The Iron Tree: Book One of The Crowthistle Chronicles

by Cecilia Dart-Thornton

  “A feather’s weight she is, but you’d sink to your knees ere you’d taken three steps, Spindleshins,” Jarred bantered to Rushford, who was as strong as any man in the marsh.

  Rushford rolled his eyes. “I can see I’m as like to get near the Lily of the Marsh as for the skies to rain plum puddings,” he said. “I’d best be off to spread the tidings, then!”

  With a cheerful wave, he bounded off into the night.

  Those who had been members of the search parties refused to go to their beds until they had visited the Mosswell cottage to see Lilith safe with their own eyes. By the time the crowds had dispersed, it was nearly midnight. Of the visitors, only Jarred remained. Lilith sat with her injured ankle propped on a stool while Eoin plied her with morsels of food. At the table, Earnán rested his head on his folded arms. He was half-asleep, too exhausted to budge, even when the upial jumped up and draped itself familiarly across his shoulders, its paw in his ear.

  Jarred murmured to Eolacha, “I heard a weeper. I feared she cried for Lilith.”

  “I heard it too. It was a very old man for whom the wight was weeping,” said Eolacha. “A north-reach dweller. After a long and joyous life, he died in his sleep tonight.” She took down her staff from its place on the mantelshelf. “Have you ever seen a carlin’s Wand at work?”

  He shook his head.

  “Then come with me.”

  She led the young man out the back door of the cot and past the smoke room. Here, on the small island, grew a few straggling apple trees. Eolacha stood in the center of the grove. She drove her carlin’s Wand into the ground with a force that surprised her audience. With her gnarled hands, the old woman sketched some movements in the air, crooning a chant in words unfamiliar to the listener. Washed by watery starlight, the wooden staff remained upright and motionless. Bald it was, and knobbed with three nodes jutting near the top. Jarred had the sense that in some way the Wand was like the stem of a tree, drawing sustenance from the ground into which it plunged, attracting some mysterious energy from deep beneath their feet and pumping that power along its length. Then, like the explosion of an instant Spring, buds popped forth from the topmost node. Before Jarred’s eyes, they swelled and burst, giving vent to sprays of leaves on green stalks, long-fingered twigs thrusting out, an ignition of virescent flame. Unseen underground forces fountained up into the foliage, unfolding and seasoning the leaves to two colors. Some were as dark green as ferns under shade, while others displayed the mellow gold of willow leaves at the waning of Summer. All were dusted with a waxy bloom as though some delicate eldritch manifestation had breathed on them.

  “’Tis indeed a thing of eldritch, if that is what you are thinking,” said the carlin, plucking the leaves from their twigs. “The Wands are gifts from the Cailleach Bheur. Three seelie powers they contain, to be wielded by those who possess the knowledge: Sláinte, Cothú, and Scáth. Healing, sustenance, and protection they give, and their power is the power of the land.” She muttered a word. The plundered twigs, now barren, fell shriveling to her feet and the Wand stood branchless once more. Her hands brimmed with the fresh leaves.

  “How do the harvests of the Wand work?” asked Jarred in fascination.

  “Briars and thorns for protection, leaves and berries for healing, nuts and fruits for sustenance. A man might eat a single fruit of the Wand and run swiftly for a day and a night without taking any further nourishment. An infusion of these herbs,” said the carlin, giving the green foliage an emphatic shake, “and a poultice of these,” she flourished the golden leaves, “will have Lilith walking without pain by morning.”

  Jarred glanced with renewed respect at the small mark on the old woman’s brow: a disk representing a full moon, or the Winter sun, indelibly tattooed with the blue of woad.

  “I am overawed,” he stammered. “No carlin dwelled in my village. I have heard much of the power of the carlins, but never beheld them at work.”

  The carlin pulled the Wand out of the ground, drew a large kerchief from her apron pocket, and began to wipe the clinging soil from the foot of the staff.

  “You have much wisdom, Mistress Arrowgrass,” Jarred said suddenly. “Pray tell me, have you ever heard of a man called Jovan?”

