The One-Armed Queen

“This.” She gestured around them.

  “It’s not silly. It’s fun!” Corrie said. “No-grownups and no …”

  “No food,” Jem finished for him.

  “Mother lived in the woods during the war,” Corrie said. “She ate mushrooms and nuts and berries and …” Here memory failed him. “And stuff.”

  “I don’t want to eat stuff.” Jem turned to Scillia. “Do you want to eat stuff?”

  “I think,” Scillia said slowly, “that we ought to go back.”

  “Go back?” Corrie sounded stunned. “We’ve just got here.”

  “Which way is back?” asked Jem sensibly.

  “That way,” Scillia said, pointing. It was clear which way they had come for the trail was marked by broken branches and scuffed earth.

  They plunged into the undergrowth, only this time Corrie did the complaining, not Jem. It took them about fifteen minutes to realize that they were thoroughly lost.

  “At least it’s daylight now,” Jem said. “And we can yell.” He proceeded to do so, calling out “Help! Help!” loudly until Scillia slapped him.

  “Hey!” he cried. “What’s that for?”

  “Now listen carefully,” Scillia said quickly. “It is one thing to be on an adventure. It is another to let every … every … clodpate and dissident know the queen’s children are lost and available for kidnap and ransom.”

  “Kidnap?” both the boys breathed as one.

  “Ransom?” Jem added.

  Miserably, Scillia nodded her head.

  “So why did we come out here alone in the first place?” Jem asked.

  “Because …” Scillia was suddenly too embarrassed to say anything more.

  Loyal Corrie came to her rescue. “Because she thought we’d have fun.” And when Scillia broke into tears, he put his arm around her.

  Making a sound of disgust, Jem turned away from them and started off on his own.

  “Wait!” Scillia called out, her voice still thick with emotion. “Jem, we have to stick together now.”

  It was such a sensible thing to say that even Jem had to acknowledge it, and he came back.

  “All right,” he said. “But you have made such a hash of things, I am going to get us back. I am the oldest boy, after all. And the king’s true son.” He said it on purpose, knowing how it would hurt Scillia, and smiled when her face took on a stricken look. Then, glancing around, he added, “No one move. We will have to be careful not to make any more new trails.”

  They stood still and tried to unravel the proper direction to take, but it was quite beyond them all.

  Finally Jem said, “I think this is the way,” and started toward an opening between the trees with such authority, Scillia and Corrie followed at once.

  When they came at last to a stream tumbling around enormous boulders in its spring spate, Scillia sat down grumpily on the bank. “We did not pass a stream before.”

  Jem nodded miserably, his failure too obvious for excuses. But he made one anyway. “I was not the one who got us lost first.”

  “Never mind,” Corrie said, “we could all use a drink.” He kneeled down at the water’s edge and proceeded to lap at the icy water.

  There was no warning growl as the great cat leaped from an overhanging branch, landing on Corrie’s back, and tumbling him into the river. Corrie screamed with pain and shock and Jem, on the bank, screamed back in fright. But Scillia tore off her cape, grabbed up a fallen tree limb, and waded into the water. She began to whack hysterically at the floundering cat, and occasionally landed a blow.

  The cat was flustered by the attack, hampered by the rushing water. It backed away, snarling, then was caught by a heavy undertow and swept downstream a hundred yards. When it emerged, it was on the other side of the river and too far away to mount a second attack. It shook itself angrily, growled once in the direction of the children, then turned and trotted off to find easier prey.

  “Are you hurt?” Scillia cried, pulling the sodden Corrie onto the bank where he stood shakily, staring into space.

  “What a stupid question,” Jem said, his voice still high with fright. “His neck’s bleeding.”

  “Where?” Scillia turned Corrie around. His eyes were cloudy with shock and his teeth chattered. Two deep holes on the left side of his neck bled profusely now that the cold water was no longer staunching them. “Does it hurt, Corrie?”

  “Hurt?” The word was ghostlike, breathy, full of pain. He began to tremble. “Hurt?”

  Scillia put her arm around his waist.

