The Crickhowell School for the Muses

by Waxman, Rachel

  The

  Crickhowell School

  for the Muses

  A novel by

  Rachel Waxman

  FITHIAN PRESS, MCKINLEYVILLE, CALIFORNIA, 2013

  Copyright © 2013 by Rachel Waxman

  All rights reserved

  Printed in the United States of America

  The interior design and the cover design of this book are intended for

  and limited to the publisher’s first print edition of the book and

  related marketing display purposes. All other use

  of those designs without the publisher’s

  permission is prohibited.

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

  Waxman, Rachel.

  The Crickhowell School for the Muses : a novel / by Rachel Waxman.

  p. cm.

  Summary: Awen is kidnapped and confined at the

  Crickhowell School for the Muses, where she is expected to study the

  art of singing, but she soon realizes that the people around her consider

  her voice to be a commodity to be sold, and that she needs to escape.

  ISBN [first printed edition] 978-1-56474-541-5 (pbk. : alk. paper)

  1. Singers—Juvenile fiction. 2. Kidnapping victims—Juvenile fiction. 3. Schools—Juvenile fiction. [1. Singers—Fiction. 2. Singing—Fiction. 3. Kidnapping—Fiction. 4. Schools—Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.W351174Cri 2013

  813.6—dc23

  2012034994

  “Part Jane Austen, part Cinderella and part Heidi, Rachel Waxman’s The Crickhowell School for the Muses takes the reader on a journey with young Awen that holds much promise of being the next “must read” series for young adult readers. Awen moves from powerlessness to taking her destiny in her own hands. Bravo to Waxman for this novel of a young woman’s self discovery!”

  —Joy Ward, Author of Haint: A Tale of Extraterrestrial Intervention and Love Across Time and Space and co-author of Interviews from the Ark

  “Begin with a delicious premise—that muses can be trained and creativity can be bought—and add liberal dashes of mystery and peril, and you’ve arrived at Crickhowell. Rachel Waxman opens a portal to a world of midnight kidnappings and dashing horsemen, but the heart of her story is green-eyed, golden-throated Awen. Waxman’s heroine is on par with Twilight’s Bella, and readers will relate to this ordinary young woman caught up in an adventure she never sought.”

  —Gemma Tarlach, author of Plaguewalker and The War’s End

  “The shadows of despair cast by foreboding castles and ugly schemers are not dark enough to blot out the sunny spirit of a true muse. Waxman’s tale of the muted Awen breaking into freedom’s song and service is a triumph that calls us all to the light.”

  —Gary McLouth, author of Do No Harm and Natural Cause

  “Rachel Waxman ably taps multiple literary schools and genres (neo-gothic, coming-of-age, magical realism, romance, feminism, fairy tale) in evoking the story of a gifted young singer and her quest for selfhood. An extended, multilevel allegory that defies pat analysis, Crickhowell will keep the critics both guessing and debating, but I for one see: a fourteen-year-old girl, traumatized into muteness, whose speech returns at the book’s midpoint only after she dares defend herself… A kitchen door with no inner knob—no escape for the indentured cook who longs to claim, as she says, “something of my own”… A young vocalist who pines to sing, just once, for herself—yet also wonders, “What is the point of unshared art?” It’s fitting that less than a third of the novel takes place within the titular School, for ultimately this is an exploration less of Waxman’s ingenious conceit—an institutional training-ground for artists’ muses—than of the real world in which, daily, the young-and-creative struggle and live. “Some day,” the dreamy horseman Francis advises our young heroine, “you will learn that you don’t have to wait for anybody to give you anything.” And some day—soon—some girl will read those words in this book and find within herself the power to flee her own particular Crickhowell, wherever and whatever it might be.”

  —Paul McComas, author of Unforgettable, Planet of the Dates, and Unplugged

  For AFW,

  the Sunday Kafeiners,

  and most of all

  my family.

  Contents

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  About the Author

  Prologue

  Four wooden wagon wheels creaked across the muddy, rain-soaked cobblestone path, keeping beat to the shouted obscenities of the two men inside. The wheels gripped the road, a single brown horse pulling the men up a steep, grassy hill to the entrance gate of a small village. As the wagon rolled through, distant notes from a sinister-sounding, half-broken accordion filled the air like a siren.

  The wagon tossed up mud from behind, splattering the already dirty and poorly dressed villagers. As the wagon continued through the town, a large mass of people began to gather by the side of the road to watch, some even following behind the cart.

  The wagon slowed to a creep. It was approaching a group of three young girls who wore cloth dresses and danced in a simple formation for coins. “Eh?” grunted the first man, pointing at the girls with his elbow.

  “Nahhh. They’s too old. And amateurs. Won’t never learn nothin’.”

  The first man grunted his agreement and, whipping the horse, drove the wagon forward. They kept onward for a few minutes, the men silent. The group of townspeople that had lined the path began to thin as the men journeyed deeper into town.

  A solitary girl in the distance caught the first man’s eye, and again, he grunted, elbowing his companion in the side.

  “Wha?” yelled the second man.

