The Well of Tears: Book Two of The Crowthistle Chronicles

by Cecilia Dart-Thornton

  One of them coagulated from the shadows in Jewel’s path.

  The girl jumped backward, burning her arm painlessly with the brand as she steadied herself against an outcrop. In front of her stood a hag whose skin was as wrinkled as a collapsed pig’s bladder. It hung from her bony frame like rags. One hand emerged from tattered clothing, gripping the corner of a shawl. That hand, a filthy gray-brown, might have looked almost human except that it seemed fashioned only of bone and sinew, and instead of nails it sprouted talons. The eyes in the wight’s head glowed balefully, dull red as the radiation from ancient stars. Long wisps of pallid hair dangled from the crone’s chin like a sparse goatee. The entity manifested a hideous grin, revealing that the teeth embedded in its gums were not human, but those of some predatory ruminant.

  Closer, thunder rumbled again. The wight extended a skinny claw and beckoned.

  Jewel knew she was confronting one of the gwyllion, unseelie organisms that made it their business to accost and misdirect wayfarers by night on alpine paths. She understood, also, that it was imperative to greet such wicked anatomies with politeness, lest they wreak harm.

  “Good evening,” said Jewel.

  The foul creature was nodding and summoning, encouraging her to follow it—doubtless to some ghastly fate, even for one who was invulnerable.

  “You are too kind,” said Jewel courteously, “but regrettably I cannot accept your invitation, for I have my own path to tread.”

  The hag bleated. It was not so much a bleat as a noise between a snarl, a bleat, and a shriek. The wight’s menacing attitude made clear it did not love to be thwarted.

  Aware that the gwyllion were especially susceptible to the effect of cold iron, the girl drew her knife and held it near the resinous torch-flame, so that the blade glittered. Two malignant red eyes glowed more brightly for a moment, then suddenly dimmed as the eldritch hag cringed and shied away. Jewel swung the knife in wide arcs, advancing as she did so. With one last shrill bleat, the wight folded itself back into the night. Jewel heard the sound of small hooves clattering away down the mountainside.

  Determinedly she pressed on, thinking to herself that if a single unseelie wight were all she would encounter, Lord Fortune was on her side. Then she laughed softly, for she believed in the Four Fates no more than she believed that the stars were the lamps of Ádh, suspended in the skies.

  Always, there was the tinkling of water falling on stone, and the silent fluttering of small brown moths that were drawn to the luminance of the torch. Down amongst the fallen leaves and cushions of moss something small scuttled into view at the edge of Jewel’s light-sphere. It was a mouse-like animal with a long, pointed snout and soft, gray-brown, velvety fur. The shrew pounced on a worm, which it devoured juicily. It was about to do the same to an unwary stag-horn beetle when abruptly it fled, squeaking in alarm. The girl assumed it was her own presence that had startled the insectivore, until she noticed the hounds.

  Elegant, white dogs, they merely stood, without moving, without looking as if they had approached at all, but had just been called into existence. Their collars of silver were studded with sparkling stones, and glistened in the torchlight.

  A voice called through the air:

  “Slender-fay, slender-fay!

  Mountain-traveler, mountain-traveler!

  Black-fairy, black-fairy!

  Lucky-treasure, lucky-treasure!

  Grey-hound, grey-hound!

  Seek-beyond,

  seek-beyond!”

  Then the dogs rushed away and the fanfare of a hunting horn rang through the night. It was followed by a percussion of hoofbeats, and the crying out of numerous riders, and a baying of hounds, and to Jewel it seemed a vast company of uncanny huntsmen swept past, somewhere out in the darkness, unseen. Despite her invulnerability, Jewel felt her nerves creep like caterpillars through her flesh, and wished that day might dawn soon.

  Of all the wights that were reputed to infest the high places, those she feared most were goblins. Her fear was unfounded, merely the result of old tales she had heard as a small child, for she knew perfectly well that goblins no longer roamed the mountain ring, or any mountains in the four kingdoms, for that matter. They had all been driven out long ago, and for that she was thankful. Only the memories of their wickedness choked the lightless places. Only echoes of their unspeakable deeds still hung, like shades of moldering spiderwebs, between the dizzying crevasses. Recollecting old stories of horror, Jewel started at the slightest sound, and frequently glanced back over her shoulder.

