The Tale of Cuckoo Brow Wood

by ALBERT, SUSAN WITTIG

  It was a thought that made the goose bumps rise on Caroline’s arms. When she had suggested today’s fairy-hunting adventure, it had been as a lark, really, a sort of playacting that might take Deirdre’s mind off her troubles. Now, she had her own reason for going. Her grandmother had asked her what she intended to do that afternoon, and she had answered truthfully: she and Jeremy and Deirdre—the girl who helped at the Suttons’—were going to walk into Cuckoo Brow Wood.

  But Grandmama, who could sometimes be cruelly imperative, had ordered her to stay home. “It’s time you began behaving like a young lady,” she said with a scowl. “Young ladies don’t go wandering through the woods with dirty village urchins. You are to stay in your room and read or work on your embroidery.”

  Caroline had a willful streak and occasionally did things she knew her grandmother wouldn’t approve, but this was the first time she had ever disobeyed a direct order. She couldn’t quite explain why, but going into the woods today—and on May Eve, if she could somehow manage it—had become very important. The longer she thought about it, the more it seemed that these mysterious woods were full of hidden secrets begging to be uncovered and age-old tales longing to be heard. There were no rules in the woods, and it was not a place where ladies went. And now that the rest of the world had vanished into the mists behind them, there was nothing to do but go in search of the secrets, and nowhere to go but straight ahead, following the little dog who seemed so full of confident authority, as though he were carrying a map in his head.

  For a short distance, the path had slanted up through an open woods that had the look of a magical garden, so graceful were the larches and willows just going green over their heads and the yellow catkins swinging blithely on the hazels. The narrow path was bordered by delightful spring flowers, cowslips and bluebonnets and nodding harebells, anemones and wild hyacinths and wood spurge, with its red stalks and pale green flowers. In the brighter places, where the spring sun had been able to reach down and stroke the earth, there was heather and bilberry and Jack-by-the-hedge and white stitchwort, which was also called milk maids, and in the boggy places, beds of bitter cress and thick mounds of marsh violets. A little deeper into the shadow of the woods, the green banks were hung with fronds of Hart’s tongue and oak fern, with Herb Robert and ivy-leaved toadflax in flower, with here and there the tidy blooms of white dead nettle. And all around them and over their heads sang the birds, as if they were very glad to have the children’s company in this lovely wood on this gray, misty day: thrushes and chaffinches and robins and the cheery cuckoo, the harbinger of spring.

  But as they climbed higher and deeper into the woods, they left the birds behind. The path grew narrower and darker, for the branches of the fir trees were interlocked overhead, arching together like the wooden ribs of a great cathedral, so that the sunlight, if there had been any, which there wasn’t, was entirely shut out. It was chilly here, and even mistier and more mysterious, for the tree trunks were gnarled and twisted, the forest floor was thickly blanketed with brown leaves and needles, and here and there heaps of rocks and clumps of fern emerged out of the mist and then vanished into it again, as if by magic, so that one never quite knew whether one had seen them or not, or whether they were real or imagined. There were odd rustlings, too, and whisperings and scufflings, and shapes that slipped warily from behind trees or rocks or out of holes in the ground, shapes with ears and eyes that stared unblinking as the children passed. Without the sun there were no shadows, and without shadows, it was impossible to tell what time it was, or how long they had been walking, or which was east, west, north, or south. There were only two directions, uphill (the way they were taking) and downhill (the way they had been), and the path had now become so indistinct that it was impossible to tell whether they were actually walking on it or not. Caroline certainly hoped that Rascal, who was trotting some distance ahead of them, knew where he meant to go, for she certainly didn’t.

  Rascal, for his part, knew exactly where he was going. For one thing, he was confident in Bosworth’s map, which he had got by heart, and while the path did not always branch or climb or dip exactly as he expected, it was still taking them in the general direction of Fern Vale Tarn. For another thing, his nose was a great deal keener than any of the children’s noses, and for the past several hundred yards, as the three of them labored up a particularly steep bit of hill, he had been ranging quite a distance ahead, lured on by the earthy, exhilarating smell of a lake filled with frogs and tadpoles and water lily pads and decaying ferns and surrounded by fine, damp moss. He couldn’t see it yet, but his nose told him it was somewhere up ahead, and if there was anything in this world that Rascal could trust, it was his nose, which always told him the truth.

