Odile took the rings, heavy and warm. “These will do,” she said and told the king to follow her.
By candlelight, she took him down to the dank cellar. He seemed a bit unnerved by the empty cage. She pulled out a tray of blackened eggs. Then another. “She’s here. They’re all here. Take them.”
The king lifted one egg. He looked it over then shook it by his ear.
“Look through the holes.” She held the candle flame high.
The king peered through one end. “My Lord,” he sputtered. The egg tumbled from his grasp and struck the floor, where it shattered like ancient pottery.
“There — There’s a tiny man sleeping inside.”
“I know.” She brushed aside the shards with her bare foot. A sharp edge cut her sole and left a bloody streak on the stones.
“Don’t worry, you freed him.”
She left him the light. “Find the princess’s egg. Break all of them, if you want. There might be other princesses among them.” She started up the staircase.
“She stepped on his toes a great deal.”
“What was that?”
The king ran his hands over the curse eggs. “When I watched them dance, I noticed how often she stepped on my son’s toes. One would think her parents were quite remiss in not teaching her the proper steps.” He looked up at her with a sad smile. “One would think.”
Odile climbed to the top of the tower to her papa’s laboratory. Inside its cage, the wappentier screeched from both heads when she entered. Since their return, she had neglected it; Papa had been the only one who dared feed the beast.
Its last golden egg rested on a taxonomy book. She held it in her hands a moment before moving to the shutters and pushing them open. She felt the strong breeze. Wearing another shape, she could ride the air far. Perhaps all the way to the mountains. Or the sea.
The wanderlust, so new and strong, left her trembling. Abandoning a life could be cruel.
Still clutching the egg to her chest, she went down to her papa’s bedroom. He had trouble opening his eyes when she touched his forehead. He tried to speak but lacked the strength.
He’d never taught Odile about death or grieving, other than to mention the pelican hen shedding blood to revive her children. Odile hoped her devotion would mend him. She devised rara lingua with a certainty that surprised her. As she envisioned the illustrated vellum of her lessons, her jaw began to ache. Her mouth tasted like the salt spray of the ocean. She looked down at her arms. Where the albumen dripped, white feathers grew.
She called out, the sound hoarse and new and strange, but so fitting coming from the heavy body she wore. As a pelican, she squatted beside Papa’s pillow. Her long beak, so heavy and ungainly as she moved her head, rose high. She plunged it down into her own breast, once, twice, until blood began to spill. Drops fell onto Papa’s pale lips. As she hopped about the bed, it spattered onto his bared chest.
She forced her eyes to remain open despite the pain, so she could be assured that the color did return to his face, see the rise and fall of each breath grow higher, stronger.
He raised his hand to her chest, but she nudged his fingers away. Her wound had already begun to close on its own.
When she returned to human form, she touched above her breasts and felt the thick line of a scar. No, she decided it must be a badge, a medal like the prince had worn. She wanted it seen.
“Lear would be envious,” Papa said in a voice weak but audible, “to have such a pelican daughter.”
She laughed and cried a bit as well. She could not voice how his praise made her feel. So after she helped him sit up in bed, she went to his cluttered wardrobe. “I have to leave.” She pushed aside garments until she found a curious outfit, a jacket and breeches, all in shades of red.
“Tell me where you’re going.”
“Tomorrow’s lessons are on the road. I’ll learn to talk with ibises and challenge monsters.”
“Yes, daughter.” Papa smiled. “But help me upstairs before you go.”
In the tower library, Papa instructed Odile on how to work the heavy mechanism that lowered the wappentier’s cage for feeding or recovering the eggs. The wappentier shuddered, and its musty smell filled the room.
“When the time comes, search the highest peaks.” Papa unlocked the latch with a white quill and swung the door open. The hinges screeched. Or maybe the wappentier cried out.
Her heart trembled inside her ribs, and she pulled at her father even as he stepped back.
The wappentier stretched its wings a moment before taking flight. It flew past them — its plumage, which she had always imagined would feel harsh and rough, was gentle like a whisper. The tower shook. Stones fell from the window’s sides and ledge as it broke through the wall.
Odile thought she heard screams below. Horses and men.
Her father hugged her then. He felt frail, as if his bones might be hollow, but he held tight a moment. She could not find the words to assure him that she’d return.
Outside the tower, she found the king’s carriage wallowed in the moat. The horses still lived, though they struggled to pull the carriage free. After years of a diet of game meat, the wappentier might have more hungered for rarer fare. There was no sign of a driver.
She waded into the water, empty of any swans, she noticed. The carriage door hung ajar. Inside was empty. As she led the horses to land, Odile looked up in the sky and did not see the wappentier. It must no longer be starved. She hoped the king was still down in the cellar smashing eggs.
She looked back at the tower and thought she saw for a moment her father staring down from the ruined window. She told herself there might be another day for books and fathers. Perhaps even swans. Then she stepped up to the driver’s seat and took hold of the reins and chose to take the road.
STEVE BERMAN has gone on several nocturnal owl-watches. He falls asleep before he catches even a glimpse of his favorite bird. His novel, Vintage, was a finalist for the Andre Norton Award. He has edited the anthologies Magic in the Mirror-stone, So Fey, and Wilde Stories. He roosts in southern New Jersey.
His Web site is www.steveberman.com.
Blame the ballet. I had been asked to review a performance of Giselle by the Pennsylvania Ballet. My mother had always wanted to see a live ballet, and so she accompanied me to the old Merriam Theater. We both thought the experience was magical. There were moments when the ballerinas achieved a step that looked as if they floated across the stage. I knew I wanted to write something based on the experience.
Conveniently, I had been researching Swan Lake when Ellen and Terri sent me the invitation to submit to this anthology. Sadly, there’s no pointe work in “Thimbleriggery and Fledglings.” Maybe another day, another tale. But the role of Odile, the infamous Black Swan of the ballet, needed to be revisited. I wondered why she went along with her father’s schemes. Not every girl wants a prince or even a crown.
I owe another maternal figure for holding my hand through the writing. Ann Zeddies proved she’s a remarkable reader, the best of friends for any writer. Odile’s story might have been far more tragic if not for Ann’s insight. A debt of thanks to Kelly Link, as well, for one night telling me the secret: sleight of hand is no different from sleight of word.
THE FLOCK