  Still she trudged on, slithering down the dew-slick slopes, scanning for footholds, leaping from rock to rock, grabbing hold of saplings and shrubs to keep her balance, sliding across mats of miniature ferns and slick layers of decaying vegetation. Down, ever down, while behind the low-slung clouds the threatening thunder rolled away to the west, fading. Until at last the landscape began to glimmer, and her torch burned out, but she needed it no longer, for a wash of light came creeping, so blue and dim it might have been glowing from behind a great rampart of amethyst. The first light of the new day. She imagined she heard a cry, faint, so far away and faint that it might have been a trick of her weary mind. It sounded like the crowing of a rooster.

  The hours belonging to nocturnal wights were over. As the dawn blossomed, Jewel lay down beneath a bushy outcrop, rolled herself in her sheet of canvas, and slept.

  Pinches of gray-white cloud, teased out to translucency, fled across an aubergine sky. Breaking through suddenly, sunlight stippled the tops of the surrounding trees with fallow gold. The morning had worn well away by the time Jewel awoke, and the sun was nearing its zenith. She rose to her feet and looked around.

  When she had first come this way, five years earlier, she had been too dazed by recent tragedy and loss to take much note of her surroundings. That was why she had strayed into the mountains. Now, her mind unclouded by grief, she scanned the vista before her with eager delight.

  To the west a jumble of jagged peaks blocked up the sky, their mighty shoulders mantled with ermine. Vast rivers of cloud streamed from the rifts and valleys, swept diagonally back by an easterly breeze. Southward, the land dropped away, jeweled with misty tarns, begemmed with massive boulders, and spangled with frost hollows where patches of snow yet glistened, pristine. The lower lands of the Canterbury Valley floated in a blue haze, beyond. Dramatic and perilous was the terrain to the east, where the backs of the storths plummeted in sudden precipitous bluffs and chasms. Long cataracts hung there, vertical rivers shattering to splinters as they hurtled down the jagged cliffs. Behind them, to the southeast and barely visible on the far horizon, strode a distant line of mountains: the outflung arm of the Riddlecombe Steeps.

  Down through the rugged scenery went Jewel, and the thoughts that chivvied through her mind were many. She puzzled about the Storm Lord’s tremendous hatred of Castle Strang. She experienced pangs of loss and guilt, missing the company of her adopted family at the mill. Pictures of the son of Branor Darglistel drifted in and out of her musings. More often, she visualized the countenance of Arran Maelstronnar, his serious gaze alighting upon her, as happened with some frequency. Suddenly she was seized by an impulse to turn back, regretting her departure. Yet if I turn back, she thought, I will be forever haunted by the summons of the Dome. I will go there, eventually. It might as well be now.

  Looming boulders, as high as houses, jutted up from the slopes. Their surfaces were pitted, encrusted with mosses, laminated with a lacework of lichen. Behind them, jagged ranks of frost-white pinnacles pointed to the sky, the hoary heads of the mountains. The air was cold as glass, and tingling with the scent of eucalyptus. Laughing rivulets of ice-melt fell down among the rocks, and sometimes pooled to become flawless mirrors of leaf and stone and sky. Bird-calls echoed from invisible haunts, and with every step, Jewel sensed the presence of watchers. Yet she saw no living creature, save for some black-and-yellow grasshoppers, and a splendid currawong perched on a monolith, its inky feathers
sheened with an eerie blue.

  After climbing laboriously around a rocky spur she came, unexpectedly, upon a wightish market. The little stalls were set up around one of the few level aprons on the mountainside, walled with lichened granite, arched over with boughs of mountain ash, and dripping with leaves. Vendors and customers alike were clad in green coats and red caps. By their size—they stood about three feet tall—Jewel guessed they were faynes, rather than siofra. This species of seelie wight differed from the diminutive siofra in more than looks and costume—where the latter were prone to be somewhat scatterbrained and shallow, naïve even in their guile, the former were of a more profound nature. Their stalls were prettily decorated with leaves and seed-pods and their wares were probably genuine, unglamoured. A siofran fair, on the other hand, would have been stocked with weevils and slugs, cocoons and the saliva of birds, all disguised as sweetmeats and objects of value.

