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Authors: David Ward

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BOOK: Between Two Ends
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To the waters and the wild

With a faery, hand in hand,

For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.'

“That was William Butler Yeats—your namesake. But I'm sure you knew that.”

Yeats fled, landing on the stairs two at a time
and making such a commotion he expected them to break at any moment. He slowed near the kitchen only to find Odysseus trotting alongside him. The cat glared disapprovingly.

Yeats gasped. “Don't look at me like that!” When he realized his hands were shaking he turned them into fists. He glanced back at the stairs, then stepped into the adult conversation.

His parents were sipping tea. He was comforted to see them sitting next to each other and his father's glasses back on his nose. Odysseus demanded to be picked up.

“How did that go?” Gran asked.

Yeats couldn't tell if she was speaking to him or to the cat.

“I gave him his tea,” he said.

“Good lad.” Gran put the cat down. “You must be more careful on those stairs, dear. They aren't used to such youthful energy. My goodness, you sounded like an Oliphant in distress.”

Still panting, Yeats stammered, “He thought I was someone else. He thought I knew his granddaughter. Shaharazad or something?”

His father's cup rattled violently, followed swiftly by a curse as the tea shot over his knees. His mother's teeth were clenched and the blood drained from her face. His father looked as if he was going to faint.

ran rested her hands on Yeats's shoulders. Her words, however, were directed at his parents. “You are being silly—both of you. He is her grandfather, after all. And it is high time we all heard that name again.” She stopped Faith's protest. “I know what you are thinking. I understand your fear.”

William rose slowly. “Mum, I came here to fix
me
. This has nothing to do with Yeats.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because he wasn't there!”

Yeats appealed to Gran. “I wasn't
where?

She squeezed his shoulders. “Patience.” She
looked at William. “He needs to know. Look at him! If anyone can help, it is this boy.”

“Mum … ,” William protested. “We've just stepped in the door.”

“And the name that has pierced your heart for twenty years, William … twenty years, has surfaced in that time. You, my son, like Frodo, were wounded indefinitely—in dark circumstances. And you have endured the hurt beyond merit. But now, the time for healing has come.”

“Mom?” Yeats whispered.

His mother faced his father. “She's right. Everything she said is right. No more running, William. I am tired. This is it. Do something or changes are coming. I mean it.”

Yeats silently cursed himself. Why couldn't he have kept his mouth shut about the girl? Mr. Sutcliff was obviously crazy. If only he hadn't taken the tea to him. Now his mother was ready for a divorce if his father didn't change.

William glanced furtively past the kitchen to the back room. The house had grown peculiarly quiet. The clock ticked loudly, its pendulum swinging like
the indecision written on his face. Finally he lifted his chin. He looked at Gran, then at his wife. “All right.” Yeats looked up hopefully.

In the garden, there was a loud cracking sound. The echo reached the house. Faith sat bolt upright. “What was
that?

Gran shrugged and then motioned to the dining room table. “It's an old place, Faith, with many sounds. I tune them out most days. Most likely it's the well. It was broken many years ago. Lord knows how many old wishes are still rattling around and trying to get out. More cookies and tea?”

“I remember that well,” William said miserably. “It certainly never granted my wish.”

They moved to the table in uncomfortable silence.

After refilling the teapot Gran tapped her lap for Odysseus. Yeats regarded his father. Only twenty-four hours ago Yeats had been pleasantly contemplating the eternal month of August. And then his father had sprung a surprise trip, “for a day or two,” a car ride to the country. He knew something was wrong; his parents were arguing
over something. But the summer sun and the hope of new friends had soothed his worries.

Gran sipped her tea.

Faith patted her son's hand. “Don't worry.”

“About
what?

“Just don't worry. And stop scowling.”

Gran said to Yeats, “You like stories, don't you?”

He nodded.

“Then I will tell you two stories, for they are very closely attached. Make yourself comfortable.”

Yeats settled in his chair. He was used to stories.

“A long time ago, in ancient Arabia, India, China, and Persia, stories were told and written down. They have been told and retold over the centuries and no one is certain of their original versions, much like Grimms' fairy tales. Some of them you have heard before: Aladdin and his lamp? Perhaps even Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves, or Sinbad? You have? Good.”

She continued. “But what many children of today do not know is that some of the stories are linked by one: the story of Shaharazad and One Thousand and One Arabian Nights.”

William groaned.

Gran said, “Shaharazad was the daughter of the royal adviser, or vizier, to the King. She was both courageous and beautiful—blessed with the extraordinary gift of insight like her father. Her wisdom, however, came into question one day when she put herself in mortal danger to save her people.”

Yeats reached for a cookie.

“The King was happy, living in love and wealth. Then one day he was betrayed by his wife and his brother. A terrible madness seized him. Furious, he gripped a spear and hurled it at his brother. The blade missed its target and drove into the heart of his wife. Stricken with grief and anger, the King banished his brother. In the days to come nothing could ease the King's pain. By law he was required to marry again or abdicate the throne. But his heart could not find the courage to trust anyone again.”

“What did he do?” Yeats asked.

