“You can almost see the mill from that window,” remarked Elfgifu, sitting up in bed.
Jewel jumped.
“Oh, forgive me. Did I startle you?” said Elfgifu, climbing from the bed and joining Jewel at the window. “Look there,” she said, extending a finger. “If we were birds, and could fly over that last hazel thicket this side of the lake, we would be able to see the mill. That is where I live. My father is the miller. Yes, I know it is a foolish thing to be called ‘Miller’ and to be millers. But that is the way of it. My grandfather was a cobbler, but his forefathers were mostly millers, and the name has remained with the family.”
How she chatters on, thought Jewel ungratefully. Just like a freckled duck at nesting-time.
“You must come and stay at the mill with us, you poor little lost one,” Elfgifu said.
At once, Jewel felt ashamed of her ungracious opinion.
“Only until your people come looking for you,” the miller’s daughter added, in reassuring tones.
“I could not impose—” Jewel began, dredging polite demurs from the uttermost corners of her memory.
“ ’Twould be no imposition at all!” cried Elfgifu. “Besides, we cannot let you go wandering about in this season. In a few weeks it will be Midwinter’s Eve, which falls on a Moon’s Day this year. I always think it strange that Midwinter’s occurs in the first month of Winter, don’t you? By rights it should be in the middle of the second month. Anyway, it always gets colder after Midwinter’s—”
“Gramercie,” Jewel said forthrightly, interrupting the flow of words. “I will bide with you, Elfgifu. For a while. You are generous, to offer such hospitality to a stranger.”
“A stranger, but a child,” said Elfgifu. “Children need food and shelter. And we know you have not told us untruths.”
“What is your meaning?”
“We know you are indeed alone. The weathermasters among my friends could detect no sign of other folk within miles of the place where you were found.”
“How could they be certain?”
“Did you not feel the curious wind that arose and swung precociously around through the four quarters of the compass? Arran Stormbringer summoned that current, and made it wheel about so that it would carry to the heightened senses of his kindred any whiff of intruders. Furthermore, they searched the skies for hovering flocks of birds which might have flown up, disturbed by human presences.”
“I did feel that wind.” Drawing a deep breath, Jewel said, “But someone was with me, until he disappeared. I do not know what happened to him. And then I was lost.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Elfgifu. “Who was with you?”
“My uncle.”
“Where did you last see him?”
“It was in a field, south of here, which I think is called ‘Black Goat.’ ”
A look of concern crossed the features of the miller’s daughter, but she only said, “Hmm. And when was that?”
“I’m not certain. Maybe five days ago, or seven. After he disappeared, I was confused.”
Elfgifu put out her hand as if to comfort Jewel, but the child subtly evaded her touch.
“The Maelstronnar has asked to see you this morning,” the miller’s daughter said quietly, drawing back her hand.
“No! I mean, why would that be?” Surprise and nervousness accelerated Jewel’s pulse.
“I daresay he wants to learn how we might help you. Indeed, he might send riders to find out what happened to your uncle, if you ask.”
Brightening, Jewel clasped her hands tightly together. “Then I will ask.”
“But that is enough talk!” Elfgifu cried. “See, we have lent you some clean garments to wear. Let us get dressed and go downstairs to breakfast, and afterward you will have an audience with the Storm Lord. Then without further ado we’ll descend to the plateau, and you shall come with me to my father’s mill!”
The interview with Avalloc Maelstronnar-Stormbringer took place in a small, paneled chamber within Ellenhall. Between respect, dread, and wonder Jewel stood before the great weathermaster in her borrowed apparel, intensely aware of his comprehensive authority, glad that Elfgifu and Ettare had accompanied her.
The Storm Lord regarded the child attentively from his sage’s orbits, saying, “Greetings, Jewel of Slievmordhu. You are welcome at High Darioneth.”
Jewel curtseyed and mumbled her thanks. She was not surprised he had identified her country of birth. Her accent must have betrayed her.