  Still, one could never be certain, with wights.

  So suddenly had she stumbled upon the scene, Jewel was unable to withdraw before the faynes noticed her. They began gabbling at her in their queer language, beckoning and smiling. They were not unlovely to look at, and their gestures were so courteous, so enthusiastic, that Jewel could not restrain an answering smile. It appeared they were mightily glad to have a newcomer amongst them, to whom they could peddle their wares. And they were pleased with their market, showing it off to the mortal visitor with obvious pride.

  In response to their eager invitations Jewel moved amongst the stalls, looking to right and left, examining the goods on display. Partly she did this because she found the faynes appealing, although in a spine-tingling way. Partly she was obeying her own common sense, which told her it was unwise to displease wights if one had a choice in the matter, whether they were seelie or not. A train of creatures followed her at a respectful distance, chattering and gesticulating to one another.

  There were wooden bowls and dishes for sale, and tin mugs, and jugs made of pottery. There were bunches of dried herbs and strange little cheeses manufactured from the milk of some unidentified mammal, tiny pots of honey, and small bolts of woven fabric, dyed with the muted greens and dull reds of vegetation. As she walked, the girl wondered what she must do next. It would be too disappointing for the faynes if she were to depart without having bought anything; besides, it might appear ill-mannered. She had, however, very little coin in her possession, and balked at the idea of bartering with wights; it was said that some were apt to subtract one’s hair or voice as payment. Nothing caught her fancy, so in the end she decided it would not matter what she purchased, as long as it was not purportedly edible.

  Stopping at a booth selling tinware, Jewel saw a row of tin mugs hanging on hooks. She pointed to one of them.

  “How much is the mug?”

  The stallholder, a little man in a coat of grass-green with acorn buttons, doffed his cap and bowed politely. His reply, although unintelligible, was delivered in such a pretty manner that Jewel could not help but be charmed. He unhooked the mug, and showed it to her, turning it around in his small brown hands so that she might admire its asymmetry from every angle. Giving a nod, she accepted the vessel from him, and after rummaging in her pack, she brought out a coin. It happened to be a golden half-crown, worth two shillings and sixpence. Of course the tin vessel could not be worth that much, but the little wight had whipped the money from her palm before she could draw breath to speak, and already he was handing over the change. That the change comprised a heap of dead leaves came as no surprise to Jewel. The tin-seller’s expression was earnest and sincere; he did not appear to be making a jest with his customer. Taking her cue from him, she did not laugh but stowed the mug and the dead leaves in her pack with a serious demeanor, curtseyed gravely, and bade the vendors “good morning” before departing. A chorus of high-pitched voices accompanied her, evidently bidding farewell.

  There was no point arguing about the change. She could not speak their language, and risked offending them if she objected. Heaving a sigh, she estimated that the mug could not have been worth more than threepence ha’penny. What a waste of two shillings and tuppence ha’penny.

  Osweald Miller used to tell the tale of a pixy fair. An old farmer was riding home from market when he came upon this fair, and a glorious sight it was. The pixies were clothed in high fashion; the booths were ostentatious, and the merchandise most magnificent. The man saw, hanging up on one of the booths, a golden drinking-cup filled to the brim with gold pieces. There was enough precious metal in the cup to keep him in comfort for the rest of his days, so, spurring on his horse, he galloped right through the middle of the fair. The wightish crowds scattered, some dropping their bundles in their haste as they scurried from the horse’s hooves. The farmer paid them no heed. Leaning from his mount, he scooped the cup from its hook and sped home as fast as his steed would carry him.

  Greatly delighted with his acquisition, he took it to bed with him that night, for safe-keeping. However, when he woke in the morning all that he had beside him was a large toadstool, and when he got out of bed he was scamble-footed. His lameness plagued him until the end of his days.

