"Pog?" she asked.
There was a sad smile in the stag's eyes.
Did you think there was but the stag in all the green? it asked her.
Angharad shook her head. "Where... where did he go?"
Beyond.
She could hear the whistling of the holed stone now, the murmur of the tide. The green was fading quickly.
"Is he... will he be well... ?" she asked.
But there was no reply. The green was gone and she was back on the strand with the Grey Sea lapping the shingles, the holed stone whistling above her.
She saw the fire, burning bright. Edrie and Jackin scrambling to their feet. Farmer Perrin and Magger. And Lammond— lying on a blanket, still as death, his eyes opening as though her return had called him back from some haunted place. His face was terribly bruised.
"What... happened?" she asked.
Her hand stilled on Tom's brow.
Lammond sat up, every movement an obvious effort as he fought some inner pain. Looking at the faces of the others, Angharad understood that they had never touched him. He had done this to himself.
His madness had done it to him.
"Did you keep your promise?" he asked.
Still, from that bruised face, in the midst of his pain, his voice was mild again, as though they were old friends, carrying on a quiet conversation.
"I didn't turn the magic upon you," she replied. She knew that wasn't the promise he meant. But she had made him no other.
He nodded slowly. "I see."
Edrie and the others stood listening, shifting their feet on the shingles, uncertain as to what they should do.
"So it wasn't you that... called up the kowrie?" Lammond asked. "Called them up with their lies and illusions?"
Angharad blinked. She looked to Edrie, who shook her head, looked to Jackin.
"They showed him his dead kin," Jackin said softly. "Told him that with every gentry's life he took, he caused them further hurt. Kept them from peace. He... he went mad... "
The urchin took a few steps back as he spoke, glancing nervously at Lammond.
The swordsman nodded. "Oh, yes," he said. "I went mad. But I've learned to live with madness. It comes and goes, comes and goes... "
He pushed himself to his feet, swaying where he stood. With a great effort he straightened his back, smoothed down his bloodied shirt.
"It's lies I can't live with," he said. "It's knowing all those gentry will live on, while my sisters lie dead. Plain and simply dead. They're not ghosts, still suffering"— he gave Jackin a grim look—"but dead and long buried. Butchered by gentry"— his gaze returned to Angharad—"that you have saved."
Angharad shook her head. "The glascrow could never do what you wanted it to."
"Are you deaf?" Lammond asked her, the tone of his voice still mild. "I said I can't live with lies."
They were lulled, all of them, by his obvious weakness. A man who could barely stand on his own, how could he move so quickly? But move he did, as though he'd never suffered a hurt. He snatched up his sword and brought the edge of its blade whistling down at Angharad—
They were caught off guard. Perrin, too slow in bringing up his crossbow. Jackin, standing too far away. Edrie, simply stunned. The hoyer lunging, but the distance between himself and the swordsman was too great.
But Angharad moved. Her hand dove into her pocket and came out again to fling a handful of blazing rowan twigs straight into Lammond's face. Fired by madness or not, he still stepped back as the burning twigs sprayed about him. Still stayed his blow, if only for a moment.
But that moment was enough for Magger to launch himself at Lammond's swordhand. For Perrin's crossbow shaft to find the swordsman's heart. As Lammond keeled over, the hoyer loosed his grip. The swordsman sprawled onto the stones and lay still. No one moved. They stood as motionless as the longstone, staring at the corpse. Magger stepped forward and sniffed Lammond's face, one broad paw on his chest, turning away only when he was satisfied that the man was dead.
And then there was stillness again.
The wind spoke through the hole in the stone. The tide murmured. But those left alive uttered not a word, moved not at all. Until Angharad looked away from Lammond's corpse, looked down into Tom's dead features. Her hand stroked his brow, where the skin was so cold now.
"Go gentle," she said.
And go he did, his body fading from where she held it. Tom Naghatty went away.
With the stag.
With the moon and her wisdom.
And her mystery.
Into the green.
