The Autumn Castle

by Kim Wilkins

  For some reason, Christine felt stupidly defensive of Jude, who hadn’t finished high school. “But genius is about more than remembering facts and figures and regurgitating them later, right?” she said.

  It seemed everybody turned to look at her, and all those eyeballs focused on her face made her feel vulnerable and giddy.

  “Of course,” Pete conceded quickly.

  “So, you can tell us how many murders have been committed in any city in the world,” Gerda said, “but you can’t tell us why they were committed.”

  “Not at all. I have no ability to understand something that far out of my personal experience.” Pete shook his head. “Just before I left Australia, a guy I went to primary school with was charged with murdering his girlfriend. I couldn’t believe it. Nothing about him as a child indicated that that’s where he would end up.”

  “So,” Gerda said, “how does a person get to that point, where suddenly taking another life becomes a reasonable option?”

  Mandy sputtered to life beside Christine. “Perhaps you don’t understand because you have never hated somebody deeply enough to want them dead.”

  Attention turned to Mandy.

  “I mean . . .” he said, his voice taking a smoother tone, “that murderers may not see murder as a reasonable option so much as the only option.”

  “Well, I still don’t get it,” Pete said, and then promptly changed the topic. “Hey, are any of you guys interested in going back to that punk bar?”

  They teased him and argued over the rest of the evening’s entertainment, but Christine’s eyes were drawn back to Mandy’s pale, small hands, grasping the water glass in front of him. No mistaking it, his fingers were shaking. Talking about murder had agitated him for some reason and, drunk and paranoid as she was, that agitation unsettled her profoundly.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Morning had nearly broken on the third day of the search for Hexebart. Mayfridh knew that they wouldn’t find her in time for the parade. Only a few hours remained until she had to descend the slope; the horses and open carriage were being dressed. Hexebart was nowhere to be found.

  Mayfridh sank to the ground beneath a tree. In the distance Eisengrimm and three of the royal guards combed the Eternal Woods, though their stealth meant she couldn’t hear them. She looked up through the half-bare branches. The sky was pale yellow, the shadows deep around her as dawn gathered itself out of the ashes of sunset. She missed night, its long soft darkness and secrets, but at the Winter Castle she would soon grow sick of it and start longing for the fresh sunshine of spring.

  The future, stretching out empty before her. What would Jude be doing while she was at the Winter Castle? At the Spring and Summer Palaces? She would have no concept of their parallel lives, he would be entirely forgotten. Perhaps, one morning when she painted on her Real World eyeliner, she might feel a twinge of memory: Why is there a trace of excitement attached to this object? But soon after it would be gone, and the things she’d brought back with her would feel as though they had always been with her; eternal, natural, ordinary.

  Surely it was impossible that her soul could really forget his. Surely they were connected always, far beneath the swirl and tide of memory and forgetfulness. Would she continue to ache, deep and low under her ribs, without even knowing what she was aching for? A gust of wind rushed overhead, sending a shower of leaves rattling down on her. A dry leaf tip grazed her cheek and she closed her eyes and thought of Jude, of the feel of his hot breath through her clothes and the unutterable melancholy of his admission that he was lonely, that he was sad. And she believed she would understand it all if she captured Hexebart and pried Jude’s secret from her.

  A rustle nearby made her sit up and open her eyes. Too large to be a squirrel, too nimble to be a man. “Eisengrimm?”

  “There you are,” he said, emerging from the bushes and approaching her.

  “Have you found her?” she asked glumly.

  “Three men are still looking for her, but you and I must return to the castle to prepare for the parade.”

  She covered her eyes with her hands. “Oh no, the parade. I won’t have enough blessing spells. Everybody will hate me.”

  “Nobody will hate you.”

  She dropped her hands and met his gaze. “Eisengrimm, some days I don’t want to be queen. Some days I can’t stand the official duties, and the clothes, and the blessings. I just want to be a Real World woman with a job in a department store and friends over on the weekend and a man to love.”

  Eisengrimm settled on his back legs next to her. “Jude?”

  “Yes,” she sighed, “Jude. For my entire life, Eisengrimm, I’ve been able to get whatever I want. But now, the thing I want most in the world I can’t have.”

