Wednesdays in the Tower

by Jessica Day George

  “A saddle?”

  “No, Celie,” Bran said. “It’s not a real saddle.”

  But Celie was thinking of the tapestries, and the griffins flying through the air with riders on their backs. The griffins were wearing some kind of harness, so that their people could hang on to them. The poem that she’d transcribed about the battle between the griffins and the Hathelockes had talked about fearless griffin riders, guiding their steeds through the sky.

  “Do you think I could really train him?” Celie asked Bran. “And ride him?”

  Bran looked alarmed.

  “Listen, Celie,” Bran began.

  Someone knocked on the door.

  Celie and Bran froze. Rufus started to investigate, but Celie dragged him across the room and shut him in the water closet, just in case it wasn’t Pogue. When she opened the door she was glad that she had, because it wasn’t Pogue; it was Rolf. Celie threw Bran an accusatory look—was the spell on her door wearing off? And then tried to summon a smile for her other brother.

  “Yes?”

  Rolf wasn’t smiling, however. He looked grim. When he saw Bran standing behind Celie, he gave a small nod and stepped into the room.

  “Oh, good. You’re both here,” Rolf said. “Celie, I found that book you were talking about, the one with the epic poem that mentions griffins. Bran, you’ve got to do something about Wizard Arkwright.”

  “Why, what did he do now?” Celie demanded. “And where’s the book?”

  “That’s just it,” Rolf said. He walked over to a chair and sat down heavily. “He took it from me.”

  “He … took a book from you?” Bran said, puzzled.

  “Yes,” Rolf replied shortly. “Did you know that he hates it that Celie and I are collecting things with griffins on them, and putting them in the holiday feasting hall? He’s in there all the time, rummaging around, moving the cushions, tripping over the tapestry and telling me that we really should put it back on the wall in the corridor before someone gets hurt or it gets ruined.”

  “It’s true,” Celie said, seeing the skeptical look on Bran’s face. “I don’t know what it is, but he interrupts us all the time. He wants the things we’ve gathered put back where they came from, and immediately.”

  “Well,” Bran said, looking doubtful. “I mean, you can see why your project would be interesting to anyone. You took the anvil from the village forge, Rolf!”

  “I only borrowed it,” Rolf protested. “And they have another one. Besides, that anvil used to be here, in the Castle. So it really does belong here.”

  “Why did he take the book away from you?” Bran said.

  He was trying to sound patient and grown up, but Celie could tell that even Bran couldn’t entirely excuse the other wizard’s taking of a poetry book.

  Rolf ran his fingers through his hair. “I was in the library, trying to find anything about griffins we’d missed. I mean, it’s so strange: Lilah has twenty-three books about unicorns just in her room—twenty-three! But there’s nothing about griffins in a castle that has griffins on its banners? How do we even know what a griffin is if there’s no books or pictures, just a few tapestries that no one but the family or the maids would have seen? Anyway, I had asked Master Charles if he knew of any books, but you know how he is. He always thinks you’re just there to scribble rude words in the margins of ancient scrolls or something.

  “Anyway, Pogue popped his head in to tell the old man that he was going to take some book home—and by the way, how come Pogue gets to borrow whatever he likes, but I get the evil eye? I’m going to be Glower the Eightieth, for heaven’s sake!”

  “Get on with the story,” Celie cried out in frustration. She was starting to hear Rufus scratching and scrabbling at the door to his tower.

  “All right!” Rolf threw up his hands. “When Pogue asked what I was looking for and I said, anything about griffins, he led me right to that epic poetry tome you described, Cel, and Charles actually let me borrow it. He also suggested some poet I’d never heard of … Caras? Anyway, I tried to bring the book I had to the holiday feasting hall, but Arkwright was standing right outside the library door. Scared me half to death! He said he was in great need of some bedtime reading, took the book right out of my hands, and disappeared to his rooms with it! Pogue is my witness,” Rolf finished, holding up a hand as though swearing an oath. Then he frowned. “Er, he’s my witness when he comes back from whatever errand he was running. He was in rather a hurry, muttering something to himself about buckles.”

