Upon returning from his mission the Dainnan had searched for Imrhien and the Ertishman—they had remained longer in the mines than he had reckoned, and since the underground ways led to many openings, he had suspected they had taken a wrong turning. While seeking them, he had first encountered Roland Trenowyn, whose beasts had strayed far. He had helped the farmer drive them home, and on their way they had encountered Janet.
Diarmid questioned Thorn about his unexpected errand in answer to the call of the Dainnan horn.
“It was Flint of the Third Thriesniun who sounded that call,” replied the Dainnan. “He and a scouting party found themselves in dire peril, caused indirectly by certain wights who dwell beneath the ground. What do you know of the Fridean?”
“I know plenty,” put in Trenowyn. “Doundelding is as riddled as a worm’s nest with underground tunnels and caves. The Fridean delve them, as they are wont to delve beneath many remote regions of Erith. He who stands above Fridean diggings might betimes catch their music rising from beneath his feet. He who unwisely lingers above Fridean diggings when a boulder falls nearby might well find himself undermined. For the Fridean do not delve with accuracy in the manner of eldritch miners. My friends the knockers shore up the walls of their tunnels and secure the ceilings with crossbeams. The Fridean merely dig in straight lines without reference to consequences. When they encounter a hard substance they cannot penetrate, they turn a corner and continue in a straight line in another direction. In this manner they build labyrinths, sometimes close to the surface. Should their tunnels collapse, as often happens, they are never troubled.”
“And should tha go intae the hills and sit upon a bare rock tae tak’ a bite, and should tha let fall a morsel or two,” declared Janet, “then t’ crumbs will be gone afore tha can say Jack Robinson.”
“Then we have met the Fridean in the mines!” said Diarmid. “And was it those wights who threatened the lives of Sir Flint and the men of his thriesniun?”
“No,” said Thorn, “for they do not harm mortals. But at the dawning of the day, one came nigh whose joy it is to destroy creatures that live, and that was the Cearb, who is called the Killing One. Where the Cearb walks, the ground quakes. The Dainnan were unaware they traveled above a hollow maze the Fridean delved long ago. Great cracks opened beneath their feet, and as they fell, struggling, the Cearb came at them, for it is one of the Lords of Unseelie and has no fear of the sun’s rays. Yet it may be outrun by the fleet of foot—lured away by a decoy so that others may escape.”
“Wert tha able to save ’em?” asked Janet, agog.
“Indeed. The call was sounded early, and I was able to reach them at the crucial instant,” Thorn said. Enigmatically he added, “This time.”
He would say no more on the subject.
Thorn and Trenowyn having spoken, it was Diarmid’s turn. Having dined with a prodigious appetite, he related the tale of the sacking of Chambord’s Caravan, of their meeting with the Dainnan and subsequent wanderings through Mirrinor and Doundelding, and all that he could recall about the mines, prompted by Imrhien’s handspeak. Silken Janet sat silent throughout, wide-eyed, too rapt to think of bringing a morsel to her lips. Few travelers ever passed through Rosedale—the words they were prepared to spare were fewer.
“Well!” she exclaimed when the tale was told. “Ain’t never ’eard nothin’ like it in all me born days! So, tha saw trows beyond Emmyn Vale, did tha? Ain’t never been that far afield, but there’s lots of trows ’ereabouts, ain’t there, Da’?”
“Here? In Rosedale?” asked Diarmid.
“Aye, sir. Once, Da’s cousin’s family came to stay ’ere unexpectedlike, and there’s six o’ ’em, with four growed-up lads, and I was in such a tither findin’ places for them to bed down and food for table that I clean forgot tae do some o’ me tasks. The trows ’ave it that every hearth shall be swept clean on a sevennight, that no one shall be found near it, and above all that plenty o’ clean water shall be found in ’ouse. All these things were neglected—I was dossed down near fireplace, ’avin’ given me bed away, and when the trows paid their usual visit that night they got mighty enraged and made such a noise that I awoke. The guests were so drunk, they kept on sleepin’, and Da’ was snorin’ away after ’ard day’s work.
