The Emperor's Ostrich

by Julie Berry

  Resting her feet awakened her anxious heart. Would she find Begonia? Would she be all right? A tear dropped from her chin and sank into the dust of the road. She heard footsteps approaching from the other direction. She quickly wiped her face and rubbed her eyes.

  It was a wedding procession, bound for the temple. A bride in a colorful robe walked alongside a tall groom in a white tunic. A priest and a priestess accompanied them, but no other guests or relatives, which was strange. The bride carried a fresh orchid in one hand and held a baby clamped to her hip with the other.

  Any other day, the sight would have made Chrysanthemumsy smile. Today, she was glad that bowing low would hide her face.

  “Blessings on you, on your families, and on the family that is born today,” she told the couple when they paused to look at her.

  The bride took a long look at Chrysanthemumsy.

  “You look sad,” she proclaimed. “Today is no day for sadness. Here. Hold my baby.”

  And without waiting for Chrysanthemumsy to respond or protest, she deposited the child in her lap.

  Rare is the woman who has rocked her own babies to sleep who can refuse any baby thrust into her arms. The hands and heart reach out before the brain has time to wonder if this is a convenient moment. The wise, dark eyes and smiling face of this child warmed Chrysanthemumsy’s heart. But she couldn’t allow any pause in her hunt for Begonia.

  “Ma’am,” she said, hurrying after the couple, which was heading over the grassy knoll to the temple, “any other day I’d be most glad to tend your baby, truly. But my daughter is missing, and I have to go find her.”

  The bride gazed at her thoughtfully. “Was your daughter walking in search of a missing white cow?”

  Chrysanthemumsy hugged the baby tightly to her. “How did you know?”

  “If it weren’t for her, I wouldn’t have met my future husband,” the bride said. She took her groom by the hand. “He’s a woodcutter, and he likes babies. Isn’t he handsome? Say hello, dear.”

  The woodcutter mopped his forehead with his sleeve. “Hello.”

  Chrysanthemumsy’s head began to spin. “My daughter … introduced you to your … to him?”

  The woman nodded. “Just yesterday.”

  “Just yesterday?”

  The couple blushed at each other.

  “You’re joking,” Chrysanthemumsy said.

  The woman didn’t take her eyes off her beau. “Not joking.”

  “Oh.” Chrysanthemumsy was at a loss. “Well, then, congratulations.”

  The priestess cleared her throat. “It is time to begin.”

  “But when yesterday? Where? Was she all right? Can you point me toward the spot?”

  The bride took her place beside her woodcutter groom and took his arm, then turned and gave a disapproving “Shh” to Chrysanthemumsy.

  Chrysanthemumsy was stuck. She couldn’t set the baby down and leave. She had to know whatever this strange person could tell her about her daughter’s whereabouts. And she couldn’t very well interrupt a wedding for it. So she took her place toward the rear of the temple and bounced the baby up and down to make him smile. A smiling baby can gladden any heart, and she needed all the hope she could find.

  She stood behind a marble pillar and whispered to the child.

  “If only you could talk, little man,” she said. “Did you meet my Begonia? Did you?”

  The baby beamed and giggled.

  “So you’re getting a new papa today, aren’t you?” she whispered. “Do you like him?”

  Again, the baby beamed.

  “That’s good. It’s plain to see your mama likes him.” She smiled, not unaware that she was carrying on a conversation with an infant. “He’s so smitten with her, he can’t get a word out. Some men are like that around ladies. But you won’t be, will you, my fine little fellow?” As if in reply, the baby babbled happily.

  She tuned an ear toward the words of the priestess and the priest. The ceremony was nearly at an end. The priest sang the short song of love sung at every wedding. The newly married couple took each other by the hand, and then they were told to kiss. The woodcutter had to bow quite low to reach his new bride’s lips. His cheeks flushed red. But both of them looked so happy to be married that Chrysanthemumsy couldn’t help but smile.

  “What’s going on here?” demanded a loud voice.

  Chrysanthemumsy slipped behind her pillar and held the baby close. Imperial soldiers! Four of them, marching into the temple. The echoes of their stamping boots shattered the peace that ought to fill a temple always. Soldiers at a wedding? It was unheard of!

