You almost cried out on impulse. This you wanted to do, although you didn’t know why. You banished the thought that you would be denied the training. You wanted to be good at something other than what was expected of you, for life. You threw yourself at chance.
We’ll see, said your father when you asked for a place at the apprentice’s table. Don’t raise your hopes, said Ciaran when you told him of your wish. Your brother, seven years your senior, had begun to serve the King in earnest, the heir to your father’s role as a trusted adviser. You had no such secure inheritance. You suspected your name would not receive mention.
Now. Tell the truth.
You turned Wyl’s affection to your advantage. The pull between you both served in your favor. You didn’t call it manipulation. Perhaps it was. An offhand comment was all it took. I would like to learn to draw real maps. With magical speed, there you were in the map-maker’s chamber.
Heydar came from another kingdom with an accent, his instruments, and several bound volumes. His ears sprouted whiskers that reached up to his frantic hair and down to his bushy beard. He looked, and ate, like a lion. You passed the tests he gave you, then he tested your courage because he saw your wits. He didn’t care that you were a girl, but twelve. All he cared was whether you could learn the craft, whether you practiced enough. He demanded excellence. You would deliver.
You thought to thank the King for his favor. Wyl arranged a brief meeting. The King said he had been assured of your talents. He said he made exceptions for what pleased him, and it pleased him greatly to have such intelligence, enthusiasm, and tenacity at his service. He gave no mention as to who might have swayed him. Or why he allowed it.
When you sat with your studies at home, your mother bustled to and fro. She stitched and stitched and stitched. She hurried and harassed the servants. She sighed and moaned. You ignored her. She told your father he would have difficulty finding a mate for such a daughter as yourself.
She isn’t crippled or ugly, which is good enough, but no man wants a stupid wife, said he.
That was how you became apprenticed to the old man. Why you, with that silent desperation you hoped he could not detect? You sensed if you could do well there, if you were a good map-maker, you would avoid the inevitable. You knew what happened to girls like you.
You confess that you weren’t as smart as others assumed. You were no prodigy at figures and measures. What you grasped you did so with diligence and repetition until it became second nature. There had to be precision in your practice. You took pleasure in it. There was room for error in the Land of the Bees and Outlying Environs but not in the case of territory and ownership.
For four years, you apprenticed with the old mapmaker. Heydar tutored you in the pertinent subjects related to the craft. He showed you how to use all of the instruments. He sent you afield with them | heliotrope high in the hot sun |, then allowed you to practice at his side at the table. He gave to you his insight into triangles. That he brought from his distant land of sand. He mapped with three sides as his center and trained you to do the same. This he claimed proudly as his innovation. You claimed his legacy.
Heydar supervised your work as you charted the castle and its immediate lands. He had done so himself, but this was your final test. He praised your effort. He declared you ready to go on your own. Before he left to return to his homeland, he gave you the waywiser given to him by his adept.
Many distances this wheel has measured with its walks. Remember me in a step once in a while. My time is done, and yours has begun, said he.
The old mapmaker gave his leave and the King his permission. You crossed paths with your brother on his travels from holding to holding. With his group of envoys, Ciaran created lists and tallies. He was to collect numbers of people, animals, and goods. He was also to discern what grievances needed attention, what loyalties called for boons, and what troubles might be in brew beyond the borders.
You were instructed to chart all that could be seen, and that was much. The kingdom was wide and broad. There were mountains and rivers, hills and streams, forests and valleys. Within this were the hamlets and towns, mills and smithies, pastures and arables, roads and paths. Ciaran and you were to note the fortifications. Ciaran, the condition. You, the location.
Many times, Ciaran’s work would be done before you finished with yours. He would return to your childhood home, and you would stay behind to tend to the maps, but not only the maps. You explored the nearby regions by yourself. There were birds and plants and on occasion creatures you had never seen. You liked to speak with the people and learn about their customs. They fed you unusual foods and told familiar stories with subtle twists. Sometimes you sketched simple treasure maps for the children and hid coins for them to find.
To you, knowledge of the people was meant to be mapped as well. For whimsy, you would include reminders on your work for the King. They meant something to you and only you. This was how you entered your childhood again. A hut’s roof edged with ribbons for no apparent reason. A place where you ate too much of a succulent pie. A fallow field speckled with blue gentian.
