Natasha Luepke - The Wolf Now Roams Among Fearless Lambs

The road is slick with water; rain or melted snow, I cannot tell. The buildings, shops and houses like Dun’s, huddle together, a single dark cloud forming from the multiple chimneys. The sky is green-yellow, the color before a thunder-storm. There is a chill in the air; I can feel it in the skin of my face, but it is not so biting.
The higher we climb, the narrower the stone road gets. It twists and turns, dense city buildings giving way to large expanses of -well, grass, if it were summer; mud and dead shrubbery, for now. The only sounds now are my boots and Richard’s hooves.
“Cheery, yeah?” Lir says.
We have reached the wooden out-buildings. I confess, I do not know much about castles, especially old ones, so I’m not sure what these buildings were used for. Housing horses, perhaps? No matter; the wood is water-logged and rotting, the shutters shut. We pass under a wooden arch and - are in the castle courtyard.
Lir leaves my shoulder and surveys our surroundings. This castle is very small, although all I really have to compare it with is King Wendell’s palace. The stone walls are grayish-yellow. The courtyard itself is only gray gravel; there is a well to one side.
I go to a window cut into the side wall. The set-up of the courtyard is circular; one side is wall, the other side is castle. The window overlooks the entire town. Shrouded in mist - mist I did not notice on my way up - the town is beautiful. I sit on the stone sill. Looking straight down, I can see the dried remains of a moat. I lean over a little farther - I wonder…what if I just let myself drop over the side? Well. Enough of that.
I cast one last glance over the side - those plants. The flowers are shaped liked the buttercups I had seen earlier - somewhat. They look more like stars, though. The petals are colored gold and silver, as if they were made of metal. The stems are long, like vines, and white. I plant one hand on the window frame and reach out with the other. I prick my finger on a stem.
“Anything interesting, Lir?” I ask, moving away from the window.
He lands gracefully in the gravel. “Deserted. Looks like the last people here took everything with them, right? Some broken furniture and stuff, but not much.”
“Let me take care of the horse, then we can start exploring.”
I lead Richard away from the castle, and tie him to a gnarled tree so he can graze.

Lir is right: there is not much left save dust and cobwebs. The rooms are small and dark; the few windows let in only dull light. They flow into one another, the rooms; there is no hallway. But in one large upstairs room -
This room is in the center of this side of the castle; directly across is the archway through which we entered. I can see rooms above the arch, and a large stopped clock. But this room, that I am in now - it is dark as all the others, but the windows in this room are the biggest I have yet seen. And it is almost completely furnished. A large mirror stands in one corner, and several large trunks and wardrobes dot the walls.
“What do you think this room was?” I ask Lir.
He shakes his head, shrugs his wings.
The wooden trunks are rotting, too, and I have no trouble pulling one open. Inside are women’s clothes. I pull out the top pieces - old clothes, at that. I go to the mirror and hold the clothes up. An apron dress and under dress. It must be the dimness in the room, but I swear, the reflection is not me, for just a moment. For just a moment, the woman in the mirror looks much younger, a girl almost, with long red hair and a crown of flowers. I blink and it is just me. I am wearing borrowed clothes anyway…I change into the new things I have found. They fit perfectly.
“Clover?” Lir asks.
“What do you think?”
He shakes his head.
“Let’s see what else there is.”

Not much, it turns out. In a smaller room behind the castle, connected by a walkway, we find the kitchen. A few pots and pans remain, though the hearth has been long dead. Papers are scattered across the floor as well. I grab a handful. Written in a childish script is the alphabet. I smile. I gather up all of the papers I can find. Cradling them in my arms, I call to Lir, “Let’s make camp.”

Richard safely put away (most of the stables are still in good shape), dinner done, Lir and I curl up on the window sill to peruse the papers I’ve found.
The first few pages are alphabets and numbers. The third page, however, contains a name: Buttercup. Could it be my mother? How would I know? She told us so little about her life before Rougefleur. I look out, over the town. I’ll figure it out. The flowers catch my eye again.
“Lir, what are those plants growing along the side of the hill?”
“Where?”
“There, on the side, white stems, gold and silver flowers.”
He swallows. “Oh, Clover, they’re - I think they’re -- ” He hops down from my lap to investigate. He looks up; I can see his eyes shining in the growing dusk. “They’re star wart.”
I nod. He returns to my lap. He is shaking a little.
“So, we have found your redemption,” I say.
“Clover…”
“Let me think.” I lean against the stones. Let me think.

After breakfast, I search the kitchen and find a large metal tub. I build a fire, which takes much longer than I expect, and set the water to boil.
“Lir, I have a favor to ask,” I say.
“Hmm?”
“Gather up some of the star wart. Get the longest stems you can. Leave them by the window.”
“Clover -- ”
“Just do it, please.”