“Anyway, I wake up and what should I see but two trow-wives seating themselves not far from where I lay, and one with a lovely little baby on ’er knee. The one without t’ baby sought for clean water but found none and revenged ’erself by takin’ the first liquor she came across, which chanced tae be a keg o’ swatts I ’ad a-steepin’ in t’ corner.
“Now, Sir Captain, tha would know what swatts is, bein’ from Finvarna and all, but ’tis not a common drink in Eldaraigne.” Janet turned to Imrhien. “Da’ and me, we ’ave a dish called sowens, which we make by steepin’ oat-husks in water. When ’tis fermented a little, we boil it to make it ready to eat. But the water that covers sowens is called swatts. The trows poured some o’ swatts in a basin and washed their baby in it, and then baby’s clothes, and then poured the mess back into keg, sayin’, ‘Tak ye dat for no haein’ clean water ae da hoose.’ They then sat down close by fire, hanging baby’s clothes on their big feet, spreadin’ their toes out before fire to dry t’ garments in that way!”
Even Trenowyn’s somber visage lightened at the picture Janet painted. Diarmid smiled and Thorn laughed; at his laughter, Janet’s cheeks flushed. She resumed her tale with renewed enthusiasm.
“Now I was watchin’ all this, and I knew that if I kept me eyes fixed on them, they could not go away. So I kept starin’ and listenin’ to their conversation in ’opes o’ ’earin’ somethin’ worth rememberin’. But the trow-wives began tae fidget, bein’ desirous o’ departing before sunrise, and at last one o’ them stuck tongs in fire and made ’em red hot! As soon as tongs became glowing, she seized ’em and, approachin’ me, pointed a blade at each eye, grinnin’ in the most ’ideous manner, while she brought t’ tongs closer to me face. O’ course I blinked and screamed, and the trows, takin’ advantage of the moment when me eyes were closed, fled. Next mornin’ when we all went to take sowens from the keg for breakfast, there was nothin’ left but dirty water!”
“The trows are quick to take offense when housework is not done,” commented Janet’s father, “but that is the only time such a thing has happened, and ’twas not the fault of my girl.”
“Tha’s got to be careful with trows,” continued Janet, “for they’ll sometimes carry off animals, or even men, women, or children, and leave in their stead some semblance, a seeming-thing. That ’appened ’ere once. One fine day, me da’ got up to see ’ow the sun rose, for by that ’e can tell if ’twill be a fine day for the cartin’, and goin’ out to the side-gate, ’e saw two gray-clad boys traipsin’ along the lane below the ’ouse. ’E thought they were with some travelers come by the mines, but when they came benigh ’ouse they left t’ lane and went up to where our brindle cow Daisy was lyin’ on grass. They walked up to Daisy’s face, then turned away again, running, and cow ran, too, following as far as her tether would stretch. I came to t’ gate then, and I swear I saw all three run up the ’ill and right over top. But when we went to look on the grass, Daisy was still there. She died that same day, so ’tis clear the trows took the real one and ’twas but a Seeming that was left to die.”
“Aye,” said her father, “but there was worse than that from the hill-tings, before.” He and his daughter exchanged glances. Janet nodded, shuddering. “One Winter night,” said Trenowyn, “I was away from home on a short journey. When I was returning across the hills in the darkness and had got down close to the outer gate, I met a gang of trows carrying a bundle between them. I had a kind of strange feeling as I looked at that bundle, but I allowed them to pass and hurried on toward the cottage.
“As soon as I entered the door, I saw that Janet was gone, and that the trows had left an effigy of her in her accustomed chair. Quick as thought, I seized the trow-stock, which looke
d like Janet in every way, I assure you—and flung it into the fire.”
“’S death!” exclaimed Diarmid. “How could you be certain ’twas not your daughter?”
“Well,” said Trenowyn, “if a man cannot know how his own child greets him, then what kind of father be he?” He turned away his head for a moment, and they could not read his expression.
Presently Thorn said, “What happened next?”
“The effigy at once took fire,” said Trenowyn. “It rose into the air, flaming, amid a cloud of smoke, and vanished up the chimney. As it disappeared, Janet walked in at the cottage door, safe and sound. Soon after, we bought some potent charms from a wizard in Isenhammer, and the trows have never been back in this house since, of which I am glad.”
