“Hold still, Emma. I’m still doing your hair.” Thea tugged harder, pulling Emma’s hair into a tight braid.
Emma winced. “Yes governess.”
One final tug, and the braid was secured. “There,” she sat back, admiring her work. “Now you look like a proper young lady.”
“Can I please go outside today?”
“You know better. It’s been raining all morning.”
Emma did know better. The rain had been beating steadily on the panes of her lattice window. Still, she wanted to be somewhere, anywhere, other than locked in her room. “We wouldn’t be long. I could wear my hood.”
Thea readjusted the ribbon in Emma’s hair. “Princess Emma, your father would have my hide if I were to let you catch cold. The only ones outside on a day like this are the statues overlooking the garden. Go outside in this weather and you’ll be as cold as Shedu – like a statue in the pouring rain.”
Emma perked up at the mention of the garden statues. They reminded her of the stories that she liked to read. All the magical, fantastical stories – so much more interesting than her own boring life. “Do you think the story of Shedu was true? Was the lion really turned into a statue by the mage Merek?”
“How would I know?” Thea replied. “That tale is older than I am. You spend entirely too much time in your books. What kind of a queen will you make, reading nothing but fairy tales and the like?” Thea cinched Emmas’ dress tighter, causing Emma to gasp as the air was squeezed out of her chest. With that, her governess turned to go. “I’ll be back with your supper at noon. Your geography tutor will be here after that. I suggest you study until then.”
Governess Thea exited the room, leaving Emma alone once again.
Emma flopped herself face-down onto her bed – her billowing blue gown, cinched stiff across her chest, sinking into the too-soft cushions of the bed. This was what a flower blossom must feel like, she imagined, sinking into the swiftly flowing stream. Emma propped herself up, watching the patterns that the raindrops made on the lattice of the window panes. Maybe she should read one of her books again? But no, she’d already read all of them, many times.
Emma rolled onto her back and groaned, her hands covering her eyes. “I just want someone to talk with. Someone not Thea, or a tutor, or a servant who has to politely serve me tea.”
“I’ll talk with you,” came a quiet voice.
Emma drew her hands away from her eyes, staring up at the ceiling. “Did someone say something?”
“I will talk with you.” The voice was soft, distant. Coming from . . . the air vent?
“Who are you?” Emma responded, wondering if she was really hearing the voice or only imagining it.
“I’ve seen you, in the garden. You’re the one that always goes outside alone. I never see you, except with your governess, or a tutor.”
“Are you the gardener?” Emma asked, wondering which of the many servants she had glimpsed might be talking to her now.
“I watch over the garden. I guess that makes me a gardener, in a way.”
Emma sat up in bed. “Does anyone know that you’re talking to me?” She was suddenly frightened and didn’t know why. None of the servants were permitted to address her, except to ask how they could serve: fetching tea, or food, or a parasol.
“I don’t think anyone else can hear me. I didn’t think you could hear me. Do you want me to tell you a story? I know you like reading them, and I’ve heard so many.”
Emma leaned forward at the edge of her bed, staring up at the grill covering the vent in her ceiling. “Yes, I would like that.”
“I will tell you a story I heard a long time ago. When the rain stops, maybe you can come see me.”
“I’m not supposed to see anyone that my father doesn’t approve first.”
“No one else has to know. You can find me on the roof, overlooking the garden.”
* * *
Emma pulled the key from its hiding place over the lintel and unlocked the heavy doorway. It had always seemed like a silly place to hide a key. She pushed the door open onto the rooftop. It grated noisily on its rusty hinges. The rooftop courtyard was occasionally used for gatherings or ceremonies during the summer months – gatherings she was rarely invited to. She had heard her father entertaining guests there, their voices echoing down the air vents that kept the manor from becoming unbearable during the hottest summer days.
Emma glanced behind to make sure that no one had followed her. Then searched around the rooftop for the voice of her erstwhile companion. “Hello? Are you here?” She wanted to be heard – but didn’t dare call out too loudly. If her father found out that a lowly servant had dared to speak with her . . .
“Over here,” she heard a faint reply.
She glanced around, still failing to recognize anyone.
“Where?” she replied.
“Over here,” the voice repeated.
Emma walked in the direction she thought the voice was coming from. Stone tables and benches lined the rooftop, a stonework railing along its perimeter. But she couldn’t see another soul. The voice seemed to be coming from the far end of the rooftop, overlooking the garden. “Where are you? Wave to me,” she said.
“I’m right here. But my neck is stiff. I can’t move about to see you. You’ll have to come to me.”
Emma walked to the outer railing, overlooking the garden pathways. She saw no one outside at this early hour. Two days of rain, and so many stories they had shared together – yet the owner of the voice was nowhere to be found. Emma turned, facing the statue of Shedu, the mythical winged lion that legend said had been turned to stone long ago. “Where?” she asked.
