Into the Green

by Charles de Lint

  She shivered when she realized what it must be.

  The green death.

  It had to be the glascrow.

  Angharad wrapped her arms around herself to keep from trembling. She had the courage to attempt to rescue the boy. But the glascrow.... This close to the object of her search, doubts arose once more.

  She heard Tarasen's voice in her mind.

  Find it.

  That she had now done.

  Wake it.

  Oh, Ballan— how could she dare?

  Banish it.

  Surely she wasn't strong enough? Surely, if she had such power, it would have manifested itself in a hundred ways before this time? But it hadn't She carried a threefold gift in her bloodlines, and so she was thrice-blessed by the gods: as a tinker, Ballan, the Lord of Broom and Heather, watched over her; her witchy Summerblood was a gift of Harfarl; as a harper, the Moonmother Arn was her muse. But all she had was small magics— ghosts of what her kind once wielded, a mere echo of their ancient enchantments.

  How could she hope to prevail against the horror of that silver and ebony puzzle-box when just the memory of the pattern on its lid was enough to leave her shaking and weak?

  She felt the darkness stir inside her, straining at the bonds she had imposed upon it.

  Broom and Bloody Heather— how?

  Because there was no one else, she realized. The thought made her feel a little sick, but it strengthened her as well. She could only do her best— do her best, and hope, and not think about failure except to use the reminder of it to push her on.

  So she capped her fear with a memory of what would be lost if she didn't try.

  The green.

  The Middle Kingdom of the kowrie that stretched its fingers into the soul of each Summerborn.

  She shut her mind to the insidious whispering of the shadows that the glascrow had set inside her. Squaring her shoulders, she left the sheltering shadow of the stable wall and set off across the lawn towards the house. Part way there, a shape dislodged itself from the darkness of a hedge.

  Angharad knew a sharp blade of fear— it sliced down her nerves like cold fire— then she went down on one knee and wrapped her arms around the furry neck of Aron Corser's pet hoyer.

  Magger whined softly against her cheek.

  "I told you I'd come back," she whispered to him.

  A last hug and she stood to face the house once more.

  She crept closer, the hoyer ranging at her side. When she reached a first floor window, she moved her hand along its width, an inch or so away from the window frame, searching for presence of witch-wards.

  Nothing.

  "Where are they?" she asked Magger.

  The hoyer whined softly.

  Sleeping?

  She closed her eyes and let her witchy sight travel inside the house once more, widening its focus so that it looked for more than witcheries. She sensed a cat sleeping by the kitchen hearth directly across from the window where she stood, its dreams twitchy as it chased fancied mice in its sleep. From a little further away, in a room just off the kitchen, she sensed human sleepers. The cook and her helpers, Angharad supposed.

  Through the house her witchy sight ranged, marking the dreams of sleeping servants on the ground and third floors. On the second floor she found those of the lady of the house and a child. Then a man's— his sleep was shallow, the taste of his dreams bitter. That would be the master of the house, for she could sense the dark shadow of the glascrow's presence in the same room.

  But there was no sign of the witch-finders. She turned to the shaggy beast at her side and put a whispered question to him. Magger whined another reply.

  He didn't know what had happened to them. One moment they were in the house, the next gone. Gone out, he supposed. Away through the front door, while he was waiting for her here in the back.

  To chase down more witches for their master, she thought. Perhaps they were chasing her down— following the trail of rumor and speculation that she'd left behind her in Lowtown.

  Gathering her courage anew, Angharad tried the window, but it wouldn't budge. She moved along the back of the house until she came to the door that led into the kitchen. Trying it, she found it unlocked.

  "Will you come?" she whispered to the hoyer.

  Magger sat down on his haunches, looking glum.

  Angharad touched the hoyer's furry brow. "Wait for me then. As soon as I've found the boy, I'll send the pair of you away."

  She'd give the boy directions to Farmer Perrin and hope that the goodwill he'd shown her extended to her friends as well. Giving Magger's fur a last ruffle, she eased the door open wider and ghosted her way inside.

