Grayling's Song

by Karen Cushman

  “I am what I am,” said Desdemona Cork. She flashed Grayling a smile of rare loveliness, and Grayling felt again the pull of the woman’s power.

  Grayling unwrapped the gold and blue shawl from around her shoulders and handed it to Desdemona Cork.

  “Nay, keep it,” said Desdemona Cork. “Think on me from time to time, wind in my hair, spinning by the sea. No matter that I will not be there.” She climbed into the carriage, which continued on its way, blowing a great dust storm up in its wake.

  Those left behind coughed and rubbed their eyes. Auld Nancy, angry, lifted her broom. “We shall see how enchanting she be with rain in her face!”

  Grayling took her hand. “Your rain, like your anger, Auld Nancy, will fall on all of us.”

  Auld Nancy grumbled but put her broom down.

  Two were gone now. Grayling would never smell sweet blossoms or feel soft sun on her face without thinking of Desdemona Cork.

  They began again to walk, away from the sea, away from their adventures, toward home.

  Pansy dawdled behind the rest and whined. “Sylvanus, I want to ride the mule. My feet are blistered and sore tired, and my head hurts.”

  “If you hadn’t wearied yourself with devilment, you would not be tired out now,” Sylvanus called to her. Pansy opened her mouth to speak, but Sylvanus silenced her with a wave of his hand. “I will not burden him. Nostradamus has a far way to go to Nether Finchbeck.”

  Pansy dragged and shuffled her feet but finally caught up with the others. “Tell me more of this place,” she said to Sylvanus.

  “Nether Finchbeck?” His eyes unfocused, as if he were looking far into the distance and back into the past at the same. “Nether Finchbeck. A glorious institution of learning and spelling and necromancing, where mystery and manifestations of brilliance share the day with sheer befuddlement.”

  “I long to be a powerful magician,” said Pansy. “Take me with you.”

  “Nay, never,” said Sylvanus, shaking his head. “Or leastwise, not now. You have much to learn before you can be considered for Nether Finchbeck. You will go with Auld Nancy for the learning of it.”

  “Nay,” said Pansy.

  Sylvanus frowned at her. “’Twill be worth the effort, girl, to achieve mastery, and power, and a thoughtful nature. After all, ‘an empty head makes noise but no sense.’”

  Pansy was silent, though her face was stormy.

  The day was cold but sunny. Thin clouds made pictures in the sky and then passed on. Grayling and Auld Nancy now lagged behind the other two, for Auld Nancy’s weary bones slowed her down and Grayling was loath to leave the old woman’s side. Folks passed to and fro on the road, often gawking at the four bedraggled strangers with the mule, but none stopped to engage them. Had any of them been rooted to the ground and then set free? Grayling wondered. Or were the trees at the roadside more than they seemed?

  Long past noon, they reached a crossroads. “We part ways here,” Sylvanus said. “I must make certain the evil has passed and all is as it was before.”

  Pansy grabbed Sylvanus’s sleeve. “Take me with you! I have skills. You have seen them. Teach me to do great magic.”

  Sylvanus pulled his arm away. “Nay, I said. I have seen your skills overcome by emotions you could not control. Your envy, greed, and anger burst forth in the power of the smoke and shadow, and you endangered us all. Auld Nancy has much to teach you.”

  “I do not want to learn. I want to do!”

  “And that is the primary reason you go with Auld Nancy.” Pansy’s face crumpled. “And, you,” Sylvanus said to Grayling, “you have proved yourself clever and brave.”

  “Nay, I was most fearful, for I knew I had no magic to help me.”

  Sylvanus whistled to his mule. “Only the very stupid do not fear danger,” he said. “And as for magic, the great wizard Gastronomus Bing of happy memory said true magic is like a sausage.”

  Auld Nancy and Pansy listened intently, while Grayling’s jaw dropped in befuddlement. “Sausage? How sausage?”

