‘Not now though, now they’ve gone too far and I think most right-minded folk will feel the same. The Cunning Folk are not witches and most communities couldn’t get by without ‘em. Who’s to cure the folk and cure the beasts, to help with love and death and learning, to settle the mind and settle an argument?’
‘Normal folk don’t have science men, doctors and holy courts... no, they have a Cunning Man or Woman.’
‘I am going to start something young Tamarin, the like of which has not been seen for seventeen years or more, not since the days of the Defenders of the Faith, when the ‘Righteous Flame,’ licked the followers of the Two-Faced God into shape. By the Goddess herself I so swear... and that’s a thing in itself to be swearing out loud in this day and age, eh?’ he finished, letting go his over firm grip on her.
Tamarin said nothing but her face was clouded and her brow furrowed, as if she peered into the still, shining water of Ullie’s silver scrying bowl and did not like what she saw.
‘Saradev, Jasadir!’ King Billy bellowed. ‘These two knew it before I did, that’s what they’re doing so far from home, come to join King Billy’s crusade, before I even knew I had one.’ he muttered in an aside to Tamarin.
The dark-skinned woman who had brought the stew hurried over, with another woman so like her that they could only be sisters.
‘Sara, Jasa, will you find a blanket and a warm spot by the fire for Tamarin? And will you be friends and guide to her while she is with us, eh?’ Billy said, with a lift of his stubbled chin.
‘Yes Abillie,’ Saradev replied and Jasadir nodded her agreement.
Billy turned back to Tamarin.
‘Get what sleep you may with what remains of the night, we break camp at first light,’ He chuckled, ‘As any marksmen will tell you, a moving target is hardest to hit,’ He touched a rough hand gently to her cheek. ‘You sleep on what you want to do next young miss but be assured, that my way is your way until I see you safe.’ Those pale and slightly watery eyes seemed to look right through her for a moment. ‘I don’t know if your cunning ways are rubbing off on me or what but I have a strong feeling you’ve a part to play before all the shouting’s done,’ he said.
Tamarin said nothing but inside she knew it to be true and she could not help but feel, with a soul saddening certainty, that things would not end well for her.
∆∆∆
They dropped out of the starry heavens and the moon’s bone white light, down through the thick cloud layer and out into the nighted sky above the edge.
Oroc followed the sparkling line of the Swiftwater until the river split, then he glided silently, like some vast owl along the serene waters of the canal. With two quick, whiffling manoeuvres, he lost height and dropped with surprising softness onto a steep, heavily wooded hill.
After a moment or two, Pivy slithered inelegantly down the dragon’s flank, bounced awkwardly of its upturned forelimb and landed in a heap, managing to break his fall with the bedroll he had used to insulate himself from the dragon’s burning hide.
He lay winded on the wet grass, breathing in the scent of pine carried on the chill, damp air. Then he gathered himself and sat up.
The cold, windy hill top looked deserted, unless you had the sight of course, as Pivy had. The soft glimmer of a wood sprite betrayed its presence where it leant against a tree. As he watched, little heads popped up here and there and vanished again as quickly, just like moonbeams between the forest leaves. The unseen world was peeking out, to see what a dragon and a human were doing here in this wild place, in the dead of night.
‘We are early,’ Oroc rumbled, as quietly as a dragon can, ‘but this is the place, just as we both foresaw it.’
‘Scrying,’ Pivy said, ‘so useful and yet so frustrating. Not so bad if you want to find a thing or a person in the here and know but trying to look ahead…’
Oroc rumbled his agreement.
‘Much of what you wish to see is hidden from you’, Pivy continued. ‘What you do see, is often not what you think you see and half of what you see never happens anyway, because events change it. And as to exactly when, a thing might happen…’
Oroc rumbled again in an amused fashion, somewhat like a happy thunderstorm, if such a thing were possible.
‘Better early than late,’ the dragon said, ‘The Gift must be given.’
‘The Gift must be given,’ Pivy agreed.
