The Seventh Magpie

by Nancy Chase

  He beamed at her. “I think it might!”

  Perhaps he stitched Kae’s fabric to the sail or perhaps it merged magically as soon as it was in place. Catrin didn’t see. She was contemplating the snake. “I know you are the Magpie. You might as well ask the riddle.”

  “If you insist,” it said:

  “Stolen bones, drowning deep,

  What drags souls down to bitter sleep?

  Becalmed upon a stagnant sea,

  What fills the sail and sets you free?”

  The boat lurched, and the others gave a cry of triumph as Barnabas finally managed to raise the sail. The fabric bellied out, and the boat’s hull slid over the mud into clear water. Catrin’s heart rose within her, and she replied:

  “Stolen bones, drowning deep,

  Despair drags souls to bitter sleep.

  Becalmed upon a stagnant sea,

  Hope fills the sail and sets us free.”

  She seized the snake, just as he became a Magpie, and stuffed him into her sack. The ship raced beneath her, white sails singing in the wind, then she opened her eyes in her own bed.

  That morning, the king talked of letting Catrin wear the queen’s jewels for the wedding. After he had gone, Megan trotted in and out carrying trays of tea or broth and grumbling about the chaos in the servants’ quarters. Half the kitchen staff kept finding excuses to sneak off to the stable, she said, in hopes of seeing the queen’s ghost, while the rest could barely be coaxed to venture as far as the garden to fetch a sprig of mint or a handful of scallions for fear of the very same thing.

  It was well after noon before Catrin could slip away to the courtyard unnoticed. Even then, just as she grabbed the horse’s reins a footman sprang out from the haystack where he had been hiding and nearly managed to snatch the veil from her face before she could escape.

  The Magpie was waiting in the usual place. A sudden gust of wind scattered flocks of leaves from the trees like frightened sparrows, but the Magpie sat still as a stone. Without pleasantries or preamble, he spoke the words of the fifth riddle:

  “What is the beast that feeds on flesh

  And sleeps beneath the clay?

  What flame ignites cold winter’s blight

  To keep that beast at bay?”

  “Beast,” Catrin repeated as she rode away. “Flame.” A torn leaf blew against her face, a cold hand upon her lips, warning her to silence. It clung only for an instant, then tumbled away, leaving nothing behind but a faint, dry scent of ash and bone.

  “The king is a fool,” the crone said when Catrin told her the riddle. She bent over a crude stone mortar and pestle, grinding something that looked like a handful of seashells and beach pebbles. Pearly flecks of dust clung to her hair and clothes. “He thinks to restore his ruined realm, but all he does is drive his only child into peril and heartache.”

  “He doesn’t mean to be cruel,” Catrin said. “He wants an heir for the kingdom. I wish I could obey him, but after all that has happened, I can never be what he needs me to be.”

  The crone glanced sideways at her. “No. That is true enough.” She straightened, briskly brushing the dust from her hands as a baker brushes away flour. “Now, about that riddle. I don’t suppose you will give me what you have in your sack?”

  “No.”

  “Pity. Very well, I will take your body instead. Come here.”

  She beckoned, and Catrin stepped into her embrace. For the space of two heartbeats, the princess felt the odd sensation of being encircled by her own slender arms. Then a cold heaviness seized her muscles and stiffened her bones. Her lungs filled with lead; her heart contracted like a flayed mollusk. She shoved the crone hard against the table and staggered back, gasping.

  When her vision cleared, she saw the crone’s slender young body silhouetted in a halo of glittering dust from the spilled mortar. Catrin’s own body felt brittle and angular, as if it were made from twigs and driftwood. Small, bright flowers of pain bloomed among the thorns of her spine. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I couldn’t breathe.”

  “I know, child.” The crone righted the overturned stool and helped Catrin to sit. “It does come as a nasty shock, doesn’t it? You’ll grow used to it in time. Now, are you ready to hear how to find the answer to the riddle?”

  The road north of the White Tower was little more than a rocky footpath that meandered up the steep slope of a wooded mountainside. Catrin and her four companions trudged single file, their heads bent into the icy wind that stung their cheeks and numbed their toes. Snow and dead leaves crunched underfoot, and hard white pellets spat from the few patches of sky still visible between the stiff fingers of overhanging trees.