  “Girl over there, twirlin’ a baton. She don’ look too bad.”

  The second man leaned forward, squinting. “Ha!” he laughed. “You’s kiddin’ me! You is kiddin’ me!” He narrowed his eyes. “Nina’d have us killed. Drive on, you fool!”

  They continued down the path, passing the girl without so much as another glance. A few yards ahead the road curved to the right, passing through an assortment of decrepit buildings. As they turned into the deserted passage between what appeared to be an empty tavern and a forlorn brick construction, the second man yelled out. He yanked the reins from the other man’s hands and stopped the horse.

  “What’s it?” asked the first man, slightly annoyed. “Ain’t n’one here. I at least found some.”

  “Listen.”

  From the run-down, woebegone building to the right, a sweet song in a young girl’s voice filtered through a broken glass window. The melody crescendoed to a high note, then swept back down, almost to a whisper. The song did not seem to belong amidst the rotting buildings and raggedy townspeople the men had passed. The sound was foreign, wispy and serene.

  Without speaking, the second man climbed out from the wagon and motioned to his companion. They crept along the perimeter of the building in search of a door or window large enough to accommodate their thick bodies, their massive brown boots cratering the muddy ground. They found a single door, slightly ajar, on the building’s far sid
e. Holding his breath, the second man opened the door. Though he handled it delicately, like a precious hunting-knife, the door gave a definite rusty squeak.

  The song stopped.

  “You. Stay here,” the second man whispered coarsely. “Looks like there’s only one way outta this building, and it’s here. So don’t let ’er out if she makes a run for it.” With that, he disappeared into the darkness behind the entryway.

  The remaining man closed the door—again, a creak—and leaned against the outside of the building with his arms crossed. He knew the drill. In no more than five minutes, his companion would be dragging that girl out of the door. She would be tied up with ropes, a cloth jammed into her mouth to keep her from screaming. They would throw her into the back of the wagon and hurtle off toward the Crickhowell School for the Muses.

  One

  The sky was deep blue, with a mass of inky-black clouds darkening it further. Below, the wagon with the creaky wheels and dirty men cut through a thick forest by way of a rocky dirt path. The new passenger in the back had quit her rag-muffled screams hours ago and now lay quiet on the wagon floor in surrendered silence. Ropes cut into her wrists, forming red welts on her skin, and a black cloth tied about her face blinded her.

  Though veiled from sight, the girl could hear the trees that surrounded the winding path. They whispered, singing something sad—a gloomy serenade.

  The wagon and the forest stopped abruptly at the top of the hill. Ahead, slightly obscured by a thick silver-grey fog, stood a large, three-story stone castle, marking the end of the day-long journey. Only one room on the bottom floor was lit, though its lone window revealed nothing but fuzzy shadows.

  The two men leapt from the wagon, causing it to buck up and back like an angry bull. A torrent of mud splashed up as their boots hit the ground.

  Startled by the sudden movement, the girl let out an inaudible gasp and huddled into a tiny ball. She squeezed her already-blindfolded eyes so tightly shut that little silver shapes danced in the black space behind her eyelids, and tinkling bells rang in her ears. She tried to forget her new surroundings: the whispering trees, the dusty wagon, and the monstrous night outside.

  While the girl huddled, dreamt, and tried to disappear, a dark figure emerged from the stone castle, a yellow lantern bobbing beside it. The figure walked slowly and gracefully. Catlike. It stopped in front of the two men. “What have you brought for me now, boys?”

  The girl’s ears perked up. The new voice had been that of a woman. She had a vague foreign accent, but the girl could not place it.

  “Girl,” barked a gruff voice. “Somewhere between twelve an’ fifteen. Black hair, green eyes…”

  “Yes, but what does she do?” The woman’s voice was commanding, yet melodious. Forceful, yet serene. It could pull anyone in.

  “Sing.”

  “Ah yes, but we have many singers. Why should I take this one?”

  “’Cause this one’s ’specially good, that’s why. You’ll hear’n time.”

  A moment passed before the woman spoke again. “Very well. I suppose I trust your word. After all, you two haven’t failed me yet. And, anyway…” She let out a faint laugh. “You know the consequences for bringing me rotten eggs.”

  The two men grunted something in response, shifting their feet about.

  The corners of the woman’s mouth turned upward. “Hands,” she said, then reached out, dropping a number of coins into the men’s open palms. “Now,” the woman commanded with a tinge of excitement, “show her to me.”

  The girl felt the wagon sink as one of the men climbed in. She could hear his hand scraping against the floor, searching for her. She imagined his fingers as hairy spiders, scurrying, searching for something to trap in their web. With a sharp breath, she drew herself into the tiniest ball she could. Then a hand, cold and prickly, clamped around her left ankle and began to pull her backward. She flailed her arms, trying to feel for some stable thing to grab onto, but her body kept getting pulled farther and farther back, farther away from herself, away from her past, from her sweet song.

  * * *

  “Sooo, girl…what is your name?”

