Grayling's Song

by Karen Cushman

  “Belike,” said Grayling, and her shoulders slumped. “I have no magic, no healing spells, and no wart charms. I cannot help you.”

  The woman frowned and raised a grimy fist.

  Magic or no magic, Grayling would have to do something to avert evil signs or painful thumps. She reached into her basket, pulled out a broken jar with scraps of ointment that had escaped the mouse, and sniffed it. Sharp, she thought, whatever it is. Strong. Mayhap potent. “Here, take this,” she said to the woman with the wart. “Apply a drop every morning at dawn for seven days, and your wart will disappear.” By which time, I trust I will be far, far away.

  The woman smelled it, and her nose twitched. “What is it?”

  “My mother’s wart-removing tincture, handed down from granny to granny.” Or mayhap a tonic against coughing or a love potion or spiced plum compote for Sunday supper. “Take it.”

  The old woman tossed the jar into her basket. “I have no coins,” she said, crossing her arms.

  “Then it be a gift.”

  She, too, left satisfied.

  Grayling sang the gathering song in a small voice that grew a bit stronger as she ended:

  Come—

  By wax and wick,

  By seed and root,

  Through storms of trouble,

  We gather,

  We gather.

  Curious folk stopped to listen, and one prosperous-looking merchant threw her a copper, but they drifted away when the song was finished, and no one approached to ask what she was about.

  When Grayling left that town for another, Pook the mouse was still with her, and on they went. Some towns smelled like warm bread, others like wet dogs and old boots. Some were crowded with farmers and merchants and soldiers, and some were no more than tumbledown inn, dung heap, and swarm of starveling cats.

  She was still wary of the unknown world outside her valley, and she missed her mother, but she pressed on day after day. She earned what coins she could for tending a toddler, unloading a wagon, or watching over a stall, so she did not go hungry—or, leastwise, very hungry. She dropped bits of food into her basket or her pocket for Pook, who stayed safely hidden, for towns were too busy and crowded for a shape-shifting mouse. They slept wherever it was softest and driest and safest. In each town, she sang the gathering song, softly and tentatively, but no one was summoned . . . until at last, someone was.

  IV

  here was thunder, and gusts of wind, and rain had begun as a drizzle when Grayling, with Pook huddled in her pocket, reached the market square of yet another town. Her hair dripped, her feet squelched in her soggy shoes, and her cloak was growing sodden. She found a place to stand under a tree near the blacksmith’s forge and toasted her back at his fire.

  “Be it you who calls me?” asked a voice. Grayling turned. A woman stood there studying her, an old woman with a face as wrinkled as a raisin and grizzled hair poking from beneath a linen veil and wimple.

  The drizzling rain became a downpour, and the woman joined Grayling under the shelter of the tree. “Be it you who calls me?” she asked again, shaking the rain from her broom of heather and hazel. “I have followed the singing for some days now.”

  Could it be? “Are you one of the others?” Grayling asked.

  “Perchance,” said the old woman a mite peevishly.

  Grayling searched the wrinkled face for some encouragement behind the peevish but, finding only more peevish, took a deep breath and spoke. “Smoke and shadow fired our cottage, left my mother, Hannah Strong, rooted to the ground, and took her spell book, so she sent me to find others, if others there still be, to break the curse and discover what is afoot, but I am fearful and already was captured, and the goat also, so the mouse—”

  “Slow, child, slow. You gibber like a gaggle of grouse, and my ears don’t hear as fast as once they did.” The old woman dashed raindrops from her face with her sleeve. “Like simmering soup, stories cannot be hurried. Tell me everything that befell you, but tell it slow.” So Grayling did, ending her tale with a fluttering sigh.

  The woman shook her head, and her chin wobbled above her wimple. “Alas, I have seen it. Hovels and cottages and manors afire, cunning women and mages and hags transformed, spell books taken.”

  Grayling’s skin prickled with unease. So others besides her mother were spellbound. Was it everywhere?

  “I agree with Hannah Strong,” the old woman continued. “’Tis likely that the malevolent force is after the grimoires. But what it wants with them, I do not know.” She shook her head again. “I be Auld Nancy, and it may be you and I are all the cunning folk left. Two of us against smoke and shadow. ’Twill not be a fair fight.”

