by Greer Gilman
But now, this morrow, was no play, but Ashes’ telling. She must gang to the greenwood, to keep tryst with a—What? A witch? A ghost? A daemon lover? All in silver and sable, fair-faced like the earl of Law. And at the thought, she laughed. Thou greensick girl, thou gowk. To put thyself into a song. And yet imagining his hand on her, imperious—he asked of her no leave—she blushed, as if half naked in a flaw of snow she'd drunk burnt wine. And shivered, hackled down her hause-bane with the thrill of it, ablaze with swallowed sun. Aglow with it and giddy. Drunk: and yet athirst.
Tell me a ship. I would away.
And Ashes turning in a clack of runes: Thy ship's i't forest. Unleaving.
Unfelled?
T'keel's of thy laying. O’ th’ new moon, that will round wi’ travelling. Thy mast's o't tree.
What moon?
As thou may. Thou must til t'greenwood, til t'thorn; and break thou ae branch of it, but ane, and call on—
Ashes? Air.
The birds had wakened, giddying. The night bled pale. She blew her candle out; and with it, all unknowing, she was past. Away like fire into air: but for a waft of honey and a wisp of soul. And in her bed, foreshadowed, unforeseen, another Annot slept, and dreamed her journeying. Long since. And yet to come: the O implicit in the origin, the new moon in the old, infurled; the rounding of the endless ring. Lief wode I fall—forever and again, the seed, root, flowering—an light would spring.
Far far in the greenwood, in the dark leaves of the wood, the owl cried out for her. Two, two eyes. And echoing, the small birds’ plaint: Of tree, of tree, of tree. Forever: yet they bid her haste. No time. She had a tryst with story.
* * * *
Starglass
The child dreams. She is cradled in the moon's lap, who with gnarled hands combs her sleep, undoes the ravels of the hag-rid night. Her sleep is long as wind.
A small voice, like a fire of leaves: She braids o her mother.
And another, like the crackling of frost: Aye, as left hand to this right. And Lightwood?
Of his root.
As wind is braided with the flying leaves, so her sleep with falling stars. They speak through her in tongues of leaf. A braid of birds, she thinks. She's falling upward now, slow-wheeling through a hail of stars. They sain her, touching eyes, heart, mouth.
"Thou wake."
She's lying on the black earth in a drift of light. Looking upward, she sees bare wood and moonless night. No stars. Two cummers huddle on the ground beside her: a dark one, hulked in sooty sheepskins; and another, hung with tatters, like a tree that keeps her wintry leaves. That one bends to her with glinting spectacles; the other raises her with tarnished hands. Moving, this one jangles, like a tree hung with ice. “Time thou was waked."
So light. So strange and light. Her head is starless.
"How—?"
"Thou made thee a trance,” says the leaf-witch.
She does not ask, Where?
"Wood above. Thou's come by unleaving."
She's lost her shoes along the way.
The dark one holds a wooden bowl to her. “Thou drink.” A caudle of new milk. The child drinks deep of it, of dreams. It goes round.
From her lap, the leaf-brown other takes a barleycake, round as the honeyed moon. “Thou eat,” she says, and shares it out. The child takes. It is warm. “Is't bread?"
"A riddle,” says the leaf-witch.
And the dark one: “Barley. Thou break."
And so she does. The bread is hallowing. But in her share is something small and stony-sharp: a ring. A knot of seeds of blood. She turns it over in her hand; she holds it out to them. “I don't..."
"That were thine,” says Brock, the dark witch. “And will be."
"Will you keep it for me?"
"Till I won't,” says leaf-brown Malykorne.
And Brock says, “As I will."
The child looks from one to the other. Malykorne holds out her long hand for the ring. “Mind thee, thou mun come for it."
"Will I know the way?"
"Thou knaws by th’ moon,” says Malykorne. She's pulled a long thread from her ravelled sleeve. Round her finger and her thumb, and in and out, she's wound it in a clew of light; she's done and done. “There's thy journey.” A knot and a sleave, unbraiding starlight. Light as thistledown: she huffs it from her palm.
"Time is,” says Brock. “I'll set thee on.” Jangling, she doffs her coat of skins, and laps the child in it. “Cold in but thy bare soul.” Ah, but colder still in Ashes’ fell, in bone and blood. Stone cold. Then stirring, like a hive in winter; warm and fusty, with a tang of iron like a dying forge. Her blood rings like a new-struck nail. Brock touches the child's brow with her ashy hand. “What do they call thee, lass?"
