Fell Beasts and Fair

by C. J. Brightley

“Do you understand my words?”

  “I understand them,” she replied, and her voice wasn’t hoarse like a crow’s; it was new and untried, a fresh-formed voice speaking into the air for the first time.

  “Let me see it,” he said. She raised an eyebrow, and there was a hint of a smile about her lips, and suddenly John William felt very foolish. But then she took a couple of steps toward him.

  She let go her shawl, and he could see that her right sleeve was all torn, and yes, her upper arm was swollen and bruised, between the shoulder and the elbow.

  “It looks like it could be broken; we should splint it. We’ll need two sticks, and something to bind them round your arm with.” He looked around on the ground, happy to drop his eyes from hers, and found some sticks the right size, and when he had picked them up, here she was, holding out the shawl to him.

  “No, something else,” he said. “I don’t want to ruin it.” But it seemed an old thing, really, frayed at the edges, and what else was there to use but last year’s yellow grasses? So he tore a strip off the bottom, wrapped it round the splint, and bound it fast. Then he knotted the girl’s shawl and slipped it over her head to make a sling for her arm to rest in.

  “Now you just mustn’t… mustn’t use it. It’ll knit itself back together.”

  She reached her good hand out and touched his hand, then his cheek. He jerked away.

  “I’d better go now. Keep yourself safe.”

  But she was right in front of him, so close that he imagined he could sense her heart beating, fast like a bird’s, and as he took a step forward, she stood on tiptoe and ever so lightly kissed him. Blood rushed to his face, and before he knew what he was doing, he had kissed her back, and he was once again staring into her black eyes, but what he fancied he saw there wasn’t love but hunger. He broke away and ran the rest of the way home.

  “You shouldn’t have talked to her, or gone near her,” said John William’s oldest brother Michael, when John William told as much of the story as he dared. “She must have been some kind of witch.” But his brother Robert, only two years’ John William’s senior, just laughed.

  “Why can she not have been an ordinary girl?” he asked. “And John just not have marked where the crow had hid itself? You should have walked her safely home, not run off like a terrified rabbit.”

  “I wish I had been the one to find her,” said John William’s little sister Joan. “I would have asked her what it’s like to fly.”

  “That’s foolishness,” said their mother sharply, and Joan looked down at the table, running her finger along the edge of it.

  “Michael’s right, you know,” their mother said, setting a bowl before him with more force than she needed to. “Crows live off the misfortune and death of other creatures. If one such as that takes an interest in you, you’ll end up dead in a ditch, or of fever in your bed, or hanging from the gallows. You didn’t touch her did you?”

  “N-no… of course not,” he said, looking away.

  “Good. Keep clear of that hill for now. Take the longer way into town. Maybe she’ll forget she saw you.”

  John William nodded, but pushed the bowl of soup away.

  “Ah, poor Johnny; a witch girl’s taken a fancy to him,” said Robert. “Never mind, Anne Hallett still fancies you too. She’ll dance with you next month—her sister told me so, just this morning. So don’t look so pale and anxious.” John William didn’t even reply, just got up from the table and left the house.

  It took him a moment to realize that Joan had followed him out.

  “You did more than see her, didn’t you, John William. You talked to her, didn’t you,” she said, catching up with him.

  “Go away, Joan. Go back to the house.”

  “You did her a good turn! You saved her from those boys. It’s good things she’ll bring you, out of gratitude, not bad things.”

  “You think so?” It was darker now; the first stars were coming out, and all that was left of the sun was brightness on the western horizon. Birds passed overhead, and John William nearly jumped, but it was a cloud of starlings, not crows.

  “Of course,” Joan said.

  “I set her arm for her,” John William blurted out. “And then—and then, well… it doesn’t matter. It’s enough, isn’t it. I surely touched her.”

  “It’s why you’re my favorite brother,” said Joan, “Because you’re tender-hearted.”

