by Kate Forsyth
The crowd muttered.
‘Knew the lad wanted something’.
‘A poor, dwizzen-faced lad like that, what can he do?’
‘Don’t know what he thinks we could do. Much use we’d be a-marching against the starkin!’
‘I have a plan. It’s not much of a plan yet, but it’s something to begin with’. Peregrine raised his voice but could barely make himself heard over the buzz of people commenting and arguing. ‘I’ve come here to the marshes in search of something, something that was lost long ago …’
Someone shouted out a ribald comment, and the Marsh King’s mother seized Molly’s crutch and banged it loudly on the floor till the noise quietened. ‘Holy mackerel, you lot, where’s your manners? Let the lad speak’. At last the vast hall was silent and she turned back to Peregrine, beaming. ‘There you go, love. Speak up’.
Peregrine drew a deep breath. He let his eyes roam over the hall and waited till the thudding of his heart had steadied. ‘Long ago, in the brave days of the Storm King, a magical spear was made that had the power to heal as well as to kill. It can bring thunder and lightning and storm, and raise the oceans, and shake the earth. It is said it can even harness the power of the wild magic that slumbers still in the secret places of the land. The spear of the Storm King never misses its mark, and it returns to your hand once you’ve thrown it. It was once the greatest treasure of the Erlkings of Stormlinn’.
He paused and took another deep breath, resting his wrist on the edge of the lectern so the effort of holding the bird’s weight did not drain his strength. He looked intently at people in the crowd, willing them to listen, willing them to care.
‘But it was stolen. It was stolen by the starkin prince, Zander the Cruel, and thrown by him into the bog. I believe it is still there. I believe that I can find it and use it as my ancestor, the Storm King, once used it, to bring peace to this poor land of ours. But I need your help to find it’.
‘The bog’s a mighty big place,’ one man called out. Peregrine thought it was Frank.
‘Yes,’ Peregrine agreed. ‘But we know it was thrown into the bog near a high hill, which has a lightning-blasted oak tree growing on it. Mistletoe grows in the tree …’
‘Why, he means Grimsfell,’ several voices cried at once. ‘There’s only one place where mistletoe grows in an oak …’
‘… and fair cleaved it is too, right down the middle’.
‘Yeah, it’s Grimsfell he means’.
Relief made Peregrine giddy, his knees threatening to give way. He locked his legs in place, gripped the edges of the lectern and said, rather shakily, ‘Grimsfell? You know where it is? Can someone guide me there?’
Dubious glances were exchanged. ‘Eh, no-one goes near Grimsfell,’ a man volunteered, possibly Frank or Fred.
‘Nah, it’s haunted!’ ‘Old Grim sneaks about there. He’ll creep up behind you and strangle you with his bony hands!’
‘They say you can look down through the water and see all the old bones lying there’.
‘I can take you,’ a clear voice said. Peregrine looked around gladly and saw Molly struggling to her feet, her crutch clamped under one arm. ‘I’m not afraid. Isn’t Old Grim a wildkin thing? And isn’t his Highness heir to the wildkin throne?’
‘Thank you,’ Peregrine replied gratefully.
‘Eh now, my moppet, don’t you be saying that!’ her grandmother said. ‘No need to go a-meddling in other folks’ business. You stay home with your old nan and let someone else do the showing’.
‘It’s all right, Nan,’ Molly said. ‘I know where Grimsfell is. I can show his Highness the way, if his squire will pole the boat for me. Haven’t we promised to support the king and do all we can to help him win back his throne? It seems a small thing to do’.
‘But the king’s a prisoner now, and his castle taken,’ said Bob, or maybe it was Bill.
‘Queen Vernisha takes awful hard against people who stand up against her,’ said Gus, or maybe it was Ged.
‘Fred says there was a mort of starkin a-chasing the young feller. They’ll know we’ve taken him in. They’re sure to send soldiers to roust him out’.
‘Last time they sent those nasty great birds of theirs, we were near all roasted in our beds’.
Peregrine listened in dismay as people began to rise and shake their fists, and suggest they turn him over to the pretender-queen. He threw a glance of appeal to the Marsh King, but he sat quietly, his brown eyes narrowed, letting his people have their say.