  “Jovan.” The old woman paused in her work. “’Tis an unusual name. Give me a moment to be thinking.” She finished with the kerchief, shook it out, and stowed it in her apron. “Do you know, I believe I have heard that name, but there is little I can tell you. Once, long ago in Cathair Rua, there was mention of a traveler who had been passing through. The name stuck in my mind because of its uniqueness. All I remember is a warning to keep away from the bearer of that name. As to why he was considered sinister, the knowledge is not at me.” Cocking an astute eye at the Wand, she ran her hand along its length as if to check that the grain was still straight and true, then gave a satisfied little nod and tucked the implement under her arm. “A relative of yours, was he?”

  “My father.”

  “Ah. I am sorry I cannot be helping you. I hope that some day you will be finding tidings of him. Perhaps you might make inquiries in the city. Now, my boy, let us find out how our Lilith is faring.”

  With the Wand firmly in her grasp, the carlin started to return to the cottage but paused in midstride and turned to the young man.

  “While I am in mind of it—how did you find Lilith, lost in the night as she was?” she asked, shooting him a quizzical look from beneath her arctic brows.

  “Well, I—” Jarred cast his mind back. “Something led me to her. A child, I conjecture.” He knitted his brows. He could not clearly recollect what it was that he had followed, only now he suspected it was no child at all. Something about it had been—he scratched his head—alien. No doubt it had been merely some eldritch fatuousness. “And then it disappeared,” he said. “That is to say, I did not see it again.”

  Eolacha’s expression was inscrutable. Acknowledging his words with a nod and a noncommittal grunt, she returned to the cottage.

  Jarred went to Earnán and asked his permission to wed Lilith. If the eel-fisher hesitated at all, he hesitated out of affection for his own lovelorn son as well as a sense of foreboding he could not explain. It was clear to him, however, how the situation stood with Jarred and his stepdaughter, and he granted his approval without much delay.

  Jarred removed the brass ring from the smallest finger of his left hand and gave it to Lilith.

  “It is not gold,” he said to her, “but its yellow shines almost as brightly, and it is wondrously inlaid with fair patterns in finest copper wire. It was my mother’s; now it shall belong to my bride.”

  With joyful astonishment, she accepted the gift. “Yet I have nothing so precious to be giving you,” she said shyly. “Like the carlins, I own only ornaments fashioned from materials which once lived—wood, horn, bone, ivory, coral, amber, and shell. But wait—on the wall of the cottage there hangs a shirt of fishes’ mail. Have you noted it?”

  “I have. But I require no token from you, no gift beyond your promise.”

  “It belonged to my grandmother, Laoise. An heirloom—they say it was given to her family by the sea-people. Prithee, take it.”

  “What would I do with such a thing? Besides, it looks too small to fit me. Doubtless it was made for a dwarf.” Jarred noted his sweetheart’s downcast look and said,” You have given me this green kerchief, woven with your own hands from nettle stems. It is worth more than all the treasures that lie on the floors of the deepest pools.”

  She perceived that he spoke truth, and was satisfied.

  The betrothal was publicly announced. Cuiva and Lilith’s other friends shrieked with delight at the news. Earnán and Eolacha congratulated the couple, but their apparent happiness was tinged with a reserve which Lilith correctly accounted for as concern for Eoin’s welfare. The son of Earnán had not loved the conjugal tidings. He had become sullen, withdrawn, and prone to outbursts of ill temper.

  It was planned the couple would wed next
Spring, in the month of Mars. Meanwhile, Old Man Connick’s health was failing fast. It seemed incredible that he could have clung to life for so long, ravaged continually, as he was, by appalling hallucinations. His relatives and a few charitable bodies tended him as often as they could. When Lilith visited her ailing grandfather, Jarred often accompanied her, bringing gifts of food. For the privilege of these visits, however, he must share turns with the stepbrother of his betrothed. Eoin nurtured considerable sympathy for the old man, having known him in days of yore, before his ruin.

  The old man’s rantings had become, if possible, even more incomprehensible.

  “They erect invisible barriers in the sky to protect against attack!” he would suddenly blurt as Lilith tended him. “Did you hear that? What? Never mind, it’s gone now.”

  “Peace, Grandfather! Rest now.”