  “Tell me again why we’re doing this?” Hugh grumbled, stepping over a snowdrift to examine the bare twigs of a sapling.

  George peered over Hugh’s shoulder. “Alder,” he said.

  “Leave it, Hugh.” Baldwin called, carrying an armload of branches higher up the path. “We already have one of those.”

  Catrin sighed. “The crone said cut one branch from each of a hundred different kinds of trees. Carry them to the top of the mountain, and build a fire.”

  “Build a fire, yes. But how is that going to solve the riddle? And how is this fire supposed to last from dusk to dawn?” Hugh persisted, “Just a hundred branches?”

  “Spruce,” George said, pointing.

  “I don’t know, Hugh,” Catrin said crossly, wading through the snow to George’s side. “I’m just doing what she told me.” With the little silver axe she had brought from the Tower, she lopped off one of the branches and handed it to Baldwin.

  “All these branches look the same to me,” Hugh muttered. “How are we supposed to find a hundred different kinds by sunset? It’s already getting late.”

  “Less talking, more looking,” suggested Barnabas, scrambling out of a thicket with his beard full of dead leaves and three twigs in his hand.

  George examined the branches Barnabas had brought. “Beech. Elm. Birch.”

  The snow flurries quickened, and the little group blundered deeper into the forest. In a sheltered hollow, Catrin found an apple tree and a willow. From the hillside above, Baldwin brought back branches of ash, rowan, and holly.

  “Ouch!” Hugh crashed out of the underbrush sucking his bleeding finger.

  George reached over and plucked free the broken branch caught on the torn silk of Hugh’s sleeve. His eyes twinkled. “Hawthorn,” he said.

  “How many is that?” Catrin asked.

  While Baldwin counted the pile of sticks, Hugh sat on a fallen log, examining his torn sleeve. After their previous adventure, he had discarded his ruined velvet tunic. Now he shivered in a thin silk shirt that clung to his narrow shoulders. But when Catrin sat down beside him, he made room for her, and put his arm protectively around her shoulders.

  “Ninety-seven, ninety-eight, ninety-nine!” Baldwin said triumphantly. “Only one more type to go.”

  Barnabas cackled and clapped his hands, but Hugh only rolled his eyes. “What are we missing?” he asked. “Don’t tell me. The rare three-lobed purple ironwood that only grows in the crater of some distant volcano?”

  George shook his head. “Oak.”

  “Oak?” Catrin looked up. “That one should be easy.”

  She was wrong. They searched for hours, while the day declined and the wind grew colder. Snow fell in silent, blinding curtains. Despite her numb fingers and toes, Catrin followed George’s wide bulk through thickets and across frozen streambeds, but still not a single oak tree could be found.

  She told herself she would just sit down for a minute to warm her fingers and rest her weary back. The falling snow was so peaceful, and she was so very tired. She needn’t worry: The others would call her if they found anything. Her eyelids drooped, and her chin sank down to her chest.

  When she awoke, a wolf was watching her from between two trees. She snatched the little silver axe from her lap and leaped to her feet. She couldn’t see or hear the ot
hers anywhere. “Baldwin!” she yelled. “Help!”

  She turned to run, but the wolf was quicker. She had not gone three steps before its teeth caught the hem of her skirt and brought her to her knees. Spitting out a mouthful of snow, she struggled to crawl away.

  Faintly, she heard a distant call. “Princess? Where are you?”

  “Here!” she screamed. “Hurry!” A heavy weight knocked her sideways. The smell of damp fur filled her nostrils, and hot breath brushed her throat. She twisted away, but a searing pain seized her shoulder. Baldwin shouted from the top of the slope, but she knew he was too late.

  Other wolves flashed among the trees like shadows. She felt hot blood growing cold upon her skin, and her vision darkened—was she about to faint, or was that the wolf pressing close for another attack? She gripped the little silver axe and swung it in the direction of the darkness. She heard a yelp. The crushing weight on her chest eased and the world lightened again, the color of snow. Baldwin was there, shouting and brandishing his spear, with the others close behind.

