The Language of Stones

by Robert Carter

  But the wizard turned about in a whirl of steps and called out subtle words so that all other motion in the hall ceased. He drew a deep breath and spoke very privately to Will. ‘For thirteen years you lived as a happy child. You had a loving home and not a care to trouble you. You must thank me for that, for your peace was of my devising. But now there is a threat against your life, a threat that mere keeping spells cannot hold at bay.’ He raised a finger to Will’s lips. ‘Be mindful of your situation. I know you are not a teasel-head – that was said for Lord Strange’s benefit. The Wychwoode is the only safe place to spend this most critical season of your life. Do not go beyond its bounds. I will return for you before Lammastide – you have had my word on that. Now, will you promise to obey me in this matter or am I to wash my hands of you?’

  And the look on the wizard’s face was so grave that Will found himself nodding and making a promise that he hated even before the spell had begun to pall.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  A LITTLE LEARNING

  And so it was that Will was lodged in the tower of John, Lord Strange for the season of the year that ran from Beltane to Lammastide. It was not long before he got used to the long days he had to spend at the tower, and began to forget some of the horror he had felt on first seeing the Hogshead.

  The lord’s wife had agreed to set about Will’s schooling, but it soon grew into a torture for him. First they made him wear a suit of lordly stuff, all stiff and not to be soiled, and a rule was laid on him never to go beyond clarion call of the tower.

  At first he obeyed. During the warmth of May and the heat of June he explored the nearer parts of the forest as far as the river, always looking out for unicorns, always mindful of Gwydion’s pledge to return for him, and his own not to stray. But no clarion was ever blown to summon him back to the tower, and little by little the lord’s strict rule was relaxed.

  In the mornings he suffered terrible, spirit-crushing labours, while not a word was mentioned about magic as he had hoped. Instead he was put to reading and writing and speaking out from his slate, and near half of every day was spent chalking marks over and over, and when the slate was full, rubbing them all out again. But at least there were always the afternoons when he could roam as he wished.

  Nor was he as lonely as he had feared he would be. On most nights a beautiful white cat came to visit him, and on some days a bent-backed old woman was accustomed to arrive at the tower to deliver firewood. Will felt sorry for her, for she would bring heavy loads on her back – fuel to cook the lord’s mountainous dinners. She said that when her summer’s toil was done there would be a further stock of wood laid in to keep Lord Strange and his wife warm throughout the winter, and she would have coin enough to pay her keep. So Will began helping her, and that was when he began to get back more than he gave, for without his knowing it the old woman had already begun to teach him the rudiments of magic.

  She was known about the Wychwoode as the Wise Woman of Wenn, for she knew much about herbs and field remedies, and even something of the higher arts. She told Will many things as they walked the dusty path beside the river. First she told him about the ‘Great Rede’, then she spoke of the ‘Three-fold Way’, and then, as they came close to the hamlet of Assart Finstocke she taught him about the language of birds.

  ‘Fools think that birds and animals are of lesser rank and wisdom than men, but it is not so. Do you know that all crows are left-handed?’

  He grinned. ‘Crows don’t have hands, Wise Woman.’

  ‘Left-handedness has nothing to do with these.’ She held up her own hands, then pointed at her head. ‘Like most other things it has to do with what’s in here. Do you know that all birds dream?’

  ‘Truly? What do they dream about?’

  ‘Songs. Birds are most wise in their way.’ She crooked a finger at a green froglet hiding among the reeds. ‘And see this little fellow here? A frog is wise in his own special way, for he is much better at being a frog than any man could ever be. What man could live without a stitch of clothing in a frozen pond all winter through? But he can. Likewise, a mole, a squirrel and a seagull can go where no man can go. Each creature of the wild has its own special knowledge of the world. If we scorn the wisdom of beasts we make fools of ourselves.’

  The Wise Woman was a marvel. She said that folk who had patience could learn extraordinary tidings from birds and mice and not only from watching their habits or having knowledge of their ways, but from listening directly to their little hearts’ concerns and heeding their warnings about the future.

