#it'llgetbetter

  One pleasant, breezy summer morning, Sela packed up her tools and made the long climb to the Cuckoo’s tower. Sela expected a castle of some grandeur. It did, after all, belong to the hero who had last saved the world. It was difficult to see from the plains below the lonely bluff where it sat, except for the glimmer of the roof tiles among the fog. When she arrived, she found the tower to be something of a disappointment. Half the roof tiles missing and the walls bulged where the ground had shifted— it was ramshackle at best. Even the long line of statues along the path were badly damaged and half obscured by grapevine and moss. They’d been carved to resemble the Cuckoo and his band of friends. Only the Lady remained clear of overgrowth. But even her statue was in disrepair, an elegant arm broken off. It was placed neatly beside her foot. “Well,” Sela told herself, “I wasn’t hired to have tea with the Cuckoo. What did I expect?” So she unpacked her tools and headed for the little wood at the far end of the bluff.

  The day was hot and the tower stone baking by the time she hammered the first of the putlogs into place, but still she had seen no sign of life from the tower. She’d expected a gardener, a stable hand, a scullery maid— someone. Such a large tower had to have an army of residents, yet she saw no sign of them and no one came to scold or watch when she began hammering away on the side of the tower wall. Festival day? she wondered. When she still hadn’t seen a soul by evening, she began to worry. She packed away her tools and walked up to the large carven door. The battle scene caught the last of the evening light. Shadows sat in the wooden creases of the enemy Grindall’s louring face. It didn’t strike her as right to knock on it. The Cuckoo would not appreciate a dusty, sweaty stonemason on his stoop, surely. She went around to the servant’s entrance. A modest blue wood door that seemed more Sela’s size. She tried to dust her clothes off and knocked.

“Travelers use the bell. If you’re looking for a meal,” said someone behind her. Sela turned around to find a small, elderly man. The knees of his trousers were covered in soil. “Can’t hear the knocking as well as I used. But the bell’s still loud enough for these old ears.” “I’m sorry, grandfather. I’m no traveler. I didn’t mean to disturb you. I thought a cook or one of the stable boys would open the door.” He leaned in to squint at her in the dim evening light. “Not a traveler?” “No. Stonemason, for the roof.” She pointed up to the scaffolding above their heads. “You didn’t see me today?” He glanced up and then his face scrunched in an embarrassed grin. “Napped a bit more than usual today, I suppose.” He stepped past her to open the door. “No more stable boys anymore. Nor horses, for that matter. Dror loved them, but I— well, there’s not much call to ride out anyplace. And the only patch of garden I’ve got is too small to worry about keeping a horse. I can pull the plow myself when I need. Though…” He stepped into the dark kitchen and rubbed a filthy hand over his chest. “Maybe not next year.”

“Are you the gardener?” asked Sela. He waved her inside. He wheezed a laugh. “I suppose. Sadly, for your sake, the housekeeper and cook as well. Don’t remember arrangements for a mason, though.” He lit a greasy candle on the long wooden table. “I was hired by the Queen. Or— the Queen’s steward anyway.” “Might have known. They should have said you were coming.” He shuffled to the large fireplace and groaned as he squatted. “Afraid the only room that’s half decent for you is the cottage. And you’ll have to wait a bit for supper. My days are scattered lately.” Sela knelt beside him as he arranged a small bundle of wood. “I just need a place to sleep where I won’t be underfoot. I don’t need to trouble you grandfather.” The old man grunted. “I’d be a poor host if it didn’t trouble me.” She laughed. “It’s the Cuckoo, not the gardener who should worry about his guest’s comfort. If it’s dusty, I’ll wash it. If I need to cook for myself, well, I’m not a stranger to that either. I’m here to fix a roof, not dance at a ball.” The kitchen brightened slightly as he lit the fire and she looked around. The kitchen was neat and well-scrubbed, but almost bare. “I just expected the world’s greatest hero to live more… lavishly. It’s sad to think he’s cooped up here alone. I mean— excepting yourself, of course,” she added quickly. The old man uttered his wheezy laugh again. “I wouldn’t except me.” “What?” “What’s your name, mason?” “Sela,” she said holding her arm out to him. He grasped it. “Well, Sela, if you aren’t averse to a little more work, there’s a bucket by the door and a well down the path. You get a bucket of water for us to wash with and I’ll see what we can do about supper.” “Of course, grandfather.”

By the time she’d returned with the water, the old man had the kitchen fire blazing. They washed the dust and soil away and he went to work cutting an expensive wheel of cheese and poking a few strips of meat in a bowl of water. “Should make bread tomorrow,” he muttered. “Girl’s got to keep up her strength, climbing up this old tower on rickety logs.” “ They aren’t rickety,” said Sela. “I put them in myself. And you shouldn’t get in trouble with your lord for my sake. I don’t need fancy cheeses or his salted meat. Give me the same you get, grandfather.” The man grinned. “And who is this mighty lord entertaining that he needs to lock his larder against a hard working mason, hmm? No one ever comes here except to deliver more of this.” He held up a bit of cheese. “Every month. It just sits. I can’t eat the lot myself. I tell the— Quee— I tell the cart men that we can’t use what they bring, but still they come. I won’t seethe a swan for you, but a bit of cheese and bread won’t break me. The fruit I grew myself and I’ll be insulted if you don’t enjoy it, Sela,” he said sternly. 

He brought a wooden platter of food to the long table and patted the bench. “Come and eat. And tell me about the Queen. Is she still the beauty she was when all the statues were made?” Sela laughed. “I’m afraid I don’t know. I’ve never met my Lady. But no one, no matter her station, remains the same after sixty years. I hear she is still kind. I hear she is still wise. That is enough for me to admire her, however her face might appear.” The old man patted her hand. “Well said, granddaughter. In my mind she will always remain the fierce, startling beauty she was the moment she grasped her half of the Hagion Splinter. That expression of pure relief, the way her brow smoothed and her grimace faded in the clear morning light through the arrow loops— I will keep that image forever. It is good that her beauty shines forth to others in many ways.” “You speak as if you were there.” “Eat,” he urged her. “I’ve chattered too much for a night.” “You— you’re the Ashen Cuckoo, aren’t you?” Sela asked, aghast at her own behavior. “No, dear, no. Dror died forty years back.” The old man pushed the tray closer to her. “Eat. He would have fed you, too, if he were me.”