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La Plume
by Bitter Irony
Souli discovered the feather on the road from Madame Cantoiseau’s house.
She had spent the morning in high spirits up until that point. Madame rarely sent for anything from town: on those few occasions that necessitated the six-mile walk from the Maison, Souli was never chosen to make the trip: and if she was, by some marvelous twist of fortune, the mission was guaranteed to be for something terribly mundane.
But that morning, three days before her daughter’s wedding, Madame Cantoiseau opened her sewing cabinet to find not the smallest scrap of white damassé.
Mademoiselle Passara threw an awful tantrum, and demanded that a length be secured in time for Saturday. Madame spent the breakfast hour sighing, hemming and hawing, but at last Passara had worn her mother’s patience down to the warp.
“Souli!” Madame cried, “Go down to Monsieur Fugal’s for a length of damassé, and for my poor heart’s sake be quick about it!”
Souli raced up the stairs to her attic room, and changed into the best dress she owned: pale blue muslin, with fine lace trim at the waist and neck. Madame even took the time to lend her the massive ermine coat in the upstairs placard, draping it around Souli’s shoulders.
“The winter months have come upon us,” she said solemnly. “This winter will be a harsh one, and a blustery one.” And as always, Madame was right.
But Souli could not have cared less. She was on the road to Town, dressed in her finest apparel, running an errand that might provide a glimpse into the best fabric shop for miles, at the very least.
Yes, things were looking up that day. But then she found the feather.
She could not be sure just what it was at first. But though she fancied herself a bit of a cynique, she had paid attention to the fairy stories after all: after a bit of careful examination, she concluded that it was, in fact, a bird’s feather. She glared at it, prodded it with a stick, picked it up and ran its softness across her cheek. It was spotted gray-and-white, like Madame’s fur coat. In all respects, it looked positively ordinary. Except, of course, for the fact that it was a feather.
And what could be stranger than a feather in a world with no birds?
Souli stood in the middle of the road, clutching the miraculous treasure tight against the startling winter wind, and wondering what she might do with it. Could she bring it home to Madame? No, of course not: she would take it away, or worse, give it to Passara (for Mademoiselle was simple, and still believed the children’s stories about dragons and fairies and birds). And Souli could not mention it in town, lest the higher-minded people there call her a liar, or a witch.
She was about to tuck the feather away into her bodice and simply continue into town as Madame had instructed, when she remember Monsieur Vogel.
Vogel Miserveau was the town Chimiste, which was simply a nice way of saying that he was a daft old man dabbling in the alchemy of a less enlightened age. He was a strange man, who always wore a purple turban, and claimed to own a scale from the hindquarters of a black dragon, and a tuft of red hair from a lion’s mane. But so far as Souli knew, even he had never gone so deep as to claim possession of a real bird’s feather.
Still, if anyone would believe her, it would be Monsieur Vogel. With that thought in mind, Souli quickened her steps, so as to reach Town in time to visit the Alchimiste before buying damassé from Monsouir Fugal.
Soon, Souli crested the largest hill on the road, and Town came into view. It looked like a little doll village, with straight cracker-box houses and pebble-sided wells, thatched roofs of grass and paved streets of red clay. The townsfolk were just waking up, gifted as they were with no early morning chores, and a few white-aproned milkmaids and goat girls were only beginning to drive their charges about the fading fields. Souli allowed herself a moment to envy Passara, for on Saturday the Mademoiselle would marry a townsman, and no longer have to wake to the first light of dawn and Madame Cantoiseau’s endless demands.
Then Souli remembered that she, too, would one day be married: and (if the love charms she recited every night before bed had anything to say about it) to Lord Avian Ucello himself. Never mind escaping Madame’s chores: when she was Lady Souli Ucello, the whole Town would exist to do her bidding!
With that happy (though rather groundless) hope in mind, Souli marched into Town and began looking for Monsieur Vogel’s shop.
She could have sworn any oath presented to her that the Alchimiste changed location each time she visited. After wandering at random down the dust-clouded streets for a while, she finally caught sight of the wooden Chimiste sign hanging above a door, and was hailed warmly by Vogel.
“Bon jour!” he cried, adjusting the garish purple turban atop his bald head. He squinted down at her through his failing hazel eyes, smiling in that strange way old men smile when they can think of nothing else to do. “Come in, Mademoiselle Souli. What may I do for you?”
This was Vogel’s rôle de rue, Souli knew, and as soon as they entered into the shop it would be dropped like the hem on a growing girl’s skirts. She slipped through the open door as Vogel beckoned her inside. As always, the collection of bizarre artifacts lining the shop walls astounded her. A wooden case displayed the tuff of fur and glittering ebony scale of which Vogel was so proud: a threadbare tapestry covered one wall, depicting a Giraffe, a grotesque monster with a neck twice as long as its body. Souli shuddered, thankful that such a beast existed only in the imaginations of simple girls like Passara, and daft old men like Vogel.