  But he could not rest, and babbled on. “I’ll have a brace of chicken’s feet. We need to set up some structures, and these are the structures we’ve set ourselves. Well, said the hunter, I’ll keep my silence if you’ll take her far away from here.”

  “All is well, sir. There is no need to fret.”

  “They were unable to determine the cause of the fire,” Old Man Connick ranted. “This is all real gold, you know. It was just his little face.”

  “I know. Of course the gold is real.”

  There was much Eolacha could do to assuage Old Man Connick’s physical anguish, but not carlin’s herb, nor fruit, nor charm could heal his rapidly corroding mind.

  Late on a sultry evening as they rowed homeward across darkling waters, Odhrán Rushford related to Jarred a curious but well-known story about a kelpie that had once haunted a certain part of the marsh. He had not yet concluded the tale by the time the two friends had reached the cottage of Rushford. After tying their vessel’s painter to a timberhead on the small jetty, Jarred and Odhrán unloaded their cargo, then passed indoors to kindle a rushlight and partake of their supper. The southerner performed his tasks absentmindedly, his thoughts, as ever, with Lilith. His longing to be constantly at her side was so fierce as to be a torment; he still tried to subsume it in hard work, hoping to deflect the flame of his ardor thereby.

  Over a platter of lotus bread and goat cheese, Rushford observed dryly, “I’d vouchsafe you were not paying heed to my instruction, Lord Lovethrall, for I have not yet told you how the kelpie departed.”

  Jarred slapped his knee. “By thunder, I was forgetting,” he exclaimed through a mouthful. “Prithee, finish the story!”

  Rushford recommenced the narrative, and the evening passed pleasantly despite Jarred’s longing for the night and the following day to pass with all speed so that he might enjoy Lilith’s company again.

  On the following evening, the young man hastened back from his work in order to arrive early at the Mosswell cottage, where he had been invited to dine. When it came time for Jarred to take his leave after dinner, Lilith accompanied him across the staithe to the farthest timberhead, where his boat was tied. There they tarried, oblivious of the evening mists drawing themselves together over the meres, the liquid chuckling of water around the sunken pylons beneath their feet, and the presence of the pet marsh upial, which had followed them and endeavored to twine itself affectionately about their ankles.

  “You shall choose where we are to live when we are married,” said Jarred, gently imprisoning his sweetheart’s hands in his. “Wheresoever you wish.”

  “Where should you wish to dwell?” countered the girl, smiling up at him and noting every detail of his handsome features over again, cataloguing them in an effort to store them perfectly in her memory so that she might be spared some pain when he was not at her side.

  “Nay, you must choose!” he bandied.

  “You!”

  And as lovers do, they engaged in harmonious discord of the shallowest and most delightful kind, until at last they both agreed they would prefer to bide in the marsh when they were wed.

  “The desert is spectacular, but this is the pleasantest place I have dwelled in,” said Jarred softly, “a floral water-land of abundance, forever serenaded by frogs and birds and the music of water. Though I would fain visit my old village from time to time. My mother is there—”

  “Together we shall visit your mother!” cried Lilith. “I shall bring her the finest gifts and love her dearly.” Although scarcely grown out of childhood themselves, they were both conscious they were acting like children. Thus were they able to enjoy their own foolishness.

  Lightly and eagerly they conversed, until the upial grew bored with their company and went moth hunting. But Eoin, unseen by the lovers, departed from the other side of the landing. Standing in the punt, he pushed off and quietly poled the craft away. He did not return home until dawn.

  During the dark hours some night-fishing boatmen passing a lonely islet fancied they saw, silhouetted against the mercurial sheen of still water, a solitary, man-shaped figure keeping vigil on a lonely promontory. They thought it was an urisk gazing out across the water and rowed closer to see; yet it was gone by the time they reached the point.

  The daily labor of life in the marsh was ever punctuated by social occasions. Sevember, the first month of Autumn, was dowered with the annual coracle races. Made from untanned goatskins stretched over a circular framework of willow withies, these portable one-man boats were essential to transportation around the intricate waterways of the marsh. Yet they were unwieldy, difficult to maneuver.