  And then the path reached the top of a particularly steep place, hesitated, and then plunged down so precipitously that Rascal went right over the brink, tumbling over and over, nose over stubby tail. He barely had time to bark a startled “Watch your step!” to the children behind him before he landed on a thick pillow of green moss.

  Rascal sat up, rubbed his nose, and checked all four legs to make sure that nothing was broken. Then he gave another warning bark—“Watch your step, I say!”—and looked around. He was sitting on a mossy cushion, among the roots of a very large oak tree that spread itself like a green umbrella over a green glade ringed with wood anemones and primulas, their scent intoxicatingly sweet. At the farthest edge of the glade lay a small lake, its surface as smooth and green as a sheet of green glass. It was draped in mist and rimmed with emerald ferns, and the very air itself seemed to shimmer with a green radiance. There was no breeze and everything was very quiet, as if the trees and the lake and the grass and the flowers were all transfixed in the silence of a deep and timeless enchantment. Rascal knew beyond a doubt that they had reached Fern Vale Tarn. And if Bosworth Badger’s grandfather was right, this was the site of the Oak Folk village!

  There was a rustle of foliage at the top of the path, and Jeremy peered over. “I think we’re here,” he said over his shoulder, “but do be careful. There’s quite a drop on the other side.” He clambered carefully down the steep incline, holding on to tree roots and branches, and arrived, breathless and awed, next to Rascal. A moment later, in a shower of pebbles and leaves, the girls had climbed down, too.

  “I don’t believe it,” whispered Caroline, sitting beside Jeremy and looking around.

  “Oh, don’t say that, Caroline,” Deirdre begged. “They’ll hear, and think you’re speakin’ of them.”

  “She doesn’t mean it that way,” Jeremy pointed out. “She means—”

  “I know what she means,” Deirdre replied. “But they don’t, do they? If they think we don’t believe, the magic won’t work. Personally, I’m going to believe just as hard as I can.” She narrowed her eyes and screwed up her mouth to demonstrate how hard she was believing. “This is an enchanted place, and everything here is magic, and—”

  “Listen!” Caroline said suddenly. “Is that music?”

  And then they heard, as if it were drifting from far away or long ago, the sound of violins, high and sweet, floating eerily through the green air. And with the music the feeling of magic grew, until Caroline was almost afraid to speak or even to breathe, for fear of shattering its fragile beauty.

  But Deirdre wasn’t, of course. “Sure and it’s music,” she said, her eyes popping open. “It’s the fairies singin’! I told you so! They’re here! They’re all around us. It’s an enchantment!”

  Jeremy chuckled. “Those aren’t fairies, they’re violins. It’s the party at Raven Hall we’re hearing.” He pointed. “If I’m not mistaken, the Kittredges’ manor house is just on the other side of the lake.”

  “Raven Hall?” Caroline asked uncertainly.

  “Of course,” Jeremy said. “We climbed up through the west side of Cuckoo Brow Wood. Raven Hall is at the top, and on the other side is the lake.” He looked at them. “You’ve heard the story of the Raven Hall Luck?”
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  Caroline frowned. “Does it have anything to do with Mrs. Kittredge? She’s the one the villagers like to call a witch.”

  “What kind of luck is it?” Deirdre asked. “Good luck? Bad luck?”

  “Not that kind of luck at all,” Jeremy said. “The Luck is what they call it. It’s a big glass cup, like a goblet or something, and it doesn’t have anything to do with Mrs. Kittredge. The fairies gave it to the Kittredge family a long time ago. As long as the Luck remains unbroken, the Kittredges are supposed to have good fortune.”

  “The fairies!” Deirdre exclaimed excitedly. “Then we must be in the right place!” And with that, she scrambled off the mossy hummock and began to poke through the ferns and flowers that bordered the little glade.

  “What are you looking for, exactly?” Caroline asked, glancing around. She herself was content just to sit and take it all in, the mysterious green light, the overhanging tree with its huge, twisted roots, the grass, the lake.