  “That’s because he’s not a thing, he’s a person. You can’t make somebody love you.”

  “He does love me.”

  Eisengrimm remained diplomatically silent. The first rays of sunshine broke over the tops of the trees, tracing the leaves with glittering gold.

  “The sun,” she said.

  “The parade,” he replied.

  Her hands were cold. “I’d like to stay here. Just here.”

  “Come, Little May. Time to be a queen.”

  Halfway down the slope on her decorated carriage, Eisengrimm as Crow perched on her shoulder, Mayfridh could hear the noise of the crowd in the village below. The autumn festival had begun at dawn. The town well had been decorated with vines, and music and noisy drinking took place in the street. Now the royal procession descended from the hill. Mayfridh wore her finest bronze and gold gown, her crimson hair pinned under a golden scarf. Before her, five black horses trod proudly; behind her, the royal guard marched. The sight of hundreds of villagers mingling in the street made her catch her breath with fear.

  “Eisengrimm, they are so many. I haven’t enough blessings.” She patted her woven bag, woefully thin under her fingers.

  “It matters not if we run out of blessings,” he said close to her ear. “It only matters if they know that Hexebart has escaped. Just tell them you will return to see them individually with blessings in the next few days.”

  Mayfridh recoiled. “Visit the villagers individually? In their homes?”

  “Little May, you are not in a position to be intolerant. Once we find Hexebart, we will get more spells and we will deliver them as we must.”

  Mayfridh fell silent. The crowd below roared with laughter and shouts of joy. Music floated up on the breeze. A group of villagers had seen her and started to chant her name.

  “Mayfridh! Mayfridh!”

  Eisengrimm took to his wings and sailed down amongst them, urging them left and right and left, clearing a path for the royal carriage. The music grew louder and some folk had started singing. Most of them were already drunk. The Queen began to wave, mustering her most dazzling smile. The crowd cheered. Moments later, she was among them.

  “Your Majesty! Your Majesty!” they called, individually trying to catch her attention.

  “A blessing for my home, Queen Mayfridh!” Crowding in on the left.

  “A blessing for the harvest, Queen Mayfridh!” Pushing on the right.

  “A blessing for my sick mother, Queen Mayfridh!” All around her, pressing in on the carriage, supplicating faces and hands outstretched. Isolating anxiety and dread loneliness: they all wanted something from her, and cared nothing for her own wants. She reached into the bag and produced a spell.

  “A blessing for you!” she called, blowing on the golden ball and watching it float and disappear like a bubble over a farmer’s head.

  “Thank you, my Queen, thank you!”

  Young girls were showering her with colored leaves, collected at the turn of the season, red and gold and russet brown.

  “Queen Mayfridh,” one of them called, “the leaves!”

  Mayfridh gritted her teeth. It would waste a spell, but the young ones expected it. She threw a spell in the air, it exploded overhead, and sudde
nly the leaves cast above her turned to glittering foil, dazzling down on her in the slanted sun. A cheer arose from the crowd. They pressed in on her, demanding their blessings, as Eisengrimm ducked and glided overhead. A tall, lean man thrust his pregnant wife in front of him. “A blessing for our unborn child!” he called. She obliged. Others joined the chorus. She reached into the bag over and over, fingers finally closing on the last spell.

  “Here!” she cried, flinging it into the crowd. A well-being spell, to relax everyone there. She ordered the carriage to stop, and stood, shaking the colored foil leaves from her clothes.

  “I shall return and call upon you individually within a week,” she announced, “to hear your cases and give out the blessings you need.”

  The villagers applauded, a small child called out, “All love to you, Queen Mayfridh.” For a moment, smiling in the sunshine, Mayfridh believed all would be well. Then an unshaven, crook-eyed man stepped in front of the carriage, his arm tight around a white-haired, gray-faced woman.

  “A blessing for my mother, Queen Mayfridh,” he said, a cruel smirk on his face. “She is very ill.”

  Mayfridh’s smile froze on her face. “I have said I will return to you personally, perhaps even tomorrow.”

  “She may not live until tomorrow,” he said.

