“Did I ever tell you,” said Ecgbryt, “of the fight we had with the Danes off the Isle of Wight? A glorious battle! I arrived in one of the nine new ships built in the Northman’s fashion that ?lfred ordered built, along with many of the Frisian warriors that fought with us on that occasion. Have I ever told you about the fearsome Frisians? Are they still as famed in this day as they were in ours? I remember a ballad about them that starts thus . . .”
Ecgbryt recited his ballad and then continued his long monologue about his battle and almost every ballad he knew relating to it. It soothed them all to listen, and Ecgbryt to talk. When he stopped they took a break to rest, and that’s when Daniel, moving away from the torchlight to relieve himself, noticed a light shining up ahead.
“Does anybody else see that?” he asked.
“I think that it’s on top of something,” Freya said. “I think that there’s a hill up ahead.”
They had been walking an upward slope after having journeyed quite a long way down into the dry lake bed. “No, not a hill,” Ecgbryt said. “Not a hill exactly-it’s an island!”
2
The weary travelers circled the dry island to find an easy way up that didn’t involve scaling sharp rocks and boulders. The ground underfoot crunched and shifted as they came upon a stretch of land made up of loose stones and gravel. In their own torchlight, they could see that this created a kind of ramp-like path up towards the island. “It’s a beach,” Freya said, laughing slightly. “Or at least, it used to be.”
They mounted the top of the ramp on an ascent of fine, powdery sand. The light was stronger and grew from a point just below a small rise.
“Shh!” hissed Daniel. “Listen!”
They all heard the singing now; many voices in chorus- melodic, but indistinct. It sounded strange to them, after all this time of walking in the silent dark, but there it was. They proceeded up the rise, alert, ready for nearly anything.
But they weren’t prepared for the smell. It was a homely smell of warm food and wood smoke-some sort of stew, at a guess. The singing had given way to an amiable chatter. The travelers rounded the mound, drawing closer, and Freya immediately wondered if it might all be some sort of illusion meant to confuse them, for as they came around the base of the mound, they saw a group of people sitting around a large fire, their hands moving vigorously in industrious work.
Creeping closer, Freya counted eight women, all of them ancient, sitting in a circle around a modest campfire, working on a long piece of grey patterned cloth spread across their laps. At one end, two old ladies worked spinning machines-turning a large pile of thin, wispy material into spools of thread, which were placed onto a loom that was operated by two others. This loom spewed a fine fabric from its top that was gathered by another who stretched and pulled the cloth. The cloth then crossed the laps of two other women, who placed the woven fabric into large embroidery frames where they added borders of an elaborate swirling pattern. The finished cloth then entered a large stack of long rolls that were piled behind the group. Because of the darkness, Freya couldn’t make out how many rolls of cloth there were, but she had the impression of quite a large number, as its production had apparently been going on for some time.
The last old lady flitted around the others to help-toting spools to the loom, fixing the frames in different places, and doing whatever else needed doing. She also paused occasionally to stir the large pot on the fire at the centre of the circle.
Freya and Daniel and the knights watched in silence for a few moments and then entered the circle of light cast by the fire. They stood between the weaving machine and the embroiderers. Freya felt a tingle of anticipation as she drew breath to speak.
“Hello,” she said.
All of them continued, oblivious, except for the old woman at the large pot. She stopped stirring and turned towards them. “Well, hello there, sweet child,” she replied. “Where did you spring from?”
“Um, we’ve been traveling. We saw the light and came here.
We thought you might be able to help us.”
“Who’s ‘us,’ deary? Who is ‘we’?”
“My friends and I. We-oh!”
The old woman tilted her face so that the light from the fire fell on it more directly. Her eye sockets were empty and puckered- blind. Glancing quickly at the others, she could see that all of the women were blind. Haltingly, nervously, Freya introduced herself and the rest of the group to the weaving women.
“Very pleased to meet you, I’m sure,” said the old lady. “Now, I must ask you an important question. Think carefully before you answer: would you or would you not like to have some good, hot stew?”
Freya grinned. “Yes, please,” she said.
“I can hear your smile,” the old woman said. “I daresay you have answered correctly. Come then, all of you. Come get some eats!”
“Freya,” Daniel whispered, “I’m not sure that we should.” He looked cautiously around at the group of ladies. Although they had not stopped working, it was obvious that they were all paying attention to what was going on. “Not until we find out-you know-if they can be trusted or not.”
“Young boy-Daniel, is it? What is there to worry about? Why not trust us? What reason is there for suspicion?”
“Well, for a start, you know my name. Who are you, and what are you doing here?” he asked.
“Weaving, my dear, weaving.”
“Why?”
“There must always be weavers-and gatherers, and combers, and spinners as well. It is the way of humanity. The first thing that man understood when he knew things as God knew them was that there must be weaving. And so here we are. We weave.”
“But-what is it?”
The old woman smiled, showing a full mouth of healthy white teeth. “All the known and unknown stories of the world may be told through our tapestry. We roll up the past, weave the present, and spin the strands of the future. It’s all one to us.”
“But you can’t see,” Daniel blurted.