‘Sleep the night in the crook of my forearm,’ the dragon said, lowering its vast bulk into a more comfortable position, coiling its great tail lithely around its hind quarters. ‘I will make a special effort to be still… you will be warm there and assuredly safe from wolves.’
‘Oh, most assuredly safe from wolves, I doubt there is a wolf within three hilltops of the scent of dragon,’ Pivy said, with a laugh, he actually found the charcoal and rusty iron odour of Oroc oddly reassuring. ‘But don’t you have a nightmare, and crush me in your sleep, eh?’
‘Nightmares don’t have nightmares,’ Oroc said with dry humour.
Chapter Eight
Through Darkness to the Dawn
Tillimanda pulled the door quietly closed behind her and raised her hood. The two Father/Son guards leaning lackadaisically against the gateposts watched her cross the courtyard with only the mildest of curiosity.
Time had been kind to her. Though her chestnut hair was streaked with grey, her features had fined down and she had kept the figure that Gorg had so admired fifteen years ago.
Within a few paces, she left the flickering, amber circle of light cast by the torches beside the doorway. The meagre, shifting light of the little candle she held out before her was in all truth of little help but the moon was bright and she soon found her way to the barn door. It squeaked and scraped its way open and she slipped inside, pulling it to behind her.
She gave a little start, despite herself, seeing the Father/Son foot soldier standing in the shadows, all black mask and black livery.
‘Major Tillimanda,’ he greeted her, in the familiar voice of Robbitt the head groom, pulling of the black cotton mask. ‘I swear I don’t know how they get on a wearing of these blessed things all the damn time… no I don’t,’ he complained.
‘Sergeant Robbitt, good evening,’ she said. ‘General Albermora is still in the North where they untimely dragged her. So, you will give me your report.’
‘Very good Major,’ he said, running a hand through his disordered grey hair. He tossed the mask down into a big, cloth satchel that stood nearby in the straw, then started unbuttoning the tight, black Jerkin with the sign of the Twin God embroidered on the chest.
‘Well, it was right difficult, he was guarded at all times, it was hard to get anywhere close and that’s a fact.’
‘But you succeeded?’ Tillimanda said, sounding a little more worried than she had intended.
‘Best I could manage was to give him half a chance. He’s a crafty one that Gorg, he talked his own way out of the iron suit and annoyed them enough that they sent him out away from the firelight with only one guard. Then, as if he knew I was there, or just from some cunning instinct, he sings his guard quietly to sleep. That was my chance. I walk over casual like, as if off to relieve myself in the bushes and quietly slips him the key to his manacles… and there’s his half a chance…’
‘If I know Gorg o’Priddow and I do… tis all he’ll need,’ Tillimanda said, with a wry little smile.
‘I’m sorry I couldn’t do better by him, I know the General holds him in high regard.’ Robbitt said.
‘No, you did well Sergeant Robbitt, I’m much heartened by your report, as I’m sure the General will be too. If you want to do more for Gorg, then go and pray for him, I know I shall,’ Tillimanda said.
‘I already threw up a few words as I snuck back here,’ Robbitt said with a smile. ‘And as soon as ever as I’m out of these nasty clothes and have them hidden away again, I shall wash my hands and face and slip quietly down to the grotto to talk with the Lady.’
�
��Sergeant, tomorrow, find as many of your rank and above as you can and tell them to gather in the grotto, if they can do so without raising suspicion, the first night the General gets back. Say about eight of the clock or close to it,’ Tillimanda said, frowning. ‘I’m sure the General will have much to tell us and little or none of it good news.’
‘I reckon we can be certain of that. I will do that Major T, with a goodwill,’ he said.
‘Thank you Robbitt,’ Tillimanda said thoughtfully.
∆∆∆
Adrenaline and willpower were all that kept Gorg ploughing on into the darkness, heart beating like a base drum. It would have been a punishing pace anyway, for a man of middle age, fond of ale, pie and tobacco, let alone one who had been so abused in body and mind.