I return to the room in the center of the castle, where I had found the clothes. What I hope to find, I am not sure. As I rifle through the trunks and cabinets, I see something move behind me. I turn around and face the mirror. The girl I had seen the day before has reappeared. She points to the other side of the room. I notice water drips from her extended arm.
I go where I am directed. Hidden behind large objects are a small loom and a pile of leather squares. The squares have holes cut in them - this is a loom for tablet weaving. I have only done it once or twice, but maybe… As I gather the loom and its accessories up, I look back at the mirror. It shows only the room.
On my way back to the courtyard, only now do I realize I have seen a ghost. I begin to shake. Who could she be? I wonder - I mean, did she - is she my ghost or the castle’s? - I can’t deal with this right now.
Lir, meanwhile, has gathered a pile of plants. I drop the loom, take the plants, pricking my exposed skin beside, and leave them in the boiling water in the kitchen, so I can soften them and hopefully remove a few thorns.
“What are you planning on, Clover?” Lir asks when I return.
“Oh, something.”
“There has to be another way.”
“We’ll see.”

Tablet weaving isn’t particularly hard; it’s all about coordination. The loom is L-shaped. One takes thread and winds it over the cross-bars, forming a triangle. The trick is to pull the string through one of the holes on the leather tablet. Each tablet has four. The way the tablet is laced helps determine the pattern. This is how the weaving works: the tablets are turned one-quarter of a turn, then another thread - the weft - is passed through, then another quarter turn, etc. It is hard to explain but easy to demonstrate. Lir is so small - I can weave a small expanse of cloth and sew it into a shirt and without too much wear-and-tear to my fingers, I hope.
Lir is silent as he watches me tie the long stems to the loom. I can hear footsteps coming up the path.
“Cordell! Cordell!” Dun is breathless when she appears. I am perched in the window. I look over to her, but do not get up. My pricked fingers thread the tablets all the time, color the white stems red with blood all the time.
“Cordell, please forgive me for following you. But I was afraid - you don’t know anyone here, and this can be a dangerous place. Let me help you.”
I smile, but do not look up. My last words said aloud, I must make them count: “Dun, you should know: My name is not Cordell. I am Clover, and I am a half-wolf. And I am sister to that same Wolf who helped save the Nine Kingdoms. I am searching for him. But I have promised to help my friend Lir.” Last thread. “And the rest is -- ” I knot it, and pull the weft through. I turn the tablets, and pull the weft through. I turn the tablets and pull the weft through. It is hard, though, because of the thorns. The weft does not want to stay down; I must pat it in place each time.
“Clover, no!” Lir says finally. “It’s not warth it - to wait so long and finally have someone to talk to and now --”
“You’re not talking?” Dun asks.
I shake my head, a response to both.
“I should do it myself, break my curse myself,” Lir continues. He steals a few of the boiled stems. Holding them beneath a claw, he tries to braid them with his beak. I take the loom from my lap, step down from the window. I take the star wart from him and shake my head.
“Why are you doing this?” Dun asks.
Lir and his curse are ancient, forged in the days when the only thing more powerful than the spoken word was the written one. Can I find a loop-hole in this enchantment by responding with writing? I hold up a finger to Dun: Wait.
Picking thorns from my finger tips, I run to the room in the center of the castle, the ladies’ room of darkness. Why am I doing this? Because no one else can. Because I have found just a little sliver of peace, more fragile than a bouquet of flowers - and it cost me everything else.
I find the room once more, though this time it is pierced by a little sun. I am not sure now if I will ever see Henry again, but I want Lir to marry his princess, to hold her in human arms.
I stand in the center of the room. Paper, and pens, and ink are what I need - even just a pen; I can use my blood on the backs of the old papers I’ve found.
I feel a sudden stillness in the room, a descending silence. The girl I had seen in the mirror appears before me. The weak sun shines through her, as if she were made of dust. Her incorporeal form, however, drips real water onto the floor.
From behind her back, she produces a few sheets of paper, a pen, and a small jar of ink. She smiles as she hands them to me.
~ Tell my story too ~ flashes across the top page, then disappears. When I look up from the page, she has disappeared.

I feared ghosts - fear ghosts. Why I did not want to wander the forests of Rougefleur, a fear of ghosts. A fear of my past. But this ghost - a friend, a helper. Must I now embrace a ghost?

Lir is pecking at my loom; the stems shake in the frame. Dun sits in the window, knees drawn up; she stares over the city.
Juggling my ghost-given gifts, I knock Lir from the loom.
~ Stop it ~ I scribble, dropping the paper for him to see.
I join Dun at the window, touch her shoulder. She smiles at me, just a little.
“You will need my help,” she says finally.
~ Dun ~ I begin, trying to translate from language to language to pen.
Her smile grows. Just a little. “It’s okay, Cordell, it’s okay.”
“Clover,” Lir says as he comes to rest on my shoulder. Dun studies him a moment, then nods.
The three of us watch the City With No Name. The gray rain has dissolved to wispy mist. The houses, the street, the people, all are as intangible as the ghost.
Well, then. There is weaving to do.