Once they were inside, Vogel dutifully dropped his cheery outdoor manners and sulked his way into a leather chair, eyes darting around the room in characteristic, sourceless nerves.
“What?” he said, meaning, in a Vogel sort of way, to ask how he could be of service.
“I think I found a feather, on the road from the Maison,” Souli said. In that moment, it occurred to her not to show Vogel the treasure in question immediately. She could not explain the feeling: she only knew that the feather was her treasure, her little secret, and she wanted to share it with no one, not even Vogel.
“A feather? From a bird?” Vogel blinked rapidly. “Impossible! No such thing as birds, you know that.”
“What is impossible?”
“Birds! No such thing as birds,” Vogel repeated. He tilted his turban on his head again. “Too much wind. They couldn’t fly in so much wind.”
“But moths can fly in the wind,” Souli said. “Moths, bees, and butterflies: and locusts, too, during the Bad Summers.” Madame often complained of the locusts and the Bad Summers, though Souli had seen neither in her thirteen years.
“They fly close to ground,” Vogel said. He tapped his fingers on the arms of his chair for a moment, then shrugged and once again adopted his rôle de rue. “Besides, Souli, why would a creature want to fly? What is there to see from the air?”
At this, Souli laughed. “Why, the whole world, Monsieur!”
“Seems lovely to you, non?” Vogel stood, and pulled a velvet-covered book off one of the shelves along the walls. He cracked it open down the middle, and flipped through until he found the page he was looking for. “But Nature isn’t built for loveliness.”
Souli peered at the picture in the book. It was a diagram, of an item much like the soft thing in her bodice: a feather. The diagram had many words scribbled over it, saying things like the β-keratins in feathers are composed of protein strands hydrogen-bonded into sheets, which are further twisted and cross-linked by bridge structures...On and on the words went. Souli frowned. They made her treasure seem ugly, somehow.
“Is that what you found?” Vogel asked, pointing to the picture.
No, it was not. Souli’s find had been lovelier than that, without all the lines and the words, the stupid, horrible words that stole all the magic from her feather. So Souli shook her head and said Non, that was not what she found.
“Then it wasn’t a feather,” Vogel said. He closed his book, and sent her on her way.
Souli went down to the Fugal’s fabric shop, and picked up the length of damassé for Madame. She would have liked to stay and look at the other patterns, but the sun was already high overhead, and she needed to be back at Madame’s house in time for tea if she wanted to help sew Passara’s wedding dress.
She returned home to the sound of three chimes from the parlor clock. Madame and Passara were already seated at the small table in the kitchen, sipping warm tea and chatting about the dress. When Souli came in, Madame lifted the damassé out of her arms and spread it out across the immaculate marble counter, tracing out lines and patters with a bit of charcoal pencil.
The lines on the cloth reminded Souli of her feather. As soon as she was able, she ran upstairs and hid the thing beneath her straw mattress. She felt again the feather’s softness against her skin, and the silliest idea came into her head: imagine, a mattress stuffed with feathers! She laughed aloud, and thinking how remarkably soft such a thing would be, went back downstairs to the kitchen.
Sewing Passara’s gown took all that afternoon, and a good deal of time after supper as well. But when it was done, Souli was positive that such a gorgeous thing had never before existed in the whole world. She was very proud of the work she had put into the sewing, and more than a little bit jealous that it would only succeed in drawing attention to Passara, and not herself.
That night, she was so exhausted from both her work and the pride it brought her that she collapsed into bed and fell asleep, without a thought at all to spare for the feather beneath her mattress.
-----------------------------------------------
The next three days went by in a blur, and before Souli could think about it, Saturday came--and with it, the first strong winds of winter.
Passara stood in the parlor in all her finery, staring sullenly at the horrible weather outside. Dry, crinkling leaves flew across the lawn outside, and heavy drops of rain splashed against the glass at odd intervals. Indeed, even Madame was forced to agree that it was a horrible day for a wedding: but the date had been set, and so it must go on.
To Souli’s delight, Madame decided to move the ceremony over to the Chateau de Ucello, where she was guaranteed to catch sight of her beloved, Avian Ucello. Avian was nearly four years her senior, but he had always shown a charming consideration to her in the past, and with his dark hair and bright blue eyes, he was easily the most handsome young man for miles. Souli was so thrilled with this sudden change in arrangements, it was quite a miracle that she remembered to prepare herself properly for the wedding.
