Grayling's Song

by Karen Cushman

  “It might,” said Auld Nancy, “but ’twould be most dangersome.”

  “No matter. I, Phinaeus Moon, shall find the grimoire for you and hurl it into the sea,” said the young man, returning with a load of wood in his arms. “I would be the hero of this adventure.”

  Grayling shook her head. “Nay. You cannot sing to the grimoire nor hear it singing back.” She looked at frail Auld Nancy with her aching bones, sweetly scented Desdemona Cork with her frivolous enchantments, and white-bearded, wise, but ineffectual Sylvanus. Though they each had a portion of magic, the grimoire would sing to none of them. Only to Grayling. Only to her.

  “I fear it must be me,” she said.

  As Phinaeus Moon started a fire, the others nodded somberly. Who else indeed. I must, she repeated to herself, I must, though every part of her wanted to run, to hide, to disappear. Instead she curled herself near the fire and tried to sleep. A biting-cold wind arose from time to time, but whether it was natural or a sign that the force was protesting her plans, Grayling could not say.

  XIII

  rayling watched the sky lighten from murky dawn to the bright blue of a fine autumn day. The sky should not be blue this morning, she thought, but cloudy, dark, and ominous.

  She stirred the embers of the fire and sat beside it, reluctant to face what was to come. One by one, the others woke, stood, and stretched, until only Desdemona Cork still lay on the ground, curled around herself like a puppy.

  She raised her head. “I am sore afraid,” she said. “For myself, for Grayling, for us all. This is nothing I can enchant away.” Auld Nancy dropped creakily down beside Desdemona Cork and took her hand.

  “What if she does not succeed?” Desdemona Cork asked. “What if we all are rooted? I can almost feel my skin harden into bark.” She shuddered.

  It proved the seriousness of their plight, thought Grayling—the bold and bossy Auld Nancy, who mistrusted enchanters, bringing a measure of comfort to Desdemona Cork, no longer arrogant and assured but doubtful and in need of solace.

  Grayling inhaled deeply. She would do what she could—for her mother, for the other rooted folk, for all those in peril. Taking the sleeping Pook, once more a mouse, from her pocket, she asked, “Will one of you safeguard Pook while I am occupied?”

  Phinaeus Moon, with a small smile, reached for the mouse. Pook, however, would have none of it. “Nay, mistress,” he said with a squeak, “this mouse shall go with you.”

  “Ah, you are still compelled by the binding potion,” said Grayling. “Perhaps Sylvanus can counteract it.”

  “Mistress Gray Eyes,” said Pook, “in truth the binding potion wore off long ago, but still this mouse will go with you.” He clambered up to Grayling’s shoulder and settled himself against her neck with a soft huff.

  Grayling’s heart grew warm. Mice were not known for their loyalty, but here was Pook, facing danger with her and for her. Loyal as a mouse, that’s what people should say.

  Sylvanus muttered some words over Grayling and sprinkled her with mint leaves to bring good fortune. Auld Nancy struggled to her feet, joints cracking and creaking. “Have a care, child,” she said as she smoothed Grayling’s hair and her skirts. “See you don’t trip as you run, and come right back if the deed seems too fearsome.”

  Pansy bid Grayling no farewell nor wished her well. She but watched silently from behind a tree.

  Grayling climbed through the bracken and up the rise. She heard a howling in the distance that set the back of her neck a-prickle. Was it wolves? The sea? The wind? None of those betokened anything good for her. She climbed on, her heart beating frantically.

  The day grew cold and sunless, and the wind began again to blow. It howled and bit and bellowed. Dried leaves crackled and scurried along the ground, and seabirds screeched like wild-haired hags about the fire on All Hallow’s Eve. Tall evergreens bent so far that their branches swept the ground. The very earth shook.

  A blast of wind like a massive hand pushed Grayling back. Her hair tangled, and her skirts swirled. She stumbled and fell. Righting herself with some effort, she bent into the tempest and followed the path until the house loomed right before her, its walls streaked with moss and darkened by damp.

  A tall wooden door, hanging from rusted hinges, banged in the wind. It whined on its hinges as she pushed it wider. Inside, it was dark and dank, for the high, narrow window slits let in little light. The very stones in the wall, slimy with the damp of centuries, exuded cold. She could feel the chill right through the thin and tattered soles of her shoes, and her breath spun clouds.

