixed, watching them, clutching the stone at her throat.
I couldn't understand it. Unlike my parents, these people saw us. They were calling and waving. Three women, I saw, and two men, calling to Beryl, with a word I did not understand, nor could I repeat it, though I tried. My mouth could not form it.
"Aren't we only seeing your memory?" I whispered. Beryl stood trembling, reaching out to them. "I thought so," she whispered back.
And they were upon us like stampeding cattle, attacking her with kisses and astonished laughter. And tears.
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They were her family.
Was it real? I thought she couldn't go back. I thought--she thought--she was barred forever. Was this only a dream, like my dreams that turned to nightmares when I would wake and find my parents still gone?
I felt out of place, a gross intruder, not even the right kind of creature. I backed away, but Beryl reached for me and pulled me close.
"Lucinda," she said, her face shining, "this is my family." Turning to them, she said, in words I could understand, "This is Lucinda, my dearest friend." A woman stepped forward and embraced me. The others, each in turn, did the same, smiling warmly. I felt kindness and welcome flow from them into me. Then, like moths to a flame, they flocked back to Beryl, to pet her and convince themselves she was truly there. Her two sisters linked arms with her and began leading her down the trail with them toward the city. I hesitated. Beryl turned back. She pulled away from her sisters and came back to me.
"It's all right," she said. "We'll leave now and go back to the garden." I had a terrible choice to make. But really, it was no choice at all. "We?" I said. "Not 'we.' You stay."
Beryl shook her head. "I can't leave you defenseless. I'll only say good-bye to them."
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"You won't," I said. "You've come back home. Whatever barred you before is gone. You mustn't leave."
She gripped my arms tightly, at war with herself.
A thought struck me. "You apologized, Beryl. You went to Aunt with an offering, and told her the truth, and how sorry you were. How your heart was broken by it. That took courage."
She shook her head vehemently. "It doesn't bring John back," she said. "It doesn't fix your aunt's broken life. That couldn't be enough."
"It was all you could do," I said. And in that moment, I knew it was true. All you can do is enough.
Below us, on the sides of the mountain, grasses and trees swayed gently, as if bidding Beryl welcome. Her family stood at a respectful distance, watching but not interfering.
"I wouldn't leave, if it were me," I said. "At least one of us should have her family." I kissed her forehead. "I'll be all right. I'll go where Coxley can't find me." I realized something surprising. "After seeing all this, I feel I can do anything."
She threw her arms around my neck. "Bless you, Lucinda," she said. "Bless you forever." She pulled back and looked at me once more, her smile shining. Then she pulled the net that carried her stone off of her neck. "Take this with you," she said. I started to protest, but she silenced me. "I can forge another. Take this to remember me by, and to protect yourself." 265
I took the stone from her hand. "You said it was your soul."
"I'm not who I was when I left this place," she said. "Take this, and my soul and I will make ourselves new." She draped the netting around my neck. "You know what to do," she said. She kissed my cheek. "Good-bye, dear friend." She would be happy at last. How could I not be glad? "Good-bye, Beryl." Her family stood some distance off, watching. She turned toward them, and they beckoned to her. She took a step toward them, then looked back at me. "Lucinda," she said. "When you get home, look in the tower room. There's a present for you in the telescope." I nodded and waved.
Beryl halted halfway between me and her family. I had to leave for her sake. Light, I told the stone, and it burst with effortless radiance. It, too, was home. I closed my eyes and willed myself inside it. Back to the garden, I told it. Take me home.
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Chapter 30
I opened my eyes to cold and darkness. It was the moonlit garden at midnight, and Dog had found me. He nibbled on dried flower stalks.
After the lush heat of Beryl's world, I couldn't endure the cold. I ran for the house, with Dog at my heels and Beryl's stone thumping my breastbone at each step. Once inside I lit a candle from warm embers in the parlor fire, then threw a few more logs on. Before long, flames sprouted up, probing their way around the wood.
I stared at the fire, at the blank spaces on the wall where Beryl's paintings had been. A wave of loneliness hit me. To drive it away I took a candle and found my way to the tower room in search of my gift.
There was the humpback telescope under its leather wrap. I looked all around it, and the open case lying on the floor, for some type of gift, and saw nothing. So I unscrewed
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the eyepiece and peered through the telescope at the moon. Something blocked the view. I swiveled the telescope around and reached inside. Resting against the lens was a fabric pouch. I tipped it into my hand, and out poured a cascade of colored stones.
River pebbles from paradise. Worth a sultan's fortune here.
I poured the stones back in and lay the pouch on the floor. It didn't matter to me now.
I looked out the windows at the grounds of the Palisades, and the view of the city and the dark sea beyond. Torches in the highest towers of Sebastien Palace winked like fireflies. Everything else was dark.
