The Secret of the Emerald Sea (6 page)

Chapter Twelve

Jane and her little companion settled into life in the village, and soon it was full winter. Two days after their arrival, they had been offered the rental of a tiny, shabby farmhouse, and they had accepted gratefully. It was private and secluded, which was important to them. Though rough and a little chilly, the farmhouse felt like a palace to them. They had shelter, food, and some income from fortune telling. Jane was comfortable, and mostly warm.

A great festival to celebrate Christmas was being planned in the village, and this was exciting for her, although it also made her quite homesick. Sometimes, she would wake in the night and wonder why she did not simply put on her shoes, walk out the door, and find her village. She did not understand why she stayed.

By day, the pair told their fortunes either out on the cobblestones of the main square, or else inside the Crown of Thorns. By night, they retired to the quiet farmhouse and lit a cozy fire that fought the drafts coming through the aged, wooden walls. They talked of the festival to come, where they planned to extract as much money from the villagers as they could, and then perhaps move on to find Jane’s home.

Jane felt the Cupid was reluctant to leave, but he told her he would, although not just yet. She was certain he was waiting for something to happen to them, and this made her uneasy. Jane often watched him gaze out into the snowy night, his blue-gray eyes penetrating the darkness. What did he hope to see?

Jane always waited for the Cupid to transform again, but he never did. Sometimes, she stared into the eyes of the little boy, looking for the man she knew that night on the raft. The Cupid seemed to understand, but he would not relate to her as a man. He only spoke to her as he always had, and often, she burned with frustration and even anger. She longed to ask him why he did not change, but it seemed pointless. He was a secretive being, and there was no point in trying to change that. He would do what he would do.

One day they sat in the town square, wrapped in donated sweaters and scarves to stay warm. The villagers told them of a play that would be performed in a theatre on Twelfth Night, and they were invited to go along. It had been so long since Jane had experienced any sort of culture, and the Cupid had never had that opportunity at all.

Jane could hardly sleep with excitement. She had always loved the dramatic arts and wished she could be on the stage herself. When she had been a small girl, she’d been much too shy. Now, she had changed, and felt she could bring something of herself to a play or a song, but she did not know how to begin, and yet she longed to try.

The night of the play came quickly, and it was clear and bright. The gentle snowfall whitened the sky, which was filled with glistening stars. The Cupid and Jane held hands as they walked along to the theatre. Jane had been encouraged by her little friend to buy a special dress. He explained that the fortunes they told did not make a lot of money for them, but that their income was sure and steady. Always, someone would pay, even a poor villager, for a glimpse of the future...and so she dipped into their purse filled with coins and bought a pretty frock to wear.

Jane adored her dress. It was icy lavender with a full skirt that moved as she did. Its bodice was pure white lace with violet trim. Purple was her favorite color, and the Cupid threaded silken ribbons the color of fresh violets through her flaxen hair with his tiny fingers. “You must look beautiful tonight, Jane,” he whispered, smiling mysteriously.

Jane
was
beautiful that night. Her green eyes glowed emerald, her lips were rosy, and her cheeks were bright with youth and excitement. Her slim body, with its barely developed curves, was shown off to perfection in the dress she wore. She felt some magic in the air, some sense of something in the future she must move toward. Her thoughts were scattered but pleasant as they traipsed along into town, her toes growing numb through thin leather shoes—for there was never enough money for everything they needed.

The theatre was lit up with lanterns and the large windows glowed with light. The murmur of voices raised in happy chatter greeted them as they moved toward the front door. The merriment of Christmas was in everyone’s faces, and the atmosphere was dazzling.

Jane opened the theatre door and smiled, her heart pounding strangely. Tonight would be a special night, she was sure of it. How she knew, she did not care to examine, but know, she did.

Chapter Thirteen

The Cupid held Jane’s hand and moved forward in the village concert hall, nodding politely to the townspeople. Rich, red velvet drapes shrouded the stage area in delicious mystery. He wedged himself into the crowd, pulling Jane along impatiently. He wanted a clear view of this strange event. They found a place to stand—there were no more empty seats, though they had left so early—exchanged greetings with the people closest to them and talked about the things that they would see.

“Can you not see into the future, Jane?” one local farmer mocked gently, as she questioned him about the plays and performances. “Should you not be telling us what it is we are about to see?”

Cupid tensed and prepared to whisper some clever retort in her ear. But Jane only laughed, for there was no malice in his words. The Cupid relaxed. The farmer’s eyes were bright and clear and full of good cheer on this pleasant evening.

“I only see into emotions,” Jane said quietly. “Into the human heart.” She smiled into the villager’s eyes, and the Cupid thought that she looked beautiful tonight, and much more comfortable in her role. By now, he knew, it was her livelihood to play this part, which had become quite honest and natural over time. She gazed forward at the stage, and continued to speak.

“Many things are still a mystery to me,” she told the farmer pleasantly, if a little dreamily, “as they are to you, and thank goodness for that.”