  With her witchy sight she had no trouble making her way through the unfamiliar layout of the kitchen. A false try opened a door into a pantry. Another to stairs that led upwards. The third door opened onto a stairwell that led down. That was where she sensed Jackin's thoughts— under the house where the urchin was secreted in its basement.

  She stepped softly down the stairs, searching for both the thoughts of human guards or the tell tale enchantment of a witch-ward, but found neither. At the bottom of the stairs she found herself in a large room that seemed to be mostly a storage area for various household goods, kegs of ale and an immense collection of wine racks, filled with hundreds of bottles. On the far side of the room she spied a barred door.

  Crossing the room, she paused by the door, seeking out the sleeping minds above her. There was no change in their dream patterns. She cast her witchy sight out further, around the house and its grounds, and found only Magger's anxious thoughts— the hoyer sitting where she'd left him— and further out, in the stables, the thoughts of two sleeping men that she assumed were grooms. There was none of the cold sparking thoughts that she sensed from the witch-finders in the sleeping pair.

  She took a quick steadying breath, then unbarred the door, freezing at the scrape of the wood bar as she hoisted it free of its slots. The door itself creaked alarmingly when she opened it, but a quick survey with her witchy sight assured her that no one had heard. Beyond the door lay a short passageway with a number of doors leading off from it set into either wall.

  Broom and Heather. The man had his own private dungeon.

  Jackin's presence called out to her from a cell near the end.

  This was too easy, Angharad thought as she made her way down the short passage.

  Her nervousness grew as she approached the cell. The door here was simply barred with a length of iron set in paired slots on either side of the doorjamb. The metal made her uncomfortable, but she was no kowrie. She could touch iron, for all the discomfort it caused as it resonated with her Summerblood. But while she handled it, she lost her witchy sight.

  She scraped it free in darkness, momentarily blinded, nerves shrieking, until she laid it aside. Her witchy sight returned, flooding her mind with the images of her surroundings. She listened for any disturbance above, but heard nothing. A small white face stared at her through the grated window of the door.

  "Who... ?" Jackin began.

  He fell silent as Angharad raised a finger to her lips.

  Bracing herself for the darkness to come, she laid her hands on the iron door and pulled it open. She breathed a sigh of relief when she'd pulled it far enough so that Jackin could slip out and she could let go once more. Again, vision returned to her. Again, she searched for sounds of discovery above.

  Still nothing.

  She looked into the cell and saw that its walls were stone— that was why she'd been able to sense the boy. If the whole chamber had been paneled with iron sheeting, Jackin could have remained in it forever and a day and she'd still not have sensed his presence.

  She touched Jackin's arm as he slipped out of the cell and brought her mouth close to his ear.

  "If ever you learned a hunter's silent step," she whispered, "remember it now."

  Jackin nodded. "Who are you?" he asked, pitching his voice as softly as her own.


  "A friend. I've come to help you."

  "Won't do no good," he replied. "Soon as I'm back in Lowtown, his witch-finders'll nab me again. He"— Jackin's eyes filled with revulsion and fear—"he wants my fingers. "

  "I know. I've another friend that might help you."

  She told him about Magger, waiting by the back door, and gave him the description of how to reach Billy Perrin's farm.

  "I know him," Jackin replied. "Seen him in the market. I didn't know he was a witch-lover."

  There was a certain tone to the boy's voice that made Angharad give him a sharp look.

  "And what better person for a witch to go to for help?"

  "I'm no witch," Jackin protested.

  "No? Then what are you doing here?"

  "I..." He looked down at his fingers.

  "Can you see in the dark?" Angharad asked. "Can you hear singing in the night— the belling of stags and the song of the green?"

  "It... it's not real..."

  Angharad touched a hand to his cheek. "It's a gift," she said. "Not a curse.

  "So you say."

  "So I say," Angharad told him firmly.

  Jackin shrugged.

  "I've a question for you," she said. "I'm looking for a puzzle-box." She described the glascrow to him. "Have you seen anything like that in here?"