A pinpoint of light appeared through the trees and was gone. It appeared again, moving toward me, up the road from the bridge into the city. Something told me it wasn't harmless. My tongue felt dry in my mouth. I swiveled the old telescope in the direction of the light and aimed as best I could. It creaked on its axle, but when I peered through the eyepiece and adjusted the dials, it soon found its focus.
A disembodied head floated toward me. It was a rider carrying a torch that only illuminated his face.
He came closer. I saw that he wore no cloak or overcoat. His pale hair gleamed by torchlight. So did the golden epaulets on his shoulders.
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Chapter 31
I dropped down onto the floor. All I could do was breathe.
I'll go where he can't find me, I'd said. That's all right, Beryl, go be with your family here in your heaven-world, and leave me alone with a devil in mine. I insist.
Mother of God.
I wrapped my fingers around the stone at my throat and willed it to make me still and silent. If I stayed here, lay quiet on the dark floor, threw the telescope's leather cloak over me, would he think the house abandoned and move on?
I thought not.
If I gave him the prize I held in my hands, would he go away and leave me alone?
Not a prayer of it.
And if he got the stone from me, as he surely would,
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after he killed me, what would he do with its power? As powerful as he was now, Chief Minister of Justice, I knew that was not enough for him. What would he do to Gregor, the future king?
He would tear through the house until he found me, I knew. My only hope was to get out of the house before he did. And here I was, trapped in a tower like the girl in the tale with the long, long hair.
I stood up, moving as softly as I could, and fumbled at the latch of the nearest window. It swung open on squealing hinges. I paused to see if Coxley had heard, but all I heard downstairs was smashing glass.
I leaned out the window and looked down. It was a full story drop to the roof below the tower. From there the roof sloped down to a single-story drop into thick evergreen bushes. If I could survive the first drop without breaking both my legs, I might be able to tumble to safety and run away. If Coxley didn't hear or see me.
A horrific crash followed by ringing notes told me Coxley had annihilated the piano in the ballroom. Why, why would he do that? Did he think I would hide inside it? Was this his revenge on Beryl? On me?
Wind pummeled me, whipping my hair out of its setting. Perhaps its noise would conceal me. The drop seemed endless in the darkness, but crashing glass below was more fearsome. Jump, now, some good angel whispered in my ear, and I obeyed before I could think. I clambered up on a
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chair, gripped the upper sill, and hoisted my legs out. My slippers fell off my feet. I leaped forward.
For an instant I lay in the hand of God. Then I landed on the roof, smashing my knees and rolling to the very edge before catching a grip on the slates. I let myself fall into the thorny bushes, and dangled there, trying to catch my
breath, my eyes screwed shut, every bit of me scratched and bruised and stinging.
From out here I couldn't hear Coxley's rampages, so I didn't know whether or not they'd stopped. I flexed my ankles and wrists. It appeared that my body still worked. I clawed my way out of the deep shrubs, suffering several more gashes, a ripped-off sleeve, and a tear in my skirt before landing on the ground.
Each step was painful, but I forced myself to run across the dark lawns, sidestepping the drive and aiming directly for the road.
The wind chilled me. It lashed my face, flinging grit into my eyes. I closed my eyes, and dangling branches whipped me. My lungs ached, and my empty belly stabbed with pain.
"Meh-heh-heh!"
Dog galloped along beside me.
I couldn't see him, but I heard and felt him bash against my shins. I was so glad for his company, until Coxley's horse neighed, a shrill, piercing cry, and the door of the house slammed.
"Gyup," I heard him call out.
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And galloping hoofbeats were after us.
I reached the road and crossed it. The frozen grass of the margin was easier on my bare feet. I hoped I could disappear in the shadow of the ditch. I stumbled and fell. My knees wouldn't let me get up.
I lay praying, clutching my hands around brambles and weeds, wishing the ground would swallow me. Beryl's stone, just under my neck, pressed into my windpipe.
The horse tore through the hedge and clattered across the road. With a cry from Coxley, it leaped across the ditch, sailing just over me, and landed in a farmer's field.
In the dark, under the cover of my body, I tore the stone from my throat and scrabbled in the frozen dirt with my fingers, trying to bury it. I didn't get far. A stinging whip wrapped itself around my arm, yanking it up and out from under me. The stone fell. I prayed he hadn't seen it. The whip relaxed and fell off my arm. I forced myself to rise from the dirt and face him, shivering with cold and pain and dread.
Here is where I die, I told myself.
Coxley sat astride his huge beast, moonlight gleaming on his leather boots. Even in the winter night, I felt cold waves of malice rolling off him that chilled me far more than the wind. His pale, bloodless cheeks were hollow, sucked in, like withered dead skin over bones. Only his epaulets, and his crystal blue eyes, had any color at all.
