The Book Man, Chapter 8 (Revised)

8 MINERVA

Christian whirled around and saw her standing amongst the roses with an earthenware pitcher on the ground beside her and a slingshot in her hand. She had fair skin and dark hair that curled about her face in the style of a Roman statue or painting; in fact, he thought, she was reminiscent of such art in every way: the straightness of her nose, the elegant curve of her neck and her plump arms. Even as he watched, she hid the slingshot back in the folds of the white tunic she wore. Her movements were as slow and graceful as those of the figures he’d seen through the trees before.

“Who are you?” she asked again. “What are you doing in my garden?”

Christian felt the blood rise in his cheeks as she gazed at him. He had never beheld such a lovely, calm creature, but he wished she had not come upon him now, when the task at hand was so important.

“Forgive me,” he stammered at last. “I didn’t know it was anybody’s garden.”

She considered him.

“Every night I water the roses,” she said. He waited, but she said nothing more. She just looked at him, her dark eyes running over his features as if she had never seen a man before and was curious. She did not look away when he caught her eye; she seemed to feel no embarrassment at all, which was just as well since Christian felt enough for both of them.

“Is that yours?” She pointed at something on the ground. It was his copy of The Hobbit; it had fallen out of his pocket in the attack.

“Oh—yes,” he said. “Thank you.”

He picked it up and thumbed through it, avoiding her gaze. He needed to find the comfrey and calen—what was it? Calendula?—but he was embarrassed to search through the plants with her watching him, and he felt it would be rude to ask her to leave.

“Who are you?” she asked again. Christian was reminded of The Little Prince; he felt that, like its titular character, she would never let go of any question she asked until it had been answered.

“Nobody,” he said. “I’m nobody. Just an accountant.”

She traced her mouth with a finger. “But you have a name, don’t you?”

“Oh,” Christian said. “Yes. I do, yes. Christian Abernathy. I—what’s yours?”

She smiled for the first time and said, “Minerva.”

“Minerva,” he repeated. It was a pleasant name, three syllables that tasted in his mouth the way the thousands of roses smelled around him.

She took up her pitcher and turned away, and he felt a sense of panic at the thought of being left alone again to find the herbs he needed. What if he couldn’t see them amongst the confusion of the herb garden? What if he got lost on his way back to the Fairgrounds? What if Conrad died before he got there?

“Wait,” he said. She turned back to him. “Please—please. I need comfrey leaves and calen—marigold petals. Or—perhaps it was comfrey petals and marigold leaves.”

He held up the basket the Rover woman had given him as if that would explain it. Minerva frowned and said, “Are you wounded?”

“No, I—Conrad is wounded. My friend. He’s had his leg torn open by this—like a dog, but just—massive. The size of a horse—”

Her frown deepened, and she said to herself, “Hellhound!”

“Yes—that’s what he said. How did you—?”

She slipped through the rose bushes and into the herb garden. The golden bangles on her wrists clinked together as her hands moved through the tangle of leaves and flowers. Christian put his book back in his pocket and helped her look, though his knowledge of the plants he needed came primarily from his vast collection of field guides.

Minerva discovered the comfrey first and stripped it of its leaves. Christian found the marigolds and winced as he twisted the flowers off their stems with difficulty.

“Sorry,” he muttered as green juice bled onto his fingers. “Oh, dear, I am sorry.”

“Are you apologizing to the marigolds?” Minerva asked.

Despite himself, he turned red.

“Yes,” he said, but she did not stop to stare at him strangely, nor did she say any more about it. He continued tugging at the flowers in scarlet-faced silence, but she gave him a thoughtful look and went on denuding the comfrey of its leaves.

After a moment she said, “You have to pinch them. Like this, watch—” and she showed him how to properly pick a flower, plucking a marigold deftly from its stem. She placed it in his basket.

“Then it won’t hurt,” she said.

“Oh,” said Christian. “Thank you.”

When his basket was full they stood up, dusting dirt from their clothing, and Minerva took up her pitcher again.

“Would you mind,” Christian asked hesitantly, “would you mind—I’m not quite sure of the way back, you see.”

Minerva studied him for a moment with her head cocked like a bird’s, but then she said, “I’d be happy to accompany you.”

She questioned him non-stop as they walked back through the roses, though half the time her mind seemed elsewhere when he answered. She was most curious about his reading, perhaps because she had seen his copy of The Hobbit on the ground. He was shocked to learn, however, that she was completely unfamiliar with it.

“It’s immensely famous,” he said. “You’ve truly never heard of it?”

Minerva gave a small smile at his indignation. “Truly, no.”

When they reached the maze, it became apparent that her questions had been more to keep his mind off of Conrad’s injury than out of sheer curiosity. She stopped just before the hedges, her brow wrinkled in concern.

“What’s wrong?” Christian asked.

“I’m sorry to make you speak of it, after what your friend has gone through” she said in a low voice, “but I must know—have the hellhounds breached the wall?”

The accountant blinked at her.

“I don’t—sorry—what?”

Her fingers wrapped around his wrist and her dark eyes widened with the urgency of her questions. “The hellhounds. Are they here—have they breached the wall—can they get into the park?”

A shiver ran down Christian’s spine, but he heartened a little at the thought of how the hellhounds pursuing him and Conrad earlier that night had been forced to turn away at the park gate.

“No,” he said. “That’s why we came here. Conrad said it was safe.”

The wrinkle in her forehead smoothed; her grip relaxed on his wrist.

“Good,” she said. “Then there’s nothing to worry about.”

Well, Christian thought, that wasn’t quite true. The fact that beasts such as hellhounds existed was alarming enough in itself—and there was still the balloon-artist’s leg. He grasped his basket of leaves and flowers tighter at the thought. Minerva noticed and said, “I’m sure he’ll be alright, your friend.”

Christian nodded, but he didn’t trust himself to speak; he wasn’t sure of that at all. Minerva released his wrist. Without her fingers there, he felt cold.

“Thank you for everything,” he said. He hurried into the maze, looking back only once to see her making her slow, graceful way back to the rose beds with her pitcher balanced on one shoulder.