  “Of course it hurts.” Jem was in charge once more. “We have to get him some help.”

  “Help?” Corrie seemed incapable of more than one word at a time. He looked as if he were about to fall down.

  “Jem, we will have to carry him.”

  “Carry him? He weighs more than I do.”

  “If we hold our hands together, hand over wrist, we can make him a seat,” Scillia said.

  “Seat?” Corrie was breathing funny; his face had lost all color.

  “The first thing you had better do,” a sensible voice, a bit out of breath, said behind them, “is to get him out of those wet clothes and see how bad the bites are.”

  Scillia turned so suddenly, she nearly let go of Corrie. The speaker was the laughing man, though he was not laughing now. He took Corrie from her and laid him down on the ground. Stripping off the boy’s wet jacket and shirt, the man rolled him gently onto his right side.

  “Deep punctures but no tears,” he said. “Good news—and bad.” He swabbed at the bleeding wounds, then held Corrie’s wet shirt hard against the punctures. “We need to get you a good salve, my lad. And dry clothes.”

  “He can have my cape,” Scillia said.

  “Give me your jacket, boy,” the man said to Jem, ignoring Scillia’s offer.

  “Wouldn’t Scillia’s cape be better?”

  “You young snot! She was in the water herself after that cat, and you still wetting your pants on shore.”

  “I never!” Jem said. But he handed over his jacket quickly. Then he asked, his voice suddenly sly, “If you were close enough to see all that, why weren’t you in the river, too?”

  Scillia stared at the man, her face full of the same question.

  He shrugged. “I had my bow out and an arrow nocked, boy. I was waiting for a shot that wouldn’t hit your brother. But then your sister waded in with her cudgel and the cat was gone downstream before I could let it fly. You can go back and pick up my gear. I dropped it and came at a run.” He gestured back along the river bank with his head. “I was out hoping for some deer meat. I didn’t expect to be carting home such a young buck!” He laughed. “Up you come, my lad.” He picked up Corrie easily in his arms and walked along the river side.

  Scillia trotted next to him, holding on to Corrie’s hand.

  After a moment’s hesitation, Jem ran back, found the bow and arrows on the trail, gathered them up, then followed quickly after.

  THE TALE:

  Cat was sleeping in a tree by the river when he heard a call for help. Looking down, he saw Boy being swept along by the water.

  “Whatever are you doing?” asked Cat, arching his back and walking to the end of the limb.

  “I am drowning,” Boy cried. “Pray give me a hand.”

  “As I am a cat, I have no hands, only paws,” said Cat. “And how do I know you will thank me for what I do? Besides, water is not my element, and the river is much too cold this time of year. And …”

  But by the time Cat’s excuses were counted, Boy had drowned.

  Moral from the South Dales: Help first, chat later.

  Moral from the Northern Provinces: If you cannot swim, do not go near the water.

  Garunian adage: Never trust a cat to do a dog’s job.

  THE STORY:

  They met one of Marek’s men halfway back to the inn.

  “What goes?” he cried out the moment he spotted them, then came at a crashing run.

  “A tussle wi
th a mountain cat,” the laughing man said. “And a plunge into the river. But he’s a tough lad. He’ll have scars to show his mam.”

  “His … mam …” the guard spluttered, and Scillia had to cover her mouth with her hand to keep from giggling aloud.

  “My mother is …” Jem began, drawing himself up proudly.

  “Jem!” Scillia cautioned, but it was too late.

  “My mother is Queen Jenna,” Jem announced. But if he thought this news would devastate the man who had so recently been calling him names, he was mistaken.

  “I know,” the laughing man said. “We all know around here. But if the Anna wishes to see her old mates, and do it in private, we can all turn a blind eye.”

  Scillia rounded on him. “You knew when you … you … you …” Her blush deepened.

  “I did not know who you were till the captain claimed you,” he said. “So the compliment stands, lass.”

  Scillia thought he must have known when he had seen her empty sleeve, and she couldn’t decide which was worse, his knowing or his not knowing.

