She pushed her wet hair out of her face. Her first task was to sing to the grimoire and pray that, now she was on this side of the stream, it would hear her and sing back. And indeed it did. Her heart leaped. She slid back down the bank and waved to Auld Nancy.
“Come back, Grayling,” Auld Nancy called.
“Nay! You must cross to this side of the water.”
Shouting back and forth across the stream, they walked along the banks on both sides until they found a spot where the water ran less deep. A fallen tree lay halfway across.
“Hold on to the tree and cross,” said Grayling. “Pansy, you help Auld Nancy.”
Pansy shook her head, and her wet hair flew about her. “I will not go back into the water.”
“Watch me,” said Auld Nancy. “’Twill be easy.” She waded into the water and grabbed for the tree. Hand over hand, she pulled herself along, her skirts swirling about her. Finally she was near enough so that Grayling could wade out and take her hand. The water came to their knees, and the strong current pulled them about. Auld Nancy fell and her hand was torn from Grayling’s. For a moment Grayling thought the old woman would be swept downstream. She grabbed Auld Nancy by her skirt and held on. Together they staggered from the water and onto the bank, where they lay, breathing heavily and coughing up water.
“What about me?” Pansy called.
“Do as I did,” Auld Nancy called back. “All but the falling.”
“I cannot. I am afeared.”
Muttering “Fie! Fie! Fie!” Grayling took her wet cloak off. She forced herself back into the water and paddled and pulled Pansy, mewling and whining, across.
Grayling wrung her skirt and her hair and emptied out her sodden shoes while Pansy wiped mud from her face with the hem of her kirtle. “You pigheaded, beef-witted noddypoop!” Grayling said. “This was all your doing. I should have just left you in the water at the beginning!”
“Do not waste breath, Grayling,” said Auld Nancy. “Her mother did say Pansy was foolish.” The old woman picked up her soggy broom. “Though it would be better for all of us, Pansy, if you were less so.” Pansy thrust out her chin and narrowed her eyes but did not argue with Auld Nancy.
The old woman removed her wet cloak and shook it. Out fell a fish, which lay flapping on the ground. “Oooh!” Pansy said. “Make a fire, and we shall eat.”
“No fire,” said Grayling. She took the fish by the tail and tossed it back into the water. “We are still pursued by half the ruffians in the kingdom. Let us move on.”
Damp and dripping, the three turned away from the stream and followed a path up to where it met the road. Grayling could hear no sounds of fighting. She hoped the edge dwellers had been driven off, with the soldiers giving chase.
A sudden wind rose with a bite and a howl. It drove away the remains of the mist and swirled around the three travelers, clawing at their faces and tangling their skirts. Grayling’s hair danced, and her eyes watered. Wet and clammy though she was, she shivered less from cold than from sudden feelings of dread, foreboding, and a terrible hopelessness. Then as abruptly as it had appeared, the wind subsided, the darkness lightened, and Grayling’s spirits rose.
She grimaced. What kind of wind brings such darkling and despair? Shaking her head to clear it, she took Auld Nancy by the arm and continued on, Pansy panting and lagging behind.
“Where might Desdemona Cork be?” Grayling asked Auld Nancy after a time. “Will she find us again, or has she left us to continue without her?”
“When shall we rest?” asked Pansy. “I am fair spent. And when shall we eat?”
No one had answers. The way seemed to Grayling much longer afoot than it had in the back of a caged wagon, but at least they were not captives.
VIII
t last they reached the road west once more. There the setting sun illuminated a fantastical pavilion of marigold silk that flapped and fluttered in the breeze, making waves of golden cloth. At one side were a coach, paneled in green leather with brass fittings and scarlet window curtains, and a coachman asleep on the seat.
Before the pavilion stood a man. A very rich man, Grayling guessed, as she studied his velvet jacket, snow white breeches, and high-heeled black leather boots. He stood motionless, like a statue, like someone under a spell. A spell! Had the evil force been here? She took Auld Nancy and Pansy each by a hand, ready to flee.
Then from the pavilion came the aroma of roasting meat. And apple blossoms, out of season and unexpected, so all the more sweet. And lavender, mint, and rich honey.
