Hawthorn by Carol Goodman
It was only after I’d followed Nathan into the tower that it occurred to me that no one had tested him.
16
NATHAN LED US up a narrow winding staircase, Collie, Bottom, and Jinks taking the rear. Every dozen steps we encountered a boy standing guard at an arrow slit, who lowered his bow to salute Nathan and demand a password. The castle was guarded as though it were under siege—which I supposed it was. Only it was besieged by creatures that could slip through cracks and ride inside a human or animal host. I wasn’t so sure that boiling oil and arrows would keep out the shadows.
At the top of the tower we came to a wide square room lit by the last lingering light of the day pouring in through a skylight. The tower’s builders must have thought that this room was too high up for an arrow or burning projectile to reach. The curving walls were covered by tapestries so old and faded I couldn’t make out the figures on them. Across from where we came in there was a long table covered with books and scrolls. As we crossed the room the man sitting behind the table looked up and I recognized Mr. Farnsworth, librarian of Hawthorn. He squinted at us myopically and then fitted a pair of wire-rimmed glasses over his eyes.
“Avaline Hall!” he cried.
I smiled. I hadn’t been sure he would recognize me. The last time we’d met he’d been still recovering from his near-death experience aboard the Titanic and the meddling of van Drood’s henchman Dr. Pritchard. He’d lost his memory of what he’d done with the book A Darkness of Angels that he’d been bringing to me. Only by joining him in a vision of the Titanic’s sinking had I been able to find out that he’d entrusted the book to my father, Falco. The vision had restored his memory, but I’d often worried that he might not make a full recovery.
And, indeed, when he got to his feet and crossed the room he walked in a halting limp that reminded me that he had lost all his toes to frostbite after he was rescued from the North Atlantic. His grip, though, when he grasped my hands, despite the two fingers he’d lost on his left hand, was firm, and his gaze was steady.
“Miss Hall, I am so very glad to see you! I was distressed to leave Blythewood before you and your friend were found. But as you can see, I had work to finish here.”
He waved his hand at the papers strewn across the long oak table. I recognized the cryptic script and illuminated manuscripts.
“It’s A Darkness of Angels,” I said. “But I thought the book was still embedded in my father’s wings.”
“The original is—and the transcription is still at Ravencliffe. I wouldn’t have dared travel with it again after what van Drood did to the Titanic to get it from me the last time. And it was a good thing I didn’t have it on me when we got here. The headmaster had me searched—and I had no wings in which to hide the pages.”
“But then how . . . ?” I looked at the beautifully scripted and illustrated pages—then noticed that the ink on one of them was still wet and that pots of ink and powdered paint, along with brushes and quills and jars full of flowering hawthorn branches, stood on the table. I looked back at Mr. Farnsworth, who was tapping his forehead.
“It was all up here. Mr. Omar taught me a technique for committing the entire text to memory. I’ve been reconstructing the book here, hoping that when I get to the missing page I will remember that, too.” He furrowed his brow. “At least that’s the only way I’ve come up with for finding out where the other vessels are hidden.”
“But I thought you knew where the vessel was,” I said, turning to Nathan. “You said it was under the castle.”
“Oh, it most certainly is!” Mr. Farnsworth said. “But the entrance to the vessel is hidden in a maze. We know that from the tapestries. Come, let me show you.”
He ushered Daisy, Mr. Bellows, and me over to one of the faded tapestries. Collie, Bottom, and Jinks followed Nathan. “The shame of it is that these have been hanging here for centuries without any of the masters of Hawthorn understanding what they meant.”
“I remember them,” Mr. Bellows said. “We used to use this room to study in, and when I got bored, er, I mean when I needed to rest my eyes, I’d try to make out what was figured in them. Of course they’re so faded that I couldn’t really make out anything, but sometimes”—Mr. Bellows gazed at the tapestries with a wistful look on his face—“late at night when I’d been studying for a long time, I thought I saw the figures in them moving, and I imagined all the stories we’d read of knights and ladies and heroic quests.”