  Grayling shivered but not just at the iciness. Evil chilled her like the frost of a winter night. Her belly cramped with fear and revulsion. “What is it I feel? Is the force here?” she asked aloud, her voice echoing in the emptiness. She stroked Pook softly to comfort him—or maybe herself. “Might you, my Pook, shift into something huge and menacing to frighten it away?”

  “You well know, Gray Eyes, that this mouse cannot choose the time or manner of the shifting,” Pook said. “But a mouse is good at scampering and sleuthing unseen. Put this mouse down, and it shall see what is here.” She dropped him gently down, and he ran off, slipping on the slick stones of the floor.

  Grayling wrapped her arms about herself to stop her shivering. The room seemed large but empty, of people, of furniture, of life. She called whoo hoo, whoo hoo to hear it echo but stopped with a gulp. “Blast, but I am a goose,” she said in a frightened whisper, “making it so easy for me to be discovered.”

  Taking a deep breath, she sang to the grimoire and, hearing it sing back, smiled in relief for a moment. The grimoire was indeed here, and it knew her.

  Away from the entry hall, the darkness was so deep that she had to feel her way through the house. The walls were damp and sticky, and she stopped often to wipe her hands on her skirt. Through doorway here, step up here and down there, hallway here, blank wall there, she moved slowly, following the grimoire’s song.

  One dark, cold room followed another. Grayling grew dizzy with the turns and turnabouts. From somewhere behind her came the moaning of wind gathering, and a sudden blast of icy air slammed her against a wall. Grayling struggled to flee as the wind battered her face and sucked out her very breath. “Why don’t you just root me like the others,” Grayling shouted in defiance, “or leave me alone!” She ducked and shoved her way through, but where was she? The air grew yet colder and darker, and she tripped and fell over something.

  Books. Many books. She examined them in the dim light from a slit window high in the wall. Grimoires! Grimoires higgledy-piggledy, here and there. Grimoires in tottering stacks, big and small, some thick with pages, some as thin as a maple leaf, silk covered and leather covered and bound between rough skins. There must be near a hundred, Grayling thought. She never knew there were so many cunning folk in the kingdom.

  With the tick ticking of little nails, Pook skittered to a stop.

  “’Tis the grimoires, Pook!”

  “This mouse does not know what is a grimoire.”

  “’Tis a book of spells and songs and recipes.”

  Pook shook his soft gray head. “This mouse sees only piles of paper marred with ink and not good for eating.”

  “You silly mouse, that is just what we were looking for.” But something evil had settled on the grimoires like dust, and she was loath to touch them further. Likely the evil force would fight to retrieve any grimoire she took. Should she take the time to search for her mother’s or simply lay hands on the nearest one?

  Nay, she thought, who knows what curse or protective spell has been laid on another’s grimoire. I must find our own. She sang, as clear and strong as she could, and the air above the grimoires shivered and glistened. Grayling listened carefully. “’Tis here,” she said, with a small smile of relief. And she sang again. “Here.” She plucked a book from the pile and recognized it as her mother’s, the faded blue cover marked with a burdock leaf in a circle. As she pulled it toward her, she felt
the chill of a shadow behind her. No time, no time!

  “Pook! Go back to the others! Go back!” She ran through the house, twisting and turning. She feared she would never find her way out again. Finally she glimpsed light from the open door, and she hurried out. Lightning flashed here and there. Thunder shook the ground. Where was the path to the sea?

  She burst through a holly thicket behind the house and there below was the sea, enormous, powerful, even monstrous. The crashing of the waves was like armies meeting. She held the grimoire to her as she raced helter-skelter, followed by the thrumming of a force, churning up smoke and shadow, heat and ice, freezing branches and shrubs, scorching her kirtle and her hair. Her breath came fast as she tripped and stumbled down the steep and treacherous path, over the pebbly shore, and onto wet and slippery rocks that reached out into the water. The sea was so vast, and she was so afraid.

  Smoke and shadow howled up the path behind her. Her eyes and nose filled with smoke. Icy hands clutched her face, her neck, holding her, pulling her back. Enveloped in dark and cold, Grayling was overtaken by despair. She could not escape. It was over. But still, smoke and shadow behind and above and all around her, she made one last effort and plunged into the sea, into the water, which closed over her.

