Chapter 1 Warvold “Stop that chattering or we’ll have to go back and sit by the fire,” said my companion. He removed his large, thick cape and draped it over my shoulders. I had to hold it up to keep it from dragging on the street, but it felt good, and my last few shivers quietly subsided. The sun had set, and the lamps glowed above the streets with sharp yellow spears, one every twenty feet on both sides along our way. The cobblestone paths lined with homes and gates, illuminated by the soft light, made for a dreamy stroll. As we rounded each new corner we were greeted by another twisting row of lamps with more houses and small storefronts. Some of the doors were painted bright blue or purple, but the houses themselves, crammed tightly together, were all whitewashed stone. We walked together, not saying a word. The town was quiet but for the occasional distant hoot of a night owl from its perch atop the wall as it searched for rats and other vermin. We arrived at the end of a darkened footpath to a locked iron gate. He produced a golden key from his pocket and drew it to a small oval container hanging from a chain around his neck—a locket I had seen many times. I watched as he opened the container and removed another key, inserted it into the lock on the gate, and swung the gate wide open on rusty hinges. He disappeared into the darkness, calling me to follow quietly. I groped for his hand, which he took in his, and we walked farther, his cape now dragging behind me. He stopped, took my hand out of his, opened it full, and pulled it forward until I felt the smooth surface of rock still warm from the days cooking. Reaching as high as I could, I felt a seam, and then more rock. “It’s the wall,” he said. “I thought you might enjoy touching it.” Except for his breathing, I heard nothing. After a while, he continued: “I spent my youth building this wall to keep dangerous things away. I sometimes wonder now if I’ve kept them inside.” “Why would you say that?” I could make out his features as my eyes adjusted to the darkness. He was deep in thought, staring at the wall as he ran his delicate fingers along the seam. Lines ran all along his weathered face, and the hair from his head and beard tangled together into a fluffy white mass. “I tell you what, Alexa, why don’t we sit a spell and I’ll tell you a tale. We need to stay low or old Kotcher will get his dogs to come looking for a nibble.” He had a reputation for conjuring up frightening tales about giant spiders crawling over the wall to eat children, so naturally I was concerned. “What sort of a story are you going to tell?” “Actually, it’s more of a fable. I heard it a long time ago, during my travels, before all this,” and he swept his hand in front of him, a far off look in his eye. “Most people don’t know how much I traveled when I was young. I walked for miles and miles in every direction for months on end, all alone. “But then Renny and Nicholas came along, and I grew more and more protective. I had terrible fears of being away from them; so I stayed closer to home. Before long I was building these walls to protect my family and everyone else.” Both of us were sitting now, and he looked me in the eye as he continued, “You remember one thing, Alexa. If you make something your life’s work, make sure it’s something you can feel good about when you’re an old relic like me.” He paused, either for effect or because he had forgotten what he was going to say next, I wasn’t sure which. “When I was on one of my far off journeys, I heard this fable. I liked it so much I memorized it.” And then he told it to me, and it went like this: “It was six men of Indostan To learning much inclined, Who went to see the Elephant, Though all of them were blind, That each by observation might satisfy his mind. The First approached the Elephant, And happening to fall Against his broad and sturdy side, At once began to bawl: ‘God bless me! But the Elephant Is very like a wall!’ The Second, feeling of the tusk, Cried, ‘Ho! What have we here? So very round and smooth and sharp? To me ’tis mighty clear This wonder of an Elephant Is very like a spear!’ The Third approached the animal, And happening to take The squirming trunk within his hands, Thus boldly up and spake: ‘I see,’ said he, ‘the Elephant Is very like a snake!’ The Fourth reached out an eager hand, And felt about the knee. ‘What most this wondrous beast is like is mighty plain,’ said he; ‘’Tis clear enough the Elephant is very like a tree.’ The Fifth who chanced to touch the ear, Said: ‘Even the blindest man Can tell what this resembles most; Deny the fact who can, This marvel of an Elephant Is very like a fan!’ The Sixth no sooner had begun About the beast to grope, Than, seizing on the swinging tail That fell within his scope, ‘I see,’ said he, ‘the Elephant Is very like a rope!’ And so these men of Indostan Disputed loud and long, Each in his own opinion Exceeding stiff and strong, Though each was partly in the right And all were in the wrong. “Not bad for an absentminded old man,” he said. “Stop being so gloomy. I think you’ve got a fine memory.” “A lot of secrets are held inside these walls, a lot more are roaming around outside,” he said. “I think the two are about to meet.” He mumbled something else about “them being right all along,” but he was quieter now, muttering to himself. We sat and listened to the soft evening wind blow in, and then I started shivering again. “I’m getting cold, can we go now?” He gave me no reply, and as I glanced up at him on that clear, cold night, it was obvious that Warvold was dead.
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