From the direction of the giants, screams of anguish reached my ears. I buried my face in Waluga’s mane and dug my heels into her sides. “Ride out of here. Ride out…” The vines had wrapped around the horses’ legs. After a few tugs, they were able to uproot them, and like a bride’s train, the yellow flowers trailed behind us.
‡
Chapter Seven
Overcome by grief, I no longer saw the beauty around me. I didn’t hear the birds’ sweet song, or note the lovely fragrance in the air, or notice that the sky could easily tempt me to recline in a meadow and make wishes on clouds. The cries of battle behind me kept my focus on the path ahead.
I rode until the gray of night. At a mossy hollow, an uprooted tree would serve as my roof for the night. I laid a sleeping bag under the log, made a campfire, fed the sourdough, and baked bread on a stick.
In the light of the fire, my pox had reappeared on my hands, raised and red. The meadow was merely an illusion. I lay on my bag and gave in to my overwhelming grief. My sobs echoed in the fog-ridden air. I sniffled and listened to every swoop and creak of the forest as night owls foraged through the trees. At last, I found the fortress of sleep.
I dreamed in vivid colors. I was at Blue Sky wearing my periwinkle-blue gown, not a blemish on my face. I strode beside Prince Dell out the French doors and to my mother’s rose garden. I was reliving the theft of my first kiss. Wake up. Wake up. Dell grabbed my face.
My screams silenced the forest floor. I bolted straight up. The fog crept like a hunched old man between the dark trees. I gripped the barrel of the shotgun beside me in my bag and, somewhat reassured, lay down and closed my eyes.
In the morning, I made parsley tea over the fire. Back home, the tinkle of a bell in the dining room meant breakfast was ready. Would I ever return to the luxuries of my childhood? I held a stick wrapped with sourdough over the fire. Though it was delicious and warm, it did not fill me. I needed protein for sustenance. I dropped the black powder into the gun and compressed it with the ramrod. After loading the gun per Felix’s instructions, I held the gun to my shoulder and prayed I’d done everything right.
Out of the brush, a bird flew through the trees. Sighting the bird in the V of the barrel, I pulled the trigger. I missed. I must have not kept the gun steady enough. I reloaded and waited. A second bird took flight. I shot, and a bluebird fell. The protein would calm my hunger and ward off impending discouragement.
Over the course of the next few days, my accuracy with the gun increased. I enjoyed pheasant and partridge, and then I went three days without seeing a bird. I only had sourdough bread to eat and an occasional cup of green parsley tea. Felix should have caught up to me by now. I feared I knew the fate of my dear friend.
By the time I reached the Forest Maze, I no longer cared about living. My soul was numb, and I could tell from my hands that the parsley tea wasn’t working. I recalled a Bible verse that Maid Kimberlee had taught me: “That suffering bringeth about character and…” At the edge of the forest, I slid off my horse and peered overhead at the pale sky and wondered if God would listen.
“I’ve made it this far, through Swamp Valley and Shepherd’s Field; therefore I think you want me to live.” Head tilted back, I studied the clouds. A peace hard to describe filled me. And I realized that I did want to live.
I no longer felt alone; I felt guarded and loved. I recalled Felix’s words: Follow the firs; they’re not as pretty as the cedars. The cedars were lacy. I looked overhead and saw the distinction between the tall, towering trees. “Follow the firs,” I whispered.
Paths meandered through the trees in every direction, but I knew the secret was to look up. After several hours, my neck ached. I slid off my mare, and holding on to the horses’ reins, I spotted shiny, low-growing foliage. I lifted the leaves to find little clusters of red berries, the berries that Felix had mentioned. I plucked them and popped them in my mouth. They tasted like black licorice.
“I needed a sweet,” I said, popping more berries into my mouth.
Little voices giggled. Their murmurs sounded no more than six inches off the ground. The voices surprised me; they meant I was near the edge of the forest. My heart leaped.
