Young Writers Society

32 THE KING AND HIS STEED

He could not find his way through the maze that night. He went too quickly in his panic, made three wrong turns, and had to backtrack all the way to the start of the maze just to put himself right. Finally, however, he found himself in the center of the maze, in the round grassy area where the horse usually grazed. He did not see it at first. The pedestal in the center of the pasture was empty as usual, but the grass around it was littered with chunks of stone. The largest two were recognizably a booted foot and half of a hard, proud face: all that was left of the statue of Morrow, the Rover king.

Christian reached for the face, feeling sick. Then he heard a soft whicker from behind him. The horse stood in the shadows, pressed against the surrounding hedge, but its neck stretched out hopefully as it saw a familiar face. Christian made kissing noises to beckon it over, feeling silly but more glad than he’d ever felt in his life to have some company.

The horse came and nuzzled his shoulder with its velvety nose. Something growled and snarled behind them. Christian whipped around to see a hellhound standing over the pedestal. It towered over him, blacker than a starless night, all lean muscle and round shoulders and giant, padded paws. It bared its teeth at them. The horse screamed—Christian picked up the nearest chunk of stone, the face, and whipped it at the hellhound as hard as he could (not very hard). The beast vanished before the stone made contact.

The horse pressed against Christian, trembling. He put a hand on its warm neck and looked around, shivering despite the heat of the night and the animal beside him. The hellhound did not reappear.

Christian swallowed and whispered to the horse, “Come on.” Together they wound their way through the maze, toward the rose beds.

33 COLLAPSE

The rest of the gardens had been intact, but the roses were blackened and burnt, some trampled, many reduced to nubbins. The leaves of the climbing roses in the trellis curled back with brittle dryness. Bits of paper with burnt edges drifted through the air, all that was left of Minerva’s library and the books Christian had given her. He caught one of the pieces of paper. It said, all the stars are laughing.

Christian stopped beneath the trellis and called out, “Minerva?”

He waited, but he was met with silence. His hands trembled and went cold, but he held tightly to the horse and continued on toward the pool and the bench.

His foot scuffed something. He looked down and saw a chunk of stone in the shape of a hand. A short ways away he found another chunk of stone, this one a smooth and indeterminate piece that might have been an arm. Then there was another, and another, and another, this one like an eye, that one full of scales, this like the tail of a fish—

The mermaid, Christian realized with a jolt, the mermaid who had lived in the pool. He gathered up the broken fragments and piled them at the water’s edge in a sort of cairn. He stood over it for a moment, trying to think of something nice to say about the mermaid (even though no one would hear him), but she had never spoken as far as he could remember. Instead he settled for a moment of respectful silence, and then, shakily, put his hand back on the horse’s neck and continued onward.

Minerva had not yet awoken. Her face was frozen in its cold marble smile, but her right arm had been broken off at the elbow, and the pitcher it held to her shoulder lay in white chunks scattered around the courtyard. Could she even wake up now? Christian wasn’t sure, and he wasn’t sure what would happen if she did. Feeling cold, he sat. The horse stood nearby.

His breath came in shaky bursts, and he worked at controlling it. Inhale, exhale, he told himself. Whatever happened, it wouldn’t help Minerva to see him panic. Inhale, exhale. Slow breaths, he thought. Easy does it.

A drop of blood landed beside him on the bench.

He sucked in a breath and then remembered he was supposed to be controlling it. Now he had to work at keeping it steady. Inhale, exhale, he told himself with less resolve.

Another drop of blood splashed onto the bench.

His throat tightened. He tilted his head back to look as blood gushed from the marble stump of the statue’s arm.

Christian leapt from the bench and tumbled to the ground, skinning his palms and tearing the knees of his slacks. He gaped at Minerva with wide eyes and a heart throwing itself against his ribcage like it wanted to escape, and his lungs had forgotten about control and pumped crazily, inoutinoutinoutinout.

The blood gushed faster from her arm as color streaked through it: red at the end of the stump, creamy through the arm and neck and face, deep brown where the hair curled softly to the shoulders, the cold white eyes darkening as well and fluttering shut…

Christian threw a hand over his mouth as nausea rose within him at the sight of the blood and the beautiful forehead crumpling in pain, but not for long. A moment later he darted forward to catch Minerva as she collapsed.

34 FIGHTING FIRE WITH A TEACUP

He sat on the pedestal with her in his arms. Her blood soaked into his trousers and pooled on the white marble, staining it pink. Christian bit his lips until they were white, trying not to scream or throw up or both. He had to stop the bleeding, he thought wildly, he had to stop the bleeding or she would bleed right out.

He set her down for a moment and worked at taking off his shirt, fumbling with the buttons until they were all undone. The shirt remained whole when he yanked at the fabric. He set upon it with his teeth instead and tore and tore until his jaw ached and the shirt was reduced to a pile of bandage-like strips beside him. There was a smudge of blood on his undershirt.

He wrapped Minerva’s arm in the strips of fabric until her stump was more or less bandaged, hoping it would be enough. Then he took her in his arms again and touched her cheek with quaking fingers.

“Minerva. Minerva, wake up. Please wake up.”

After several long moments, her eyes opened.

“Christian?” She managed a weak smile, but it faded after a moment. “You promised not to come.”

“I know,” he said. “I know. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

He didn’t know what to say. But he felt he needed to say something, so he kept saying “I’m sorry” because he couldn’t think of anything else, and all the while he felt like he was trying to put out a fire with a tea cup. He hid his face in her hair to hide his shame and his tears. Minerva laid a hand on his wrist and hushed him. He looked at her with bright eyes.

“I’m glad you’re here,” she said.