Read 1416940146(FY) Online

Authors: Cameron Dokey

1416940146(FY) (5 page)

And there were many who remarked upon the fact that, when I discovered some new thing that I wanted explained or simply wished to share, I took my treasure first not to Papa or Maman, or even to my nurse, but to my cousin. And they remarked also that, whatever he might be doing, Oswald excused himself from it at once and remained with me until I had all the answers I wanted.

Whatever would come between us, sooner or later, nothing would ever be able to erase the thing that had been that day engraved upon my heart: It was Oswald who had won for me my freedom, the thing that I desired most.

And in doing this, he also brought about the third and last of his amazing transformations, for such things always come in threes, as you must know.

First, he changed himself. Second, he changed my mother’s mind. And, finally, with my first step out of doors, he changed the inside of me, for he rewove the very fabric of my heart.

It still beat with a trip and a hammer, for that is the way a heart must go. But, whereas before it had woven only dark things when it dwelled upon my cousin, now within the fabric of my heart there ran, for him and him alone, one single strand of pure, untarnishable gold.

Chapter 4

The years that followed were the happiest of my life. Though I suppose I should say the happiest until now. But the now that has but so lately come to pass was then so far away as to be almost invisible. The thinnest wisp of white cloud in a sky the same color blue as Maman's favorite china cups. I couldn't yet even imagine that now would ever be.

So I'll say it again:

The years that followed were the happiest of my life.

Oh, I still did plenty of things I didn't particularly want to, such as painting trees and wildflowers, for instance. Though even I had to admit this was an improvement over the never-ending parade of fruit still lifes. And there was one area in which as far as I was concerned Maman took Oswald's words a bit too much to heart. She now insisted that I learn to embroider, reasoning that the more familiar I was with my needle the less likely I would be to jab myself and so draw one bright drop of blood.

28

But, on the whole, things were so much better there is really no comparison.

Except for the nightmare, of course.

I suppose I should have expected there would be a price to pay for my newly acquired freedom. But I didn't. You don't really stop to consider these things when you're only ten years old. I didn't yet perceive the way everything that happens is connected— didn't realize that opening a door that led to outside exploration would inevitably open a door to the unexplored places inside myself.

And, just as exploring the outside world brought new words to my vocabulary (hyacinth, chamomile, mugwort), so did exploring my inner world give me new terms to ponder. Fear, confusion, and ambiguity above all else. For, though I had certainly heard these words before, I didn't truly understand them until the nightmare began.

The dream was always the same, and I had it once a month.

The day of the week varied, but the date stayed constant. The twenty-eighth. The same date on which I had been christened.

This might not seem so bad to you. Just twelve nights out of a possible three hundred and sixty-five. But believe me, those twelve were more than enough. And the fact that the dream was always the same didn't make enduring it any easier. It actually made it worse, more inescapable, somehow.

From the time I was eight until I turned sixteen, the thing I dreamed every month, year in and year out, was this: I dreamed that I was someone else.

It unfolded gradually, like swimming through deep water, the way dreams so often do. In images that, from the moment they first occurred, always reminded me of a kaleidoscope. Clear one moment, distorted the next, until they finally settled into clarity again, having rearranged themselves into something else entirely.

I begin the dream by walking through the palace. A thing I've done every day for as long as I can recall. But a new, keen-edged sense of wonder and anticipation fills me. A sense of discovery seems to beckon me on. This is how I first come to realize that I am not myself in the dream. For I have never felt these things about the place where I grew up. For me, it has never been new, but always, simply, home.

29

No sooner do I realize I am not myself than the kaleidoscope of my dream performs its first revolution. The wonder of discovery begins to distort. It becomes a need, an insatiable hunger so strong I must obey it. And what it wants me to do is to run. As I do, I begin to weep. For it comes to me suddenly that I am searching for a thing I have lost. A thing that, though I cannot name it, I know in my heart matters more than anything else. But even as I wear myself out in the search for it, I know that it is lost forever. I will never be able to find it. It is irre-trievably gone.

And as the kaleidoscope begins to turn again, I have one agonizing thought: that somewhere, in all the rooms through which I've traveled, I have lost myself as well.

Now there comes the part of the dream I hate the most. The part where I wish desperately to be awake, so that I could put a stop to everything simply by closing my eyes. But, as they are closed already, I am trapped. Try as I might, I cannot open my eyes and awaken, and so put an end to things that way. The dream is not yet ready to let me go.

For now the kaleidoscope revolves unceasingly, the images forming only for as long as it takes them to dissolve. I feel as if I am tumbling head over heels through the sky. It is dark one moment, filled with colors the next, until I lose all sense of space and time. But one thing always stays with me: the sense of pain, of loss. And as I suddenly see the ground rushing up to meet me I am filled with one desire: to make the whole thing stop, no matter what the cost.

I have heard Nurse say that, if you dream that you are falling, it is very important that you wake up before you hit the ground.

Either that, or you must dream you land upon your feet, whole and unharmed. Since this is a nightmare, I do neither of these things. Instead the kaleidoscope turns again and, when it stops, I am lying flat on my face in the dark.

As I lift my head, light and color begin to return. I am in a room full of courtiers, dressed in their finest garments. They pass so near that I fear they will tread upon me, but somehow, they do not. I recognize many and I call out to them. Not one replies.

