Wildwood Dancing (6 page)

“I must go,” he said abruptly. “Goodbye, Jena.”

“Farewell, Cezar. I’ll see you at church, perhaps.”

Tǎul Ielelor had always been forbidden. Children love forbidden places, especially when they lie deep in a mysterious dark forest, where all kinds of wonderful games can be played, games that last from dawn to dusk and spring to life again next morning. At Full Moon, the lake formed the border where everything began to smell richer and to look brighter, where every sound became honey for the ears. Crossing the Bright Between made our senses come alive in a way we had never
known in the human world. But it could not be Full Moon every night. In between, Gogu and I still loved the forest and we still visited the lake, though we stayed a safe distance away from the water.

I hadn’t forgotten the frog’s crestfallen comment about picnics. I decided that instead of catching up on sleep, I would spend the rest of the day on one last expedition before the weather got too cold. In the eyes of the world, maybe I was too old for such adventures, but Gogu and I needed our favorite ritual, and I was feeling sad enough about Father without having my frog upset as well. Besides, does anyone ever get too old for picnics?

It was a long walk in the cold. When we reached our chosen spot—up the hill from the Deadwash, in a sheltered hollow by a stream—I unpacked the bag I had brought. Then I made a little campfire and cooked two pancakes: a tiny one for him, a bigger one for me. I’d had no appetite for Florica’s pastries, but I was hungry now. I draped a garnish of pondweed on top of my creations and called Gogu, keeping my voice low. It was not unknown for certain of the bolder folk of the Other Kingdom to venture out into the human world; they had their own portals. Dwarves might be out and about at any time, and so might Drǎguţa, the witch of the wood (if the rumors about her were true). She could be watching me even now. Cezar was sure it was she who had reached from the water and dragged Costi under on that terrible day when I was five years old. If she could do that, she was capable of anything. And if there was any chance that Drǎguţa might be close by, I’d be foolish not to be on my guard.

“Come on, Gogu! The pancakes are getting cold!”

Gogu was rummaging about in the leaf mold. Autumn was here, and a thick layer of decaying material lay over all the paths, full of scurrying insects and the eccentric miniature castles of tiny fungi sprouting from the rich soil. He spotted a juicy bug, glanced at me, then shot out his tongue and scooped it up. We had developed a fine understanding for such moments. I pretended I wasn’t looking, and he pretended he didn’t know I was. A moment later he was by my side, investigating my cookery.

There was no doubt in my mind that Gogu was an Other Kingdom dweller, wandered into our world by chance. His behavior was quite unfroglike, his enthusiasm for human food being only a small part of it. I’d tried to put him back a few times when I was younger, even though I’d desperately wanted to keep him. For three successive Full Moons I’d suggested to him that he stay in Dancing Glade, but when I’d headed for home, there he’d been, on my shoulder as usual. Once I’d tried leaving him in the forest to find his own way back to the Other Kingdom. Only once. I’d walked away while he was dabbling in the stream, tears pouring down my cheeks. After a little he’d come hopping after me. I’d heard his silent voice, its tone full of reproach.
You left me behind, Jena
. I knew I could never do that to him again.

“Today feels odd, Gogu,” I said as we began to eat. “As if a whole new part of our lives is beginning. I don’t know what it is. It feels bigger than Father going away and us having to do things on our own. Even Cezar was different. He’s never spoken out in front of Uncle Nicolae like that, as if he knew better
than his own father and ours. And he looked so angry. He’s always angry these days. I’m starting to wonder if, one day, he might actually go through with his threats. Could he really damage the Other Kingdom? Would hatred give an ordinary man enough power for that?”

Don’t waste your time thinking about him. Eat your pancake
.

“That’s where it happened, you know. Just over there, near that little island with the birches growing on it. That’s where Costi drowned.” Picnic forgotten, I gazed down the stream to the shore of the Deadwash—living it again, the awful day neither Cezar nor I had been able to forget, not in ten whole years.

Three children were running through the woods. In front was Costi, his parents’ favorite, at ten years old already a leader, arrogant, impetuous, today set free from lessons for a whole month, and determined to wring every last bit of enjoyment out of it. His face was ablaze with excitement as he led his small expedition to the forbidden place where the special game was to be played. Cezar, a stolid eight-year-old, followed in his brother’s wake, trying to keep up, adoration in his solemn eyes. And running along behind—chest heaving, heart bursting with the thrill of being permitted to share this secret expedition with the big boys—there was I, five-year-old Jena, in danger of tripping over my own feet as I traversed the forest paths at top speed.