Then she balked. Once more it came to her that she ought to have proffered some name other than “Jewel.” Her own honesty had put her at risk. If King Maolmórdha ever discovered Jarred had a daughter, he would also discover her name. In due course the connection would be made—Jewel of the marsh was one and the same as Jewel found roaming in the mountain ring. Inwardly, she railed at herself for her naïveté. Now, however, it was too late. For better or worse, her name had been spoken, and that could not be undone. What might come of it she could not tell.
“How came you to be wandering alone near our mountain fastness, hmm?” asked the Storm Lord. His voice was calm and deep.
“Sir, I was traveling with my uncle. We were on our way to King’s Winter-bourne, there to seek employment. He vanished in a field called Black Goat, and I lost my way.”
“I see. How came you into that notorious field? Why did you leave the highway?”
His probing questions were discomfiting. If Jewel admitted that she and Eoin were trying to evade the men of King Maolmórdha, the Storm Lord would wish to know why they were being sought.
Fidgeting with her sleeve-cuffs, the child cast about for some feasible reply. “Well, sir, we were trying to avoid highway robbers. And my uncle was drunk, and mistakenly chose the wrong path.”
The alibi sounded absurdly feeble, and she knew it.
Somberly the Storm Lord studied her, and as she boldly returned his penetrating gaze it came to her that his eyes were of the same leaf-green as those of Arran, his eldest son. Plunging recklessly ahead, she said bluntly, “I beg you, sir, to send men in search of my uncle.”
Avalloc Stormbringer’s dove-white eyebrows twitched. “Are you aware, Jewel of Slievmordhu, of the expense of sending my riders out to scour the countryside?”
“No, sir. But I should like to find out what happened to my uncle.”
“Bravely said.” The weathermage smiled, and went on, “I will do as you request—not least because I wish to uncover recent tidings of that place and its inhabitants. Ellenhall should always be well informed. If any mortal men in Tir can discover what has become of him, it is my kindred.”
“Sain thee, gentle sir!” Jewel cried, heedless of good form.
“I wist there is more to your tale than you have revealed, dear child,” said the Storm Lord perceptively, and at these words the ice-water of impending doom doused Jewel’s enthusiasm. Her hand flew to the pocket where the white gem was now stowed; she found it reassuring to feel the stone’s shape through the fabric. “But I judge there is no wickedness in your young heart,” Avalloc continued. “Therefore keep your secrets from me, or reveal them when you see fit. Meanwhile, be welcome here and remain as long as you wish.”
Having braced herself for disapproval or further interrogation, Jewel was disarmed. The kindly look she glimpsed in her host’s eyes moved her more than she expected, and she found herself on the verge of weeping. Even as she strove against tears, she knew it was longing for her own parents that made her yearn to remain in High Darioneth, safe with the weathermasters and their people.
Courteously she took her leave.
Away down the steep cliff-path rode Jewel and Elfgifu, on the back of Elfgifu’s pony. Their journey took them past the meadow and along leafy lanes hedged by brambles abundant with ripe berries. Through the flourishing nut-orchards and apple-orchards, over picturesque bridges that spanned clear streams of fast-flowing ice-melt, past fallow fields they went, and fields planted with Winter vegetables, until at last they ca
me to the High Darioneth Mill.
It was a large, multi-storied building with living quarters attached, surrounded by outbuildings including a byre, stables, and a kiln. Stolidly, as if it brooked no argument, it stood below the weir, which had been constructed on the millstream to supply it with water all year round. Water surged down the head race and through the wooden gates that controlled the flow, to pass through the wheel pit, before being discharged, by way of the tail race, back into the stream below the mill buildings. With no sound other than the loud gushing and gurgling of liquid, the monstrous water-wheel turned slowly and ponderously on its well-oiled axle-tree.
Because no wheat, barley, oats, or rye would grow at these high altitudes, this was a nut-mill. Its well-ventilated upper stories were used to store nuts, which had to be hoisted up in bags, by rope-and-pulley. The storerooms, or “squirrelries,” as Elfgifu called them, contained several compartments for different types and grades of nuts. Besides the massive grindstones for making nut-meal, the mill boasted water-powered shell-cracking rollers.
