Princess Juniper of the Anju

by Ammi-Joan Paquette

Zetta looked ready to take on the world.

  By contrast, Juniper’s layered underclothes were stiff inside her bodice, and her dress dark and dirt-scabbed. The hand-sewn peonies on her skirt were snagged and weeping embroidery thread like muddy tears. Her cloak was crusted with gummy, half-melted sweetcrystal, and her hair would have scared away a nesting rat. She’d tried to use her bone-handled comb on it that morning, but had finally given up. She’d ended up yanking it into a tail and using the last of her pins to jam it tight against her head, then had wound it all several times around with one of the velvet ribbons she’d ripped from her waistline. The dress was headed for the scrap pile anyway, more was the pity. What would her Comportment Master say if he could see her now? Juniper bit off a manic giggle, which almost made her dissolve into tears. Just thinking of her hated Comportment Master, her beloved palace, her precious endangered father was almost too much to bear.

  Juniper’s resolve hardened. She would bear all the mud in the world, suffer through every blister, and never sleep another night in her life if it would bring her through these Trials victorious, if it would give her a way to free her father and save her kingdom.

  A way to make the Monsians pay.

  Her mind skipped to Jessamyn’s little spy cat. Was it still snoozing away in its hollow stump? Or could it have made its way to the Basin and back? Could it be waiting even now with a message tucked into its collar pouch?

  Juniper realized that Odessa was standing in front of her, holding a crisp, newly rolled sheet of parchment. Juniper took it, fingers trembling as the last sleepy cobwebs brushed from her mind. The old woman’s smile held a private look Juniper had come to recognize over the past few days: There were words hidden in the depths of her eyes, words Juniper could never fully make out but that burrowed deep in her mind, in her heart, in her spine.

  I’ll make you proud, Grandmother! she vowed.

  She glanced at Cyril, who looked annoyingly well rested. And his hair freshly washed, to boot! When had he had time for that? At least my dirt is warm and lived-in, she thought miserably.

  Juniper stifled one last yawn for the road. Then she unfurled the parchment sheet. Cyril leaned in, and they read together:

  The Chieftain Trials: Test of Mind

  Candidates shall proceed to the Memory Wall.

  There, they shall contribute to the tribe’s store of knowledge and history by creating a panel containing such events as bring value to the collective heritage.

  The completed task shall be reviewed and must be approved by the Memory Keeper for accuracy and relevance.

  Candidates shall return with this task accomplished in full before the morrow’s sunrise.

  May the best prevail!

  From her tour of the Anju village, Juniper knew that the Memory Wall was a giant dropsy tree, impossibly tall, which held pride of place at the village’s very center, not far from the Climbing Tree. The other two candidates were off like arrows; Juniper let them go. The task would likely be the easiest of all for the Anju contestants. They’d probably even been expecting it, living as they did with this monument in their midst. For Juniper, though, this test foretold only despair. What could she possibly hope to contribute to the history of a people she knew nothing about? In vain, she ran her mind over the tales her mother had told her as a child: They were nothing but stories. “The Girl Who Licked the Moon”? “Three Buffoons on a Barge”? “Two Went Up, Four Came Down”? Legends, all of them, fables, tall tales. Fanciful and dreamlike and perfect for listening to while curled up close to the person who loves you most in the world.

  But right for inclusion on a historical monument? Hardly.

  They reached the Memory Wall at last, and Cyril let out a low whistle. The giant tree had a smooth, pale, canvas-like bark, across which Anju history rippled out in the form of meticulous carvings, clearly done over the course of years and decades and centuries. Juniper walked slowly around the living historical record, letting herself take it all in. It seemed a lifetime ago that she and Zetta had breezed through their tour of the Anju village, with Tippy bobbing around them like a jaybird new from the nest. Back then, the tree had been a novelty, a wonder, something to admire and gawk at.

  Now it looked suspiciously like the portent of her doom. The downfall of her entire country. For what could she hope to add to this cultural masterpiece?

  Still, studying this treasure trove of lore, of information—this record of her past, her heritage—filled something inside her, pooled in hollows she hadn’t known were there. This was part of the reason she’d come on this quest, after all.