  Just then Marek himself appeared on the trail. “By Alta’s Hairs!” he called and ran toward them. “Is he hurt? Is it bad?”

  By then even Corrie was willing to attempt conversation. “I’ll have scars,” he said, an obvious pride in his voice. “A mountain cat. It was an adventure.”

  “Adventure, my ass!” Marek exploded.

  Scillia began to giggle in earnest then, and her laughter rose precipitously toward hysteria. “I’m sorry,” she gasped. “I am sorry, Marek.”

  “Sorry puts no coins in the purse,” the laughing man quoted.

  Marek took off his cloak and wrapped it around Corrie. “Give me the boy.”

  “Gladly,” the laughing man said. “He’s no small burden.”

  “And tell me your name that we might reward you.”

  “As for my name, it is Kerrec. But reward the girl. It was she drove off the cat and pulled her brother from the river.”

  Jem pulled a long face at that. “It was Sil’s fault he was in the river to begin with. She …”

  “Kerrec’s right,” Corrie interrupted. “Sil saved me. But my neck hurts something fierce. Is it all right if I cry now?” His voice was hoarse and there was a bit of a whimper in it, though he tried valiantly to hide it.

  “Cry on, lad,” Kerrec told him. “If it had been me, I would have been out-howling that cat long since.”

  The men took turns carrying Corrie, quick-marching him to the hostel.

  But all the way back, Scillia could not help but agree with Jem’s assessment. It was her fault that Corrie had been in the water and under the cat’s claws. She knew she would never forgive herself for it.

  THE HISTORY:

  Memo: Journal of International Folklore

  In your Volume #372/4, you published an article by the late professor of history, L. M. Magon, entitled “Cat’s Cradle: A Study of Feline References in Dalian Lore.”

  Magon postulates in this article that a great cat, somewhat between puma and African lion in size, roamed the Dales in the period just before and after the Gender Wars. He makes this incredible claim though no fossil evidence for any such animal have been found in the Dales past the Late Pleistocene. He cites ballads like the famed “Lullaby to the Cat’s Babe” and widely-disseminated folktales such as “The Cat and the Drowning Boy” (Folk Motif #763, Long Excuses) to support his hypothesis, but nothing at all in the way of fossil history.

  As you no doubt know, the cat family can be traced through fossil records about forty million years into the Lower Oligocene. They were recognizable as cats even back that far while most other modern mammal types looked scarcely the same creatures as today. However, cat distribution in the Dales was always spotty after the land mass broke away from the mainland, about one million years ago. This information in short form is available to anyone with an encyclopedia, though for a more in-depth look, see Dr. M. J. Piatt’s remarkable book The Catastrophe of Cats (Pasden University Press). Therefore I am puzzled as to why you let such a piece of pseudo-scientific maundering into your otherwise fine scholarly journal.

  It is certainly true that Dalian folklore is liberally sprinkled with references to cats. I have no quarrel with that. Adages such as “Better the cat under your heels than at your throat”; songs like the above named ballads; the ever-popular Cat Cycle of stories; and even the famous March Tapestry in which Great Alta is pictured with a cat’s head and one cat’s paw peeking out from beneath the folds of her dress. But there is no way a careful scholar can connect these references to a hitherto unknown species of large wild cat roaming the Dales. Not if that scholar has paid attention to the well-documented studies of the family Felidae published both here and on the Continent.

  I uncovered this travesty of scholarship while researching my father’s life. He was a man who spent years battling the false notions and absurd allegations put forth by “Magic” Magon.

  Therefore I hope that you will run my letter in your regular letter column and answer it—if you can.

  THE STORY:

  Jenna was at the inn when they arrived back. She gathered Corrie up and saw to his doctoring without recriminations of any kind.