“The nut-shells are never wasted,” chattered Elfgifu as they entered the mill precincts amidst a din of hooves on flagstones. “Hazelnut shells can be used as mulch, or blended with powdered black and brown coal to make cinder blocks. Finely ground walnut-shell flour is used for polishing metal, and the scholars use walnut shells to manufacture ink. Pecan shells make good fuel, and they are used by leather-tanners to concoct their foul-smelling compounds, and sometimes we mix them with charcoal in hand-soap to make a really good scrubbing-agent. My sisters fashion nut-shells into beads and buttons.”
The interior of Elfgifu’s house was not as grand as the dwellings of Rowan Green, but it was comfortable, and much finer than any marsh-cottage. The Miller family was extensive. Elfgifu had an older brother and six younger siblings, three girls and three boys. Her father, Osweald, was a tireless worker, always intent on business. A bald-crowned, bearded, nuggety man, he was also energetic, single-minded, and somewhat intolerant. He cared deeply for his children, but driven by the desire to operate the mill at optimum efficiency and to goad the mill-hands to do the same, he spared scant time for them. Hardly concerned, they ran wild. Mildthrythe, his wife, was carefree, easy-going, and prone to laughter, happy to include another child in her household despite the fact that she would soon give birth to her ninth. Jewel settled in among this harum-scarum brood, willingly learning to help with the myriad duties of hearth and mill.
In private, Jewel continued to mourn for her family. Every night she sobbed silently into her pillow, and concocted fanciful tales in which she met her parents once more, and her uncle as well, and all were reunited in happiness. Such imaginings were like twisting a knife in a wound, yet perversely she continued to dwell on them, as if she felt she was in some way responsible for their deaths and ought to pay with sorrow. She also suffered desperately from homesickness, craving the sights and sounds of the wetlands.
Secretly she vowed she would never again allow herself to be so vulnerable, such easy prey to catastrophe. The conclusions she drew from bitter experience were that it was preferable not to love people, because then one could not be hurt when they were stolen away. It was desirable also to acquire influence in the form of property or immense knowledge, so that one had more chance of defending the defenseless and innocent, more chance of determining the outcome of events in an unpredictable and uncaring world. She resolved to face life’s future battles well armed with buckler and weapon, if she could; for her shield, the eschewing of love; for her sword, the accumulation of great wealth or marvelous lore with which to direct her own destiny and the fortunes of the meek. At such times her thoughts would inevitably drift to the far-off Dome of Strang, and its hidden arcana.
The riders sent forth by the Maelstronnar returned with the tidings that they had searched Black Goat and found the remains of a man, badly battered. It was obvious the corpse had been lying there for many days, so they had taken it to the cemetery at nearby Saxlingham Netherby, and buried it with honor and due ceremony. There was not much on the victim to identify him, but from around his neck they took a silver chain strung with an amulet, a disc of bone engraved with two interlocking runes. This was shown to Jewel, and she knew then, for certain, that Eoin had perished. When she perceived the sympathy in the eyes of Elfgifu’s mother she could contain her sorrow no longer, and wept in the woman’s arms until she was drained of tears, all passion numbed.
The Uncanny
Over the next few weeks Jewel slowly approached the knowledge that she had no desire to leave High Darioneth in the near future, although she was not willing to refute her original intention that she would one day continue onward to King’s Winterbourne. Next Summer, she said to herself. Her grief at the loss of her parents and uncle was ever-present, and severe. Being part of a family again could not cancel that grief, but the sense of liveliness and companionship assuaged the pain, making it easier to endure.
She had unpacked the bundle she and Eoin had brought from the marsh. Discarding her disreputable traveling-outfit, she put on a linen kirtle and an over-gown of woven wool, cinching them at the waist with her old leather belt. The style of these clothes differed from the prevailing mode in Narngalis, but she cared little. Elfgifu’s mother gave her a pair of wooden clogs and a fur-lined cloak.
“Wear these pattens over your shoes, if you go outside after rain. The mill-yards get very muddy. And you will need this cloak. Mountain nights can be bitterly cold.”
In a grove of liquidambar trees on the far side of the mill orchard, Jewel built a cairn of river-stones. She placed leaves and berries on it, making it a memorial to loved ones lost.