  “Made of bits and pieces of things everyone has—not pork and spices but tricks and charms, aptitudes and powers, some herbs, some skill and training, and some luck.” He tightened the straps of the saddlebags on the mule, and Nostradamus grunted. “The world is full of mystery. Not everything can be explained. Does that make it magic? You could sing to the grimoire with no words and no music and hear it singing back. How? Was this magic? Was it in you? In the song? Or does it speak of a bond between you and the grimoire?” Sylvanus pushed a wisp of hair from Grayling’s face. “And there is magic of sorts in your courage and your keen wits, the songs you called upon, and your caring heart.”

  Grayling sniffed. Whatever skills she had were not at all awesome and astounding, not what she would call magical. She could not command smoke and shadow or shroud a boy in a glamour spell as Pansy had. But Pansy’s magic just caused trouble. Did magic always bring trouble? Would having magic be worth being as irritating and vexatious as Pansy?

  “How was it, Sylvanus,” Grayling asked him, “that you knew nothing of the smoke and shadow and the damage it caused when we found you?”

  “I was elsewhere, traveling,” said Sylvanus, “partaking of the pure aether there beyond the moon . . .”

  Grayling ruckled her forehead in suspicion.

  “Aye, you have the right of it. In truth,” he said, “I knew of the smoke and shadow, and I had concluded that the force’s magic was so strong it could not be defeated by more magic, but might feed off it and grow stronger. The force would be vanquished, I determined, only through courage, cleverness, imagination, good judgment, and good sense. I waited for someone with those qualities, for you. And you proved me right.”

  Grayling looked at him in wonder.

  “I do have some useful skills,” Sylvanus told her. “The school at Nether Finchbeck does not employ me merely for my handsome face. Now I must go.”

  He dropped a handful of copper coins into Grayling’s hand. “Fare thee well, lass. Perchance we might meet again.” He touched his hand to his head in a salute as he walked off, leading the mule one way, leaving Grayling and Auld Nancy and Pansy to go another.

  Grayling called to Sylvanus, “You never told us—what is the first rule of magic?”

  He spun round and called back to her, “’Tis the hardest rule to learn: magic is not the answer. Magic may be convenient, brilliant, even dazzling, but it is not the answer.” He waved once to her before he turned and walked on.

  XV

  rayling dropped the coins into her pocket, and Pook thrashed and grumbled in irritation as they landed on his head. Eager to see what awaited her, she turned her feet toward home. Where the road was rocky, she trod carefully, for the soles of her shoes were as thin as a poor man’s soup. On paths smooth and soft she hurried her steps, though she felt ever so weary.

  Auld Nancy, grown fine and thin and feeble, struggled, her shoulders slumped and breath ragged, and a sullen Pansy lagged behind. Pook slept most of the time in Grayling’s pocket, snoring small mouse snores. Their adventures had tired him, too.

  Days dragged on, but soon the world around her began to look familiar, and her heart leaped. She had admired that church, fancied that cottage, run from those dogs. It seemed a lifetime since they had passed this way. She had expected to be joyful and relieved after the defeat of the smoke and shadow, but her mind was uneasy, and her humors disordered. Her steps grew slower and slower as they passed the remnants of the silk pavilion, flapping in the autumn breeze.

  They were near to the crossroads where the metal-nosed warlord had accosted them, and though travelers were plentiful on this stretch of road, Grayling’s belly tightened with dread. To calm herself, she imagined the difficulties the man must have: sneezing his nose off, blowing a nose rusted in the rain, kissing Lady Metal Nose. She tried to laugh at the ridiculous images, but even as a daydream, his face frightened her, so she thought of more pleasant things: misty mornings, the smell of mint leaves
brewed in hot water, robins in the spring, cabbage cooked with apples, yellow cheese and sausages and warm dark bread.

  She turned to share this with Auld Nancy, but Auld Nancy was a ways behind, sitting on the roadside with Pansy beside her.

  “Turnips and thunderstorms,” Grayling muttered in annoyance as she retraced her steps.

  “Leave me, girl,” said Auld Nancy. “I am weary in my bones and can go no farther.”

  “Fie, you know I would not leave you here,” Grayling said. “Sit and rest those weary bones awhile, and I will join you, for if my feet could talk, they would whine and complain and beg for a rest.” She dropped down beside the old woman.