“That’s better. I can see you now. You do look lovely today. I like the green dress. It brings out your eyes.”
She reached out, tracing her fingers across the stone muzzle, its snarl frozen in time. The mane of the lion was cast in the same, flowing pattern that it always was, its outstretched wings swept back as if ready to launch itself skyward. “You’re Shedu?”
“So I’ve been called,” she heard the voice faintly answer.
Emma rubbed her hands across her face. “I must be going insane.”
“Why do you say that? You’re here. I’m here. Who’s to say that it’s not everyone else who’s insane?”
“But you’re a statue.”
“I am. Or I am now.”
“You’re not real.”
“I can assure you I am perfectly real. You just touched my muzzle, didn’t you? Have you seen that court jester, Favian perform feats of magic for the king? I’m more real than anything that clown ever produced.”
“But he’s a mage.”
“He’s an illusionist, little more than a puppeteer. The illusions he creates are real only in people’s minds. I’m at least as real as that. Don’t you see? Here we both are – both trapped in a place and a time not of our own choosing. Haven’t you seen how the birds twitter from their cages in the aviary? Don’t you think they wish they could fly away free? You and I are no different from them. Here we have been fixed, and here we shall stay.”
Emma backed away, shaking her head. “You were a monster. You terrorized the land.”
“In who’s eyes? I’ve heard them tell that tale. In my version, the deceitful mage Merek was the monster. But it makes no difference now. I am here. You are here. Whether we like it or not, we’re both in the same cage, together.”
Emma paused, her hands clasped together, staring, wondering if she really was going insane. “How do I know any of this is real? How do I know this is happening?”
“Did you like the stories I told yesterday? They were real enough, weren’t they? Maybe it doesn’t matter who hears and who doesn’t. We’re both looking for something, some way out of this lonely existence. I can tell you stories I’ve heard – all the gossip that the servants chatter on about. And you can tell me the stories you’ve read. And we both don’t have to be so completely alone. Is that really so bad?”
* * *
Emma laid the book down on her lap. The warm breeze rippled across her white dress. She was on the bench, facing Shedu, the bright summer sun warming her cheeks as it climbed into the sky.
“I liked that telling of the story,” Shedu said. “I’ve heard it told many different ways, but that one was nice. What’s the next story in the book?”
Emma turned the page. “It’s . . . Shedu. It’s you.”
“Oh. Well, I know that story well enough.”
“How did you come to be here?” Emma asked. “Why did you come here?”
“That is its own tale. I come from a place far from here, far to the south, where the clouds bathe the gardens in a fog at night. It was a pleasant place, full of the magic that men seem to seek out – but disbelieve once they find it. I lived there with Ishtar, she and I together.”
“Ishtar? Was she another winged lion like you?”
“Yes. She had the softest fur, the sweetest voice. We were very much in love, her and I. And, well, things were never the same once men came – once she died.”
“What happened to her?”
“They killed her, of course. Men came, looking to make a name for themselves. Make themselves famous at someone else’s expense. There were too many. And without her, I guess there were too many memories for me to stay.”
Emma looked up plaintively at the stone lion, with its fierce snarl and drawn claws. He seemed somehow different than he had seemed to her before. “I’m sorry,” she said softly.
“It’s not your fault. Let’s talk about something else. What were you supposed to be learning from your tutors today?”
* * *
It was spring again, the song birds twittering happily in the garden below. Emma leaned back against Shedu’s forearms, letting the book fall into her lap, gazing at the herons silhouetted against the distant lakeshore.
“I thought it was a very good story,” she heard Shedu say. “I liked how the hero was resourceful enough to get out of the situation with cunning instead of pure strength.”
“Did the herons always glide above the lake like that?” Emma asked. “Or is this the first year they came to our lake?”
“They’ve been coming back to that lake for as long as I’ve been here,” Shedu replied.
“I never noticed them before.”
“They are like the river that flows on the other side of the manor. They come rushing back when the seasons change from cold to warm. When the leaves change, you won’t hear them anymore. But they always come back next spring.”
“You know about the river on the other side of the manor?”
“I can’t see it, not from here. But I hear it. Some things you know are there, even if you can’t see them with your eyes. Like the herons over the lakeshore. You don’t see them all winter long, but you know they will be back when its spring.”
Emma leaned her head back, imagining that the stone of the statue was soft and wavy fur again. “What is it like, to be a statue? To become a statue?”
