“I know.”
I stand up and walk closer, just like the last time I was here. Close enough to touch his hood. Again I reach out my hand and lay it against his head. Objectively, we barely know each other—well, at least, I barely know him—and yet we have this strange bond. I’m comfortable here with him, more comfortable than anywhere else in the palace or the tunnels. He’s always gentle and kind, patient and relaxed when he talks to me. It feels like the most natural thing in the world for me to remove the cloak and face him, but I don’t. “What are you afraid of?”
He remains silent.
My hand still rests on his head, the way wives run their hands through husbands’ hair. “What is it that makes you so cautious? Why do you hide beneath your cloak, and live in the back room of a forbidden castle? Is it the griffin? I don’t think so. After all, if a person down here fears that monster, I’d expect them to hide someplace a bit farther away from the den.” I pause. “Are you all right?”
He’s drawn back a bit from my hand, like he’s shrinking away from me. He doesn’t answer my question, and I hesitantly pull back my hand. “Did I say something wrong?”
“No, no, it’s nothing. It’s not you.” He sounds shaken.
I step back and kneel down by his chair, leaning my head against its curved wooden arm. “You’re so…mysterious. It’s like your entire essence is all shadows and darkness and hiding. You’re always wearing a cloak and staying back here, far from the village. You sound all patient and wise and even bored sometimes when we talk, but then you’re afraid just to let me see your face. It’s almost like…like one minute you’re a weary old soul, and then suddenly you’re a little kid afraid of the monster in the closet.”
It takes a few minutes before he responds. “Yes, I suppose it is.” His voice sounds weary and helpless. I turn to face him, sitting Indian-style under my wide skirts.
“How about this. Could I just see your hand? There can’t be any harm in that, right?”
“No.” He sits up in the chair and the cloak shifts around him. “No, you can’t see my hand. I…I’m sorry.” His voice has changed, and the openness of the moment is abruptly gone.
Confused at the sudden insistence, I simply reply, “Okay.”
He sighs and the hood droops forward, defeated. There’s such an aura of sadness around him, along with the darkness and fear. For a moment, I felt closer to him than ever before, but now he’s pushed me back out. I still wish I could help me somehow. At least cheer him up. His entire being seems to be bleakness and shadows.
“I know!”
The hood jerks up, and I wonder if my sudden outburst startled him. “Know what?”
“I’ve come up with a name for you.” I give a dramatic pause. “I’ll call you Shadow. How do you like that?”
He nods. He really is awfully fond of nodding. “Shadow. I suppose it works.”
“Of course it works. It’s a versatile name.” He chuckles. I smile. “I don’t want a name that just works for you. I want one that fits. Don’t you want to know why Shadow fits?”
“I don’t find it that hard to deduce. You already mentioned that my essence consists of shadows and darkness.”
“Yeah, but it fits literally too. You live back here, in a room full of shadows caused by the flickering torches. And you’re always wearing that cloak, hiding your entire self in shadows.”
“Yes, Shadow fits me well. You’re right.” He bends down suddenly and grunts. I jump up and start to reach toward his shoulder. I want to help, but he reacted so strangely when I touched his head. I don’t want to upset him, either.
“Are you all right? What’s wrong?”
“Just…go.” He’s starting to slide off his chair now, still bent over in a strange position that seems like it would cause more pain than relieve it.
“But you’re hurt! Tell me, what’s—”
“Go.” His voice is low and scratchy, practically a growl.
I step back. “Shadow—”
“Go!” He’s panting now, and his voice sounds unfamiliar. Guttural and angry. “Run!”
All hesitation gone, I turn and grab the door handle, glancing back one last time before pulling the door open and running back through the castle. I don’t know why I’m running, but the terror of hearing his strange, strangled command pushes me forward. I stop long enough to grab my shoes but keep running barefoot. The image of him hunched over and nearly falling from his chair—the sound of his voice when he bent over, scratchy and desperate and pleading—it pushes me forward.