  And the other?

  Juniper clenched her hands into fists. She wasn’t giving up, not by a long shot. She had a whole day and a night ahead of her. Who knew what pertinent historical truths she might recall in that time? As for whether they passed muster—that would be in the hands of fate.

  • • •

  The trunk of the structure known as the Memory Wall was as wide around as the Great Tree back in the Basin. But where that tree was squat and stubby, the aptly named Memory Wall shot proudly into the sky. Thick, leafless branches cut straight out at regular intervals, and were hung with rope ladders and hammock seats, apparently for use by any who wished to view the historical artistry.

  Today, however, the tree seemed to be reserved for the candidates, for they were the only ones upon it—though various onlookers milled around the ground and in the trees nearby, keeping an eye on the excitement.

  Zetta was already hard at work. Perched up high, leather-clad legs dangling to either side of a branch, she was carving at the trunk with a sharp, pointed stone. Libba sat lower down, holding an equally suitable stone, but hadn’t yet begun cutting into the bark. She seemed hesitant, and kept looking from side to side as though for escape.

  Juniper didn’t blame her. From her vantage point, she could see many of the exquisite carvings. Each was numbered to show its year, though they didn’t seem displayed in consecutive order. Some names and other words were included—here Juniper saw Torr and there Monsia—but for the most part, the images told the stories. She saw a small group of people make their way from the far north, down through the mountain range. She saw them settle on the southwestern coast, establish themselves, grow populous. Juniper shifted, following the pictographic story as invaders swept in with forked swords and sharp-pointed helmets. She saw dead and maimed Anju scattered across the tree’s scarred bark canvas. She saw survivors, few and bedraggled, make their determined way back north. She saw them carve out their own refuge in the mountains: safe, solitary, out of sight.

  There was more—a lot more. She could see glimpses of sickness and disease, fires and floods, sweeping disasters and times of great joy. She saw tales of chieftain after chieftain and learned of their exploits. But there was one thing she didn’t find. Juniper didn’t realize what she’d been searching for until finally it crystallized.

  She grabbed hold of a rope and started to climb. She ran her eyes across the bark, flitting from one historical record to the next, her excitement growing with every passing moment. On the ground, she could see Cyril frowning at her in puzzlement. He clearly had no idea what she was doing. But his hands were clenched in a gesture of unconscious solidarity; she knew he could sense her rising hope.

  By the time she’d reached the top and circled all the way back around the tree’s breadth, she felt her satisfaction bubble up and overflow.

  She shinnied down the rope and landed with a bounce at Cyril’s feet.

  “What now?” he said. “You’ve got a face like a cat meeting a fishbowl. I suppose I’ll have to hear you go on and on about some grand new idea you’ve gotten into your head.” He waited expectantly.

  Juniper beamed at him. “It’s your lucky day,” she said. “You get to help me tell the world about one of your favorite people.”

  17

  WHAT WAS MISSING FR
OM THE MEMORY WALL’S chronicle was simple: Alaina, daughter of Odessa, almost-but-not-quite Chieftain of the Anju, Queen of Torr, and wife of King Regis. Mother of Juniper. There was neither mark nor mention of her from tap of root to tip of leaf.

  Juniper couldn’t have been more pleased.

  Her mother’s story was entirely at her disposal to tell. She couldn’t have asked for a better opportunity. Cyril’s mouth turned over when she shared her news with him. Oh, the moment was sweet! All that time Cyril had spent lurking in the shadows throughout Juniper’s childhood, whispering taunts about her mother’s heritage and bloodline. In his dark obsession, he’d become a sort of expert on the very person he so disdained. Now Juniper would use this ill-gotten knowledge to supplement her own and to help her craft a viable historical timeline.

  “Cyril,” she said briskly, thinking now of those cleverly sketched maps Tippy had found in his tent weeks ago. “You know your way around a stylus, I think?”

  Distracted from his funk, Cyril looked up. “Top of my class,” he drawled.

