The Iron Tree: Book One of The Crowthistle Chronicles

by Cecilia Dart-Thornton

  A dramatic silence crowned his triumph.

  Then, “What is the meaning of that, ‘illumined’?” pondered a nearby member of the crowd.

  “The knowledge is not at me. Something good, I’ll vouchsafe,” replied an optimist.

  Having performed his duties, the Druids’ Scribes’ Hand disappeared into the dark recesses of the oratorium, accompanied by his henchmen and servant. After a moment he was seen descending the steps at the back.

  “That rather spoils the effect of vanishing into the gloom,” observed Jarred, watching the Hand being helped down the stairs so that he would not trip on the hem of his long robe.

  “’Tis eloquently they speak, do they not, our Slievmordhuan Druids’ Hands?” Chieftain Stillwater said guardedly.

  “They seem the same as those of Ashqalêth,” replied Jarred. “It is said, The hollow drum beats loudest.”

  He was rewarded with a murmur of laughter from all the marshfolk.

  “The segment about the birds flying widdershins was quite entertaining,” the young man added. “The rest was rather dull. Too many shalls.”

  Cuiva doubled over as if in pain.

  “Hush, desert man!” whispered Lilith mirthfully. “Let no one be hearing you utter such irreverences. The city folk pay much heed to the druids. People congregate to listen and be impressed so that they will believe their taxes well spent on the druids’ creature comforts.”

  “Beware,” muttered Earnán, “a leech is approaching! Let us move on.”

  “What?” Jarred looked about. “Ah! In Ashqalêth we call them vultures,” he muttered, as he and the marshfolk maneuvered themselves inconspicuously into the flow of the moving crowd.

  Intercessionary collectors, with their inevitable bodyguards, would often go among the populace. They would take people’s names—apparently they were all possessed of remarkable memories, since they never wrote anything down—after which they would take also their voluntary donations of “intercession money.” This, in addition to taxes, kept the druids in the lifestyle deserved by such exalted statesmen. For it was understood that the druids could intercede with the Fates on behalf of the commonalty. One need only cross a Scribes’ Hand’s Assistant’s Intercessionary Collector’s palm with silver or gold coinage and a druid would speak directly to the Fates, asking that the donor receive Good Fortune. Collectors also sold expensive amulets sained by the druids, reputed to be highly potent for repelling unseelie wights.

  “Not all men of the druidic echelons are so—shall we say—oblique as that speaker,” observed Chieftain Stillwater as the visitors departed rapidly from the vicinity of the oratorium. “I have heard that there is one Druid’s Scribe who can actually break powerful curses, even ones which involve such afflictions as madness.”

  Diverted by the sight of a street performer juggling twenty-three eggs, Chieftain Stillwater failed to note the fraught glances that sped back and forth between Earnán, Lilith, and Jarred.

  “’Tis hard-boiled they are, most likely,” said Cuiva, craning to look over her father’s shoulder.

  Earnán, Lilith, and Jarred deliberately drifted a short distance apart from their companions.

  “A treatment for madness!” said Lilith in a low voice. “I wonder if such a thing truly exists.”

  “If there are real healers among the druids,” said Jarred, “it may be that Old Man Connick sought their help long ago. We might find out some useful information from the sanctorum.”

  “There’s almost no chance that the likes of him or the likes of us would be granted audience with a member of the sanctorum,” said Earnán. “Besides, the services of white-robes are exorbitantly expensive, and Connick was never a wealthy man. Most likely he would have gone to the apothecaries, or the carlins, or even—if he were in severe straits—to the gypsies.”

  “I doubt whether he would have applied to the carlins,” said Lilith. “After all, the carlin of the marsh could not help him.”

  “Then I’d best start with a tour of the apothecaria,” said Jarred. “Where are the most ancient to be found?”

  “In Apothecary Street,” Earnán answered promptly. “It lies over that way,” he said, indicating with a gesture of his hand, “on the other side of Bellaghmoon Square. The hour is late, but if you go now, without delay, you might find their doors are still open to trade.”

  The young man took his leave of the group and hurried through the busy thoroughfares. Evening was tinting the air with shades of iron, and already windows had been transformed from blank, flat eyes to square-cut citrines illumined by lamplight. Clouds were massing low in the darkening sky, and passersby were predicting rain. “Why don’t the weathermasters do something?” they grumbled. “They ought to be making sure we are having no rain on a Fair day.” When Jarred reached Apothecary Street, he entered the oldest-looking shop he could find, a poky establishment that squatted like a blemished toad on the lower side of the road.

