by Kit Berry
‘Thank you, Hazel. And I know you’re busy, but just one more question. It’s about what was said at the last Council meeting. Yul’s wrong, isn’t he? Sylvie isn’t losing her sanity again?’
Hazel grimaced as she gathered their cups and stood up.
‘It’s Yul I’m concerned about, not Sylvie. She’s fine, but he seems to have lost his reason. There’s a look in his eyes sometimes . . . I know he’s like his father, but there are moments when I feel almost as if I’m dealing with the man himself again.’
Magpie trailed behind Leveret along an overgrown path by the stream. The sun shone down on them as they wandered under the bare branches of the trees, the buds still tight. A robin sang gloriously and Leveret paused, listening to the music. A smile spread across Magpie’s face at the jubilant notes pouring from the small bird’s throat. He pulled a sketchbook and soft pencil from his canvas bag and within a couple of minutes had created a vivacious little robin on the white page. Something about the angle of the bird’s head and his open beak conveyed the intensity and beauty of his song even though he was simply marks on paper.
They continued for a while, Leveret with her wicker basket and Mother Heggy’s gathering knife, and Magpie with his sketch book and pencil. Yellow celandine stars twinkled amongst the brilliant white wood anemones covering the damp leaf-mould underfoot. All around them the world was unfurling into spring.
‘We’re going to harvest some comfrey,’ said Leveret to Magpie. ‘I know it grows at the Hall but I want to gather some from up here, where it feels wild and free. It’s to heal the hare, you see.’
Magpie nodded at this, having seen the wound.
‘She’s doing very well,’ continued Leveret, ‘and luckily she doesn’t seem to have any broken bones. But it’s a horrible wound and although I keep cleaning it with distilled witch hazel, I really want to put a nice poultice of comfrey on it. And I’d like to make some ointment too. Look, Magpie, I’ll show you comfrey – I’m not sure if you remember it.’
She pulled a small battered book from the basket and flicked through the pages.
‘Here – this one,’ she said, pointing to the plant in question. ‘Remember it in the Kitchen Garden? We really must do some work on the herb garden this spring. Clip has said he wants me to spend time in there cultivating, and you and I can do that together, can’t we?’
He nodded happily.
‘I’m sure there’s a big patch of comfrey along here; I remember it from last year. Both the creamy white one and the lovely mauve-pink one too, I seem to recall. Comfrey’s a great healer of wounds and makes the flesh knit together well. That will help our little hare, won’t it?’
Since discovering the leveret at the Spring Equinox, Leveret had devoted herself to ensuring the tiny creature survived. She was kept warm and safe in Leveret’s room in a nest of hay, with regular feeds of ewe’s milk. Her damaged paw had been thoroughly cleaned and tended, but Leveret wasn’t happy with the healing process and wanted to speed it up. The tiny bundle of soft fur no longer trembled but greedily guzzled at the milk she provided and sat contentedly in her lap whilst she read.
They came to the place she’d remembered and sure enough, there was a fine crop of comfrey growing thickly. It was too early in the season for the plants to be in flower, but it was the large hairy leaves and the roots that Leveret wanted anyway. Whilst she gathered leaves and dug up some pale roots, Magpie sat on a fallen log with Clip’s old book of wildflowers and started drawing in his sketchbook.
‘There, that’s enough for now,’ said Leveret after a while. ‘We can always come back for more if we need to. I must dry some actually – there’s so much I must do. Have you drawn the comfrey, Magpie? But there aren’t any flowers yet, so – oh!’
She stared at the bold pencil strokes on the page, the drooping, pointed leaves with their down of fine hair. But what made her throat constrict in sudden excitement wasn’t the exquisite botanical accuracy of the drawing – it was the marks underneath it. Magpie had written “Comfrey”. She gulped and stared at him. His eyes danced as he smiled at her.
‘Magpie, you’ve written the word! Do you understand what you’ve done? You’ve copied it from the book, I know. But do you understand what that means?’
He simply gazed into her eyes and sighed.
‘Magpie, listen! This is really important. Do you understand? Those marks, that word . . .’
He pointed to the word he’d written, albeit a little clumsily as if the letters were part of a picture, and picked up a leaf from the basket.