  Pansy’s belly rumbled a loud rumble. “My belly is empty all the way to the ground,” she said, “and these legs can go no more. There be an inn up this road. I saw it when we passed in the wagon of the warlord. Can we not spend some of Sylvanus’s coins on bread and mayhap a bed?”

  Grayling shook her head. “Nay, we may yet need them.”

  Pansy crossed her arms. “You sound like my mother. I have no need of another mother. I need supper.”

  Dark clouds moved over them and rain began, whispering through the trees and pocking the ground. Water dripping from her hair, her nose, her fingertips, Grayling turned to Auld Nancy. “Auld Nancy, we are discomfited enough. Will you not stop the rain?”

  Auld Nancy shook her head as she lifted her bedraggled broom. “We no longer have the power, my broom and I.”

  Showers turned to downpour. Auld Nancy sneezed, and Grayling said, “Oh, drips and drizzles, it’s the inn for us.”

  The three were soggy and chilled when they reached the inn on the outskirts of the town. Inside, it smelled like wet clothes, stale ale, and—Grayling sniffed—mutton stew, fragrant with garlic and pepper.

  Auld Nancy dropped onto a bench at a table near the fire, while Grayling bargained with the innkeeper, a large young man with missing teeth in his broad smile. Returning to the others, Grayling said, “I have secured us bread, beer, and stew. There are no beds to be had, but we are welcome to sleep here by the fire.”

  Auld Nancy brightened a little. But where was Pansy? In the dim light of the inn, Grayling saw the girl speaking with two men near the door. “Pansy,” Grayling called, “you complained of hunger, and I can hear your belly rumbling from here. Come and have supper.”

  Grayling found that her weariness made even a wooden bench comfortable enough for sleeping. Rain pelted the roof and the wind wailed as she closed her eyes, and it was near dawn when she woke. The innkeeper was feeding great logs to the fire, and he winked at Grayling. “I shall warm some ale for ye, for ’tis a nasty morning indeed out there.”

  Grayling nodded her thanks and left the inn to relieve herself. Her hair tangled and her cloak whipped about her as she trudged from the inn and back, cursing the wind. But this wind did not blight her spirits or extinguish her will. Certes, then, it was mere wind. Wasn’t it?

  Pansy and Auld Nancy were stirring when she returned. “The rain has stopped,” she told them, “although the wind is fierce. We shall not have easy walking today.”

  “No matter,” said Pansy, looking pleased with herself. “I sent word last night to the man with the metal nose, Lord Mandrake he is called, that the witches he sought before are here.”

  Grayling lurched forward and grabbed Pansy’s arm. “What? Pansy, what have you done?”

  Pansy shook off Grayling’s hold. “I want to do magic, and if Sylvanus will not teach me, I will go to Lord Mandrake.”

  Grayling shook her head. “Pansy, he will cage you as he did before.”

  “I will gladly trade my freedom for power. With practice, my magic will grow stronger, and folks will cease their poor Pansys and foolish Pansys and be in awe of me!”

  “He cannot be trusted.”

  “Nor can I. We will make a fine pair.”

  “But you have ensnarled us! Think on it. I have no magic, and Auld Nancy has exhausted hers. What will happen when your Lord Mandrake finds that out?”

  Pansy shrugged. “You will think of something. Sylvanus says you have courage and keen wits.” Her voice was sharp edged, and her eyes hard.

  Grayling had endured Pansy long enough. Let her go where she willed, as long as it was far from Grayling. “We must be away without delay, Auld Nancy.” Grayling helped her to her feet. “Before the warlord comes.”

  In a voice ragged and weary, Auld Nancy said, “Pansy, you have learned nothing from this misadventure, but are even more foolish and wicked. Do what you will.” She took Grayling’s arm, and they moved toward the door.

  “Go, then,” said Pansy. “I will be a powerful magician, rich beyond your dreams, and you will come to wish you had stayed. And been kinder to me!”

  Grayling and Auld Nancy pushed the door open and stumbled out. The day was cold and sunless, and the air smelled of snow. The wind wolf-howled, and the tall firs swayed like grasses. Broken branches littered the road so that Grayling and Auld Nancy had to leap and skitter to stay afoot. Fir cones and fiddlesticks, ’tis past time to be home, Grayling thought as she pushed Auld Nancy faster and faster until darkness fell once more.

