Any Man So Daring (26 page)

What had Will done just now? Had he perhaps pruned a family tree, taken a son from his mother? A baby from his cradle?

He thought of the witch’s baby in its humble cradle.

He closed his eyes and took deep breaths and told himself he would not think on it, but he must have looked guilty as he handed the stick to Silver, for she smiled and said, “Think not on it. You have done no wrong. I promise you that much.”

But what was her promise worth? She’d deceived him before.

And if he had done harm, what could he do to remedy it now? It was a necessary evil, was it not? Helping him find his kidnapped son.

Silver now looked at the stick and a mist formed all along it’s brown length. She stared intently at it, and the mist swirled round and round it.

She handed it back to Will. The wood felt cold and trembled in his hand. “Go now,” she said. “The stick will pull your feet onto the path. Only, do not forget to tell Quicksilver of my request.”

Will nodded.

The twig pulled on him, pulled him out of the clearing.

As he walked away, he heard Silver call, “Will, wait.”

He turned to look at her.

“The love I bear you,” she said, "demands that I warn you. Your son might not look as you expect, when you find him.”

Will ignored the pull of the stick and held still, staring back at Silver.

How would Hamnet not look like himself? Was she warning him of those illusions which had been used against him these many years past, when he’d rescued his Nan?

By the power of elves, she’d been seemingly shifted into fire and serpent and other things, but none of them meant much more than the illusions the witch had cast on Will some days ago.

“I understand illusions,” he said, calmly. “I will not be frighted.”

The lady shook her head. Her intent eyes were full of inexpressible sadness. “It won’t be an illusion.” She took a deep breath. “Your son, Will, might be fully grown. A man. For the time in the castle at the heart of the crux, where doubtless your son is, passes a thousand times faster than time here. More than three years does every day count, and most of a day have we already passed.”

Most of a day. Hamnet had been eleven. Will tried to imagine Hamnet at fourteen.

The twig in his hand pulled him impatiently towards a path he couldn’t see but that would lead him, insensibly, towards a magical castle where his son was held captive.

Would his son recognize him? Who had been looking after Hamnet this while? What creature, in this land of dread magic, had served in place of Will in his duty of raising Hamnet? Or had Hamnet, alone in the dread castle, spent his days in solitude?

And how would Hamnet receive his father?

Scene Twenty Three

Night is falling over the crux — a strange night that descends in dark blue tendrils blown about by a lilac-scented wind. In the forest, beside a path, Miranda and Proteus stop, and she sits on a large rock.

M
iranda felt tired. Cold crept from her feet to her legs as though the cold magic of the crux were overtaking her. She looked at Proteus, who bustled about making fire.

What did he think, and why did he seem so deeply immersed in his thoughts that he was not aware of her?

As a night such as she’d never seen descended from the sky like the fingers of an evil giant, she thought of her father.

Not of her elf father, whom she’d never known and who -- Proteus still said -- had been a just and fair gentleman. Much as Miranda wished to believe Proteus's opinion of the late king of fairyland, it was of her adopted father she thought — nay, her real father — the immortal Hunter.

For how more real could a father be than one who’d raised her with love, though she was no true kin of his?

When he’d come home to his castle and not found her, what had he thought? What had he thought of his errant daughter? Oh, how could she have returned such loving care with such disobedience?

And where was Caliban, whom she’d transported to this place? Where were the centaurs, Proteus's companions? Had they also been transported? And, if so, where were they? In the castle with the boy? Or had their nature, not as innocent as the human boy’s, prevented their access to it?

She looked up at the blue sky, remembering what Proteus had said about only three nights in the crux making one unable to ever leave it, and she trembled.

Proteus's strong arms surrounded her; Proteus's gentle embrace held her up. “Fair love, you faint with wondering in the woods,” Proteus said. “We’ll rest us, Miranda, if you think it good, and tarry for the comfort of the day.”

Miranda started to shake her head but, faith, she could hardly keep her eyes open. And Proteus's arms around her felt warm, as though they restored some of the vital heat that this evil land, this cold landscape, had stolen from her.

Oh, every fairytale spoke of trials before one reached the castle where the captive pined. But Miranda had never imagined the trial to be just walking through a landscape where no mortal, no immortal, could ever find his way but by magic. Guiding Proteus and herself, both by magic, had consumed her remaining strength.

Of late, her ears, deceiving her, had given her sounds like hooves stepping cautiously through the undergrowth, the brush, the leaves and mulch on the forest ground -- just out of sight.

“Be it so, Proteus,” she said and, leaning into him, yet attempted to push him away with her hand, as modesty required, as they stood. She stumbled over to a pile of leaves.

 
“Find you a bed.” She attempted to drop onto the moss-and-leaf-covered ground at her feet. “For I, in this bank will rest my head.”

But Proteus prevented her from lying down, his arms around her as tightly as if their bodies were already conjoined in marital union. “One turf shall serve as a pillow for us both,” he said. “One heart, one bed, two bosoms and one troth.”

Speaking thus, he set his warm lips on her cold ones and, with infinite tenderness, coaxed a kiss from her.

He felt so warm. She was so cold. And faith, his love was real. She could feel his tenderness for her in the way his lips traveled, pressing to her cheek, her neck, her shoulder — for which purpose he pulled away the lace and silk of her dress, and reached behind her to unhook the fastenings that held her dress closed.

They could lie together through the night, and in this strange land they could find comfort, their heads upon one patch of ground, their bodies entwined as their hearts already were.

