Bedtime Story

by Robert J. Wiersema

  “I didn’t.” It was an old trick, a way of helping David relate to the story and the characters, but I hadn’t done it in a long time. David Baggins just hadn’t seemed right.

  Had I slipped into the old habit?

  I glanced down at the book.

  “No, look here.” I held up the book to him.

  “I’ll get a beating if I am late to the stables,” Tamas complained. But that didn’t stop him from following Dafyd through the winding alley in the dark.

  “You worry too much, Tamas,” Dafyd said. “You have time for a little food. The stable-master will be asleep for hours yet.…”

  “And here.” Flipping a page.

  Tamas risked a nervous glance at Dafyd, and Mareigh caught the look.

  “Dafyd,” she said, her voice dropping sternly.

  “It’s spelled differently, with an f and a y, but it’s all David. I wasn’t making it up.”

  “Okay,” he said, turning onto his side again. “I believe you.”

  “Shall I go on?” I asked, with mock obsequiousness.

  “By all means.”

  After the death of the handmaiden, Captain Bream and the chosen twenty of his men took to the road earlier than planned, riding hard in formation around Dafyd and the magus. If the Berok had infiltrated the castle, time was of the essence. They had ridden out of Colcott before dawn, and for the first day, the men took the River Road through the heart of the country. Outside of Colcott Town, the country had given way to smaller villages, clutches of buildings gathered at the edge of the Col River. The road was busy, but the merchants and travellers gave the King’s Men wide berth.

  The horsemen did not slow, and arrived at the garrison as dark was beginning to fall. The horses were boarded, the men fed, and Dafyd collapsed into the first bed that could be found for him, sleeping dreamlessly.

  There had been no idle conversation as they rode, and Dafyd was left alone with his thoughts of the handmaiden who had died in the throne room, who had given her life for his, and of the King who was, even now, dying, hoping for Dafyd to save him. He ached not only from the riding, but for his mother, and Tamas. And Arian. Always Arian.

  The next morning, they forded the Col at a town called Donder.

  On the south bank of the river, the road was quiet. What few settlements they passed were little more than fishing camps. They rode hours without seeing another face.

  The country began to change around them. The great trees and green that Dafyd had known all his life seemed to shrink and turn brown the farther they rode from Colcott Town, and the air was dry, dusty, without the constant moistness of the sea breezes.

  Partway through the afternoon, the magus rode up on Dafyd’s right.

  “I am guessing that this is the farthest you have ever ventured from the island,” he said.

  After hours of silence, Dafyd was surprised to be spoken to, and it took him a moment to respond. “Yes.”

  “To see the country, its people … it gives us a sense of what is at stake.” A touch of sadness had entered the old man’s voice.

  Dafyd nodded. The thought had weighed heavily upon him for days. “I had no idea that the King was ill,” he said.

  “It is the best-kept secret in the kingdom,” the magus said. “Or it was, until the Berok attacked. Now …” He paused. “The two go hand in hand. The King has been sick for some time, and when the Queen had to step in, no one could know. If the Berok ever got a hint that the King was incapacitated”—he shook his head—“they certainly would have invaded before now.”

  “But would the kingdom not rally around the Queen as much as around the King?”

  “It is not a matter of the kingdom rallying,” Loren said solemnly. “Were such a grave illness to become known, it would embolden the Berok, knowing that without an heir, one of their own is next in line for the throne.”

  Dafyd’s face betrayed his confusion.

  “Ah. You are too young to recall,” Loren said.

  “Too young to recall what?” Dafyd asked, his head reeling at the thought of a barbarian on the throne.

  “Fifteen years ago, after the Battle of Deren Plain, King Horace and the Berok king met to broker what they both hoped would be a lasting peace between the kingdoms.” Loren spoke quietly, and Dafyd had to strain to hear him. “To seal their bond, they arranged a marriage between their children, between the prince, Horace’s only son, and Tanis, the eldest daughter of the Berok king. Their union, the royal wedding, was to unite the kingdoms.”

