The Secret’s Keeper and the Heir
the second in The Rose’s Garden and the Sea series
by Jackie McCarthy
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Copyright 2013 Jaclyn McCarthy
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Dedication
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To the patient souls who taught me how to sail and the even more patient souls who teach me how to live.
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Prologue:
The Heirs
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Mr. Meriwether Hawkly is an artist. He lives with a dog, two cats, a hamster, and a round little wife in a small apartment in the central city of Quillain. While the round little wife is at work and the dog snoozes in the corner, he paints. As he does so, the apartment is quiet—the cats purr from their sun-bathed windowsills and the hamster chatters in his cage, as hamsters are wont to do.
Mr. Hawkly isn’t a great artist. Truth be told, he’s barely an artist at all. For the past ten years he’s fallen prey to the most debilitating form of painter’s block. He can’t sketch. He can’t even clean his palette. Canvases stretched all those years ago remain blank or voided on their easels. His brushes are coated with dust.
Mr. Hawkly makes his two cents in the greeting card industry, for which he produces watercolors of comically exaggerated animals saying adorable things. These cards are then purchased by people who can’t express their feelings in any other way. Last month he submitted the image of a cartoon dog holding an anatomically incorrect heart and howling, “I wuv you.” This month’s mock-ups show a cat with the same message. A hamster, he fears, is all too likely to follow.
Most days, instead of working, Mr. Meriwether Hawkly stares out the grimy window and down upon the city, wondering what his life might have been. Though he loves his dog, his cats, his hamster, and his round little wife (each in their turn), he still feels as though—at one time or another—his life had been led astray.
Is this really, he wonders, how things were supposed to turn out? How long is he supposed to continue in this hollow sort of way?
In truth, Mr. Hawkly’s life could have been much different than it is. It was a series of choices, after all, that brought him to this place, just as it was a series of choices that positioned us all within our lives.
For instance, when Meriwether was left by his mother in a playroom at five years old, he chose to play with the wooden blocks. Wooden blocks are a fine toy (as toys go), but had he played with sculpted animals instead, a curly-haired boy would have joined him. In the wreckage of epic battles between wooden lions and carved bears there would have ignited a life-long friendship. So much enamored of her son’s new friend, young Hawkly’s mother would have transferred the boy to a school across town, and the friends would have become classmates. There, he would have been encouraged to apply for a top college, where many years later he would teach, becoming a well-loved professor of animal husbandry.
The child Meriwether played with the wooden blocks, however, and the teacher told his mother that afternoon how very creative the boy’s fledgling tower had been.
When Meriwether began at the grade school in his neighborhood he was assigned to one of two classes. His teacher, therefore, was Misses Tamberline—a woman who thought that finger-painting was the best way to keep young children in check. The other teacher, Misses Breslin, preferred reading. Had Meriwether been in her class, she would have recommended many wonderful books. His favorite would have been a picture book of the wild creatures spanning the length and breadth of the Illian Continent. This would have ignited a childhood passion in exploration and wildlife photography, which would later have led him to a job at a nature magazine. He would have been sent out to take glossy pictures of Sedalian Lions and would have met a very pretty local girl, settling into a life on the wild, grassy plains.
Instead, Meriwether brought home his innumerable finger-paintings so that his mother might pretend her rapture over each, soon at a deficit of space to display them all. One such painting of an elephant earned him a large golden sticker from his distracted teacher. His mother made sure to make room for this piece. It became his goal in life to earn praise though his art.
When Meriwether was asked to choose a professional course of study, he carefully researched available colleges. He narrowed down his choices between a provincial university and a dedicated art institution, of which he would eventually choose the latter. Had he gone to University he would have taken time out of his painting to attend other requisite classes. A biology course, which he would have been dreading, would instead have introduced him to a voluptuous red-haired upperclassman whom he would quickly grow to admire. In an effort to impress this woman, Meriwether would have taken another biology course, quickly followed by another. He would eventually change his major and go on to pursue a career in wildlife discovery, traveling the Continent in search of creatures yet to be discovered, the red-haired woman at his side.
Instead, Meriwether surrounded himself with art and art classes, and he was highly praised for his skill.
As Mr. Meriwether Hawkly stares out his window on this placid, sunny day, he wonders about time. He can’t know of all the futures that had once been at his fingertips, and yet he feels them all nagging in the corner of his mind. It doesn’t seem fair. In fact, he feels as though the course of his life had been decided before he’d been aware enough to make any choices for himself.
And so it can feel for many in hindsight, when looking back upon our personal and shared histories. We each make a great number of choices without knowing the consequences, and with each new decision we’re pulled into a new path of existence, each more unlikely than the last.
It’s easy to forget, in the great crush of time, that the epic battles of song and legend were often won and lost within the early days of childhood. It’s in such delicate years when a child will make his first life-changing decisions (or when life-changing decisions will be made for him), be they for good or ill—ones he will then build upon for the rest of his life. Perhaps he played with the toy blocks, attended a certain class, or simply veered right when he might have gone left.
In some ways, the profound effects of our choices are both frightening and wonderful. It’s only upon seeing our own crossroads, after all, when we may ask the question that is both terrible and awesome: What if?
