The Collagist, page 17
Holding back the leathery leaves with one hand, she felt around for a knob.
“There’s no latch, nor knob—why do so few of the doors here have anything to grasp?” Romilly said, her voice rising in her bafflement. She ran her hands again over the encrusted, peeling surface, releasing a rain of shavings that pattered among the leaves, and pried her fingers into the edge where the door sealed inside its frame. Discouraged, she pressed her body full against the door, leaning her forehead against the rough surface as if it could bequeath to her mind its secret. She felt a movement, almost a jiggle, like the settling one feels when stepping into a boat. When she spread her fingers and pushed against the door with more force, she heard, to her surprise, a muffled click—somehow the pressure of her body had released a clasp, and one side of the door sprung open just far enough for her to slip her fingers inside.
“Romilly, are you all right? What’s happening back there?” Arra called. “I’m too stout to come after you, girl—give us a report!”
Romilly gave a soft, delighted laugh.
“I’ve opened it! Somehow the pressure of my body as I leaned against the door sprung open some hasp.” Romilly put her nose to the crack and sniffed the air; cool, minerally, it smelled of whitewash and gravel, just like the interior of the falconer’s hut.
Romilly heard a rustling and the creak of branches being wrenched aside and saw her uncle’s gleeful face, pinked by exertion, his eyes round with wonder and surprise. Over his shoulder, Arra appeared, holding on to her pinned-up braids to shield them from the scraggle of dead twigs that laced the interior of the gigantic rhododendrons. She brought the back of her hand to her mouth and sucked at a scratch, temporarily struck dumb by the sight of Romilly, who was about to thread her slim body through the crack in the door.
“Wait, you foolish child—you haven’t even a lantern, you have no way of seeing what’s down there! You’ll break your neck tripping or falling down the—”
But it was too late. Romilly had disappeared into the opening and the door clicked shut behind her.
13
Worldwidening
Near the far end of the cellar, a bluish light lit up the floor. Ducking her head, she saw two windows, each no bigger than a tea tray. But the narrow stairwell was impossible to sight down, as if it were in fact a shaded well of water. There was a landing at the top, but no way to see where the steps began. Romilly shuffled her bare feet forward, trying to locate the first step. She stood a moment on the brink. Then, testing the gulf with a tiptoe to make sure the first step existed, she began her descent. Gradually, her eyes adjusted to the gloom; she saw that the steps were made of ordinary, thick wooden planks, that the floor of the cellar was packed earth, and that under and between the windows there was a workbench cluttered with a variety of bulky objects. When she brushed her right hand against the stairwell’s wall to steady herself, the whitewashed stones left a mineral grit on her fingertips.
She stood on the floor of the cellar, the clay dust silky to her bare feet. She felt like a clumsy giant in this still, secret space, for the ceiling was so low she could reach up and lay the flat of her hand against the floor joists above her. A strange energy seemed to travel up her legs from the ground beneath her, as if her feet were the roots of a tree pulling strength up from the earth. But that didn’t make any sense. Nothing could grow in such a dim, dry space. The windowpanes were lined with rivulets of dust after years of rain had splashed against them, making it impossible to see out. Cobwebs had collected the dust and sagged against the glass like small hammocks. A faint light, so faint it looked grainy, dusted the top of a rustic wooden chest. She came forward and touched the iron handles on each side of the chest tentatively. They were so rough and pitted with rust, they seemed to tug at her fingerprints. She reached decisively and grasped the handles. Then, tightening the muscles of her stomach in anticipation of great weight, she lifted the chest off the workbench.
But it was light, dismayingly light! It must be empty. A brass frame centered in the lid held a scrap of yellowed paper, on which she could see spidery cursive faded to an indistinct color, like a wine stain persisting on laundered cloth. There wasn’t enough light to make out the word, so she used her fingernails to tweeze the paper from its metal frame. Bringing it forward under the window’s weak light, she saw a single word centered in the middle of the paper, written in exquisite cursive with a fine quill:
Worldwidening
Why, that was what Arra called her—a worldwidener. Her heart gave a powerful lurch. She slipped the paper into her apron pocket, then put out her hands to lift the lid of the box.
