Graynelore

by Stephen Moore

  ‘Though not enough to protect us from ourselves it would seem,’ I said.

  ‘I am so sorry, Rogrig Wishard,’ she said. ‘I…apologize. We were conceited, and arrogant. We thought we understood the task. We thought we had the measure of its making.’

  ‘And foolish…’ I said.

  ‘Aye and that…We possess only our Glamour (which we must not underestimate). It is a strong enchantment. We have been using it to disguise our true selves all our lives. We are good at disguise. Hiding is what we do best. Some of us did not even know we were doing it, eh, Rogrig? But to finally let it fall, and to attempt to release our other selves was…too much, too difficult to command. The threads of the old spell might have born its weight in our stead. Only, it too was no longer strong enough – nor was it meant for it – came undone. It is simple good fortune so many of us survive yet.’

  She drew slowly on her pipe. Let the trails of smoke find their own way out again, through her nose and part open mouth. It lingered in her wiry hair.

  ‘We are all of us like children; innocent babbies! But it is ignorance, not stupidity. We have listened to the old stories of the Beggar Bards for too long, and been taken in by them…’

  I nodded my tacit agreement.

  I thought I was beginning to understand what all of this meant. Whatever our…talents, we could not simply use them just because we believed we possessed them. There had been no true fey creatures upon Graynelore for a thousand years. None that, upon discovery, had not quickly found itself stretched upon the gibbet, or drowned within a murder hole, or burned. Truly, we did not know what we were about. What knowledge we had was self-possessed; and of our own invention. There was no wise old wych among us, nor any wizard to teach us. There was no book of practical magic, no rules to read, no instant knowledge or instruction. Only faerie tales, meant for the babbies.

  ‘Aye…We might all carry the blood of our ancestors within us; some of us might even wear their names,’ I said. ‘But tell me this, upon Graynelore: of all the men named Smith, how few could we trust to hammer us out a good iron war sword, eh?’ I did not expect an answer – talked on. ‘Only, there is more to this. Something has brought us together. A handful of days ago I was a common fighting man and nothing more. I was a reiver. I do not flatter myself. I always knew exactly who I was, and what I was. And I was certain of it. But now, now I do not seem to know anything at all, excepting…I did not choose to do this! (Nor, truly, do I want it yet!)’

  ‘Did any of us choose?’ said Wily Cockatrice brashly. ‘Indeed, was there really a choice?’

  ‘Can you choose to be your true self?’ added Lowly Crows. ‘Can we avoid it when it is revealed to us?’

  ‘We could have ignored it, and lived out our lives,’ I said, stubbornly.

  ‘Oh yes, we could have done that. We could have kept our little secrets to ourselves. Stayed hidden; dutiful and loyal subjects to our beloved Headmen…Lived a lie, and the world none the wiser for it,’ said Wily Cockatrice. ‘Damn it, Rogrig. Ignoring the truth does not make it any less real. We have to believe; and act upon our belief.’

  ‘Do you then?’ I asked, pointedly. ‘Do you still believe?’

  At this, all eyes there, even among the silent onlookers, turned, if not accusingly, then certainly, inquisitively, upon the ancient crone.

  ‘If we cannot be true to ourselves, what is the point of life?’ Her eyes were fixed upon mine. ‘Only…Do you know something? I am not quite so certain that I do believe any more. But I still want to believe…Is that enough for you?’

  ‘If it is all that can be offered…It will have to do,’ said Lowly Crows.

  ‘So, what now?’ I asked.

  ‘Now…? We must finish the task we have so badly begun. First, there is a Ring of Eight to complete. Only, look about, the strength of our number remains one short—’

  ‘What do you, see…?’ asked Lowly Crows of the ancient crone. ‘Is there another?’

  ‘I see, what Rogrig, here, has already seen.’ said Wily Cockatrice.

  ‘Me? How so—?’

  ‘There is another at hand. If only she could find her way to us.’

  ‘She…?’

  ‘Her name is Norda Elfwych, is it not?’

  I started at the name.

  ‘And she is aware?’ asked Lowly Crows. ‘She knows herself?’