  “I don’t know,” Deirdre said. “I’ll know when I see it. I—” She broke off suddenly, pointing. “Look!” she said, in a hushed, breathless tone. “On that tree. A piece of paper!”

  Caroline felt a prickle of apprehension run across her shoulders and down her arms. “Is it a NO TRESPASSING notice?” she asked worriedly. That wasn’t what it looked like—most NO TRESPASSING warnings were in big, bold letters, and said things like TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED TO THE FULLEST EXTENT OF THE LAW. But what else could it be?

  Jeremy scrambled to his feet and went to the tree. “It looks like a note!”

  And that’s exactly what it was, folded in half and pinned to the trunk of a very large, very old tree with a very small, very sharp silver knife, about the size of a bird’s wing feather.

  Jeremy pulled out the knife and turned it in his hands. “It’s too small to be of much use,” he said. “I wonder—”

  “It’s a fairy knife!” Deirdre cried in triumph. “Read the note, Jeremy!”

  “Yes, read it!” Rascal yipped, as excited as the children.

  Caroline watched nervously as Jeremy examined the folded paper. “It’s addressed to us,” he said in a strange voice. He held it up. “See? Here, on the outside. ‘To Jeremy, Caroline, and Deirdre.’ ”

  “To us!” Deirdre cried. “To us!”

  “But not to me?” Rascal asked, disappointed. That was just the way, wasn’t it? Dogs never got the respect they deserved.

  “To . . . us?” Caroline whispered, feeling that it was very uncomfortable and even frightening to have come so far through the wood, not knowing where in the world you were going, and then to find a piece of paper with your name on it, pinned to a tree. “But that’s impossible! How could anyone know—” She looked at Jeremy, her eyes wide. “Did you know we were coming here?”

  “No, I didn’t,” Jeremy replied, shaking his head, obviously puzzled. “I don’t even know where here is.” He frowned at her. “Did you?”

  “Of course not,” Caroline retorted. “How could I? I’m not allowed out of the garden.” She frowned at Deirdre. “You did it,” she said accusingly. “You put the note here, to make us think of fairies.”

  “Nonsense,” Deirdre snapped. “I did no such thing. How could I? I’ve never been in this place before.” She turned urgently to Jeremy, her hands clasped. “Oh, don’t be such a slow coach, Jeremy! What does the note say? Is it a guide to buried treasure? Or maybe it tells us how to do magic!”

  Jeremy unfolded the paper. “It’s a riddle.”

  “A riddle?” Caroline was dumbfounded. Of all the things that might have been on that paper, a riddle was the very last thing she would have guessed.

  Jeremy frowned. “Well, I think it’s a riddle. But maybe . . .” His voice trailed off.

  “A riddle!” Deirdre exclaimed, and laughed. “Well, I call that jolly, I do! Is it about magic? Read it, Jeremy!”

  Jeremy took a deep breath and began to read:

  Half of one, half of other,

  Daughter of father, son of mother,

  Behind the beech, under the oak,

  Many fair and merry folk,

  All around but changing form,

  Here a blossom, there a thorn,

  Tall or short, thick or thin,

  Guess the shape we are in.

  There was a silence. Then, “Half of one, half of other?” Caroline managed at last, between numbed lips.

  “Precisely!” Rascal yipped. “A dwelf is half a dwarf, half an elf!”

  Deirdre’s eyes were as round as teacups. “Guess the shape WHO are in?”

  “ ‘Many fair and merry folk,’ ” Jeremy said. “That must be who.” He paused. “There’s a P.S. It says ‘Come on May Eve, and maybe we’ll be here, too.’ ”

  “Maybe we’ll be here?” Caroline repeated, disappointed. “That doesn’t tell us anything.”

  “Of course it does, you silly goose!” Deirdre crowed, flapping her arms. “It tells us—”

  “It tells us that somebody knew we were going to be here this afternoon,” Jeremy interrupted. He looked sternly from Deirdre to Caroline. “All right. Which of you is responsible for this?”

  Deirdre stamped her foot. “Neither of us is responsible,” she cried, hands on hips, her chin thrust forward. “Can’t you see? Why are you actin’ so thick, the both of you? It’s the fairies! Fairies know everything. They knew our names, and they knew we were coming, and they knew why. And what’s more, they’re inviting us to come back on May Eve. To come back here.” She dropped her voice to a dramatic whisper. “This place is magic. Don’t you feel it?”