By no name. “Thou.” Crows’ meat. Hole to fill.
"Thou's left that,” says Malykorne. “Behind thee."
She looks back. Far far behind her is an O, a crow's eye or a cracked bright glass. A world, no bigger than a stone in someone's ring: she scries it in her hand. A child sits reading in a wintry garden, in a whorl of leaves, unfallen, walled about in glassy innocence. No flaw. A bird cries. Margaret? The child looks up; the leaves fall, scattering. Time runs. Unspelled, she spells in them her spring and fall, her journey.
* * * *
Margaret lay amid a brangle of stars: their argument. Unselved: at once the riddle and unraveller, herself the key. But even as she knew the tale of it—so nearly understood—she woke to birdsong, lay bewildered by the light. The east looked down on her, dispassionate, the moon a white jug in its hand.
"Thou's o'erslept thysel,” said Mistress Barbary. “Happen thou's weary, travelling.” She set the jug down by the bedside. “Get thee washed afore it keels."
Rising barefoot and tousled, Margaret made her courtesy.
"Be still wi’ yon bobbery. Thou's not a-guisering.” A shrewd look. “Brought up til it? Well, it won't do here. Folk think it mockery."
A careful nod.
Barbary went on. “Happen as thou's a stranger, thou won't know ways o't hall. Master's Master Grevil. Bartolemy Grevil. He studies—Thy neck—And I keep house for him. Joan Heron's Barbary.” Her arms were full of clothes. She ducked her chin at them. “Thou's gentry, so he'd have it. So thou lies abed i’ feathers. Gets thy water carried up.” She laid down her bundle on the joint stool, unfolded a smock. “And goes t'finer for't. But for a’ that, thou's a chit: so under governance. Thou does what thou's tellt."
Comb in hand. “Madam, at your will and his."
A look, an upward nod.
Bodies and petticoat. The servant shook them out. “His naunt's, these'd be. Sisters out o Lune, they were—oh, ‘twould be forty year agone. Damaris, his mother were, t'awd master's Mistress Grevil, and young Annot.” Stockings. Gown. “'Tis all else mourning.” Fine falling bands, but out of starch; a bitter tang to them, of wormwood. Mistress Barbary pinched the folds. “Outlunish stuff. Still plainer than thy frippery. But I's set thee to furbish it. See thy skill at thy needle."
"Madam, I know not the art of it."
Almost startled. “No? And they says t'fair folk's witches at their needles. Fine as frost.” She took the empty jug. “Dosta want doin up, or owt? No? Quick then. Glass in t'awd mistress's chamber"—the apple room—"if thou mun prink. Breakfast i't kitchen."
At the door, she turned back.
"And what shall we call thee?"
A deep breath. “An't please you, Margaret."
Grave approbation. “A good workday name. Wears well."
* * * *
The maids were all at breakfast, sitting round the table with bowls of porridge and shares of oatcake, mugs of ale. Margaret stood at the sill, combed and braided, very soberly clad. Forlorn. She heard a whisper: “Noll's fey.” A nudge and a titter, a spurt of mirth silenced, like a kettle lid clapped to. At Barbary's nod, they all rose. They turned and bobbed to her, prim as pats of butter. And the little kitchen boy stood up and bowed solemnly, his hand to the hilts of his
ladle.
"Good morn t'ye, lady,” he piped.
Margaret curtsied: measure for measure.
"And the dog said bow-wow,” called the dark girl. A smirk round the table, cut off by Mistress Barbary's glance: butter and knife.
Herself rose and beckoned Margaret to her side. “Here's Master Grevil's ward. She's called Margaret; and by bread and salt, she's o this household."
"Halse ye,” they muttered, round the board.
"Hallows,” said Barbary. “Table's laid for thee.” Horn spoon and wooden bowl. Shyly, Margaret came and sat among them, folding herself small. Scrape and clatter, they took up their knives, and set to with a will. Eyes like shoe-nails. A stithy of tongues. She did as they did: sipped the strange bitter stuff, spooned up the salty mess of porridge. Glanced covertly. Five maids: the sly dark girl and the pale demure one, cheek to chin and whispering; a pair of sonsy country lasses, frankly curious and tucking in, with elbows well squared; and down at the foot of the table, a wispy, bewildered girl, spoon in the air and gazing. Only five. And the kitchen boy. Round as a hedgepig and as rough and dawdling. The swags of green had withered.
