The Mapmaker's War (34 page)

YOU DID NOT SPEND YOUR LAST YEARS ALONE WITH LEIT'S LOSS. KATYA and her own family remained in the village, an easy three-day walk away, but Wei returned with Olen. You shared a house together within sight of the Wheels. The children's joy and voices gave brightness to each new morning. After the music, some of them came to your door for lessons. To them, it was play. Some sat with compasses and straight edges. Others held only quills. What you taught had little purpose in their world, but it bound yours together.

Alone, you sat at a table. You clutched an incomplete chronicle, one written in fragments on scraps. You stared at an open box of writing sheets. You had told Leit you would save them for a special work. On several occasions, you attempted to begin. Too much came at once. The thin pages could not endure the furious scratches. You contemplated your quest and exile. You realized there was one last journey to take.

Wei closed her eyes when you made the request. You reminded her that she had found her uncle. She had brought him to visit. Wei said she sensed Ciaran had the strength to see you arisen from the dead. In your hearts, both of you had wondered whether you knew the truth of past events.

She admitted she had seen the twins many years earlier. She was young, testing the gaps and her sight. Her brother didn't yet have a wife and was in service of the King, | the boy, the heir inapparent | Her sister was married and not yet with child. Boldly, she spoke to them but did not tell them who she was. She said her friendliness confused them. They found her strange.

What do you want? asked Wei.

One last look with my hands free.

She cautioned you to keep yourself removed. You assured her you didn't wish to speak to them. Wei asked you to be mindful, to spare them their lost memories. You understood. From your daughter you had learned words were not necessary for knowing.

First, Wei led you to the boy. She told you he was a widower with three surviving children. Ciaran's late years were marred with dispute. A good portion of what he'd held had been given to another. The boy managed what was left of his uncle | his father's | estate. What had once been the boy's grandfather's, and that man's father, and so on. The reward for loyal obedient service. He had no interest in courtly affairs or fighting. Those who lived on his land worked it hard, which covered the costs of supplying the King | his half-brother, consider | with armored men and steady taxes.

You stood at the edge of the forest. You looked at the house where you had lived as a child. Repairs kept it free from decay. No noticeable changes captured your eye. You stood where once you had worn a path. It was gone, overgrown. An old woman clothed in wool and drudgery went to the well. You crouched like an animal to watch the day's activities. No urge pressed you to creep upon the house's windows. You remembered. You suspected few differences within.

Your presence there felt as unwelcomed as ever.

Late you ate a simple meal. You drank from a bladder. Wei returned near sunset to take you to the hut of an old woman. So much time had passed since you had crossed such a threshold. You convinced Wei to let night come.

Candles burned in the chamber that once had been your father's. With caution, you approached. The boy sat with a drink in a polished goblet. The light revealed few details. He was tall, with a balding head fringed with dark hair. His profile was pleasing. You imagined, hoped, he resembled Wyl. You studied him as if he were a stranger, because he was.

Tenderness swelled your heart. You seized the open warmth for a moment, mistaken. No, the mother in you did not recognize him. The human in you did. He had come from your flesh but you had no claim to him. You had relinquished that by choice, no matter the forces.

Suddenly he shouted a name. You jumped. He leaned forward to peer out of the window. You hid deeper in the shadows. Two voices mingled in brief tense conversation punctuated with the slam of a fist. When all was quiet, you touched the stone wall once, one last time. Your footsteps walked an old hidden path back to the trees where you always felt more at home.

Morning brought rain but across the gap there was sun.

The girl lived in the new territory on the other side of the river. The conquered lands. Wei said she had been married well before Ciaran had lost favor and prominence. That she did not choose her husband was no surprise. Women were makers of heirs, not choices, among most born away.

There was no forest in which to hide. You wouldn't be so bold as to knock upon the door. A worn dirt road bisected an orchard of fruit trees. You pretended to be a weary traveler. The simple clothes you wore gave no hint of your life before. You rested in the shade of an apple tree. Alone, you were alert. You were no longer young and quick. You felt sorrow for the awareness of danger. The feeling you remembered too well had been buried for so long.

Several days you spent this way. You strained Wei's patience. You almost relented and returned home.

Then one morning, a little girl of four or five appeared on the road. She ran back to join an older woman. You sat with anticipation. They approached, and you pushed yourself up to stand. The woman was the girl. Your second daughter was correct that you would recognize your first. She was stout like your mother, with her thick brows and pinched mouth. The woman and the child were dressed in great finery more appropriate for a banquet than a walk.

Old peasant, pick me an apple, said the little child.

