Golden (7 page)

I could see Harry, green eyes alight with mischief. And I thought I saw a girl as well. But she seemed far away, as if her place in Mr. Jones's heart was older than Harry's was. No less present, just not in front. For some reason I could neither see nor understand, she had been relegated to the background. I could not see her features clearly, but around her face, I thought I caught a glimpse of summer gold.

Not me, then,
I thought.

And at the unexpected pang my own heart felt, my vision faltered, and Mr. Jones was just a man with graying ginger whiskers standing in an open door.

“Come in to dinner, Rapunzel,” he said.

And so I did, and did not speak of what I had seen. For he had not asked me to look, and that which lies in another's heart, even if glimpsed out of turn, should never be told out of turn, if it can be helped.

Six

I thought about it, though, from time to time. Who was the girl Mr. Jones kept at the back of his heart? Just as I wondered about the identity of the person Melisande kept hidden inside hers but never spoke of.
I made room for you inside my heart,
she'd told me on the day we first met Mr Jones. But who had she asked to scoot over so that I might have a place?

I did not ask either of these questions, though.

There are some subjects that, no matter how much your brain may tell you it would like an explanation, your heart and tongue refuse to touch. And so the question of who shared the sorceress's heart with me remained unanswered, because I could not bring myself to ask it.

And then it was forgotten, at least for a while.

For something changed the year I turned sixteen. A thing that at first seemed to have nothing to do with either Melisande or me, though it turned out to have a great deal to do with both of us.

It started out simply, with the weather. That summer was the hottest I could remember, the hottest I had ever known. For many weeks, too many, in fact, there had been no rain at all. Each day, early in the
morning before the sun rose too high, Melisande and I labored together in the garden, carrying water from the stream that ran at the base of the apple orchard. Even then, our plants drooped and languished, as if they couldn't quite make up their minds to expend the energy required to stay alive.

It was the only time I ever saw the garden look anything other than rich and abundant. And if even Melisande's garden struggled as it did, I didn't want to think too long and hard about what might be happening to the gardens, and the people, in the town.

Some mornings, after our work was finished, I climbed to the top of the tallest apple tree, the one that grew at the very crest of the hill and so provided the best view of the surrounding countryside. This had been a favorite place for as long as I could remember. A place to sit and dream, to imagine where the roads I saw might go, or whether or not I might grow hair, and to watch for the arrival of Harry and Mr. Jones.

And so I was the first to notice the exodus from the city. One day the land was mostly empty, the next there were people, sometimes singly, sometimes in groups, moving in weary fits and starts down the thin brown snake of dusty road. Some toward the mountains, but most in the opposite direction, as if they wanted to put as great a distance between themselves and their misery as they could, in as short a time as possible.

Every once in a while, a single traveler would cut
across country and end up outside our back door. From them we heard tales of sickness in the city. Of a stillness of the air that was stifling the simplest breath and begetting a fever like none experienced before. Fear had come to live in the city, the travelers said, taking up more than its fair share of space and driving people from their homes. There were murmurs of some great evil magic at work in the land, the need to find its source and drive it out. Only then did I realize that most of those who came to us had known the way because they had been here before.

And so I came to understand their words for what they truly were: a warning.

The hot weather went on.

Several times I caught Melisande looking at me with that considering expression on her face, or standing perfectly still with her head cocked to one side, as if gauging the approach of something. The first time I saw this I felt my blood run as cold as our stream did all winter.
She is listening for the mob,
I thought.

But gradually I came to realize that it was some-thing else. Which was not quite the same as saying we did not fear the mob would come. As the days passed and we still remained in our small house in the valley, I came to understand that Melisande was listening for the approach of Mr. Jones. It had to do with that very first conversation between them, I think, and of all that had not been spoken when the sorceress had told the tinker he would be welcome
wherever we might dwell. We would wait for him now, or so it seemed, even with the risk of danger growing closer by the minute while, as far as I could hear, Mr. Jones did not.

One day, the day the radishes, the beans, and the spinach all expired at the exact same instant, I came to a decision of my own. I waited until the sorceress was busy in the house at the hottest part of the day, then I put my favorite kerchief on my head, the one that Harry had given me, with the black-eyed Susans embroidered upon it, and set off for the apple orchard. Not to climb my favorite tree, but to go beyond the orchard itself to the nearest farm.

The man who farmed the property closest to ours had always been a good neighbor, unconcerned and unafraid of sorcery. Once, several years ago now, he had come to Melisande in the middle of the night. His wife had gone into labor before her time. It was going badly, and he feared to leave her to make the journey to the town to fetch the midwife. And so, though she was no more skilled in childbirth than any other woman might be, Melisande had returned with him and done her best; by morning, the children had been born.