  ‘Don’t you know that all animals have foreknowledge?’ she asked. ‘Bees will swarm when they smell fire, ants know when thunderstorms are coming and hornets can tell which tree lightning will strike. And when it comes to greatness of character, you will never find loyalty in any lord’s man greater than that given by his hounds. Nor will you find elegance in any lady greater than that to be found in the cat who comes to sleep on your bed at night.’

  ‘You know him?’ said Will, startled.

  ‘Surely I do. His name is Pangur Ban. All the Sisters of the Wise have “familiars”, favoured animals who attend us. I am told by my toad, Treacle, that Pangur Ban is the true lord of Wychwoode and a great friend of Gwydion. Has the cat not told you this himself yet?’

  Will grinned. ‘But surely, Wise Woman, no creature can speak?’

  ‘They all speak. Though no man or woman, no matter how wise, can hear what words are spoken. A hedgehog or a vole or a wasp will not spy for a wizard on the counsels of the great as some say they do, but woodpeckers may always be relied upon to tell if outlaws are concealed in a wood, and starlings can tell you if a village tithe has been paid or not – and, if it has, how much grain still lies in the barns.’ She produced a piece of dry bread. ‘Here! Take this and feed the ducks. Then perhaps you will learn how it is with ducks, and you will see how they thank you.’

  No sooner had Will taken the bread than he turned to see a dozen mallards gliding over the water towards him. They had appeared out of nowhere and with such swiftness that he thought the Wise Woman must have summoned them by magic. Earlier he had seen her receive the bread from a tower guard whose injured hand she had healed the day before. He broke off small pieces and threw them out to the mallards, eager that each of the colourful drakes and each of the brown-speckled ducks should have its proper share. The birds dabbled their beaks and paddled back and forth and sported like children at play until all the bread was gone, then, seeing there was no more, they swam away again, almost as fast as they had appeared – but never a one turned to thank Will for lunch as he now half-expected.

  ‘Do you understand yet?’ the Wise Woman asked as Will followed her away from the water’s edge.

  ‘But…I didn’t hear any thanks from them. Should I have? It seems to me that when I had bread they were my friends, but when I had none they were my friends no longer.’

  The Wise Woman laughed. ‘Oh, not at all! You are not thinking in the way of magic yet.’ She patted his belly three times. ‘You feel thanks in there – a warm glow just below your heart. Concentrate. Do you feel it now? The spirit of life? It’s a power that has come from those ducks – that’s their gratitude that burns inside you. A gift as sure and real as any gift of bread that you made to them. Feel it, Will, and learn how to feel it again! Mark it well, for it is a power that can put a smile on a man’s face and a spring in his step!’

  And Will did smile, and he thought that perhaps he had grasped a little of what the Wise Woman had said after all. There must be in the world chains of good deeds, for had not the Wise Woman healed the hand of the guard who gave the bread that came to Will to give to the ducks who had made him smile? Now, he thought, if only there was someone I could pass this smile on to, then the chain would carry on…

  ‘Most folk believe they know nothing of magic, but it is natural for folk to understand it more than they think. No doubt you have heard fragments of great wisdom in old sayings? Many come from magi
cal redes, or laws. One good turn deserveth another – you must have heard that?’

  ‘Why, yes! Many times.’

  ‘That is a rede of magic. So is “All things come full circle”. And “A man must be mad to ride a dragon”. And “Riches are like horse muck”.’

  ‘Riches are like horse muck? That doesn’t sound so wise to me.’

  ‘But riches are like horse muck, for they stink when in a heap, but spread about they make everything fruitful.’

  Will learned how the Great Rede and the Three-fold Way were the taproots of magical law. He discovered how obedience to the Great Rede was the thing that set wizards apart from sorcerers, for it said simply:

  Use magic as thou wilt, but harm no other.

  He saw how that fitted with what Master Gwydion had said about having to use magic sparingly and never without due forethought as to the balance between gain and loss. A great deal of a wizard’s skill, he saw, must come in taking gain in such a way that the loss to others that arrived with it did as little harm as possible. A sorcerer, on the other hand, could ignore the Great Rede, for he abused magic, employing it just as he pleased. A sorcerer took to himself the gains but never cared about the losses. That, in its way, said the Wise Woman, was ever the truest meaning of the word ‘evil’, and why evil was, in the end, always the cause of its own downfall.