When I reach the village, the tunnels are empty. They always look empty, but there’s an eerie quiet and more shadows than light cast by the torches. That’s when I realize why Shadow was so set on my leaving. It’s nearly nightfall, and the griffin will be out any minute. I reach my room and yank open the door, slamming it behind me and throwing myself against the bed.
It takes several minutes of just lying there, half of me on the bed and half on the floor, to catch my breath. Meanwhile I can hear the first distant, screeching roar of the griffin echoing down the tunnels.
Seven
I don’t dream of Shadow—of anything—tonight, but I don’t sleep well either. In fact, I don’t sleep much at all. I’m awake well into the night; when I finally do fall asleep, I wake multiple times before giving up and sitting up in bed, watching the embers in the fireplace flicker, listening to the awful noise. The morning seems to take forever to arrive. Finally, flames start to creep up from the wood in the fireplace. The echoes in the tunnels gradually fade; the griffin is returning to its den. Soon Adele brings in breakfast and our routine begins.
For the third morning in a row, I stop in at the garden and socialize before returning to the castle. It strikes me that time seems to pass in a strange way in this place. Days hurry by; nights come up suddenly and are reluctant to leave; dreams feel like minutes, but last the whole time you’re sleeping.
When I walk through the castle, I pass by everything else to find Shadow’s room again. I’m soon at his doors; I enter without a second thought. “Shadow! Hello there. It’s me again. Are you feeling okay?” I inject more cheeriness into my voice than is probably normal for the occasion, but—as he would probably word it—we did part during rather unusual circumstances last night.
He’s sitting in his chair, a bit slumped over and hunched up. I can’t tell whether he’s still feeling ill, or if he’s just tired, or if maybe he’s down today.
It turns out it’s none of the above. His shoulders roll back and the hood raises slowly. His arms stretch out under the cloak and I notice just how large and loose the garment is. “I’m sorry. You were sleeping, weren’t you? I should’ve knocked. Of course, that would have woken you anyway. Sorry.”
He stands up and makes some sort of gesture with his arm, which indicates welcome, I think. “It’s fine. Good morning.” I can hear the grogginess in his voice, which makes me smile.
“Good morning. Are you feeling okay? You’ve slept in a good while, I’d say. Although I can’t tell time down here…can anybody do that?” I know I’m babbling now, but I can’t seem to shut up.
He shakes his head. “Time is a strange and useless thing in the tunnels.”
I nod. “So you’re better then?” I pause. “When I left last night, you seemed…well, you weren’t quite yourself, really.”
He laughs, but it’s not a normal laugh. It’s almost like he’s angry again. It’s new to me; until last night, I’d never heard him truly angry. “Yes, that’s one way to put things.” He laughs his strange laugh again before shaking his head. “You reached your room safely, then, last night?”
“Yes, yes, of course.” Old-timey gentleman that he is, of course he’s more worried about me being out late than whatever made him double over in pain.
He stands and offers me his chair. I make myself and my billowing skirts comfortable on the floor, so he takes the chair himself. I don’t know why he keeps
bothering, really. In my mind, that chair is his spot. The floor isn’t really that bad. We sit in silence for a few minutes. I can’t think of anything to say, and it seems he never really starts conversations—too afraid to let something slip, I suppose, and endanger whatever he’s trying to protect.
I keep up the overly-lighthearted demeanor. “How about today?”
“What do you mean?”
“You said I’d see you eventually. How about today? And please, don’t just sit there thinking about it. A yes or no will work just fine.”
He replies very slowly, drawing out each word. “No, I don’t think today is a good idea.”
“All right then. Maybe tomorrow.” I act like we’re discussing a trip to the grocery store, brushing it off as no big deal. Yesterday just felt so dramatic, and I want to go back to the easiness of before I ever asked to see him. “So what shall we do today? I think you and I ought to do something. Sitting in here must get boring. How about you show me around the castle?”