  If a golden mug turns into a toadstool, Jewel said to herself as she picked her way downhill, come next morning, no doubt my new tin mug will have vanished altogether. Then she laughed. But it was worth all, to see such an odd and enchanting little fayne-market.

  At nightfall she stopped beside some trees whose damp boles were shelved with crescents of fungus in vibrant reds, oranges, and purples. Before curling up to sleep she placed the mug on a flat rock, and scattered the leaves all around it, resigned to the idea that they would be gone by morning.

  She was mistaken.

  The sun’s early light, a thin shaft that glanced between the rocks and trees, gleamed on a fine silver mug atop the rock. It was surrounded by leaves of real gold. Uttering a cry of astonishment, Jewel gathered these gifts into her hands, and gazed, admiring their luster and workmanship. After a while she raised her head and looked around, fancying she had heard a snatch of laughter, but the slopes appeared as empty as usual, and there was only the fungus on the tree-trunks, glowing fluorescent in the colors of the dawn.

  Down through the foothills of the mountain ring she traveled, with the eldritch treasures in her pack. Expansive views opened out at either hand: sharp valleys filled to the brim with lakes of sky; unscalable summits above, dissolved in cloud; lower peaks swimming in oceans of boiling vapor, silvered by sunlight. The land poured away in grand folds, from the heights down to the gorges, and every morning, mist screened the landscape with fine, white silk.

  Her environment was as spectacular as it was desolate.

  Having reached the Canterbury Valley, Jewel struck out eastward across open, rolling countryside, making for the Mountain Road. This region was sprinkled with low vegetation and dotted with stunted trees, bent-backed, like harps. The wind that had warped them played eerie tunes. Pools and lakes of dark, still water were cradled in the hollows of the land. These were fed by a multitude of narrow streams, bordered with alders and willows. Bitter winds gave way to the milder draughts of late Spring as the traveler made her way into more southerly climes.

  Now and then Jewel would turn around and look back, but as she had expected, there was no sign of pursuit. The Storm Lord had not swerved from his advice; she would not be tracked. Alone she had made her choice; alone she must face the ramifications of that decision. At those times when she gazed over her shoulder, she would see the majestic storths rearing against the skies, their heads crowned with cloud, ever more distant. Ethereal mists scarved from their shoulders. Their skirts, sweeping in long swathes to the lowlands, were dappled with moving patterns of light and shade. They seemed, now, so solid and dependable, a fortress of protection against the wide world.

  A belt of black-green pines crossed her path ahead, and Jewel stepped forward with renewed determination. As she approached, it became evident that the pines lined a road, fulfilli
ng her expectations. Having encountered the Mountain Road, she headed south along its rutted surface. The road, bordered with banks of early-flowering wood anemones and lesser celandine, passed through the village of Saxlingham Netherby. Here Jewel paused in her journey and, after asking directions, found her way to the local cemetery. Cracked headstones leaned, and rotting wooden stakes marked the final resting places of the poor. The turf was cropped short by tethered goats that were permitted to graze here, to keep weeds at bay.

  A weeping woman was kneeling beside a freshly dug plot. Jewel asked her, “Where is the burial place of the man slain at Black Goat, whose body was borne here by weathermasters?”

  Without saying a word, the woman raised her arm and pointed to a low mound nearby. Jewel did not wonder at the fact the woman knew instantly to whom she referred. In a small rural village, the interment of the corpse of a stranger slain by wights would have attracted attention.

  The weathermasters had treated Eoin’s remains with honor. A small headstone marked his couch of clay beneath its emerald coverlet. They had paid the local stonemason to engrave it with his name and the weathermasters’ sign for Water, ¥, a blessing.

  Tenderly, Jewel placed on the grave her ivory-and-gold bouquet of wild anemones and celandine.

  “May rain fall around you,” she whispered, “giving life to all things.

  May rain quench your thirst and rinse you clean,

  Every drop a gift, musical in the giving.

  May rain fall around you.”