Once he had the key, he had whispered up a light mist, like a hanging frost, that would cause no disquiet in his captors. Then, he talked a little tiredness into it. Once heads began to nod, he waited for the moon to go in and spoke a little confusion into the shadows where he sat. He slipped away into the trees, creeping quietly from trunk to trunk until he judged he was out of earshot. Then he ran, ran as if a dragon chased him and he was still running.
Gorg collided with a tree and went headlong in the frosty leaf litter.
Completely winded, he lay still, for the moment all the fight knocked out of him. Slowly he got to his knees, drawing in huge ragged breaths, cold sweat congealing on his forehead. He had to get up. It wouldn’t take them long to realise he was gone, even with all his conjurings. They knew where Billy Bracken would be and it was his fault. Gorg’s only chance to make amends was to get there first and warn King Billy.
He had to get up. For the moment though, his knees were as high as he could rise.
There’s still a chance. Many of these troops have dogs with them but this lot have no hounds, he thought, as he struggled to control his breathing. Once he had it under control, he began a song, a little breathlessly at first but finding strength as he went on. His low, rumbling, mutter of a song called up a thick, white mist that clung to the ground like a blanket, wrapping the forest floor in mystery. He talked to the mist about confusion and fear. Below the mist were tree roots and he spoke to them of snakes. Above the mist were branches, briars and brambles and he spoke to them of grasping hands.
Having done all he could to slow pursuit, Gorg stood, took a deep, shaky breath and began to run again. At first, he was just barely stumbling forwards, then he began to pick up pace as he found his courage and his determination to save lives if it was in his power to do so.
∆∆∆
Ameliam sat in darkness, except for the dying embers of the fire sputtering and crackling in the hearth. She nursed a cup of warming ginger tea and sipped at it absently.
It will be soon, she thought, perhaps even tonight.
Ameliam was not one for scrying, she had some skill with lost objects but little or none with things that might be. None the less, whenever she had occasion to look into her grandmother’s old brass bowl, a shadow of sorts always crept across it and she felt, rather than saw what it meant.
She knew there would be no help from her neighbours. They would fall in line. Those who knew and liked her the best, would stand and stare awkwardly at their feet, or hide in their houses until it was all over. Those who liked her rather less, would come out and shake their fists and call her ‘pernicious witch,’ to curry favour. She was half certain that old Gronik from the bakery had already denounced her, sensing the way the wind was blowing.
She put down the cup but not being able to summon the energy to go to her bed, drifted off to sleep in the chair.
The first grey gleamings of morning roused her. She sat, stiff and chill, with a crick in her neck and listened to the birds practising for daybreak.
Then she heard the marching feet.
Her shoulders ached, as if with rheumatism, all her life that particular ache, in that particular place, had always meant that danger was near.
Oh, she thought, so, it’s to be now…
∆∆∆
Just before dawn, Saradev shook Tamarin gently awake, her fingers cold and slightly moist.
‘There’s a lovely little spring, with a statue,’ Sara said, ‘I’ve just been down to wash my hands and face and fill a water bottle or two, for the journey, you might like to do the same.’
‘I can show it to you,’ Jasadir said, appearing behind her sister.
‘There’s no need,’ Tamarin said with a smile, ‘I know it.’
Indeed, she did, it was a little shrine to the Lady, all overgrown now and covered in moss, missing its head and its feet.
Tamarin walked quietly into the trees that stood tall and grey in the half-light. Here and there, the birds began to stir in the treetops, trying a little tweet and a twitter in preparation for the dawn chorus. A fox slipped stealthily between the sombre trunks, alert for an unwary vole and frost glittered in the carpet of dead leaves, like remnant starlight.
She knelt beside the pretty, little silver rivulet, that gurgled and splashed through shale and round, shining stones. Almost unconsciously, she touched her lips and her heart and sent the kiss to the Mother’s statue, serene in its rocky niche.
The water was cold and somehow bright as lamplight, as she let it trickle over her face, down her neck and between her breasts. She began to fill the big, shiny copper flask she kept in her bag.