Of course! Desdemona Cork! Grayling breathed out with relief. Desdemona Cork!
The lovely woman parted the silks and beckoned them in. Awestruck, Grayling looked about her. Draperies of crimson and indigo damask there were, and lavishly cushioned couches, beeswax candles and flaming torches, and small fires in bronze braziers warming the air.
While Grayling stood astounded, Pansy hobbled in and, with a great sigh, flopped onto a couch of ruby velvet. Auld Nancy, however, stopped at the entrance. “How come you by all this luxury?” she asked, frowning at Desdemona Cork. “You cannot be trusted, enchantress that you are. Who has given you all this to trap us?”
“Muzzle your tongue, grouching old crone,” said Desdemona Cork. “The mayor of the town found himself besotted with me and furnished all you see. You and your ill temper are welcome to share it or not, as you choose.”
Auld Nancy, bent with fatigue, shuffled in and dropped onto a cushion far from Desdemona Cork. Urged by Auld Nancy, Grayling, who still stood at the entry, related the story of their capture and escape. Pansy interrupted, saying, “Auld Nancy thinks Grayling was brave and a great help to us, which I could have been also, if I had wanted, but Grayling likes telling us what to do, so I let her do it.” She snuffled loudly as she removed her boots and wiggled her dirty, blistered feet.
They all turned to look at Grayling. She blinked. Pansy had nearly gotten herself and Grayling drowned. Twice. Pansy whined and grumbled and complained at every turn. And she thought she could be brave and helpful? Grayling gritted her teeth. She had not wanted to lead, but who else was there?
“That is all over, and we have survived. Now I believe we must hurry away before we are discovered,” she said, reluctantly, because of the warmth, the soft cushions, the aroma of the roast meat . . . and the still-missing Pook.
Auld Nancy, her face weariful and wan, said, “Desdemona Cork, be useful. Use your wiles to delay our pursuers for a time. Long enough for us to eat and to rest.”
Desdemona Cork looked confused, as if the idea of being useful confounded her, but she nodded slowly. “You will be safe here until dawn. I can make it so.” So Grayling, too, sat, choosing a cushion the green of the fiddlehead ferns in her valley.
Suddenly from outside the pavilion came the sounds of men shouting, the clanging of weapons, and the snorting of horses. The soldiers! Grayling jumped to her feet, her hunger gone.
Desdemona Cork stepped outside, and Grayling could smell roses. She moved closer to the entry and heard snatches of conversation. Have you seen . . . and Whither the witches . . . and South. Due south, in a coach with four horses running fast.
At a sudden shrieking, Grayling pulled back the silks and peered out. One of the soldiers was thrashing about, shouting and tugging at his clothes. Was he in the midst of a fit? Possessed of a demon? Out from a sleeve fell not a demon but a toad, brown and warty. Desdemona Cork squealed as it crawled over her foot and into the tent.
“Gray Eyes, this mouse has found you,” said the toad to Grayling.
Grayling’s chest swelled with joy. “Pook? ’Tis really you?” Although she much preferred Pook as a mouse or a raven or even a goat, she lifted Pook the toad and patted him gently on his bumpy back. “You are truly a remarkable creature to have found me,” she said.
“I could not have walked such a far way, so this soldier carried me,” said Pook the toad, “though he was unaware of his assistance.”
“By my re
ckoning, you have now saved me twice,” Grayling said, bowing her head. “My most grateful thanks to you and your mouse accomplices.”
“Nay, the mice did what mice do: chew. ’Twas great fun for a mouse.” Pook quivered, and Grayling, disinclined to put a toad in her pocket, held him gingerly on her palm.
After a few moments of shawl twitching and veil fluttering by Desdemona Cork, the soldiers, bowing and scraping, left, heading south as she had instructed them. The man in the high-heeled black leather boots still stood unmoving and unaware. Grayling gestured questioningly toward him.
“I grew tired of his attentions,” said Desdemona Cork with a shrug.
Inside the pavilion, Desdemona Cork handed something to Grayling. It was her basket, left behind when the three were captured. She put Pook inside, where, in true toad fashion, he hid himself beneath the few remaining herbs, now limp and brown but welcome cover for a toad.
