A little girl peeked into the kitchen. An old man sat upon a stool. One foot was stretched out in front of him, obviously to avoid causing pain. In front of him, and on either side of his leg, sat two boys. They were identical in appearance. Both had messy black curls and bright green eyes that peered up into the old man’s laughter crinkled faced. The old man had white stubble as a beard and on the back and sides of his head, showing the receding hair line in detail. The old man’s green eyes caught a flicker of gold as the girl pressed her self against the wall out of sight.
“Annabelle, come join us. I was about to tell the boys a story,” he said just loud enough for her to hear.
“Oh, come on, Mr. Kausel. You said you would tell us a story of war and death. That isn’t for a girl’s ears,” the boy on the right said, crinkling his nose in annoyance.
The girl who had begun to slink around the corner froze. Her eyes searched for and found the man’s face.
“Then I’m afraid you won’t like the story then, Jorge. The person of most importance is a girl,” he replied and motioned for the blonde girl to sit.
Shyly, she walked over and sat a little behind and between the two boys. In front of her lay the bandaged foot, but she gave it no thought. Her blue eyes held a steady gaze upon that of the man’s. She didn’t notice the scornful looks both boys sent her. Not once did she smile, not once did a single emotion flash across her pretty face. Seeing that neither boys had left, the man nodded.
“Well, to understand the story, you must sit through a bit of my own first,” Mr. Kausel said, a small smile appearing on his face, and he began to tell his story.
* * *
I was born a kitchen maid’s brat. At a young age I proved to be a disaster in the kitchen. I always got under the workers’ feet. I broke glasses, I dented the pots, and I spilled the soup. No one could see me ever becoming anything. A bard, I could not be. My voice resembled that of a frog more than a person. I was small for my age, about Annabelle’s height, here, when I was ten. My mother’s last hope of me becoming a lady’s toy was also dead, I being a boy of plain face. I had a fop of messy brown hair on the top of my head and green eyes that look more the color of slime rather than your two boys’ emerald eyes. No one knew what to do with me, but I had to pay my keep. Someone finally got the brilliant idea of me becoming the Lady Raisil’s servant boy. Of course, it was a joke on their part, but my mother, desperate for me to show some kind of aptitude in anything, pushed me into the job.
Now, you have to understand Lady Raisil’s reputation. At the time, she was the king’s great-grandmother. Most people claimed that she was half mad, but the rest just said she was someone that was impossible to like. She was the oldest person in the castle and the one with the largest temper. At least, that was what I had been told. The woman went through servant boys and girls weekly, “giving them a fighting chance,” as she liked to put it. I being the walking disaster that I was, felt like the second I walked in there she would kick me out, ruining my poor mother’s last hope. The other servants gave me a fancy red and gold uniform, which I stained about a second after I put it on. I walked to the Lady Raisil’s room and knocked on the door.
“Who the hell is it?” cracked a whip like voice through the door, loud enough to make me jump.
The servant next to me snickered and said, “Good luck kid. You will need it with her,” before leaving me to my fate.
“Your new servant boy, Lady Raisil,” I was able to get out, barely loud enough for her to hear.
“Ack, well come in,” I heard through the thick wooden door.
I entered sure to find a dragon instead of an old woman. I was, of course, surprised to find the room empty around me but two chairs, a table with a finely wrought vase in it’s center, and a door directly across from the one I had just entered. I glanced around and continued, for some reason, my bravery grew as I opened the next door and found a large sitting room.
A fire roared on one side of the room, heating the room to a scorching level. In front of the fire was a sofa, large enough for three, and on one side I could make out the profile of an old woman, with hair the color of steel. At the sound of my entrance, she turned to pin me with eyes that resembled a stormy sky.
I had expected her to look older, but she looked as old as my grandmother who still worked in the kitchens. Lady Raisil’s face had wrinkles on her face, but just enough to make her features more prominent rather than the large masses of loose skin that I had expected, as I had seen in older women. She didn’t show much sign of the extraordinary beauty I had heard she had possessed in her youth; instead she looked quite common, like an old maid. After that first glance, I dropped my eyes instantly, my mother’s lessons pushing me into habit before my mind caught up with my actions.
“Well, boy, did you bring me my breakfast?” she asked after a moments pause, her voice still held the same whip-like sound that I had heard through the door earlier.
“Ah, Um, well yes, Let me fetch it for you me Lady,” I mumbled and turned to fetch it, completely forgetting to bow.
From behind my back, as I headed back to the door, where I had left the food, I heard a dry chuckle, as Lady Raisil turned her face back towards the fire. I quickened my steps, her eyes still glued to the back of my eyelids. Every time I blinked, I could see those almost hawk eyes that held a storm alone within their depths. I shivered as I picked up the tray of food, and brought it to her, bowing out of her way once it was delivered.
She didn’t look my way once. Her eyes peered into the flames as if they held some hidden meaning or secret that she could not decipher, but needed to for her very life. After a while, I being a ten year-old boy, grew bored out of my mind. Not once, did she turn her face from the flames while I was there. I finally was some how able to convince myself that she had somehow fallen asleep with her eyes open, so I began to wander around the room.
Now, I didn’t mention this earlier, but that room was filled with all the strangest objects one could imagine. I first walked to the small table that was directly behind Lady Raisil and gazed down upon the beautifully done box that was placed in the precise center of the table. I glanced around, swearing the Lady was about to wake and give me a whacking I would still feel for years to come. She didn’t even twitch a muscle.
It took me some time, but I eventually was able to build enough courage to touch the box. It was smooth, its wood a beautiful red with strange curled lines carved into its surface. I traced each of these lines with my finger trying to figure out what it was for, but their purpose eluded me. Accidentally I touched a metal switch and the box opened silently.
Inside, where for a second, I had expected to find a treasure of gold and silver, I found piles of paper in their stead. Curiously, I reached inside and drew one out. Being just a kitchen maid’s brat I was never taught to read, but on the paper was something that everyone can understand. It was a drawing of a young woman specifically. I had never seen a woman depicted as that woman was shown in that simple drawing, that expressed extraordinary beauty with but a few lines.
The woman rode bare back upon a steed of elegance and simplicity that it almost seemed to be leaping off of the page. The woman, held one hand upward, as if in greeting to the artist, and the other buried in the horse’s mane. Her clothing was odd, but simple, almost poor. It was something that I could almost imagine my mother wearing, if she was from another country. The land around her was also strange, hills with no grass and random curves that resembled windswept sand, but that made no sense to me. Where could you possible find hills of sand? I left this oddity to the artist’s imagination, but still the picture captured my imagination and for some reason, that even to this day I do not understand why, I felt pure simple hope enter me at that image alone.
The woman’s face was what caught my attention the most. It was split into a wide grin, almost a laugh, and perhaps a call of greeting to accompany her hand’s gesture. Even though the image was small, you could make out that she was at least, pretty if not a beauty. Her hair, which I guessed if lying flat against her back would have gone a little past her shoulders, flew back behind her, giving her a look of freedom. That was when my mind decided just what it was that picture represented. It was freedom in its simplest and purest form.
From behind my back I heard Lady Raisil’s voice ring out, “Boy, go fetch me a glass of wine.”
With a start I pushed the lid of the box shut and stuffed the drawing in my pocket. With a glance over my shoulder to make sure that Lady Raisil had not seen me looking in the box, I walked quickly out of her apartments. The cool air in the corridors breathed through my hair and I sighed with relief. Nervous energy carried me down to the kitchens with a speed my mother would have been shocked to discover I had in me.