What she saw confounded her so much that she let the lid drop back with a clap. How could this be? She grasped the handles and lifted the chest again. It took no effort. Her breath began to catch in her chest. She dropped the box as if it had burned her and wheeled toward the stairs. Then, clear as a bell, she seemed to hear a voice say, Stay. She stood for a moment in the middle of the cellar, willing her heart to slow its hammering. What am I frightened of? she thought. Nothing has hurt me. Nothing has threatened me. As she thought these words, the knot of cold fear in her chest began to loosen and warm, flowing upward over her shoulders and down her arms. She approached the box again and slowly lifted the lid, allowing it to fold back and rest upon its hinges. Inside the box, dimly lit by the granular light, she caught the gleam of sharpened steel. On the top, there were chisels of different widths. Beneath them, a blocky iron mallet with a weathered wooden handle and a tool that tapered like an enormous nail punch. She reached out a finger to touch the faceted grip of a chisel. It was real: cool, smooth, and vaguely oily. But when her fingers curled around it to lift it out, it felt almost weightless, as if it were somehow full of air instead of steel.
She closed the lid softly. Grasping the iron handles, she lifted the box and carried it to the foot of the steps. It was no heavier than an empty basket. As she walked toward the stairs, she was struck by the fact that she could now see each step clearly, as well as the door with its wrought-iron latch. At the top step, she shifted the box to her hip and reached her hand toward the iron plate, which fit her thumb perfectly. The bar lifted and she pushed the door open easily.
As if it were the most ordinary thing in the world, Romilly stepped forward and offered the box to her uncle. “I’ve found our magic, Uncle.” He looked at her quizzically, but reached silently for the chest, grasping the iron handles as she released them. But as the sudden weight sent him staggering forward, the lid swung open, and half the tools tumbled onto the ground. They hit with substantial thunks. The iron mallet landed on the top of Romilly’s bare foot.
“Romilly, what have we done to you!” Arra cried. She rushed to Romilly’s side and crouched there, lifting the mallet off Romilly’s foot, circling her ankle with her palm, then feeling along each bone of her foot, all the way to her toes, with care.
“Thanks be to the Great Willingness! Nothing is broken!”
“Arra, how could it hurt me? It weighs next to nothing—like a dry leaf landing on me!”
“Not to me,” her uncle grunted. He had settled back on his heels, his face a pale, greenish oval, sick with fear. Arra touched the head of the iron mallet that lay near Romilly’s bare foot.
“Arra,” Romilly said, “you try—lift the mallet. Is it heavy to you?”
Arra grasped the wooden handle and stood the mallet on its head. Then she lifted it up and dandled it, assessing its weight. “It’s not weightless,” she replied thoughtfully. “But it’s not near so heavy as I thought it’d be. Feels about as heavy as kitchen ladle.”
“See, Uncle, it’s light to us. To me, the entire chest feels no heavier than a—a woven thing, like a big nest, and each tool is—airy somehow.”
Arra’s brow wrinkled.
“Brother,” Arra said, “let Romilly hand it to you.”
Romilly took hold of the mallet’s handle and reached it toward her uncle. As he grasped the head, he gasped. “Eh! it’s no heavier with Romilly touching it than a—than a stick of dry kindling!” They passed the mallet between them, then held it together while Romilly placed her palm upon the handle. Her uncle grew uncharacteristically sober.
“Let’s take the lot into the kitchen and sort it out,” he said. “I’m afraid your father isn’t going to have the strength to use these tools, Romilly. Without your help, these are even heavier in my hand than the usual, non-magical variety.” He was squatting over the toolbox, picking up the spilled chisels and placing them back in the chest. “Is the door shut?” he asked. But as they looked beyond Romilly, they saw that the door had silently and mysteriously closed without them noticing.