  It was the best way she could think of to ask if Corser had tried the box on him yet without alarming the boy.

  "I've seen nothing but the witch— finders— and now you. What's it worth?"

  "A great deal."

  "Well, if it's worth good gold, and someone's stolen it, then the Upright Man'll have it."

  The Upright Man? she thought. Did Corser run those gangs of urchin thieves in Lowtown as well? Perhaps Johnny Tow had been working for him then, rather than on his own as he'd claimed.

  "I could ask around for you," Jackin said, "though it means going back into Lowtown."

  Angharad shook her head. "No. Go now— to Perrin's. I'll follow you upstairs, but then I have other business."

  "You won't come with me?"

  "I can't."

  "I could help," Jackin said. "You helped me— it'd only be fair."

  Shadows stirred deep inside her. Exposing the boy to the perils of the glascrow would be anything but fair, Angharad thought.

  "No," she told him.

  "But..."

  Angharad merely gave him a push down the passage. It wasn't until they reached the main chamber of the basement that she heard the scrape of metal against metal behind her. A door opening.

  Ballan see her for a fool! How could she have been so stupid? In the dungeon of a witch hunter there would be cells, sheeted with iron to block the sight and powers of a witch. She'd been so eager to findJackin that she hadn't thought to look in the other cells from which she could read no signs of life. What better place for the witch-finders to wait for her than hidden in an iron cell where her witchy sight couldn't spy them out?

  "Go!" she cried in a loud voice.

  Jackin hesitated, until she gave him another shove.

  "I'll find you later," she told him. "Just take Magger with you and go!"

  Then she turned to face the Staiyon brothers, already feeling the icy presence of their thoughts in her mind. As Jackin fled across the room and up the stairs, she called up her witchfire and the rowan staff in her hand flared with a blinding light.

  "A pretty display," Dagor told her.

  "Most impressive," Hoth agreed.

  "Pity it won't do you any good," Dagor said.

  The witch-finders stood there grinning at her, dressed like twins again in black hunting leathers— from their tooled knee-high boots to the gloves that each wore, knuckles knobbed with iron studs.

  She swung the staff, but Hoth blocked the blow with his forearm. Sparks showered around them. Before she could withdraw the staff, Dagor had grabbed it and wrenched it from her hands. He threw it across the room where it landed in another shower of sparks. His gloves smoked, but the leather was only singed. The witchfire hadn't even come close to reaching his skin.

  Angharad reached for the bundle of rowan twigs in her pocket, meaning to ignite them and throw them at their eyes, but Dagor struck her with a blow to her stomach that doubled her over. She dropped to her knees, gasping for air. Hoth caught a fistful of her hair and dragged her face up so that she was forced to look at him.

  "Be nice now," he said, "and we'll see that all you lose is your fingers."

  Dagor nodded. "Pretty woman like you, you could still make a living in the hussyhalls. There's men that would pay well for the privilege of bedding a witch— even one without her powers."

  Angharad spat at him, but the pair only laughed. Dagor wiped the spittle from his cheek. He nodded toward the cells. Hoth yanked her towards them, laughing louder as her nails slid on his leather gear, unable to find purchase or do him any harm.

  "You'll have to do better than that, my little scaly-girl," he told her.

  As he dragged her into a cell, Angharad felt the presence of the cold iron close in around her. Every inch of floor, ceiling and walls was sheeted with the metal. Its suffocating presence brought an icy feeling over her like frost forming on her heart. She found it hard to simply breathe. The green reaches fled and she could feel only the shadow pattern of the glascrow moving inside her. Darkness fell across her eyes as her witchy sight was cut off. Hoth pushed her towards the far wall of the cell, where she collapsed on the floor.

  Her stomach ached from where he'd hit her. Nausea churned inside her, bringing a raw taste up her throat. Unable to see in the darkness, unable to use her witchy sight, Angharad felt deaf and dumb. Helpless.

  "What about the boy?" Dagor said as he lit a torch.

