Page 33

Old Friends

It was the end of September. I awoke suddenly to the sound of someone sobbing. I sat up, listening hard. Who had been crying? I could hear nothing except the soft snore of the margool down below. I was confused. I felt my cheeks. They were damp. I had been dreaming of Beran again.

But it was not the old dream of him in chains, nor of the dark-haired man dying in my arms. In this dream, he morphed between man and bear in that strange way things happen in dreams. Always there was some form of separation between us, a chasm, or a river too wide to cross.

Sometimes I would see him in the distance and run after him, calling his name, but he never looked back, and I could never reach him.

I dressed, fed the animals, and milked the goats. I was finding evidence of the charms Mother had left for me all over the cottage and our land. There was one on the corn barrel and another on the sack of oats, for no matter how many cupfuls I scooped out, they never diminished .

There was a charm on the axe by the woodpile so that every log split effortlessly into the perfect size for my grate. There were charms all over the cottage to keep things neat, clean, and orderly. Even the knitting needles Rose had left behind were charmed to never drop a stitch.

Mother had thought of everything. But that only made me miss her all the more.

I checked the border. It was a quick morning’s work, for I found nothing to repair or undo.

As I neared home, the sky darkened, and rain began to fall, heavy and sudden.

I had forgotten my cloak, so I shimmied up the guardian tree to wait out the shower.

Its thick canopy of broad, evergreen leaves made a kindly shelter, and the patter of rain on the leaves sounded like a lullaby.

The water-loving margool stayed below, exulting in the rain shower.

I had not visited my treetop den for many weeks.

I had been too busy, first with Mother, and lately with autumnal foraging.

I sat with my back against the trunk, noticing the little signs of Jack and Jory’s prior habitation: a fishing hook, a wooden spoon, and Jory’s whittling knife.

I picked it up, running my fingers over the wooden handle with a letter J carved into it, and wondered how they were.

Our adventures in Faerie seemed half a lifetime ago.

I thought back to the first time I had set eyes on young Jack—thin, hungry, and ready to rush headlong into Faerie. I remembered evenings by the fire, listening to Jory’s tales, Mother spinning or smoking, Rose sewing or knitting.

The rain ceased, and a gleam of golden sunlight broke through the branches, turning the raindrops into countless tiny jewels. When we were children we’d pretended they were diamonds, to be threaded onto string for a necklace. I sighed heavily.

This heaviness would not do. Perhaps I should go to Rose for the winter?

Would the confinements of courtly life be better or worse than my lonely woodland home?

Perhaps I did have woodland fae in my blood, binding me to this place, but I had all the mortal needs for friendship and family, and I felt them acutely.

I looked over the willow walls to the view below. I had not grown used to seeing my cottage without the bright, red roses clambering over its walls.

The rooster emerged from the bushes, crowing for his ladies to come out now that the downpour had passed. I could not see Jenny and the goats in the meadow, for they had sought shelter in their wattle-and-daub stable.

Above me, a pair of squirrels began chattering excitedly, joined by an extended family of starlings. I listened absently, until my heart quickened with excitement at their words—for they were speaking of someone coming .

Shielding my eyes from the shaft of midday sun, I peered toward the road from town.

The animals were right—someone was coming.

Someone riding either a donkey or a small horse.

It was too far away to tell, but they were moving quickly.

Joy bubbled up in my chest—for the squirrels and birds were not speaking of a stranger coming—they were speaking of a friend.

I ran down the bridle track past my cottage.

“ Have a care ! Have a care !” squawked the jackdaw, as the margool’s wings knocked him from his perch as she flew past.

My first wild, wondrous thought was that it was Beran —but even before I saw the lanky figure waving at me from the saddle of a horse, I knew it could not be him—crown princes did not come riding alone across the countryside.

“Miss Lily!” called Jack, his face beaming.

He urged his horse forward and soon met me, though his mount did not take kindly to the margool flitting about her head. The horse reared up sharply, and Jack yelped—“ Whoa ! Easy !”—before falling unceremoniously from the saddle. He narrowly missed a bramble patch and landed in a clump of sedge.