  Juniper enjoyed a good list-making session. Her passion for schedules and timelines was embarrassingly well known. But one thing she could decidedly not do was draw. She thrust her stylus into Cyril’s hand, then hunted along the ground until she found a stone that settled comfortably in her grip, and which came to a sharp pointed end.

  “Let’s climb up, then,” she said. “I’ll direct. You sketch. Then I’ll carve the finished design into the bark. A team, yes?”

  For a moment, Cyril seemed to teeter between his distaste at the subject and his enthusiasm for drawing. Finally he shrugged and gave a grudging smile. “A team,” he agreed. “Yet again. But don’t get used to it. I can’t keep on bailing you out like this everyday of the livelong week! Why the goshawk you are the one running for chieftain and not myself, I’ve no idea. Surely I’ve done the draco’s share of work on this infernal trek.”

  Juniper looped the rope around her foot and began to climb. “All part of the leadership process, my dear cousin! Utilizing the resources at our disposal. Making do with what we have and all that.” She flashed him a grin through the branches. “After all, even a cracked bucket works when you need to pour.”

  • • •

  The process wasn’t quite as simple as Juniper had first thought. But once they settled into a routine, things moved smoothly. Juniper outlined to Cyril the story she wanted to tell, then they pared it down to its simplest essence. The bark was smooth by tree standards, but it was nothing like actual canvas or parchment, and Cyril’s artistic skills were seriously put to the test. So Juniper kept to the basics: young Alaina’s childhood and training amongst her people, her anticipation of the Trial (she mentally thanked Zetta for this new piece of information), her journey to the castle of Torr, her whirlwind romance and unexpected marriage to King Regis. Her heartbreak at being cut off from her people. Her longing and the wish she never lost, to her dying day, that she might hear word from them again. Despite this, her many good years in Torr. Her regal bearing, subjects who would travel from the far corners of the country to hear her speak, the clinics and care treatments she established to ensure that none lacked for any need that the royal family might be able to help secure.

  By the end of her tale, Cyril paused in his sketching. He tucked the stylus behind his ear and gazed into the distance. “So, it’s possible she may not have been all rotten fruit, that Anju mother of yours.” His face reddened. “Don’t think this constitutes an apology, by the way. And don’t think that I’m not just waiting for the right moment to push you out of this tree, when it’s to my best advantage.”

  “Never crossed my mind,” Juniper said glibly. “But . . . thank you.”

  She hefted her rock again and set to scratching.

  • • •

  To Juniper’s wild delight, she and Cyril were the first to finish the test. They left Zetta gouging at her side of the bark—alone, for her brawny helper apparently lacked the artistic temperament. Libba still stared in clear despair at a blank section of the trunk, as though hoping to conjure a story from its silent sap.

  The Memory Keeper was a wizened old man, who materialized out of a hollow in the tree’s base as soon as Juniper’s and Cyril’s feet hit the ground. He introduced himself as Nolan, then looped a pair of crystal spectacles across the bridge of his nose.

  “Please stay here and await my return,” he rasped, then began a surprisingly nimble climb up the branches.

  “Not bad for an oldster,” said Cyril.

  “You’re leaking admiration everywhere these days,” Juniper teased. “I hardly know you anymore! Wouldn’t Palace Cyril be scandalized at this new turn of character?”

  Cyril scuffed the ground with the toe of his boot. “Palace Cyril may not quite have been all he thought himself to be,” he said, very softly. Juniper let the words hang in the air, too surprised to come up with a suitable answer, until she realized that none was really needed. In silence they watched Nolan, deftly tangled in the thick climbing ropes, as he scooted along their careful depiction from end to end. Partway through, he frowned, moved back to the beginning, and started again.

  Juniper noticed that more villagers had gathered to watch. Nearest her was Tania, the contestant who had been eliminated the day before. The girl looked placid and composed, and Juniper felt a flush of awkwardness. Juniper hadn’t had any part in the girl’s loss, but the encounter still felt like a pothole waiting for a wagon.

  Instead, Tania’s voice was warm and hearty. “It’s a good sign he has been up there this long,” she said in a low, confiding tone. “He can sometimes be up and back down before his rope’s even stopped swinging.”