‘If you give in to Vernisha now, she will crush you all!’ Peregrine shouted. ‘She is cruel and vengeful! Your only hope is to help me defeat her!’
‘A boy? With nothing but an old spear?’ someone jeered.
Shouts and catcalls rang out. Everywhere Peregrine looked were angry, frightened faces, shaking fists, booing mouths. An idea came to him. He slid his hand into his coat and pulled out his flute. Lifting it to his mouth, he played a deep, strange, booming call. It rang out through the great hall and everyone fell silent, turning to him with startled eyes.
‘The bittern is a bird both brave and wise,’ he said. ‘It hunts with stealth and can stay hidden for hours. Its call terrifies all who hear it, for they know that the bittern will defend its territory fiercely, fighting to the death if need be. It is no wonder you of the marsh have taken the bittern as your badge’.
There was a long silence.
Peregrine’s voice rang out strongly. ‘Of all the hearthkin people, you are the only ones to have flung off the shackles of slavery. All over Ziva, your brethren are starving and in misery. People are punished for singing and telling stories, for asking for mercy and justice, for dreaming of a better way. Whole villages are locked in their barn and burnt to death for who knows what trivial crime. I have seen their bones lying in the ashes. Some were babies’.
He heard someone gasp.
‘The swan symbol of the starkin no longer means faithfulness,’ he went on, his voice gathering strength. ‘Vernisha has turned it into a symbol of treachery and betrayal. And similarly, the eagle of the wildkin people no longer stands for power and strength and royalty. The Erlqueen is captured, her castle fallen. Her people are hunted down and murdered …’ Peregrine’s voice broke. He had to bend his head for a moment, mastering his grief.
‘It is time we rose up out of the ashes, like a phoenix, and built a new life for ourselves. Starkin, wildkin, hearthkin, we must build a country where we can all live in peace, where justice and mercy are available for all, where an accident of birth does not determine whether a man or a woman is poor and weak, or rich and strong, where our children can grow and prosper in peace, and our old can die comfortably in bed. Is this not what you Levellers hold dear to your hearts? Is this not worth fighting for?’
‘Yeah!’ men in the crowd shouted, punching the air with their fists. Women cried and embraced, children laughed and pretended to wrestle, while Molly smiled at him with tears shining in her eyes.
‘You all know my grandmother Mags, who has worked tirelessly all her life to make things better in our land. My grandfather said she would be “a crutch for the crippled, a shield for the meek, a voice for the speechless, a sword for the weak”. Well, my grandmother is growing old now. I think it is time for me to take on her mantle. I hope that you will all stand by me and help me, because there is a lot to be done’.
‘So what do you want from us, apart from a guide to take you to Grimsfell?’ the Marsh King asked. His deep voice cut through the uproar, bringing with it a gradual silence.
Peregrine took a moment to answer. ‘I want your continued support, your shelter here in the marshes as long as I need it, and then, if need be, arms and men to help me fight Vernisha’.
‘And what do we get in return?’ the Marsh King asked.
Peregrine took a deep breath. He saw Grizelda leaning forward, urging him with her eyes to promise the Marsh King anything he wanted. He saw Jack swallow and surreptitiously lay his hand on his dagger. He saw Molly cross her f
ingers.
‘I hope what I give you will be a new world,’ he answered. ‘But in all likelihood, what most of us face is death’.
Grizelda dropped her head into her hands. Jack shifted till he was poised on the very edge of his stool, biting his lip. Blitz ruffled his feathers and hunched his back, sensing Peregrine’s tension.
‘Vernisha has a tight grip on the land,’ Peregrine went on. ‘She will not be easy to dislodge. I hope that I’ll find the Storm King’s spear, and that it will give me the power and strength to stand against her. But I don’t know if it will, even if I can manage to find it. I can only hope, and fight, and do my best. It’s all any of us can do’.
The Marsh King nodded. ‘True spoken,’ he said with approval. ‘Well then, what do we all say?’
The six men and woman who sat beside him rose and went down into the hall, moving among the crowd, listening to all the people said. There was a lot of arguing and gesticulation. After a long time—so long Peregrine’s legs ached—they came back to the dais and spoke to the Marsh King. He nodded, then looked at Peregrine. ‘Tell us, how are we to know whether you or your father will be any better a ruler than this Vernisha?’
