Zel (12 page)

“Never fear. I won’t report to the church police. I also love music.”

The church police? The words sound ridiculous on this isolated alm. I fear no forces of the Lord. I take no part in the petty struggles of society. I nod, purely to hurry him along.

“Do you have a family?”

I stand tall. There is nothing aggressive in the man’s posture, but his question is bold. A woman is always at risk.

“I don’t mean to alarm you.” He speaks quickly and with a gentle tone. “I was looking for a family.”

Ah. So he stumbled across this alm by accident. Good. I hold the edge of the door, ready to close. “I live here alone.”

He hesitates. “Could I ask you a strange question?”

His eyes are now childlike. I could never refuse a child. I cross my arms at the chest. “Ask.”

“I was wondering about that goose.”

That wretched goose that stays though others have already migrated south. “Go ahead, kill her. Take her home and eat her.”

The man steps back as though surprised. “Well, she’s sitting on a nest and . . .”

“Kill her.”

I close the door and close my ears. I will not listen for the sounds of the man killing the goose. Let her simply disappear. I stand in one spot for a long time. Long enough for our alm to be empty of the stranger.

My fingers reach out again into the morning air. If I could rip the sunlight away, wring it in my hands like laundry, I would. I want the night back. I can barely face another day of this.

But I mustn’t curse the dawn. For Zel needs the light to draw by. She’s doing very well. I mustn’t despair. I can see progress already. She gets frustrated now and then. Of course she would. She’d like to be with me all the time, like before. Soon she’ll realize that I am all she needs. That’s when I can explain to her. Though I miss her more than blood itself, I can be patient.

The sunlight is weepy. This day calls for cheering up. An onion soup. The girl loves onion soup.

I go outside and pick my way through the garden. Some of the herbs are tendrils yet. I take care not to trample them. I pull a bunch of new onions. I lean over the herbs and whisper. They seem to shake off the morning frost and stretch, like fox cubs. I could make them grow outrageously, all the way to the sky. But I don’t. I reserve my energy for the demands of visiting Zel. I pick a handful of tiny leaves.

The goose calls. The man left without killing her. She rises into the air, turns, and heads south. I have refused to look at her these past months. Now I need not turn my head away as I cross our small wooden bridge. I am glad to be rid of her.

Indeed, I want never to think of the cursèd goose. If it were not for the bird’s insanity, Zel would not have asked the youth at the smithy for an egg. That youth would not have made an impression on her. He would not have encumbered her soul.

I walk swiftly toward the bridge. I put the herb leaves in one pocket and the onions in the other. I clench both fists. I go straight to the hateful nest of rocks. My feet kick wild deathblows. Twigs and feathers fly. And my feet suddenly fly, too. I feel sharp pain.

*   *   *

When I open my eyes again, I know that I was out cold. Much time has passed. I rise and touch the swollen mass behind my ear, where my head smacked the ground. I cannot linger. Zel expects me at noon. I notice hoofprints in the dirt. The man who came and went this morning was on horseback.

I hurry to the cottage, rotating my shoulders, working out the kinks from my fall. Dots circle before my eyes. A blackness comes, and I bend forward quickly. The nausea rises, then settles. My eyes clear again. I straighten and move more slowly.

Why didn’t I smell horse on the man? Because he reeked of wine.

I set water to boil and drop in an egg. The beginnings of a worry scratch at the backs of my eyes. I peel onions. I choose three apricots, wash and dry them. I cut a chunk of fresh goat cheese. I cut an equal chunk of bread. I wrap all separately in paper, then fold them together in one supper bundle. A far cry from onion soup, but nonetheless nourishing.

I choose a ripe plum and a sweet roll. Didn’t I give
her a plum just yesterday? I should have gone to the cellar and chosen an apple. But there’s no time now. I wrap plum and bun in paper to make her breakfast bundle for tomorrow. The worry claws through to the front of my head. My eyes would split.

The boiled egg is ready. I peel it. I cut two slices of bread, cover them with the herbs from my pocket, and dice in the egg. Steam rises, coloring my hands. I wrap the hot food. I pack all into my cloth bag. Then I add the light slop bucket. It is clean and fresh.

My feet take the path down in little leaps. I go too fast to hold branches aside. They slap at face and arms. A branch catches my sleeve. I stop before it rips. I think of the ripped sleeve of the young man. The man in search of a family. The man who asked about the goose but didn’t kill her. I know now I have seen him somewhere else. When? Oh, when, when? And finally it comes to me: He is the man who knocked the package from my hand the last time Zel and I were in town. The noble in a hurry. He was in town the same day Zel was in town. The worry shouts in my head. He was not drunk today, yet he carried the stench of wine. Could he have poured wine on himself to cover the smell of horse? Could he have deliberately deceived me?