The game was called King of the Lake. The boys talked about it a lot, but this was the first time I’d been allowed to play. Tati and I had been staying at Vǎrful cu Negurǎ while Father was away on a buying trip. Today, Aunt was helping Tati to make a doll.

“We need a princess.” Costi had said this earlier, back at the house. “Or a queen.”

“We never had one before.” Cezar had sounded doubtful.

“I can be a princess.” I’d spoken up with all the confidence I could muster, which wasn’t much. In my eyes, Costi had godlike status: I hardly dared open my mouth in his presence. Cezar was intent on impressing his big brother and had little time for me. But the dazzling opportunity that was within my grasp had made me bold. “Or a queen.”

“You need special clothes,” Cezar had said dismissively. “Costi’s got a ring. I’ve got a cloak. You can’t play without special clothes.”

“I’ve got a crown.” I had made it the day before, after I heard the boys planning their expedition—just in case. It had taken me all day: laboring with glue and pins, wire and beads, and scraps of braid from Aunt Bogdana’s sewing box. It was the most beautiful crown in the world, all sparkles and silver.

“A crown’s quite good,” Cezar had conceded.

Costi had gazed down at me. He was very tall; it was all too easy to remember that I was only half his age. “Think you can keep up, Your Majesty?” he’d asked me, his mouth twitching at the corners. He’d looked as if he was trying not to smile.

“Of course,” I’d said, summoning a tone of bold assurance and lifting my chin. It had mostly been pretense, but it had worked.

“All right, then.” Costi’s permission had been given casually. Trembling with excitement, I’d fetched the crown and a little patchwork blanket from my bed that would make a colorful cape for a monarch. And I’d followed my big cousins out into the woods.

Costi was wearing his family ring, a big silver one he’d been given at his christening as the eldest son and future master of Vârful cu Negurǎ. I knew he was only allowed to wear it on special occasions. In between, it was supposed to be locked away. Cezar had a cloak of silky fabric in purple, very grand, with fur around the edges. I wished I could have a turn with it. Clad in our finery, we reached the shore of Tǎul Ielelor, where willows bowed over the water like mournful, long-haired dryads. Why did the lake gleam so, when the sunlight barely penetrated the canopy of dark firs and tall pines? The surface was dotted with little islands. There was one that had its own soft wildflower carpet—pink, yellow, purple, blue—and on its highest point a miniature birch forest, each tree a little taller than my five-year-old self. Just by looking, I could feel the magic of it. Farther from the shore, mist clung close over the water. I imagined I could see shapes in it: dragons, fairies, monsters. My heart was thumping, and not just from the effort of keeping up with the boys.

Costi and Cezar had been here many times before, and their game had well-established rules. It started with contests of various kinds, in which I had little chance of prevailing. I did my best. Running, climbing, swinging from a rope tied to a tree. Making a fire. They had a secret hoard of useful things there, hidden in a box tied up with rope. I peered into it, expecting marvels—but it held only a flint and a sharp knife, a folded blanket, and a ball of string. And they had a raft. They had made it themselves last summer and kept it tied up to a willow, half concealed under a clump of ferns at the base. I was deeply
impressed that they would dare go out on the Deadwash—even at five, I had heard the stories.

“Last race,” declared Costi, who had already won most of the challenges, being leaner and quicker than his brother, as well as more confident. “Jena, you run as fast as you can, over to that big oak there. We’ll count up to ten, then we’ll come after you. Whichever one of us catches you wins. Ready? One, two, three—go!”

Not having time to think about how unfair this was, I ran. I did my best, one hand holding my crown in place, the other clutching my makeshift cape. The ground was uneven, pitted with stones and broken by crevices. I ran and ran: the oak seemed to get farther away the harder I tried. Costi was laughing as he came after me, his feet swift and purposeful. Cezar had been left behind. The waters of Tǎul Ielelor flashed by, a bright blur. The dark woods seemed to close in.

All at once I was terrified. I could hear Costi’s breathing, and it was like the panting of some monster about to seize me and rend me limb from limb. The faster I tried to run, the slower my legs seemed to go, as if I were wading through porridge. Tears blinded my eyes. I tripped and fell, striking my cheek on a knobbly tree root—and Costi was there, grabbing me by the arms and shouting triumphantly, “I got her! I won! I get first pick!”