Barbary looked round the table. “Cat got yer tongues? Ye clatter quick enough when there's work toward."
Dark deftly licked her spoon. “An we'd cream til our porridge, then cats would have our tongues."
"And welcome,” said Barbary. She becked her chin at the dark girl. “Now then. Yon malapert is Alys Kyteler..."
"Cat Malison to thee."
"And her gossip's Nell Blanchett."
"Hob Ellender."
"Cat's Paw,” said one of the sonsy girls, scornfully. “Always i't cream."
"And here's Will Shanklin's daughters from up Owlriggs.” The country girls. “Nan and Doll."
"Doll Kickpail and Nan Slutswool."
Barbary pointed her knife at Spoon-in-the-Air. “And yon mislaying clashpot is Susannah Hawtrey."
"Morn t'ye,” said the girl, and blushed.
"Sukey Bet Suckathumb."
"Sleeps wi’ a babby."
"Who won't dust i't master's study?"
Awe and trembling assertion. “In his babbyhouse..."
"Thou goslin. ‘Tis a cupboard."
"...there's ghosts."
"Dead things,” said Doll.
"So there's not, nobbut kickshaws,” said Nan. “Won't eat thee."
But, “Mammysuck,” jeered Cat.
"Enough o that, Mistress Lick-Luff-and-Wash-Whiskers.” Barbary turned to the smutchy kitchen boy, round-eyed and agape. “And yon's Will Constant o Seventrees. Wick Billy."
"Cause he's slow."
He bobbed again.
"Shepherd's outwith, and t'men afield. They's nowt o thy concerning. Nor neither thine, Doll Draggletail.” Barbary looked round the table. Bowls scraped and mugs empty. Crumbs.
Nan said, “Is she Mistress, then? Being one o't Grevilry."
"Just Margaret.” But Barbary looked doubtful.
A poor shorn sort of name, said their faces.
Margaret set down her bowl. “...of Nine Law."
Uneasy respect for that, a shadow of awe.
Barbary rose. “Time we was to work. Thou, Margaret. T'master waits on thee. In his closet, he did say. Cat, Ellender, bedmaking. See they's aired. Nan, Doll, cheeses. Hens, Sukey."
Dark and fair caught Margaret by the dresser.
"Here's t'King's daughter o Elfland.” Cat made a pretty leg and Nell a courtesy. They blocked the doors at either end. “My lady Nine Law. Your servants.” All sincerity, caress: but with a sting in it, a spider in the cream. “What's come o yer siller gown? Tousled?"
"Turned arainwebs. Dead leaves."
"And my lady turned Margery Daw."
No getting by.
"Here's a dance. My lord Grevil's Maggot."
"For as many as will."
"Thinkst thou the dance can dance?"
"Wi’ a fiddler afore. Will play on her."
"Thou, Magpie!” A pinch. “Mind thee, I's counted spoons."
"And what if she's prigged them? If she would she may. She's Noll Nuttycrack's toy.” Nell smiled. “Will keep her in's babbyhouse."
"His grasshop that he leashes wi’ a silken hair."
"His bait. For t'pike to snap at."
No rise.
"Dost knaw Noll Grevil, what he is?” said Nell to Margaret.
Silence.
"He's a man-witch. Will learn thee to talk."
"Will slit thy tongue."
* * * *
Margaret was sent up as garnish to a dish of marrowbones and a leathern jug of ale. Barbary led her through the hall and a wainscot parlor, beeswaxed and a little wormy, up a doglegged stair. She knocked with her elbow. “Here's breakfast and t'lass."
A little panelled room, low-ceilinged, looking out on ghostly trees. All white: she could not tell what was flower, and what fog. Master Grevil sat writing in a jackdaw's nest of ink and papers, book on open book. He wore a sober suit of mole-gray and nutgall brown, with many buttons; his linen very plain and fine. There was a little creature like a plume of fire on his shoulder, tuft-eared and pinchfaced; absently he fed it bits of crumb with inky fingers. His daemon? As he rose and bowed to her curtsey, it rode him, chittering and scolding. He glanced at Margaret's quenched and braided sobriety, and sighed. From a green child to a greensick girl.