  “A wedding, good sirs,” said the priestess, “as you can see.”

  “Did you file the proper marriage paperwork?” demanded the leader. “Did you pay the wedding tax?”

  The new couple and the priest and priestess gazed at one another in bewilderment.

  “Paperwork?” asked the priest.

  “What tax?” demanded the bride.

  “Twenty silver buckles, to be paid by the groom, for the privilege of marrying one of the emperor’s female subjects.”

  “What?” roared the woodcutter, bashful no longer.

  The soldier read from a scroll. The broken wax seal on it still seemed new and fresh.

  “Twenty silver buckles, to be paid by the wife, each time she bears a child,” he continued, “for the privilege of adding a new subject to the emperor’s realm.”

  “Doesn’t the emperor want new subjects?” asked the new wife.

  The soldier grinned. “Of course he does,” he said. “Lots of them.”

  Chrysanthemumsy shook her head. Such taxes were unheard of! The baby in her arms, as if sensing her disgust, began to make fussing sounds. Chrysanthemumsy hushed him the best she could. Suppose they demanded a tax for babies already born?

  “Since when?” demanded the woodcutter, and there was no mistaking the challenge in his voice. He was a tall and brawny man, who could no doubt do great damage with his ax, but his ax wasn’t here. And these four soldiers were fully armed.

  “Since the new chancellor came into power,” answered the soldier.

  “What new chancellor?” demanded the woodcutter. “Whoever he is, his taxes and fines’ll ruin the empire!”

  “We army men like him just fine,” the soldier answered. “He’s doubled the pay of every soldier in the empire. Now, are you going to pay your marriage tax, or aren’t you? The fine doubles if you pay it after the marriage.” His smile wasn’t pleasant at all. “But I’ll cut you a break, since the rule is so new. Thirty silver buckles, and we’ll call it even.”

  “But we didn’t know,” protested the woodcutter’s new wife.

  “Ignorance is no excuse,” said the soldier.

  The woodcutter clenched his fists. “Did you just call my wife ignorant?”

  “No fighting in the sacred temple!” cried the priestess. “You’ll offend the ancestors!”

  The soldiers’ hands went to the pommels of their clubs.

  “Out! Out!” the priestess shrieked.

  The party stumbled out of the cool reverence of the temple and into glaring sunlight. Chrysanthemumsy stayed inside the temple’s shadows with the baby, peering around the doorway to watch.

  “Now,” said the soldier, “are you going to pay? Or do we need to take you for a ride?”

  The breath in the woodcutter’s nostrils reminded Chrysanthemumsy of a snorting bull.

  “I can’t pay,” he said. “But even if I could pay, I wouldn’t.”

  His new bride covered her face with her hands.

  “Take him in, men,” ordered the soldier. “Some time in the Imperial Dungeons ought to cool him off.”

  The woodcutter fought bravely and gave more than one soldier a punch in the jaw that would loosen teeth, and jabs in the eyes that would surely leave bruises for days. But in the end, he was no match for their weapons, and he was too young and full of life to seriously want to die. They tied his wrists behind his back and
prodded him toward the road. His head hung low, and he turned to gaze sorrowfully at his new wife, still clutching her drooping orchid.

  The captors and their prize vanished over the hillock. Chrysanthemumsy ventured out of the temple and placed an arm around the abandoned bride’s shoulders.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said softly.

  The woman wiped her eyes with a square of cloth.

  “Another short marriage.” She sighed. “It seems to be my lot in life.” She reached for her baby, who went joyfully into her arms. Poor mite. He knew nothing of what had just gone on.

  “Well,” she continued, “it is what it is. And there go my plans for the day. I was going to make my new husband a dinner of chicken noodle soup. But there’s little point in that now, is there?”

  Chrysanthemumsy shook her head. “Don’t you want to try to get your husband out of prison?”

  “Does anyone ever leave the dungeons?” she answered sadly. “Of course I want to get him out, but I haven’t so much as a half-buckle.”

  Chrysanthemumsy had only just met this woman, but after witnessing this scene, she felt sisterly toward her.

  “It’s an awful feeling, being powerless to help the ones we love,” she said. Thoughts of Begonia swam into her mind, and her eyes filled suddenly with tears.

