Song of the Wanderer

by Bruce Coville

  Jacques shrugged. “If I listened to my body, it would be time to rest all day long.”

  Thomas pulled out one of his watches, opened the top, shook it once, then said, “It’s night all right.”

  Grimwold snorted. Setting down his pack, he opened it and removed a large knife. He began slicing chunks of the blue fungus away from the rock — chunks that he distributed to the others.

  “You want me to eat this?” asked Cara in dismay.

  “You can wear it if you’d rather. I suspect, however, it will do you more good inside than out.”

  She took a tiny bite. This was Luster, after all. Maybe it would turn out to be unexpectedly delicious.

  It didn’t.

  “Yuk! Ptooie!” sputtered the Squijum, who had tried a bit at the same time. “Nasty, nasty, nasty!”

  My sentiments exactly! thought Cara as the Squijum spat the fungus onto the rock where he was crouching.

  To her surprise, the others seemed to think it tasted just fine. She wondered if it was one of those weird foods that only grown-ups seemed to like. Sheer hunger forced her to take two more bites. Then she gave up.

  Now that they had stopped moving, she could feel the coolness of the caves. She took the cloak M’Gama had given her from her pack and wrapped it around her shoulders. She also took out her calendar stick and carved another notch.

  Eleven days gone. Would they make it on time, or not?

  Despite her worries over their progress, despite her hunger and the hard stone floor, exhaustion worked its magic, and she was soon fast asleep.

  * * *

  They spent most of the next day traveling in single file through narrow tunnels, which made it difficult to speak to the person ahead of you — especially if the person ahead of you was a unicorn. And the few times they came out into caverns, the vast spaces seemed somehow inappropriate for talking, as if the huge underground rooms had a sacred quality.

  When they did enter the more open areas, Cara made it a point to take turns walking beside each of her companions. She spent the most time beside Lightfoot and the Dimblethum, of course. But she wanted all of them to know they were important to her, that she cared for them.

  It hurt her heart that Moonheart and Belle were so obvious about avoiding the two newest members of their band, always positioning themselves as far from Lightfoot and the Dimblethum as they could and refusing to speak to them unless necessary.

  She wished they could all be more friendly with each other.

  * * *

  Dinner was better that night, for they came to a cave with an underground stream and the Dimblethum was able to catch some fish for them. Pale and blind, with enormous, sightless eyes, they were ugly to look at but extremely tasty.

  At least, tasty for raw fish, thought Cara, finding herself actually thankful that her grandmother had insisted she try all kinds of foods over the years, up to and including the dreaded sushi.

  When they had finished eating, Grimwold called them together and said, “Tomorrow I will be sending you back to the world above. So tonight I want to share a story with you.”

  Cara was surprised to hear a whicker of satisfaction from Belle, who then added, “It would have been quite a thing to travel three days with the Keeper of the Chronicles and not be given a story.”

  “I give you this one at the request of the Queen.”

  “What story is it?” asked Cara, excited but also a little nervous.

  Grimwold looked directly at her.

  “It is the tale of how your grandmother first came to Luster. When you’re ready, I’ll begin.”

  12

  Ivy’s Story

  Cara glanced around the cave, which was lit only by Grimwold’s lantern. Despite the lack of comfort, despite the chill, despite her exhaustion, she felt an odd sense of happiness. These . . .

  She faltered in her thoughts. What to call this group? Not “people” — that word wasn’t big enough to properly include the unicorns, the Dimblethum, and the Squijum. And “creatures” seemed too . . . well, animalistic, or something. Maybe “beings” was the right word.

  No. Not beings.

  Friends.

  She felt surrounded by friends. The journey was long and hard, but traveling together had forged them into a kind of family of the road that was filling a need in her heart.

  Moonheart, Belle, and Finder had settled themselves in a group to Grimwold’s right. Thomas had opened his wagon, which looked particularly strange here inside the cavern, and he and Jacques were sitting on the tailgate. The Dimblethum lounged nearby, growling gently as he picked at the last bits of the fish, while the Squijum was splashing cheerfully in and out of the water. And Lightfoot — her dear Lightfoot — had taken his place beside her. Wrapped snugly in her cloak, she leaned against him to listen.

  While the travelers had been trying to make themselves comfortable, Grimwold had opened his pack and taken out a large, leatherbound book, into which several brightly colored ribbons had been inserted as page markers. He waited until everyone was quiet, then said, “When Queen Arabella contacted me through the scrying pool and asked me to help Cara on her journey to the Northern Forest, she also requested that I tell Cara this story.” He looked directly at her. “I was well prepared to do so. I had started digging into the Chronicles after the last time I saw you, looking up some stories I had recorded many tens of years ago — stories about your grandmother.”

  He settled the book in his lap and placed his lantern on a boulder next to him. Looking at Cara again, he asked, in unusually gentle tones, “How much do you know of your grandmother’s past?”

  Cara glanced at Jacques, feeling a little embarrassed. “Not much,” she said at last.

  Grimwold nodded. “Then I’ll start at the beginning.” He opened the book to a page marked by a scarlet ribbon. “This is Ivy’s story — the first part of it, at least. She told it to me herself many years ago. She was a young woman then, and these are her own words, exactly as she spoke them.”