“Conceivably you earned their respect,” Thorn suggested.
“I … don’t know about that, Sir Thorn,” Trenowyn stammered, embarrassed. “Mayhap I have earned the respect of the knockers, but I never thought of that with the trows.”
“And what manner of wights are knockers?” Diarmid asked.
“They are small seelie miners,” replied Trenowyn, “those you spoke of, Captain, which you saw dwelling beneath Doundelding and under the hills on the marches of Rosedale. And they be bread and butter to us, good sirs. Not like those thick-headed coblynau, who do nothing. The wee knockers—some call them bockles—know where the rich lodes be. They dig it out and pack it into the trams. The bluecaps are the tram-putters. They bring the ore to the surface every night, up to a place behind Tinner’s Knoll—you canna see it from here. They tip their loads into my wain, which commonly I leave at the mine’s entrance. When it is full enough I hitch up the bullocks and drive to Isenhammer to sell the ore. Isenhammer, where the big furnaces be, is five days’ drive from here—two days out from the King’s Cross. I shall be making a trip three days from now, if tha wants a ride in. Once a fortnight I go down the mine and leave payment for the knockers and the bluecaps in a solitary corner, keeping a bit back myself for cartage. That’s how we live, by that and the farm-beasts and Janet’s bit o’ garden wi’ the roses. I never cheat the knockers, and they always do right by me. Doesn’t pay to try to cheat wights. They be industrious and require, quite rightly, to be paid for their work. If I should leave a farthing below their due, they would get mighty indignant and would not pocket a stiver. If ’twere a farthing above their due, they would leave the surplus revenue where they found it, and I can tell thee they would be just as angry about that!”
“Perhaps the lodes are still rich,” said Diarmid, “but small wights cannot dig out great quantities. Why do men not delve the mines of Rosedale and Doundelding for themselves? By the look of this valley, methinks the diggings are long abandoned.”
“You are not mistaken, sir. Men used to mine here, long ago, but no more. Mining men will not go near where bockles are delving, no matter how much payment is offered. There used to be an old gravity-mill in Rosedale, too, for concentrating the ore. The underground creeping got to it, not long before the knockers and bluecaps moved in—so they say—and the mill subsided, but that was before we came here.”
“I bring in a few extra coins,” interjected Janet. “In Summer when the roses bloom I ’arvest ’em and brew attar of roses to perfume the fine ladies of Isen’ammer. I make rose vinegar, rose ’oney, rose oil, and rose-petal beads. This cot smells so sweet all Summer, don’t it, Da’!”
Diarmid was charmed. “How may beads be manufactured from flower petals?” he asked. “Surely ’tis not possible!”
Janet laughed. “Ain’t tha never seen it done? Tha mun put the petals in a pan with a few drops of water, and add a rusty nail to give t’ beads a better color. Tha must heat ’em once a day for three days, and they turn to pulp. When ’tis cool, tha mun roll pulp with thy fingers, press out drops, and shape ’em into beads around a darnin’ needle so that there be an ’ole through the center. Then tha mun leave ’em to dry, turnin’ ’em twice a day. Rose-petal beads smell sweetest when worn—the warmth of skin brings out t’ perfume.” She showed them the necklace of rich red beads she wore about her own white neck.
“A pleasant Summer task,” commented Diarmid, “working amidst flowers.”
“Janet is always busy throughout the year,” her father stated.
“At other seasons I spin nettles that grow around ’ere,” Janet said, “or flax for folk in Isenhammer. Da’ brings it home in wagon, big sacks o’ lint, and I spin it into skeins, then ’e takes it back to town when ’e goes.”
“Do you dye the yarn?” Diarmid slid in another question.
“Aye,” Janet said, “when there be call for ’t. Got some nice woad growin’ in me garden, for the blues, and some madder for reds. Canna grow worts or herbs in me patch, but woad and madder do well.”
“Do you have any, er, brown dye?” the Ertishman asked casually.
“Ain’t got call for brown. Might be able tae get it from oak—”
Thorn drew something from his pocket and tossed it across to Diarmid. “The root of iris,” he said.