  “We are three,” came a whisper. “I am here too.” From behind a gooseberry hedge, a plump young girl in a russet tunic and striped stockings showed herself. Below her linen cap, her fine yellow hair hung stringy and wet, and a few drops dribbled from her cold-reddened nose.

  “Yes, Pansy, you are here too.” The old woman rolled her eyes skyward and muttered to Grayling, “Her mother, my niece, is most exasperated with the girl and asked me to look after her for a bit. Blanche is the county’s most renowned reader of palms, but she says she can teach the girl nothing, awkward as she is, and foolish, and sullen.”

  Pansy drew closer. Her face was as white and puffy as risen bread dough, and Grayling thought that if she poked it with her finger, the poke would remain. Pansy wiped her nose on her sleeve and looked down at her feet. Poor girl, Grayling thought. I know what it is like to have a mother who thinks you lacking.

  The old woman coughed softly before raising her voice again. “Now, I need me a mug of honey mead and a sausage bun ere we talk more.”

  “I see an inn,” said Grayling, pointing across the square.

  “Hmmph,” said the old woman. “’Tis likely crowded with folks escaping the rain.” To Grayling’s amazement, Auld Nancy plucked an ember from the blacksmith’s forge with her fingertips. Chanting deep and low, words and sounds Grayling could not identify, the old woman tossed the ember into the air and shook her broom. At once the rain stopped, the clouds moved on, and a sun like summer fired the sky.

  Grayling’s jaw dropped. Auld Nancy had magic! Were it for good or ill? Grayling peered into the woman’s face. She did not look wicked or harmful, just old and sour. Did her magic extend only to banishing rain? Or could she be the one to unroot Hannah Strong and vanquish the evil that came as smoke and shadow?

  “I am not that kind of witch,” said Auld Nancy, as if she read Grayling’s thoughts. “Folks call me weather witch, but I have only homely hedge-witch magic—finding lost dogs and cats, calling forth thunder, ripening fruit, stopping rain, and such.” She raised her broom like a battle flag and marched toward the inn, which was rapidly emptying as folks sought the sunshine. “Still, my skills, humble though they be, serve me. We shall have no trouble finding a place to sit now.”

  They followed her, Pansy tripping over her feet and Grayling trailing after, curious and wary. She had been inside an inn but once, for her mother said, “We may as well spread mustard on our pennies and eat them as give them to an innkeeper.”

  Behind a tall door bound with hinges of iron, the inn was dim and musty, redolent with the smell of wet wool, old wood, and older dirt. The windows were sooty and begrimed, but lanterns hung from the ceiling and a fire gave off welcome light. The three settled themselves around a table with vacant benches. A small pig was roasting on a spit inside the large hearth. Dripping fat sizzled in the flames, and the aroma drove all worry from Grayling’s belly, leaving hunger behind. Auld Nancy produced a handful of copper coins, and sausages, pork ribs, fresh bread, and cool mead were brought to their table.

  A gleam of sunshine peeked in as the door opened. The innkeeper scurried over to a tall woman wrapped in shawls and scarves and veils of amethyst and amber and cornflower blue. He bowed and simpered and groveled, and Grayling was lost in wonder. Who was this woman? Someone important, or wealthy, or powerfu
l, belike.

  “Enchantress,” muttered Auld Nancy, watching. “You cannot trust enchanters. They be cruel and selfish, vessels of trickery, guile, and deceit. Their enchantments do not last, but beware, beware.” She took a sip of her mead and then said slowly, “Still, she may know something of the state of the kingdom.”

  The woman approached their table, her skirts and scarves swirling as she moved, the innkeeper bobbing behind. She pushed aside her veil to speak, and Grayling gasped. Never had she seen someone so lovely, skin as creamy soft and brown as the wings of a new-fledged sparrow, hair a vast dark cloud about her head, eyes as deep with mystery and promise as a summer night sky. Blue designs of moons and stars were inked on her cheeks, and rings of gold twinkled at her ears. Grayling wanted nothing more than to sit near the woman forever. The fire burned brighter, the mead tasted sweeter, the air was fresher, and her companions were more—

  “Stop what you are doing at once!” said Auld Nancy, waving her broom at the lovely woman. “Let the girl be.” The old woman shook her head. “Enchantress,” she muttered. “Can’t put it aside for a minute.”