Grayling kicked off her soggy shoes, curled herself onto a soft cushion, and ate her fill of beef and apples and bread with honey. What a day she had had! Would she survive another like it? She combed her still-damp hair with her fingers and pulled it into a braid, then fell into a deep and dream-free sleep.
Dawn sun, shining through the silk, brightened the pavilion. The mist was gone. The travelers woke, comfortably rested and full of roast meat. “Now we must go,” Grayling said. “I will sing to the grimoire, and we can follow.”
Pansy stuck her blistered feet toward Grayling. “See you these? And my ankle is not yet mended. Can we not linger for a day or more?”
“And I,” said Desdemona Cork, “I am weary—”
“Weary?” shouted Auld Nancy. “You, weary? I spent a night in a cage, crossed a river, and walked until my feet near fell off! And you think you are weary?”
“Me, I nearly drowned. Twice,” said Pansy.
Auld Nancy shouted, “You are young and hardy. I am old and my—”
“Enough!” said Grayling, with surprising firmness. “I have seen such things as will haunt my dreams for years. Weary or no, I will go on—with you or alone. If there is a way to free all those who are rooted, I will find it. You do as you wish.” She stood and wrapped her damp cloak, redolent with the stench of wet wool, about her.
“Fie, fie, you are most boasting and prideful today,” said Pansy.
“Hush, Pansy,” said Auld Nancy, climbing to her feet. “Of course I will go on. We will all go on.” She crossed her arms and stared at Pansy and Desdemona Cork.
Pansy said, “I would not be left here alone.” She frowned and pulled on her shoes.
Desdemona Cork huffed a lock of hair out of her face and reluctantly nodded. The company, now four once again, stepped outside.
The morning sky was blue and gold and the soft violet of woodland flowers. Grayling breathed deeply.
“As we continue west,” said Desdemona Cork, “we shall not encounter the soldiers, for I sent them elsewhere.” She gestured toward the outside of the pavilion and the man standing there. “Sir Whoever-he-is will provide us with his coach and four. I will wake him.”
“Nay. Such a splendid coach will attract unwelcome interest,” said Grayling. “I would rather not meet the metal-nosed warlord or suchlike again.”
“You, Desdemona Cork,” said Auld Nancy as she waved her broom, “think ever of yourself. Grayling has the right of it. The coach would be too conspicuous.”
“I say we take the coach for the sake of my poor feet,” said Pansy.
Grayling bit her lip in consternation before asking Desdemona Cork, “What would happen when the enchantment wore off and he found us in his coach?”
Desdemona Cork frowned and sulked and twirled her skirts and her scarves. “If we cannot ride, I would prefer to return to the town and the mayor. You may go on without me.”
“Still I will take the coach,” Pansy insisted.
Auld Nancy turned on her. “You will do what I bid you!”
“Fie upon this company!” shouted Grayling. “Fie! I have had enough of the carping and scolding and bickering! Take the coach or do not take the coach. I am leaving!”
A sudden rumble of thunder shook the ground, followed by a flash of light. Grayling, Pansy, and Desdemona Cork all looked at Auld Nancy. “’Tweren’t me,” she said.
More thunder was followed by a swirl of smoke and the sound of trumpets. Grayling grabbed Auld Nancy’s hand. Smoke and shadow! Were they discovered? Were they now doomed to be rooted to the ground?
IX
ut of the thick yellow smoke, a man appeared, a man as gnarled and knobby as a sack full of sticks. Charms and amulets, half hidden in his beard, clanked at his neck. “Who is it that disturbs the peace of the morning with squabbling?” His voice was between a rumble and a roar.
Auld Nancy stood and waved the smoke away from her face. “Sylvanus, be that you behind all the clamor?”
“Auld Nancy?” The booming voice was replaced by one more human and even elderly.
“Auld? Not so old compared to you. Except for the food stains, your beard has gone quite white.” Auld Nancy cackled. “I trust you are well. I have not seen you since the sad affair of the magic chickens.”
“Sad indeed.” The man’s eyes filled with tears. “I was certain that a sprinkle of my flying powder would see those birds safely down from the roof. Alas, alas.” His tears wet his cheeks and dampened his beard, and he wiped at them with a blue handkerchief. “Still, as the ancients say, ‘’tis better to try than to wonder.’”