***
“The strangest thing, Romilly, was that a light seemed to flood up behind you as you opened the door,” Arra said.
“I know,” said Romilly. “When I descended the steps, it was pitch black at first, but then I noticed thin patches of light on the floor and workbench from two dusty windows.”
“But that’s not possible!” her uncle interjected. “I walked all around the house to see if there were a window or even a grate, so’s we could call to you, or break through in case you needed rescue. The foundation’s continuous stone. We were terrified you’d fall down the stair or trip or not be able to find your way back up in the dark. Not to mention the fact that we had no idea if the door could be opened from the inside.”
“The inside of the door had a forged iron latch that fit my thumb perfectly,” Romilly explained. “But a light did seem to follow me up the steps.”
“Were you frightened, Romilly?” Arra asked. She was laying out the tools on the table by size, from the smallest chisels and pointing tools, to the broad, stout-shafted chisels, their ends slighted clubbed from being struck by iron.
“I was. At first, I felt as if I couldn’t get any air—my throat began to close, and I began to panic. But as I turned to go back up the stairs, I heard a voice inside my head urging me to wait. There really was nothing frightening or even unusual about the cellar. In fact, it felt oddly ordinary.”
Her uncle had recovered his jovial spirits. “I admit I was spooked when you let go of the box and the weight of it staggered me, but I guess my tolerance for magic has been built up these last few days! My chief worry is—should we tell your father that these are other than common stonemason’s tools?”
“Well, I suspect for him, as for you, they will feel nothing out of the usual. But can you imagine how he’d react should their magic work on him?” Arra said, her eyebrows raised. “Like as not he’d fling himself off the island and swim for the village,” she said drolly, her eyes twinkling. “I know this for sure: there’s no way we can tell him that Romilly found a secret cellar and appeared in a magical doorway holding an enchanted toolbox with a mystical light behind her.” She thought the matter over further in silence as she unbraided her long silvery hair, picked a twig out of it, swiftly re-braided it, and pinned the braids over the top of her head. “No,” she said, decisively, “we are going to have to hold our tongues. There’s a very good chance these tools will be even heavier for him than for us two,” she said, jutting her chin at Romilly’s uncle.
“I’m sort of offended, truth be told,” her uncle said with mock indignation, “that these tools are like lead to me, being as enlightened as I am.” Pleased by his pun, he gave a chortle of laughter.
“Well,” Arra objected, “with Romilly’s help, they’re not leaden.”
“Which means,” her uncle said, “we should convince him to accept Romilly’s help.”
“Uncle,” Romilly said with firmness. “He’ll never let me near him. He said he must open the wall himself. And,” she added, “he wants to go alone into the passage. He said he needed to have some words with Digby. And I promised.”
“Yes, child,” Arra replied. “But what if his heart bursts in the labor of it?”
Just then, Romilly’s father came through the door. He stopped short when he saw them huddling together over the kitchen table. Then his eyes wandered over the tools laid out there, his gaze resting finally on the iron mallet. He walked over and touched the wooden handle, then ran his fingers over the blocky iron head.
“Where did you find all these?” he asked.
“Romilly found them,” her uncle replied serenely. “She had the wisdom to remind us that this cottage was built by a stone mason, and like as not the tools were about somewhere.”
They were all relieved that he didn’t notice his brother’s contraction of the truth. Grasping the mallet, he tilted the tool up on its head. “This is a fine ash wood handle,” he said, “good and stout.” His eyes scanned the rest of the chisels appraisingly. “These will do,” he said. “I suppose Romilly told you of our conversation,” he said, looking at Arra and his brother. “I’m sure by now you know of my efforts to keep Digby from ever returning. Well, I am going to break open the wall I built, for Romilly’s sake and for my own sake.” When he picked up a chisel, Arra exchanged a swift look with Romilly’s uncle. Her father appraised the chisel’s weight and balance as if it were a sword, then set it in the toolbox. Methodically, he began to set all the tools in the box, beginning with the largest and heaviest and ending with chisels so fine they must have been intended for stone engraving. The musical chink of metal was the only sound in the room. He looked in each of their faces for a second, then clapped the lid shut and heaved the box up by the handles, using his hip and thigh to push the box forward, the veins and tendons in his forearms bulging and corded. He stood there blank-faced.