‘Maggie, I think you do understand!’
Leveret was suddenly beside herself with joy and hugged him fiercely, spilling half her leaves on the ground. The implications started to dawn: the prospect of Magpie learning to read and write, even if he couldn’t speak, and what that could mean for his future.
‘Come on, Maggie, let’s get back to the tower so we can tell Clip! And Marigold and Cherry! Oh they’re going to be so proud of you! I need to get my poultice going for Hare, and as soon as that’s all bubbling away, we’re going to see just what you can do. I’m so excited I might burst!’
Sylvie looked slightly incongruous in her mother’s elegant little sitting room in the Tudor wing of the Hall. It was the weekend and there was no school today, so Miranda was still in her dressing gown and slippers. Sylvie was dressed like a Villager of old, a coarse linen skirt covering the tops of her traditional Stonewylde boots, a green knitted jacket over her plain blouse. She’d even arrived carrying a wicker basket. Rufus sat in his armchair engrossed in a book whilst his mother and sister chatted, his foot swinging repeatedly and kicking the table leg.
‘So where are my little grand-daughters?’ asked Miranda. ‘I miss them now they’re down in the Village all the time.’
‘Come down later and see them,’ said Sylvie. ‘I was going to bring them up with me but they’re playing with their friends on the Village Green and they didn’t want to come. It’s still such a novelty to be in the Village at the weekends when there’s no Nursery.’
Miranda surveyed her daughter carefully; at least Sylvie’s eyes were a little brighter now.
‘And you’re still enjoying being a Villager?’ she asked. ‘No problems living with Maizie in the cottage?’
Sylvie sighed heavily and met her mother’s eye.
‘You may recall, Mum, that I always wanted to be a Villager. Remember?’
Miranda nodded ruefully.
‘Yes, I should have listened to you! And it’s really okay with Maizie?’
‘It’s lovely. Obviously it’s all very different and it’s her home – I’m very aware of that. But the whole way of life is wonderful and I really love it. The busyness of it, the sense of purpose and achievement. And of course now I’m starting the student counselling up here, I’ll be really busy.’
‘Yes, Martin said the room we wanted for you is available now, although I must say he’s dragged his heels about it. He can be so very awkward at times. But it’s ready now – do have a look in a minute – and we can start to timetable some sessions for the older students to come in and have a chat with you.’
‘I’m really looking forward to that. Thanks for organising it all.’
‘My pleasure – it’s certainly much needed. I can’t understand why Yul was so against it anyway.’
Sylvie’s face darkened and she looked down at her hands.
‘He’s just being awkward too. I don’t know what’s wrong with them all. I just want to help and giving the students some careers advice isn’t going to exhaust me, despite his worries. But it’s more than that and we both know it.’
She glanced over to where Rufus sat, his bright red hair hanging over his eyes as he continued to read and kick. Miranda took the hint and nodded.
‘And the girls? They’re happy?’
‘Oh yes! Maizie’s working them quite hard really, considering they’re so young, but they love it. She says they need to learn all the things that Vil
lage children do. Celandine loves weaving and little Bluebell adores the chickens. And soon, we’re—’
‘I wish I lived in the Village too!’
They both stared at Rufus in astonishment. He’d stopped kicking and glared at them both from beneath the red fringe. His jaw was stubborn but Sylvie noticed his mouth quivered.
‘I don’t want to lose you both!’ laughed Miranda.
‘I’m not joking, Mum,’ he said gruffly. His voice was in the process of breaking and he had little control over it.
‘But that’s silly,’ she said. ‘You can’t live in the Village, darling. Who would you live with?’
‘Sylvie and the girls,’ he replied.
‘But they’re in Maizie’s cottage, and she’s no relation to you.’
‘It’s not fair!’ he squeaked. ‘I don’t want to be stuck here. I want to be a Villager too! Celandine and Bluebell are, so why can’t I?’
‘Come on, Rufus, you know—’
‘Actually, there may be the perfect solution to this,’ said Sylvie. ‘I understand your feelings, Rufus, really I do. Everyone else at Stonewylde is busy and you feel so idle. That’s how I’ve always felt. But even though you couldn’t move down there like we have – or not now, anyway – I know that Maizie is quite desperate for some male help.’
