The Watchtower Page 4

  The wood slenderly twisted into what I realized with mounting amazement was a smile.

  “I am Jean Robin,” the root answered, “once arboriste to kings and now”—he chuckled—“just arbor. Enchanté, Mademoiselle James.”

  I recollected my manners enough to reply, “I’m pleased to meet you, too, Monsieur Robin. I’ve heard of you. You planted the tree in the Square Viviani.”

  “Yes, little knowing I’d spend eternity below it … or rather, as part of it.” He chuckled again. Now that I was closer, I could make out his features better. He had a high-domed forehead adorned with delicate swirls that I guessed were the remainder of what hair he’d had in life, small, round eyes surrounded by laugh lines, and a dimpled chin that disappeared into rings of rough-skinned root. The face of a small, jolly man whose life as a tree root these last four hundred years had not robbed of his sense of humor.

  “If you don’t mind me asking, how…?”

  “How did I get into my present ligneous state? No, I don’t mind at all. It’s rare I get any visitors, you know. Please sit down.” He slid his eyes toward a low spot before the throne where one of the tree’s roots broke the surface, forming a little stool. I lowered myself down on it carefully, surprised to find it rather comfortable.

  “Yes, well … ahem.” Jean Robin cleared his throat, which sounded as if it had been coated with sawdust. I noticed that a number of lumignon had come to sit on his shoulders and his knees as he began his story, their little, pointy faces cupped in their diminutive hands as they listened. “As you may know, I devoted my life to trees and rare plants.” I didn’t have the heart to tell him that all I knew about him came from the plaque in the park above us, so I nodded, which seemed to please him. “I was rewarded for my endeavors by being made arboriste to King Henry III in 1585. I created the first botanical garden in Paris in 1597. My nephew, Vespasien, and I traveled far and wide—to Spain and Africa and even to your native Western Hemisphere—for my collection. Indeed, it was from those shores that I brought this specimen that has been named for me: Robinia pseudoacacia fabacées.” As he pronounced the name of the tree named for him, I thought I detected a change in his sooty brown complexion, a flush of green chlorophyll, which I imagined was a root’s version of blushing.

  “It was my garden that inspired the Messieurs de la Brosse and Hérouard to found the Jardin des Plantes. They moved many of my specimens there, but not this one. My nephew, Vespasien, insisted they leave it here because he knew what had become of me. I hate to think what would have happened had they tried to dig me up!” He shuddered so hard that a few of the lumignon perched on his shoulders and knees flew up in a flurry of multicolored wings and then settled down again. I noticed that when they brushed their wings along Jean Robin’s “skin,” the wood gleamed more brightly. They were, I saw with wonder, polishing him.

  “But how…?” I began.

  “Ah, it happened when I was seventy-nine. I knew I had very little time left on earth … heh, heh, I didn’t know yet how much time I’d have under it!… and I’d come to visit my dear pseudoacacia, which I’d planted twenty-seven years earlier. I just wanted to make sure it was doing well … growing straight, you know, with enough room to spread its roots. The pseudoacacia likes to spread its roots. It was a warm summer day and the tree was in full bloom, its lovely white blossoms scenting the air. When I’d pruned a few branches and cleared away some saplings, which threatened to encroach on its space, I sat down in its shade and leaned my head on its trunk. I could feel the lifeblood in me fading as I listened to the sap flowing strong in her veins. I remember I had the distinct idea that as long as the sap ran in the tree I’d planted, I wouldn’t really be dead.” Jean Robin’s voice, which had grown from gruff to wistful, lapsed into silence. I thought I could hear in that silence the rustle of a summer wind through leafy boughs and the sultry drone of bees in the heavy-hanging blossoms. I waited for him to finish his story.

  “When I woke up, I was here in the lair of the lumignon below my beloved pseudoacacia. They had lain me among the roots—to die, I imagine, but then the tree itself wrapped its roots around me and took me into itself. It fed me its own sap as a mother would feed its young, sharing its own lifeblood with me. Over time its cells replaced my own, much as quartz crystals may grow in wood, turning it into petrified wood, and I became as you see me now. A wooden man or, as I prefer to think of myself … a manly root!” His chuckle was more constrained than before. I had the feeling that reliving his past had made him a bit melancholy.