Arra rose from her chair and folded her arms across her breast.
“Man,” she said to him softly, “you never learn. Sit here with us like a civilized being and have your lunch first. If you don’t, we will drag you out of that hut in an hour or so and tie you to a chair.” On his face, a vague smile passed over like a break in clouds. In a second, he was gone.
“Well,” Arra said, gesturing with one hand toward the door, “there goes the proof that you get your magical powers—and your manners—from your mother, not your father, Romilly.”
***
“Here’s the key question,” her uncle said to Romilly as he swept ashes off the hearth and back into the fireplace. “Why can’t Digby simply open the stone wall himself?”
Arra had pulled the fish pie from the grate and was letting it cool in the open doorway while she set the mugs and plates around the table. Romilly, who had felt her remaining energy drain away when her father left with the tools, was reclining on the sofa with a bowl in her lap, picking stems off huckleberries. Arra had brewed more tea, which steamed on a small table next to her. She raised herself up to take a sip, blowing lightly at the steam that collected just above the surface, as if by magic. A memory returned: her mother had once brought her tea and toast when she was sick with a cold. She remembered her mother lightly singing as she sewed near the fireplace—what was it? Something large and white as cream. The sail! Romilly stored this memory in the vault with other memories of her mother.
“He can’t open the wall himself,” Romilly said, “because he knows my father would have attacked him if he returned by force. And Digby hates force.”
“Digby,” Arra interjected, “would never even have used the word hate. He spoke of hate as an acid that eats away at a person’s strength until all that’s left is a hollow shell, like a tree whose heart is rotten and is like to fall in the wind.”
“Well, if that’s the case,” her uncle said, “he’s coming back to save your father, Romilly, from internal collapse. Don’t you think we should come up with a pretext to check on your father, Romilly? Frankly, his strength’s not up to this task. As far as I know, he’s taken no food this day, and he’s been weakened by sunstroke.”
Romilly rose and brought the bowl of berries to Arra, who kneaded them into the biscuit dough with deft, circular motions. She turned the dough out on the wooden table and pressed it flat with the pads of her fingers. “First, he’ll need to pry out the nails he used to close the door to the hut. Perhaps you could help with that—bring him the crowbar or a hammer. And maybe he’ll see that it’s in his interest to allow some help.”
“Ah, how right you are! I’ll fetch the crowbar and offer my help opening the door. He didn’t say he’d accept no help, at least not to me.”
“When you find him, see if you can convince him to let Romilly bring him something to eat. Thinks he hasn’t the needs of an ordinary body, that man.” She had finished cutting the biscuits and stood at the end of the table pulling the remaining flour into a pile with the edge of her hand, then smoothing it between her fingers meditatively. “It’s a sure sign a body doesn’t love itself when it won’t even take a moment to eat.” Rousing herself, she brushed the flour off her hands, then lifted the tin of biscuits and kneeled to place it on the grate above the coals. Then she crossed to the door and felt the underside of the pie pan. “And then come right back, or my pie will be a cold, unsavory lump. You have a body too.”
“I don’t know why men always have to do everything themselves,” Arra grumbled. “You wouldn’t see a woman trying to deliver her own baby, unless she had no choice.” She cut into the browned dome of the pie and lifted out a piece, pushing it deftly onto a plate with her thumb. “Here, child, we might as well have our own lunch while we’re waiting for these impulsive men.”
“Arra, Uncle’s right: we have to find a way to convince my father to accept my help. Once he starts chiseling, he won’t stop unless he succeeds or collapses.”
Arra served herself a piece of the fish pie and brought both plates to the sofa. “Child, I almost think we must trick him for his own good. What do you say to that? I think he deserves it.” She was still pink-cheeked with indignation that he had refused to sit down with them for lunch.
