by Yolen, Jane;
The last one up was Carum, his rage barely checked. Jenna pulled her horse’s head around and urged it toward him with her knees.
“He is right about one thing, you know,” she whispered. “Your face is a clean slate upon which all your thoughts are writ large.”
“I am useless to him,” Carum whispered back miserably. “And he lets everyone know it. Even you.”
“No, you are right and he is turning now, even as we watch, into as much of a callous monster as the toad on the throne. But you must tell me of that story.”
“What story?”
She reached out and touched his horse’s neck, the skin silken under her fingers. “The one about the mouse and the cat. If a small force can indeed overcome a great one, it would comfort me to know how before I try.”
He smiled at her slowly. “Before we try.”
Stroking the horse’s neck, she waited.
Carum told her the tale in a few short sentences and when she nodded in understanding, he sent his horse forward to the front of the line with a swift, silent, energetic kick.
The next day, close to evening, they rode into New Steading from the south. It was market day and the stalls were still open, fruits and breads and silks displayed one next to the other without any discernible order. The cobbled streets, crowded with buyers, were abuzz with the chants and cries of traders. Even above the sound of the horses, Jenna could hear the strange babble of bargains: Fresh haddock, fresh … bread HOT from the … blood root newly dug … buy my weave, buy my bright weavings …
Never having been in such a crowd before, she turned uneasily to stare back at her friends. Petra’s eyes were wide with amazement. Beside her Marek and Sandor were openly gawking and pointing. Only Jareth seemed contained, as if his own silence cocooned him.
They rode in a disciplined line through the main street. Though a few glanced sideways down the twisting narrow ways where tiers of narrow houses leaned familiarly across the alleys, not a one dared straggle. The king was pleased: pleased with the crowds, pleased with his men, pleased with the ease of his entry. His faced showed it.
At the front of the line of riders, Duty suddenly began a high prancing which Jenna could not control. It was as if the horse, faced with an appreciative audience, remembered some previous training. Jenna nearly lost her seat at the first sideward motion. She grabbed the reins, jerking hard. This pulled Duty’s head in and the horse arched her neck until her chin actually touched against her burly chest. Jenna pressed inward with knees and thighs, thinking that any harder and they would go straight through the horse’s sides. Instead, it turned out to be a special signal. In response, Duty raised her own knees in an even higher strut.
Jenna felt a fool, rolling from side to side on the horse’s broad back before the delighted crowd. But the market-goers cheered the horse’s tricks and the king grinned broadly. No one seemed to think it foolish or dangerous, except for Jenna who clung grimly to the reins, keeping her thighs so hard against Duty, they trembled with the effort.
All the way along the main street Duty danced with Jenna fighting to keep both her seat and her dignity. Behind her, the riders began their chant of her name: “THE ANNA! THE ANNA! THE ANNA!” the sound of it bouncing crazily off the stone facades of the houses. Jenna could hardly believe so much sound could come from a simple echo until she realized there were people leaning out of the windows of the houses, waving their hands and calling back to the riders.
“THE ANNA! THE ANNA! THE ANNA!”
It was not clear that they knew what they were shouting, or if indeed they were shouting any distinguishable name. But the sound of it was deafening and some of the horses were made nervous by it, shying away or houghing uneasily through their noses. Their riders sawed at the reins and one or two actually used their whips, which further agitated the mounts. Only Duty seemed to enjoy the scene, actually playing up to the crowds.
The main street ended at wide stone steps that led up to a palatial building. Duty set her front feet on the first step, stopping suddenly, nearly flinging Jenna over her head. Jenna answered by giving a last, hard, angry pull on the reins, wrenching Duty’s head up. The horse whinnied loudly, reared, and kicked her front legs in the air. Jenna hung on. An admiring cheer rose from the children who had scattered along the steps to watch.
When Duty settled down again, Jenna dismounted, shaken, and handed the reins to one eager child. Her legs ached and, for a moment, she was afraid she might not be able to stand. Then she bit her lip, almost drawing blood, and forced herself to face the gathering crowd.
The king dismounted as well, and when he did there were one or two who recognized him immediately despite the worn and tattered clothes.
“It’s the old king’s son,” someone cried out.
“The new king, then,” an enormous woman said.
“Gorum!” The name was spoken first by a black-haired young man, taken up quickly two and three times by his friends.
“The king’s Pike,” one added.
Word of him paced the arrival of more New Steadingers, and soon the square was packed tight with townsfolk, most of whom now swore they had known the king at once.
Gorum let the tension build and build, and Jenna had to admire how he acknowledged it, nodding slowly and turning slowly so that all could get a glimpse of him. As the crowd grew, he moved up one step at a time, always careful to keep Jenna on his right hand, Carum on his left, Piet to guard the back; until at last they commanded the very top stairs before the palace, with his men ranging down the sides like an inverted letter V, the king and Jenna at the point. Jenna wondered if Gorum and his men had long planned such a maneuver, for they moved with such precision, or if kings were just born knowing how to do such things. She glanced across at Carum who just shook his head twice but said nothing.