She squeezed the Cupid close to her, picking him up and holding him like the child he appeared to be so that he could see the stage properly. She smiled over at the villager again and laughed. “What a sadness it would be to know absolutely everything!” she quipped. “Don’t you agree?”

The farmer nodded sagely at her words as the theatre grew darker, and the voices began to grow quiet. The show was about to begin. He answered her in the near darkness, leaning toward her and whispering in her ear. The Cupid had to strain to hear the words.

“Aye, imagine sorrows that lie in wait that we are blissfully unaware of.”

“And the joys, too, don’t forget them,” Jane whispered.

The Cupid’s heart was light and fluttering like a butterfly that moved from blossom to blossom. He knew not why, but this night was important to Jane, and to him...
so important
: He felt it in his bones.

* * * *

Jane watched as the village schoolchildren came out and sang carols to warm up the crowd. Their sweet and untrained voices were reminiscent of the mermaid’s chorus, but Jane paid no mind. They lacked the ethereal quality and perfect intonation of Neptune’s courtiers, but still they made one feel the spirit, the soul, the other self, beyond simple appetites and the everyday.

They sang for a long time, these children of all shapes and sizes, garbed in red and green. They seemed happy and proud to be performing in front of their parents and the people of the town. Luckily, her little Cupid was too young for such a performance. How he would have loathed participating!

Eventually, the angelic and imperfect voices ceased. The stage was, once again, dark after thunderous applause. The children filed out one by one, and the audience was, once again, full of anticipation.

Next, a young man walked out onto the stage and stood silently. Lanterns were arranged around him in a half-circle so that his whole being seemed to glow. Jane could not seem to catch her breath as she stared at the person on the stage.

His tall body was clad simply in breeches and a white cotton shirt. His boots were polished so that they shone chestnut brown. The simple clothes he wore seemed to underscore a beauty that was so pure and so refined as to be breathtaking. There was natural elegance in his body with his wide shoulders tapering to a narrow waist and his long, muscular legs.

His hair was dark golden-brown, his skin a lovely light gold. He seemed surrounded by an aura of pure golden light, sunshine, and beauty. Jane was sure his eyes would be the gentlest amber brown under his dark, straight brows. His nose, so finely sculpted, was almost as pretty as his lips, with their Cupid’s bow and fresh, pink color.

His face was long, his head rectangular; his chin was square and chiseled, and his cheekbones were high. Suddenly, he smiled, and Jane was utterly lost. It was such a smile that even fair Venus might envy it. It was white and straight and so very genuine. It made his eyes glow and brought out tiny and charming lines at each side of his mouth.

He is exquisite
, Jane thought,
like living sculpture
. In the lamplit twilight glow of the darkened theatre, he spoke quietly in a hushed voice:

“Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea,

But sad mortality overstays their power,

How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea?

Whose action is no stronger than a flower?

Oh how shall summer’s honey breath hold out

Against the wrackful siege of battering days,

When rocks impregnable are not so stout

Nor gates of steel so strong but time decays?

Oh fearful meditation! Where, alack,

Shall Time’s best jewel from Time’s chest lie hid back?

Or who his spoil of beauty can forbid?

Or none, unless this miracle have might –

That in black ink my love may still shine bright.”

Jane was in ecstasy. He was reciting Shakespeare. The same beloved sonnets of her childhood that she had almost forgotten, or tried to forget!

Chapter Fourteen

This beautiful young man was saying the
same words
her mother had said, as she’d read to her tiny daughter so long ago. Jane had not understood so many things about the sonnets when she was a little child, but her mother had patiently explained some of the simpler meanings to her. She had dwelled most on the fear of the passage of time, and the desire to love forever, when they, themselves, were only mortal.

As the young man finished reciting, his words rang in Jane’s ears even as applause rained down on them all. Now, she saw the sonnets in another light. They were codes, perhaps, or a link between the other world her mother had known and the world they lived in together in their small village. The sonnets had been meant to reinforce Jane’s
humanity
, she was sure.

This sonnet was particularly special to her, for she had always loved nature imagery in poetry, and the idea of summer’s honey breath fighting the cold and miserable times to come was unbearably romantic to her.

She squeezed the Cupid, her eyes glittering in the darkness. She waited for the boy to continue his recitations, and she prayed there would be more, for this night was flooding her with memories both exquisite and painful beyond bearing. “He’s wonderful at reciting!” she gushed in the Cupid’s ear.

* * * *

The Cupid smiled back at her. He had never heard poetry before. He felt more like a true child in this moment. Perhaps the young man who spoke so truthfully and poignantly had disarmed him with
beauty
. He held tight to Jane, who should have been weary of carrying him by now, but she did not utter a single word of complaint.

The Cupid much preferred this part of the recital to the children’s infernal singing. In truth, he loathed the children of the village. Often, he was forced to play with them or else people would find it odd, and yet he had no desire to make cakes out of mud and fight with wooden soldiers and pull toy wagons!