  ‘As well as I know you, my sweet bird…’ Wily Cockatrice was blowing smoke again.

  ‘And Rogrig, you know of her whereabouts, you can find her for us? More importantly, she will come when you bid her to?’

  Inside my head the unspoken voices, quiet for so long, began to call out again.

  Norda Elfwych…Norda Elfwych…

  How long has she waited for another…

  How could I tell them what, I knew, had become of her? ‘The Elfwych is at the house of Old-man Wishard. She is kept fast within Carraw Peel.’

  ‘She is blood-tied, then…?’ asked Lowly Crows, ‘to The Graynelord?’

  ‘No. Rather, she is the Old-man’s Pledge.’

  ‘Pledge?’ Wily Cockatrice lifted an eyebrow, took the word for its worst meaning.

  ‘She is bonded to him, is all!’ I could not help my rash defence of her. ‘A bond of peace and good faith; between Elfwych and Wishard…Upon Graynelore, it is a common enough practice betwixt sworn enemies—’

  ‘If you say so, Rogrig,’ said the crone.

  ‘And she will break this sworn Pledge so very easily?’ said Lowly Crows. ‘She will forsake her own blood-kin and join us now, because…?’ It was a leading question, left deliberately hanging in the air between us.

  I took a moment’s pause. ‘Because we are going to make her,’ I said. (It was a clutched for suggestion, my friend, not a considered plan.)

  ‘What? Are we to kidnap her then, are we going to steal her away from The Graynelord’s own Stronghold?’ asked the ancient crone. There was another long and knowing silence (without so much as a whiff of pipe smoke).

  ‘I, for one, do not believe any of this!’ said Wood-shanks, the elder-man, suddenly breaking his silence. ‘Suppose this were even possible. What then? When every man at arms upon Graynelore is out for us, as surely as they must be…?’

  He turned towards the pair of coquettes, as if in want of their support. Momentarily, Fortuna and Sunfast returned his look, only to pass a second look of mild astonishment between themselves, before settling their eyes upon me for an answer.

  ‘Perhaps, the graynes will be too busy with their own private arguments to bother themselves with us,’ I said, more hopefully than with any real conviction.

  ‘Ha! And you a Wishard, too!’ cried the elder-man. ‘Are the best of your kin so easily put aside? I would think not!’

  I could only sigh. (Better that, than a blatant lie.)

  ‘How many more fruitless battles must men fight?’ asked Lowly Crows, lowering her head.

  ‘At least one more it would seem,’ I said.

  ‘And do we not wish to see the Faerie Isle, then; would it not be a true spectacle? And to find our rightful home at last—?’

  ‘I used to think this land here was my home,’ I said.

  ‘And now?’

  ‘That is the question…’

  There was not one of us could find an honest answer. Wily Cockatrice took the renewed silence as her opportunity.

  ‘There would be no sense in us all making this journey.’ The crone spoke as if the decision was already made. ‘What good reason could a Wishard have for bringing the likes of our mixed company to the Stronghold of his Graynelord?’

  This was the truth. Yet I did not think I could possibly do this thing alone (if I could do it at all).

  ‘I would take only Lowly Crows with me,’ I said at last. ‘We have already travelled a long road together, all be it, much of it unwittingly…If she will travel with me again—?’

  ‘She will come with you, Rogrig.’ The crow needed no persuasion.

  ‘And as for the rest
of us – What is to be our part in this unlikely plan?’ asked the elder-man.

  ‘We will hide ourselves away, of course, as only we can,’ said Wily Cockatrice. ‘And wait patiently upon Rogrig’s safe return.’

  ‘And how will we find you out again, in hiding?’ I asked.

  ‘Rogrig, you are ever a stubborn man. Do you, even yet, pretend to know so very little of yourself…and us?’ said Wily Cockatrice, without further explanation. Inside my head I was certain I heard distant shadow-tongues laughing, and I was mocked. It was a faerie slight.

  I shrugged.

  ‘I will not lie to you,’ I said. ‘I do not know how this will turn out.’ The implication was obvious enough.

