Authors: Susan Sizemore
When Jacques finally looked at her, he said, "I'm afraid I've put a curse on you." He closed the book,
its ancient leather binding creaking loudly as he did so. The silence in the room drowned out the dying
storm outside. All Diane could do was wait. He combed his gnarled fingers thoughtfully through his long
beard for a while, then went on. "Not exactly a curse, a
geis,
actually."
Diane didn't know the difference, and she couldn't ask. She made a questioning gesture, instead.
"Ah, well, the difference is subtle, I'll admit," he told her. "But a curse is harder to break than a
geis.
All you have to do is perform the necessary act that fulfills the
geis
and you'll be free of it." He smiled as
though he'd just been awarded the Nobel Prize for Magic. "Simple."
She crossed her arms and glared.
He rubbed his chin. "I suppose you want to know what the
geis
is and how to fulfill it?"
She nodded.
"The
geis
is my fault, I'm afraid. I thought it would be safer for you if I did all the talking when Simon
came rushing in. So, I put a silence spell on you. Only it wasn't the spell I intended. I'm getting on a bit,
you know."
The look she gave him was not sympathetic.
He tugged on his beard. "I suppose you feel you have a right to be angry with me." He waved a finger
at her. "But I'm sure this is for your own good as well as Simon's. Simon," he explained, "is the handsome
fellow who came rushing to my defense earlier."
The guy who'd threatened to stab her, in other words.
"He's very protective," the old wizard went on. "You'll come to appreciate that about him. Now, as to
how to break the
geis
— oh, I should explain the limits it's put on your behavior first."
Diane touched her throat. She tried to speak, but, of course, no words came out. She would have
screamed in frustration if she'd been able. Since she couldn't, she resorted to standing up and stomping
her foot.
Jacques just gave an amiable nod at her behavior. "You're very communicative even without a voice.
Now, there are many men who would think having a mute woman about the house a distinct advantage.
Don't worry, Simon is not such a man."
She didn't care what sort of man Simon was. She wanted her voice back. Maybe more importantly,
she wanted to escape from this musty, drafty, weird room and the crazy old man who occupied it. She
thought of running, but Simon and his sword might be lurking outside the door.
No, it wasn't Simon's being on the other side of the door that frightened her, it was the fear that she'd
gone mad. Or maybe she was dead and this was some sort of afterlife. Maybe being hit by lightning had
put her in a coma and her imagination had conjured up this place. If it had, she wondered how her
imagination had dreamed up a medieval setting with people as incomprehensible as Jacques and his big,
sword-wielding buddy.
Before she could go on with any more tangled, fearful thoughts, Jacques continued. "The point of my
original spell was to find someone with the ability to draw my friend out of his current despondency. He
hasn't been himself since—well, for some time now. I thought to bring him cheer, to restore a smile to his
dark countenance. He's a man who once loved song and dance and storytelling. When I performed the
spell that conjured you from—" He waved his hands dramatically. "From wherever it is you appeared
from."
Seattle,
she wanted to tell him.
I'm from Seattle.
She also wanted to know just where she was now.
Was this Middle Earth? Narnia? The Enchanted Castle at Disneyworld, maybe?
"The spell was to find the right troubadour. I planned to send a messenger to bring this minstrel to
Castle Marbeau once I'd seen him in my glass." He held up a small mirror. "I saw you, and you're
distinctly not a him, are you? I'm sure that's for the best, for I have sworn never to do ill with my magic.
Still, I didn't exactly plan to conjure you away from your own land. But my power seems to be strong
tonight—it comes and goes, my age, you know—and so I accidentally called you here. Actually, it's
more convenient than sending a messenger, don't you think?"
Accident? The man had accidentally used some sort of powerful magic on her? Nonsense. There was
no such thing as magic. Special effects, yes. Physics, yes. Electricity and nuclear reactions, magnetism,
and genetic engineering, yes. Magic, no, even if she couldn't stop herself from believing in it just now.
"Of course you don't think any of this is convenient. The
geis
certainly isn't." Jacques took off the
odd-shaped hat he wore—more like a baby bonnet, Diane thought, than a wizard's pointy hat—long
enough to scratch his bald head. Then he plopped the hat back on and explained, "The rules of the
geis
are these: You have been rendered mute, but since I have claimed that you are a storyteller, you may
speak only when you have a tale to tell. Go ahead," he urged, "tell me a story."
Diane just stared at him for a few moments. This was completely ridiculous. How could she be mute,
and able to talk for a specific function? Was the man trying to tell her he'd turned her into an
entertainment center? Something that could be switched on and off for this Simon person's pleasure?
She practically boiled with anger at this outrageous notion. It wasn't just anger, but humiliation that
scalded her. Impossible. Ridiculous.
She tried to speak, to shout out her fury.
Nothing. Silence.
She closed her eyes for a long time and battled the blinding rage. When she had fought through her
wild emotions to a bit of calm she looked once more at the patiently waiting Jacques.
"Try," he coaxed. "You have the gift of storytelling on the tip of your tongue. All you have to do is use
it."
She thoroughly hated him, and herself for giving in to his urging, but she swallowed hard and said,
"Once upon a time"?
He clapped his hands with pleasure. "There? You see? I told you. Go on."
She couldn't. She had quite a few things she wanted to say to him. She tried to speak, but no other
words came out. Why was it she could say "once upon a time"?