“At first, when they tricked me into drinking the water – the water they had placed the potion in – it felt like I was on fire. Like all my muscles were tightening in pain. And then . . . then it was like nothing. I knew if it was hot, or cold – but the winter chill no longer awoke my senses, inviting me to shake it off in the morning. It was like . . . being trapped in a well and being able to peer out of the little hole above, but not being able to climb out or see anything else but that narrow view that was right in front of you. But it was the loneliness, I think, that was the worst. I could hear – but never be heard. Sad or angry, I could no longer move my lips to speak – only think the words, with no one to hear. I thought I would go insane. Who knows, maybe I have, and you are only a dream I am having.”
Emma opened her eyes, the same persistent thought running through her mind. “Why can I hear you?”
“I don’t know. Maybe the effects of the spell that turned me to stone are changing over the years. Or maybe I could always speak, softly. Maybe no one else could quiet their mind and their own thoughts long enough to listen.”
Emma reached her hand up, to touch the cold stone of Shedu, feeling the rippled pattern of his mane. “Am I going insane?” she whispered. “Talking to you?”
“Maybe I am going insane, imagining that a beautiful princess is resting against my arms. Perhaps I am dreaming all of this, and there is only the cold, heartless wind whipping across the castle manor.”
“You’re my only friend, Shedu. The only one I can talk to, the only one that listens to me.”
“And you’re my only friend, little princess – in this cold and frozen world. But you’d better get back to your rooms now. Your letters tutor will be here soon. I can already hear her talking to the guard at the gate.”
Emma arose, brushing her hand across the ears on the lion’s head as she left.
* * *
It was an official state dinner, and for once Emma was invited to dine in the main ballroom – together with her father and the invited guests. Emma sat at her own table, decked out in a white dress with yellow ribbons and a sash, surrounded by her attendants. Her father sat at the other side of the hall speaking with the visiting dignitaries. She couldn’t tell what they were saying from where she sat.
Her father was a broad man, with a beard and generous girth that bespoke his opulent lifestyle. He seldom spoke to her – and tonight had been no exception. He was deep in conversation with a tall, thin man she had never seen before. The visiting official had grey hair and a beard. He must have been even older than her father. He wore a dark blue vest adorned with some type of crest on its chest. No doubt some foreign ambassador or another. What had her geography tutor told her that morning? Some neighboring land. She didn’t care for this one, any more than any of the other visitors that her father entertained. She liked him even less whenever he looked in her direction. His lecherous smile made her shudder.
She tried to focus her attention on something else, something to avoid eye contact. The court mage, Favian had conjured up a parade of fantastical beasts to entertain the court guests. All illusory, of course, but real enough in look, sound and touch – for as long as each lasted. The spell-cast monkeys were the usual favorite. Favian could conjure them in shades of blue, green, gold or pink. They would amble along the rows of tables, grabbing goblets or trinkets to scurry off with – then disappear into a cloud of colored smoke whenever some page or official gave them chase.
They never came to Emma’s table, though. Favian knew better than to disturb any of the royals with his pranks. He was only there to provide entertainment, a distraction for the royals to laugh at, after all – not a mirror into their own shallow lives.
Emma watched. She had seen Favian’s illusions before. An idea crossed her mind. She leaned over to her governess, Thea and whispered her request.
Thea stood to address the court. “The Princess Emma wishes to see a rendition of the legend of Shedu, the winged lion, if it may please his royal highness."
The king gave hardly a glance before waving them on. He was too deep in conversation to care about whatever entertainment Favian provided.
Taking his cue, Favian bowed to the king. He reached into his robe for a handful of the powder that he used to help conjure his illusions, tossing the brightly colored dust into the air. It swirled in a rainbow of pastel shades, before coalescing into a series of images.
Emma watched intently as a winged lion appeared to glide across the room, settling to the ground, where one armored knight after another came to slay the beast. Shedu roared – however mutedly within the castle walls – his claws and teeth making a quick end of each successive knight. Emma realized too late that she had made a terrible mistake. She should never have asked to see this tale – not here, in front of everyone, with nowhere to hide her reactions.
The conjured images shimmered, shifted. The wizard Merek appeared, bowing to the illusory king from the story – her forebear, who looked remarkably similar to her father. The false peace offering. The bowl of enchanted water with which to seal the deal.
Emma gripped the arms of her chair. It was all she could do to not come out of her seat, to keep herself from shouting across the room: “No! It’s a trick! Don’t drink it!”
The winged lion drank, reared back with a snarl – realizing he had been betrayed – and froze in place as he turned into stone.
The room echoed with applause for the mage Favian’s expert portrayal of the familiar legend. He took a bow.
Emma forced her lips into a muted smile, only her eyes betraying her inner turmoil. Don’t drink it, she thought to herself. It’s a trap! They’ll never let you go!
* * *
Emma poured through the books she had collected from the manor library, dumping them noisily onto the table of her study. She had felt so, so ashamed from the evening before. Why hadn’t she recognized it before now? Why hadn’t she realized? She knew all the stories well enough.