A boy and a girl, whom the farmer and his wife named William and Eleanor. They were small, for they had been born early, but they grew strong quickly. And they grew to be great squabblers, though they loved each other well, a fact of life that always made their father smile. It was the reason they
had been born too soon, he said. They'd shared their mother's womb no more peaceably than they did their father's farmhouse.

The young boy, William, had a fondness for our apples. I often spied him in the orchard when the fruit was ripe. That time had not come yet, but I was hoping to catch a glimpse of William anyway, for I knew he liked to climb trees as much as I did. I found him in the second tallest tree in the orchard. My tree was the tallest, and that tree he never climbed.

“Come down, William,” I said. “I want you to do an errand for me, if you will. Please go and fetch your father. I need to speak with him.”

“What will you give me if I do?” the boy asked. In addition to squabbling, he also drove a hard bargain.

“I will give you this orchard for your very own,” I replied. “Would you like that?”

“You can't,” he said at once, but he did slide down out of the tree to stand beside me. “It doesn't belong to you. It belongs to the sorceress.”

“What makes you think I would make such an offer without her permission?” I inquired, though in fact, I had not yet spoken to Melisande. The boy stood for a moment, staring at me with wide eyes. “Go fetch your father, William,” I said again. “It's important.”

Without another word, he turned and ran for home.

Before too many minutes had passed, I saw the farmer climbing swiftly up the hill. He was alone.

“Good day to you, Rapunzel,” he said.

“Good day to you, Farmer Harris,” I replied.

“My son has been telling me wild tales,” the farmer said.

“Sooner or later, Melisande and I must leave this place,” I said, seeing no reason not to come straight to the point. “You know what they have been saying in the town.”

“I do,” he nodded. He hesitated for a moment, as if uncertain whether to say any more. “I had thought, perhaps, to see you and the sorceress go before now.”

I shook my head. “We will go when Melisande decides the time is right and not before. But I would not...” To my dismay, my voice faltered. Now that I had come to speak of it, the truth of what I was about to say struck hard. Very soon now, we would have to leave the only home that I had ever known.

“There's the livestock,” I said. “And what's left of the crops. If the mob comes ...”

“I know,” the farmer said at once, and his face grew sober. “I know, Rapunzel.”

“Would it not be a fine thing,” I asked, “if both these farms were yours? One could be Williams when he grows up. The other could be a dowry for your daughter.”

“It might be a very fine thing,” Farmer Harris said slowly. “It would be hard work until my son is grown, though.”

“I cannot help with that,” I said. “But perhaps, if the livestock were already in your own barn? They could
be more easily cared for that way, I think. Except for the horse. We might need her for the journey.”

“My wife's brother is young and strong,” the farmer said, as if thinking it over. “He might come.”

“That would be a great help,” I said, at which he gave a quick smile.

“You have it all worked out, then?” he asked.

“No,” I said. “Of course not. It's just—they'll drive us away,” I burst out suddenly. “You know they will. I don't want everything we've cared for so well and for so long to belong to those who wish us ill. Not if I can help it.”

“If they arrive before you are ready, come to me,” the farmer said, and now his voice was strong and resolved. “My barn can hold more than extra livestock. On behalf of my son and daughter, I thank you for this kindness.”

“I'll start bringing the animals tomorrow,” I said.

And so we left one another.

I got home to find the sorceress standing at our back door.

“I've told Farmer Harris he can have the place when we leave it,” I said. “I'll start taking over the first of the livestock tomorrow. If he already has them, it will be harder for others to take them away.”

“That's good thinking,” Melisande said quietly. “Thank you, Rapunzel.” She made a gesture, the first I'd ever seen from her that looked anything like helplessness. “I meant to speak of this before now, but—”

“It doesn't matter,” I interrupted swiftly. “As long as we both agree now.”

“We agree,” the sorceress said.

“So that's all right, then,” I answered. “Now, what else needs to be done?”

Melisande's expression changed then, though I would be hard put to explain just how. It was as if I had answered a question for her, rather than asked one of her. And the answer had settled things, once and for all.

“We should decide what we want to take with us,” she said. “And have it ready, for we may have to go at a moment's notice.”

“That is easily done,” I replied. “For there's not much I want, save for you and the cat, and this kerchief, but I usually have it on.”

“Life is very simple, then,” Melisande agreed. “For as long as you are with me, I am satisfied.”

“A little food and water might be a good idea, though,” I said, amazed to feel myself starting to smile. I might share her heart, but for the moment it seemed that I alone was all that she required.

“Oh, indeed,” the sorceress replied.

In the days that followed, we set about doing what needed to be done. By the end of that week, all our livestock—the goats, the cow, the sheep and the pigs—had been walked across the fields to the Harris farm. The belongings Melisande and I planned to take with us were tied in two large shawls, which sat in readiness by the front door. Melisande's
sewing basket, which had a hinged lid, stood ready to carry the cat. I spent many moments explaining this future indignity to him, promising that it was absolutely necessary and would be as short-lived as possible.