  “A man needs a crockful of skill to be handling such tricksy vessels,” Odhrán Rushford told Jarred. “We of the marsh have a lifetime’s experience with them. I wish you luck, friend, but I fear you will be hard put to succeed to the watchmen’s team!”

  Rushford had spoken truly; the bowl-shaped craft were eager to capsize, reluctant to be steered. To his chagrin, Jarred was unable to master the art sufficiently to be able to participate in the contests; he did not last the distance of the first qualifying race without overturning. Due to the fact that he had never learned to swim, he floundered in helpless perplexity, staying afloat by sheer chance rather than accomplishment, until his friends pulled him out of the water.

  Sodden but undeterred, he said to Rushford, “Well then, I must watch you and cheer you on! And if ever horse races are held in the marsh, I shall mightily compensate for my clumsiness with these leather bathtubs!”

  On race morning, Eoin and his father departed from the cottage at an early hour to make preparations with their teams. Lilith began stocking a basket with a small loaf, a jar of soup, and some fresh butter.

  “Will you not be going to the races?” Eolacha asked her.

  “I am loath to be leaving Grandfather alone,” said the girl. “As you know, he cannot get out of bed and has not eaten for many days. I hope to tempt him with this fare.”

  “Give me the basket, a stór,” said the carlin. “I shall take it to him.”

  “You shall not, á seanmhathair!” Lilith protested. “Do you think I do not notice how you work yourself to the bone? Yesterday it was to the sick children of Rathnait Alderfen you went. The day before, it was that family over West-Marsh way: poisoned toenails or some such. Last night you came in so late you slept only for a fourth part of the dark hours. You shall not be doing my work for me as well.”

  “You will be forsaking your coracle team—they will be forced to find a replacement.”

  “There are many girls who can propel a coracle as well as I, and who would eagerly grasp the opportunity.”

  “Eoin will be disappointed if you do not go and applaud him,” Eolacha reminded Lilith gently. “He has been downcast of late and needs cheering up. Earnán too would like to be seeing your face among the crowds—and I am sure your sweetheart would miss you. It is always a grand day for the marsh, the coracle racing. Go to it, a stór, make the most of your youth and this sunlit season. I shall keep your grandfather company.”

  Lilith’s glance was drawn to the window. Outside, crickets chirruped lo
ng, lazy songs. Clear light played on the water, spinning luminous nets on the ceiling of the cottage. Above the trees, tenuous wisps of cloud, delicate as dandelion puffs, drifted in fathomless ravines of air.

  “To the races I will go,” said the girl, untying her apron and impulsively kissing the crone’s corrugated cheek. “Sain thee, Kind Heart, for your worthiness.”

  The day-long program of races was held in the Southwest Channel. It was a fast-flowing, deeply cloven waterway, the greatest of those that drained the marsh. The main event was a race between the south-reach coracle men and their rivals from the west-reach. Throngs of clamorous onlookers encouraged each team as the men skirted semisubmerged boulders, wove through snags, and shot past whirlpools at an extraordinary rate. After her team’s race was over, Lilith spent the rest of the day at Jarred’s side. Picnics were held on the banks, and a merry time was enjoyed by all.

  During a quiet moment while she and Jarred were stretched out on the greensward, lazing in the sunshine, Lilith watched her betrothed from beneath her lashes and imagined him as her husband. She visualized their future together as a wedded couple. As she lay back against a pillow of moss, she took her curiosity to further extremes and began to conjecture about the children they might have. How would a child of hers and Jarred’s look? How would a face appear that was a blend of hers and his? What color would be the hair? The eyes?

  She glanced down at her hands. Would her children’s hands be the image of her own? Would the fingernails be similarly oval, the fingers long and elegant, the hands narrow and strong? And as she surmised, there rushed through her a surge of excitement. She conjured a vision of her future children waiting somewhere in a locked place of formless twilight; not a threatening twilight but a neutral place, a waiting place. They were biding there, as yet unmet, unknown. And like an upwelling of tears there came to her a yearning to unlock the door that would allow them to pass from that waiting place into the sunlit world of the living, so that she could learn everything about them and take delight in their being. She understood, at that moment, that she would love these strangers, as yet unborn, more than life itself.