“She said she needs a sweet.”
“See her swamp pox.”
“What a sight.”
“What a fright.”
The voices were tinier than I’d expected. It was as if little people were talking into tin cans trying to make their voices sound large.
“No one told her that the berries make one berry sleepy,” one voice giggled.
I needed to follow the voices. It took a great amount of energy for me to mount Waluga. I was indeed tired. Yawning, I gripped the reins in one hand and the mane of my mare in the other. When I awoke, it was evening. The trees and ferns around me all appeared the same. I no longer recognized from which direction I’d come and which direction I was headed. I pitched my tent and hoped a good night’s sleep would bring clarity.
With the shotgun by my side, I lay in my sleeping bag and listened to the sounds of the night—the crackle of my campfire, the wind in the trees, and the dew’s wispy fingers as it knit blankets of fog.
ΦΦΦ
In the morning, I took down camp, prepared the horses, and mounted Waluga. Around me the trees looked like identical twins in uniform; even the groupings of ferns appeared the same. Worn dirt paths rambled off in several directions. I tried not to let my mind dwell on the fact that many had lost their lives here. If I was close, if I was in the same spot as the night before, why weren’t the little people talking? Perhaps they were sleeping.
With only sourdough for breakfast, I felt a nip of discouragement. I thought on King David’s prayer, taught to me when I was a child. “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.” I was hungry, and I did want something to eat. I did want, but I was not supposed to want. Without my prompting, Waluga pressed forward.
Moving was better than being idle. “He makes me lie down in green pastures, He leads me beside still waters, He restores my soul. He leads me in the path of righteousness.” A salty tear trickled down my cheek, stinging my pox.
Waluga halted, and I patted the mare’s smooth neck.
“Lord . . . I am afraid. I am hungry. I am broken. Help me. You haven’t brought me this far to let me die in the forest.”
Little voices began to giggle. Hope breathed in me. Follow the voices.
“Stop it!” I said in my nastiest of tones. I hoped the voices would become louder if I appeared crazy. “Stop it!” I pretended to cover my ears.
“Stop it!” one jousted in return.
“Swamp Pox is hungry and afraid,” a small voice sang solo.
“Help me!” the voices said in harmony.
“Green pastures,” giggled another.
Where there was no semblance of a path, the voices wove through the ferns. I followed after them. In unison, the voices stopped. I stared straight ahead. Huge trees and shadows surrounded me.
“Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me.”
“This is a forest, not a valley,” one voice whispered.
“Sh! I think she knows.”
Should I look for firs or cedars once I heard the voices? Despite the fact that I held the reins firmly, Waluga pressed forward. I decided to trust the animal’s instinct and loosened my grip.
“She’s a goner.”
“Sh! She might hear you.”
I continued the prayer. “You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies. You anoint my head with oil; my cup overflows.” Waluga trotted now. My shoulder burned from the strain of holding on to Plenty’s reins behind me. Finally, Waluga slowed, snorted heavily, and stepped out of the forest into sunlight.
Off in the distance sat Yonder. A river with lush green banks meandered along the south side of the kingdom. The castle’s stone colonnades—purely military in scope and design—
were a sharp contrast to Blue Sky, with its brick walls and red-roofed turrets. A long moat spanned the river. The village sat immediately outside the gates, and farms and vineyards dotted the landscape beyond.
“Surely goodness and mercy will follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.”
‡
Chapter Eight
A large, navigable river flowed from the mountains toward Yonder. A deep moat lined one side of the castle, a ravine the other. Under enemy attack, the dam could be opened to fill the ravine and drown impending armies. I’d often overheard my father discuss such military design; it was ingenious.
As I approached the gatehouse, the guards on duty were obviously aware of me—a lone rider with two horses. Their dull, gray-and-black uniforms were a bleak contrast to the crisp blue and white of my countrymen.