‘You could help us,’ Peregrine said wearily. ‘Tell us what you want, what you think needs to be done. We could have a council, like you do here, with representatives from the hearthkin and the wildkin as well as the starkin. I promise you, I’ll do my best to work out some system to keep things fair’.
There was a long pause, as the Marsh King ruminated, both enormous fists on his knees. Then he slowly nodded his head. ‘Well, you’re a bold boy, but I like a bit of boldness. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, I say. All right, laddie, we’re all yours!’
CHAPTER 19
The Story of Old Grim
THE GLOW OF THE PEAT FIRE FLICKERED OVER THEIR FACES as they sat around its warmth.
Grizelda lay back in the chair, an embroidered cushion at her head, stroking Oskar’s ears, her stockinged feet stretched towards the coals. Molly sat awkwardly on the floor, carving a lump of dark gnarled wood with a small knife. Nan sat in her wheeled chair, knitting with a fierce clack, clack of her needles. Jack roasted old wrinkled apples on the end of the poker, thrusting them deep into the orange heart of the fire, while Peregrine sat on a stool, making a collection of new arrows to replace the ones he had lost on the journey. He was fletching the arrows with feathers from the rooster in the courtyard, and using reeds for the shafts, the only straight, light timber he could find in abundance. The Marsh King was in the forge, making him a set of new arrowheads.
‘Tell me more about Grimsfell,’ Peregrine said, his hands so accustomed to his work that he barely needed to glance at them. ‘Someone mentioned something about Old Grim. Do they mean Lord Grim?’
‘Never heard him called naught but Old Grim,’ Nan said. ‘There’s lots of stories about him round here’.
‘Can you tell me some?’ Peregrine asked. ‘Because we have lots of stories about Lord Grim and I’d very much like to know if they are one and the same’.
‘Well, then, I’ll see what I can remember’. Nan laid her knitting down on her lap. ‘What my nan told me is that Old Grim’s a-sleeping under that high hill, with all his boo-bogeys and boggarts. He used to ride out regular like, and everywhere he went people would be a-shivering in their beds, too scared to put a nose above their counterpanes in case they saw him and his Gallop’. Cause if you saw him you’d have to ride with him and whither you’d go no-one knew. All folks knew was that few ever came back again’.
Peregrine leant forward eagerly. ‘Yes! Lord Grim’s Gallop. It’s the same story. So that’s where he sleeps, under the hill with the lightning-blasted oak?’
‘Aye, that’s right. My old nan always said there was a battle there once, which Old Grim lost, and that’s why he’s bound to lie a-sleeping under the hill’.
‘The Storm King defeated him,’ Peregrine said exultantly. ‘With the magic of the spear!’
‘Didn’t he make the spear to fight against Lord Grim?’ Jack asked.
Peregrine nodded. ‘Yes. In the old days, Lord Grim and his Gallop came riding out of the hill every winter, through a dark and secret gate from their own realm into ours, bringing with them shadows and coldness and death’. He looked about at the circle of faces turned to his, and let his voice fall into a natural storytelling rhythm.
‘Wherever they rode, the world would change according to their whim. Lakes would form in their horses’ hoofprints, mountains would heave themselves up and cast themselves down, gardens would be blighted with frost. Wherever he passed, candles turned blue, fires sank and skin turned to gooseflesh. Lord Grim’s Gallop brought nothing but grief and fear, for no-one ever knew what the world would do next’.
As he spoke, Peregrine remembered his mother telling him the old story that had been told to her by her mother, and felt raw grief tighten his throat. Where were his parents now? He dreaded what the pretender-queen might do to them now she had them in her grasp. He recalled the story of how minstrels had their entrails eaten out by rats and storytellers had their tongues cut out, and shuddered.
‘So what happened?’ Molly prompted him, looking up from her carving.
Peregrine pushed away his dreadful imaginings and went on. ‘The Storm King was then just a boy called Wolfgang. He was the only son of one of the Crafty, and he never knew his father. He was a strange, wild child who hated to be kept confined and would sometimes just stare off into space as if he saw things that no-one else could see’. Peregrine had always felt an affinity with the wild boy Wolfgang, for he too was accused of staring into space. ‘Sometimes he fell into such a fit of temper no-one could constrain him. He had Gifts but did not seem to be able to control them. He could whistle up the wind but could not whistle it down again, and the storms he called would rage for days, flooding rivers and tearing down trees’.
