The Legend of Holly Claus

  She heard the quiet voices of the fauns, who had come, they said, at the behest of the Citizens’ League. Of course, Holly had guessed that the centaurs would not come to the palace themselves, for they did not get along well with floors and ceilings and doors, but she also guessed that the fauns had been selected for the delegation because they were the most tactful creatures in the Land of the Immortals.

  At the moment, however, the quiet faun voices were simply answering Nicholas’s worried questions about Zenwyler’s condition. Yes, they confirmed, Zenwyler’s lead hooves appeared to be permanent and undetachable. Yes, Dr. Lavalier had inspected them, but saw no way to operate. Yes, the centaur could walk, but only slowly, and he would never play pelote again. Yes, he was feeling very low.

  “But sire, we have come here to speak with you of another matter,” began a bell-like voice. Holly recognized it as Romulus. He was one of the oldest fauns, known for his blue waistcoats and his famous class, the Flora of Forever, which had educated generations of newcomers on the landscape of the immortal world. Now that there were no more newcomers, the old faun wandered about a bit aimlessly, collecting specimens that were not needed for a book he would never write. Now, however, he sounded quite sure of himself. “The child, sire, the princess? We were all delighted to see her yesterday, sire. More than delighted,” he amended quickly “She is charming, and we have nothing, let me say, but the strongest feelings of devotion and admiration for her. We want nothing but the best for Princess Holly.” He coughed delicately. “With that in mind, sire, I have been asked to represent to you the anxiety that exists in the minds of some of your citizens with regard to her presence at public events or—er—in the village.” There was a pause while Romulus gathered his resolve. “Some of the immortals—not myself, of course, but some—feel that her presence is dangerous to us—them.”

  Sofya’s silvery voice sounded now. “Remember, Romulus, that it is not Holly who brings danger to us, but our own fear. We do this to ourselves.”

  There was a shifting of hooves, and then a quavering voice asked, “But how can we feel otherwise when she is with us?”

  There was a moment’s silence, and then Nicholas began to speak, his voice heavy. “Romulus, Silenux, and all you others, thank you for your honesty and bravery I quite understand your concern, and, indeed, I share it myself. I had hoped that you would come to know and love my daughter as I do, but I know now that the risk is too great. Holly will no longer be permitted to come among you.”

  A small, angry voice suddenly interrupted the proceedings. “Well, I think it’s a shameful thing to be a coward!” Holly pressed her ear against the door to catch every word. “I only met the princess yesterday, but she’s a dear, dear child, and if she is willing to take the chance of coming to us, I think we ought be willing to receive her with pleasure. After all, it’s much harder to be in her shoes than in ours, isn’t it, Romulus?”

  It was Macsu, the faun from the pelote game. Holly gasped and, without thinking, pushed open the wooden door that hid her and ran across the stone floor to Macsu’s side. There was a ripple of worry when she appeared, but she didn’t notice that; she knew only that she had a loyal friend.

  “Dearest Macsu, thank you for speaking,” she said softly, “but you mustn’t worry yourself or get angry with your friends.” She nodded her head toward Romulus. “He’s right, you know. I don’t want anything more to go wrong in the Land of the Immortals. I’ve already caused enough trouble, I know. Tell poor Zenwyler that I’m very, very sorry. Sorrier than I can say. And maybe you can come visit me sometimes. Here, in the castle.” She tried to smile. “We can have a tea party. Someday.”

  The delegation turned to go, saluting her as they passed out the door. Holly watched their departing backs until the last one had disappeared. Then, without a word to Nicholas, who sat as though frozen in his chair, she walked back to the hidden passageway and returned to her room.

  That night, Nicholas, Viviana, and Sofya gathered in Viviana’s sitting room, just as they had in the long hours after Holly’s heart was turned to ice.

  “He won’t come back,” Sofya was saying firmly. “Not now.”

  “Why wouldn’t he?” Nicholas said gloomily, pacing back and forth before the fire. “It seems he can do anything he has a mind to.”

  “Nicholas,” Sofya said, staring straight into his eyes, “despair is unworthy of you. He won’t come back because he got what he wanted.”