40
There was only Veda at the funeral, Veda and the men she had hired to bury Lammond. She stood in the graveyard, long after the men had finished their work and gone. She wore a black cloak, with the hood pulled over her head. Her gaze was fixed, not on the mound of fresh earth at her feet, but on the reaches of the Grey Sea that spread away from the headland where the graveyard stood.
She didn't turn as Angharad approached. Angharad wore her tinker garb again. She carried a white staff in one hand, a journeybag over one shoulder, a harp over the other. Magger padded at her side.
"I never meant him any ill," she said.
Veda nodded. "I know. He brought it on himself. I would have stopped him, but he would only have sent me away. I loved him— so how could I leave him?"
"What will you do now?" Angharad asked.
Veda shook her head. "I don't know. All I had was Lammond... "
Her gaze remained fixed upon the distance, to some place across the Grey Sea. Perhaps she looked to a better time, Angharad thought, to when she and Lammond had met— when he had been simply charming; before she understood the darkness he carried inside him.
"What will you do?" Veda asked.
"I have friends in Cermyn," Angharad said. "They live by Avalarn Wood. I thought I might visit with them... "
They stood awhile in silence, until Angharad reached out and touched the woman's shoulder.
"Come with me," she said.
Veda turned to look at her. "Travel with a tinker? To laugh."
But there were tears in her eyes.
"You've seen yourself how old pains cause new hurts," Angharad said. "Allow yourself time to heal."
"What would you know of old hurts?"
Angharad thought of those she had loved and lost. Her husband. Her clan. Friends.
Something in Angharad's features made Veda slowly nod her head. She looked away again, out over the sea.
"I have only the one skill," she said.
"You can always learn another."
Veda turned to look at her again. "Why would you want to help me?"
Angharad leaned on her staff. One hand reached down to ruffle Magger's fur.
"Because I was helped once. I didn't want it. I fought it. But in the end, it made me whole again. What I lost, I still miss. Desperately, sometimes. But I can bear it now."
"I don't know if I have your courage."
"I will lend you some, then," Angharad said. "Until you find your own."
Still Veda hesitated.
"Come," Angharad said.
Taking her arm, she led Veda away. Together they walked through the graveyard, arm in arm, Magger at Angharad's side. Remembering how Lammond had been able to see the kowrie, without Hafarl's gift in his blood, she wondered if witcheries could be taught as well as born to. Hadn't Lammond said—
Witchery is merely a word for what we are all capable of...
Though he had been so very wrong about so very much, that at least had the ring of truth about it.
She glanced at her companion. Perhaps the green could help Veda, as it had helped her.
It was worth a try. Not just for Veda's sake, but for all the housey-folk, blind to the green. If one could be taught to see, then might they not all be able to in time? With the differences lessened between Summerborn and those without the gift, would there not be that much less reason for one to cause the other pain?
> Surely it was worth the attempt.
She thought she heard the distant belling of a stag, but as she paused to listen more closely for it, Magger bumped his head against her hand. She gave the hoyer a quick pat, then the three of them walked on.
Appendix: Tunes From the Kingdoms of the Green Isles
The following tunes for small harp and other melody instruments are from the repertoire of the tinker Angharad. All tunes are copyright © 1993 by Charles de Lint; all rights reserved.
CAYA'S SLIP JIG
FLIGHT OF THE HERON
FLOODROAD
GEESE ON THE WING
HAND IN HAND
IVY & STONE
THE LOON'S LAMENT
MICHAEL COPELANDS REEL
PIPER'S DRAM
THE OLD RED CAT
TEN YEARS TODAY
THE WATER RAT
WESTLIN WIND
[ALL TUNES WRITTEN AND TRANSCRIBED BY CHARLES DE LINT, EXCEPT FOR "THE LOON'S LAMENT," WHICH WAS WRITTEN BY CHARLES DE LINT AND TRANSCRIBED BY JOHN WOOD. THANKS, JOHN.]
Into the Green Page 19