As the closest thing to an unmarried relative Passara had, it was Souli’s duty to carry the wedding bands and keep a good luck charm for the bride on a golden chain around her neck. Since the charm would not be seen by anyone during or after the ceremony, Souli decided on the luckiest item in her possession: the feather she had found on the road to town. She wound a bit of golden wire about the end, and strung it onto the chain, and was thus prepared to bless Passara with luck in her wedded life.
Madame called for a coach to drive all three of the straight to the door of Chateau de Ucello, where Avian Ucello himself was standing to greet the guests. He bowed low to Madame, kissed the bride’s hand for luck, and smiled so sweetly at Souli that she could feel her legs trembling. She smiled back, and fluttered her eyelashes in a way that she hoped was alluring, but Avian had already turned to the next family coming in through the door. Souli sighed: perhaps she would get a chance to speak with him later, after the ceremony.
As it was, the wedding vows themselves seemed to take the entire morning. Passara stood in front of the entire party, looking fabulous in her damassé dress, with her betrothed, Chanson d’Joie, standing on the steps beside her. Madame came forwards, and after they both repeated every vow Souli could possibly imagine, Madame joined their hands and gestured for Souli to bring forth the rings.
Souli had been careful to take the rings off the chain with the feather before they were called for. She held them both in her right hand, and gave the plain golden one to Chanson, while Madame passed the elegant silver band to Passara. When the rings had been exchanged, Chanson kissed Passara softly on the lips, and they were married.
Finally, the hall let out, and Souli went to the dining room as quickly as possible. Avian was already there, seated in the corner of one of the long tables, looking decidedly bored. But he smiled when he saw Souli approaching, and beckoned for her to take the seat beside him.
“It was a lovely ceremony,” he said as she sat down, eyes sparkling wonderfully. “Passara looked beautiful. Did you help with the dress?”
“Oh, yes!” Souli exclaimed, delighted that he had noticed. And so they chatted on for a while, about everything and nothing, while Souli clung on to every word and the way Avian’s voice sounded as he said it.
Finally, Avian got a very serious set to his face. “If you do not mind me asking,” he said, leaning in a little closer--Souli blushed, but stayed right where she was, “What did you bring for a Bride’s Charm?”
Souli hesitated for a moment: after all, the feather was supposed to be her secret. But Avian looked so sincere, and so eager, that she could not help pulling the chain out from her high collar.
“It...it’s wonderful,” Avian said, looking a little confused. “But what is it?”
“A feather,” Souli said. “From a bird.”
He raised an eyebrow. “There is such thing as birds, Souli. Surely an intelligent girl like you knows that! Now, where did you get this...thing?”
“I told you, it’s a feather,” Souli said stubbornly. “I found it on the road down from the Maison. See, I even brought it to Monsouir Miserveau, and he showed me a diagram of a feather and everything--it looked exactly like this!”
“Monsouir Miserveau said that this is a feather?” Avian gently took the chain from her, his fingers brushing against hers. Souli flushed again at his touch. “But it’s impossible! Only Chimistes, or maybe witches, would have one...and you are not a witch, Souli, are you?”
“Of course I’m not a witch!” Souli laughed--perhaps a little too loudly, because many heads turned in her direction, not the least of which was Madame’s.
“Of course you’re not,” Avian agreed, and he tucked the feather back into her collar. “Still, I would keep that hidden if I were you. Make it our little secret, Oui?”
“Oui,” Souli nodded. Our little secret. She liked the sound of that.
Ratta-tap-tap! Souli groaned and shoved her blankets off. The moon sent just enough light in through her window that she could fumble through her placard for her dressing gown. She pulled the red robe on over her nightshift and opened her door a crack, just wide enough to peer out of.
Only years of leaning etiquette from Madame Cantoiseau prevented her from gasping aloud with the shock. The entire upstairs hallway was crammed full of people, mostly townsfolk, all carrying lanterns and kitchen knives and worse.
“What is the meaning of this?” Souli demanded.
“You should know well enough.” The crowd parted, and a large woman dressed in what must have been a full acre of green silk marched to the front. This time, Souli did gasp aloud: the woman was none other than Lady Ucello herself! “We all heard your little speech at the wedding yesterday afternoon. Where is the feather?”
“What feather?” Souli said, but one moment too late.
“The one from the bird you conjured!” someone else shouted.
“Conjured? But that is the most ridiculous thing...I found that feather in the woods!”
Lady Ucello clucked her tongue. “I knew you were cursed to be troublesome from the day you first came to us. Show us the feather, or by everything eternal I swear--”
“Mère!” Avian’s voice cut through the crowd as he pushed his way to the front. Souli sighed, her shoulders lowering in relief. If anyone could make things right, she was certain it would be Avian.
“Mère,” he said again, tangling his fingers though his dark curls, “Surely you aren’t serious! Souli is no more a witch than you are!”