‘This is all very interesting,’ Grizelda said, yawning behind her hand, ‘but I really don’t see what use it is for us to know all this’.
‘He made the spear,’ Peregrine said sharply. ‘He poured all of his Gifts into the spear—the Gift of Calling Storm, the Gift of Finding and, of course, the Gift of Healing’.
Grizelda frowned. ‘But the spear is a weapon. Isn’t it meant to kill people?’
Peregrine nodded. ‘All the Gifts of the Stormlinn are double-edged, though, Grizelda. I can call and I can send away’.
‘He once ordered a mob of bully-boys to go away and they weren’t found for hours,’ Jack said with a grin. ‘They’d walked their feet bloody’.
‘I didn’t know what would happen. I’ve never done it again,’ Peregrine said shortly. ‘It’s against the law of three’.
‘Go on, though, laddie, tell us more. It’s the best story I’ve heard in many a long year!’ Nan urged.
‘Well, Wolfgang’s mother was badly hurt one day by the passing of Lord Grim and his Gallop,’ Peregrine said. ‘Wolfgang did not yet know he had the Gift of Healing. He was beside himself with rage and grief. He ran after Lord Grim and seized his stirrup, trying to haul him out of the saddle. Lord Grim just laughed at him, scooped him up onto his saddle and rode away with him. Wolfgang howled and fought with all his strength but Lord Grim did not let him go. In the end Wolfgang fainted dead away. When he came to, he was many miles from home. It took him a long time to find his way back again, only to discover his mother was dead’.
‘Oh, that’s so sad,’ Molly said.
‘What did he do, poor lad?’ Nan asked, clasping her small gnarled hands together.
‘Wolfgang travelled all about the land, seeking a way to exact his revenge. He went to every one of the Crafty he could find and studied with them. Everything he was taught he wrote down, eventually making what is now the Book of the Erlrune. Everywhere Wolfgang went he saw the ruin left by the wildest of the wild things, who knew no rules. He began to think how best to tame and bind and teach them. Slowly he began to make alliances and build Sto
rmlinn Castle, but every winter Lord Grim would come and lay waste to what he had built that year, almost as if mocking his attempt to bring peace and prosperity to the world. It seemed as if Lord Grim and his Gallop were invincible’.
Peregrine paused to take a mouthful of warm spiced mead, looking around at the faces upturned to his. ‘One day Wolfgang heard that Lady Grim had cast a spell of protection on her husband and each of her sons’. He lowered his voice and leant forward so the glow of the fire would flicker eerily upon his face. ‘She had said:
Naught shall harm thee, so I swear
Naught that moves upon the earth
Naught that flies in the air
Naught that swims in the sea
Naught that grows in the soil
Naught that lies beneath it
Naught that is made from it
Naught shall harm thee, so I swear’.
‘That’s fairly all-embracing,’ Grizelda said. ‘Jack, are you cooking that apple or burning it?’
‘Sorry!’ Jack cried and pulled the apple out of the fire. It was looking rather burnt, but he cut away the blackened peel, rolled it in brown sugar and passed it up to her.
She took it gingerly, for it was steaming hot, and ate greedily. ‘These are really good,’ she said indistinctly.
‘So what happened?’ Molly asked, her hands busy with her knife and lump of wood.
‘Wolfgang despaired for a long while, but then one day he went out at midwinter to cut the mistletoe, as has always been the custom among the Crafty,’ Peregrine said. ‘It occurred to him that mistletoe did not grow from the soil, but was rooted into the branches of a tree. It did not fly, or swim, or creep, or move upon the earth. The more he thought about it, the more he felt that he might have found the flaw in Lady Grim’s spell’.
He looked round the circle of intent faces. ‘You may not know much about mistletoe. I don’t know if you hearthkin follow our wildkin customs anymore’.
‘We hang it from our mantelpieces come midwinter,’ Nan said with a toothless grin, ‘and kiss anyone who stands underneath it’.