  Bran and Celie exchanged looks.

  “That’s hardly sinister behavior,” Bran said. “I mean, Arkwright’s behavior. I’m sure I … don’t know what Pogue is doing.”

  “Noooo,” Rolf said. “Not really that sinister. But when you take into account all the times he’s popped up, out of nowhere, to comment on our little project or to try to interfere, it starts to look like Master Wizard Arkwright does not want griffins talked about in the halls of Castle Glower!”

  Rufus squawked. Loudly.

  Celie sighed. Clearly they would have to tell Rolf. Bran gave her an encouraging nod, and Rufus started to scratch at the door as Rolf got to his feet.

  “I feel better getting that off my chest,” Rolf said, stretching. “I think I might have a bit of a snack before dinner.” He cocked an eyebrow at Bran. “If you’ll promise to get that book back for me? And keep an eye on Arkwright?”

  Bran opened and closed his mouth a couple of times before saying yes.

  “I’m not asking you to spy on a fellow wizard,” Rolf said, moving toward the door to the corridor. He walked right past the door to Rufus’s tower without looking at it. “But I swear, there’s something off about him.”

  “I agree,” Celie said faintly.

  Had Rolf gone mad? Did he not hear the racket that Rufus was making now? Did he not notice the large iron-bound door that had not been in Celie’s room the last time he’d been there?

  “It’s true that he wasn’t supposed to be here at all,” Bran said. His voice sounded normal, but he was staring at the door that Rolf didn’t seem to be able to see. “And a lot of wizards are nosy, but he mostly ignores Father and does seem awfully curious about what you and Celie are studying with Master Humphries.”

  “Exactly!” Rolf said, pointing a finger at Bran. Then he tweaked Celie’s hair ribbon and walked out of the room, whistling. “See you at dinner,” he called over his shoulder as he went down the corridor toward his own room.

  “That was … he didn’t … He walked right by the door,” Celie finally managed.

  “I’ve never seen anything like that,” Bran said. “It wasn’t me; it must have been the Castle, which tells us something.”

  Celie was too stunned to puzzle it out by herself. “What?”

  “The Castle really did want Pogue to see Rufus,” Bran said. “But it definitely did not want Rolf to.”

  Chapter

  17

  He can’t see,” Celie fretted. “It’s too dark! He’s going to run right into a wall!”

  “We really don’t have much choice,” Bran said. “And look how eager he is; he’ll be fine.”

  It was true: Rufus was about to leap out into the cold night air, never mind how dark it was. They were in the tower where he had hatched, since it had nice wide windows and was on a side of the Castle where there weren’t any bedrooms. They didn’t want some late-working councilor to look out his window and see Rufus learning to fly.

  “There’s Pogue with the lantern,” Bran said, pointing.

  Far below them, a small light bobbed up and down, signaling. Pogue was standing in the empty back corner of the stable yard, which the new stable had blocked off. The only way to get to it now was to go through the new stable, which had taken Pogue longer than it had taken Celie and Bran to drag Rufus up to his hatching tower.

  “I hope the harness isn’t too heavy,” Celie said.

  She ran her hands over the leather straps and steel buckles one more time.
The harness went around Rufus’s chest and across his back, fastening under his belly and leaving his wings and legs free. There were two loops of leather at his shoulders that looked like handles for a rider to hold, but there was nothing resembling a saddle attached to it. Still, Celie thought that she would be able to hold on and sit comfortably behind his wings. If Bran would let her.

  And if Rufus did learn to fly.

  She knew she was fussing unnecessarily, but she just couldn’t stop. If Rufus didn’t learn to fly on the first try, he’d be dashed to bits on the stones of the courtyard at Pogue’s feet. Birds did it all the time, but many of them died trying. Her stomach clenched, and she wished she hadn’t eaten so much winter apple pie for dessert.

  Her baby. Her little griffin. If he fell …

  “Celie,” Bran said. “Look at Rufus: he’s ready.”