For a moment, just a moment, between heartbeat and heartbeat, she leaned into his embrace and savored the touch of his warm lips upon her cold flesh.

Then she thought of the Hunter, the Hunter who was in rights and truth, her father and who deserved, from her, obedience. The Hunter who must give consent for her marriage, her having no other relative living save Proteus -- and that King of fairyland that Proteus now said was innocent, but of whose good intentions she was by no means sure.

Quicksilver had hurt Proteus. Faith, hurt him beyond need.

  
Could she trust such a one? Could she ask him blessing? No. When they left the crux with the human boy, she would tell Proteus to take the throne and exile the cruel tyrant Quicksilver. Send Quicksilver right away to where he could not hurt them.

Therefore, the Hunter remained the only one who could bless her union with Proteus. And the Hunter would know if Proteus and Miranda had taken their pleasure of each other before marriage. He would know it with a look.

Already having stolen the magical book from her father, already having run from his judgment, Miranda didn’t know how to face the look that would cloud his eyes if she also, without his consent, lay with her chosen partner.

Besides, she remembered how Proteus had attacked Quicksilver upon the beach. Some of her doubts about him awakened now. How could she trust herself to him without defense when he, but so short a while ago, had behaved as a violent stranger and attacked an unharmed man?

“Nay, good Proteus,” she said, and feebly pushed him away. “For my sake, my dear, lie further off yet, do not lie so near.”

But Proteus, who had unhooked the top of her dress, now cupped her small breast in his eager, warm hand. “Oh, take the sense, sweet, of my innocence. Love takes the meaning in love’s conference. I mean that my heart unto yours is knit, so that but one heart we can make of it.” Fervently, he kissed her neck, her hair. “Two bosoms interchained with an oath, so then two bosoms and a single troth. Then by your side, no bedroom me deny, for, lying so, Miranda, I do not lie.”

The cascade of his words woke Miranda. In this strange land, her beliefs, her opinions, her certainties had been so challenged that now she suspected everything and, knowing her suspicions baseless and, ashamed of them, yet she could not help suspecting.

Opening her eyes fully, she pushed harder at Proteus, who stepped back, surprised. His face, she thought, betrayed no eagerness for lovemaking.
That
she could have understood.

But this, his narrowed eyes, his mouth set determinedly, all of them spoke of planning — plotting?

Plotting of what and against whom, and what part could lovemaking have in such schemes?

Oh, she would go mad. She was already mad for even thinking of this. For what could Proteus be plotting that involved her favors?

She forced a smile onto a face that wanted to strain in aching disbelief. “Proteus riddles very prettily. Now so much beshrew my manners and my pride, if Miranda meant to say Proteus lied.” She grinned at him, trying to make herself look impish, innocent.

  
His eyes remained narrowed.
 

She put her hand on his chest, pushing him gently away. “But, gentle friend, for love and courtesy, lie further off; in elven modesty, such separation as, it may well be said, becomes a virtuous bachelor and a maid: so far be distant and good night, sweet friend. Thy love never alter, till thy sweet life end.” As she spoke, she reached behind her and hooked her dress closed again.

Proteus shook his head. He straightened himself, like a man who shakes off unworthy thoughts. He pulled at his doublet and ran his hand back over his disarrayed hair. A smile, though small and hesitant, painted itself upon his lips. “Amen,” he said. “Amen to that fair prayer say I. And then, end life when end loyalty.”

He stepped away from her to a moss patch beneath a stately oak. “Here is my bed.” He extended his hand towards her, a gesture like a blessing. “Sleep give you all rest.”

Miranda let herself down onto her own patch of moss and leaves. It felt cushiony and warm beneath her. “With half that wish, the wisher’s eyes be pressed.”

She could barely finish the sentence, as tiredness pushed her to sleep.

She hadn’t eaten since leaving her home, and she could not remember feeling this tired.

This sleep, this prostration had come over her this last half-hour’s walk through the forest.

Before that, she’d been herself, but, of a sudden, she could think on nothing but sleep, and it seemed to her that her tiredness circled her head like a bird of prey, waiting only for her to lie down, so it could descend upon her.

It felt, she thought, as when she’d been very young and some sickness kept her awake and crying through the night.

Then had the Hunter, out of paternal concern, used a sleeping spell on her little head, till she drooped of sudden with tiredness and, laying her head upon her small bed, presently slept the sickness away.

A sleep-spell. This felt like a sleep spell.

Frightening herself with her thought, Miranda opened her eyes, scaring sleep away.

Overhead the sky was dark blue rayed through with lighter blue, the whole swirling around like water in a whirlpool.

She stared at it, and wished for stars, for the familiar stars of her home where something would show her the way. But this was a land of mysteries, and she was blind.

Who would put a spell on her?

She sat up. Proteus, lying on his moss-patch, looked sound asleep and as innocent as a new-born babe.

Oh, she was mad, she was unworthy, to suspect her love as she did.

This was just her tiredness and her hunger, combined knitting her brain in a monstrous knot even as her body craved sleep. She forced herself to lie down on the moss and leaves and determinedly closed her eyes.

But, though tiredness wrapped itself around her like a blanket, it seemed to her that, beyond the nearest trees, hooves clopped and someone whispered.

And if not a sleep spell, then what Miranda felt was very strange — to feel so like sleeping, while one’s mind seethed.

If she slept....

If she slept, by virtue of a sleep spell, what might the spell caster not do during her rest?

She must go and look. She had to find out what hid there, or she’d not sleep tonight.

Scene Twenty Four