  And then they all fell silent, because they could all feel it, even Rascal. And if they had wanted or needed evidence of fairy magic, Jeremy held it in his hand. The riddle that shouldn’t have been there, especially with their names on it, because nobody knew that they would be in this enchanted glade. The tiny silver knife that had pinned the paper to the oak tree, the violins’ intoxicating melody shivering through the air, the lake and trees and ferns as silent and immobile as if no breath of air, no breeze, had ever stirred them—it was all fairy, all enchantment, and all completely unbelievable.

  Caroline was the first to speak. “Well,” she said breathlessly, and found that she needed to clear her throat. She tried again, steadying her voice. “I suppose this is the place we should come on May Eve, then.” Although she had no idea how she was going to get out of the house.

  “Of course it is,” Deirdre said firmly. “We need to be here just at twilight.”

  Jeremy hesitated. “It won’t take long,” he said finally, “now that we know the way. But we can’t plan on the moon to light our way home. I’ll bring Aunt Jane’s bicycle lantern.”

  And then even Caroline had to give in. “I suppose we should leave our herbs,” she said, laying her bunch at the foot of the tallest oak. “As a present.”

  “Exactly,” said Deirdre, following suit. “That way, the fairies will know we believe in them.” She looked up at the tree and raised her voice. “Whatever shape you’re in.”

  “And I suppose,” Jeremy said, “that we should leave the knife, too.”

  “Yes,” Caroline said. “Let’s put it back in the tree, where we found it.”

  “No,” Deirdre said. “Let’s hide it under the tree, and see whether the fairies can find it. As a kind of test, I mean.” So, since that seemed a reasonable sort of thing to do, they did it.

  And then, as if by magic, the clouds parted, the sun came out, and flooded the little green glade with its welcome light. And on an oak tree, over their heads, a red squirrel with a perky tail began to chatter excitedly. A moment later, he was joined by two others.

  The trio watched as the children and the dog climbed up the embankment and set off down the path through Cuckoo Brow Wood.

  21

  “She’s Destroyed the Luck!”

  At Raven Hall, a shocked hush fell on the guests as everyone craned their necks to see what had caused the tremendous crash. The e
ntire gathering was silent for what seemed a full minute, every person frozen in place, every breath held, even the musicians ceasing to play—until Lady Longford spoke, in a voice that was heard round the room.

  “She’s dropped it!” she exclaimed shrilly. “She’s destroyed the Luck!”

  That broke the spell. Beatrix pulled in her breath, everyone stirred, the musicians picked up the tune where they had left off, and the room buzzed with the hubbub of hushed voices.

  The major, showing great presence of mind, strode over and put his arm around his wife’s shoulders. “Thank God,” he said in a hearty voice that rang above the others. “Rid of that ugly goblet at last! Well done, my dear. Well done!”

  Mrs. Kittredge buried her face in her husband’s shoulder. “I really am very sorry,” she said, in a barely audible voice. “It . . . it was heavier than I thought, and—”

  “The fault was mine and mine alone, Major,” said Mr. Thexton, sweeping a gallant bow. “Your wife is entirely innocent. I did not have my hands firmly on the Luck when it so tragically fell. I mourn the loss. I am heartsick, I am devastated.” He bowed to the major’s wife. “Mrs. Kittredge, I humbly pray that you will allow me to call upon you and express my further—”

  “I’ll not have another word,” the major said firmly. “The Luck is of no consequence at all, in my opinion. Nothing but an ugly old bit of glass with a silly legend attached to it.”

  “But I insist, sir,” Mr. Thexton said. He put out his hand. “My dear Mrs. Kittredge, pray do allow me to call on you privately and extend my—”

  “No more apologies, please.” The major nodded to a servant to clean up the shards of glass, and turned back to his wife. “Come, Diana. Let me get you a glass of champagne.”

  He led her away, leaving Mr. Thexton to swallow his unfinished sentence, but not before Beatrix had noticed a glance thrown at him by Mrs. Kittredge, a glance of pleading, and almost certainly of fear. Mr. Thexton, Beatrix saw, had a very odd gleam in his eye.