  I remember almost nothing of my early years. According to Mr. Preston, the director of the orphanage where I lived, I had been found wandering in the hills outside of the town. It was a small town in England, near the border with Wales.

  When they brought me to the orphanage, I appeared to be seven or eight years old. Though I could speak clearly and well, I did not know my name or where I had come from.

  Eventually Mr. Preston named me Ivy. He said he chose this name because sometimes I would sit and stare out the window for hours on end, gazing at the forest and the mountains that rose behind it, as if I were rooted to the spot. But other times I would wander off, going much farther than I should, so that people were frantic to find me. “Ivy has roots, and yet it rambles wherever it can,” he said. “Just like you.”

  Except I didn’t have roots, not really; how could I, when I had no memory of family or home?

  The first images I can bring to mind are of my room in the orphanage. The room was small, and I shared it with three other girls. They often teased me because of my strange ways, and sometimes I would cry because of this. But just as often they were friendly, and I have more good feelings about them than bad. And while I longed for a family, the orphanage was not really a bad place. I was cared for, fed and sheltered, had friends to play with.

  One day Mr. Preston called me into his office and said, “Ivy, I have someone here I would like you to meet.”

  Sitting on the small sofa was a short, cozy-looking woman who looked like she would be nice to hug. Next to her sat a tall man, lean and hard looking. He had reddish-brown hair, dark eyes, and a hawk-like nose. He smiled. It was a warm smile, friendly and inviting. For some reason, I found it terrifying.

  “This is Mr. and Mrs. Martin Hunter,” said Mr. Preston. “They’re interested in adopting you.”

  I took a step back.

  Mr. Preston laughed. “Don’t be silly, Ivy. You want a home, don’t you?”

/>   I wanted a home more deeply than he could imagine. The very word created a longing so intense it was almost painful. But not with these people. I didn’t know why. I only knew they terrified me.

  I shook my head.

  Mr. Preston laughed again, but it was a shorter, harsher sound than the first time. “Don’t be silly, Ivy. You know that we can’t keep you on here if someone is willing to take you in. You should be pleased. Mr. and Mrs. Hunter have been watching for a long time, and out of all our orphans they’ve chosen you.”

  I shook my head again, mute with a horror that I could not explain.

  “Oh, she’ll come around soon enough,” said Mrs. Hunter with a laugh. The sound was warm and gentle, as cozy as she looked, and I felt myself thawing toward her. But it did nothing to lessen my dread of her husband.

  Mr. Preston dismissed me. While I was out of the room, the deed was done. Later that afternoon Mr. Preston called me back to his room, scolded me for my behavior earlier in the day, and told me that next week I was to go live with the Hunters.

  “And you’d best be grateful for this, Miss Ivy,” he said sharply. “Be grateful and act proper. I don’t want you showing up on our doorstep again because you’re not willing to be civil to these pleasant folk who are willing to take you in. I’ve been glad to have you here, strange poppet that you are. But our goal is to find you a home, and now that you have one, you’d best take advantage of it.”

  That night, I resolved to run away.

  Two nights later, I did. Rising after dark, I tiptoed from my room without waking the other girls. In the kitchen I took a loaf of bread, some fruit, and some cheese — not enough, I now realize, to feed me for more than two or three days. But I was less worried about how I would eat than whether anyone would catch me.

  I slipped out through a window that I knew had a broken latch, planning to head for an abandoned cottage I had discovered during one of my “rambles.” I thought I’d stay there, at least for the next day or so until the Hunters went away.

  I had not traveled far from the orphanage when I heard footsteps behind me. I froze in terror, but only for a moment. Moving quietly, with a stealth I had not known that I possessed, I slipped into the bushes at the side of the road.

  Not long after that I saw a man come riding by. Though he was a tall man, he was leaning low over his horse’s neck. He glanced from side to side as he rode, and I could see his face in the moonlight.

  It was Martin Hunter.

  The night was cool, but the chill I felt when I saw him came from something deeper, a terror that I could not explain.

  He rode on, but it was a long time before I dared to move again.

  It was nearly dawn before I made it to the cottage. Though it was cold, and the floor itself was made of earth, my exhaustion was such that I slept for hours.

  For two days I was left in peace. I wandered the forest and felt both a happiness and a terrible longing that I could not understand. Then, late in the afternoon of the second day, I heard someone coming through the trees.

  Fearing it was Mr. Hunter coming to get me, I fled, going deeper into the woods, toward the mountains.

  I moved silently at first, until I was a good distance from the hut. Then I ran as fast as I could, ran until my sides felt as if they had been sliced open and my lungs burned as if I were breathing fire. Just when I thought I was safe, I heard someone behind me again. I stumbled forward, nearly blind with exhaustion — and stepped into emptiness. I remember the terror of falling. Then, for a time, there was nothing.

  When I came to my senses it was dark, and I was in tremendous pain. My leg, especially, hurt; when I tried to move it I quickly realized I had broken it. I wanted to scream but didn’t dare for fear Martin Hunter might still be looking for me. Though I didn’t know why he was chasing me, I was certain I didn't want to be caught.