  The woman gazed into Chrysanthemumsy’s grief. “You’re afraid for your daughter,” she remembered aloud. Then she straightened up. “Our paths lie in the same direction. Lotus City is this way, and so’s your girl. I might as well help you find her. Come on. Let’s go. Here. You hold the baby.”

  18

  A CARNIVAL MAN, AND A TREACHEROUS PLAN

  Poka, proprietor of Poka’s Carnival of Curiosities, swung one shiny-booted leg over his horse’s back and jumped to the ground.

  He was stout, though strong, with a broad, shiny face and a smile filled with teeth. He wore a purple striped vest over his impressive trunk, with a vivid blue coat and tails and tie, and bright red trousers. He lifted his tall hat to the newcomers, then rubbed his hands together. Keeping his horse on a lead, he approached Begonia’s party.

  “I know what that is,” he said, pointing. “That’s a postrich. What a beauty! Seen pictures of ’em in books, but never in Camellion. Temple bells, but he’s big. Lookit those legs! They say”—he leaned in close—“they say the emperor has a few in his private menagerie. What I wouldn’t give to get a peek at that. And sell tickets to it. Har! Har!”

  “It’s not a postrich. It’s an ostrich,” said Begonia.

  He patted her head as though she were a poodle. “You’re dealing with Poka, an expert in animals, rare and strange. If I say it’s a postrich, it’s a postrich.”

  Stormcloud hissed at Poka. Begonia secretly agreed with her.

  Poka surveyed the entire group. “There’s a story here. I’m sure of it,” said he. “What would cause a postrich to allow a rider? Why is this cow following the bird? And why are these poor little orphans tagging along?”

  Begonia said nothing. Poka didn’t deserve an answer. For once, Key kept silent also. Lumi urged his ostrich forward, and their party kept on going. But Poka would not be so easily deterred. He and his horse walked along beside them.

  “You, sir,” he said, addressing Lumi, “appear to be the man in charge. Who might you be? And tell me, how much for that postrich?” He reached his hand into his blue coat and pulled out a small pouch of black velvet. “I’ll give you fifteen silver buckles for him.” Inside, Begonia could hear the heavy chink of buckles, a sound she hadn’t had much occasion to hear before. She’d only heard the clink of little copper buttons, and rarely that.

  Lumi pointed his nose in the air and kept going. For once, Begonia blessed his arrogance.

  “Family pet, I take it,” said Poka, trotting along beside them. “Sentimental value. All right, then.” He pulled another, fatter purse from a deeper pocket. “Twenty buckles? Name your price.”

  “You’re wasting your breath,” Begonia told him. “He doesn’t like people.”

  “But everybody likes me,” protested Poka. “I’m the man who’s made a million smiles!”

  Poka planted himself directly in the ostrich’s path. Stupid of him, Begonia thought. His face now was red and sweating, but he kept his teeth beaming full-force at Lumi.

  “I tell you, sir, it’s downright selfish of you to hog a fine specimen such as that all to yourself,” said Poka, “when he could be the prize display at Poka’s Carnival of Curiosities, bringing pleasure and delight to one and all throughout the empire, old and young and young at heart. In Poka’s carnival, he’d be treated better than the emperor. He’d be the belle of the ball, the star of the show, the plum in a plum cake like Mother used to bake. ‘Poka’s Prize Postrich,’ we’d call him, and I’d have the sign painted in big orange letters, with black trim. Now, let’s make a deal. Twenty-five silver buckles? What do you say?”

  When Lumi made no response, Poka glanced back toward the rest of the company.

  “I tell you what. I’ll even throw in extra for the cow and the two urchins. Take them right off your hands, and you’ll walk away a carefree man with thirty silver buckles jingling in your pocket. Thirty silver buckles, and that’s my final offer.”

  “We’re not for sale!” Begonia cried. “Why don’t you leave us alone?”

  “A feisty one!” cried Poka. “I’ll find a good use for her. She can sell tickets at the carnival and make sure nobody tries to sneak in without paying.”

  Lumi’s disdain for Poka overcame his snobbish silence at last. “Make way, you … you tradesman,” he said with a sneer. “Begone.”