  Mayfridh glanced at the old woman. She looked ill, but not near death. In fact, she shared the gleam in her son’s eye. What was this about?

  “I’m sorry,” Mayfridh said. Eisengrimm came to rest on her shoulder. “I have no more blessings today, but tomorrow—”

  “Then go to Hexebart tonight. Go to her now. We shall wait for you.”

  The crowd had grown silent around him. One person murmured, “Leave her be. She’ll do as she pleases.”

  “I do not wish to return to Hexebart today,” she said, gathering her queenly demeanor, “and I am not in the habit of taking orders from villagers. Your mother will be well until tomorrow. Now step aside so my carriage may pass.”

  “Is it true, my Queen,” the crook-eyed man said, not yielding his position, “that Hexebart has been accidentally set free?”

  A collective gasp moved through the crowd. Mayfridh felt Eisengrimm’s claws tighten on her shoulder. One of the royal guards moved forward and accosted the man, forcing him off the path. But it was too late, the question had been asked.

  “Is it true?” another man called, anxiety keen in his voice. “Is the royal magic no longer under your control?”

  “Tell them,” Eisengrimm whispered in her ear, “only make it sound as though you are not concerned.”

  “There is some truth in that rumor,” Mayfridh said, hoping her voice wasn’t shaking as much as her knees were. “Hexebart has escaped, but we expect to find her before the end of the day and then the royal magic will—”

  “The magic is gone?” a panicked voice cried.

  “We won’t have blessings for the season!”

  “Will we be safe to move to the Winter Castle?”

  “How can this have happened?”

  Such a hubbub of angry and anxious voices ensued that Mayfridh had to press her hands over her ears. Eisengrimm hopped from her shoulder, transforming to Wolf and coming to land near her feet.

  “Hear me!” he cried. Then when the noise continued, “Hear me! Hear me, all of you!”

  The crowd quietened.

  “Hexebart is not lost,” he said, his rich voice ringing clearly on the crisp air. “We know where she is and we are simply waiting for the right moment to apprehend her. She will be back safely in our custody before the sun rises again. I promise you.”

  Disapproving murmurs circulated.

  “Now we return to the castle. You will hear from us, within days, with your blessings. Do not concern yourselves. Your queen is good and your queen is wise. She will not disappoint you.” With that, Eisengrimm gave the order for the carriage to turn, and moments later it was rattling back up the slope to the castle. The crowd dispersed with angry whispers and pale faces.

  “What shall we do?” Mayfridh sobbed. “You have made them a promise we may not be able to keep.”

  “We shall keep it,” Eisengrimm said through gritted teeth. “I shall make sure of it.”

  “How? We’ve already searched for her for days.”

  “I do not trust the royal guard to find her. They are not keen enough hunters. They make too much noise and they cannot follow a scent. I can be a fox, the stealthiest of hunters. I will go out there by myself.”

  “But how will you capture her? She’s strong and unpredictable. You need their help.”

  “I need not remain a fox, Mayfridh.” Eisengrimm glanced away, his yellow eyes narrowing against the light. “I’ve not yet met a witch who is any match for a bear.”

  Hexebart is snakes-in-the-blood angry. These hands are still twisted and tied and ouch! she saws and saws at the edge of the broken tree, and the ropes hold fast. Nasty little dog! He knew how clever Hexebart was, and he had them tied and tied and tied again.

  One part of the rope breaks, another knot holds it firm. Hexebart is hungry—she eats leaves and drinks dewdrops, but Hexebart wants to taste that Real World food that is hot and saucy and salty and goes on a plate. Her guts squeeze tight just thinking of it. She saws her ropes on the tree trunk again.

  Back and forth, back and forth,

  To the south and to the north,

  Forth and back, forth and back,

  Drown old dog’s breath in a sack.

  Hexebart won’t give up. They’ll never find her. She can hear them stomping past like elephants, thinking that they’re quiet. Thud, thud, stomp, stomp, shhhh. It will take a wilier hunter than that to catch Hexebart. She’s had enough of Ewigkreis.