Auld Nancy dismissed him with a wave. “This,” she told the others, “be Sylvanus Vetch, adept of soothsaying, conjuration, and the casting of charms. He be teacher of enchanted scholarship at the school in Nether Finchbeck.”
The school at Nether Finchbeck was a famed training academy for wizards, sorcerers, charmers, and spellbinders. This unlikely looking magician must be powerful and important indeed, thought Grayling. But if he were a famed magician, could he not have conjured a new cloak and better shoes? And why was he not rooted to the ground like so many others?
“These companions of mine,” Auld Nancy continued, “are Desdemona Cork; Hannah Strong’s daughter, Grayling; and the young Pansy, my niece Blanche’s girl.”
Desdemona Cork twitched her shawl, and Sylvanus looked at no one else. “An enchantress, I see,” he said to her with an awkward bow. “And very . . . well, enchanting, I find.” He waved his hand, and a large green bush near the path burst into bloom with creamy soft flowers. He slinked closer to her and presented her with a spice-scented bloom. “Sylvanus Vetch at your service, my lady—Brother Doctor Sylvanus Vetch, illustrious scholar, celebrated magician, and esteemed practitioner of tyromancy, or divination with cheese.”
Desdemona Cork took the flower with a frown that was yet as lovely as any smile Grayling had seen, and Auld Nancy snorted. “Peace, Sylvanus! ’Tis not Desdemona Cork you should be attending but Grayling, who will tell you from the beginning what has befallen us.”
And Grayling did. Her tongue was tired of telling the tale, and she was no closer to freeing Hannah Strong and the others than she had been at the start. But now Brother Doctor Sylvanus Vetch, who had called himself illustrious, celebrated, and esteemed, was here. Looking at the weepy, bony fellow gaping at Desdemona Cork, Grayling tried to bury her doubts. Perhaps their fortunes would change now for the better.
“Alas, alas,” said Sylvanus when Grayling had finished. He wiped his drippy eyes and nose on his sleeve. “To think the world is in such a state! I have heard rumors that the faculty of Nether Finchbeck is now a grove of hornbeam trees, grimoires and scrolls have been taken, and the students guzzle ale as they make vague and unsuitable rescue plans.” Tears overflowed his eyes and disappeared into his beard until they emerged drop by drop at the bottom. “Alas, alas, oh, woe and sadness. ’Tis true that ‘only the busy bee has no time for sorrow.’”
“Rumors? Only rumors? How did you not know, you who call yourself illustrious scholar and more?” Auld Nancy ask
ed. “And how is it you, too, are not rooted to the ground?” She narrowed her eyes and peered at him.
He snuffled one last great snuffle and said, “Belike because I was not here. I was somewhere else. Somewhere”—he gestured vaguely toward the clouds—“else.”
Grayling looked up to the sky but saw only sky.
Desdemona Cork asked, “Why have you, with the magic to make flowers bloom, not vanquished the evil force and made things right again?”
Pansy said, “Are you truly from Nether Finchbeck?”
Grayling broke in. “Do you, sir, have such a thing as a grimoire?”
With a great harrumph, Sylvanus said, “Nay, I have no need of a book for my spells. All my knowledge is stored here.” He tapped his head with a bony finger.
“Likely that is why you have not been rooted,” said Grayling.
Sylvanus smoothed his beard, smiled, and said, “Be of good cheer, fair mistresses. After hearing your sad tale, I shall favor you with my company for a time.”
Company? Just company? “Can you do nothing to help?” Grayling asked him. “About the rooted folk and the grimoires, the smoke and shadow and the mysterious wind? Do you have no useful skills?”
The magician’s eyes snapped. “I cannot combat the evil force until I know what it is,” he said, “where it is from, why it was sent. That will take cogitation, consideration, contemplation, rumination. I cannot be hurried.”
Grayling was not satisfied, but Sylvanus turned from her and whistled. A small spotted mule trotted out from between the trees. Pook? Is it Pook? Is he now Pook the mule? Grayling patted the herbs in her basket and was relieved to feel the shape of a sleeping toad. Nay, not Pook.
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