  “I’m not ready,” she muttered. “Hey, now!”

  She yanked on the harness as Rufus tried to tip himself out the window.

  “Celie,” Bran said, laying a hand on her shoulder. “If he falls, I will catch him. With magic. I promise.”

  She looked at her eldest brother, searching his face for signs that he was lying to make her feel better. “Promise?”

  “Yes,” he said. “I can make a sort of pillow of air under him,” Bran assured her. “Also, I wonder if the Castle won’t help. It’s obviously eager to keep Rufus alive, and it caught you once, after all.”

  “That’s true,” Celie said.

  With both Bran and the Castle (she hoped) ready to break Rufus’s fall, Celie felt a lot calmer. She let go of the harness and took a step back.

  “Go ahead, Rufus,” Celie said, around the lump in her throat.

  Bran flipped the shutter on their lantern so that the light wavered. It was their signal to Pogue, who raised his lamp high in answer.

  Rufus didn’t need any further urging. He leaped into the air, his wings extended, and soared into the night. Celie’s heart was pounding, her knees weak, and she half fell against the window as she leaned out as far as she could to watch.

  Rufus glided for a moment, and then began to sink and flap his wings. But his wing movements weren’t coordinated, and he started to sink even more rapidly, listing to the right as he went. Celie’s mouth flew open to scream, but she managed to get it closed and just whisper to her brother.

  “Bran, Bran,” she said, her throat dry. “Catch him.”

  “I will if he … before he hits,” Bran said. He was crammed into the window beside her, face white with tension.

  Then Rufus got the hang of it. His wings started working together, and he rose up a little. Then a little more. Then his wings cupped and he beat the air with powerful strokes, rising higher and higher. Celie let out a yell of delight, and Rufus screamed in triumph.

  “Okay, Rufus,” Celie said, trying to coax him back in. “That’s enough for now.”

  “He looks like he’s getting tired,” Bran said. “Probably using muscles he didn’t even know he had.” He clapped his hands. “Come here, Rufus! Good boy!”

  Rufus cawed and turned again, his wings still beating hard. He started away over the courtyard, occasionally dipping down but then frantically bringing himself up again. But with every passing moment he seemed to get more confident, more graceful, though Celie agreed that he was starting to look tired.

  She called to him again, but he ignored her. He looked like he was going to try to fly out of the Castle entirely, going over the stables and the wall. But he wasn’t going to make it. Despite his more confident flying, he was weakening and starting to sink lower. If he kept descending at that rate, he would run right into one of the crenellations at the top of the eastern wall.

  Far below him, Pogue waved his lantern and whistled piercingly. Rufus looked down, and then slowly circled to land with a bump beside Pogue.

  Celie collapsed on the floor of the tower, feeling a bit of the scattered eggshell crunch under her weight. She put her head on her knees and tried to get her heart under control.

  “He did it,” she chanted. “He did it. He did it.”

  “He did,” Bran said, sounding just as relieved as she did. “He really did.”

  Her brother reached down and took Celie’s arm, helping her to her feet. “Let’s go down and congratulate him.”

  “All right,” Celie said, still feeling shaky.

  In the corridor outside the hatching tower, Bran stopped short. Holding his lantern high, he squinted at the tapestries on the wall. They were a different style from the others they’d found. Celie had passed them many times, but she was always in such a rush that she had never stopped to consider them. They were filled with griffins: Griffins hatching from flame-colored eggs. Griffins playing together in a forest, chasing after a ball. A small griffin taking flight from a tower while a dozen people below watched and applauded.

  “I think that was his first flight,” Celie said, stunned that she hadn’t noticed it before. “These all seem to be … griffin nursery scenes, don’t they?”

  Bran snorted at her description, but then he grew thoughtful. “You know, I think you’re right. These griffins are all smaller than the ones on the other tapestry. And they’re all doing babyish things.”

  Celie slugged him in the arm. “That’s what I said, they’re nursery scenes,” she said. “I wonder if we can drag these down to the holiday feasting hall.”