Shedu had been tricked into drinking the tainted elixir. It hadn’t been heroic. It had been deceitful.
He had been attacked by the knights of the kingdom. He hadn’t come as a monster, to terrorize and destroy. He had been assaulted by foolish men who wanted to make a name for themselves.
How had she been so blind? Was there anything else she had missed?
She turned the page. Here it was! The illustration she had remembered. The poisoned chalice that the elixir had been mixed in. Was there any way to break the spell?
Emma slumped down onto the floor. The book tumbling to the ground. Her shoulders heaving with her sobs. His true love’s embrace. His true love? Ishtar was gone! She had perished decades, no – centuries before.
It was hopeless. There was no way to break the spell.
* * *
Emma walked across the rooftop, melancholy and somber.
“Why are your steps so slow today? What has happened that your steps have lost their vigor?”
“I am sorry,” Emma said. “For everything. For the spell, for turning you to stone. You should not be trapped here like a caged bird.” She collapsed on the ground, against the bench in front of him. The garden beyond was still green. The birds still sang. Why then did it seem that the world had dimmed? “I’m sorry.”
“Why are you sorry? You were not the one that tricked me. And I had long despaired of finding anyone to talk to before I met you. If anything, you have given me something to look forward to with each day.”
“I can’t break the spell,” Emma said, biting back the emotions that she felt burning inside of her. “I looked, I found the stories. Only the embrace of your hearts true love could break the spell. And Ishtar is gone.”
“It was not you who set these things in motion. Do not feel sorry for what you cannot change. Why don’t you tell me a different story from your books? No, wait. I will tell you one, instead.”
* * *
Emma walked obediently into the throne room, her eyes downcast, her steps measured. She curtsied as she reached the edge of the dais. “Father,” she said. It was rare that she was called for an audience with her father. Had something happened, she wondered? Did he know, from her reaction to Favian’s performance the day before? Had he been told that she had been spending her days atop the manor roof? Conversing with a stone statue only she could understand?
“Arise, Princess Emma. You have been betrothed. The wedding will be in a fortnight.”
“Wedding?” The thought had never entered Emma’s mind. “What wedding? To whom?”
“The man seated with me at last night’s banquet was the King of Serentia. We finalized the agreement this morning.”
Emma dimly realized that her jaw had dropped open. She tried to sort through her mind. “But he’s so – old.”
“You’re going to be nineteen, Princess Emma. It’s time you were situated in your own court. This alliance will mean a great deal for our two kingdoms.”
“No! It’s not fair! I didn’t agree to any of this!”
“What you wish, is of no relevance. Get your belongings together. You will be setting out for Serentia in the morning.”
Emma curtsied, turned and left. She didn’t want her father to see the tears that were welling in her eyes. Marrying her off to some old man she had never met? She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing her cry.
* * *
Her dresses, corsets, books, combs, and assorted belongings had been loaded into trunks. Her attendants had spent the night sorting through what she should bring, and what she should wear on her arrival. Emma was numb to all of it.
Thea had been beside herself – expressing both her satisfaction with the royal match, and how much she would miss seeing Emma.
The trunks were already loaded onto a wagon, and Emma was being escorted to the waiting carriage. She halted. “No,” she said wiping a tear from her cheek. “I have to say goodbye to someone.”
“My lady?” Thea asked.
Emma turned and ran inside, then bolted down the hall, lifting the folds of her green dress so that she could run faster. Racing up the stairwell at the back of the manor. Up, up to the roof of the estate.
When she reached the top, she gripped the key from over the mantel, opened the heavy door, then slammed it shut and locked it behind her. She couldn’t go through with it. She just couldn’t.
“Emma? What’s wrong Emma?” she heard a gentle voice say.
She raced across the rooftop, throwing her arms around the stone neck of the winged lion. “I can’t, I just can’t.” Sobs wracked her body as she stuttered through the words. “I can’t leave you Shedu. You’re the only friend I’ve ever had. I love you.”
* * *
It was over an hour before they found a locksmith to unbolt the door to the roof. When they finally reached the rooftop, Princess Emma was gone, and there was a pile of rubble where the statue of Shedu – so long the symbol of the royal throne – had once stood.
Most said that the princess threw herself off the rooftop that day, into the waters of the river below – her body washed into the lake beyond. Others would claim that she died falling onto the rocks in the garden, and that her remains were quietly buried to avoid unwanted attention.
But some few, in the towns and villages of that far off land, would say that they saw white wings high in the sky that day, and a flowing green gown clinging to the neck of a mythical creature few had really believed existed. Wings flying south, towards where the herons fly in winter.
Copyright (c) 2019 by John Golan
All rights reserved
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