You flinched at her words. You looked at her, seeking a resemblance. The little one had blond hair, green eyes, and pleasing features. The girl was too old to have a child so young. The girl's granddaughter, you thought. | your great-granddaughter | With a tolerant smile, you twisted a fruit from the tree.

There you are, child, you said.

The little one took a bite.

The girl nodded at you. Not a gray hair was out of place.

Good morning, you said.

She scowled and nodded again.

Your sudden confusion diffused your anxiety that she stood almost within reach. Her response had been less than cordial. Then you realized the error. You clutched the sides of your skirt in your wrinkled hands. The curtsy was empty but heavy with humiliation. Ages had passed since you'd bowed to anyone.

My lady, you said.

What brings you to this road? asked she.

I'm traveling to see my daughter and stopped to rest.

Well, it is a lovely day for a walk.

Old peasant, get me another apple, said the child.

You reached high for a large ripe one. When you held it out for her, she grabbed your wrist. She touched the sapphire bracelet Leit had given you instead of a ring.

What a pretty sparkling bracelet! said the child.

Yes, it is. Wherever did you come by such a dear piece of jewelry? asked the girl.

A wedding gift from my husband, now at rest, you said.

And who was he?

A great warrior.

The girl stared long at you. She turned her aged face to play the light against yours.

Do I know you? asked she.

No, my lady.

Should I know you?

No, my lady.

Then might it not be best for us strangers to part and continue along our own ways? Come, said the girl to her granddaughter.

Once more you curtsied. | your body remembered | They continued on their stroll and vanished in the distance. You searched yourself for remorse, guilt, shame, love, acceptance. The unforgivable acts remained unchanged. Your deeds were done. Your choices were made. The consequences rippled before and beyond you.

Tell the heinous truth.

The twins had freed you.

Your worst fear had not come true. You hadn't been forced to lay aside your compass and straight edge to marry an intolerable man and bear his young. Instead, you married their father, who welcomed them as you could not. His esteem for you, their mother, spared you noose and blade. You left them without a struggle. No matter that they were his issue to keep and give away. They were your terrible innocent ransom. Their little lives opened the window of chance that allowed you to flee at all. You did, but you could not escape them.

They revealed you fully to yourself. You were a woman unwilling to be what others expected of her. A person unable to love without condition. A human being who wanted peace regardless of the price.

You stood on the road in the land of your birth. No longing, no regret. You exhaled a sorrowful gratitude. Your life before had given you the gift of your life after. Beautiful, horrible both, and all points linked between. There in that place you waited for Wei.

A gentle hand touched your left arm. Her lined violet eyes looked within you.

Take me home, my beautiful child, you said.

My most sincere thanks extend to—

my circle of family, friends, and acquaintances who shared kind words and encouragement—particularly Nolde Alexius, Martin Arceneaux, Tameka Cage Conley, Penelope Dane, Ava Leavell Haymon, Jamey Hatley, Susan Henderson, Judy Kahn, Karla King, Ben Lanier-Nabors, Jandy Nelson, Ariana Wall Postlethwait, Joe Scallorns, and Emilie Staat;

the ones who first saw the strange beast—Katy Powell, Dub Lee, Kate Suchanek, and James Claffey;

the talented artist, Kathryn Hunter of Blackbird Letterpress;

a true friend and solid anchor, Alison Aucoin;

a grounding force and thoughtful reader, Madeleine Conger;

a writer soulmate if there ever was one, with fierce editing chops, Mary McMyne;

the hosts who provided places of respite when the words finally showed up—Lisa and Maurice Werness, Angie Ledbetter, Gary "Doc T" Taylor, and Janet Taylor;

the experts who generously shared their knowledge—Dr. Jon Campbell, Elaine Smyth, and Michele Piumini;

the magic places that always seemed to have what I needed— the East Baton Rouge Parish Library and Louisiana State University's Middleton Library and Hill Memorial Library;

those authors, translators, and visionaries whose books confirmed I was on the right path and showed me the way—Anne Baring, Jean Shinoda Bolen, Lloyd A. Brown, Joseph Campbell, Jules Cashford, Riane Eisler, Marija Gimbutas, Jonathan Glover, Edward T. Hall, Seamus Heaney, Buffie Johnson, Robert A. Johnson, Thomas Kinsella, C. G. Jung, Alice Miller, Robert L. Moore, Parker Palmer, Wilhelm Reich, Edward Tick, Eckhart Tolle, Edward R. Tufte, Marie-Louise von Franz, and Marion Woodman;

my agent Jillian Manus and publisher Judith Curr, for embracing the leap;

my editor Sarah Branham, who guided the journey's completion with insight; and

my beloved, Todd, who waited at the end of the tunnel.