I drop to my knees. I need energy for the long trek to visit Zel. Yet I cannot afford not to spend whatever energy it takes now to stop the danger. I close my eyes and
raise my hands high above my head, and I command this whole forest. I command it to spin and twirl and change and change. I command it to reconfigure itself so that no one will recognize it ever again. So that no stranger can come twice to our alm.

Chapter 15
Konrad

he fiddle tune of the lone woman on the alm plays and replays in Konrad’s head. He has to fight to keep it from lulling him into a sleep that on this precipitous, twisting path would mean sure death.

The woman who opened the door was dark-haired and hazel-eyed, almost the exact opposite of Rapunzel. She can have nothing to do with Rapunzel. Yet Konrad cannot put her out of his mind. When he asked about the goose, her face hardened; her cheeks glowed; she exuded urgency. About a goose. A goose that sits on rocks. The whole encounter was bizarre.

And the twisted endlessness of this path doesn’t help. As long as Konrad goes downward, he cannot get truly lost. Yet his apprehension grows. The trees crowd in on
both sides. They seem to close behind him, as though he’s emerging from water. He squeezes his thighs and Meta breaks into an uncertain trot. The horse’s ears pin back. Konrad feels sure the mare, too, has the sensation of racing before the tide.

It is evening when Konrad and Meta reach the castle. Konrad falls into bed. He awakens in the middle of the night and remembers the cock crowing and the smell of goat and the cottage on the alm.

He sits bolt upright. All at once he knows what he has seen—a goose with nothing but stones in her nest, a goose that would be very happy to receive the gift of a fertilized egg.

Rapunzel’s goose.

Chapter 16
Zel

he branch of the walnut tree stretches toward Zel. “Mother,” she calls in delight. “Mother, Mother.”

Mother enters through the window. “Oh, my Zel.”

They hug. The bulk of Mother inside her thick dress is solid and real and wonderful. Zel takes Mother’s hands
and holds them to her cheeks. She breathes the odor of onions. “Oh, if only I could stand in the kitchen beside you chopping onions.” She nuzzles Mother’s palms. “Stay longer today.”

“As long as I can.”

“Your hands are so cold, Mother. Frigid.” Zel rubs Mother’s hands. “What have you brought?” She moves so that her side is touching Mother’s side. She reaches for the cloth sack. Zel opens the drawstring and takes out the clean slop bucket. She puts it down quickly and holds the first bundle of food to her nose. “What? From the smell of your hands I expected onions. But I don’t recognize this other smell.”

“There are onions in the dinner bundle.” Mother smiles. “But lunch is herbs. Herbs to keep your hair growing.”

Zel unwraps the two slabs of bread and opens them. Herbs deck a hard-boiled egg. She wants to pick them out and throw them away. “My hair is too long already. It grew again last night. Another toe’s length.”

“Good.”

“Why? Why is that good, Mother?”

“You’ll see.”

Zel takes a corner of Mother’s dress in her hand. “Your hem is wet. Did you walk on water to get here?”

Mother laughs. “I am not an insect, a water strider. I am not a water bird.”

“Why is your hem wet then?”

Mother sits beside Zel on the floor. She lifts one of Zel’s long braids onto her lap and unravels it carefully.

Zel listens to Mother’s hard breath. Home must be very distant. Zel isn’t sure where this tower is. Their journey here seemed endless—but time at night can be deceptive. Zel has learned from some of her sleepless, terror-filled nights in this tower how endless time at night can seem.

Still, even in the confusion of that night, Zel noticed things. She holds Mother’s wet hem fast. “You did cross the lake today, didn’t you? I remember crossing the lake with you, Mother, the night we came here. You walked on water. Do you have a special way with water like you do with plants?

Mother smoothes Zel’s hair.

Zel yanks on Mother’s skirt. “Tell me.”

Mother clears her throat. “Don’t talk foolishness. My hem is wet because I was careless near the lake, I was in such a hurry. Something delayed me, and if I didn’t rush, I’d have been late.”

“What delayed you?”

But Mother is busy again with Zel’s hair. Mother has so little energy left, yet she never fails in the arduous task of caring for Zel’s hair. “Poor Mother.” Zel kisses Mother’s hand.

Mother hums.

“I miss your fiddle. Won’t you bring it next time you come? I want you to play for me as I go to sleep.”

“It’s hard enough for me to carry your provisions.” Mother finishes unraveling the braid.

Zel holds the corner of Mother’s skirt in one hand and picks up the bread and herbs in the other. She takes a bite. It’s really very good. “Who teaches you about these new herbs?”