  The flare of light momentarily blinded Angharad.

  "Let him go," Hoth replied. "Master Corser's not going to care about him— not when he sees the fine fingers we have for him here."

  "I'll go fetch him," Dagor said.

  As her sight cleared, Angharad watched him go. Then she turned her gaze to Hoth who remained standing in the doorway.

  "Well," the witch-finder said. "Whatever will we do to pass the time?"

  30

  Lammond had reached that part of the lane directly behind Corser's house when he saw Jackin Toss come charging out of the building's rear door as though all the fiends of a Dather's hell were on his heels. Corser's hoyer rose up from the darkness beside the door as the boy burst forth. Lammond waited a long heartbeat for the beast to bring Jackin down, but the dog merely paced the boy as he ran across the lawn. As Jackin neared him, Lammond stepped out from the shadows of the stable and called out to him.

  "Been visiting the gentry, then, Jackin?"

  Dog and boy came to an abrupt halt. A low growl rumbled in the hoyer's chest, but then he seemed to recognize that Lammond meant no harm. Jackin, however, appeared ready to bolt again.

  "You've no reason to fear me, boy," Lammond said.

  Jackin breathed Lammond's name, his nervousness all too apparent.

  "The same," Lammond replied. "At your service, as it were."

  "I didn't do nothing—" Jackin began.

  "Never said you did, boy. And I won't keep you long.

  All I've got is a simple question for you. Did you see a fishergirl by the name of Ann Netter while you were in yon lord's house?"

  Jackin nodded. "She's the one what freed me. But she's not a fishergirl, don't matter how she dresses. She's a witch."

  "And where is she now?"

  "She a friend of yours, sir?"

  The darkness hid Lammond's frown. "I've a name, boy, not a title."

  "I..." The urchin straightened his shoulders. "I've a name, too."

  Lammond smiled at the boy's boldness. "Well, spoken— Jackin. Now would you mind answering my question?"

  "You won't like it, sir— I mean, Lammond. The witch-finders caught her."

  "She rescued you, and then you turned tail on her and ran?"

  "She
told me to run— me and the dog."

  Lammond glanced down at the hoyer. "This isn't Corser's dog?"

  "I think it is," Jackin said, "but it seems to like your friend better."

  Lammond gave the dog a considering look and raised his estimation of the witch a notch or two. Bewitched the merchant's dog, had she?

  "If you want to help her," Jackin said, "you'd better move quick."

  He jerked a thumb over his shoulder to where lights were appearing in Corser's house.

  "Why didn't she run with you?" Lammond asked.

  "Said she was looking for something— a stolen puzzle-box."

  "Did she, now."

  Jackin nodded, though Lammond hadn't framed his remark as a question.

  "I told her if it was stolen, and if it had any value, it'd be in the Upright Man's hands."

  "Did you."

  Jackin nodded again.

  "Yet she appears to believe Corser has it?"

  "Don't know."

  "You've been a help," Lammond told him. "Were you to meet her later?"

  "She gave me directions to Farmer Perrin's holding— he's the one that has that stand down on—"

  "I know the man," Lammond said. "You'd better get going then— you and the dog."

  Jackin hesitated. "What are you going to do?" he asked finally.

  Lammond smiled. "Go in and take her from the merchant and his pet bully boys— what did you think?"

  "Didn't think nothing," Jackin said.

  Lammond didn't doubt that Jackin— like the rest of Cathal, except for Veda— wondered about him. They all wanted to know his business, but there wasn't the one had the nerve, or even the plain common sense, to simply come out and ask him. Instead, they watched him with wide eyes wherever he went, quieting as he passed, whispering when he'd gone on by.

  "Off you go then, Jackin," he said.

  The urchin still hesitated. "Do you want some help?"

  "Got your courage back, have you?"

  "It's not that. I just..."

  Lammond stepped forward and put a hand on the boy's shoulder. "I know," he said. "You panicked— happens to us all, Jackin, so there's no need for shame. You go on to Perrin's farm and we'll be along, by and by."