  The girl found herself standing on a hill of squishy, gurgling grass. Her ankles had been untied, her blindfold and gag removed. It was completely black out now—she could just make out the shape of the castle ahead. The black-haired woman staring down at her held a lantern that cast weird shadows on her ivory face and reflected in her obsidian eyes.

  “What is your name?” she repeated, accent thicker and words louder.

  The girl watched the shadows transform into patterns on the woman’s face. She could feel the presence of the two men standing on either side of her, boxing her in. Their husky breathing filled in her own silence.

  “Why won’t you speak, girl?” She paused, raising her eyebrows as if she expected a reply. “Fine then,” the woman said with control. “We’ll call you…” Her eyes rolled upward for a moment, as if the name might be spelled out in the black clouds above. “Awen.” She cracked a wide smile—one that showed more meaning than she probably meant to reveal. “So you sing, do you now, Awen?” the woman asked with a trace of condescension. She waited, again, for a response that never came. “Why don’t you…sing us something?”

  Awen continued to stare ahead.

  She narrowed her eyes and lowered her voice. “Sing, you stupid girl.”

  A long moment passed in silence, a new expression forming on the woman’s face—a mixture of frustration and sinister amusement.

  “So, then,” the woman breathed out, her lips rounded as if she were puffing out a ring of smoke. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small metal disc attached to a chain. She sprung it open and snapped it shut so quickly, Awen wondered if she had even looked at it. “You two—thank you for the girl. Out now. Ta-ta.” The woman dropped the metal circle back into her pocket and motioned lazily toward the two men.

  They turned without a word and heaved themselves into the wagon. The lone brown horse seemed to know the routine; it started back down the hill without even a grunt of encouragement from the men. The clip-clop of hooves faded into the foggy night.

  Suddenly, the night was black again. The woman had blown out her lantern.

  “Come with me.” She grabbed Awen by the wrist, pulling her across the grassy hill and into the stone building ahead.

  Awen could not help but gape at the great glass chandelier in the entrance hall as she was pulled through a doorway to the left. This room was small and somber, containing just one wooden desk and a chair pushed in, its back facing the door. Bookshelves heavy with massive leather volumes covered every bit of wall space. A single candle in the middle of the desk provided all the light that was needed.

  After they had both entered, the woman closed the door and, taking a small brass key from her pocket, locked it from the inside. She then proceeded toward one of the large bookshelves, humming some unrecognizable tune to herself. The woman said nothing to Awen, who remained standing in the small space between the locked door and the desk. She watched as the woman glossed past dozens of leather volumes—they were red, deep green, brown, brown with gold ornamentation. Large words were written sideways on the spines, and smaller ones were written on the very bottoms.

  The woman stopped humming and began to whisper a word—something with an S sound—over and over again. The unintelligible syllables slithered out of her mouth. Suddenly, she stopped. She ran her left index finger slowly from the top to the bottom of a deep-brown volume.

  “Ahaaa…” she drew the word out. She heaved the book from the shelf with both hands and returned to the desk, setting the book atop it as lightly as one could a three-inch-thick volume.

  Awen examined the leather tome from where she stood, while the woman brushed off the cover with her hand. Awen saw that the spine of the book read SINGERS in large, gold, ornamental script. The bottom of the spine read S-Z, and under that was a funny-looking symbol—a little orb with a v
ertical stem coming out from the right side. Before Awen had any more time to ponder the book, the woman threw the front flap open and began to search through a list of names. She then flipped to a spot one-third of the way through the volume, smoothing the right-side page with her hand.

  “Sit down,” she commanded without looking up. “First order, from here on out you are to call me Miss Nina. Now…” This time she looked up and across the table at Awen, who sat quietly in the opposite chair. Miss Nina was silent for a moment, gazing with an unfathomable expression into Awen’s bright-green eyes.

  Miss Nina turned back to the open book. On the top of the page, in large lettering, was the name Sir Robert Thomas, and under that, painter. This heading was followed by many dense paragraphs of biography and a list of Notable Works and Dates. None of this tedious information seemed to interest her, however—or she may have known it all already. She flipped past these few pages and then read aloud:

  “‘Sir Robert Thomas searches for a young girl, singer or other musical-type, preferably dark-haired, for inspiration for his paintings. Will pay in full for her training as a muse at the Crickhowell School.’” She slammed the book shut. “So, girl. You will be under the patronage of Sir Robert. I will write him straight away, to let him know about you, that I have found what he is looking for.”

  Awen’s eyes widened at this, and she parted her lips, just barely, as if to speak. But she did not.

  Miss Nina saw this change in demeanor. She smiled, showing pure-white teeth that, in the dim light of the room, almost appeared to taper to points. “You will start your transformation tomorrow—and then we can put you to some real use in this world, yes?”

  She leaned forward across the table, and blew out the candle.

  Two

  The sun was but a distant glow, far off on the horizon, when Awen was awakened by a knock on the door. She rolled over on her lumpy mattress on the floor, trying to remember where she was and how she had gotten there. She squeezed her eyes shut and watched a muddle of images swim through her brain: a blindfold; a clattering wagon; a woman with a foreign accent; a book slamming closed, sealing her dark future.