  A dirty window looked out upon the street, its thick glass panes congealed in tortured swirls. Shelves, wall hooks, and stands sagged beneath the weight of shamanic tools, including weed pipes carved into mysterious forms, hookahs, painted ceremonial shields, hand drums, ornate knives, bowls of earthenware and brass, the severed horns of many beasts, great drifts of colored stones and crystals, miniature bows and arrows, a forest of wooden staffs, hammers, tongs, small anvils, bags, string and yarn of assorted colors, tripod altars, paints and cosmetics, gongs, bells, candleholders, incense holders, masks, bones, teeth, claws, skulls, hides, and gourd rattles carved with motifs and decorated with plant fibers and feathers.

  The back wall of the shop was lined with wooden cabinets filled with hundreds of tiny wooden drawers. The place reeked of incense, dust, and burnt fat, and every surface seemed smeared with a patina of rancid oil. The atmosphere was stifling. Jarred’s thoughts seemed to cut loose and float away; it was difficult to concentrate while breathing the miasmic soup.

  A bell had tinkled when he opened the door. Presently a shambling woman emerged from some lair at the rear of the shop and eyed him quizzically. “What can we be doing for you, sir?”

  “I have two questions,” said Jarred. “The first, have you a treatment to restore a crazed mind to health? The second I will ask you later.”

  “Yes, we have remedies for lunacy, my lovely,” she said, though her words were slurred, “and anything else you might require.” She grinned at him, revealing parallel embankments of blackened incisors. “Muiris Ó’Cléirigh!” the woman shrieked at the posterior doorway. A man ambled out of the back room. His jaw was moving rhythmically as he chewed a wad of brownish vegetable matter. He bowed to Jarred and bared his teeth in a rabbity snarl apparently intended as a grin, which displayed a row of charcoal stubs to match those of the woman. The front of his tunic was stained with unidentifiable dribbles. “Gentleman wants a specific for madness,” said the woman. She returned to the lair without another word.

  “A specific for madness, eh?” said the shop’s proprietor.

  “To cure it, not cause it,” said Jarred.

  His sarcasm was lost on the apothecary. “You have come to the right place, sir,” he said with a smirk. “We have therapies for all your ills.” With that, he proceeded to pull open a succession of the small drawers in the vast wooden cabinet. The receptacles contained powders, incenses, herbs, roots, leaves, and a wide variety of other simples.

  “Let us be starting with the smokes, shall we?”

  Jarred nodded uncertainly.

  “Smoking our special blends of weed can make lunatics return to good health,” said the apothecary, waving a mottled hand. “The experience opens the mind to the path to clarity. Here is our wild dagga blend, and here our kinni kinni combination, with bear berry, mullein, red willow, and osha root.” He opened and closed drawers with rapidity, describing their contents as he did so. “Sirius sage, marahuanilla, and shisha tobacco. Our ‘calea reveries’ smoking mixture sweetly opens the gates to dreamscapes where you w
ill find the answers you are seeking. But to obtain the maximum benefit, you must be smoking one of our weed pipes or hookahs. You see, sir, they are possessing powerful properties because of the way they are made. The weed pipes are carved from selected bloodwood, while the ceramic ones are fashioned from a secret clay combined with volcanic ash, mysterious sand, and distilled rainwater.”

  Paying no attention to the pipes and hookahs, Jarred peered with distaste at piles of shriveled foliage whose odors made him gag, and said, “Not smoke. What else have you?”

  “We have brews, sir. Perhaps they are more to your taste.”

  A flight of shelves displayed stoppered flasks and bottles of glass and stoneware. The apothecary poked at them with diseased fingernails. “Here we have absinthe—ah, that most emerald of liqueurs!—made by distilling the foliage of wormwood over alcohol to extract the plant’s essential oils. Or perhaps you would prefer our ‘calea reveries’ drinking blend, made with opium poppy, the famous dream herb calea, wormwood, mugwort, and mimosa. No? Ah, calamus root extract! Sip this for its stimulant properties, sir. ’Tis also an aphrodisiac.” To this latter statement, the apothecary appended a bloodshot wink and a sly smile. Jarred ignored the innuendo. “Calamus root is a tonic most efficacious in promoting brain function, sir. Furthermore, it can be used to treat headaches, sore throats, toothaches, and disorders of the digestive system.”

  “How versatile,” observed the young man. “No wonder you appear in such good health.”

  The shop’s proprietor coughed vigorously and hawked into a nearby spittoon. “Here we have our unique melange, ‘violet night,’” he rattled on, “a blend of valerian, kava, hops, and lemon balm. ’Twill be giving you deep, restful sleep and banishing the madness of the frenzied world.”

  By now daylight had almost failed. The shop had become so dim that it resembled a subterranean cavern. The owner bawled an incomprehensible command, whereupon the shambling woman reappeared and kindled two dingy oil lamps.

  Jarred had bent his focus elsewhere. “For what purpose are these sticks and cones apparently fashioned of dried dung?”