What if the Kingdom of Illiamna had never fallen to Nic the Usurper? What if Nic Pharus’ mother had made a different choice, and the man who would overthrow empires had never been born? What if the King had not been killed? What if the three heirs had not disappeared? What if the hero Benson Rose had never been needed at all?
If I were to tell a story of the politics in the time of Benson Rose, there would be many tales to consider—those of senators and usurpers—those of conquerors and Kings. But they’re dry stories, truth be told, ones full of names and dates to memorize. I’ll have none of them.
I would choose instead the tale of three lonely children: each the hope for a crumbling Kingdom, each living in a moment of profound choice, and each something other than what they seemed.
First, there was a boy. He was mute and pale, and slept fitfully in an icy bed. He was being raised, it seemed, at the very edge of the world, where his breath rose in clouds in the frigid air and where all but the highest mountaintop was hidden by an eternity of snow.
A call to waken brought open the boy’s cold gray eyes, bordered as they were by matted locks of mahogany hair. He looked up to see a rough n
orthern man, a Bruin, who spoke fuzzy words in his direction. The man motioned that it was time for them to leave. The boy neither understood nor listened, but he made the choice to follow, just as he’d done on every other day of his young memory.
Second, there was another boy, this one strapping and tall, with similar gray eyes and a braid of brown hair. He was eager for the world—too eager to stay trapped inside the isolated chambers that had contained—nay, confined—him for the last two years. The bird song was far too sweet that day, and the sun much too bright. Looking up from his book, he watched his old guardian—his jailer, it seemed at times—prepare to leave on an errand.
As the door closed behind the gray-haired man’s musty cloak, the boy jumped to the window, drinking deeply of the sunny, albeit rank, air. He tracked the old man’s departure and wondered if—were he to lean just a little farther from the sill—he might not smell the late berries of the Elder Trees, as he had in the summers of his early childhood.
With a slyness born from years of solitude, the boy forced open the window and swung out a little-used leg, testing his weight upon the mossy clay roof tiles. It seemed to hold, and so he brought his other leg to join. Soon he was off, crawling up and away from the prison of his apartment. The boy felt the sunlight touch his face, a sensation he hadn’t felt for several years. He squinted, somewhat pained by the unbelievable brightness, but he smiled also. This must be, he thought as he sat upon the roof’s mossy apex, the day his life would change. As it happened, his choice made sure it was.
Lastly, there was a girl, at once gray-eyed and tall, her own head haloed by unruly mahogany tresses. She stood, windswept and tanned, in the lush green field of a country farm, watching a caravan of carts as they snaked towards a neighboring estate. The house had been empty the ten years she’d lived nearby, and she hoped desperately that these carriages brought with them other children with whom she could play.
Inching ever closer to the grand estate under cover of a high-heather hedge, the girl saw a cart door open and a child of sorts step out. He was on the edge of childhood, perhaps, but his bearing was one of age and experience. The boy’s handsome chestnut skin and fine figure brought a blush to the girl’s cheeks, and though she couldn’t guess why, her breath was more shallow than it had reason to be. As he moved around the carriage, she followed, and the bushes chose to rustle rather than give way.
“Who’s there?” asked the boy, his light brown curls bobbing as his head turned round to observe her.
The girl said nothing. She only stared at the exotic and beautiful boy, whose light brown eyes had spied her through the brush. He stepped closer and her heart fluttered wildly.
“I say, who’s there?” he repeated, secretly afraid of who or what might be secreted in the bush. Though he would pretend to be a man, it was the boy in him who wondered aloud, “Are you a fairy?”
The girl giggled, thinking this game was quite fun. She told him, “No, silly, I’m a girl.”
“Then why are you hiding?” he asked in return.
“Because it suits me to hide,” the girl said, placing a hand on her chest to slow the rapid pulsing of her heart.
“Are you a changeling, then?” pressed the chestnut boy. “A fairy who’s been raised as a girl? Only, I’ve heard so many tales of strange creatures in this land. Surely you’re such a one.”
“I am not!” the girl cried in high spirit. “There must be girls where you come from.”
“Of course there are girls,” said the boy primly. “But they don’t hide in bushes.”
“What do they do instead?” inquired the girl.
“They…dance,” said the boy after a pause, trying not to display his great ignorance on the topic. “Were you born here?”
“Neither in this bush nor in this country,” said the girl wisely. “I’m from Illiamna. And you?”
“Scadia,” said the boy sadly. “Or my mother was. My father’s from here, or so he claims. I think you might look like him, though I can hardly see you.”
“Scadia,” the girl sighed, letting the exotic name roll off her tongue. She knew little about the place, except that its people made the finest silks. “I should like to go there someday. Is it true that the people ride around on elephants and that the air smells like spices?”
“I could tell you if you’d come out,” said the boy hopefully. His gaze fell upon her like the dappled rays of the sun, and she moved shyly sideways to keep the high-heather between them. He asked with a frown, “Wouldn’t you prefer that?”