  Still, John William did avoid the gallows hill, those next few weeks, as all the trees began to put out their leaves and the hedges and meadows became cheerful once again. When Joan begged him to take her to the bluebell woods behind Sir Stephen Martyn’s house, he willingly agreed, and it was just after they had passed the biggest of the old beech trees, and Joan was bending to pick still more of the flowers to add to her burgeoning bouquet, that John William caught sight of the crow girl again, walking toward them through the blue-purple haze of flowers, that same shawl, now much more ragged at the bottom, wrapped around her.

  Joan stood up, saw John William standing stock still, saw this other one approaching, saw the look on John William’s face, and knew who the other must be.

  The crow girl was smiling. “All better now,” she said, spreading both arms wide to demonstrate. “Thank you. I have a present for you.”

  “She brought you something,” breathed Joan, and before John William could protest, Joan had dropped her bluebells and run to the crow girl’s side. Just as it had those weeks before, John William’s heart beat fast as a bird’s as he followed his sister.

  “Hold out your hands,” the crow girl said to him, and into them she placed a golden locket on a golden chain. The chain and locket flashed in the dappled sunlight of the woods.

  “It’s fit for a princess,” whispered Joan.

  “How did it come to you?” asked John William, turning it over in his hand.

  “I found it, of course,” the crow girl said. “I like shiny things.”

  “It looks very precious—not something someone would care to lose.”

  The crow girl shrugged. “What do I know about what people care to lose and what they don’t?” she replied.

  “I wish I could have a present, too,” said Joan wistfully, eyes still on the locket. The crow girl tilted her head, seemed to think a moment, and then said,

  “Perhaps this would be to your liking? I’ve never found another of its kind so grand.” She handed Joan a brass key that was bigger than Joan’s own hand.

  “Oh!” said Joan. “The key to a palace?”

  “Or a tower. Or a dungeon,” said the crow girl, smiling again. “You must find a safe hiding place for it.”

  “Off and find one now,” said John William quickly. “And don’t let mother see it.” Joan looked from her brother to the crow girl, but both just waited expectantly. She sighed, put the key in her apron pocket, and went to retrieve her flowers. She turned back once, though, as she was leaving, and called,

  “One day, will you tell me about flying?”

  “One day,” echoed the crow girl.

  “Something like this,” said John William, holding up the locket after his sister had disappeared from sight, “it’s what a gentleman gives a lady, a lady he loves.”

  “And ladies never give gentlemen gifts, gentlemen they love?”

  John William blushed.

  “I’m not sure,” he said.

  “No lady has ever given you a gift?” she pressed, eyes obsidian bright.

  “Oh, ladies and gentlemen,” mumbled John William, “I don’t know much about them and their habits. No girl ever gave me a present, nor did I ever give one.”

  “You did, you did give a present; you gave one to me,” said the crow girl. “You gave me a kiss, and now I’d like another. I’ll give you one back, or better still, let’s give them together. But you must put your hands around me and hold me, because there’s something fiery and shivery in me right now that wants to melt my legs and shake open my chest, and I think I might fall.” She c
upped his face in her hands, and of course he took her right in his arms, and yes, he could feel there was something fiery and shivery about her, and when they kissed, it passed between them and surrounded them, and the whole world seemed heated to a blue-white glow.

  And then they were lying among the bluebells, the heat between them so great that the damp earth grew warm to the touch, beneath them, and the bluebells nearest them were dry as paper.

  “I never have kissed such a one as you,” said the crow girl, running her hand through his hair. “Always they’re cold and pale, and they never kiss back.”

  John William sat up abruptly, knocking her hand away.

  “Will I end up dead because of you?” he demanded. Where was the heat now? He could feel frost on his lips, and in his heart, too.

  “How can I answer you? It’s not I that determines who lives and dies; did you think it was?” She got to her feet, picked up her shawl and wrapped it back around her, tight.

  “Go on; run back home, after your sister,” she said, and there was frost on her breath, sure as in his heart, and maybe his heart banged against his ribs, for he felt it crack. He picked himself up slowly and began to walk away.