  “What does he look for?” Juniper asked. “How does he decide if the entry qualifies?”

  “Many things. Content, foremost. If the story’s already been told in any form, it cannot be admitted. If it’s rendered inaccurately. If it’s . . . visually unappealing.” She rolled her eyes. “He’s terribly fussy, but I suppose this work is his life. I can’t imagine what will happen when he passes on and the task must go to another. He’s a legend himself, as much as the Memory Wall.”

  “And if it’s not suitable?” Cyril asked.

  “Then it is stripped. The Memory Keeper files the top layer right off, to remove all trace of it.” She pointed to a pale patch near the front middle of the tree. “This was one from the last Trials, I’ve heard. It was before my birth, of course, but I’m told it was spectacularly grotesque.” Her mouth twisted in sympathy and she lowered her voice further. “’Twas Libba’s mother’s attempt. Artistically untalented to a most astonishing degree! The stuff of legend, that effort was. Libba herself is not near so bad an artist; only she believes herself to be worse yet, despite her mother’s hiring constant instruction for her across all these years. I think Libba has spent a lifetime dreading that she might someday achieve a similar result and live on in infamy herself. Can you see her? She doesn’t even dare to try.”

  The lank-haired girl was, in fact, sitting frozen in the identical position as when Juniper had first climbed down the tree. Only now, her face was wet with tears.

  “She should carve in the story of her mother’s Trial attempt,” said Cyril lightly.

  Juniper looked shocked at the idea, but Tania shrugged. “She could. It is a tribe legend already. But I don’t think she will even lift her hand to start. She’s that afraid of failure.”

  “There must be something we can do to help,” said Juniper. “Can’t we go over and . . . I don’t know, encourage her or something? It doesn’t seem sporting to just sit here on the sidelines, waiting for her to fail.”

  Tania looked at her frankly. “This is a test of leadership. We are looking for the woman who will be the leader of our tribe. A victory of this magnitude cannot be handed along gift-wrapped. It must be clawed out of the hands of destiny, or not at all.”


  Juniper had no answer to that.

  “That’s why, no matter how many of us were shocked at your entry into the Trials, we gave no true opposition. You are of the Blood. You even have training, of sorts. But most of all, you showed the type of brazen fire that our people need in order to survive. We do not live a comfortable life, Juniper Torrence. We are a people whose every hour is a life’s tug with the elements. We need a leader who understands this, and who will bleed and fight and die alongside us. Whether you are that leader or no, I cannot say. But the ember is there, and that is a start. The rest, the Trials will tell.”

  The sound of a clearing throat pulled Juniper’s attention from Tania’s pointed stare on her one side and Cyril’s sardonic raised eyebrow on the other. Nolan the Memory Keeper stood on a narrow planked platform, swinging gently below his observation branch. The clever device caught Juniper’s admiration, and she wished Erick were here to see it, so he might sketch up some plans to try and replicate it in Queen’s Basin.

  Then Nolan opened his mouth, and all thoughts of the Basin fell away. “Juniper Torrence, candidate four. Your tale has been reviewed, and a decision has been made. In veracity: It qualifies. In originality: It qualifies. In representation: Here, too, it qualifies. I hereby judge this entry to be accepted.”

  With no further ceremony, he yanked the pull ropes to lower his pulley-swing to the ground. Then he turned and disappeared into the heart of his tree, slamming the door behind him.

  “He didn’t seem very happy to pass along that decision,” muttered Cyril.

  Tania gave him a baleful eye. “He values truth above all, so that would come before any personal preferences. In any case, you have passed this test—and before either of the others. Well done.”

  The excitement now over, the crowds began to melt away. Many faces looked as sour as Nolan’s had been, but Juniper noticed a near equal number regarding her with open curiosity, some even with grudging admiration. A round, stern-faced man shepherded a gaggle of small children—Littles, she remembered Zetta calling them—who were all craning their necks toward the Memory Wall, hopping up and down in excited attempts to see the new story. But evidently they weren’t allowed up for a closer look until the test was over.