The girl shook her head, her sense of whimsy fully engaged after an entire morning of play. “What would we do if I came out, but be boy and girl?” she asked. “Here, at least, I may be a King and you my Lion-Guardian.”
“You, a King?” the boy laughed benevolently. “Why not I the King and you my fairy advisor?”
The girl considered this carefully. “I should like to be an advisor to a King,” she said thoughtfully. “I think I should give very good counsel.”
“Such as how to tend the fairy woods,” the chestnut boy teased, “or make dew upon the leaves?
“No,” cried the girl, “but I should call forth the powers of nature to rebuild our fallen kingdom, and wake the raging bull to our aid.”
The boy, who seemed inspired by these lofty goals, implored, “But how would a fairy do all this? They’re just little things made of forest magic.”
The girl thought again, the speckled sun playing over her forehead. After a time she replied, “I guess I should be King after all.”
Just then, an elderly voice called from the carriage. “Dunstan? Dunstan where are you? I need your hand to get down.”
The boy’s penetrating eye contact was broken. He called to the carriage that he was coming, and turned quickly back to the spirit in the brush. The fairy child was gone, however. All he saw was a human girl in a muddied frock running away across the lush green field.
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Lilli and the Fairy Circle
Fairy Stories of Chaveneigh
Amassed by Madame Pericolt
Translated by Sir Haron Wimsee
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Once upon a time, a handmaiden to the Queen of Chaveneigh was ill-treated, and she gave birth to a little girl in the Wild Forest Beyond. Though she could not help loving the beautiful, blue-eyed girl, she was not allowed her own children in the palace, and so she left the child within a Fairy Ring, hoping that the mischievous but kind-hearted sprites would take pity on them both.
The magic of Fairy Rings is this: they’re circles of particularly pretty magical mushrooms wherein nothing else may grow. On any given night a flock of fairies, imps, and elves might choose to stage one of their wild parties there deep into the night. The spirits of the forest protect their magical places with great jealousy, however, so the Fairy Rings are guarded by ferocious toads the size of small deer.
The newborn girl, who cried loudly through her first painful, lonely minutes in this new world, was no sooner abandoned by her mother than she was set upon by just such a giant toad. His name was Pup-hem-tup, and he croaked at her in displeasure. His eyes bulged as he raised a webbed foot to cover the babe’s screaming mouth. The little girl’s fist, thrown about in a tantrum, hit upon the toad’s bumpy, amphibious skin, and her small fingers closed around him. Feeling the warmth of her tiny infant hand, Pup-hem-tup let out a plaintive ribbit and lowered himself beside the now-silent little girl, keeping her warm until the fairies arrived at sundown.
The fairies were at first angered that Pup-hem-tup had allowed an intruder into their circle (for they didn’t understand just how helpless newborn babies could be), but the brave toad blew up his chest and croaked that she was to be allowed. The child was sleeping by then and the fairies crowded on top of her to see the strange little creature who had captured the heart of their surly old toad.
One brave fairy, known as Chi-chi-bon, crawled all the way to the babe’s button nose and examined the child’s tiny eyelashes. It was then th
at the little girl opened her brilliant blue eyes. Chi-chi-bon, upon seeing his reflection in their depths, fell backward in surprise. The others teased him for being startled by a human, but he was a fairy of sweet temperament, and he chuckled at himself too. Then, as he approached the child’s face once more, he saw that the girl was watching him with a toothless, happy grin.
That was the moment in which Chi-chi-bon adopted the abandoned girl. The fairies named her Lil-lil-epu, or Lilli for short. They raised her on milk thistle and bush berries, and she grew to be the sweetest girl in the entire kingdom. Her lips were always rosy red and her cheeks shone bright with a merry blush. Her hair was dark as the night sky and her eyes as blue as day. The fairies were very proud of their pet girl, and they taught her all the secrets of the magical world.
While Lilli grew up frolicking through the forest, the girl’s mother—the handmaiden Hanna—had been given charge of the King’s ward—the young Lady Ulia. Ulia had been put into her care when still a young child and, being the same age as her lost daughter, Hanna doted on the child. Ulia was destined to be bad-tempered, however, and she used the Queen’s handmaiden atrociously ill. There was not an encounter that would pass between them that would leave Hanna without some kind of scrape, cut, or burn.
The young Lady Ulia was intended for the King’s son, Tommard, who had little time to care for such domestic concerns as girls or marriage. The prince was too busy, as it were, cavorting about the forest himself—tracking wild boar and practicing with his bow and arrow. He was a tall, handsome boy, and though he wasn’t at all accustomed to considering the feelings of girls in any way, he nevertheless felt intrigued when he stumbled upon the radiant Lilli one day.
It just so happened that Lilli, like all fairies, thought that humans were toys to be played with. The prince was nothing but a pretty plaything for her at first, uttering to her such phrases of love that she could barely contain her amusement. One day several years later, however, he announced that he was to be married at his father’s command. Lilli found herself to be devastated. Fairies have their own brand of jealousy, but Lilli’s sorrows were more than Chi-chi-bon or Pup-hem-tup could understand. They tried to reason with the heartbroken youth, but to no avail—she cried herself to sleep every night in the week leading up to the prince’s wedding.