  It was once so different and Hexebart sighs. Once, she loved Queen Liesebet who was soft and pale and pretty, and how she misses Queen Liesebet! Hexebart begged Queen Liesebet not to take the little changeling redhead. Hexebart even offered Queen Liesebet her own daughter. But Queen Liesebet wanted a pretty child; that was all she cared about. How Hexebart wishes Queen Liesebet was still here. Then Hexebart would be living in a warm chamber and eating red soup and bread with butter, and not freezing outside in a tree trunk with her hands twisty-tied. How Hexebart hates the little princess for disposing of her parents and taking over. And how Hexebart hates hates hates that nobody else suspects Mayfridh of anything wicked.

  It’s not fair. Hexebart saws at the ropes again. Something gives, but another knot holds her. Not fair, not fair, not fair. Hexebart despairs, Hexebart is very, very hungry.

  Mayfridh and Eisengrimm waited until the afternoon drew long and shadowy before approaching the Eternal Woods alone.

  “You should return to the castle,” Eisengrimm said as Mayfridh sat herself against a tree.

  “I want to be here for you. You’ll be in pain.” When Eisengrimm changed to Bear the pressure on his joints and organs would bruise him for weeks. “Besides, I want to see Hexebart dragged out of the wood by a bear, with my own eyes.”

  “You must be silent.”

  “I won’t move a hair. I’ll breathe like a mouse.”

  “She’ll hear a mouse. Breathe quieter than a mouse.”

  “I have magic left in my hands. I’ll work a silent glamour.”

  “Good. Good.” His wolf eyes flicked right and left. He was ner-vous. “Now, I haven’t changed to Bear for many years. I’ll take a moment here, where I’m safe, to practice.”

  “Go on.” Mayfridh smoothed her blue skirt—one of her Real World favorites—over her knees and tucked her feet beneath her.

  Eisengrimm took a breath, then pushed up on to his hind legs. With an awful creaking noise, like the sound of joints under strain, his gray fur shimmered brown and his body began to grow. In an eye blink, a large bear stood before her. Eisengrimm let out a sigh of pain.

  “Dear friend,” Mayfridh said, climbing to her feet, “does it hurt terribly?”

  He came down on all fours and grunted. “Yes,
but I can endure it for long enough to catch the witch.”

  “Stand again, Eisengrimm,” she said, gazing with wonder at his new shape.

  He reared on his back legs again, balanced steadily.

  She spread her arms. “In this shape I can hold you, almost as if you were a man,” she said, moving to embrace him.

  “Don’t, Mayfridh,” he said.

  “Surely it won’t hurt to hug you,” she insisted, sliding her arms around his middle. “Go on, you can hold me too.”

  A reluctant pair of Bear arms encircled her waist. She snuggled against his warm, large chest. Twilight shadows moved over them in the breeze and a dim ray of sunshine glinted on his fur. She breathed in deep and sighed. For the first time in years, she felt she had found safe haven.

  “It’s wonderful to hold you,” she breathed.

  He did not reply. The rhythm of the wood around her pulsed in her veins: the creaking of tree branches, the flutter of leaves, the lift and stir of the debris beneath them. His heart beat a steady cadence. She remembered a song from her childhood and hummed a few bars, fitting it to the pulse around her. Eisengrimm’s arms tightened, one of his paws pressed into her back. She sang a few lines out loud, then laughed.

  “Come, Eisengrimm,” she said, stepping back and taking his Bear paws in her hands. “Let us dance.”

  He tore his paws away and returned to the ground, shaking off Bear and shrinking down to Fox. “I haven’t time, Mayfridh,” he said gruffly.

  Mayfridh pouted, but didn’t protest. Perhaps the pain had made him irritable. “Very well,” she said, resuming her position under the tree. “I shall wait here for you, as silent as magic can make me, and relish seeing you drag the hag screaming from the wood.”

  “I won’t fail you,” he said. Was that a catch in his voice? Eisengrimm was very moody this afternoon.

  “I don’t doubt you, old friend,” she said.

  He slunk off into the woods and disappeared from sight. She listened hard, but he was perfectly silent. With the magic left in her hands, she worked a silent glamour, so that none of her movements would cause the tiniest noise for Hexebart to hear. She leaned her head against the tree and waited.