  ‘Nor do any of us, Rogrig.’ At this, I will swear, Wily Cockatrice winked at me, before turning her back to look again upon the Great Sea, returning to her pipe with a renewed enthusiasm.

  Chapter Seventeen

  A Brief and Intimate Respite

  What were we become – if not lonely travellers, homeless nomads, to be set upon a trail? Wanting only to find an escape…My tale was gathering a momentum, not to be stopped without a final resolution. Yet we were not come prepared for a long journey. We had carried so very little between us – it was a meagre vitals we took together that last evening, before we parted and went our separate ways. A few tugs on a loaf of bread passed between us. A swig of warm, sour wine – no fresh meat – We each made the best of our repast, and our brief respite. We all slept a little. A few sat together and talked on a while into the night. Wily Cockatrice sat purposefully alone, to recount her personal thoughts; still nursing her pipe.

  I had half a mind to go and seek out Edbur-the-Widdle, to discover what he was really about, only my mood had lifted, I was almost sanguine, now that we were fixed upon a course of action (however unlikely its success). I had no real desire to share further confidences that night, or to become embroiled upon a confrontation that might turn bitter, or bloody. I decided to let that particular sleeping dog lie, for now.

  Instead, I took a walk alone, in want of solitude, my own company. A handful of bright, snapping stars studded the black sky. A slice of a winter moon stood out coldly between the feathered edges of the few broken clouds; it scattered a shower of silver light upon the Great Sea, a myriad broken fragments. How calm, how beautiful, how peaceful it was. How lonely, too. I tried to picture the Faerie Isle…

  In front of me, across the bay, there were short stretches of scrub-like sand-grass, catching the moonlight, dressing the edges of a line of shallow sand dunes. There a man might have made a temporary refuge. I decided to make them my business. However, I had not walked far between them when I found myself come upon two of my own company. The young women, Sunfast and Fortuna; the coquettish pair I thought I had seen, briefly transformed, as magnificent unifauns (if I believed that to be a true memory).

  I meant to stand off, to let them alone, undisturbed. In their fragile state, perhaps, like me, they were in want of their own company? Only, I saw they were lying together, secreted in the lea between two grassy knolls, and fully naked now. Their raiment unashamedly cast aside. At once, I understood the meaning. (As I am sure, do you, my friend.) These two were lovers, and a pretty pair even in their frailty – their diminished state. That I lingered there, unseen, is of course without excuse, beyond my own bad character. Still, I will briefly report this private scene for the greater pity of subsequent events. (Though, I might add, I see nothing unseemly in the mating of a loving couple.)

  They were kissing each other tenderly, and in a close and intimate embrace. Unhurried, in the way of faerie, they let the timeless night rest easily between them, felt no cold it seemed. They gently hushed their rising passions, quietly shared their bodies without shame. When, at last, they broke together they stiffened only slightly. Briefly opened their eyes, and sighed their release.

  I fear they saw me there, watching over them.

  I would have started away, only they appeared to smile, as if pleased with their find. They reached up, took my hand in theirs and pulled me down toward them. I did not recoil. I was always a man first. And they were women still, if their skin under my common touch was more akin to the soft fine brush of a doe’s hair. We exchanged no spoken words. Together they drew me out, and between the pair, gently cradled my first arousal. It was a shared moment tenderly exchanged…and purely for my pleasure. Then, after a short while, they drew me out again, only selfishly this second time.

  We three freely played together a goodly while.

  Amid it all, and in that sorely wanton mood of wild abandonment, Sunfast and Fortuna became again graceful unifauns. I am certain of it. How they galloped in perfect unison! How they pranced and frolicked among the gentle moon-touched waves that tumbled at the edge of the Great Sea. A sight to see! And I, in my selfish lover’s stupor, forgot myself. I turned my back against the darkly shrouded cliffs where Edbur surely made his camp, and I frolicked with them.

  At the end, when we were all done, Sunfast and Fortuna lay down again. Still closely locked together, the pair closed their eyes, content to fall asleep in each other’s arms. I, who had briefly become their lover, was again the outsider, only a companion (though abandoned without malice). It was a sweet goodnight.

  I left them quietly, undisturbed.

