“But—”
“Go, son. Face your fear like a real soldier.”
He stood there while I turned and walked away from him. Only a few months ago, my room had been close to the nursery and to my sisters’ nanny. My new room seemed very far from those safe and familiar places. The hall that led to my bedchamber seemed long and very dim. The wick in the lamp on the wall bracket had been turned low for the night. My heart hammered when I reached my own door. I had slammed it shut behind me when I fled so that whatever monster was lurking there could not follow me. I slowly turned the knob. The door swung into the darkness.
I stood in the hall, peering into my room. It was dark. I could see the rumpled white sheet on my bed. As my eyes adjusted, I saw more detail. The bedclothes hung to the floor, and anything could be concealed behind them and under my bed. The only other pieces of furniture in my room were a desk and chair. It was possible something lurked in the chair alcove under the desk. As I watched, the long curtains stirred. The window was open, as it was every night, that I might enjoy the benefits of healthful fresh air. It might be only the wind. But it might not.
I wished I had a weapon of some sort. But my wooden practice sword and stave were both inside the wardrobe and that was on the other side of the room. I’d have to face my fears unarmed.
To an adult, the situation might have seemed laughable, but I was a victim of my own imagination. I had no idea what might be lurking in those slowly stirring curtains. Even if it was the wind now, could the being previously hiding behind them now be concealed under my bed? My heart was thundering in my ears at the thought; I’d have to get down on my hands and knees to look under the bed. Once I’d lifted the bedclothes, anything that was under there would most likely spring for my face. It would scratch out my eyes. I was certain of it.
I didn’t want to look. I thought of racing across the room and jumping up on my bed and simply forcing myself to stay there. Perhaps there was nothing at all under my bed. Perhaps I was being foolish. I could stay awake all night. If anything did emerge to attack me, I could shout for help then. I didn’t have to confront it now.
Except that I did. My father had ordered me to do so. It was what a soldier would do. And I was a second son, born to be a soldier. I could be nothing else. And I could do no less than my duty.
But it did not mean that I had to be a fool in doing it.
I slipped quietly away from my room and hurried through the deserted corridors down to a parlor. My home was quiet and almost unfamiliar at that late hour. There was no bustle of servants, no opening and closing of doors or snatches of voices. I heard only the padding of my own bare feet and my panting breath. When I entered the parlor, it was deserted, lit only by the dying flames in the fireplace. Spooky. I went to the rack of fire irons and selected the poker. It was heavy, much heavier than my practice sword. I hefted it in both my hands and decided it would have to do.
It was awkward to carry it back to my room. The end of it seemed magnetically drawn to the floor, but I gritted my teeth, gripped it firmly with both hands, and marched back to my room with it.
The door was ajar as I had left it. I did not give myself time to think or hesitate. I charged into the room, dropped to one knee, and swept the heavy poker under my bed. It encountered no resistance. Emboldened, I used the log hook to flip up the bedclothes. Poker at the ready, I ducked down for a quick glance. The dim light from the hallway showed me nothing was there.
I staggered back to my feet, the heavy poker at the ready, and stalked over to the blowing curtains. Again, I swung the heavy poker, hooking the thick fabric and pulling it out from the wall. Nothing there.
But my imagination had already discerned my diabolic opponent’s likely strategy. The creature would be in my wardrobe by now. Heart hammering, I gripped the poker in one hand and with the other jerked the wardrobe door open. I gave an incoherent gasp of terror as the motion caused the clothing inside it to stir. Then I struck, jabbing the poker so firmly into the closet that the heavy tip of it struck and scored the wooden backing.
A shadow loomed suddenly over me from behind. I spun, my poker at the ready. My father caught the end of it in a firm grasp and, with a quick twist, disarmed me. I stood, looking up at him in dread.
He smiled down on me. “Well, what is your report, soldier?”
“There’s nothing there, sir.” My voice shook. I’d made a fool of myself before my father. He’d seen how scared I was.
He nodded at me. “I agree. Nothing to be frightened of. And I’m proud of you, son. Very proud. If there had been anything there for you to fear, you would have vanquished it. And now you know that you can face what scares you. You don’t have to run wailing for your mother or nanny or even me. You’re a brave boy, Nevare. Someday you’ll make a fine soldier.”