But it isn't until I reach out to catch the silken hem of a passing dress that I realize why.

They cannot see me. I can no longer see myself.

30

I know that I exist. I can feel my churning stomach when I press a hand against it. Feel the hot stickiness of my own blood run down my face when I slam my head, hard, against the wall.

But I can see none of these things. They are invisible, just as I am. Somewhere in the midst of my whirling tumble, I have been whirled right out of existence. Or, at the very least, right out of sight, of heart, of mind.

At this, so excruciating a pain fills me that an extraordinary thing happens: I wink back into being, as if this pain alone is the thing that gives me form. In that moment, I know I must carry it with me always, nurturing it like a child. Feeding it and tending it.

I cannot afford to let it die.

For someday, I will find the way to make those who overlook me see me truly. Find the way to make them see the things I long for in my heart. And when I do . . .

I probably don't have to tell you that this is the moment when I always woke up, tears upon my cheeks, torn between relief and disappointment. Happy that the dream was over, it is true. But frightened by an outcome I could never see, and by a puzzle I have never been able to solve.

Who was I?

I can practically hear you say it. Surely the answer is obvious.

I was Jane, of course.

This is what my nurse thought, for she said this is the way of strong magic sometimes. Nurse said that the strongest magic doesn't simply act upon us, it becomes us. Running with our blood, holding us upright from the inside out, just like our bones.

Two of the most powerful spells ever cast in the whole history of my fathers kingdom were made over me. Now, according to Nurse, they lived inside me, constantly at war. One seeking my destruction, the other, my salvation. My nightmare was the inevitable result.

It made sense, I suppose.

Naturally, I tried not going to sleep on what I knew would be a dream night. It never worked. No matter what I did, sleep always came for me sooner or later, bringing the nightmare when it did.

I suppose when the things that give you bad dreams live inside you, there's no point in trying to stop them. They're going to come out whenever they decide it is their time. Better just to 31

close your eyes and hold on tight, the faster to get the things you fear to go back to sleep themselves.

I think the worst part is that when you know you dream another persons dream, you can never truly feel at peace. Never truly trust yourself. If you carry around somebody else's nightmare, who knows what else your insides might hide or when it might come out?

Now, where was I?

Oh, yes, the happiest years of my life.

They were, really. Nightmare aside. I got to go outside every day, usually for as long as I wanted. I started by exploring the closest places first. The kitchen garden, and then the other, more formal, palace gardens. Naturally, my favorite one of these was the one devoted entirely to roses, though it always gave Maman fits when I went there. All those thorns.

But, finally, after several months, the day came when I had explored every single inch of the palace grounds to my satisfaction and was ready to take the next step: the world outside the palace walls. I wanted this so much it made my bones ache. So much it kept me awake on the nights the dream didn't come. Not in the same way. Not in fear, but in anticipation.

As if the wide world had a voice and I alone could hear its call.

I was pretty sure I knew what Maman's reaction to my going outside the palace walls was going to be. As it turned out, it was Papa's reaction that provided the surprise.

I've already told you three important things about Papa and Maman. How they waited for many long years to have a child.

How they loved one another in spite of this trial. How Maman preferred to define her world with words, and Papa his with silence. When Papa did choose to say what he thought, however, his words carried a weight Maman's did not. This was not simply because he was king. It was because everyone around him knew that, if he spoke a thing aloud, it was because he had thought it over thoroughly and made up his mind.

So when the day came when I could stand the anticipation no longer and announced at dinner that I wished to broaden my horizons, to go beyond the palace walls, a look of horror crossed Maman's face and she pulled in a breath to give the answer I expected, which would have been: "Mais non!"

32

But before she could, Papa uttered this sentence. "Why do you wish to do such a thing, Aurora?:”

At this, I became so astonished every thought flew from my mind. I had been prepared for a battle with Maman, not a discussion with my father.

“I don't know," I stammered out. "I just do, Papa."

Oswald's face assumed the expression it carries when I have done something particularly stupid, a thing that made me want to kick him under the table.

"But you must have a reason," my father urged gently. "I would simply like to hear it. There's no right or wrong answer.

Take your time. Not everyone expresses an interest in spending time outside the palace, so I'm curious to know why you wish to.

That is all."

Take that, Oswald, I thought.

I don't know how things are in the land of your birth, but in mine there is a division, the great schism Papa calls it, between those who live at court and those who don't. Those at court are mostly nobles, except for the servants, while those they refer to as the common people live outside the palace walls. In towns and villages. In the countryside. The nobles think as little about them as they can afford to, but in this they overlook an important fact of life: It is the ones outside the palace who perform the tasks which keep our country prosperous.

The nobles find no fault with the current arrangement. It's the way things have always been or at least for as long as they care to remember. Why should things not continue the way they are?

The common people have come by their name for a perfectly good reason. Doing common labor is what they are good for, the only thing they know. Besides, it's so difficult to tell one from another. With their dirty faces and hands, they all look so very much alike. Better to pay as little attention to them as possible and let them get on with their duties. Better to stay within the palace walls.

Papa disagrees. He's the first king in nobody knows how long to do so. He goes out among the people, which is what he calls them. Either that or my subjects. Regardless of which it is, he never calls them common. He knows them by name, at least the ones in the village nearest to the palace. He takes time to listen to their sorrows and their joys. In short, he treats them like what they are: necessary and important, even if they aren't high-born.

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