She put her hand over her mouth as she finished speaking. Tears began to roll down her cheeks,
obscuring her view of the wizard.
Within moments she was silently sobbing, every bit of control she'd been exercising over her emotions
dissolved in the unstoppable tears. She didn't know where she was. She didn't know what was the
matter with her! A bad, nasty man had tried to kill her! She wanted to go home! She got to her feet,
blind with tears, shaking with hysteria. She tried to run, but the most she could do was start to fall as the
world began to go black around her.
Jacques moved swiftly despite his age. He caught her in his strong, gnarled hands. "Poor lamb," he
said. "You've had enough for one night." He guided her across the room, helped her lie down in a
feather-soft bed, pulled a cover up over her. He stroked her hair, and said, "It's going to be all right,
sweeting. My magic always turns out for the best. You'll see. You'll even break the
geis
and get your
voice back soon. You sleep now."
She had to obey him. She even wanted to. Closing her eyes and burrowing into the covers seemed the
most natural thing in the world to do. The safest. She sighed and curled around herself, the tears and
terror fading as peaceful darkness eased closer. She just barely heard him say one last thing before sleep
cradled her completely.
"To break the
geis
all you have to do is fall in love."
******************
reacted last night, and was determined not to repeat the experience. When she'd woken up she'd hoped
that the whole thing had been a nightmare. Hope fled when she opened her eyes. Or maybe she just
wasn't awake yet, she thought, as she threw off the covers and got to her feet.
The room was dim except for the golden light thrown by a stand of candles next to the table where
Jacques worked on something. There was very little light coming in the narrow window, but the window
did let in a cool breeze. Without the protection of the blankets, Diane shivered. Her silk skirt and tunic
were no protection against the damp chill of the place, and the hay spread on the floor was scratchy
against her cold feet. She found her shoes placed neatly next to the bed and hurried to put them on
before she approached the old wizard.
Jacques hummed as he mixed what looked like dried herbs in a black stone mortar. The scent thrown
up by the crushed plants was both sharp and sweet at once. Diane breathed deeply of the fragrance as
she stood across the table waiting to get the old man's attention. She tried to speak, of course, but the
whatever it was he called it— goose? No, gaze.
"Geis"
he said as he turned his benign smile on her. "You must accept, my dear, that the only way
you may speak is by telling stories. I have named you a Breton, and the Bretons are famous for their lays
of heroes, and lovers, and wild adventures. Speak of these things, and your voice is yours to use."
Diane couldn't take the man's sympathetic expression. Or maybe it was pity. So she turned away, with
her arms cradled protectively over her stomach. She didn't want pity, and she wouldn't let the fear
overwhelm her again. She took a few deep breaths and tried to think.
Stories. He wanted her to tell stories. If that was the only way she could communicate, fine. She'd do
anything to get her voice back. Only she wasn't a storyteller. She wasn't even that much of a reader.
Even the fantasy worlds that resembled this place, she mainly knew about from the film versions of the
novels. If she'd been a reader, she'd be able to remember book plots to recite. All she really knew about
were films. She watched them, studied them, wrote about them. Film was a visual art.
But what was a movie without a script?
Scripts. Of course. Plots. She knew thousands of movie plots.
What was the last thing she'd been watching?
She turned back to Jacques. "Once upon a time there was a rich man who a silly young woman
mistook for a—a servant. And, uh—" She faltered, and stared helplessly at the wizard, unsure of how to
explain the plot of My
Man Godfrey
to someone who lived in what looked like the set for
The Sword
and the Stone.
Jacques put away his mortar and pestle and came to take her hands. "You see, you
are
a
troubadour." He led her to a chair, pulled over another one and sat down beside her. "Shall I help you
with the right words while you provide the tale?" Diane nodded eagerly to his suggestion. "Very well," he
said. "Now, tell me more about this rich man and the silly girl."
She did, stumbling and stuttering to a silent, frustrated halt frequently, but with Jacques's help she
began to learn the art of storytelling.
"You'll do fine."
Diane wasn't so sure she believed Jacques's reassurance. So she tried to keep her mind off her
nervousness by concentrating on keeping her balance in high heels as she followed the old man down the
uneven, slab-like steps. They were on their way to someplace he called the great hall. She wasn't sure
she wanted to go. She'd gotten used to Jacques and his odd quarters. She really wasn't in any hurry to
explore the rest of her surroundings, but he'd insisted that she show up and be the dinner speaker in the
hall. After a day of learning how to use her voice she'd finally grown hungry enough to venture outside the
wizard's quarters with him.
She wasn't happy to learn that the rest of the place was as primitive as his stone-walled tower room.
All the walls were stone, as were the pitted, treacherous steps. At least the stairs weren't covered in
straw like the wooden floor in Jacques's room, that would have made negotiating them in the smoky
torchlight even more difficult. She noticed that there were no hallways in the tower, just landings with
narrow doorways on either side. She wondered what was behind the metal-studded doors, but she
couldn't ask. Besides, Jacques hurried her downstairs too quickly for her to find a diversion from her
premiere performance. The closer they got to the noisy hall, the more nervous she became, but she
supposed there was no getting out of it now.
Jacques would have preferred to lead Diane to Simon's chamber where she could entertain the baron
in private. But he thought both the girl and his friend might object to such an obvious ploy. So, after