His hair was dark golden-brown, his skin a lovely light gold. He seemed surrounded by an aura of pure golden light, sunshine, and beauty. Jane was sure his eyes would be the gentlest amber brown under his dark, straight brows. His nose, so finely sculpted, was almost as pretty as his lips, with their Cupid’s bow and fresh, pink color.
His face was long, his head rectangular; his chin was square and chiseled, and his cheekbones were high. Suddenly, he smiled, and Jane was utterly lost. It was such a smile that even fair Venus might envy it. It was white and straight and so very genuine. It made his eyes glow and brought out tiny and charming lines at each side of his mouth.
He is exquisite, Jane thought, like living sculpture. In the lamplit twilight glow of the darkened theatre, he spoke quietly in a hushed voice:
“Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea,
But sad mortality overstays their power,
How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea?
Whose action is no stronger than a flower?
Oh how shall summer’s honey breath hold out
Against the wrackful siege of battering days,
When rocks impregnable are not so stout
Nor gates of steel so strong but time decays?
Oh fearful meditation! Where, alack,
Shall Time’s best jewel from Time’s chest lie hid back?
Or who his spoil of beauty can forbid?
Or none, unless this miracle have might –
That in black ink my love may still shine bright.”
Jane was in ecstasy. He was reciting Shakespeare. The same beloved sonnets of her childhood that she had almost forgotten, or tried to forget!
Chapter Fourteen
This beautiful young man was saying the same words her mother had said, as she’d read to her tiny daughter so long ago. Jane had not understood so many things about the sonnets when she was a little child, but her mother had patiently explained some of the simpler meanings to her. She had dwelled most on the fear of the passage of time, and the desire to love forever, when they, themselves, were only mortal.
As the young man finished reciting, his words rang in Jane’s ears even as applause rained down on them all. Now, she saw the sonnets in another light. They were codes, perhaps, or a link between the other world her mother had known and the world they lived in together in their small village. The sonnets had been meant to reinforce Jane’s humanity, she was sure.
This sonnet was particularly special to her, for she had always loved nature imagery in poetry, and the idea of summer’s honey breath fighting the cold and miserable times to come was unbearably romantic to her.
She squeezed the Cupid, her eyes glittering in the darkness. She waited for the boy to continue his recitations, and she prayed there would be more, for this night was flooding her with memories both exquisite and painful beyond bearing. “He’s wonderful at reciting!” she gushed in the Cupid’s ear.
* * * *
The Cupid smiled back at her. He had never heard poetry before. He felt more like a true child in this moment. Perhaps the young man who spoke so truthfully and poignantly had disarmed him with beauty. He held tight to Jane, who should have been weary of carrying him by now, but she did not utter a single word of complaint.
The Cupid much preferred this part of the recital to the children’s infernal singing. In truth, he loathed the children of the village. Often, he was forced to play with them or else people would find it odd, and yet he had no desire to make cakes out of mud and fight with wooden soldiers and pull toy wagons!
That was wonderful, he thought, his heart stirring. He felt truly touched after the sonnet ended, and a tear came to his eye, for he had never heard such beautiful sentiments. They were bittersweet, yet joyous. He could not remember crying before. He had not thought he could.
“My name is Blake Stirling,” said the handsome young man who stood alone on the stage. The applause had died down now. “Some of you may remember me as the babe born to Lord and Lady Stirling sixteen years ago. I left the village when I was five because I was quite seriously ill and needed special doctors, and so we moved to the great City. I’ve come back from boarding school and I plan to stay in the village again, for my lingering illness has been cured. I wish you all a Merry Christmas!”
The crowd cheered and chattered among themselves.
“So handsome, and a Lord,” the girls twittered as their male companions looked crestfallen. The Cupid listened to the whispers all around them as people gossiped about the young man. Apparently, the elders in the crowd remembered Lord Stirling as a forbidding and cold, almost cruel, man who had lived in an imposing estate on a hill above the town overlooking the river.