“That makes black, don’t it?” said Janet. “Ain’t never used it, but I’ve ’eard. ’Ow is it mordanted?”
“With an iron mordant, to which salt and elder has been added,” Thorn said.
From beyond the window came the grating calls of a flock of rooks, like groans of agony. Thorn turned his gaze toward the windy sky; Janet and her father also. A flock of birds rushed up from the boughs of a tree and flew away, long stitches of black thread unraveling. In the sudden silence, a sad look crossed Trenowyn’s face.
“Got beasts to tend,” he said gruffly. After excusing himself, he called the hound to him and went out. Silken Janet got up and went to stand beside Thorn at the window.
“’Ow many rooks were in that tree?” she asked softly.
“Seven.” Thorn glanced at her sharply.
The merry breakfast had come to an end on a strangely jarring note.
Imrhien and Diarmid helped Janet to clear away the breakfast dishes, a task that was evidently unfamiliar to the Ertishman. He seemed preoccupied.
<
“What’s all that flappin’ about? What are tha sayin’?”
“The cockerel—see?” Diarmid wagged his hands.
“Oh, aye, ’e’s round in the ’en’ouse. They be all bantams in there. Do ’im good. Our other one died two months ago; pretty old ’e was. So thane black rooster ain’t got no rival. I let ’em out in mornin’, tae ’ave a peck round garden.”
Imrhien indicated that she would perform this task today.
<
Diarmid conveyed the message to Janet, who clapped her hands, overjoyed.
The rooster did indeed appear unrivaled. Imrhien opened the door of the henhouse and watched him strut out into the garden, bossing the fussy hens, snatching caterpillars from under their beaks, ignoring her, his rescuer, with the air of a preoccupied patriarch. When she passed by the cottage and glanced through the open window, Imrhien saw Janet washing Diarmid’s hair in a bowl of black water. She continued on and went to sit on the well-head’s coping, in the sunshine. Stone frogs goggled from the well’s mossy wall, and the slates of its pitched roof were furred gray green with lichen.
It was a fine Autumn morning. Behind the cottage, steep, grassy shoulders of land climbed to the softest of skies. To the west, beyond a sunken fence, a meadow rolled down to a little glad brook that ran chuckling through it, coming out of the hills over cold gray stones. There, a cow and two bullocks grazed. Northward, a gentle combe overgrown with sweet-briars sloped to a timbered height on the other side. The miniature silhouette of a ship sailed up there, distant, lost in the clouds, for an outer Windship route crossed Woody Hill.
To the east lay the mine hills. Tall chimneys of brick or stone like point
ing fingers stood in groups, the wood of their miners’ houses having burned down or been taken for firewood long since. The sound of dunting carried in the still air from the old gravity-mill. Dull red berries spattered the stark hawthorns along the lane and bordering the fields; poplars reached skyward, their stripped boughs trimmed with the yellow lace of lichen to match the flowers of the gorse. Lorikeets flashed like emeralds as they flew up, startled, from long cream-colored grasses, and the afternoon light in the meadow glowed on the coat of the curly brown cow.
The open air invigorated Imrhien after the stuffiness of the mines. She drank it in great cold drafts. Her old traveling taltry was pushed back, and the breeze from the north lifted her hair about her face in strands of shining gold. It had grown rapidly and was now as long as Diarmid’s, reaching halfway down her back in soft crimps and ringlets like rippled sea-sand strewn with copper corkscrews.
She would wimple her hair for the journey and for entering the city. Ah, the city, she thought. Caermelor was so close now—White Down Rory even nearer. This face with its dreadful knots and bulges—the skin and flesh had been distorted for so long. How long? How could it ever heal? Her goal had been to find a history, a voice, a presentable face. Deep in her heart, now, something mattered more, but that was a vanity of vanities, an ache, a wound that could never heal.
The source of that pain came walking lightly toward the well with the goshawk on his shoulder. He was singing the second part of a familiar ditty in a clear voice, flawlessly modulated:
’Tis the voices in unison lilting and clear,
And the weaving of harmonies sweet to the ear
Sung to a melody stirring and keen
The Bitterbynde Trilogy Page 46