“Oi,” said Collie. “I know what you mean. I sometimes saw a lady looked like my mother—”
“Or a bunch of lads playing cricket,” Jinks suggested, stroking his chin. “That blobby bit up there being the ball.”
“I always fancied it looked like a picnic,” Bottom said with a wistful look.
I stared at the tapestry. The colored threads had become so faded with time that it looked more like a stained tablecloth than a heroic scene. Only the gold threads remained bright enough to make out the vague outline of figures that seemed to flicker and move in the fading light.
“Yes,” Mr. Farnsworth said. “It’s unfortunate they were kept in this room under the skylight; the sunlight faded them. But I’ve discovered that they, like many of our oldest artifacts, are not entirely what they seem to be.” He picked up a glass jar full of gold powder from the table. “It was the gold that gave me the idea. The illuminators of the old books used gold in their paintings, just as the weavers of the tapestry used gold thread. I came across a reference in A Darkness of Angels to the type of gold they used: elven gold.”
“Elven gold?” Daisy asked.
“Gold the fay gave them. It bestows a bit of the life of the creator on the creation. These tapestries were woven by the original founders of Castle Hawthorn. They wove elven gold into it so that their story would never be lost even after the sunlight faded the threads.”
I peered at the gold figures in the tapestry. They did seem to glow with a preternatural life and almost to move, but so dimly and minutely that I couldn’t make out what they were doing.
“How?” I asked. “I can’t see it.”
“No, the elven gold has worn thin over the centuries, but if it were revived, then the story would come to life again. And I think I’ve come up with a way to do it. I’ve collected elven gold from the old manuscripts.” He shook the jar and it glowed as if there were trapped fireflies inside.
“Oh, so it’s like fairy dust,” Daisy said brightly. “You think if you dust it on the tapestries the figures will appear again?”
“Yes.” Mr. Farnsworth smiled gratefully at Daisy. “But I only have enough elven gold for one try. I’ve been waiting for the right moment.”
He looked around the room at Mr. Bellows, Daisy, and me, travel-worn and covered with dust, and then Nathan, Bottom, Collie, and Jinks, still in their blue paint. We were a motley crew, I thought, but Mr. Farnsworth beamed at us as though we were the knights of the round table.
“Seven. Yes, I think that’s no accident. And you’ve come on the longest night of the year—Midsummer’s Eve. That can’t be an accident either. I believe it’s time. If you all wouldn’t mind . . .”
“Will it be like the picture shows in Picadilly Circus?” Collie asked.
“Yes, I rather think it will,” Mr. Farnsworth answered.
“Well then, I’m keen to give it a go.” Collie drew a chair out from the table, turned it backward, and straddled it, resting his elbows on the top rung.
“Me too,” Daisy said, grabbing a chair and grinning at Collie. “I’m keen, too.”
“I think we all are,” Mr. Bellows answered. “When can we start?”
Mr. Farnsworth looked up through the skylight. The last light had finally gone from the sky, replaced by a thin crescent moon. “We can start now. I suggest you all take a seat in the middle of the room, facing the tapestries, and stay seated. I-I’m not really sure what will happen.”<
I drew a chair out from the long table and placed it between Daisy and Nathan. We formed a circle facing outward. Mr. Farnsworth waited until we were all settled and then approached the tapestry holding the jar of elven gold. I expected him to recite some Latin spell but instead he said, “Well, here goes nothing!” as he tossed the gold dust across the faded tapestry. He walked around the room strewing the dust onto the tapestries. Some of the powder clung to the woven threads, while some hovered in the air like pollen on a spring day. When he was done the atmosphere in the tower room shimmered, the dust glowing with a dozen shades of gold, from honey to russet to darkest amber. It was like looking through water reflecting a sunset, I thought—pretty, but not all that . . . illuminating.
“I don’t think it’s working,” Collie whispered.
Bottom hushed him. “Look at that! I think something moved in the corner bit there.”