  “That’s amazing,” I said. “And you’ve remained so … alert. How did you learn to speak English so well?”

  “Ah, my friends the lumignon, recognizing my hunger for knowledge, have brought me books and information over the years. That’s how I learned about you. The fey community has been all abuzz about the arrival of the Watchtower in Paris.”

  “The fey community? You mean there are more of them?” Although I’d met half a dozen fairies in New York, I hadn’t thought of them as a community exactly. They had seemed more like a handful of scattered exiles who had all managed to disappear without a trace once they were done with me. It hadn’t occurred to me that there might be a larger population here in Paris.

  “Oh my, yes! The Parisian fey community is one of the largest and oldest in the world. It is composed of three main classes…”

  The minute he began, I knew I’d made a mistake. He was a botanist, after all, trained to classify and catalog. I could be here all night listening to a disquisition on fairy phyla while what I really wanted to know was when Will had been sighted in Paris and how long ago he had left. I felt bad interrupting him, though. As he had said, he didn’t get many visitors, and I figured it wouldn’t hurt to know a little more about the local fairy population. They might be able to lead me to Will. So I settled onto my stool to listen.

  “The arboreal fey, or les fées des bois, are considered by most experts to be the original indigenous species,” he was saying. “They are so old that they don’t member themselves when they first came into existence, although one I’ve spoken to remembers saber-tooth tigers…” Jean Robin spent the next ten minutes discussing the difficulty of dating the arboreal fey, their habitats—parks, mostly—and demeanor. “They are very shy and reclusive. They often attach themselves to a particular tree, like this one. My informants tell me that there are still substantial nests in the Jardin des Plantes, the Luxembourg Gardens, the Bois de Boulogne, and the Parc Monceau. The largest population in the Île-de-France is in Fontainebleau. They are, in general, a merry and simple people, fond of French home cooking—they adore crêpes!—singing and dancing—they invented the cancan.

  “Then there are the light fairies—or les fées des lumières…” He went on to describe various types of light fairy, including the lumignon, who derived substance from the light and color in the stained-glass windows of the great cathedrals: Notre Dame, Sainte-Chapelle, Saint-Eustache, Sacré-Coeur, Saint-Séverin…” I lost track of all the churches where the light fairies roosted. “Most experts agree,” Jean Robin concluded, “that the lumignon evolved from a species of flower fairy and that they first appeared in Paris with the advent of the great Gothic cathedrals, but whether they were attracted to the area because of the windows or if they originally inspired the creation of the first stained-glass windows, there continues to be dispute—”

  Jean Robin was interrupted by a violet-colored fairy loudly chattering in his ear.

  “Yes, yes,” he said, his gnarled features creasing with merriment, “I’ll tell her that. My friend has reminded me that there’s a long tradition amongst the lumignon that Abbot Suger was introduced by Eleanor of Aquitaine to a lumignon who inspired him to create the windows of Saint-Denis.”

  I recalled what Oberon, the King of Fairies, had told me about the relationship between mortals and fey: “The humans we touch bloom in our company. They do their best work while we drink of their dreams.” Thinking of the great flowering of
Gothic stained-glass windows under the direction of Abbot Suger, it wasn’t hard to imagine that he’d been touched by the fey.

  “And then there are the fées de la mer,” Jean Robin said in a graver tone. The violet lumignon on his shoulder startled at the name and flew into the air. All the light fairies that had been roosting on top of Jean Robin took wing, like a flock of finches at the passing of a hawk’s shadow.

  “Sea fairies? What would they be doing in Paris?” I asked.

  “They aren’t native to the region. In fact, the tree and light fairies refer to them, somewhat disparagingly, as ‘the boat people.’ They came down from the sea on the Seine, exiles from a great cataclysm. Some say it was the drowning of the island of Ys.”