Cezar came up, breathing hard. “Jena’s crying,” he observed.

“Oh,” said Costi, and let go abruptly. “Are you all right, Jena?” He had the grace to look a little contrite.

“Here,” said Cezar, producing a handkerchief from his pocket.

I sat up and blew my nose. “First pick of what?” I asked them.

“What you get to be, in the game,” explained Costi. “King of the Lake, King of the Land, or King of something else. We’ve never had three before. What do you want to be, Jena?”

“Queen of the Fairies,” I sniffed.

“All right. Here’s what we do next—”

“It’s not so easy.”

The three of us froze in shock. We’d had no idea anyone else was there. But as the voice spoke, we saw an old woman, clad all in black, stooped over in the woods nearby. She was gathering yellow mushrooms into a little basket. Maybe she’d been there all the time; she blended into the dark hues of the undergrowth as if she were just another thing that grew there.

“What do you mean?” asked Costi.

“It’s only a game,” said Cezar.

“Nothing is
only
a game.” The old woman hobbled toward us, the basket of mushrooms over her arm. “Whatever you play, you must play it properly. There are rules—rules it seems you don’t know.”

“What rules?” asked Costi, frowning.

“Ah,” said the crone, crouching down beside us. She produced a square of cloth from the basket, which she proceeded to lay out flat on the sandy lakeshore. As if drawn by a powerful charm, the three of us crouched, too, waiting. “You can’t claim the title of King without giving something in return. King of the Lake, King of the Land, Queen of the Fairies—such titles
are not idly bestowed, nor easily won with foolish demonstrations of strength or speed.” She glanced at Costi. I saw his eyes narrow. “You must pay for them.”

“Pay?” asked Cezar. “What with? You mean silver?”

There was a little silence. Then the old woman said, “You must pay with what is most precious to you in all the world. The thing you love best. Put that on the cloth. Give it up willingly, and the title will be yours to take and to keep. If it were I, I would give these mushrooms, for they will keep starvation from my door for one more day, and what is more precious than life? What will you give?”

We were all impressed. The boys’ faces looked very serious. Costi slipped the chain holding his silver ring over his head and laid it on the cloth. “There,” he said. “I want to be King of the Lake.”

“Are you sure?” the old woman asked him, and the look she gave him was searching.

“I wouldn’t have offered it if I wasn’t sure,” Costi said.

I was only five. Yet I knew I must be brave and give up my treasure. I took off my beautiful crown, which I’d made with such labor and such love. “I want to be Queen of the Fairies, please,” I whispered, setting it down beside the ring.

The old woman favored me with a gap-toothed smile. “Are you sure, little girl?” she said with quiet intensity.

Her voice frightened me even more than her beady eyes. Costi had shown no fear; I felt I had to match him. “Yes,” I said.

The old woman’s gaze moved to Cezar. “King of the Land,” she said thoughtfully. “That’s the only one left.”

Cezar was pale. He looked as if he was about to faint, and
he was staring at his brother. He didn’t seem to be able to think what to offer. I was about to suggest that he give up his cloak when the crone said, “Are you sure?”

Something changed in Cezar’s face, and a chill went up my spine. It was as if darkness itself was looking out through those eight-year-old eyes. I dropped my gaze; I could not look at him. I heard him say, “I’m sure,” in a voice that sounded like someone else’s. Then the crone spoke again.

“It’s done,” she said. “Play your game. Don’t forget, next time: nothing comes without a price.” She picked up her basket, turned her back on us, and shuffled away into the woods.

Costi was on his feet, solemnity forgotten. “I’m King of the Lake!” he shouted. Seizing my hand, he ran down to the water, pulling me behind him. “Come on, Jena! I’ll give you first turn on the raft. I’ll ferry you over to the magic island. The Queen of the Fairies needs her own special realm where she can hold court.”

He was so quick. My heart pounding, I let him guide me onto the precarious craft, constructed of willow poles tied with twists of flax and lengths of fraying rope. It rocked in the water as he stood knee-deep beside it, unfastening the line that moored it to the willow. I teetered and sat down abruptly, swallowing tears of fright. My big cousin had allowed me to play his grown-up game. I wasn’t going to give him the chance to call me a crybaby. Besides, I’d paid for this with my best thing in the world. It must be all right. And I really did want to be on that island, the dear little one with the flowers. If I looked closely enough, I might find real fairies there, tiny ones, hiding inside the blooms. I was a queen now; I must be brave.