‘You know why they desecrate her statue like that, don’t you? The Father/Sons I mean...’ Billy Bracken said softly from behind her. Tamarin used all her skill not to appear startled. She turned her head and smiled.
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘They remove the head, that she may not see what they do and the feet, so that she might not walk abroad...’ She shook her head disparagingly.
‘I see you think as I do,’ Billy said, ‘That it would take more than a hammer and chisel to stop a Goddess.’ As Tamarin rose to her feet, he knelt and began to fill his own water bottle. ‘But then they would stop all women walking abroad if they could, eh? Same as they lock their own women away in those what-do-you calls?’
‘Gynaeceum,’ Tamarin said.
‘That’s them,’ Billy said and as his bottle began to overflow, he looked at the little statue. ‘I thank thee Lady for thy bounty.’ he said formally. Then turning to Tamarin with a gap tooth grin. ‘We have little shrines like this in Brackford Wild Wood... but I fixed them. I found a willing mason and I had them put right.’
He stoppered the bottle and looked at her keenly.
‘So, where is it we are going today young miss?’ he asked.
‘The Edge Houses sir,’ she said, ‘but I can find my own way there well enough.’
‘The Edge Houses is it? And they will let you in, will they? At the Edge Houses?’ he said, ‘For they are very particular who gets in and out of there...’
‘Ullie’s sister, lives there, so I will be welcome,’ Tamarin said calmly.
‘Well then, it’s off to see thy tanty it is then...’ Billy said ‘And I won’t hear of you going alone, the Cunning Folk are precious and must be kept safe. I said it and I mean it, ‘my way is your way, until I see you safe.’’
Chapter Nine
At the Bobbing Bottle Inn
Achill wind rifled through the grass and tugged at the women’s clothes where they lay, full length upon the hill’s crest, looking down upon the ‘Bobbing Bottle,’ inn. It was a tidy, well-kept building, limewashed and decked with bunting and plaited wreaths of evergreens. The steely waters of the canal by which it stood were twitched and worried by the wind, shattering its pale reflection into broken shards.
‘Abillie will find a bargee at the inn, one who will take you down to where the canal meets the Swiftwater, that’s almost to the doorstep of the Edge Houses, Abillie says,’ Sara said, turning her head to smile at Tamarin. ‘And Jasa and I, we will go with you and see you safe into the care of the Aunty that you said lived there... Won’t we Jasa.’ She said, turning to playfully pu
nch her sister’s shoulder.
Jasadir nodded and smiled pleasantly. She was a woman of few words but ready and genuine smiles. When she did speak, it was softly and with a stronger southern lilt than her sister.
‘Rosamie,’ Tamarin said, ‘Ullie’s sister, Rosamie.’ In her mind’s eye she was already picturing the unlooked-for meeting, how the perceptive Rosamie would know at once, seeing Tamarin alone, that her sister was gone. Tamarin gave a little shudder.
‘We’ll be out of the wind soon,’ Saradev said, mistaking it for an external chill. ‘When he’s done the deal and he’s sure all is safe, Abillie will call us down. Perhaps we can eat beef pie! We’ve been here before. Abillie likes to take us with him on scouting missions outside the wild wood. He says it makes him look like an uncle with his nieces.'
‘A nuncle with a Niecy or two,’ Jasadir chipped in, mimicking Billy’s Westland accent.
‘I like the beef pie at the inn,’ Saradev continued, ‘and they have red wine, smuggled in over the goat trails from our country. It’s called Sziff, after a warm wind that blows all through our streets and lanes in the late summer.’
‘Could they really raise the wind, like Abillie says?’ Jasadir said unexpectedly. The remark seemed addressed to Tamarin, who looked blankly back at her, nonplussed for the moment.
‘The Defenders of the Faith, she means,’ Saradev explained, ‘Jasa loves to hear about the Defenders.’
Tamarin was surprised for a moment, until she remembered that they were from the South. If the Defenders were legend here, they were myth in the South. The southern lands had ignored the war with the Father/Sons at first, dismissed it as no concern of theirs.
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