  The name Ys stirred an old memory. My mother had told me a story once of a fabled kingdom off the coast of Brittany ruled by nine priestesses and one king. The king’s daughter Dahut gave the keys of the sea gate to a traitor, who opened the gates and drowned the city.

  height="0em" width="1em" align="justify">“The boat people were the founders of the Seine’s boatmen’s guild, which gave Paris its coat of arms and motto: fluctuat nec mergitur—‘she is tossed by the waves, but does not sink.’ They tend to be a bit haughty, as exiled royalty often are, but there’s no denying that they have been responsible for the greatest scientific and aesthetic achievements—” A crimson light fairy dive-bombing into Jean Robin’s face put a stop to his speech. He chuckled good-naturedly. “Well, enough of that. I imagine you are more interested in learning the whereabouts of your friend the vampire.”

  “I’m not entirely sure he is my friend,” I answered, “but, yes. Of course, I appreciate all you’ve told me about the different kinds of fairies … it’s fascinating…”

  “Tut, tut,” he said, blushing green, “no need to flatter an old man, although it is nice to have a visitor with a brain larger than a nit.” I would have expected another dive-bomb attack from the lumignon at this remark, but instead I felt the brush of wings against my skin, and looking down, I saw that several of the multicolored fairies had settled on my arms and in my lap. “Your voice is so much more soothing than their eternal whine. You must visit again.”

  “I’d love to, only I do have to find Will Hughes first. Have you … I mean, have any of your informants seen him at Saint-Julien’s?”

  “Yes, he showed up in Paris during the winter and began to frequent the church every day. At first we paid no mind to him. Over the centuries he’s come many times to Saint-Julien’s. In fact, the park outside the church was where I first met him.”

  “Wait, you met Will? Before you became … were turned into…” My agitation caused the lumignon on my arm to stir, but then they stroked my arm to calm me down, which, oddly, worked.

  “Before I entered my arboreal state? Yes. We both were mortal then, and we both had foolish notions of what might gain us immortality. I had just planted this tree. I remember I bragged to him that I looked to trees for my immortality, and he said to me that he looked to love. Little did we each know what form our ambitions would make of us.”

  He paused and I thought I saw a sadness come over his wooden features, but then his lips quirked up into a crooked smile. “Funny how we’ve both ended up in the dark, eh? And yet when I met him I thought to myself, ‘Ah, there’s a young man who loves the light and is loved by the light.’ The sunlight, you see, had turned his hair to gold. Has he grown darker over the years he’s spent out of the light?”

  “His hair is darker than it looks in his portrait,” I answered, trying hard to keep my voice even. The image of Will standing in the sunlight had caused something to contract in my chest. Only the soft murmuring of the lumignon, who were in my hair and about my face now, kept me from openly crying.

  “Interesting,” Jean Robin replied, his woody brows furrowing.So much is not known about the vampire. If he were truly undead, then there would be no change over the centuries, but I have wondered if the vampire’s state is not somewhat akin to mine, and if, just as the tree cells and sap replaced my human cells and blood, so some other substance has replaced the vampire’s cells and blood.”

  “Do you think, then, that the process can be reversed? Will thinks that if he can summon a creature in a lake who was able to make a fey mortal, he can be turned back into a human.”

  “Ah, so that’s why he’s so anxious to find his way back to the Summer Country.” The knotted roots growing over Jean Robin’s shoulders rippled, and I realized he was trying to shrug. “I don’t know, but I’d be curious to find out! You must follow him.”

  “Yes, that’s what I’d like to do. I’ve gone to Saint-Julien’s every day for a week, but there’s been no sign. How long was Will here before he got a sign?”

  “Let’s see … he arrived in January and then he disappeared in May…”

  “Four months! I could have to wait four months?”

  “We’ve watched seekers wait years. But then, for some a sign appears after only a few days.”

  “And there’s nothing I can do to hurry it along? There’s no other way to find the path to the Summer Country?”

  “No. At least I think not. Probably not.” The roots that made up Jean Robin’s body writhed with discomfort. “The stories of another way are most certainly rumors.”

  “What rumors?” I asked, plucking a fairy out from the inside of my T-shirt. The little creatures were becoming quite intrusive.

  “Well, as I mentioned before, the boat people … er … the fées de la mer, that is … reportedly come from the lost kingdom of Ys, and some believe that Ys was part of the Summer Country. So it makes sense that the door to the Summer Country might have been created by the sea fairies—”

  “Ouch! I think one of your little friends just bit me!”