  The clear peal of a hunting horn rang through the forest. The wolves froze, listening, then scrambled away over the snowdrifts and vanished. In the ensuing silence, Catrin and her companions stared after them, dumbfounded.

  “Who are you?” demanded a fierce voice. “What do you want here?” At the top of the hill stood a bearded man, cloaked and hooded in wolf skins, with a naked sword in one hand and the hunting horn in the other.

  Baldwin raised his spear, but Barnabas grabbed his arm. “We mean no harm,” Barnabas said to the stranger.

  “You may mean no harm, but harm is what you may find,” the stranger said. “What do you seek in the forest?” His shaggy cloak was fastened with a prong of deer antler, and his eyes were the color of hemlock.

  Gritting her teeth from the pain of her wounded shoulder, Catrin struggled to sit up. “I am Princess Catrin. I am here on a quest to cut a branch from each of a hundred different trees and build a fire before nightfall. We have gathered ninety-nine already. We just need an oak to complete our task. Do you know where we might find one?”

  The man eyed her. “There are many trees in a wood.”

  “Far too many, if you ask me,” Hugh muttered.

  Baldwin helped Catrin to her feet and wrapped his cloak around her, then turned to glare at the stranger. “Can’t you see the princess has been hurt? Why don’t you help, instead of thwarting us? Surely you know this forest better than we do. Which way should we go?”

  “A person may take many paths, for there are as many ways as snowflakes in winter.”

  Hugh rolled his eyes. “Great. Just what we need, more riddles.”

  Barnabas cocked his head to one side, then floundered through the snow until he reached the stranger, his hands outstretched as if to warm them at a fire. He peered into the man’s face. “Well met, Your Lordship.”

  “Lordship?” demanded Baldwin. “Who are you, sir?”

  “Nay, that is an empty word in the forest. I claim no such title.” He turned to Barnabas, and his countenance filled with a clear, crystalline light, like starlight on snow. “Well met, indeed, my wise friend. It is I who should greet you. The world would be a dismal place without the work you do.” He dropped to one knee in the snow and kissed the old man’s hands. Barnabas laid his palms in blessing upon the stranger’s head, then the stranger sprang to his feet, smiling.

  The others stared in astonishment. “You know this man?” Hugh asked the weaver.

  “I know him from a thousand songs,” Barnabas replied. “He is the huntsman, Ambrose, Lord of the Forest.”

  “Sire!” George dropped the bundle of branches he was carrying and fell to his knees. “For years I longed to serve you, although my gifts are few.”

  “Rise up, rise up, good farmer. Indeed you have the greatest of gifts, an honest heart and a strong back. I do not take homage, but come, let us be friends.”

  Baldwin looked as if he would like to kneel as well, but he glanced uncomfortably at Catrin. “Sir, I have heard of you only in tales. Each night, it is said, you hunt the fabled Silver Boar, and no man who hears your horn by moonlight can resist joining you on that most perilous of adventures. But blow as you will, I have vowed fealty to the princess and will not abandon her.” With great dignity, he picked up the branches George had dropped.

  “Well, spoken sir.” The huntsman nodded. “The lady has a true knight in you. But if the lady is worthy, we might join our ventures, for our paths may lie in the same direction, at least until the setting of the sun.”

  He turned to Catrin who huddled beside Hugh, her teeth chattering so that she could barely speak. With one finger, the huntsman raised her chin to better see her face. She felt him testing her, weighing her worth, and she resented it. Why was he delaying them rather than helping them?

  “You may not pass without my word,” he explained as if reading her thought. Without apology, he drew aside Baldwin’s cloak to examine her wound. The gash throbbed when the cold air hit it, and her bodice was stiff with drying blood, but the huntsman merely grunted noncommittally and let the cloak flap fall closed again. “The great oak is far from here, and the night is long and cold, Princess. Will you not turn back?”

  She drew back. “I will not.”

  “Already the frost gnaws your crooked old bones, and the wind freezes your fair young cheeks. The wood is full of things of which you have not dreamed. Before the dawn you may wish indeed you had tread the shorter path, back to your own warm bed.”

  “I will not turn back,” Catrin said through her teeth. “If my silver ax may cut the great oak, and if a spark may kindle it, I will make such a blaze that will drive away the night and bring the summer back.”