Lir remains silent as he watches me weave, watches Dun leave. A feather-clad gargoyle.
It will be - okay, I want to say to him. I want to speak, pronounce each word aloud, my voice, warmer than mere ink strokes.
What’s silly is that I know it will be okay. Lir must believe the same, and if he does not, he surely does not need or want to hear it.
Said aloud, the words would simply melt away. And after all, I have no real way of knowing if “it” will be okay, if anything will be okay. Why, then, bother saying anything? In truth, even if I was not laboring under a curse, it would be a waste of energy to speak.
I chose silence for ten years. A few added months should make no difference… Yet my jaw aches already.
Lir hops to my shoulder, disrupting my rhythm a little. He whispers in my ear, “Dun is returning. So I - I’ll be back, okay? But I don’t know when.”
I watch his solid shape streak across the flimsy sky.

Dun arrives soon after. She had borrowed Richard, my horse, to return to town; it looks as if she has brought her entire household back.
“Where did you sleep last night? No, no, don’t stop. I’ll set up in the kitchen; I have my pots and pans, and some food, too.” She looks up to the sky. “Daylight does not last long, I’m afraid.” She takes Richard and heads for the kitchen.
How does she know where the kitchen is?

As the shadows lay siege to the castle, Dun calls me to dinner.
“You can weave tomorrow,” she says, placing her hands over mine. I would have kept on - the work is slow going - but the damp has set in and my joints ache…and I am hungry.

In the kitchen, the hearth bursts with fire and is crowned with a large pot. Bread and cheese crowd the table. Blankets lay piled in the corner.
“Sit, sit,” she says, gathering bowls.
~ Thank you ~ I write.
She smiles. “Not a problem. Lir won’t be joining us?”
I shake my head.
She presents me with soup, then sits down opposite me. “You’ll have to let me look at your hands. I think I have some balm to help with the thorns.”
I smile again.
She takes another sip of soup. “Those papers you gathered, those old ones…have you read through them?” The pages with the alphabet scribbled on them, and my mother’s name, she means.
I shake my head.
“One page is just names; a family tree, I think. I just…why did you grab those papers?”
~ “Buttercup” was my mother’s name ~ I write, very slowly. ~ I wonder if this name… ~ But I stop writing, because what are the odds, really?
Dun looks thoughtful; she idly stirs her soup but says nothing.

After dinner, we sit by the fire, joined only by shadows. Dun manages to treat my poor hands; though they still hurt. The petty pain of paper cuts, for the most part.
In the fire, I see - I think I see - the ghost, flitting in and out of the flames. I shake my head. I am just tired.

It rains the next day. I find an overhang to weave under. The sun actually shines through the downpour, the first time I have completely seen it since arriving. Dun heads to town for I don’t know what; I don’t ask. I have a shirt to weave.

I am intent upon my little loom; nothing can deter me, except - what is that? There, just out of the corner of my eye? The ghost, standing in the rain.
She looks to the sky, her hands held wide, smiling at the sun, perhaps, or at the rain itself. She looks across the courtyard at me, still smiling. What makes a ghost happy, I wonder?
She leaves my sight, heading for the window where I like to sit. I squint, trying to see through the drops, trying to see if she can pass through the very stones, as ghosts are supposed to. But I cannot tell - one minute she is looking out, the next she is out.
I return to my weaving. The wind has picked up, making up, it seems, for the ghost’s absence. It scatters the stack of plants and papers beside me. I sigh and quickly gather up the papers, leaving the plants on the ground - I don’t need them, and perhaps the rain will soften them.

As the rain continues, a cloud has passed in front of the sun, cutting off its friendly light. At least, I think that until I look up and see the ghost standing before me.
I let out a small gasp as I take in her grayness - the color of the city has seeped into what is left of her. She looks real enough, but faded, like a painting left in the sun or the denizen of a dreamscape.
Her hands are behind her back; brining them forward, she offers me a crown of star wart. I point to the center of my chest: For me?
She nods and smiles, showing bright childish teeth. She places the flowers upon my head. She looks down to my left and sees the sheath of papers I have there. She picks up the top paper, one of the ones with “Buttercup” scrawled across it. She looks it over, sets it down, and leaves the overhang. Her eyes, however, remain on the paper. I follow their invisible trail - the word “Buttercup” has disappeared, replaced by “Elsinore.” The handwriting is the same, though. Is Elsinore her name? Are these papers part of a trick?
I look up into her pale face. It materializes before my eyes, until her skin is as pink as mine, her hair as red as the fire in the hearth, her eyes the blue of the summer sky. Flowers stream through her hair - they appear fresh, but now are beginning to wilt, heavy with water. She shakes the water from her palm and catches more.
The wind whistles through again. The ghost’s chest rises and falls, as if in a sigh. Slowly, the color leaves her hair, her eyes, her skin. She is just a ghost, after all. She looks back; I can hear footsteps coming from the small lane leading into the castle.
As Dun approaches, the ghost disappears. I touch my crown of flowers - the star wart that had fallen to the ground is also gone.