Lady Stirling had been a quiet sort of woman, and often ill, just like her sickly son. The Stirlings were rich, and therefore somewhat of a mystery to the townspeople, for they did not need to involve themselves much in everyday village business, nor did they ever frequent the Crown of Thorns for a friendly pint.
The buzzing swelled and died down as the boy gently cleared his throat.
“I am fond of Shakespeare, and I have acted in several of his works at school.” He smiled shyly. “Not too well-acted, I am sure, but I tried, and I do love his words. The sonnet you just heard was one of his, and now I wish to recite another for you, if you will have me.”
The women erupted in cheers and encouraging claps. The older men clapped too.
“Thank you,” he said, again smiling the sweetest smile. “This sonnet is infamous, for some scholars do not believe it was actually written by William Shakespeare. I myself am unsure, but have always been intrigued by it nonetheless. It is a sonnet surrounded by controversy.” He laughed softly. “Perhaps the magic of Twelfth Night will somehow unravel the mystery of sonnet 153...
“Cupid laid by his brand, and fell asleep:
A maid of Dian’s this advantage found,
And his love-kindling fire did quickly steep
In a cold valley-fountain of that ground;
Which borrow’d from this holy fire of Love
A dateless lively heat, still to endure,
And grew a seething bath, which yet men prove
Against strange maladies a sovereign cure.
But at my mistress’ eye Love’s brand new-fired,
The boy for trial needs would touch my breast;
I, sick withal, the help of bath desired,
And thither hied, a sad distemper’d guest,
But found no cure: the bath for my help lies
Where Cupid got new fire--my mistress’ eyes.”
In the darkness, Cupid sucked in his breath and reached back for his arrow, feeling for it in the darkness. He could not see which arrow it was he chose, but it did not matter, for he was in a trance, as though his whole life and purpose had suddenly been revealed.
He strung his bow in the dark hall as the people cheered and clapped, and he hit young Lord Stirling with his arrow. He could not help himself, and he wondered why he was not scolded or taken out and beaten. The arrows were so sharp. Jane still held him in her arms, as though everything was normal.
The Cupid hit his target. Lord Stirling plucked the arrow from his side and gaze at it in wonder. He dropped it on the ground and stumbled, as though in great pain. He rubbed his side where it had hit and slowly shook his head. Stirling’s eyes were slightly glazed. Then, as Blake looked around him at the crowd, the Cupid realized that no one had seemed to notice. They were cheering and smiling just as before.
* * * *
Blake felt confused and his feelings were terribly hurt. The pain in his side had changed to just a slight tingling. As he bid the crowd goodnight, feeling puzzled and crestfallen, he bent down to find the arrow and examine it. But it was gone.
He walked off the stage and wondered if he had been dreaming. When he pulled up his shirt to look for a wound, there was nothing, not even a reddened area. He sat down and he tried to forget that someone had shot him with an arrow
at the village Christmas Pageant. He felt like crying. Things had been going so well, and then this! He stood in the wings as the other performers took their places for a nativity scene. Blake watched the crowd to try and figure out who had done this to him, and he wondered why.
* * * *
Cupid sat in Jane’s arms, waiting for her to mention the obvious. But nothing came. Had no one truly noticed what had happened? Was he invisible, or his arrows invisible? Jane had a quiet smile on her face, as though she was asleep and dreaming, but with open eyes. It was obvious she was thinking about the young man who had just exited the stage, not the current proceedings.
She kissed the Cupid on his cheek distractedly. He noticed her cheeks were even more flushed, and how alive she seemed tonight. He felt back for his arrows. Was there only one left? The other arrow must be gone forever, and the Cupid felt strange, as though some weight had been lifted. Everything had been invisible to the others! But Jane should have noticed, and she did not. The daughter of Neptune was as blind as the rest to the pathway of Cupid’s arrow.