"Hempen hampen! Is the imp not vanished with her suit of clothes?"
"We do stay her with cream,” said Barbary. “Would you set her at brewing? At spinning?"
"Neither as yet. You may leave us."
"You'll be wanting more candles?"
"Anon."
He beckoned Margaret forward. Wary of the scolding imp, she came a step or two, and stood with downcast eyes that missed nothing. Books. Hundreds at least. What titles? Crusts and bones. An ape-headed cittern. A flute. Nutshells. Lees of wine. His table was covered with long folios and odd scraps of paper, written over in a thorny hand: scrawls, blotches, crossings-out. A drawing. Stars?
He saw, in her still face, her sidelong gaze. “The Nine."
"Please you, sir?"
"The stones. Where I found you, on Law. We do call them Nine Weaving, or Fiddler and Hey."
The sky below. “Are they always there?"
She'd puzzled him. “Before this hall. Before this world, I doubt. Do stones walk?"
Are the stars made earthfast? But she spoke no answer.
He began again, as dancers in a set dishevelled, on the proper foot. “You slept well? And have broken your fast? I would have you comfortably bestowed."
"Well. I thank you, sir."
"You may call me Grevil. I am master here. Low Askwith Hall.” A hesitation. “Cloud."
Again she made her courtesy. “Master Grevil."
"Have you a name?"
"Margaret, sir."
"No other? Of what birth?"
"None."
"What? Did you grow like missel, in the air?"
"Like stone, I think, sir. In the earth."
"A cold lap for a nurse,” he said. Took up a stone from a heap of writings; set it down. “Yet flowers spring of it.” And again, that rueful measure in his voice: “That legion of the grass that withers, all untold.” He looked at Margaret. “So, Mistress Mouldwarp. I would hear your traveller's tale, your history of dark. Are there manors then beneath our wandering sheep? And courtiers of chrysoprase? Are all their midwives miners? For my nurse did say ‘twas all a maze of gallantry, of music and of light."
She thought of the cracked virginals, the scuttling dark; but answered gravely. “None that I have heard."
"Are you not of that quality? Those folk that we call Unleaving?"
Her turn to startle. “Unleaving? Is that not a country of the air? The Wood Above?"
"Aye, those northern stars about the Ship that never set.” He turned the outward of his hand to her, to show his ring. “Of old, my family took it as device: the Ship and Tree, whose ever-autumn is the sky. Tha
t fair folk live about its roots, ‘tis written in philosophy. They fleet as do its leaves the stars."
"But I am none of theirs."
"I see,” he said regretfully. “By daylight, you are someways earthier than first I saw, of none such subtle stuff. You breathe.” A sideways smile. “Mistress Barbary will have it that you sneeze."
He shuffled through his papers, held one out. More drawings. “Grey Wethers at Askrigg.” Another. “Long Meg and her Daughters at Imber Lap.” She studied them.
"What think you?"
"As images? Most curious."
"But of the stones?"
"I know not."
"Some say they dance at Ninerise, when they hear the fiddler. And others, that when stones hear, they may dance. ‘Tis said they are foxcastles, strongholds of a greener world. I think—I think they are knots between this world and another. Here. There. And one long seam, the Lyke Road, that we all must walk.” He traced it with a finger; looked sidelong at Margaret. “But few of us backward."
She bent still closer to the leaves of drawings. “Sir. Here, where ‘tis written Scar Fell, what place is that?"
"You can read?"
As if he'd asked, Can you breathe? “And cipher."
"Can you write?” He pulled up a lionheaded chair, set a half-scrawled leaf in front of her, found and mended a pen. “Copy that."
She bent to her task. Qu'y: Whether Earthfasts at Tinding bee of lunish Stone or no?
"An antick character,” he said, bemused. “Where...?” He caught himself.
"Sir?"
Turning to the window, he looked out. “'Tis a history,” he said, “of Cloud its ancientry, high Cloud. There are remnants of it, that in custom and in vulgar memory, the common tongue, yet live.” Still his back to her, his arm raised to the windowframe, his brow to the glass. “A kind of monument."
"A book?” He turned round at her voice. Her face now one astonishment. “You've made a book?” As if he'd said, I wrote this tree.
Pink to the ears now. “Pieces of one. That is, ‘tis matter for a book...” He gestured at the table, helplessly. “...but in a sort dispersed."