I stared through the golden haze at the tapestry. Something flashed in the moonlight—the gold hilt of a sword worn by a richly dressed courtier, a figure that hadn’t been visible a moment ago. Other figures were emerging out of the golden haze—women dressed in long belted gowns woven from cloth embroidered in gold, and elaborate dome-shaped headdresses, young men in embroidered tunics and hose, horses with golden bridles and gold bells braided in their manes and tails, hawks with golden hoods and jesses tied to their feet—a whole procession decked out in gold, all carrying gold caskets, led by three figures carrying three large gold urns.
“The vessels,” I whispered. “Only they’re too small. The one we found at Blythewood was large as this tower.”
As if she had heard me, the woman at the head of the procession turned to me. I gasped, wondering if I had imagined the movement, but I heard Mr. Bellows draw in his breath and Daisy whisper, “They’re coming to life!”
It did appear as if the figures in the tapestry were coming alive. The women’s dresses rustled in an invisible breeze, the men’s swords clattered, a little page stretched his arms and yawned as if awakened from a long sleep. The bells in the horses’ bridles shook and chimed. The woman at the head of the procession smiled at me—and then stepped out of the tapestry.
Behind her, her two companions were lifted by two winged creatures—Darklings!—whose wings were the same red gold as mine. Sparks flew from them as they carried the vessel carriers and their vessels out through the skylight, trailing gold dust behind them like shooting stars. One of the vessel carriers looked back at me, and I recognized Aelfweard. He was being carried to Blythewood, where he would guard his vessel for centuries to come, even after it was broken. And the other guardian—a woman—was being taken . . . where? I had the momentary thought of following her, but then I realized that outside the elven-dusted atmosphere, the phoenix Darklings and vessel guardians would cease to exist.
I looked back at the woman kneeling beside the one remaining vessel—and was startled to see that she was no longer kneeling on the stone floor of the tower room but on a grassy hill and that the vessel had grown. It was now as tall as the woman, its open mouth wide as a pickle barrel. The ladies and courtiers in the procession were carrying their caskets to the vessel and tipping their contents into its wide yawning mouth. Gibbering filled the room as black oily shapes slid into the vessel. Tenebrae. The caskets were filled with the evil residue of mankind’s worst emotions. I could hear in their shrieks the voices of hatred, envy, and despair.
A terrible sadness filled me, and that black thing at the base of my spine that had risen up before in the bailey rose up to meet it. I saw my mother struggling to feed me in our small, unheated rooms and heard the cries of the hungry and poor on the Lower East Side. I tasted the black laudanum my mother drank and saw her dying. I felt the ache in my back as I leaned over my sewing machine at the Triangle factory and heard the screams of the girls plummeting to their deaths and the wild shrieks of girls burning alive. All of it was rising inside me like a cold black mud bubbling up to swallow me . . .
Then I felt Daisy’s hand steal into mine on one side and Nathan’s on the other. I swallowed down the bitter taste of mud. The woman kneeling beside the vessel, which had grown enormous and sunk into the ground, was looking at me as if she understood. She waved her hand over the opening and it was sealed with a thick white waxy plug. The ladies and courtiers brought handfuls of dirt and cast them over the top of the vessel like mourners at a grave. The little page came last with a tiny sapling cradled in his hand. He knelt and pressed it into the ground. The sapling began growing at once into a hawthorn tree that burst into white flowers, then red fruit, then turned bare, then flowered again. The tree flowered, fruited, and grew bare again and again and I understood that we were watching the passage of time.
Hundreds of years flew by. The vessel maiden’s long curling brown hair turned gray and then she and the other figures vanished back into the faded tapestry and were replaced by others who worshipped at the tree and guarded it. They raised stones around it—towering tors and menhirs like the ones I’d seen while flying over Ireland—but then invaders came and tried to dig up the vessel, so they built a circular wall around the hawthorn tree, and another and another. They built the walls in a spiral pattern to confuse the invaders, a giant maze, and then they built a tower around the maze. As the walls went up, they merged with the walls of the present castle. We were watching the tower of Hawthorn rise around us.