Lady Ucello looked about to argue, but her son cut her words out with a sharp motion of his hand. “At least let us stop crowding Madame Cantoiseau’s attic,” Avian said. “And get rid of these unnecessary eyes.”
“Very well,” the Lady said, creases marking her broad forehead. “Girl, can I trust you to come with me without any fuss?”
Souli nodded quickly, any ability to voice her agreement swept away in the gust of shock blowing around her.
“Very well,” Lady Ucello said again. She gestured for the group behind her to disperse, then turned back towards Souli. “What are you waiting for? Hurry, get dressed, and we can get to the Palais de Justice before dawn!”
She was not quite all the way out of the room when the Lady’s hand clasped tight around her wrist. Souli winced in pain--Lady Ucello’s fingernails were like talons--and meekly followed her captors out of the Maison and into the moonlight.
She paid little attention to her surroundings as the road passed silently under her feet, bringing Town ever closer. Her mind was occupied with what might happen when she finally arrived. What would Lad Ucello do? Souli had heard from Monsieur Vogel that the townsfolk burned witches--was that what they would do to her? She wanted to hold her feather for luck, but as it would do even worse for her fortune if the charm was found still around her neck, she decided against it.
When they reached town at last, the moon had completely vanished from the sky. The Palais de Justice was a hideous building of reddish-gray stone, looming up over Souli like some beast about to attack. But Lady Ucello did not lead her inside: instead, she paused on the steps and turned to address her followers.
“Why do we bother?” she said, with a trill sort of laugh. “It’s obvious what she has done. There is nothing she could possibly say in her defense!”
Avian shook his head at his mother and turned to Souli. “Do you deny finding the feather?”
Souli had no idea what he wanted her to say, and so she decided on the truth. “Non, I do not deny it.”
Avian winced, and a gray-haired man to his left snorted. “Well, we haven’t seen it yet,” Avian said crossly, obviously flustered.
Poor Souli, nervous and confused as she was, immediately pulled the feather up out of her high collar and displayed it to the gathering. “Here it is,” she said. “But I swear, I did not conjure the bird!”
But these last words were lost as Lady Ucello stretched out a greedy hand to the treasure. “There it is!” she cried. “What more proof do we need? Take her to the cachot.”
Souli barely had time to tuck her feather back into her bodice as someone grabbed her right arm, and another grabbed her left, leading her up the Palais de Justice steps and then down a twisting corridor inside. Avian followed, a frowning gravely.
Souli was too terrified to speak. Her guards led her up so many stairs! When at last they stopped climbing, they flung her into a circular room, and slammed the barred door in her face.
“I didn’t do it!” Souli sobbed, clutching the bars with all her strength.
“Of course you didn’t,” Avian agreed. He stood alone in the corridor outside, with a curious expression on his face. “But what kind of bird was it?”
“What do you mean, what kind of bird? Aren’t they all the same?”
Avian paused, gaping at her in disbelief. “They think you conjured the bird? You, who can’t tell the difference between an eagle and a robin? You, who can’t even understand what those words mean? Have you spent years of studying the environment of these creatures? Of course not! Have you written letters to every learned man and woman on the subject for a thousand miles around? Never!” He laughed, a high, cold, very un-Avian sounding laugh. “Of course you didn’t conjure that bird. I did!”
The night had turned very dark indeed. The only window in the room, very wide but far too high on the wall for Souli to reach, seemed like a piece of darkness even blacker than the stone around it. Souli shivered again. She slipped her feather off its chain, clutched it tight in her fist, and drifted into an uneasy sleep.
Ratta-tap-tap! She woke to a tapping sound, but it was not coming from her door. Ratta-tap-tap, ratta-tap! It sounded like its source was higher up, it be? The tapping sound came from the window!
A strange shape was perched on the window ledge, brilliant gray-white against the blackness outside. Its beak and claws glinted gold, from no light source that Souli could see, and its eyes flashed like emeralds. A bird, yes, and such a bird! It was easily Souli’s size, and possibly even larger.
The bird seemed to look about the room, before its eyes set on Souli. It swooped down off its perch and landed on the floor beside the startled girl. Tossing its head and tapping at the ground with its claws, it seemed to be beckoning her closer...
She crawled onto its back as gently as she could, resting her knees on its pinions. With a wonderful, bone-chilling caw!, the bird pushed itself up off the floor and out the window.
Sharp, icy winds buffeted Souli’s body, but she could not have cared less. She was off on an adventure that would, at the very least, offer a chance to see the whole world--and answer quite a few of its secrets, too.
Then the rising sun cast a shaft of light through the window, creating a warm pool of gold around a speckled, gray-white feather.