  Dafyd struggled to understand. “Then why are the Berok—?”

  “Because their old king is gone. Died nearly five years ago now, in the Berok fashion. Killed by his eldest son, Queen Tanis’s brother, who now sits on the Berok throne. He was one of the strongest critics of his father’s diplomacy, and now that he rules, the agreements are worthless. The only bond that remains is the marriage of Tanis and the King. And now that they know of his illness—”

  The magus didn’t have a chance to finish his sentence. A whistling sound came out of the air and with a startled gasp the guardsman closest to Dafyd fell backward in his saddle.

  “Dafyd, get down,” he heard the captain cry when he noticed the red shaft of the arrow lodged in the guardsman’s chest. “We are under attack!”

  “So how was that?” I asked after we’d read for almost half an hour. I tucked the bookmark into place. “Do you think it’s got some potential?”

  “Maybe,” he said, but his tone of voice and his little smile told the real story. “He’s only fifteen—that’s not much older than me. Bilbo Baggins was fifty.”

  “Well, not so long ago someone who was thirteen or fourteen was almost a grown-up. Kids were getting married and starting families when they were that age.” I stopped for a moment, trying to wrap my head around the idea. “People lived shorter lives in those days, so they had to start everything younger. That’s why when you see someone like a wizard or a mage in books like these, someone with white hair and a long beard, they’re important because they’ve lived so much longer than the people around them. Does that make sense?”

  He nodded, but he was fading.

  I couldn’t shake an odd feeling as I put the book onto the shelf and kissed my son good-night. It stayed with me as I pulled the door partway shut, making sure the light from the hall didn’t spill onto his face.

  It was strange I hadn’t noticed that the main character of the book was named Dafyd—that sort of detail usually jumps out at me, especially when it was something I could have used as a selling point in winning him over with the book.

  Maybe I had been thrown by the f and the y.

  Dafyd froze, unable to look away as the guardsman’s horse bolted, the soldier’s body tumbling from the saddle and dragging in the dust from one foot tangled in the stirrup.

  His own horse reared as the remaining guardsmen turned their mounts toward the rise to their left.

  “Dafyd, get down!” the captain shouted again as he spurred his horse.

  Dafyd’s horse turned to follow, and he felt a sudden streak of wind, a sharp burning against his cheek. He heard the same high, whistling sound follow: an arrow!

  He reached up to touch his cheek as the magus launched himself toward Dafyd, knocking him from the saddle and pushing him to the ground.

  A moment later the whistling came again, and Dafyd’s horse screamed and reared, flailing for a moment against the sky, then crashing to the earth mere inches from where Dafyd had fallen.

  “Get close,” the magus commanded, pushing Dafyd toward the body of the horse. “Take shelter.”

  Dafyd did as he was told, tucking himself behind the horse’s haunch.

  “Keep your head down.”

  But Dafyd couldn’t help but peek over the horse’s body.

  Leaving a handful of men behind, the guardsmen rode furiously up the rise, the captain at the lead, his sword flashing in the sun, dust rising behind them like smoke.

  At first, Dafyd couldn
’t see what they were riding toward, but as he watched he noticed that parts of the dusty brown hillside seemed to be moving. Men dressed to match the landscape were running toward the charging guardsmen.

  Were there three? Four? Dafyd couldn’t tell. As the guardsmen rode into them, their swords arced into the sky, then down, and again.

  It was over in moments. As one rider broke from the pack and turned back toward them, Dafyd realized he had been holding his breath.

  “Are you hurt?” the magus asked from somewhere nearby.

  Turning, Dafyd saw the man hunched low behind the horse, his fingers wrapped around the medallion at his neck.

  Dafyd shook his head.

  The sound of hoof beats grew closer. The captain was at the base of the hill, riding toward them. His face was stern, masked in blood. His dripping sword hung loose in his right hand. When he saw Dafyd looking at him, a grim smile crossed his features.