In reply, he stands and walks to the doors, holding one open for me. “That is a very good idea.” He pauses. “I’d offer you my arm, but I’m afraid I can’t be a gentleman. I’m truly sorry. I simply can’t.”
I push myself up, brush my hands off on my skirt, and step out the door. Shadow is just one mystery after another, but right now I’m just going to go with it. I decide not to say anything in response to his gentleman comment. “All the rooms are beautiful, but I really liked the library and the ballroom. Since there’s not really much to do in the ballroom, what say we go to the library?”
He follows me out the door and lets it fall closed behind us. “I beg to differ with your concept of ballrooms, considering the convention known as dancing. I find it quite enjoyable.”
He’s never exactly teased me before, but I can still pick it up from his lifted tone. “You would, mister old-fashioned, but you don’t want to see me dancing.”
“I must argue once again.” His words sound teasing still, but his voice is softer, lower. I’m not sure what to make of it. We stand there, me looking at his tilted hood, not certain if he’s looking back at me or not.
After a moment’s silence, he sweeps his arm out. “The library, then?” The lightness has returned to his voice.
I smile, still confused but trying to shake the feeling away. “The library.”
We walk side by side down the dirt tunnel, and then the paneled hallway, to the library. Shadow’s cloak fits well with the dimly-lit dirt tunnel, but in the hallway bathed with sunlight, it casts add shadows across the walls. I’ve named him well, I think. He’s cloaked in shadows inside and out.
Once we’ve arrived, the morning passes quickly, the time marked by subtle changes in the light pouring from the windows. All the books are written in French, but I understand enough of the words to get the general idea from most of the stories. I guess I’ve been doing better learning from the villagers than I’d realized. Immersion learning and all that.
I pick out a poetry book and ask Shadow to read a poem to me. Just because I understand the idea of the words doesn’t mean I can speak or read them properly and smoothly, and that’s the way poems are meant to be read. I pull down a small, skinny book with a faded, pale pink cover and carry it to the window seat where Shadow has been sitting, quietly watching me browse. I don’t recognize the author’s name, but I think it’s a man’s name. The title reads ‘Sonnets pour Helene.’ I figure sonnets written by men for women are usually either melodramatically tormented or beautifully inspired love poems, and both categories carry potential for some form of entertainment.
Shadow doesn’t take the book when I hold it out to him. He doesn’t even move. The only reason I can think of would be my possibly seeing his hands, but I don’t say anything. After only a moment, I sit in the window seat beside him and carefully place the open book in his lap.
He begins reading without saying anything about my selection. “Si c’est aimer, Madame, et de jour et de nuict, resver, songer, penser le moyen de vous plaire…” The words seem to come from some hidden part of his throat and lift off his tongue so beautifully and naturally. I can tell that, while he speaks English perfectly well, French is definitely his native language. I can also tell that a book of love poems was a stupid choice on my part. My palms start to sweat and I can hear my pulse pounding in my ears. I get nervous too easily. Even as comfortable as I am with Shadow, a mysterious guy reading a love poem directly to me in the language of love…well, it’s not the greatest thing for my composure.
I close my eyes and listen to the words, reminding myself to enjoy the artistry of the poem and the beauty of French rather than focus on the guy reading a love poem to me. To be honest, it’s harder to follow than I expected. I only understand about half of the words.
“Would you like me to translate it for you?”
My eyes snap open. He’s finished reading the poem. I think he’s looking at me, but of course I can’t tell for sure. I swallow, reminding myself that people can’t tell when you’re nervous if you play your body language right. Don’t wipe my palms on my skirts, keep a normal face, steady voice…I tell myself I should find something else for us to read, but I hear myself answering, “Yes, that would be nice. I can understand a lot of French lately—I suppose that’s from the magic, isn’t it?—but not enough for poetry.”
Instead of beginning the translation, he replies, “I don’t believe the magic has an effect on your understanding of language.”
This gets my attention. “Really? But what else could explain it? I mean, I’ve never taken French lessons until this year. I’m not one of those people who just picks these things up easily, either. Magic would have to be the reason I’m picking it up so quickly. Right?”