Chapter Fifteen
Jane could not sleep well that night. Her mind raced with images of the beautiful young man, and she kept waking up to see the little Cupid sleeping peacefully beside her, curled up in a ball like a newborn kitten.
She got up and paced about the room, her heart beating fast. Her memories of her childhood with her mother were few because she had been so young, but the poetry had released them in a torrent, and she felt both despondent for what she had lost and grateful that she could now remember more, and so clearly.
She walked back to the soft bed and watched the Cupid in slumber. It was when he slept that she always thought of the night on the raft. She felt her whole life was embroidered with magic now, and that nothing was real.
Like a tapestry in rich colors, she saw the scenes of her life depicted in her mind’s eye: scenes of sea creatures and razor sharp arrows, flight through autumn skies in the arms of a winged creature, the village covered in light snowfall, her grandmother, the tiny crown that once sat high on a shelf, and next was found upon the figurehead of her mother, far under the sea.
It was all quite miraculous, but too much for such a young girl. Her head ached with the desire to go home and live a simple life, but would that really satisfy her now? She knew it could not the way it once had, and she mourned for the girl who was now someone else. On this long and sleepless night, she even missed the island, where she did not need to play any part, but could simply be the strange girl that she really was, alone with the Cupid and the sand and the rocky cliffs.
She tried to go back to sleep, but she tossed fitfully like a ship caught in the wrath of King Neptune’s darkest moods. She wondered, How will it all end? And who will I be? And she dreamed of the honey breath of soft summer while the skies outside were icy and unforgiving, painting the windows with ghostly frost.
Chapter Sixteen
Meanwhile, the Goddess Minerva was hard at work to discover the whereabouts of Neptune’s princess. She cloaked herself in rags and went to see the oracles that lurked in their dark caves and stirred great cauldrons that steamed with ill-smelling broths. She found these crones little help, for they told her strange tales and bid her beware of the Little One, which made no sense, as they assured her it was not a little girl, but a boy she should fear.
“The boy is not what he seems,” one ancient old woman whispered as she cackled harshly to herself. “He will bring the girl to ruin.”
“But where is the girl?” Minerva would plead. “Where is the girl, and who is this Little One?” She had stared into the rheumy eyes of the old witches who had long been consulted by the gods when their lauded powers failed them. She had never thought she would press gold coins into the gnarled hands of those she had always so distrusted, but pay them, she did, all the while trying to extract a name or a detail that might lead her to the girl.
For the sake of discretion, she veiled her amber eyes as best she could under a heavy hood of coarse fabric, and hid her smooth hands under her gloves. She had no wish for them to know that the Goddess of Wisdom was at their mercy. She wasn’t sure she believed in witches, for wouldn’t they know she was Minerva as soon as they saw her? But none of the crones called her so, or seemed to pay her much mind at all. She was simply another woman who could pay for their services. She liked it not when they peered under her hood, and tried to look deep into her eyes, for what did they see?
The last oracle seemed even older and more disheveled than the rest. Her face was a hatching of wrinkles and sagging skin. Indeed, she was haggard, and quite fearsome to behold. She bent forward to stare at the pure beauty of Minerva, barely concealed beneath her hood, and her eyes lit with envy. The crone backed away a little then, and reached for a crystal ball hidden in the folds of a dirty brown cloak. The witch held it cupped in her hands so that it was almost hidden from Minerva’s view. The Goddess of Wisdom watched silently as the crone shook the ball, waited a moment, and moved closer. The sphere was small, like a large apple, but it gave off a translucent glow in the dank and ill lit cave. The crone beckoned Minerva closer, and bid in her stare into the ball.
“This will lead you to your pretty princess,” she murmured. “Look into the ball and see the golden-haired child you seek.” The ball clouded and cleared, and Minerva drew in her breath as the image of a young girl appeared, as clear and bright as though she were standing there with them. All the while the old witch had started whispering incantations that Minerva, who had thought she knew every language, could not comprehend.