After Harvest the season deepened from Autumn to Winter. Ninember passed, Tenember took its place, and Midwinter’s Eve arrived, engendering boisterous festivities at Rowan Green and on the plateau. Soon afterward the old year gave way to the new, ushering in the month of Jenever with yet more rejoicing. Wistfully, Jewel reflected on the way her own people in the marsh had celebrated these occasions, far away in the south.
When people asked her the name of her home village, she always replied, “Cathair Rua,” in the hope that the population of that metropolis was large and anonymous enough to hide her true origins.
“Is Slievmordhu very different from Narngalis?” the miller’s children would sometimes ask.
“Yes, it is different,” she would reply circumspectly, having quickly learned how to divert the course of conversations that threatened to reveal too much, “but one thing is the same. In this kingdom the hardy weed crowthistle grows, as it grows throughout Slievmordhu. People dislike it as much here as they do in my homeland, because it prickles bare feet, and stock cannot eat it.”
“Yet it has a lovely flower,” Elfgifu would murmur.
“And mistletoe grows in Slievmordhu,” Jewel once added, with an air of being scarcely interested.
“What is mistletoe?” the other wanted to know.
“Oh, ’tis a parasitic shrub that grows on other plants.”
Elfgifu shook her head. “We do not have any mistletoe at High Darioneth.”
Jewel shot a quick look of delighted surprise at her friend, then glanced away as quickly, to hide her reaction. This discovery lifted a weight from her spirits, a burden she had not been aware she carried.
Slievmordhu. Often, Jewel wondered if she would ever see her native land again. High Darioneth seemed such a safe haven, and the longer she remained there the less willing she became to face the dangers of the world outside. Sometimes, especially at nights, it would come to her that she was poising frozen, tense, staring in the direction of the East Gate and listening for the distant sounds of an incoming cavalcade of soldiers.
As time progressed and she became more and more comfortably entrenched in the life of High Darioneth, her trepidation decreased—although that edge of fear was never completely blunted.
Her curiosity about her new environment was avid. Keenly she studied it. The hi
gh country in which she dwelled comprised shallow valleys and flats cradled amongst mountain peaks that the inhabitants called “storths.” In addition to Wychwood Storth there were crags with names such as Weatheroak Storth, Windrush Storth, Woodgate Storth, Wolf’s Castle Storth, Wellwood Storth, and Oakdale Storth. Hanging pools and lakes, blanketed with steam, lay cupped here and there in the upper hollows of the ranges. Waterfalls splashed down the faces of the storths, and small fast streams, such as Stony Creek, which powered the mill, flowed across the plateau. On the western side they joined to become one large, turbulent waterway, the aptly titled Snowy River. The river drove down through a deeply cloven, steep, unnavigable canyon straight through the mountain ring toward Grïmnørsland and the sea.
Only one main road led out of High Darioneth, and that was in the east. When anyone approached the outer gate from the lowlands, an eldritch frightener, which had haunted those heights for centuries, habitually set up a clamor like a baying of hounds, a rattling of chains, and a slamming of doors. This racket conveniently warned the watchmen, who would swiftly double their vigilance at the inner and outer gates of the East Road. There also existed four secret, subterranean ways out of the circle of storths. Their exits were skilfully hidden. The whole place was well protected from invaders, not least by the widespread fame of the power of the weathermasters.
Up on Rowan Green, each sprawling house sheltered several branches of the same family. The dwellings were supplied with heating and hot water from thermal springs deep inside Wychwood Storth. North of the village green, by the parapet overlooking Wychwood Waterfall, there spread a circular apron paved with flagstones and edged with small-leaved creeping mint, from which the four great sky-balloons could be launched to carry the weathermasters swiftly to wherever their skills were needed. From time to time, the plateau-dwellers would feel breezes from an unexpected quarter blowing on their faces, and look up to see one of the great, pearlescent teardrops floating across the sky. Jewel’s inquisitiveness extended to the weatherlords and their astonishing skills. There was little chance, however, to discover much about the wielding of the brí, for the chief secrets of weathermastery were shared only among the practitioners and their students.
The Well of Tears: Book Two of The Crowthistle Chronicles Page 10