  “And what might that be?” asked Viviana, sitting tensely in her chair.

  “He wants Holly to be lonely,” Sofya said. “He wants her to long for companionship and purpose and to feel that she cannot find it here, in the Land of the Immortals. He has destroyed her chance to live happily here by instilling fear of Holly among the immortals and even in Holly herself.”

  “Why is he so cruel?” cried Viviana.

  “He’s not simply being cruel,” answered Nicholas bitterly. “If she is lonely here, she will find the mortal world that much more tempting. That’s what he’s after, isn’t it, Sofya?”

  She nodded.

  “But what could I do? I can’t have her endangering the people here. Think of Zenwyler! Crippled, barely able to walk—and all because of us!”

  “You did the right thing, Nicholas,” said Sofya. “You had little choice. But it will make Holly’s life very narrow. She is not meant for solitude.”

  Nicholas’s mouth tightened. “She will have us, and that must be enough.”

  “But not forever,” said Viviana.

  “Yes. Forever,” replied Nicholas.

  “No!” cried Sofya and Viviana together. They exchanged glances. An eternity of captivity, no matter how loving, would break her heart. “Now, Nicholas,” began Viviana, “you know that someday Holly must make her own choice—”

  “If she makes the wrong choice, he will destroy her,” Nicholas broke in. “I cannot allow that to happen.”

  “You cannot prevent it from happening,” said Sofya.

  “Yes, I can,” Nicholas replied shortly. “She is safe here, in the palace, where we can watch her and protect her. And this is where she will stay.”

  The two women looked at each other. He is making a mistake, flickered Viviana s blue eyes.

  Yes. But he will learn in time. Holly will teach him. And love will prevail, answered Sofya’s black eyes.

  Nicholas stared into the crackling fire, silent.

  Chapter Eleven

  HOLLY WAS TOO FRIGHTENED and miserable in the days and weeks that followed the catastrophic pelote game to ask why she had been the target of the fiery orb. It appeared to her, from all that followed, that the event was somehow her fault, and she assumed the guilt without ever questioning whether it truly belonged to her. As for Nicholas and Viviana, they resolved to tell her of Herrikhan and his scheme to free himself from the prison of Odyl.” She must know,” they would agree. “It’s too dangerous to let her remain in ignorance.” But time and again, they would approach the moment and fail. They could not bring themselves to say the words: You have been cursed. Far, far below us there lives a gray-skinned warlock who will perpetrate any evil to attain your heart, who will destroy us all if he succeeds, who is waiting for you.

  Instead they would lovingly kiss Holly good night and smooth her hair, wishing her a long and restful sleep as they closed the door. And Holly, watching the moonlight glint on the silver leaves above her head, would pull her rose-petal blanket up to her chin and whisper her prayers, which always ended with a plea to the elders to spare her from bad dreams. Most nights her plea was answered, and she sank into a down-soft sleep. But sometimes the elders seemed not to hear her and, as she slept, a nightmare crept on spidery feet to fill her mind. In it, she was tall, much taller than she truly was, and all around her were children. They were small and helpless, and she was taking care of them. They rolled to and fro on the grass while she watched and laughed along with them. All the while, in the back of her mind, there was a pressing doubt, a f
ear that she couldn’t quite locate. Then she saw that the gentle lawn where the children were playing was heaving itself up in horrible, grunting lurches. Violently, it spewed forth a creature unlike any other she had ever seen: shrunken, yellowing, a gelatinous white syrup oozing between the wrinkles of its flesh. The beast would quiver, its head swiveling as it searched the mild scenery for its prize, and Holly would know with shuddering certainty that she herself was the thing sought. Frantically she would lift her legs to flee, and then her eyes would fall upon the children. She couldn’t leave them. But some flash of movement had caught the beast’s eye, and it turned, aware now of her presence; lifting a long, yellow finger, it pointed at her and opened its mouth in a gaping black smile. Its arm uncoiled, stretching sinuously out to pull her—

  Holly woke up, panting. Her hair was drenched with sweat. Tundra lifted his head. “Do you want me to get your mother?” he asked, his voice filled with sympathy.

  It took a moment for Holly to unclench her jaws. “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “It makes them worried.”