  At that, the man threw back his head and laughed, clapping his hands together. “Oh, well said, Princess. Of all this brave company, that was the finest answer of any! When the dawn comes, you will be well rewarded, I hope. But caution now, brave words fly quickly and are gone, leaving heart and bone behind to follow a harder road. Still, you have spoken well, so I will guide you to your destination.” He raised his horn to his lips and blew a blast that shook the branches on the trees.

  “How do we know we can trust you?” demanded Hugh. “You could be leading us in the wrong direction, then abandon us to freeze. And the princess cannot travel now, her wound needs attention.”

  As the horn’s echoes died away, there was an answering howl far down the valley, then another further up the hill. Catrin shivered with more than the cold. The wolves were returning.

  The huntsman smiled a wolfish smile. “There is your choice, scholar. The pack approaches. You may flounder through the drifts like prey or run at the head of the hunt.”

  Catrin caught the huntsman’s hand. “Can’t you save us? Kill them? Or drive them away as you did before?”

  “I did not drive them off, but called them off,” Ambrose replied. “For if I am the huntsman, they are my hounds.” Even as he spoke, wolves appeared by the dozens, loping over the snow to surround the group. Their pink tongues laughed puffs of fog into the air until frost coated their muzzles. When they looked into the face of the huntsman, their ears perked and their yellow eyes glowed with hunger, ruthlessness, and joy.

  Catrin gripped Hugh’s arm and tried to keep her voice steady. “Lead the way,” she said to Ambrose. “We will follow.”

  Ambrose ran up the steep mountainside, his long legs striding over stones and snow, his wolf skin cloak blowing behind him. “Come,” he called over his shoulder. “The night falls, and you must have your fire well lit before the sun is gone.”

  They lurched after him on numb feet, gasping the frozen air into their scalded lungs. The wolves ran beside them, behind them, even among them, silent as shadows, with their eyes laughing. Catrin, slower than the others, was soon lagging. Her old legs ached and stumbled, and her wound burned like a hot poker. As she struggled onward, she realized that unlike the soft, coddled body that had lived behind convent wal
ls, this old body was no stranger to pain and cold and weariness. Pain was merely pain; it did not stop her. She ran through it as through a blinding snowstorm. As she ran, she watched the wolves out of the corners of her eyes with a distrust that grew to delight.

  Once, a startled doe bounded away from their approach. Ambrose’s horn rang out, and the pack swirled after the deer like water as she fled to a deeper thicket. Catrin knew that the deer would run her best and the wolves would run theirs, and one of them would be faster. If this deer escaped, there would be another on a different day. Catrin remembered that her own blood had stained the freshly fallen snow, and an unexpected shiver of terror and joy rippled through her. “I am here,” she thought. “I am part of the dance of the forest. I, who was to live my days behind convent walls or in some stone fortress with a stone-cold husband.” Suddenly she understood how Geoffrey had felt about the sea. She felt the same way about the forest. She was so overcome by this thought that she nearly ran into Ambrose, who had stopped with the others in a clearing.

  “Well run, Princess,” said the huntsman. “You have reached your goal. See? There is the great oak of the mountain!”

  It towered against the sky, dwarfing all the other trees: a giant oak, so thick that even if all five companions had joined hands, they would not have been able to encircle it. Its roots plunged deep, deep into the ground, and high overhead its mighty limbs sang and groaned in the cold wind. Only a few ragged brown leaves clung to the tips of the branches; the rest were as bare as bones. Above its branchy crown, the clouds had torn themselves to pieces to let the darkening sky show through.

  “Not a moment too soon.” Ambrose turned to face the rising moon, and something in his face became wild and alien. “I’m sorry, Princess. I have done my best for you, but the day is fading, and the hunt calls. I cannot—” His words faded into silence. When he spoke again, his voice was clear as moonlight and as empty of humanity. “Who will follow me through the darkness, to run with my hounds beneath the stars? Perhaps we will make a kill tonight, and feast on wild boar. Come, while the wind is singing!” He raised his horn once more, its smooth curve gleaming. This time, the eerie peal that issued forth sent a thread of ice up Catrin’s spine and raised the hairs upon her neck.