  No wonder Gwydion was displeased when I called him a sorcerer, Will thought. Compared to wizardry, sorcery must be a blundering and clumsy thing, full of force and brute magic instead of elegance and skill.

  He thought again of the Law of the Three-fold Way, which said:

  Whatsoever is accomplished by magic, returneth upon the world three-fold.

  ‘But doesn’t a greedy and uncaring sorcerer soon find himself buried under a heap of evils of his own creating?’

  ‘Magic returns consequences upon the world, not always upon the head of the magic-worker himself. That is why sorcerers can flourish. You will know them by the trail of destruction they leave behind for others to clear up.’

  Will was indignant. ‘Do they not see what they’re doing to others? Don’t they feel ashamed to behave that way?’

  ‘Ashamed? Never! A sorcerer has no shame. For, you see, no sorcerer truly believes himself to be a sorcerer.’

  Will’s head ached at that idea. ‘I…I don’t think I understand.’

  ‘Willand, there is no “good” and there is no “evil”. These are false ideas that greedy men have sought to misguide fools with. A sorcerer always believes himself to be special. He falls in love with himself. To him, means can always be justified by ends, and he has excuses for everything. This is because he always breaks the Third Law of Magic, which says:

  He whom magic encompasseth must be true unto his own heart.

  ‘Sorcerers use dirty magic, Willand. They lie to themselves. They always claim the crimes they commit should be discounted for they are done in the service of a greater good. But that is never so, for real advantage is never brought forth from malice. You must be strong to work untainted magic. And strength is, in the end, much the same as selflessness. Now do you begin to see?’

  Will’s head was spinning. ‘I don’t know if I do.’

  She sighed and pointed to where a pretty flower grew. Its stem was delicate and its head like that of a purple dragon. ‘Greater butterwort. The biggest and handsomest one I’ve seen this summer. Pick it for me.’

  He looked at her, surprised. ‘But you said it was the work of knaves and fools to go around plucking up wild flowers for themselves when they can be so much better enjoyed alive.’

  ‘Do it. It will teach you a hard lesson. Or do you lack the strength to break such a slender neck without good reason?’

  He picked the flower, half expecting some power to prevent him, but the stem snapped easily and he felt a small pang of protest in his heart.

  ‘There,’ the Wise Woman said. ‘By that action you’ve lost a day out of your life. Did you feel it go?’

  ‘Why…yes.’

  ‘Now crush that flower to pieces! Rub it angrily between your hands until it is all broken!’

  A sudden fear bit at him. ‘I don’t want to.’

  ‘You might as well now.’ She took the flower from him and threw it away into the long grass. Then she said with great firmness, ‘“Real strength never impairs harmony.” That’s a very clever old rede, Willand. So clever I’ll say it for you again in its full form: “Real strength never impairs beauty or harmony, it bestows it.” Real strength has much to do with magic. Do you see now?’

  He looked at the flowerless plant. It looked bereft. ‘No. But I can begin to see why the folk of Wychwoode call you the “Wise Woman”.’

  She took his hand, ‘Cheer up, Willand. It’s only one day you’ve dropped, and that’ll be lost from the far end of your life where it’ll do you far less good than a day like today.’

  He thought about that for a while and decided she was right – he had better cheer himself up. ‘Wise Woman, perhaps you can tell me the answer to a question that’s been troubling me.’

  ‘I will try.’

  ‘What’s a Child of Destiny?’

  ‘That’s a curious phrase. Where did you hear it?’

  ‘Master Gwydion used it once about me. He said something about a Black Book too. What does it mean?’

  The Wise Woman smiled. Her leathery face wrinkled, but her bright eyes remained fast on his. ‘That, Willand, I cannot tell you.’

  The answer disappointed him for it was no answer at all, and the Wise Woman’s secret smile seemed to raise still more troublesome questions. At last he said, ‘Was it a sorcerer who made Lord Strange hog-headed?’

  But the Wise Woman only cackled, as if she thought that was a very good joke.