‘Is she?’ His deep brown eyes were hopeful.
‘Oh yes. She can’t do the heavy stuff like chopping the wood and fetching the water, nor the deep digging in her garden. She was only complaining about it yesterday, saying how she wished she still had a young man about the place. Gefrin and Sweyn both live up here and they won’t visit her every day to help. I’m sure she’d jump at the chance of having you down to help her out.’
‘But he’s not moving in there too!’ protested Miranda. ‘Really, I couldn’t—’
‘No, not move in, but he could come down at the weekends and maybe after school a couple of days a week? Honestly, Mum, it would do Rufus the world of good and I know Maizie would be so grateful. He wouldn’t have to sleep there or anything – just spend a few hours helping her out, and maybe have supper with us sometimes. And it would build up those muscles, wouldn’t it, Rufus?’
Their eyes met and he gave her a beautiful smile, his teeth very white in his freckly face.
‘Please, Mum! I want to help and it would be great to be in Yul’s old cottage as well – where he used to chop wood and stuff. Please?’
Miranda nodded slowly, seeing the merit of such an idea. She braced herself as he leapt up and almost knocked her out of her chair in a great hug.
Rainbow stood by the river bank watching the water rush by. She noticed the brilliant blue streak as a kingfisher darted downstream, and then saw it perch on a reed. She breathed deeply of the air, still very much aware of how precious it was. She wore her own long, brightly-coloured skirt with a pair of old Stonewylde boots and a linen smock that she’d found in the clothing store in the Village. She found it amusing that the prospect of wearing old Villager things should make her feel so happy. Her thick mane of hair had become even wilder since her arrival as she no longer bothered to tame it at all.
She accepted the mug of tea from Merewen who’d emerged from the Pottery, and together they sank down onto the bench on the riverbank. Merewen was covered in paint and her wiry hair sprang out around her face. She sipped her tea thoughtfully as they sat in companionable silence.
‘So David and Dawn have got it on?’ said Rainbow finally.
‘They’re walking together, if that’s what you mean,’ replied Merewen. ‘Seem suited to me, more or less. He’s an Outsider o’ course, but not a bad ‘un.’
‘He’s a nice guy, I believe,’ said Rainbow. ‘I don’t know him well but he seems to be making Dawn happy.’
‘Aye, she’s content. Shouldn’t wonder if they got handfasted.’
‘Really? How lovely!’
Merewen drained her cup and threw the dregs to the ground.
‘Come on, girl, there’s work to be done. I’m firing tomorrow and the kiln needs to be prepared.’
‘That was never part of the deal!’ laughed Rainbow, following the older woman into the ancient building. ‘I need to be out and about drawing. I want to see the children playing on the Green and I need to take some photos too.’
‘Photos? I thought you were an artist. Why d’you need photos? I never liked the things much, what I seen o’ them. Cold and flat, no life to ’em.’
Rainbow shrugged and picked up a bag containing her things.
‘Just something I promised. Give me a couple of hours, Merewen, and I’ll be back for some lunch and then I’ll help with the kiln. And I want you to show me how you mix your paints. You never did get round to that all those years ago.’
‘No, but I never realised you wouldn’t be stopping here,’ said Merewen. Her rather piercing eyes searched Rainbow’s face. ‘And I want to paint you, girl, afore you disappear from Stonewylde again.’
‘Disappear?’ laughed Rainbow. ‘Not if I have my way! I’m planning on staying if I can wangle it, or at least keep the gates open for regular visits. This is my idea of paradise.’
‘You’re not a force that Stonewylde needs,’ said Merewen slowly. The lines around her mouth deepened as she pursed her whiskery upper lip. She shook her grizzled head and sighed deeply. ‘I may be wrong, but I don’t think you’ll be here very long. So all the more reason to get on with it now, afore it’s too late.’
Rowan stood behind her daughter, seated at the dressing table, and rhythmically brushed the girl’s blonde hair with a pure bristle hairbrush. Faun studied herself carefully in the mirror, slightly turning her face this way and that whilst her mother brushed and brushed. Soon the thick pale tresses were crackling with life, swarming down the girl’s back and curling up on themselves at the end. Rowan’s eyes softened with pride.