  “But come back to me, later. Will you?” she said, voice all low and desolate, and that fissure in John William’s heart deepened. But he didn’t look back, and the last he heard, barely audible over the wind in the young leaves, was, “You will. You will come back to me.”

  For the next three days, John William stared out the door, lost in thought, brooded over his meals without eating them, and had to be asked questions twice before he heard them. It took Robert reminding him of how Anne Hallett wished to dance with him this Saturday, telling him how Anne Hallett had new ribbons for her hair, how she blushed when she spoke about John William, to finally summon a smile to his face and appetite to his stomach. Robert knew these things about Anne because Robert was courting Anne’s sister Mary.

  Anne had hair the color of honey, a smile that was always springtime, and laughter that was sweeter than birdsong. All the boys wanted to dance with Anne, and Anne wanted to dance with John William. Even the frostiest, most damaged heart had to thaw and heal a little, hearing that.

  The dance was to be held at the hall in town, but everyone from the hamlets and farms in the hills around town was coming too, and Sir Stephen and his wife, and the mayor of the town and his wife, too, and all their servants and their guests—everyone.

  “There will hardly be room to dance, for all the people,” remarked Michael, but his brothers ignored him. Robert whistled and there was a bounce to his step; John William examined his jacket and wished it was smarter; as he dusted it off, the scent of earth and bluebells came to him, but he closed his eyes to the memories that the scent brought.

  “What do you think of this?” Robert asked, showing his brothers and sister a pocket handkerchief of white linen, with lace all around it and roses embroidered in each corner. “It’s a present for Mary,” he said, looking pleased with himself. Joan nudged John William and said, “You should bring Anne something—a posy, maybe.” John William grimaced, picturing himself in his dusty coat, a wilting posy in his hand, trailing his older brother. He put on the jacket and, feeling a lump in the pocket, put his hand in and discovered the locket that had lain there all these days. Joan saw what he did, and even though he didn’t take his hand from the pocket, she knew what he had found there.

  “You can’t give her that,” Joan whispered, glancing anxiously at their mother, whose back was turned to them. “You can’t give one girl a gift you received from another.” A number of retorts came into John Williams’s mind but so also did the pale face and black eyes of the crow girl, and he lifted his hand from his pocket without saying anything.

  “Are we ready to go?” asked Robert. “Let’s step lively!”

  The dance was as agreeable as ever a dance has been--not just Anne, but all the girls were lovely, and the musicians’ instruments must somehow have been enchanted so that while they played, no one ever felt tired and everyone’s foot was light. It was between dances that Anne, smiling and flushed, pointed to Robert and Mary, laughing at the far end of the hall.

  “Did you know that your brother brought my sister a present?” she asked. “He has the most winning ways.”

  “Oh? Well, I have a better present, worlds better than what Robert gave to Mary. Something fit for a princess—for you.” Anne giggled with embarrassment.

  “What would that be, then?” she asked at last.

  “Come a little closer; it’s a secret just for you and me to know about.” She came to stand right beside him, and he drew the locket from his pocket.

  Her smile faded; it was a grave face she turned to him.

  “How did you come to have such a thing, John William? In no good way, I think,” she said.

  “What? What do you mean? You think I—oh no, nothing like that! Anne, don’t go!” But she gave a small shake of the head and stepped away, jostling the man behind her, who turned around in some annoyance and caught sight of the locket glinting in the candlelight.

  “What’s that?” he asked, and caught hold of it, and then his eyes widened.

  “This is Lady Martyn’s locket, that was stolen last year and never recovered.” He turned it over. “See—here is an L, for Lucy, engraved on the back.”

  Sure enough, on the back of the locket was the letter L, engraved with loops and flourishes.