  Scillia thought that her mother’s attitude seemed careless, but Jenna was being rigorous in her even-handedness. She was afraid that if she started to scream—at Scillia for casually leading the boys off into danger, at the boys for being so stupidly biddable, at Marek and his men for their damnable inattentiveness—she would not be able to stop screaming. Mostly she was afraid to task Scillia for running away because of the answers she might get back from her. Jenna felt the weight of guilt descending on her, a guilt she had been feeling more and more of late. Before, it had been guilt about the kingdom, about how she and Carum were managing the ever-increasing burden of it. Guilt about taxes, about short crops and long winters, guilt about the threat of invasions from the Continent. That she would now have to add guilt concerning her children to that litany made her afraid.

  She had grown used to the guilt.

  She was not used to the fear.

  The Hame’s infirmarer, a stern-faced woman with a large jaw, was providentially with Jenna’s party, not still out searching the woods with others from the Hame. Even more providentially, she carried a vulnerary in her leather kit.

  “Lay the boy down by the fire,” she said. “I will do what is necessary.” She made him comfortable, got him into dry clothes. And as he dozed by the fire, worn out from fear, shock, and blood loss, she made a poultice out of HealAll and bandaged his neck.

  “Soup when he wakes,” the infirmarer said, “and wine for the strengthening. He is not to be moved from here or agitated for a full week.”

  “Boys are boys. He will be up and complaining in a day,” Kerrec whispered to Marek who nodded his agreement. But neither of them said it aloud.

  Jenna shook her head. “But we were planning to leave sooner than that.”

  “You may leave,” the infirmarer told her as though she were the queen and Jenna a mere subject. “The boy must remain.”

  “I will stay with him,” Marek said.

  “And I,” Kerrec added. “He will come to no harm here.” He grinned suddenly, the laugh lines around his eyes deepening. “No further harm, that is.”

  The infirmarer turned to the two men, patently ignoring Jenna who was all abristle with guilt. “The boy’s wound does not touch the great muscles and he will not lose the use of the arm. But boys being boys, he will need to be encouraged in the use of it later in the week or it will go stiff from his fear of moving it.”

  “I understand,” Marek said, his face reddening.

  The laughing man just grinned.

  “And I will leave the vulnerary. The poultice should be changed beneath the bandage four times daily.”

  “I have some knowledge of that,” Kerrec said.

  “Good.” The infirmarer’s large jaw seemed to chew on the word. Then she turned
to Jenna. “Now, you see, there is no need for you to stay. I will myself return daily to check on the boy as well.”

  “No need,” Jenna said aloud, adding only to herself, except the need of the heart. She sat down next to Corrie and ran her fingers through his fair hair. He did not even stir.

  He has, she thought, his father’s face. The same long lashes fanning and shadowing his cheeks. She sighed. He is so young. Fighting back the tears, she thought: I have been so stupid in this. These children are not just mine. They belong to the Dales. I must preserve them.

  She turned to Marek. “We go back this very day. You will remain here with Corrie and I charge you not to move him till he is fully recovered. The rest of us go home for I promised the king not to be overlong.”

  “May I stay, mother?” Scillia asked quietly. “May I help nurse Corrie?” If she could do this one thing, she thought, there might be a bit of atonement in it for her.

  “You are the throne’s heir,” Jenna said. Her voice showed her exhaustion. It was uncharacteristically distant. “You will not mope about here trying to assuage your guilt. You will act like a queen and return with me. It is past time you learned what it is to rule.”

  “Me, too?” Jem asked. “Me, too?”

  “Of course you will come, too,” Jenna said. But there was only crankiness in her sentence and Jem’s eager face turned wary. They both knew that he was soon—too soon—to be shipped off to the Continent, a hostage to the fate of the Dales. To tell him with good grace that he was coming home when it was not to be for long and certainly not to rule, would have broken even Jenna’s resolve.

  Turning, she signaled the guard. “Be ready to ride before the noon meal. We will eat along the road.” Then she was gone back to Selden Hame to gather up her things and Scillia’s for the long trail home.

  THE MYTH:

  Great Alta took the girl child in her hand and turned her this way and that.

  In the sun of Alta’s gaze, the upper half of the girl turned dark, as if baked by the sun. But her lower half remained light.

  Then Great Alta broke the girl in half, as if she were a cake fresh from the oast, holding a piece in each hand.