  “I don’t think we should,” Bran said. He jerked his chin, and they continued on their way to meet Pogue and Rufus.

  “Why not?”

  “Well, you already think that Arkwright is watching you. These tapestries … they’re not like any others I’ve seen. They’re very realistic, almost domestic. It will be hard to keep up the fiction that griffins are, um, fiction when people start seeing these.”

  “That’s true,” Celie said. “I mean, writing a poem about riding a griffin could be a poet’s fancy. Making a tapestry about hunting with griffins instead of falcons, fancy again. Or even depicting parts of that poem.”

  “But baby griffins going about their day?” Bran finished the thought. “That makes you wonder whether the weaver had actual experience with griffins.”

  They continued in silence for a while, making their way down through the Castle without running into anyone. It was nearly midnight, and just thinking that made Celie yawn. Now that the strain of Rufus’s first flight was over, she was noticing how tired she was, and how limp she still felt, and let herself lag behind just a little bit. She followed Bran out into the courtyard and past the stables.

  As they ducked into the new stables, Bran held the lantern high and they looked around. It was shaped differently than the old stables. The stalls were narrower, the partitions lower. It had a cold, unused feel, and the wood of the stalls was scarred and scraped, but the stable wasn’t dirty. In fact, there was no straw or any other debris about. Either the grooms had cleaned it thoroughly after it had appeared, or it hadn’t been used for a long time before that.

  Pogue met them at the back door of the stable, grinning broadly. He was holding his lantern with one hand and Rufus’s harness with the other. When Rufus saw Celie, he lunged forward, and Pogue hurried to pull his hand out of the leather straps.

  “Ouch!”

  “There you are! My clever boy!” Celie ruffled Rufus’s neck feathers and cooed to him, overcome with love and pride in her griffin. “You flew, you actually flew, Rufus!”

  “That was a little hair-raising to watch,” Pogue said, shaking his head in wonder. “I just kept hoping that if he didn’t get his wings working, the Castle would catch him.”

  “So did we,” Bran said. “I might have been able to do something, but …”

  Celie looked up. “You might have been able to do something? You told me you could catch him! You promised that you could!”

  Bran looked decidedly guilty. “It’s very likely that I could have,” he said. “But I didn’t need to, and that’s all that matters!”

&nbs
p; Celie sagged against Rufus, continuing to pet him. “Uncle Bran lied,” she told the griffin in a stage whisper. “But it’s all right, because you’re such a good boy!”

  “Yes, yes,” Bran said, rolling his eyes. “I lied. Now let’s get Rufus back inside the Castle, shall we?”

  Rufus reached over Celie’s shoulder and began to gnaw on the top of the nearest stall door. Celie took hold of one of the handles at his shoulders and gave it a little tug, clucking her tongue. She was trying a combination of horse and dog training with the harness, to get Rufus to obey better.

  “Come along, Rufus,” she said, and gave another tug.

  He sighed and stopped chewing the door, following Celie. She glanced back to see if Pogue was following, and stopped. She turned and looked more carefully at the wood where Rufus’s beak had left a strong impression. There was another mark next to it, just like the one Rufus had made, but obviously older and worn smooth.

  The stall had a built-in water trough, but no manger for hay. Instead there was another bucket built into the corner of the stall, the exact size of the bowl the Castle had provided for Rufus’s food.

  “Are you coming?” Bran raised his lantern and peered down the aisle at her. Pogue was staring around at the new stable, too, a line between his brows. Celie caught his eye.

  “This is a rather odd stable,” he said.

  “That’s because it isn’t for horses,” Celie said, leading Rufus up the aisle toward them. “It’s for griffins.”

  Chapter

  18

  They did a quick search of the griffin stable, but didn’t find anything more interesting than the fact that it existed at all. Everything was clean and bare, and there was not a single indication that it was meant for any unusual purpose. Celie would never have noticed if Rufus hadn’t bitten the wood of the door right next to the place where some other griffin, years ago, had bitten it.

  “Bran,” Celie said, her voice a little choked. “Do you understand? The tapestries of the griffin nursery—”