He doesn’t answer, ever the mystery. I think my confusion with the things he says is going to give way to frustration sooner rather than later. Without a response to my questions, he picks the book back up and sits looking at it, probably reading over the lines again, before translating. “A sonnet for Helene, by Pierre de Ronsard. If it is love, Madam, to by day and by night think of the ways to please you, to forget all things else and to want nothing else, to want only to worship and serve the beauty that afflicts me; if it is love to pursue a happiness which eludes me, to lose myself in solitary pain and loneliness, to suffer greatly in silence, to cry and scream for mercy while none see me; if this is love, to live more in you than in myself, to hide my languishing behind a front of happiness, to feel in the bottom of my soul the unequal battle I fight, to be both hot and cold in the fever of love, to feel shameful when speaking to you and confessing my torment; if this is love, I love you with a fury. I love you, and know very well my malady is fatal. My heart says enough; my language is silent.”
I sit quietly for a minute, thinking about the words of the poem and trying to breathe my erratic pulse back to normal. “That was beautiful. Who did you say wrote it?”
“Pierre de Ronsard. This was actually written after I came to the tunnels; there are several books like that here. None of them were written more than about fifty years after. The magic is unexplainable and illogical like that sometimes. But this entire library was created and kept up by that magic, and it’s certainly one of its best creations.” His sudden openness, this volunteered information, takes me off guard. It takes me a minute to process what he’s telling me.
“Wait. You’re saying you’ve been here how long?”
He doesn’t answer, and I realize he’s said more than he intended.
“You’ve already told me you’ve been here impossibly long. I don’t see how it would hurt anything to tell me just how long—or at least an estimate. We’ve already established that keeping time is pretty much impossible and pointless besides.”
He hesitates before giving in. “Yes, you’re probably right. I’m not entirely sure how long it’s been, though.”
“Well, give me a date—a year, at least—and I can subtract fro
m when I fell in.”
He doesn’t say anything at first, and I’m disappointed that the unexpected moment of openness has passed, but then he whispers softly, “1500s.” A little louder, he clarifies, “More specifically, the 1530s.”
This shouldn’t shock me. I mean, just look at what I’m wearing. The entire town is a miniature Renaissance. Still, it takes me longer than it should to reply—partly out of shock, and then me doing the mental math. I never was great at math. “That would mean it’s been almost…five hundred years.” The end of my sentence is barely a whisper.
He doesn’t reply. We sit there for several minutes, lost in our individual thoughts. So many questions fly through my mind. I’m hesitant to ask, afraid I might inadvertently shut this conversation down entirely. Eventually, though, I voice them aloud, knowing Shadow probably won’t answer them all, but putting stock in that odd comfortable feeling I get with him. I think he’ll be okay with my asking just about anything, as long as I’m okay with all the questions he can’t answer.
“How can the magic do all of this—keep this place up and preserve everything and everyone—for so long? It has to be incredibly powerful. Magic like that would terrify me, I think.” Now that I’ve started talking, I’m just thinking out loud, no filter. I feel as safe speaking my mind to Shadow as I do talking to myself in an empty room. Maybe that should scare me, considering how little I know about him and his world, but right now, it doesn’t. “And how can you all survive five hundred years in this place? Don’t you ever get claustrophobic, or long to see someplace new, or miss the sunlight? Does nobody ever get sick or anything? I mean, you have magic windows and the villagers can visit the gardens and each other’s homes, but it’s not the same as a regular life. And another thing. Why is it that the villagers forbid each other—or are forbidden, or whatever it is, I’m still a little fuzzy on the rules—to come down here to the castle? Is it because of the griffin? If it is, why haven’t you forbidden me to leave? I mean, you’re apparently the one in charge here. Unless the magic somehow protects me and not them? A princess thing or whatever?” I’m nowhere near finished, but Shadow clears his throat. I stop for him to respond.
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