  The night seemed endless. I drifted in and out of an agony-filled daze, trembling so violently from pain and shock that I feared I would crack my teeth. It wasn’t until morning that I saw I had fallen over a cliff. The bushes had saved my life — perhaps saved it twice: first by cushioning my fall, then by hiding me from the man who was after me, though whether he realized I had gone over the cliff, whether he had found a way down to look for me, I had no way of knowing.

  Every movement hurt. I vomited from the pain. Yet I couldn’t stay where I was. It took several hours and I blacked out several times during the process, but I managed to drag myself out of the bushes.

  I was in a narrow valley, bordered on both sides by cliffs some thirty or forty feet high. I could hear a stream gurgling through the center of the valley, so I pulled myself in that direction, both because I was so parched I could hardly swallow and because I figured if I had any chance of getting help, of being found, it would be near the water.

  But, truthfully, I did not expect anyone to find me. I expected to die there.

  I had thought about death many times, wondered what it was like, what it would mean. Yet somehow I had never quite believed it would happen to me.

  Now I did.

  By the time I had dragged myself to the stream my leg felt as if someone had hammered nails straight through the bone and now was trying to pull them out again. I plunged my face into the icy water and drank, then rolled over and blacked out again.

  When I woke, the sky — what I could see of it, for much was blocked by the cliffs — was a deeper black than I had ever experienced. The stars, in turn, were more brilliant than I had imagined possible. I gazed up in awe, so startled I nearly forgot my pain in that first moment.

  It reminded me soon enough that it was there.

  I grabbed a low branch of a nearby shrub and clenched it in my hands, trying to keep from crying out. I wanted to be found, but not by anything that might have been prowling through that darkness.

  My silence did me no good. I was found, anyway, and a good thing for me that I was.

  Grimwold paused and looked up. The listeners were silent, even the Squijum, who had curled himself up on Cara’s lap. She stroked his gray fur, wondering why her grandmother had never told her these things.

  Glancing around at the others, she was startled to see that Moonheart looked troubled, as if he was deeply bothered by the story.

  “Shall I go on?” asked Grimwold.

  “Of course,” Cara would have said, save that the question was clearly directed to Moonheart.

  The others glanced his way.

  After a moment he nodded and said, “Continue.”

  What was that all about? wondered Cara. But she didn’t have time to ponder it, for the story had begun again.

  He came so quietly [read Grimwold] that I had no idea he was approaching. When I first saw him, so white in the starlight, his shape blurred by my teary eyes, I thought perhaps it was the moon. But as he came closer, I realized I was being approached by a unicorn — which made me think I had died, or gone mad. So I was only a little terrified when, once he was close enough, he bent his head and pierced my chest with the tip of his horn, driving it toward my heart.

  For a moment I felt as if my skin had turned to light, as if my blood had become electricity. Then the strange tingling passed; with it went much of my other pain as well.

  “Alas, poor maiden in the woods,” said the unicorn. “I am sorry to frighten you. But I needed to do that so we could communicate.”

  To my astonishment, he spoke not in words but in pure meaning — meaning that came from images, sounds, memories, even smells that formed directly inside my head. “Where did you come from?” I asked eagerly. “How did you find me?”

  “Don’t speak aloud! I can’t understand if you do. Just form the thought and send it to me. You’ll have to stay in contact with me to do it.”

  I didn’t want to lose contact with him, not then, not ever. Gripping his foreleg with my hand, I thought again, “Where did you come from?”

  “Earth, originally. Now, from anoth
er world.”

  I found the strangeness of these words nearly as frightening as any of the other things that had happened to me.

  “How did you get here?” I asked. “Are you lost? Are you scared?”

  “I came through a gate. I came because you needed me.”

  This was so startling I broke my contact with him for a moment, dropping my grip on his foreleg as if it had burned me. He nickered softly, and I placed my hand on his leg once more. It was smoother, silkier, than anything I had ever felt.

  “How did you know I needed you?” I asked.

  He paused, and when he finally answered I could sense a deep pain in his words. “We unicorns have long had a connection to young maidens in the woods.”

  “There are more of you?” I asked eagerly, for I had heard the legend that there is never more than one unicorn on Earth at a time — not that I had believed there were any at all until I saw this one.

  “Not here,” he said, sounding as lost and lonely as I felt. “Not here.” Before I could ask another question, he said, “I can heal you, if you would like.”

  “Please!”

  He had me stretch out flat on the ground, and then examined me. Finally he said, “I am going to ask you to do something difficult.”

  “What?”

  He gestured with his horn toward a nearby shrub. “Wedge your foot in those branches, then pull yourself back until the leg is straight again. It will hurt like fire. But the leg is badly broken, and I can heal it better if the two parts of the bone are more in line. Do you think you can do that?”

  “Of course,” I said, trying to sound braver than I felt.

  And I did, though the searing pain made me scream.

  The flash of agony when he healed me was even worse. But that was over in an instant. I sat up. To my astonishment the leg was solid and whole once more. The pain, though not completely gone, had faded to a shadow of what it had been.