The king raised his hands and everyone quieted; not all at once but in a kind of ripple, from the point of the V downward. When total silence had been achieved, he began to speak, with a grand enunciation, so different from his regular speech.
“You know me, my good people.”
They filled the sudden silence with his title: “THE KING! THE KING!”
He let the echo fade, then smiled. “Not King Kalas. Not that usurping, murdering, piji-eating toad. Not he.”
They laughed and applauded each phrase.
“I am the true-born king, Gorum, son of Ordrum and the lady Jo-el-ean.”
He waited for their approving murmur before continuing. “The king thrust off a throne made vacant by the untimely deaths of my poor murdered father and his wife, your sister of the Dales.”
As if this were the very first time they had heard of the murders, the people groaned. Gorum let the groan swell up, then die away, a falling drift of sound. Just before the last of it was gone, he added, “And the cowardly killing of my brother, the saintly Jorum, who was next in line to be king.”
They moaned again on cue. Jenna noticed Carum shaking his head slightly, though whether it was at the king’s crafty manipulations or the naming of his older brother as a saint, she could not guess.
“But I am here for you, good folk. And as you can see, I am not alone.” This time when he waited there was no vocal reaction at all, but the silence was filled with anticipation. Jenna thought he looked pleased. She was not sure why.
“You see Her,” he said suddenly. “You know Her. You have already named Her.” He held out his right hand to Jenna.
The child holding Duty’s reins cried out in a high, piercing voice that carried around the crowded square: “The White One.”
Caught up in the mummery of the moment, Jenna suddenly put her hand into the king’s, moving closer to him than she had done before. His palm was ice-cold, his fingers iron-strong. Realizing what she had just done, she tried to pull her hand away, but he prisoned it in his. She could not get loose without making an ugly scene, so she stood still, her face a mask.
“Yes,” the king continued smoothly as if Jenna’s
hand in his were easily held, “she is the White One, good folk. The one we have awaited. She was born of three mothers and all of them dead. She killed the Hound to save my brother Carum.” He pointed with his left hand at Carum, but Carum neither moved nor nodded and Jenna felt grateful for that show of quiet dignity.
“And she slew the Bull to save her own sister. We have his ring as proof.” He opened his left hand as if waiting for Carum to drop the ring in. When Carum did not move, the king hesitated for only a second, then dropped Jenna’s hand with a flourish and strode over to his brother. He reached for Carum’s neck, fishing up the leather thong around it. At the thong’s end was a heavy crested ring. Jenna suddenly recalled the severed hand that had last worn it. Dangling the ring before the crowd, the king smiled. The watching people began to cheer.
Dropping the ring against Carum’s chest, the king turned. He let the cheering continue for a long moment and then, with a savage slicing motion of his hand, cut them off.
“And because of the White One, a woman named Cat was killed just two days past.” He waited for the challenge he knew would come.
“’Tis the wrong Cat,” the enormous woman called out. “The Cat that was meant still lives. And drinks his milk from Kalas’ hand.”
Slowly the king turned toward her, his manner courteous but firm. “And do you, my good woman, know how to read prophecy? Are you a Garunian priest? Or a priestess of Alta’s Hames?”
She looked back at him, discomforted. “I know what I know,” she mumbled.
“Then know this as well, woman, prophecy cannot be read straight on. It must be read on the slant!” He roared the last so that all could hear. Then he walked down three steps, leaving Jenna and Carum behind him, passing grim-faced Piet, so that he was in the very middle of the V, the center of all eyes.
“The prophecy says but Cat. Not this Cat nor that Cat. But CAT! And Cat was killed. That makes three.” He held up his hand, counting slowly on his fingers. “One, the Hound. Two, the Bull. Three, the Cat. All killed by the White One, as is writ in prophecy, the Anna for whom we have so long waited. And we have but one more, the Bear, to go and the prophecy will be fulfilled. For She is the one who signals the end of the false reign, the beginning of the new. The Anna.” He flung his right hand back and pointed up at Jenna.
“What you call new was once old,” the enormous woman whispered, but it was clear any argument she had had already met defeat. Trying one last time, speaking loudly enough so that her nearest neighbors could hear, she added, “Besides girls dressing like men, playing at war … taint … taint natural. We’ve all said it.” But her voice was drowned out by the cheers, first of the children, then the grown men and women. And mixed in with those cheers were the names of the king, the Anna, and Carum all intertwined.
THE SONG:
The Heart and the Crown
They rode into town
On the thirteenth of Spring.
She gave him her hand
And he gave her his ring.
She gave him her heart
And he gave her his crown,
But they never, no never
Went down derry down derry down.
Her horse was pure white
And his horse was a gray.
She wanted to go
But he asked her to stay.
She gave him her heart
And he gave her his crown,
But they never, no never
Went down derry down derry down.
Her eyes were pure black
And his eyes were so blue.
She wanted him strong
And he wanted her true.
She gave him her heart
And he gave her his crown
But they never, no never
Went down derry down derry down.
Come all ye fair maidens,
And listen to me,
If you want your young man
To be strong and free,
Just give him your heart
And he’ll give you his crown
Just as long as you never
Go down derry down derry down.