The old woman waved a wrinkled hand. “Don’t need to bother with that no more. Gets in the way more often than not. All we have to do is feel and then move our hands. Now, are you satisfied enough to chance a taste of my stew?”
“I would,” said Ecgbryt, pushing his way into the circle.
“As would I,” said Swi?gar behind him, “and thank you for your generosity.”
Daniel said nothing but followed the knights and Freya and stood in front of the big pot. Smiling, the old lady gathered up some clay bowls and spoons that were lying on a low stone table nearby.
“My, you’re a strong thread, aren’t you? You and the girl both. Such a shame though . . .”
“What?”
“Well, in tough times, when the fabric wears thin and weaker threads break, the stronger threads have to pick up the slack.”
Daniel frowned as he was handed a bowl of steaming stew.
“So, can you predict the future?” Freya asked. “Because of your weaving?”
“Oh no,” said the woman. “None see the future. But when you’ve lived as long as I, you get to know the pattern. All the threads follow their own paths, but each is affected by those around them. Each strand is small in itself, but all are great together. A very many threads seen together will give you a pattern or a shape, but even that will only be small in the larger work.” She spooned up another bowl and passed it to Freya. “The threads go here and there and make all manner of twists and turns, but it is always to a purpose, though it may not seem that way to the thread. To the thread all that happens feels accidental, but those as sees more, knows better.”
“So the threads can’t decide where they go? Or choose what part of pattern they’re in?”
“No, of course not,” said the woman lightly. “How could they?
They’re only threads, not people.” She handed the last bowls to Swi?gar and Ecgbryt.
None of the other weavers had stopped working during this exchange. Freya eyed the rolls
of fabric. “How long have you been here?” she asked.
“Oh, year unknown upon year innumerable,” came the reply.
“Have you ever tried to leave?”
“Where is there to go?”
“Where do you get the stuff to weave with?” asked Daniel.
“Worms. Little worms. We are provided for. We don’t ask for much. Even the meat for the stew comes to us freely.”
Luckily, Daniel and Freya had already eaten a couple mouthfuls of the chunky broth and it tasted good enough to keep them from imagining what they were eating. Whatever it was, it tasted so incredibly good that they didn’t want to stop eating. The warmth of the food started in their stomachs and spread to their arms and legs.
“Yes, all manner of things that you wouldn’t dream of managin’ to fetch up here,” the old woman continued. “You could hardly credit it. All sorts of unimaginable persons and beasts and creatures . . .” Her voice was starting to drone. Daniel’s and Freya’s hands felt hot and heavy and a couple of sizes too big. Daniel felt himself rocking backwards as Freya began tilting forwards. She wondered if she should stop herself falling asleep but couldn’t think of a reason why. It would feel so nice to lie down on the floor and rest.
As Daniel quietly collapsed, he managed to loll his head around to look at Swi?gar and Ecgbryt. They were still awake, but obliviously spooning stew into their mouths. Daniel’s eyes closed-or at least he thought that they did. He felt himself spinning downwards even though he knew he wasn’t moving, and he slept.
3
Freya woke up with a start. The first thing she was aware of was an odd rhythmic pounding sensation that went through her skull. It took her a few seconds to discover that the pounding was coming from outside her head rather than from the inside. Then she was able to discern chanting above the pounding. The ladies were reciting a work-song. They punctuated its melodic style with stamps of their feet and scrapes and clacks of whatever machine or tool they were using.
“A Brownie takes milk,
takes milk,
Takes milk.
A Brownie takes milk, takes milk.
“Oh, a child will do for a Faerie or Elf,
A Pixie, or Kobold, or Hob.
They will bear it away, to their home in the hills,
And replace it with a small changeling sprite.
But they cannot bide iron, so make you a crib
Out of oak-with nine strong four-inch nails.
And hang up a horseshoe over window and door,
And the imps will as like pass you by,
Wist I,
That the imps will as like pass you by.
“But a Brownie takes milk, will take milk.
Only milk.
Yes, a Brownie takes milk; it takes milk.
“A Troll will want teeth, but will settle for toenails
By the bushel, the yard, or the pound.
And a Giant wants bones he can grind into meal
To make bread for his mother to eat.
Though these beasts are enormous, you will find them
quite slow
At a riddle, a sonnet, or verse.
“They will tear out their hair and will scratch up their face,
But an answer they will give you none, not one!
No, an answer they can give you none.
“And a Brownie will only take milk.
Ever milk.
Yes, a Brownie will only take milk.
“A Dragon wants gold it can put in a pile-
Something to stack and to count.
It may take a maiden, a sheep, or a cow
To assuage it and soothe its fierce greed.
It will give you confusion and fire and doubt,
For its forked tongue spouts flame and deceit.
You can kill it with courage and with valor and steel
But its treasure will not bring you health, Or wealth.
No, its treasure will not bring you health.
“But a Brownie will only take milk
From a mother;
From a mother the Brownie takes milk.
There are others like Ghouls and Zombies and Wights,
Who desire your flesh and your skin.