Outside its walls I could hear the shouts of invaders come to tear the tower down and find the vessel. Flaming arrows shot across the skylight, followed by shrieking shadow crows. The walls of the tower shook as catapults launched missiles. I heard shouts and screams on the stairs. A knight in armor came running into the room shouting, “We’re under siege! We’re under siege!”
I jumped to my feet, my hand on my dagger. Beside me Daisy and Mr. Bellows had risen, too. The knight ran toward us—and right through us. I turned to watch him as he ran to the place where Mr. Farnsworth’s table had been and where now instead a woman sat at a loom weaving a tapestry. She had long curling gray hair and the same eyes as the vessel maiden. The knight cried out to her.
“Lady Aethelena, the vessel has been broken! The shadows are let loose. The prince has been attacked by the shadows and taken over. You must leave now. The Darklings are here to take you away.”
He pointed to the skylight where a winged Darkling was silhouetted against the sky. Beside him stood a girl—a girl I recognized! It was Merope, and the Darkling was Aderyn.
Suddenly I understood. The day that the shadow wolves attacked the bell maker’s daughters in the woods was the day that the vessel beneath the tower was broken and the shadows were let out. Aderyn was clutching his breast because he had just been wounded by the shadow crow.
Lady Aethelena, guardian of the vessel, stood up, a ball of golden thread in her hand. “No, Sir Isumbras,” she said. “The castle must be guarded. Even with the vessel broken we must make sure no one gets inside to find out the location of the last vessel. I myself will guard it—to my last breath and beyond. You must save the bell maker’s daughters.”
“But my lady,” the knight—Sir Isumbras, she had called him—began, his voice cracking. “No one but you knows the way through the maze to the vessel. How will I ever find you?”
She held out her hand, on which she balanced the ball of golden thread. “I will mark my path with this,” she said, “as Ariadne marked the labyrinth for Theseus. I will cast an enchantment only you”—she turned her face a fraction and I thought that she was looking at me—“and others of good heart and purpose can see, so that someday you can follow me.”
“I will follow you to my last breath and beyond,” the knight said, kneeling at her feet.
I heard Daisy sniff beside me. My own eyes were so full of tears that my vision blurred, the figures of the knight and his lady growing smeary and indistinct. I wiped my eyes—but the figures remained as blurred and faint as faded th
“No!” I cried, stepping forward toward the tapestry. I could just make out Aethelena and her brave knight kneeling beside her. The elven gold’s magic had all but run out. The last bit of gold was glowing in the ball of thread she held in her hand.
“How will we find the way now?” Daisy, who had come to stand beside me, asked.
“Look,” Nathan said. He pointed toward the ball of gold thread. As we watched, it fell from the lady’s hand, tumbled out of the tapestry, and unspooled across the floor. It moved as if propelled by a will of its own, across the room and then out the door, where we could hear it bumping down the stairway.
“Quick!” Mr. Farnsworth cried. “We have to follow it before it fades.”
But someone was already following it. Sir Isumbras, pale and faded but still tied to his oath, was following the golden thread as it unraveled. All we had to do was follow him.
17
NATHAN AND I went first, with Daisy and Mr. Bellows close behind us, and Collie, Jinks, and Bottom bringing up the rear.
“I’ll stay in the tower,” Mr. Farnsworth called, “to guard the tapestry.”
I wasn’t sure why the tapestries needed guarding, but there wasn’t time to ask. Ahead of us I could just glimpse the glowing knight before he made the next turn into darkness. “Quick,” Nathan whispered in my ear. “If we lose him we’ll never find our way.”
“But there only seems to be this one way down.”
“Yes, but once we go below the ground the ways diverge—look—we’re passing the door to the bailey now.”
I glanced to my right and caught the flicker of torchlight from outside where the six boys stood guard. I heard laughter and smelled the steak and kidney pies Daisy had brought from the Bells. My stomach growled.
“At least someone’s getting his dinner,” I heard Bottom complain.
“I brought plenty,” Daisy answered. “I’m sure they’ll save some for us.”