  “That was too close,” he said as he reined his horse to a stop beside the body of Dafyd’s own.

  Dafyd stood up, and the captain flinched. “Your face.”

  Dafyd brought his fingers up to touch the welt, now sticky and sharp with pain.

  “Much too close.” The captain turned his attention to the magus, who was rising slowly, carefully, to his feet.

  “Was it a scouting party?” Loren asked. “From the watchtowers?”

  The captain shook his head, and his face turned even darker. “No. There were too few.” He glanced meaningfully at Dafyd, then back toward the hillside, at the bodies in the dust. “These were assassins, sent with only one purpose.”

  I puttered around downstairs for a while. I straightened the living room, and took the garbage out to the can at the side of the house. I drifted into the kitchen, ran a sinkful of hot water over the dishes and left them to soak as I poured myself two fingers of vodka.

  At the foot of the stairs, I flicked off the light, looking upwards toward David’s room. I wasn’t expecting to see what I saw: he’d been on his best behaviour lately, knowing that we’d confiscate his video game if he was caught playing it after lights-out again.

  When I was a kid, I couldn’t figure out for the longest time how I was getting caught reading after I was supposed to be asleep. I finally realized that my parents were able to see the light under my bedroom door. Busted.

  Oh, David.

  I crept up the stairs, avoiding the creaky spots. I hated coming down heavy on him, but he’d had fair warning. If his video game was interfering with his schoolwork or his sleep, we, the almighty we, would have to take it away. He’d already lost it once for three days; next time, a week-long period of cold turkey.

  I was halfway up the stairs when the light went out, a click from the lamp echoing down the hallway. I hadn’t been as quiet as I had thought.

  His bedroom door was closed—I remembered distinctly leaving it open a crack. Clever kid. As if to myself, I said, “I could have sworn I left this open.”

  Pushing the door wide, I paused before entering the room. In the spill of light from the hall, David looked almost like he was really sleeping, curled on his side, head tucked slightly, no telltale smile on his lips.

  I stepped across the room, touched the ball of my hand to his bedside lamp and pulled it back from the heat.

  “That’s strange,” I said for his benefit. “That lamp’s awfully hot.”

  His composure didn’t falter.

  I glanced down at the bedside table, looking for his video game, ready to put an end to the performance we were both participating in, but I stopped short.

  His video game wasn’t there.

  It was on his desk, right where he had left it earlier in the evening, its charging light bright.

  Next to his lamp, though, was To the Four Directions.

  I smiled.

  “What’s this?” I asked. “I could have sworn I put this on the shelf when we were done reading it. I wonder how it got over here. Hmm.” I picked up the book. “Maybe I’m losing my mind.”

  That got a smile out of him, the slightest upturn of the corners of his mouth.

  Leaning over, I pulled his covers up and kissed him on the forehead. “Good night, Davy.”

  He didn’t respond.

  I tucked the book under my arm.

  “Strange things are afoot in this room tonight,” I said, leaving the door open a crack. “I’ll have to keep a closer eye on things up here.”

  After the attack, they rode at full gallop to the garrison. Dafyd rode the fallen guardsman’s mount, head heavy with the thought that another person had given his life to protect him.

  At the gate, Bream waited impatiently while the gatekeeper examined the writ of passage the captain had been given by the Queen. Bream’s face was crusted with blood, dark and gritty from the dust of the journey. The gatekeeper finally nodded and shouted for the gate to be opened.

  “Made a good show of it,” Bream muttered, as he folded the letter back into his saddlebag.

  “What do you mean?” Dafyd asked.

  “He can’t read,” Bream said, his voice laced with contempt. “Few of the men can. But none of them want to look stupid, so they’ll stare at the paper until they think they’ve fooled you.” He shook his head. “At least he recognized the royal seal at the bottom.”

  Dafyd could feel his face heating up.

  Bream noticed. “My apologies,” he said. “Perhaps upon our return, someone can teach you to read.” He steadied his horse with a gentle pressure on the reins.