  Though, I was thoughtful still. In my passion I had found Notyet’s name upon my lips. Yet I had hushed it. I hushed it again now. I kissed it gently away against the palm of my hand, set it aside. How often men are cruel to their heart.

  In the morning, Wily Cockatrice was the first to take her leave of us. She departed without a speech of farewell, quietly slipped away, while others still drowsed.

  One by one, if somewhat reluctantly, the remainder of our company began to follow her example. First the youth, Dogsbeard; then together, Sunfast and Fortuna, my ardent lovers (who made not the slightest reference to the incident), and then, Wood-shanks, the elder-man. As they left, each one upon their own road, I suddenly felt the inner pull of their presence begin to weaken. Had we few become so utterly entwined? My gut wrenched. At close quarters, the mental grip we each held upon the others had grown strong – if unwittingly so – and was become as much a part of us as our own thoughts. Its lessening was a physical hurt. Though it did not quite fail completely: even when they were all gone from my sight there still remained a faint, if fragile, link between us; a bonding that did not break. It was enough that I might find them all again – even in hiding – upon my safe return. And with that simple revelation I smiled as I recalled the conversation of another day when the crone had sorely rebuked me for my ignorance of such things.

  At the last, I was left alone with Lowly Crows. Beside me, she – now become the bird again – preened her feathers as if to soothe away a discomfort.

  I wondered if we would ever see our greater company again.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Upon the Threshold and a Dream

  To look at, Graynelore was always something of a paradox. It was a beautiful land and yet ugly. It was often glorious and yet as often vague and unimpressive. The Great Unknown in the far north was a world set apart. While the black-headed mountains, at Graynelore’s heart, stood up like the spokes of a great fallen wheel, with the hard-fought summit of Earthrise – the hub – at their centre. The burden of time may well have blunted their edges and reduced their heights but they were no less a formidable adversary. It took a brave man, or perhaps a fool, to attempt to scale their heights. Looking to the south, where the mountains fell away, and the wheel was broken, there was a great vista, a broad open plateau, only hindered by stretches of feeble, withered woodland – The Withering – that chequered and fringed the otherwise seemingly endless landscape. Beyond this, came the more gentle rolling hills and shallow vales of the Southern Marches. And if the lowly hills could not hinder you, if the trees did not stand in your way, there was always the mud – the clarts – of the stinking bog-moss to stop a man’s progress; the mir
e to swallow up the unwary horse and rider. Or else the never ending waters, the countless threads of the River Winding that cut the great open lowland fells and moors into uneven pieces across the majority of its face. To my mind, it was always a lonely, endlessly wind-scarred earth. A difficult land to love; it left no easy place for men or beasts to hide or find welcoming shelter. Yet it was mine by my birth. And if I were to admit that my heart’s meat has always been divided, then surely that land must take its due share.

  The Southern Marches were a landscape of attrition rather than extremes. Though there were extremes, even here; and most dramatically where the Headmen had built their Strongholds. It was as if, on the day of its making, the Great Wizard had deliberately drawn the world that way. Perhaps he had, after all?

  Making passage was never easy, always a hard and physical struggle, even when the path was clear and the way ahead known by heart. I was ever in need of Dandy, both for her hardiness and sure-foot; aye, and her sense of direction, or else I was in for an arduous journey.

  It was time, at last, for me to confront Edbur, my trailing shadow. I set Lowly Crows upon the sky, to find the whelp out. Her flight was brief and fleet. Hardly away, she was at once surrounded by a host of her close kin: birds who appeared out of discreet hiding (if not out of thin air) to deliver her their intelligence. She quickly returned to my side.

  ‘He is no longer there,’ she said, without explanation, only giving me an inquisitive rook’s eye. (It was an odd mannerism that meant her turning her head upon one side to regard me. A look I was to see many times thereafter.)

  ‘No longer there?’ I pressed.

  ‘His camp is broken up; his fire is quite cold. There is only carrion to be seen – a bloody carcass.’

  Edbur had encamped upon the scarp of a slowly rising cliff at the mouth of the river. It was not a great height. Though obviously enough of a hide for him to watch over us, within the bay, without being revealed in his turn.