  XIV

  he seawater was bitter cold, salty on her lips, and stinging in her eyes. After her plunge to the bottom, she drifted there, quiet, at ease. Was she dead? The water was above her and around her, embracing her, enfolding her, cradling her. It was so lovely, so peaceful, until her chest tightened and her lungs began to burn. Which way was up? Which way was air? She paddled wildly. Her skirts billowed and snagged her legs, and her hair tangled in her eyes and her mouth.

  Her struggles took her at last to the surface, where she gulped great gulps of air. The seawater she had swallowed roiled in her belly and spewed out like a fountain. No, she was not dead. She felt too miserable to be dead. She closed her eyes and bobbed gently in the water while a seabird screeched above her.

  A sudden splash near her proved to be Phinaeus Moon, who had hurled himself off the rocks. He caught and held her.

  “Let me go,” she shouted, batting at his arm. “You are pulling my hair.”

  “Stop fighting and let me help. I am rescuing you.”

  “Nay, let me rescue myself.”

  They staggered to the beach, where they lay wet and gasping. “Fie and fie again, Grayling!” said Phinaeus Moon. “You were supposed to throw the book into the water, not follow it in.”

  “I had no choice. The smoke and shadow and I, we were one, tangled together and not separable.” She shuddered, feeling once more the foul cloud, icy and afire at the same time, that had enveloped her.

  The bird continued its screeching, accompanied by frenzied shouting from the cliff above. Grayling lifted her head to see. There were Auld Nancy and Sylvanus calling and waving and bouncing with glee. Desdemona Cork, wrapped in her fluttering shawls, pointed to the sky and cried, “Look there, look!”

  Grayling looked. A great stream of birds poured from the rise where the stone house was. Birds of different sizes, different colors, strange birds, with no beaks or wings . . . Nay, not birds! Books! “Phinaeus Moon, ’tis the grimoires!” Grayling cried. And it was—large grimoires and small, old and new, artfully wrought and plain, more than a hundred grimoires sailing through the air and on. “What does it mean?”

  Phinaeus Moon stood and craned his neck to see better. “Belike they are flying back to their owners!” He clapped his hands and laughed. “I think you have done it! Grayling, you have broken the spell!”

  A smile lighted Grayling’s face as joy rose within her. “And their owners? Might this mean they too are released?”

  With a shrug Phinaeus Moon said, “I am not the person to ask. Perhaps Auld Nancy could say. Or Pansy.” He took Grayling by the arm. “Come, I’ll help you back up. Certes, you will allow me that.”

  Grayling, queasy, tattered, and wet but lighter of heart, nodded, and Phinaeus Moon led her up a steep but straight path to where the others waited.

  Auld Nancy, twittering in a most un-Auld-Nancy-like way, grabbed Grayling’s arm and held her close. Sylvanus and Desdemona Cork danced delightedly. Pansy stood alone at the edge of the group and glowered.

  “Here, come warm yourself, girl,” said Sylvanus at last, clucking with concern as he pulled Grayling closer to a welcoming fire. Desdemona Cork removed Grayling’s sodden cloak and wrapped her in a shawl of fine wool woven in stripes of gold and the silvery blue of the sea. It had a sweet, exotic spicy smell—spring flowers and fresh apples with a touch of cinnamon and—Grayling buried her face in it—warm wine on a cold night. She breathed deeply.

  They gathered about the fire, Grayling safe and warm between Desdemona Cork and Auld Nancy. “Is the force gone now?” Grayling asked, when she had settled herself. “Is the horror over and all as it was before? Are my mother and all the wise folk released?”

  “By meddling in magic,” said Sylvanus, “Pansy opened a door, and evil has come through. There may be more surprises in store, but for the moment, I would say the trouble is over.”

  Phinaeus Moon came and crouched near Grayling. He took a drenched and dripping book from beneath his doublet. “I saw this sinking as I jumped into the water, and I was able to take hold of it.” Grayling reached for the sodden grimoire. “Soft, soft,” he said, holding it away. “The pages are soaked and fragile, and the ink is smeared in places.” He placed the book in Grayling’s lap.