‘There, one hundred strokes,’ she said, laying down the brush.
‘Are you going to do something with it or leave it loose?’ asked Faun.
‘Loose I think – we want her to see you and see pure Stonewylde, and of course recognise Magus’ darling daughter too,’ said Rowan.
She picked up the fine white blouse and started to dress her daughter as if she were a helpless child and not a tall and nubile teenager. Fastening the buttons for her whilst Faun stood impassively, Rowan then helped her into the filmy white skirt.
‘Are you sure this is the best outfit, Mother? It’s not very glamorous, is it?’
‘That’s the whole point, Faun. She’s probably used to glamour. What we’re going to impress her with is your pure, natural beauty and your Stonewylde roots.’
‘And she’ll really be interested in that?’ Faun was doubtful.
‘That’s what Dawn was saying the other evening. I went round to the Village School for the weekly meeting and she told me all about Rainbow and why she’s here. I knew some of it from the Council of Elders’ Meeting of course, but Dawn told me a lot more.’
They clumped down the stairs to the parlour where Rowan’s parents sat comfortably by the fire. Faun went across to the cupboard by the door to survey her choice of footwear, unsure what would come across as pure Stonewylde. All of it, she supposed, as she’d never had any clothes or shoes from the Outside World. Not yet, at least.
‘Definitely the boots,’ said Rowan. ‘ ’Tis what Stonewylde women wear in the winter and nothing else would look right. Pity though as you have lovely smooth legs and your feet are so pretty.’
Rowan’s mother looked up from her needlework.
‘You’re going across to the Barn then?’ she asked, not entirely approving of the mission. ‘Make sure you stay warm, Faun. That wind has a chilly edge to it.’
Faun rolled her eyes at this and she and Rowan exchanged a conspiratorial smile.
‘Mother, you know we’re going to find Rainbow and why we’re doing it,’ Rowan said.
‘Aye, but seems daft to me. O’ course I’d love to have a painting done of our
Faun, right enough. Nobody at Stonewylde is as beautiful as our precious girl. But ’tis the other plan I don’t understand. Why would this Rainbow be so taken with our Faun as she’d want to—’
‘Oh Granny, do stop fussing!’ Faun was petulant, her deep brown eyes cold with irritation. ‘She’ll see me and want to paint me and then one day I’ll be famous. That’s all there is to it.’
‘That’s right! We know Rainbow’s looking for people to paint. She’s out and about looking for lovely things to sketch and interesting folk to draw. And our Faun is the loveliest thing here.’
Rowan pulled on her own boots and then tweaked at Faun’s waistband, tucking the blouse in more so it pulled tighter across her daughter’s breasts.
‘So ’tis natural her eyes will fall upon our girl and she’ll be smitten! And she’ll paint our Faun and put her in all the exhibitions she has up in London and somebody important will see our girl and realise that here, at last, they’ve found perfection. And she’ll go on to—’
‘Pah!’ said Rowan’s father, roused from his usual docility where the womenfolk were concerned. ‘ ’Tis a load o’ nonsense, Rowan, and you know it! And besides – do you really want our Faun to be taken away from us? Seems to me all that there film and TV stuff is a pile o’ horse-dung anyway, and I don’t want my granddaughter mixed up in any o’ that rubbish!’
Rowan wrapped Faun’s soft mallow-pink shawl around her shoulders, tight-lipped with exasperation, then pulled the girl’s hair free so it rippled in shining waves over her shoulders.
‘Neither of you old ‘uns has a clue!’ she said hotly. ‘I knew from the minute that Magus searched me out in the laundry fourteen years ago that one day, I’d achieve something great and special. I just knew it! And I done that – our Faun! And this now, ’tis our chance to push her forward at last and let her take the honour and praise that she deserves. She’s our Magus’ only daughter and she’s a goddess. Look at her! She should be in films and TV – ’tis her rightful due! You wouldn’t know as you don’t ever watch anything, but I know. And nobody will ever say our Faun didn’t achieve her potential ‘cos her mother never bothered to push her to the front!’