  The man’s eyes narrowed. “It’s not the only thing that was never recovered,” he said. “Maybe you know where the other jewels are, that Joseph Hawes’ accomplice made off with. Maybe you’re that accomplice. Somebody get Sir Stephen, and hold on to this one!” People pressed in close around, and through the crowd of faces, John William caught a glimpse of Joan, white faced.

  When Lady Martyn decided that possibly it was John William who had been with Joseph Hawes that night last year, and when John William could not say exactly when and how he had come into possession of the locket, he found himself taken into custody and imprisoned in the jail beneath the town hall, to await the coming of a judge. He hunched his shoulders and didn’t respond to the challenges and taunts of the others in the cell, though he couldn’t ignore their cheerful assumption that here indeed was Joseph Hawes’ confederate, who had been clever enough to avoid the law this long only to then foolishly show off his prize before his victims, and who would now surely pay for his crime. His mother’s words rang in his ears, too, and it seemed to him that there must be no way for him to avoid death.

  In the morning his brothers and sister came to him. Michael told him their mother was beside herself and pressed him with the same questions that others had already asked him and to which he had no good answer. He had found the locket in the woods behind the Martyn manor house, that was all, just the locket, just lying there, nothing more. Why had he said nothing and shown no one? He shrugged. No reason. He sensed his brothers’ dismay and disbelief and turned away. Let them think what they must; there was no help for it, anyway.

  When they were on the point of being escorted out, Joan put a hand on his arm.

  “I have an idea of where to find help,” she said.

  “Don’t try it!” he said. “Don’t you dare! Do you understand? Michael, lock her in the house and don’t let her go out anywhere, or she’ll end up like me.”

  Michael looked alarmed, Robert troubled, and Joan resolute as they left the cell. John William closed his eyes and leaned against the wall.

  Joan and her brothers took the quick way home, skirting the gallows hill, and sometime after they had passed it, Joan stopped suddenly.

  “I dropped something; I know just when it must have happened—it must have been when I stumbled on a root back there. You go on ahead; I’ll catch you up.”

  Michael frowned. “Hurry, then.”

  Joan raced back along the route they had taken, and when she came to the gallows hill, she looked up at the great sycamore tree, and her heart quick
ened its beat as she saw, even through the new leaves, the crows in its uppermost branches. She began to climb the hill, skirting the patches of briars.

  “Who is it here who cares about my brother?” she called out. “One good turn deserves another; he didn’t leave you to be eaten by foxes, and you mustn’t leave him to be hanged for a crime he didn’t commit.”

  The crows lifted from the sycamore, calling in their rough voices, and circled in the air directly over Joan’s head, and she feared, as they came lower and lower, that they might fly directly at her—but then they rose again, higher into the sky, and settled back on the branches of the sycamore. The wind picked up and tugged at Joan’s hair and set her skirts rippling and the canes of the briars bending. And there she was, over there by the briars, the crow girl.

  Her black hair had lost its sheen and there was no brightness to her eyes. Joan could see her arms folded across her chest beneath her shawl. The crow girl met Joan’s eye and lifted her chin. Joan swallowed, and took a breath.

  “They think my brother stole that locket you gave him, and other things as well,” she said. “They’ll likely hang him as a thief, when the judge comes.” She pressed her fists to her stomach to try to still the churning.

  “Then that’s the way he’ll come to me,” said the crow girl, the trace of a smile passing across her face.

  Joan’s blood ran cold at those words, and she felt faint.

  “But… don’t you love him… a little, even?”

  “Oh I do. Very much. When the breath has left him, I’ll shower his handsome face with kisses and then some.” She looked out past Joan, down toward the town. “It’s he that doesn’t love me,” she said, pulling the shawl tighter round her narrow shoulders. “He’d never come to me again, living. So lovely he was, alive and warm,” she said, and for a moment there was some softness to those black eyes. But then they were hard and sharp as flint again. “But if I can’t have him living, then I’ll have him dead.”

  Joan licked her lips. “When you love someone,” she said, voice quavering, “it’s you would die for them, to keep them safe and whole. Not wish them harm.”