  The woman pulled her cloak tighter about her and asked Auld Nancy, “Was it you who summoned me? And why?” Her voice was deep and a little rough, like iron cart wheels on a rutted road. Grayling started in surprise; she had expected music.

  “’Twas this girl who called.” Auld Nancy sat back and waited for Grayling to tell the story, but Grayling yet sat open-mouthed and gawking. Auld Nancy huffed and began. “Something evil, something with stealth and power, has discomfited our fellows, taken their spell books, fired their dwellings. We think it be the spell books the evil force wants. I be Auld Nancy, and I can call sunshine or rain, but I was spared, likely because I have no grimoire.” Popping a bit of bread into her mouth, Auld Nancy went on. “Nor do you, I suspect, for you are here.”

  The woman sat down. “I am called Desdemona Cork, and ’tis true I have no grimoire. Other enchanters have such—books of charms and spells to attract and enchant—but I have no need.” She twitched, and the aromas of fresh bread and warm wine, spring breezes and summer flowers, filled Grayling’s nose. Her head spun.

  Auld Nancy waved the sweet odors away and said, “Then you may be the only one of your kind left unfettered.”

  “’Tis true? It seems most unlikely. Who are you that I should believe what you say?”

  “Misdoubt me, if you will. Go on your way. But consider if I tell the truth, if there is such a force abroad, and it claims the rest of us. Imagine your feet growing into the ground, and bark, thick and rough, moving up from your ankles, over your body, slowly but relentlessly turning you into a tree.”

  Pansy squealed. With a squirm and a tug, Desdemona Cork pulled her cloak still closer, and said, “Again I ask, why was I summoned? What do you want with me?”

  “We few here,” said Auld Nancy, “unskilled and reluctant as we may be, must discover what is afoot, and why, and who is responsible. We will have to work together.”

  “I do not work together,” said Desdemona Cork. “I have never had the need.”

  Auld Nancy turned red with temper, and Grayling spoke up. “You must help. Everyone must help. I have seen the horror of my mother, bark to her knees, rooted to the ground, helpless.”

  “Roots. Bark. Horror. This sounds dangersome,” said Desdemona Cork as she helped herself to a pork rib. “I like it not and will have no part of it.”

  Auld Nancy slammed her hand on the table, and mead sloshed from their cups. “Go, then,” she said, “but leave the rib!” And she yanked the meat from Desdemona Cork’s hand.

  The enchantress stood, then stopped still as the room grew dark and cold. A wind rose outside that rattled the windows and set the inn sign creaking. It whistled down the chimney, shooting flames from the fireplace like an angry dragon in an ancient story. Wisps of smoke writhed and coiled through the room.

  Grayling shivered.

  Auld Nancy wheezed.

  Pansy whimpered.

  And Desdemona Cork sat down again. “It seems that something is amiss indeed. What do you propose we do about it?”

  “I expect,” said Auld Nancy “that the spell or conjuration we need to defeat this evil force can be found in a grimoire.” She paused for a sip from her mead cup. “But how to find the grimoires?”

  Grayling looked at the others. Auld Nancy shrugged and stared at the table. Desdemona Cork jingled the bracelets on her arm. Pansy took the last sausage, biting it so fiercely that grease shot out like sparks from a bonfire.

  Oh, rats and rabbit droppings! It will have to be me. Grayling gritted her teeth. “We can find my mother’s grimoire,” she said at last. “She has a song she sings, and her grimoire will sing back, if it is not too far away and no water stands between them.”

  “A discovery song,” said Auld Nancy, and she nodded. “Trust Hannah Strong to have such. But she is not here.”

  Grayling shook her head. “Nay, she cannot leave, rooted as she is, but she taught me the song. ’Tis not an easy song to sing or to hear, but I will try to teach it to you. You can follow it to her grimoire, and I can go home.”

  She sang, and the grimoire sang back to her. Grayling heard the song, not through her ears but with every part of her. It was in the air—she could hear it without hearing it. She could see it, taste it, feel it. “Do you hear it?”

  “Hear what?” the three asked in unison.