I slid off Waluga. Barefoot, pox ridden, and in rags, I approached the gatehouse. “I wish to speak with a guard named Duron.” I addressed a middle-aged guard stationed out front. He had a large belly and a tuft of white hair atop his head.
“Disease is not welcome in Yonder,” the guard bellowed, though I was standing right beside him.
“I have swamp pox. I am not contagious. I was told Duron might find work for me.”
“You’ve been misinformed. You best be on your way.” He spit something toward the ground.
I struggled with disappointment. “Is there an area that an outsider may hunt and set up camp?”
The guard pointed south. “Go over the bridge; you will see a campfire pit. No one may hunt near the river. You must go south of the aspen trees to hunt.”
I was surprised by how heavily they pronounced their ers.
“Disease is not welcome in the kingdom,” said another guard from atop the walls.
“The spots on my face are not disease. I have swamp pox.”
Men on horseback crossed the moat, nearing the gatehouse. The guards stood rigid, looking straight ahead. I knew the look: royalty approached. I pulled the horses closer to me and backed against the thick stone wall.
A group of ten men rode slowly through the gatehouse. A dark-haired man rode in the middle. Standing on tiptoe, I could barely see him. His dark cape streamed behind him as he rode with his men over the stone bridge toward the hills.
“Off with you,” one of the guards shouted at me, waving his hand. “Disease is not welcome.”
Struggling with disappointment, I mounted Waluga and rode over the south bridge and the dark green river below. Far off in the distance, aspen trees lined the hillside. The group on horseback was no longer in sight.
I was weak from hunger and needed energy to set up camp. I rode past the trees, slid off Waluga, and tied the horses to a sturdy limb. Walking tentatively through the cheat grass, I cocked my shotgun. A squirrel scurried down a nearby limb and jumped to another. A chukar ran through the grass before taking flight. With a steady aim, I pulled the trigger, and the small bird fell to the ground. I dropped to my knees and looked heavenward.
“Thank you, Lord.” The bird would provide a delicious meal. “Thank you that I made it here. Please heal me soon, before my wedding.”
A shot reverberated in the distance. On a hill on the horizon, the men on horseback trailed a white-tailed deer before its front legs buckled to the ground.
I returned to the campground area and tethered the horses near the river, pitched my tent, and started a fire before night fell. I knew that the knot in my belly would not let me sleep. I would eat first and then close my eyes.
Holding two green sticks over the flames, I slowly turned and roasted the chukar in one hand and the sourdough in the other. I felt extremely weepy. If Father had known what would happen, he never would have allowed us to leave.
In the darkness, horses’ hooves pounded the earth as the hunting party returned. A large deer lay over the flanks of one of the horses. How had the group ever managed to get it up there? My pulse quickened; for some reason three riders separated from the group and rode toward my camp. One of the guards slid off his horse and approached my fire, while the man wearing the cape remained on horseback in the shadows. As he drew closer, the guard’s wavy blond hair became visible in the fire’s light.
I rose to my feet, holding the skewers.
“You are a stranger to Yonder?” the guard asked. My future countrymen heavily pronounced their ers. I suppressed a smile.
“Yes.” I glanced past him. Was the man on horseback my betrothed? The night was too dark to see anything but shadows.
“Is it swamp pox on your face?”
“Yes,” I said, pleased that he was familiar with it.
“Do you wish to settle here, or are you traveling through?”
“I . . .” I cleared my throat. “I desire to heal here before traveling to Evland.”
“What business do you have in Evland?”
His tone surprised me; I hadn’t thought that far ahead.
“Cragdon, we must leave,” said the man on horseback.
I waited for them to tell me that I must leave Yonder, or that I must pay some kind of tax. Instead, the guard mounted his horse, and the men rode off together.
Trembling and overwhelmed, I did not get even a glimpse of my betrothed’s face.