  “Oh, no, they don’t have teeth—thank God!—but they do like to sew, and they’re sometimes rather clumsy with their needles. Anyway, as I was saying, if anyone could tell you a shortcut to the Summer Country, it might be one of the boat people.”

  “And how do I get in touch with them?”

  “Well, that’s the problem. They’re not exactly … welcoming. Especially to foreigners. Ironic, since they themselves are immigrants, but that is often the way, don’t you think? The more established immigrants are mistrustful of the more recent arrivals.”

  “Yes, I’m sure,” I said, trying to cut off another lecture, “but isn’t there any way to talk to one? Surely there must be some sort of go-between.”

  “Why, yes! How astute of you to think of it! There are channels of communication between the more enlightened of each nation of fairies—an academic community, so to speak. I suggest you speak to my old friend Monsieur Lutin at the Jardin des Plantes. He can usually be found at the Labyrinth. Tell him that Jean Robin sent you. He might be able to get you an introduction to one of the boat people.”

  “Monsieur Lutin at the Labyrinth. Okay. Just one more question—”

  “Um, far be it from me to stifle anyone’s intellectual curiosity, but I’m afraid you’d better be going. If you intend to ever go at all.”

  Jean Robin slanted his eyes meaningfully toward my feet. Following his gaze, I was shocked to see that a fine network of roots had been sewn over them. Light fairies were darting back and forth, knitting the roots into a pair of tight stockings. When I tried to extend my hands to shoo them away, I found they were bound together in my lap. It took all my strength to break the finely stitched bonds. I kicked off the roots from my feet and stood up, scattering an infuriated flock of lumignon.

  “I apologize for my friends. They saw how much I was enjoying your company and thought you’d make a nice companion for me.”

  I was about to reply angrily, but then I saw that the gleam in his eyes had grown and spilled down his cheeks in long, resinous streaks. “No harm done,” I said, shaking the last of the root threads from my hands. “I’ll send your regards to Monsieur Lutin, then?”

  “Yes, please!” Jean Robin said, bri
ghtening. The lumignon had already swept away his sap-filled tears with their wings. “Ask him to send me some samples from the Alpine Garden. I would love to see some edelweiss again as a reminder of my journeys through the Alps.”

  I told him I would deliver his message.

  “Good luck to you, Garet James. It has been a great pleasure making your acquaintance. Please don’t hold it against the lumignon that they tried to detain you. They did it for love of me.” His rooty lips twisted into a rueful smile.

  “Yes,” I said, smiling back. “I can see they do love you very much.” I said au revoir then and turned away, thinking as I climbed back up the stairs that if this was what came of being loved by the fey, then I’d rather do without their love.

  4

  The Party

  Will Hughes was too concerned about his father’s troops possibly waylaying him on the road to London to immediately follow the poet there. Instead he fled west to Cornwall, to the tiny Roman fishing village of Marazion. There he concealed himself for a week, mostly in the cellar of Stephen Fawkes, whose son Charles, a year Will’s junior, he had once befriended at a fencing competition and corresponded with occasionally.

  His cellar days were gloomy and tedious, mostly spent reading by the light of a dripping candle, and he had to constantly remind himself how awful it would be to be brought back to Swan Hall in shackles as an alternative, mistreatment he knew his father to be capable of. He lived that week only for the brief time when dusk was under way, making him difficult to recognize when he went outside, but leaving enough light to get about in.

  Cornish twilight had a rustic beauty to it, the moon silvering shallow waves of the Irish Sea, while sea winds softly rustled tall grasses bordering a sandy beach. Will didn’t stroll the beach itself, but he’d walk along paths cut through dense underbrush inland, enchanted by the sound of waves and the sight of gulls gliding downward in final dives as the world blackened around them. On a few occasions, as the sky came within an inch of darkness and he knew he had to turn back, Will froze in his stride, beset by a sort of premonition. He’d feel for an instant as if he’d materially blended into the night, become a part of it, and that this was in some way going to be his future, no longer a part of the everyday world of flesh and light. Will shook off these unsettling sensations, for they had no rational basis. But he was disturbed enough by them each time to consider whether it might be more prudent to return to his father. The answer to that question, however, optimistic lad of nineteen that he was, was always a resounding “No!”