  “But why should you bear it alone?”

  There was a short silence. “I’m not alone. I’m with you.

  Tundra thought about that. “Do you want to go on the balcony and look at the moon?”

  “No.”

  “Do you want me to tell you a story?”

  “No.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want me to get your mother?”

  “Yes.”

  Tundra, dissatisfied, continued to look across the darkness toward Holly’s bed. He heard her thumping her pillow lightly and rolling over. The room was quiet. Tundra put his head thoughtfully upon his crossed paws and closed his eyes.

  A muffled sob sounded from the bed. Tundra got up and approached Holly. A beam of moonlight showed him that she wasn’t asleep; her head was buried in her pillow and her shoulders were shaking. Gently, he nudged her and, in accordance with long tradition, she lifted her tear-stained face and touched her pink nose to his. “I wish I weren’t immortal,” she whispered.

  “Why?”

  “I’m afraid they will never stop.”

  “The nightmares?”

  “Yes.”

  “They will, Holly. They are going to stop someday. I wish I could tell you when.”

  “I wish you could too,” said Holly. She pulled his ear, which caused him to sigh with contentment. “Tundra?” she asked.

  “Mmm?”

  “Can I sleep in your bed?”

  Tundra opened his eyes. “It’s not really a bed; it’s just a mat. It’ll be too hard for you.”

  “No, it won’t. I’ll bring the window-seat cushion down.”

  “Hmm. All right. No kicking.”

  Holly arranged the cushion next to the hollow that Tundra had worn in his mat, and the two friends settled down with a bit of thrashing and wiggling. “Stop that. Lie still,” ordered Tundra.

  Holly obediently lay still. A few moments passed. “Thank you,” she whispered.

  “For what?”

  “I’m not scared anymore.”

  “That’s good. Go to sleep.”

  Twelve hours later Tundra stood in the shadow of an ancient oak tree, looking up into its black branches with an uncharacteristic expression of pleading. “Come, Callistus, please. Be a good fellow,” he called toward the upper reaches of the tree.

  “No,” replied a wrathful voice from within.

  “This is your king’s daughter! This is your princess! Where’s your loyalty?” cried Tundra, changing tactics.

  “I told you before, I have nothing but sympathy for Princess Holly, but I see no reason why I should end up with lead wings to keep her from having bad dreams. Everyone has bad dreams,” the voice rationalized.

  “You won’t get lead wings, you miserable, flea-bitten pigeon,” Tundra growled.

  “You can’t promise me that,” the owl replied snappishly.

  Tundra sighed. “You’re right, Callistus, I can’t promise you that, but it’s extremely unlikely. I spend nearly every minute with the girl, and I haven’t been turned to lead yet—”

  “Sheer luck!” crowed Callistus.

  “You’ll drive me mad, bird! All the witches say that owls alone know the spell to ward off nightmares, and yet none of you custard-hearted wretches will help us!”

  “Go away!” replied the owl, his voice muffled as he retreated farther into his nest.

  “No!”

  “Then go ask Euphemia. She’s no custard heart,” the voice suggested.

  “Where is she?”

  “Not far. About a mile north. Oak tree. Can’t miss it. Sign outside her nest says E-U-P-H.”

  “Why?” asked Tundra suspiciously.

  “You’ll figure it out when you get there,” said Callistus sweetly.

  Tundra turned, ignoring a sound of snickering from above. A quick lope brought him to the tree he was seeking. The sign with its ragged letters did not inspire confidence, and Tundra’s doubts increased upon the appearance of Euphemia. True, she was a snowy owl, resplendent in her milk-white feathers, but there was something unreliable in her tipping walk and, as she edged out upon a thick branch and peered down through the thick web of leaves, Tundra very nearly begged her pardon and left. He was, however, desperate.

  “Yes, certainly, certainly,” Euphemia assured him. “Dispelling nightmares—child’s play. One of the very first spells we owls learn. Just a matter of a few words. But of course,” she added hastily, “the words must be spoken in Strigigormese. So I can’t teach them to you.”