THE STORY:
They had supper in the open atrium of the great town hall with the members of the New Steading council. It was a tremendous banquet, more impressive, Jenna thought, because it had been put together so quickly by the townfolk.
Though she was apprehensive, Jenna discovered that no one really expected her to speak. In fact, her presence at the dinner made most of the New Steadingers uncomfortable and few sought her out. However, most tracked her movements around the tables with cautious, fascinated eyes. It was as if they planned to commit every detail of her dinner to memory, making it into ballads and stories after.
Jenna commented wryly to Petra, “And will they sing about The Day the Anna Ate Apples or rather How the White One Washed Her Fingers?”
Laughing, Petra made up an instant rhyme.
“When Jenna ate apples,
Her teeth crunched the pips,
She stuck bits of bread
Into melted cheese dips,
She ate stalks of celery,
Drank cups of tea
And after went looking
For somewhere to …”
“Enough,” Jenna whispered. “Enough.” She put her hand over her mouth to keep from laughing aloud. But when she sat down at the head of the table, beside the king, she found she had no appetite. The near-unseating by Duty’s clever prancing, the lingering feel of Gorum’s cold hand, the memory of Catrona’s burial, the staring of the New Steading strangers, all conspired to kill what hunger she had had. Even though they put a plate before her, she ate nothing, simply pushing the bits of vegetable and browned meats around with her knife.
The watching councillors saw that she did not eat and a few even wondered aloud at it.
The king said, as if under his breath but loud enough for those closest to hear, “The gods rarely eat of our food.”
His words passed from breath to breath around the table, as he knew they would. Some even believed them.
Petra heard, but did not pass on the king’s message. She could hardly keep from laughing and mouthed at Jenna: “and after went looking …”
Jenna lowered her eyes to the table and did not notice Petra tucking a piece of chicken breast, a large slice of cornmeal bread, and a spring leek into her napkin. But Jareth sitting beside her did, and he added several white mushrooms and a twist of brown bread to Petra’s hoard.
After the dinner, the king spoke again, urging the councillors to conscript men for his army. “To fight the toad,” he said.
They needed little urging, especially sitting as they did under the eye of the Anna and with seven or eight hearty toasts of the dark red wine behind them. They even signed a paper promising him two hundred young men and their weapons. He kissed them each on the right cheek for such largesse and promised that they and New Steading would be remembered.
Jenna waited until the writing was done. But during the congratulations, she stood. The moment she was up, all other movement ceased. Even the serving girls, weighted down with platters, stopped in mid-stride. Jenna wondered what she might say to them. The king had such ease with words, and she had none. She suddenly envied him. Opening her mouth to give at least some thanks, she found she had nothing to say, so she closed her mouth abruptly so she might not sound stupid in the attempt.
At the other end of the long table, Carum leaped to his feet. “We have had a long riding,” he said. “And another to come in the morning. Even an avatar of the Goddess must rest. Human flesh, though it be just the clothing of a great spirit, tires.” He walked to Jenna’s end of the table and took her hand in his. Slowly he raised it to his mouth and set his lips formally on her knuckles. His hand and mouth were warm.
Jenna smiled. Then slowly, gracefully, she withdrew her hand. He let it slip easily through his fingers.
“Thank you,” she said simply to the New Steadingers. “For everything.”
Then she nodded at the king, at Piet, and Petra with the boys, and turned. Carum followed her to the door.
“Don’t worry,” he whispered. “I’m right behind you.”
They fumbled the first turn in the dark hall and had to backtrack.
“This is worse than the Hame,” Carum grumbled.
Remembering which Hame and what she had found there on her return, Jenna said nothing. None of the doors off the hall looked familiar. Any one of them would do, she thought. All she wanted was to be away from the oppression of so many staring eyes.
“That one!” she said, suddenly pointing.
They went through the door and found themselves in a large room. A little light filtered in through corbeled windows that looked out onto the great stone stairs. Jenna realized they were in some sort of council room for there was a wooden table set about by heavy wooden chairs. Along the sides of the room were more chairs and several couches. She sat down on the nearest couch, drew in a deep breath, and sighed.
“What would I do without you, Carum?”
“I hope you never have to,” he answered quickly.
“Do not play at word games with me. I am not one of your Garunian followers nor a peddler from New Steading.”
“I don’t play games with you, Jenna.”
“All you Garunians play games. Your brother worst of all.”
“And you don’t?” His usually gentle voice was sharp.
“No. Never.”
“Then can you tell me what game it was you were not playing when you went to my brother this evening?”
She looked up. He was only a dark shadow in the room looming over her. She could not see his face. “I did not go to him,” she protested, feeling again that cold hand under hers, the iron grip of his fingers.
“I saw you.”
“He pulled me. He would not let me go.”
“You slipped your hand out of mine easily enough just now in the dining room.”
“You let me go. You did not force me.”
“I would never force you.”
“Then what are we arguing about?” She was truly puzzled. Recalling something he had said the weeks, the months—the years—ago when they had met, she suddenly understood. “You are jealous. That is what it is. Jealous.” She expected him to deny it.