  High summer came with the solstice, the day when the sun climbed to its loftiest place in the sky. It was the longest day of the year, but Will wished all of it away. Despite having spent so short a time in the wizard’s company, and most of that reluctantly, he ached for Lammastide.

  Lammas was no more than what was called in the Vale ‘Loaf Day’, a day of ritual breadmaking. And Gwydion had told him it was so with the other festivals – solstices were just Midsummer, the longest day, and Ewletide, the shortest. Equinoxes were likewise marked in the Vale as important days in spring and autumn when days and nights were the same length. Lammas was the first day of Harvest-tide, the day that signified the first ripened corn, or the first day of the month of August. But June was not yet past, and the corn was still as green as grass.

  Lord Strange and his people counted time only in Slaver months. Nor was any ceremony kept by them at Midsummer. When he asked the lord’s wife she told him in her stiff way, ‘The churls, the simple folk, have many foolish beliefs. They will go out on Midsummer’s Eve to stand beneath an elder tree, or sit within a ring of mushrooms. Perhaps they are hoping to dance with the fae.’

  ‘May I go too?’ he asked, delighted at the idea.

  But she only drew herself up and said, ‘You were sent to us to learn proper ways. We do not observe low customs here.’

  Then Lord Strange came in and sat down at his great oak table, which was as usual spread with pies and pastries. He was looking more pig-like than ever, and as he ate he began to count the cost of Will’s lodging at the tower, and to complain again that the wizard had laid an unlooked for burden upon him. And in that moment Will pitied the greedy, miserly lord and his desolate lady, for she had a heart of ice, and dared not walk in the sun for fear that it would melt.

  ‘It’s time you had your hair cut,’ Lord Strange growled as he lifted up the nearest pie.

  ‘What’s wrong with my hair?’

  ‘Those pigtails you wear befit a girlchild! We shall cut them off!’ He banged the table with his fist.

  ‘They’re braids, not pigtails, and they’re the sign of a man!’

  ‘A man? A man, he says! Not here. Here the sign of a man is a shaven head. Churls wear lousy locks, warr
iors have short hair. Like mine. See?’

  Will looked at the ridge of grey bristles of which Lord Strange seemed so proud. He set himself defiantly. ‘Your soldiers may do your bidding, but I’ll not!’

  ‘Whaaat?’

  ‘Try and cut my hair if you dare. If you do that, Master Gwydion will never take the pig spell off you! Remember what he said – all things come full circle!’

  Sudden rage burst from the Hogshead and he threw down his pie. ‘Is that what he told you? That it’s his spell! I knew as much!’

  ‘I didn’t say that! You only think that because you’re stupid! Stupid as a pig!’

  ‘Come here!’

  Will leapt out of the lord’s reach.

  ‘Come back, you young louse! You shall be made a scullion for your insolence! A scullion, do you hear me? You shall wash pans and pie dishes until you’ve paid for your keep! Come here, I say!’

  But Will escaped the bellowing voice. He dashed from the tower and dived into the forest. And there he ran and ran, and after he had run all the breath and all the bile out of him he lay down in a glade and stared up at the sky. ‘Whatever came over me?’ he asked himself, unable to remember when he had endured such violent feelings of disobedience before. To calm himself he began to listen to the birdsong. He wondered what songs blackbirds dreamed about, and what was the true name of a wren he saw hiding in a holly bush. Perhaps the birds used true names when they sang to one another. He listened hard, trying to fathom their language, but he could not.

  At last he adjusted his ear to the other sound, the one he had once thought of as the malign heartbeat of the forest. It had become so familiar that he usually blanked it out, but now he became aware of it again. This time it sounded deeper and more sinister, and there seemed to be something insistent to it. He followed it, feeling out the direction as best he could, and came to a place where the forest began to thin. This was its margin, where dusty fields stretched out in hot, shimmering brightness to envelop the land beyond Wychwoode. The insistent rhythm was strong here. He felt it in his feet, a low thump-thump-thump that was not a wholesome sound at all, but morbid and relentless. There was something else too, for the air here was no longer green and clean, but tainted by the smell of smoke.