  Grayling’s hopes sagged. She sang again. “Can you sing it?”

  They could not. The others could neither sing the song nor hear the grimoire singing back.

  Auld Nancy shook her head. “The song and the grimoire belong to you.”

  “Nay, they are my mother’s.”

  “Can you sing the song?”

  Grayling nodded.

  “Does the grimoire sing back?”

  Grayling nodded again.

  “You can sing, and you can hear it singing back. I would say ’tis yours. So, too, the quest is yours. You must lead us to where the grimoires are so we may unravel this mystery and put things right.”

  Grayling’s head ached. She was no leader, neither brave nor eager for adventure. She wanted none of this. She looked around the table at the others. Desdemona Cork was not trustworthy, Pansy knew nothing, and Auld Nancy thought she knew everything but had no answer for this puzzle. What would happen to them if they challenged the evil force?

  The wind shrieked and shook the inn, and the door rattled and banged. “This is no natural wind,” Auld Nancy said. “I believe strong forces are clashing and fighting for control, and we are caught between.”

  V

  hey slept, four in a bed, in an attic room high under the eaves. Grayling tossed and turned as the wind yowled like a hungry cat trying to get inside.

  During the night, with a grawk and a cronk, Pook the mouse had burst from Grayling’s pocket in a flutter of black feathers. After Grayling explained him to her gobsmacked companions, Pook—now Pook the raven—flapped his wings and settled on the windowsill, where he pecked at the glass all night.

  Morning was quiet in the inn. The baldheaded waiter brought bread and honey and peaches from the south, where it was still summer, to their table. Grayling sat with juice running down her chin, waiting for someone to suggest a plan, but no one said a word. Finally she swallowed and asked, “How shall we begin?”

  “We?” asked Pansy. “Must I go? They are preparing pigeon pie for supper.”

  Auld Nancy pinched Pansy’s ear. “I am responsible for you, so where I go, you go. We will follow the sound of Grayling’s singing grimoire and hope to put an end to this dark witchery.”

  As Desdemona Cork was too conspicuous, Pansy too afraid, and Grayling reluctant, Auld Nancy went first. She was the surest and the boldest, short of temper but full of vigor. Following Auld Nancy, Grayling thought, would be much like following her mother.

  Autumn was upon them. Here and there, leaves struggled to turn color, and the day was clo
udy and cool. Grayling sang and cocked her head as she felt the response. “That way,” she said, and she pointed to a path up a hill, rutted and muddy and steep.

  Off they went into the gray-sky morning, with Pook the raven soaring above them. He gave a shrill cry, dove to the ground, and skidded to a stop, over and over. Pebbles flew before his claws. His shiny beak pecked at sticks, at stones, at worms and beetles, grains of wheat and crusts of bread. Cawing and cronking, he fluttered to Pansy’s shoulder and picked at her hair. “Hellborn bird!” she shouted, and off he flew. Silhouetted against the sky, he spread his great wings, twisting and tumbling, drifting then diving then climbing again. If a raven could laugh, Grayling would have sworn he was laughing.

  They trudged on. The road wound up and down and around soft hills bedecked with oaks and elms, and Grayling breathed deeply of the crisp air. In the distance, fields lay fallow, awaiting spring planting. Perhaps, Grayling thought, this venture will not be too difficult. My belly is full, there is no rain, Auld Nancy is leading us, and I have naught to do but sing. Perhaps all will be well.

  They walked on, over barren hillsides, through wooded groves, past villages where church bells were tolling. Breezes sang, trees rustled, dogs menaced them, nipping at their heels. Through crossroads and forks, on tracks and trails, paths and byways and lanes, they walked, following Grayling, who followed the grimoire’s song.

  Pook swooped in to land on Grayling’s shoulder. “This Pook must thank you, Gray Eyes,” he said, fixing her with his beady black eye, “for your shape-shifting potion has allowed it to see such things as a mouse would never see—haystacks and hillocks, sheep cotes and steeples and streambeds.”

  “But, Pook,” she asked, her forehead furrowed with worry, “what if the potion wears off while you are in the sky? Or you shift suddenly into a squirrel or a cow? Your plummet to earth would be sudden, messy, and likely fatal.”