ΦΦΦ
I feared their return. I feared interrogation. I feared my identity would be detected, and I was too tired to be tactful. I stuffed a chunk of chukar in my mouth and ate as I gathered my things. I packed my belongings, slid a sourdough roll in my pocket, and doused the fire with the water from my teakettle. With an adrenaline that made me feel shaky, I rode toward town.
A hint of candlelight flickered through the closed shutters of the thatched-roof homes. I slid off Waluga and led the horses through the cobblestone streets on foot. A man whistled as he walked outside to close the large swing doors of his shop.
“Is there a place I may stay the night and rest my horses?” I called out.
“There is a smithy ’round the corner to the right.” The man pointed east. “You will have to knock.”
“Thank you.”
In Blue Sky, the brick streets were lit by gas lamps, while in Yonder the streets were lit only by the moon. My heart could not help but compare.
Yonder Smithy. A rustic, hand-painted sign hung crooked from the rafters. The odor of animals lay heavy in the air. I slid from my horse and knocked on the rough-hewn door.
The door creaked open, revealing a bent-over, little old woman who peered at my bare feet. “You are dirdy and have draveled far.”
“Yes.” I spoke to the woman’s gray bun, gathered at the back of her head. “I need a place to rest my horses and myself.”
A lean, elderly man with a small tuft of white hair above both ears joined the woman in the doorway. “How many horses?” he asked.
“Two. I cannot pay you until I sell one of them.”
“The village auction is tomorrow. You can sell one there.” The old man hobbled out and took the reins from my hands. I followed him and removed the saddlebags. When his back was to me, I slid my gun amidst the woodpile.
Their home was one small room lit only by the embers from the fire. The woman prepared a bed by spreading a worn quilt over a straw-ticked mattress.
“Wash your face, hands, and feed,” she said, handing me a tin basin filled with water. Hmm… her accent was a simple one—her Ts were Ds.
I sat down on the side of the bed, washed, and slid the saddlebags between the mattress and the wall.
“She is not a talkative one,” said the husband.
“She is dired.”
ΦΦΦ
There was no campfire to tend. No coyotes to keep away. The ground was not hard beneath me. I gave in to my fatigue and slept soundly.
In the morning, the elderly couple quietly ate their porridge. The man eyed me while I drifted in and out of sleep.
“She looks like she has been picking gooseberries and not washed.”
“She washed.”
“We need to wake her soon for auction,” he said. “She will sell a horse for money to pay us.”
The hunched old woman rose from her chair and stopped at my bedside to nudge me. It was then she saw my swamp pox for the first time. Certain that I, their guest, had brought disease into their home, she wailed, “She is sick! She is sick!”
“Sh!” Her husband rose from his chair. “You will scare her.”
The elderly couple peered down at me.
I blinked myself further awake.
“Are you sick?”
“I have swamp pox. I am not contagious.”
“Swamp pox?” the old woman echoed as she puttered about the room. “Swamp pox,” she said as if she had never heard of the ailment before. She set a bowl of porridge on the table. “You musd ead. Aucshun is soon. You musd sell a horse so we can buy coffee.”
The porridge was salted, but unsweetened. It tasted like wet chicken feed, but I did not complain. Wearing the same clothes that I had worn every day for the last fortnight, I followed the elderly man out the side door to the stable area.
“We must hurry; the auction is under way,” he said.
I quickly determined that I would sell Waluga, as I had already unstrapped all my belongings. Then I thought about selling Plenty instead. The elderly man waved at me; I didn’t have time. I grabbed Waluga’s reins, and on foot, we led the large workhorse to the center of the village.
“I am Dory.” I pulled my hood up to cover my dirty hair.
“I am Leeson. My wife is Elza.”
“How long have you been without coffee?”
“Longer than we have been without tea. When Prince Wron marries, Yonder trade will improve.”
“Why is that?” I was keenly aware of everything: the gray-uniformed guards who rode on horseback through the streets; the drab colors of the women’s clothing; the simple, rudimentary storefronts.
The Piano Girl - Part One (Counterfeit Princess Series) Page 8