And the merfolk: the Nyads, the Kelpie, and such,
Are jealous of all mortal souls,
“Much like Bog Sprites and Will o’ the Wisps
Who will lead you astray unto death.
They do not have reason or morals, just wit,
So ignore them, and let them pass by, Oh, aye, Just ignore them and they’ll pass you by.
“But a Brownie will only take milk
From a mother
That she uses to suckle her child.
“For a Brownie is patient, and a Brownie is sly-
And no matter how the baby does wriggle or cry-
The Brownie will hide and will watch and drink milk,
And will wait for the poor bairn to die.
So place you some buttermilk fresh from the churn
In a dish by the back kitchen door.
Do this every morning and once Sunday evening
And the Brownie will not grieve you more,
No more, Leave some milk from the churn on the floor.
“For a Brownie takes milk, will take milk.
Does take milk.
Yes, a Brownie takes milk; it takes milk.”
The weaving ladies stopped singing at this last, haunting verse, but continued moving their tools and stomping in time.
“What was that?” Freya asked weakly, sitting up. She had been placed on a pile of animal skins and furs. Her head was swimming slightly and her stomach felt queasy.
“You’re up, deary,” said the woman at the pot. On second glance, she seemed different from the one who had given them the stew, but it was hard to tell.
“You have quick blood,” said the lady as she hobbled blindly towards her. “Here, chew this.” From the folds in her clothes she produced a kind of twisty, stick-like thing about the size of a toothbrush.
“What is it?”
“Birch bark steeped in ginger. It will still your head and stomach. Go on, take it. Take it. You are safe here. The rest did you good, just as it is doing good to your friends there.”
Freya moved her head and saw Daniel and the two knights stretched out beside her, also on skins and furs. They looked peaceful enough. Daniel was curled up on his side and Ecgbryt was snoring. She turned back to the old lady and felt a wave of nausea at the movement. She reached out and took the stick of bark from the woman and stuck it between her teeth.
“Let me help you up,” said the lady. “Try to move around. Take this.” The woman draped a soft, silky shawl over Freya’s shoulders and got her to stand. She directed her towards the fire.
“Quick blood,” repeated the woman. “First down, but first up. Fast thoughts and quick judgments. The waters may appear still on top, but there are faster currents underneath, eh?”
“Are you talking about me?”
“Perhaps not so fast then. Allow me to say to you that it does our hearts good to see one of our sisters on a business such as this-does us all good. Wars are unavoidable-some of them are inevitable-but the real business of life is a woman’s business.”
Freya was still very groggy and her head felt muzzy. She wasn’t taking in much of what the old woman was saying.
“But men always forget that, the dear sweet idiots. Love to fight, bless them, but they too often forget what they’re fighting for. Need one of us to remind them of it, on occasion. One that will make them heed. One to make those who lead go someplace, and one to make those who won’t be led to follow.”
“Are you talking about me?” Freya asked again, starting to feel better. The odd stick was doing its work and settling her system.
“Ah, a little swifter now, eh? Let’s walk. Take my arm.”
They moved away from the camp, Freya guiding the older woman and supporting her by the arm. “So you think I can do
this quest sort of thing?” Freya asked when they had crested a ridge and the light from the camp was a pale glow behind them.
“My sweet, you were made for it.”
“Made for it? So do I have a choice?”
“It’s who you are, my dear. You can reject it, but you can’t change it.”
The old lady was silent for a time, which allowed Freya to think about this.
“In your way,” the woman eventually continued, “you are rarer than any of the others. There will always be fighters-lots of fighters. But not many will be able to do what you will be asked to do. The decisions you will face will affect many, many people.”
“Huh. You know,” Freya began thoughtfully, “back on the surface, where I live, it feels like a lot of people think women aren’t as good as men-like we aren’t equal.”
“Of course we aren’t equal, my dear one. We’re much better than they are.”
Freya laughed.
“That was not really in earnest, and also not true. Equal doesn’t really enter into it-we will never be equal because there are too many differences. But we’re the real doers-the real makers. Men work the fields, hunt the animals, and we make the food and cook the meat. They raise the flocks, and we make the clothes.
They provide the house, and we make a home-the children, the family. All the fruits of man’s labor on earth must pass through our hands.”
Freya twirled the stick between her lips. “All the wars,” the woman went on, “all the kickin’ and thumpin’ that’s been done has all been on our account as to make a space for us to do our work. All the kingdoms and walls as has been made has been made to protect us-what’s worth protectin’.”
There was a pause and when the old woman spoke again, her voice was lower and colder. “An evil has been building on these shores for some hundreds of years. It’s been growing all around and creeping in at the edges, slowly like, so that none would notice at once-and when they did notice, they would be used to it, like. There’s many a true heart up there that should be burning hot and bright, but because of the darkness and decay, it is dim and hardly gives a light at all. Us blind weavers may not be able to see with our eyes, but we know how dark the tapestry we’re weaving has become. A whole island . . . fallen asleep . . . not knowin’ it’s bein’ sucked into the mire. The world has always carried sickness inside of it, but it is falling into a swoon . . .”
The Realms Thereunder aet-1 Page 27