  Tundra explained what he wanted—and was taken aback by Euphemia’s immediate acceptance of his invitation. “Oooh, the poor dear princess! Of course, I’m terribly busy, busy, busy, but one must answer the call of duty, don’t you agree? A matter of devotion to the royal family,” she fluttered. “I’ll just pack my bag. Don’t go anywhere!” She hopped and flapped down the branch toward her nest.

  Tundra eyed her sign. “Why does it say only E-U-P-H on your tree?” he called.

  There was a longish silence. “I can’t quite hear you, dear,” said Euphemia, rustling sticks loudly.

  “Why does your sign say E-U-P-H?” bellowed Tundra.

  There was another silence. Then the owl poked her head out. “It was those dratted squirrels,” she said. “They threw the sign on the ground during one of their games. And it broke. And I’ve simply been so, so, so busy I haven’t had time to make another. All ready now!” she called blithely, surfacing from her hole with a dead mouse wrapped in a little pink kerchief.

  They returned to the palace just in time to greet Holly as she emerged from her schoolroom. Tundra explained his plan. It was well known that owls, with their special wisdom of the night, had power over dreams. Witches in the mortal world were famous for sending owls to deliver hair-raising nightmares to unlucky recipients. Less commonly owls were used to dispel dreams, to send them packing when they visited too often or caused hopeless longings. If it worked for mortals, Tundra reasoned, there was no reason why it wouldn’t work in the Land of the Immortals. Euphemia would simply perch above Holly’s bed in one of the silver trees. When, with her owlish magic, she perceived that Holly was being assailed by a nightmare, she would utter her secret incantation, and presto! the nightmare would disappear.

  Holly looked from Tundra to Euphemia with excitement. “You can do this?” she asked the owl breathlessly.

  “Certainly,” said Euphemia. “My family is renowned for its incanting. Think no more of it, Your Highness.”

  “How wonderful,” exclaimed Holly. “No more nightmares. Forever.”

  Tundra and Holly spent the afternoon showing Euphemia the wonders of the palace. In a cloud of light snow, they scaled the highest turrets, where the owl admired the view, and explored the deepest dungeons, which were actually pantries. As usual, Holly had supper in her own sitting room, surrounded by her animal friends: Alexia, who had been told to behave herself until the owl got ove
r her natural fear of foxes; Tundra; and now, Euphemia. Tundra noticed that as the night wore on, the owl became more and more silent. Alexia chattered on as usual, detailing each and every event of her day, and Holly interrupted now and then with questions, but Euphemia, who had gabbled ceaselessly during the afternoon, was now quiet.

  Later still, as Holly put on her nightgown, Tundra kept watch on the owl and noticed with a sinking heart that she was apparently asleep in her tree, her head sunk deeply into her feathery breast, her eyes closed.

  Soon enough, the room was quiet. Moonlight streamed in through the windows, painting the walls with light and black shadows. Tundra’s eyes drooped. Holly slept.

  An unknown number of hours or minutes later, the wolf was awakened by a tiny clicking sound. Following the discipline of instinct, he made no move but only opened one eye. As he scanned the layers of darkness, he saw the shadowy form of an owl perched on a thin window ledge, her beak caught in the latch. Helplessly she beat her wings against the glass, but she could not free herself.

  Tundra watched her for a while. “Homesick?” he asked finally, his voice cold.

  “Mft urk. Op,” Euphemia replied in Strigigormese.

  “Why should I? It doesn’t seem as though you’re going to be helping us.”

  “Udfcd. OP!”

  “What?” said Holly sleepily from her bed. “Oh, look, poor little Euphemia!” Quickly she ran across the room to detach the owl’s beak from the metal ring. “Does it hurt, dear? Are you all right?” she asked.

  Euphemia said nothing.

  “You should be ashamed of yourself!” Tundra burst out.

  “I know,” said the owl softly, her head sinking into her neck feathers.

  Holly looked from one to the other, baffled. “What are you two talking about?” she asked.

  “She was trying to run away,” Tundra explained.

  Euphemia sniffed. “I had to.”

  Holly laid a finger on the owl’s head. “Why?”

  “I can’t make your nightmares disappear!” she cried suddenly. “I can’t remember any of the incantations!”