Dun shakes her head as she joins me -- it is the only way she can remove her hood; one hand is occupied with a basket, the other is hidden behind her back.
“I brought you some flowers,” she says with a grin, producing them from behind her back. She places them beside me, then points to my wreath. “Ohh…Did you make this?”
I shake my head. She lifts it from my head; before she can study it or place it on her own, the wreath falls apart, returning to nothing but scattered flowers on the ground.
“Who made this?” she asks. “Has Lir returned?”
I shake my head again and point to the papers scrawled with “Elsinore.”
She replaces her hood. “I’ll go start dinner.”
I watch her walk away, mind reeling with the same old questions.

Dun smiles at me when I come in for dinner. “News travels fast in small towns. I don’t know who spread the word, but everyone is talking about you. They call you ‘Stjerne.’
“Stjerne” means star. “Ghost” might be more apt, I think.
She does not look up from chopping vegetables as she continues. “They used to call me ‘Ghost’ when I was little. I don’t remember why anymore. But then, this town does not like remembering things.”
After she has set the knife down, I place my hand on my shoulder. I show her, again, the papers adulterated by the ghost. She traces the letters.
“I - I’m sorry, Clover. I can’t tell you.”
I sit down at the table. Dun swallows and continues with dinner.

I would never want to be a historian, but I am beginning to see the appeal. We can never escape the past, they say. Escape it, like the “past” is a physical place. Sometimes it is. But it was we did in the past, what was done in the past, that makes us who we are. So how can we completely leave the past behind? The only alternative is to live in a coma or to be mindless.
Dun will not tell me about the past. The past keeps drawing me back with cheap tricks.
I do not want to escape the past. I want…to just give it a good talking-to.

~ At least tell me what Elsinore is ~ I write after dinner.
“It’s better not to talk about it,” Dun replies. “There are good reasons not to. How did you even come across that word?”
~ There’s a ghost… ~ I begin.
Dun shakes her head. “That’s what I thought. That’s why I can’t talk about…it. That’s the only way to get rid of the ghost.” As she speaks, a gray shape forms behind her.
“I’m going to sleep,” Dun says, getting up. The ghost waves to me as Dun walks through her.

The third day is green-yellow, the pale eeriness of the sky before - or after - a storm. The color is odd, but the air feels fresher, no longer heavy with rain or snow or grayness. I sit at the window in the wall; I would enjoy the view if I wasn’t concentrating so hard. I’ll have a whole piece of cloth very soon, I think. If this were normal string, I’d be nearly finished. The whiteness of the stems would drive me a little crazy, but my blood spots it here and there, making a little pattern. Luckily the wound on my shoulder from Lir’s claws has closed up, otherwise I’d be afraid of getting sick from blood loss.
I’m not really sure where Dun is. At breakfast she said something about exploring the castle. Dust and cobwebs; if I could speak, I would have told her not to bother.
“Clover!” Dun calls from somewhere above. I look and find her waving from the center window of the castle, from the ladies’ chamber, from the ghost’s room. She leans out further, right hand in the air. It looks as if her left hand is resting on something…I squint - it looks like a book.
I wave back. Dun grins. After she pulls back from the window and turns away, the ghost takes her place. I wave at the ghost and return to my weaving.

Later in the afternoon, I leave my stony perch and take Richard, my horse, for a walk around the courtyard. Dun appears from another corner. She smiles and gives Richard a pat.
“Isn’t it a nice day?” she says. “The sun is nearly out today.” She looks up, then at me. “I’ve never left this town…Where you live, does the sun shine when it doesn’t rain?”
I nod.
Dun nods back. “I would like to see that one day.” She walks across the courtyard to the window overlooking the town. I feel a hand on my shoulder - the ghost, flesh once more. She smiles at me and follows Dun across the courtyard.
Dun climbs onto the sill, kneeling as she looks out. The ghost walks behind her; looking at both girls, you can’t tell one is dead. And then - the ghost rears back, darts forward - and pushes Dun out of the window.
I run as fast as I can, though I am weighed down by my heavy skirts. The ghost disappears as I race past her. I climb through the window. Luckily the hill is not very steep; Dun has not tumbled far. She is already sitting up when I reach her.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
She nods her head, then looks at me. “Clover! You spoke.”

What have I done?