It seemed, though, that just when you had found a comfortable rhythm in your temporary quarters, Prince Wyl appeared with matters to tend on behalf of his father. His presence caused a stir, with people running about to catch a peek at him and share words. He was, in fact, good with the subjects, when he saw them. He exchanged pleasantries. Sometimes he asked questions and listened until the people had had their say. When requested, he touched the crowns of children’s heads with gentleness. But, more often than not, Wyl was within your sight. He rode his horse around the place where you were at work. He sat at the hand of the host who gave shelter and food to the King’s representatives. He seemed to talk longer with others when you were nearby, in conversation with the son of a prominent nobleman. Or a lowly shepherd. Or a man on your crew.
He has the stealth of a squirrel and the modesty of a peacock, you thought.
One summer morning, you leaned over the plane table, your eye in a squint, and stood quickly when the object in your sight went black. There was Wyl with a raspberry between his fingertips and a small metal bowl filled with more.
Thank you, but I’ll wait to eat them. Stained fingers, stained map, you said.
You’re tame enough to feed by hand, said he.
You stood bold before his charming smile and the pride he’d mustered. Such a thing he’d never said to you. Wyl looked at the map in progress and noticed the triangles that branched across the parchment.
Where are we? asked he.
You pointed to an open space yet to be drawn.
This land is flat with little to see. Your work must be difficult.
I have my ways.
What would help you?
Elevation, perhaps. I’ve had dreams of a tower. Then you’ll have this tower, said Wyl.
So it was. You gave him drawings of the tower in your dreams. Wyl found the woodcutters and smiths to make its pieces. He found stouthearted men to test its design, which did not fail, and hired them to tend to its care.
Innocent Wyl. He could not hide his adoration. You resisted your tender feelings. Was it love? Perhaps. When you were children, you attempted to keep the boundary fixed. Much your mother’s doing. Bow to him, Aoife, he is the prince. Be friendly, not familiar. Be gracious. Be obedient. Be careful. | yes, be that with his dark brother Raef as well |
You liked Wyl. His disposition was sanguine. He seemed more interested in pleasure than power. Grudges didn’t suit him. When you were young, when a girl wasn’t permitted to say aloud she found a boy comely, you thought he was just that. As you grew older, you found him handsome. An exceptional example. He, for whatever reason, found you pretty. No boy orbits a girl as he did unless an attraction, a physical attraction, exists.
When you first saw the tower, you toed the great beams at its base. You tugged the ropes that tethered the tower to the ground for safety. You tapped the metal bolts that locke
d the heartwood beams into place. Then, the best part of all, you didn’t have to climb the sides like a ladder but could walk the staircase you had envisioned. A spiral led up to the top.
You took your maiden ascent alone, with a crowd below, Ciaran and your crew, Wyl and his brother Raef. It was summer again. All was green and gold. All was alive. You had stood higher before, in the hill country, but this was different. When you leaned over the side, that caused much shouting on the ground. You saw straight down, your shadow a small dark splotch in the grass. So this is what the swallow sees on the wing, you thought. And as if by invitation, a blue swallow appeared above your head. It hovered before your eyes, plunged toward the earth, and darted away with a green head and long legs crushed between its beak. You called Wyl to join you.
The tower is wondrous. I could kiss you, you said.
Yes, you could, said he.
So literal, Wyl.
Then I’ll wait until you mean what you say.
You felt a sting. For the first time, a joke on him barbed you back. You watched him stare afar and wondered why he went to such lengths to please you. Perhaps there is more to this boy I once knew, you thought. You linked your arm with his and leaned into him, both swaying groundless.
YOU THE MAPMAKER TRAVELED THREE LONG YEARS AND CHARTED A fraction of the kingdom. The King wished for faster results, but he knew you and your crew gave him more than he had expected. He himself walked some of the maps on his own and encountered no missed marks or wrong turns. Despite your wish to work through that fourth winter as well, the King summoned you home for a long respite. You had earned it and, you knew, others had insisted.
How strange it was to return home, a woman of twenty. You had been away for so long. The first step over the threshold, and you fell under a familiar spell. You slept in your girlhood bed, under
RONLYN DOMINGUE was a finalist for the 2005 Borders Original Voices Award. Her work has appeared in New England Review, Clackamas Literary Review, New Delta Review, and The Independent (UK). She lives in Louisiana with her partner, Todd and their cats. Visit her website at www.ronlyndomingue.com
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2005 by Ronlyn Domingue
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Excerpt from The Structure and Dynamics of the Psyche, vol. 8, The Collected Works of C. G. Jung. Copyright © 1969. Reprinted by permission of Princeton University Press.
ISBN-13: 978-0-7432-7880-5
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ISBN-13: 978-0-7432-7882-9 (Pbk)
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First Washington Square Press trade paperback edition June 2006
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