He scrambled to his feet and shook his fist at his horse, but then he laughed at himself as he said, “Was going to ride up to your cottage looking as fine as a new pin, Miss Lily, and impress you with my neat little filly and my new toggery!” He threw out his arms to show off his well-cut surcoat, trimmed with fur and fastened with large brass buttons.

The feather in his hat was a little spoiled, hanging limply down.

“Got caught in a shower,” said Jack, trying to shake his feather dry before replacing his hat.

“You do look fine, Jack!” I exclaimed, laughing in turn. “And this is a very pretty horse, it’s not her fault she’s never seen a margool before!”

I caught hold of the horse’s bridle while Jack retrieved his hat.

“Oh, Jack, I am happy to see you! Come home and sup with me!”

Jack led his horse along the track while I almost skipped beside him. How badly I missed company!

“You still look like a prince!” I said. “Where is that skinny, underfed urchin I met last spring?”

“Oh, what it is to never be hungry!” Jack cried cheerfully. “I’m as rich as a lord, Miss Lily! The king heaped such rewards on us! We’ve got a mortal fine house and land and stable! We’ve got servants, and I could have a carriage if I wanted one, but I don’t, for I like to ride.”

“And how is Rose?” I asked. “And Jory and Sir Oswain, and…” My voice wavered a fraction, but Jack didn’t seem to notice. “…and Ber—Prince Eadric?”

“Princess Elaine is more beautiful than ever.” Jack sighed, the old lovestruck glow lighting his eyes.

“I’ve got a letter from her to give you, and she said to send it with all her love.

Jory’s leg still gives him some trouble, so he can’t walk far, but he’s ordered himself the best carriage that can be made, and he’s always at court, hobnobbing with the courtiers and flirting with the ladies.

Sir Oswain is always at court too, and the king has made him a duke, so he’s Lord Somershire now.

Jory says that though Princess Elaine could have her pick of any man in the kingdom, it’s Lord Somershire she lets squire her about, so the gossip is there’s a marriage in the offing—especially seeing as she’s taken to wearing a ruby ring, the colour of a red rose, that Lord Somershire gave her. ”

“And the prince?” I prompted. “How does he get on?”

“Terrible.”

“How so? Why? What is wrong? Is he unwell? Tell me!”

“He just can’t get along with courtly life, Miss Lily. He’s come a long way with learning speech, but he can’t make a princely speech, and Jory says there’s a deal of gossip at court about how bear-like he still is.”

“Well, what do they expect?” I said, full of indignation at the gossips and courtiers. “He’s spent most of his life living as a bear!”

“In short, Miss Lily, he told his father he couldn’t be king after him. ”

“Couldn’t be king? But what will happen?”

“Princess Elaine will take the crown when the king dies. Not that anyone wants the king to die, of course, but since his children have come home and the crown’s been returned to the kingdom, the old king’s like a new man.”

“The king has agreed? He has let Ber—Prince Eadric relinquish the crown to his sister?”

“The court, the parliament, and all the people are happy as a court jester about it. No one wants a king that growls like a bear and still has a wild look about him, even though he’s been spruced up.

” Jack shrugged. “Even the ladies say he’s too wild, but Jory says they only say that ’cause he won’t show any interest in any of them. ”

“But what will he do?”

“Do? Why, he says he’s going home . ”

I shook my head, feeling confused. “But he is home.”

Jack grinned. “He will be. His horse threw a shoe, so he left it at the smithy in town, but he told me to go on ahead, prepare the way for him. He’s a half-hour behind me—perhaps not even that if he rides like the wind once his horse is shod, and knowing him, he’ll ride like a whirlwind!”

I stood still in the middle of the path. Jack looked back at me.

“He’s coming here ?” I said, hardly daring to believe it. My heart began to race.

“Yes! Did I—?”

I did not wait to hear any more. I turned around, then spun back, saying, “I need your horse!”

“Oh! Why? But, of course, let me take off the packs, and—”

“Oh, never mind!” I said, seeing how skittish his horse was with the margool circling above us. And I turned and ran.

My heart pounded in time with my feet and with the words in my head.

He’s coming! He’s coming! —every particle of me shouted as I raced down the track toward the road.