  She opened the grimoire and for the first time saw inside. Here was a recipe for her mother’s rosehip jelly, there the ingredients for a love potion. Grayling examined page after page: a chant to find lost sheep, songs for healing and comforting and cheering, careful drawings of the leaves of deadly nightshade and monkshood root. Grayling had learned much of this lore by watching and listening to her mother. What Pansy had wanted to know so desperately that she conjured the smoke and shadow was not in these pages. There was no sorcery, no mysterious secret, no magic here.

  “If you please,” Phinaeus Moon continued, “I will take it and repair it.” He took it gently into his big hands. “Most pages need only to dry. The others I will have recopied on my good paper. Creamy, thick paper, smooth to the touch but strong and altogether splendid”—he smiled at her—“just as you are.”

  Grayling smiled back as she studied him—his eyes warm and deep, hair a soft brown. The very air around him seemed to shimmer. “Oh, figs and feathers, he’s an enchanter!” she whispered, and shook her head violently to break the spell.

  “Nay,” said Desdemona Cork. “He is but an ordinary young man. ’Tis his gentle kindness that shines.”

  Grayling gawked at Desdemona Cork. “I thought you did not notice us ordinary folk.”

  Said Desdemona Cork, “I am learning.”

  The scream of a seabird interrupted. Was it Pook? Grayling wondered. Or was he still a mouse? Had he come back as she ordered him? If not, where was he? And what was he? It was difficult keeping track of a creature that changed its nature so frequently.

  Grayling looked at Pansy, across the fire. Firelight made shadows on Pansy’s face, which was not stupid and sullen as usual, but sly and malevolent. Had she done something else wicked?

  Pook! If she had hurt Pook, Grayling would . . . would . . . what would she do? It would be something severe and horrid.

  “Where is Pook?” Grayling asked.

  “I am here,” said the mouse as he scrabbled up her arm. “’Twas a long way for a mouse to come. I hurried as fast as I could, but my legs are short and my heart is little. Now I am here, and you are safe.” With a contented huff, he climbed into Grayling’s pocket, damp though it was, and settled in for a well-earned rest.

  Weary and hungry, the company dozed by the fire. When Grayling woke, the sun was setting over the sea, splashing streaks of pale oranges and golds and a tinge of lavender across the sky where it met the horizon. The air was rich with the smell of salt and
seaweed. Phinaeus Moon had gathered clams and mussels and periwinkles from the shore. Sylvanus pried open the shells with his knife, Desdemona Cork rinsed them in seawater, and Auld Nancy wrapped them in sea lettuce and cooked them briefly on the hot coals. Grayling gathered berries and wild celery. It was not much of a supper for six, for they let Pansy share, but it did taste good.

  “We must leave here,” Sylvanus said through a mouthful of berries. “We must see whether our deeds have truly broken the spell and what damage has been done.”

  “What if nothing has changed?” asked Grayling. “What if the grimoires have flown off, but people are still rooted? What if the force did not dissipate in the sea but is still there, and Pansy cannot call it back, nor can you?”

  Sylvanus wiped his mouth with his beard. “Soft, girl, soft. Don’t fall off the cliff until you get to the edge. We shall see what we shall see.”

  That is the worry, thought Grayling. What shall we see?

  In the morning, Phinaeus Moon bade them farewell. He would be going north along the seashore while the others walked east, back the way they had come. “How will I recover the grimoire?” Grayling asked him.

  “Sing to it, and follow. It will be waiting.” With a wink, a grin, and a whistle, he was off, headed north.

  Grayling watched him go, her heart suddenly sore. Soon the others would be leaving her also. She was at last free to see about her mother, but she could not imagine her days without them.

  Stumbling and limping, the remaining travelers pushed through the woods, up hills and down, over ditches and fallen logs, until they came to a road. The walking was easier then, and the company had gone some ways when a small open carriage with a noble crest on the door came up behind them on the road. Desdemona Cork tossed her hair and twitched her shawls, and the carriage stopped.

  “What about your cottage by the sea?” Grayling asked, grabbing Desdemona Cork’s arm. “Goat cheese and apples? Remember? You can stop enchanting and bake bread.” She untangled a leaf of wild celery that was stuck in the enchantress’s cloud of hair.