  Begonia almost cheered for Lumi. That proved what kind of a day she was having.

  “I don’t think you even have a carnival,” she said. “Where is it?”

  “Coming along behind me, maybe half a mile back,” said Poka. “It’s a slow operation, toting all those smelephants and frynoceroses. But with Poka’s Carnival of Curiosities, every exhibit, from the man-eating tigers to the dancing bearded lady, travels in elegant style.”

  “Step aside, vulgar entertainer, and let us pass,” ordered Lumi. “Our journey won’t keep for someone such as yourself.”

  Poka’s toothy smile faltered, and a hard gleam flickered across his eyes. He pocketed his money pouches. “As you wish, as you like,” he said, and rubbed his hands together once more. “Poka lives only to please.”

  Just then, the ostrich’s head popped up and strained forward. Alfalfa sniffed the wind.

  At first, Begonia could make out no sign of what the animals had noticed. Then she caught the sound of faraway hoofbeats, growing louder every second.

  “That carnival of yours travels fast,” said Key.

  Poka examined the ostrich from every side. He pulled a short ruler from his pocket and took a rough measurement of the bird’s legs. “That’s not my carnival,” he said. “Only soldiers ride that fast.”

  Lumi stiffened. A cloud of fear crossed his face. He nudged the ostrich off the road and straight into the woods. Alfalfa followed, and Begonia and Key brought up the rear, but they lingered, crouching in the underbrush to see who was coming in such a rush.

  “What’s the hurry, friends?” Poka called after them.

  The hoofbeats grew louder, cantering at a rapid clip. Four horses came into view. Their riders slowed to a stop at the sight of Poka standing by the edge of the road, holding his horse’s rein. The riders wore black helmets and red tunics, with the clubs and short swords of imperial soldiers belted to their sides.

  “Good morning, good sirs,” Poka called to them.

  “Are you with that traveling circus we just passed?” asked one of the soldiers.

  Poka bowed. “Indeed, I am; Poka’s my name, proprietor of Poka’s Carnival of—”

  “We’re searching for a runaway,” the soldier barked. “A villain who kidnapped the emperor.”

  Begonia’s breath caught in her throat. A violent kidnapper, roaming around these h
ighways? One who had kidnapped the emperor?

  “No!” Poka removed his hat and placed it over his heart. “So close to his grand birthday? How dreadful!”

  Another soldier produced a roll of paper. “We just received word from the palace. There’s a description of him here. Let’s see.” The soldier, who didn’t seem to be the sharpest reader, scanned the paper with a thick finger. “‘Short, puny man.’”

  From their hiding place in the bushes, Key sniggered. “Sounds like Lumi.”

  “Shh.”

  The soldier kept reading. “Where is it, let’s see. Ah. ‘Nasty temper.’”

  Key elbowed Begonia. “Quite the coincidence, eh?”

  “Be quiet!”

  “‘Narrow face,’” the reader went on. “‘Long mustaches.’”

  Key bit his hand to squelch his laughing. “Too funny!” he wheezed. “Sounds like we’re traveling with a kidnapper and his ostrich, eh?”

  Begonia glared at him.

  “A kidnapper and his ostrich,” he repeated. His eyebrows rose, and his eyeballs looked ready to pop. “A kidnapper and his ostrich? A ‘short, ugly, nasty-tempered man—’ You don’t suppose…?”

  Begonia clamped her hand over Key’s mouth before he could say more.

  “Quiet down and settle down,” she ordered. “A dangerous kidnapper? Please! He’s nothing but a big baby!”

  “Yes, but…”

  Begonia watched Poka stroke his chin. “Lots of people are short, with mustaches,” she said.

  “And nasty tempers?”

  “Maybe they go with the mustaches.”

  Across the way, Poka placed his hat back on his head. “Gentlemen,” he told the soldiers, “I’m so glad you’re here. Why, to think that I just came within an inch of my life! It just goes to show you can’t ever trust anybody. The very man you’re looking for just kidnapped a priceless postrich from my carnival. Held me at knifepoint! I fought him off, but he was vicious. My animals mean the world to me, so I followed him here on horseback. Those postriches can travel powerful fast, though. The kidnapper just escaped into these woods.”