That was wonderful
, he thought, his heart stirring. He felt truly touched after the sonnet ended, and a tear came to his eye, for he had never heard such beautiful sentiments. They were bittersweet, yet joyous. He could not remember crying before. He had not thought he could.

“My name is Blake Stirling,” said the handsome young man who stood alone on the stage. The applause had died down now. “Some of you may remember me as the babe born to Lord and Lady Stirling sixteen years ago. I left the village when I was five because I was quite seriously ill and needed special doctors, and so we moved to the great City. I’ve come back from boarding school and I plan to stay in the village again, for my lingering illness has been cured. I wish you all a Merry Christmas!”

The crowd cheered and chattered among themselves.

“So handsome, and a Lord,” the girls twittered as their male companions looked crestfallen. The Cupid listened to the whispers all around them as people gossiped about the young man. Apparently, the elders in the crowd remembered Lord Stirling as a forbidding and cold, almost
cruel,
man who had lived in an imposing estate on a hill above the town overlooking the river.

Lady Stirling had been a quiet sort of woman, and often ill, just like her sickly son. The Stirlings were rich, and therefore somewhat of a mystery to the townspeople, for they did not need to involve themselves much in everyday village business, nor did they ever frequent the Crown of Thorns for a friendly pint.

The buzzing swelled and died down as the boy gently cleared his throat.

“I am fond of Shakespeare, and I have acted in several of his works at school.” He smiled shyly. “Not too well-acted, I am sure, but I tried, and I do love his words. The sonnet you just heard was one of his, and now I wish to recite another for you, if you will have me.”

The women erupted in cheers and encouraging claps. The older men clapped too.

“Thank you,” he said, again smiling the sweetest smile. “This sonnet is infamous, for some scholars do not believe it was actually written by William Shakespeare. I myself am unsure, but have always been intrigued by it nonetheless. It is a sonnet surrounded by controversy.” He laughed softly. “Perhaps the magic of Twelfth Night will somehow unravel the mystery of sonnet 153...

“Cupid laid by his brand, and fell asleep:

A maid of Dian’s this advantage found,

And his love-kindling fire did quickly steep

In a cold valley-fountain of that ground;

Which borrow’d from this holy fire of Love

A dateless lively heat, still to endure,

And grew a seething bath, which yet men prove

Against strange maladies a sovereign cure.

But at my mistress’ eye Love’s brand new-fired,

The boy for trial needs would touch my breast;

I, sick withal, the help of bath desired,

And thither hied, a sad distemper’d guest,

But found no cure: the bath for my help lies

Where Cupid got new fire--my mistress’ eyes.”

In the darkness, Cupid sucked in his breath and reached back for his arrow, feeling for it in the darkness. He could not see which arrow it was he chose, but it did not matter, for he was in a trance, as though his whole life and purpose had suddenly been revealed.

He strung his bow in the dark hall as the people cheered and clapped, and he hit young Lord Stirling with his arrow. He could not help himself, and he wondered why he was not scolded or taken out and beaten. The arrows were so sharp. Jane still held him in her arms, as though everything was normal.

The Cupid hit his target. Lord Stirling plucked the arrow from his side and gaze at it in wonder. He dropped it on the ground and stumbled, as though in great pain. He rubbed his side where it had hit and slowly shook his head. Stirling’s eyes were slightly glazed. Then, as Blake looked around him at the crowd, the Cupid realized that
no one had seemed to notice
. They were cheering and smiling
just as before
.

* * * *

Blake felt confused and his feelings were terribly hurt. The pain in his side had changed to just a slight tingling. As he bid the crowd goodnight, feeling puzzled and crestfallen, he bent down to find the arrow and examine it. But it was gone.

He walked off the stage and wondered if he had been dreaming. When he pulled up his shirt to look for a wound, there was nothing, not even a reddened area. He sat down and he tried to forget that someone had shot him with an arrow at the village Christmas Pageant. He felt like crying. Things had been going so well, and then this! He stood in the wings as the other performers took their places for a nativity scene. Blake watched the crowd to try and figure out who had done this to him, and he wondered why.

* * * *

Cupid sat in Jane’s arms, waiting for her to mention the obvious. But nothing came. Had no one truly noticed what had happened? Was he invisible, or his arrows invisible? Jane had a quiet smile on her face, as though she was asleep and dreaming, but with open eyes. It was obvious she was thinking about the young man who had just exited the stage, not the current proceedings.

She kissed the Cupid on his cheek distractedly. He noticed her cheeks were even more flushed, and how alive she seemed tonight. He felt back for his arrows. Was there only one left? The other arrow must be gone forever, and the Cupid felt strange, as though some weight had been lifted. Everything had been invisible to the others! But Jane should have noticed, and she did not. The daughter of Neptune was as blind as the rest to the pathway of Cupid’s arrow.