  Dafyd nodded, spurring his horse to a canter.

  As they passed through the gate, Bream shouted at the first uniformed man he saw. “I need your commander,” he barked. When the man hesitated, he shouted, “Now!”

  I was elbow-deep in dishwater when Jacqui got home from work.

  She didn’t say hello when she entered the kitchen. “So how were things tonight?” she asked, leaning into the fridge to pull out a beer.

  “Quiet,” I said.

  She twisted off the cap and took a long swallow. I watched her throat move, her head tilted back. She was wearing a set of lavender scrubs, her hair messy, her face flushed.

  “And how was work?”

  “Freak show,” she said. “I’m glad it was only a half-shift. By the time I left we were already three hours backed up.” She shook her head. “Apparently there’s some really good heroin out there right now: we had three ODs before nine o’clock.”

  “Wow.”

  “Yeah.” She took another swallow of beer. “And how are you?”

  I was surprised: she didn’t usually ask anymore. “I’m all right.”

  She nodded. “How did the reading go?”

  Her questions were unsettling.

  “Fine,” I said guardedly.

  “Even just for your sake,” she said, not meeting my eye, “you probably should have got him The Lord of the Rings.”

  And then it clicked: she was feeling sorry for me.

  “I think it’ll be all right.”

  She shrugged. “I’m just saying, he’s only eleven. He wanted something that he knew, something that he could talk about at school, you know?”

  I let her talk, not arguing, not saying anything.

  “I think—” She leaned against the counter, angled away from me. It looked like she had given this a lot of thought, like she had things she wanted to say. “A present like that, it’s nice, and it was very thoughtful, but it was more about you than it was about him, wasn’t it?”

  I didn’t rise to the bait.

  “Why didn’t you just buy him what he wanted?”

  “He’s not ready for it yet.”

  She looked at me as if she was expecting something more.

  “I’m gonna go,” I said quietly, draining the sink.

  “Chris—”

  I stopped at the back door, my hand on the knob. “By the way,” I said, as if it had just occurred to me. “I caught him with his light on tonight.”

  T
hat galvanized her, and she glanced at the top of the fridge. “Where did you put his game?”

  “He wasn’t playing it.” I tried to sound distracted, like it was unimportant. Setting her up.

  “Then what—”

  I turned the doorknob. “He was reading,” I said as I stepped outside. “His new book.” I closed the door and headed for the garage.

  Time for my cigarette du jour.

  “What should have been the easy part of our journey is now behind us,” Captain Bream said, dropping his fork onto the tin plate which, only moments before, had been heaped with his breakfast.

  Dafyd, Loren and the captain were eating in the garrison captain’s private rooms, masses of eggs and meat and crunchy crusted bread. At first Dafyd had boggled at the amount of food, but he wolfed it down without another thought. The welt on his face burned every time he chewed.

  “We’ll be travelling through territory held by the Berok now,” the captain continued. “The watchtowers, once our greatest strength, are now a liability. From them, the Berok can watch the entire valley, and what passes through it.”

  Dafyd felt a sickening wave of fear settle into his stomach, and regretted eating so much.

  The captain cocked his head toward Loren. “Magus, a map?” he said.

  The old man moved his plate aside. Bream and Dafyd followed suit as the magus unrolled a battered scroll onto the table.

  “We’re here,” the captain said, pointing.

  Dafyd traced the road they had followed from Colcott on the coast along the river, to the unmarked area on the map at which the captain was pointing. The spot was ringed with the jagged shape of mountains, several peaks crested with crowns: the watchtowers.

  “Our best course east is through this pass here. It’s a good road. Not busy. Miners, mostly, from the iron mines at Comaric.” He traced the road toward the mountains. “And this pass, Loren?”

  The old man considered for a moment, then nodded. “That sounds like a prudent course.”

  “I spoke to some of the men last night. There have been no sightings of the Berok, but with the attempt on your life yesterday …” His voice grew thoughtful. “We will need to proceed with utmost care.”