“He devised a spiteful plan. A dreadful plan. He decided that he would marry again, according to
the laws of the land, but that this time he would kill his bride on their wedding night.”

“Not exactly fair, is it?” Yeats said. “And how would that keep him married? If he killed her, he wouldn't be married anymore.”

“Right you are. But if the King took a different girl each night …”

“He killed one
each night?

Gran nodded. “He did. When Shaharazad heard of this she immediately offered to be the King's bride.”

“So, she was crazy as well as beautiful?”

Faith rested her face in her hands. “Shhh. Listen, Yeats.”

“Oh, she wasn't crazy,” Gran assured him. “She had a plan. Her father tried to dissuade her. As the royal vizier he knew the volatile condition of the King better than anyone. But his daughter was persuasive. It wasn't long before she married the King.”

“And he killed her?” Yeats asked.

“On the wedding night, the King told Shaharazad that it was time for her to die. But, wise girl
that she was, she answered, ‘Come, my lord, you are tired and ill at ease. Let me tell you a story to calm your mind.' The King did not know what to do with this proposal, so he answered, ‘If your story allows me to sleep peacefully without the nightmares that plague me, I will let you live another day.' And it did. For the girl had studied the poets and stories of many countries and could tell a tale like no one else. Story after story she told, night after night, calming the King, until a thousand and one nights had passed.”

Odysseus purred loudly.

“Then what happened?”

“Ah,” said Gran. “The King dealt with his brother, through battle, and he finally gave his trust to his queen. The story ends with Shaharazad telling the King's story to their own children.”

“So she lived?” Yeats asked.

“She did. And she became an Eastern heroine of the highest standing.”

Yeats thought again of the old man upstairs. “What does all that have to do with Dad?”

William cleared his throat. His eyes shifted
again to the back room. “Over twenty years ago,” he began, “when I was your age, a girl came to live with us. Her parents had died a year or two before in a car accident, and her grandfather, Mr. Sutcliff, asked if she could stay.”

Gran said, “I've known the Sutcliffs all my life. I couldn't turn them down.”

“Her name … ,” William continued, “… was Shaharazad.”

“Shaharazad,” Yeats whispered.

“Indeed. Though we all called her Shari. That's her there.” He nodded to a picture.

A shapely face, white teeth, long black hair. Her eyes challenged.

“She's pretty,” Yeats said.

“Yes,” his father murmured. “I never noticed. We were too busy having adventures. Her mother was Persian.” Yeats nodded and continued to look at the photograph. The girl had dusky skin and sculpted eyebrows. Her hands, resting on her lap, were both delicate and clever.

“And she was well named,” Gran added. “Just like Shaharazad she lived with tragedy around
her. And yet she hunted for ways to help the family through troubled times. A Persian princess.” She sighed. “She was entranced by the story of the Arabian Nights. She so wanted to turn a sad story into a happy one.”

William unclenched his fists. “Shari and I became good friends. This house and the land around it were our playground. The creek, the woods …”

“The library,” Gran interrupted.

“Everywhere,” William hurried on. “Shari was wild—
adventurous
isn't even the right word—
fearless
is better. She wanted to save the world. She combed these woods looking for things to save. We rescued a kitten from a rotten tree, mice that had lost their mother, anything that breathed and needed saving.” He suddenly stopped speaking and loosened his shirt collar. He removed a necklace crafted of worn leather. Two objects hung in the middle: a clear marble with a hole through its middle and a tiny silver bell. It gave a faint tinkle as he laid it in Yeats's hand.

For as long as he could remember, his father
had worn the necklace regardless of whether he was dressed formally or casually. When Yeats was a toddler he would play with the necklace until asked to give it back. It was always a treat to be allowed to hold it.

His father pressed the marble and bell into Yeats's hand. For the briefest moment, the other people in the room faded. His father spoke with clarity and certainty.

“There,” he said. “That's better. I believe with all my heart that you will be safer with that in your possession. Don't lose it.”

“I won't,” Yeats answered. “Thanks, Dad.”

“Well, that's a first,” said Faith. “That's been your good-luck charm for as long we've been married. Never thought I'd see the day.”

“I remember the bell,” said Gran. “It was Shari's.”

Yeats slipped the necklace around his neck. The marble was cool against his skin. He felt a little embarrassed by all the attention.

“Yes, it was,” his father murmured. The thought returned him to the story. “One day, Shari and I
were in the back room. Mum—your gran—was out. We were reading some of the books in the library. …”

“One
of the books,” Gran corrected.

“One of the books—the
Arabian Nights
. There were several versions in the library and Shari insisted that we read them all. Something strange happened then, although what it was, I don't exactly remember.”

“What do you mean?” Yeats asked.

His father stood up. “Have you got any beer, Mum?”

“No.”

“Wine?”

“There's a flask of Scotch on the second shelf to your left. I keep it for Mr. Sutcliff's nightcaps. Don't spill, please. Odysseus likes it too.”

Yeats toyed with the necklace at his throat. He had never seen his father drink before. His mother said nothing but was clearly agitated. One more nail in the coffin, Yeats thought. He had to do something, but he was trapped in this room.

BOOK: Between Two Ends
10.49Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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