A dark energy filled the cave, and Minerva felt cold and soiled as she stared at the young girl who paced in a small bedroom, fretfully pulling at her hair. There were tears in her green eyes. Her whole body shook with sobs, and Minerva watched her stare out a window. It was snowing there, just as it did, lightly, outside of the cave. Suddenly, the incantations ceased, and the ball clouded up again.
“Wait!” Minerva cried. “Wait, I still do not know where she is!” Angrily, she turned to the crone, whose eyes were closed, a smile stretched upon her skeletal features.
“I will pay!” Minerva told her loudly, for she was angry that the images were cut off so suddenly. Minerva rummaged in her purse for more gold. “I will pay richly for more information,” she told her, watching the old witch open her eyes.
“It’s not money I desire,” the old crone said. “But youth and beauty, if only for a time.” The witch stared coldly at the goddess. “I know who you are,” she taunted. “But still you have need of me.” She laughed a harsh and mocking laugh that made Minerva feel a cold sort of rage. “Give me my youth and some beauty, and I will take you to the girl. I will show you the Little One who will threaten everything you seek to protect. I would do it for myself, and make myself a vision of loveliness,” she witch said angrily, “but I cannot seem to make it work, and I have tried and tried.” She looked hateful as she stared back at her cauldron. “My spells have failed, but you...you could achieve this for me, if you tried.” She smiled slightly. “Think of the girl, so innocent and sad.”
Minerva was appalled at the very idea. “I cannot grant you beauty, for you are terribly old, and I am not that powerful.” Minerva knew that such magic was wrong, that it could be done, but should not be done. To grant such power to an evil woman was clearly sinful and dangerous. Who knew what the end result would be? She had been told the oracles were safe, but this crone was not like the others who only thought of gold coins and what they could buy.
“You can give me what I seek,” the crone whispered, pointing a finger at Minerva. “Go find a way, or begone from here and let the pretty princess fend for herself.”
Minerva stood up to leave. She had injured her dignity by coming here, and there were some things she would not do for anyone since they were wrong. She thought of Neptune’s desolation, but she still felt she could find a better way.
“I will not give you youth and beauty, for you will abuse them
heartily and cause terrible damage to the human race.”
“Then you shall not find your girl, for you have not the spells for that, or you would not be here!” the old witch hissed. She shoved Minerva roughly toward the edge of the cave. “Go forth, and think on what I can give you, and what you have denied me! And beware, for now I know who you seek, and perhaps I shall find her before you do!” She laughed softly, and shivers went down Minerva’s spine. The goddess gathered her robes around her and turned to leave, unwilling to engage in more spiteful dialogue with the witch.
As Minerva left, she applied her considerable logic to this latest problem, and she knew she must hurry away from this place and summon the gods for advice and protection.
“Surely one witch could not foil all my plans?” Minerva murmured. But she was wary. She had felt the evil gathering in the room as the ball revealed the daughter of Neptune. So beautiful she was, too, and so sad.
The witch screamed out at her as she stole away into the night.
“You think the Little One is a problem, you’ve no idea what I can do!” the crone yelled from the edge of the cave. “Bring me beauty, or the girl will surely die!”
Minerva knew she must tell Neptune of the oracle. If this old woman truly knew who Minerva was and still threatened her, she must be powerful indeed, for those who trifled with the gods and made such wild threats were either brave or crazy.
“Perhaps I must bring Jupiter into this after all,” she sighed. She had wished to protect Neptune’s privacy, but things were now out of hand. Confident that she could control the situation, but mindful of the witch’s dark magic, she rushed to find Neptune and let him know that, for the moment, at least, his daughter was alive, if not necessarily well. She wondered why she was so invested in helping the King of The Emerald Sea that she would risk the wrath of her father.
The Secret of the Emerald Sea Page 6