  XVI

  n the morning, Grayling fo und frost on her nose and her eyelashes. The air was filled with the noisy honking of geese, and she studied them as they passed overhead. How easily they moved and how much faster than human folks on foot. Grayling recalled persuading Pook the raven to stay on the ground where it was safer. Watching the geese, their undersides flashing white and gray, Grayling thought she might have been mistaken. How would the world look from up there? What could she see from the sky that she had never seen? Were she a bird, would she choose to stay on the ground or soar, no matter the danger? She knew what she once would have said, but now she was not so certain.

  The memory of Pook the raven moved her to take the mouse from her pocket and jiggle him awake. He opened his eyes and snuffled, with bits of acorn still adorning his whiskers. “Mistress Gray Eyes, do you wish the assistance of . . . ” He yawned a great yawn—that is, great for a tiny creature like a mouse. “. . . this Pook?”

  Grayling stroked his head gently. “I have been thinking ’tis a long while since you shifted into another shape.”

  Pook said in a faint, thin voice, “This mouse will likely not be taken with that again. I believe this Pook is only a mouse now.”

  “But a very special mouse,” Grayling whispered. He coughed a tiny cough. “Are you quite well?”

  “Aye,” he said, “but weary. Most weary,” and he slipped back into her pocket.

  A late autumn market provided biscuits and pears and soft sweet cheese in exchange for the last of Sylvanus’s coppers. Bellies full, they walked on, slower and slower as the morning grew later.

  The cold sun was high in the sky when they neared the spot where they were to part ways.

  “We must each set out for home now, Auld Nancy, or we shall freeze into statues here on the road.” Grayling wrapped her cloak more tightly around her. “’Tis still a goodly walk for us both.”

  Auld Nancy dropped to the ground, broom in her lap.

  Grayling gasped. “Auld Nancy, are you ill?”

  “The fingers of giants are making shadows in the sky,” Auld Nancy said.

  Grayling looked up. “What mean you? I see only bare branches against the gray.”

  “Of course, tree branches.” Auld Nancy shook her head. “It appears my bones and my wits are both failing me.”

  As she helped Auld Nancy struggle to her feet, Grayling felt her heart near pulled in two. She was most eager to be home, but she could not leave Auld Nancy to travel alone. With a sigh that she pulled all the way from her toes, Grayling said, “Come, we have walked all this way together. I will not leave you now. I shall see you home.”

  She tried to remember if her mother had a staying-alive song. Such a song was called for now, but if Hannah Strong did, Grayling did not know it. Their footsteps beat out a sort of a tu
ne, and words came into her head, and tune and words came together in a melody. With the old woman leaning heavily on her, Grayling began to walk, singing the song she was inventing as they went:

  Be strong, look around you,

  Blue asters are blooming, the yarrow is tall.

  Apples and sweet pears are yet on the tree.

  The wide world calls.

  Take my hand, take my hand.

  Winter will come soon.

  Your nose and your cheeks will pink with the cold

  When frost paints the walls

  And footsteps sing crunch songs

  To snowdrops and crocus.

  In spring you’ll be walking

  In fields newly white-capped

  With marguerite daisies,

  As geese winging home honk their calls.

  Summer will sizzle and warm your old bones,

  As you lie in the meadow and look forward to fall.

  Stay alive, Auld Nancy, for living is all,

  Full of promise and friendship.

  Take my hand, take my hand.

  “Hannah Strong is indeed a fine one for making songs,” said Auld Nancy. “I vow, I feel stronger.”

  “I most sincerely hope so,” said Grayling, “but that is my own song that I just now made and none of my mother’s.”

  “So you have her song skill as well as her wisdom and her strength.”

  Grayling nodded. I do. It seems I do.

  They climbed up and down, through woods chilly and damp, rich with the smell of mushrooms and decaying wood. In places Grayling saw small trees standing on their roots as if on tiptoe. Auld Nancy followed her gaze. “The nurse logs have rotted away,” she said. “The young trees need them no longer and grow on their own.”

  On their own. Grayling nodded in understanding.