Secret Places and Hidden Things

Chapter Seven

For three days the helm wandered along cold ocean cliffs. Jack whiled away the hours in the solarium watching giant sea birds fly over the rolling waves and dive for fish. With the windows open, the salty breeze relaxed him, and he spent his time counting the shades of blue and green in the water far below. Then the storms rolled in, giving him a restless energy. He wandered the halls as the rain lashed against the windows and the thunder rolled into the high parts of the vaulted ceilings. There were countless protected alcoves where he could step out onto a balcony and watch the lightning fork through the clouds. The mist from the rain was cool on his face as it sliced the air just beyond the eaves. It was dark, but the lighting was almost constant, and the boiling clouds overhead assumed all number of interesting shapes.

After hours of walking and exploring, Jack stumbled right into Wynne's tower when he opened a door that was supposed to lead outside. As he fell sideways through her floor, the world tilted to accommodate him.

"Oh, Jack! I thought you might be coming," Wynne said. "I unlatched the door for you." She was sitting in front of a rustic wooden harp, her hands resting on the strings. "Did you walk up the wall again? It's always interesting watching you coming in."

Jack looked behind him. There was a large, half-finished tapestry on a loom. The door had disappeared. He looked down through the hole at his feet and saw a very normal flight of circular steps.

"No, actually. I just walked through a door this time."

"Interesting." Wynne plucked a few notes. "I've just been playing some music. The storm put me in a mood." She started a ballad full of slow, expectant chords. They moved up the scale, then resolved into a rainy melody of soft high notes every few bars. Jack felt something warm and still bloom in his chest.

There was a low fire burning in the grate. It was the only illumination aside from the dull twilight coming through the windows. Wynne's room seemed to be the only one in the tower, as it was perfectly round, but only one side had windows. The pair of French doors leading onto her balcony were shut, but the windows beside them were open, letting in the smell of the rain and the sea. The eaves went out far enough to keep the water from splashing in. A quiet, windy sound, mixed with the far-away rolling roar of the ocean and the occasional peal of distant thunder, accompanied her song.

Jack walked over to the fire and sat down on the couch in front of it. A small movement beside him made him jump, but it turned out to be the fox. It yawned widely and set it's head on his leg.

"That fox was scratching at my door earlier," Wynne said. "I didn't hear it at first because of the rain, but it was pretty persistent. I don't think it likes the thunder."

As if on cue, bit of thunder rolled out and the fox wrinkled its nose. Jack laughed and scratched it behind the ears.

"You know," he said after a while, "I realized today that I haven't done much of anything since I got here except read a few books... The odd part is, it doesn't seem to matter."

Wynne stopped playing and scratched her nose, looking at him. "I know what you mean," she said. "There are lots of things people do here, though. It seems like most people find some calling. The helm is so full of potential, after all." She started her song again.

"What sorts of things do people do?"

"Well, I like to play music, obviously." She flourished her fingers into a complicated set of chords. "But mostly I like to weave. Weave and sew and knit and twine, all to do with thread is fine!" She winked.

"What does Daerk do?" Jack asked.

"Daerk?" Wynne stopped again. "Daerk is special. He's empty, you know? Maybe he's an example of doing nothing at all with great skill." She started a new song, something a little faster as the rain picked up intensity.

"I wonder what sort of thing I'd be good at," Jack said. "Marelle showed me her dancing the other day. She said it just came to her without any effort."

"She probably knew how to dance before she came here," Wynne said, nodding.

"You think I should try dancing?" Jack asked.

Wynne laughed. "Naw, you don't seem like the type." She looked at him carefully, squinting her eyes. Her hands drifted off the harp as she concentrated, but the song kept going. "You have an artsy look about you," she said, finally. "You're all..." She motioned up and down with her hands. "I dunno, artsy."

Her hands went back onto the harp, continuing the song with her fingers.

"How do you know?" Jack asked.

"I just know people. It's like I know who you are. Maybe we've met before." She leaned back a bit, and the harp tilted on her shoulder. "Test it out if you don't believe me. I have some paper and a pen by the couch there."

Jack looked around and spotted a small pad of paper sitting on the table next to the arm. He leaned over to grab it, and the fox rolled over with a whine of protest.

At first he just sat there, staring at the empty page, but the harp and the rain seemed to get into his mind. He began to make long curling marks on the paper. This woke up some distant part of his memory, and the lines began resolving themselves into an image, moving wavelike and changing color, shaping themselves organically. The pen seemed to come alive, dancing with his hand and reading his intentions, glowing soft and warm with excitement. The fox sat up and looked over his shoulder making a quiet bubbling sound in the back of its throat. Jack felt like he could taste the shapes as they passed through him, wandering dreamily in a landscape of color where each piece of the world had its own rightful place to settle in. All he needed to do was direct each contour where he wished, and there it would appear on his page.

Eventually, he put down his pen, his face the picture of trance-like relaxation.

Wynne came over to look. "Ah, see, I was right," she said, "and you even noticed the fox isn't actually a fox."

Jack looked down at the paper. It seemed to be a portrait. Somehow it looked like both a fox and a human. "If it's not a fox, then what is it?" Jack couldn't help but feel the drawing was familiar somehow.

"I don't know, but there have been a number of strange creatures at the helm before," Wynne said. "Usually it means Michael is going to come back. This fox is actually pretty normal in comparison."

When she said the name 'Michael,' the fox looked up at her expectantly.

"I don't know when, little fox, but it'll be soon enough."

"Who's Michael," Jack asked.

"Oh, he pops in an out," Wynne said. "He's been here as long as I can remember, but he disappears quite a lot. He's like Daerk that way. I don't think they ever really leave, but they move far away from where I am. The helm is a big place, after all."

Suddenly, Jack remembered. "Oh, I know where this is from," he said. "I saw a hallway full of small statues just like this the night I first came here."

"You did?" Wynne said. "I don't think I've ever seen that. This creature of yours is certainly familiar, though." She went back over to her harp.

The hours whiled by as Jack sat and talked with Wynne about her weaving. Occasionally, he would pull out a new piece of paper and draw something. It seemed so effortless. He would start by making light marks on the paper, and, from the abstract web of lines, a tree—or another strange creature, or a face that seemed so familiar—would appear in suggestion, like a false image, and he would know a moment of revelation as he began to focus the lines. He felt like he was drawing his past, but the memories were just out of reach, and these small fragments were all he could grasp off the edge of a high shelf.

When the storm finally died, and Jack was heading off to bed, Wynne gave him a red, hardback cover with a spring-loaded clamp for the paper. She tucked a shiny golden pen into a loop on the inside.

"Here you go," she said. "Now you'll have something to fill your time."