  “That is incense, sir. Burn special herbs and resins to produce a purifying smoke and you will be providing the best setting for your journeys.”

  “What journeys?”

  “The journeys of the mind, sir, to find the answers you seek. We have wild desert sage and aromatic herbs, copal resins, frankincense and myrrh. Would sir like to try a pinch of cebil seed snuff?”

  “Thank you, no. I am not inclined toward these smokes and potions and incenses. I have seen such botanicals used, and let me just say, I like not the results I have witnessed.”

  “Ah, but sir, the correct dosage is vital, as is the purity of the product. Ó’Cléirigh’s Apothecarium provides the purest in the Four Kingdoms, and we can advise you on the optimum circumstances for embarking on a journey—”

  “You have many stones,” interrupted Jarred. He held up a chunk of translucent quartz. “This one would appear to be interesting.”

  “’Tis a scrying stone, sir, very valuable,” said the apothecary, whisking the rock from Jarred’s grasp. “Used for divination. Look into it and you will find what you seek—but of course such a precious item must be purchased before it is used.” Baring his scorched dentition in another travesty of a smile, he held the scrying stone out of Jarred’s reach.

  “What about all these smaller pebbles?”

  “Crystals are representing the unity of the four elements, sir: the ground, the air, fire, and water. They send out continuous vibrations to heal your imbalances. Wear your crystals all the time and you will experience cleansing, harmonizing, and integration as your energies come into alignment. Each crystal has its own unique properties.” Dropping the valuable scrying stone onto what looked like a decaying goat hide, the apothecary picked up handfuls of dull pebbles and waved them in front of his customer. “Agate for grounding and balance. Jet confronts the darker aspects of yourself. Coral for love and harmony.”

  “Coral is no crystal,” began Jarred, but the man went on without pausing.

  “Aquamarine soothes the heart and inspires compassion. Jade soothes and heals. Blue celestite for clear perspective.”

  “Pray desist. I have seen enough.” Jarred was becoming impatient. He wanted only to flee from the stifling shop, but despite himself he pitied the raddled creature so ingratiatingly trying to peddle his wares. “How much for a shard of jade?”

  “For you, sir, one shilling,” said the man promptly. “That’s half its worth, but I am prepared to do you a good turn.”

  “’Tis not worth tuppence. I’ll give you threepence, not a penny more, and that only if you answer my second question.”

  “Tenpence!”

  “Fourpence.”

  “Eightpence!”

  “Sixpence, and that is my final offer.”

  “Ah, sir, you drive a hard bargain.” The apothecary sighed. “Perhaps you are not as mad as you think, eh?”

  “Not mad at all,” Jarred retorted sharply. “How long have you been associated with this apothecarium?”

  “Is that the question, sir? For ’tis easy to answer. My father administered this business before me. I was raised on these very premises, sir, and that’s why the entire knowledge of all pharmacology is at me.”

  “That is not the question, man. Think back. When you were a lad, did you ever meet a customer by the name of Connick? I judge he was a conspicuous man—formidably strong; argumentative, perhaps; bent on tracking down some amendment for his condition. He roamed this city for quite some time, and it is likely he was attracted to an apothecarium such as yours.”

  “Connick, Connick,” said the apothecary, rolling his red-veined marbles of eyes toward the ceiling, where several generations of spiders had woven their mattresses. “I might have done.”

  He was holding out a flyblown hand, upturned, in a nonchalant manner. Exasperatedly, Jarred slapped a coin into the palm. “There were two by the name of Connick,” the young man said. “Father and son.”

  “Were they both mad, sir, these forefathers of yours?” The apothecary was smug, feigning concern, sneaking in a covert jibe whenever possible.

  Resisting the urge to slap him, Jarred said, “No.”

  “Give me time to think, sir.”

  The apothecary’s eyes sunk deeper into their sockets. Eventually he said, “Ah yes, I remember him well. Connick. He came here a long time ago, when I was but a stripling. He’d been to the gypsies, and needless to say they could do naught for him, but when he came here my father offered him the best of treatments, and he walked out of this door a better man.”

  “He died insane,” said Jarred tiredly. His informant was clearly a liar.

  Quickly the apothecary burbled, “Of course he ought to have returned for follow-up treatments, else he might have had a relapse. Oh, you just said that’s what happened, didn’t you. ’Tis no surprise, seeing as how he didn’t heed my advice.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “Oh, much like yourself, sir: tall and handsome, brown haired. Now that you mention it, ’tis easy to see you’re related—”

  “Here is your sixpence. Give me the jade.”

  The apothecary dropped the shiny green mineral into Jarred’s hand. “Something else, sir?” he inquired, perpetually optimistic.

  For an instant Jarred was on the verge of asking the rogue if he had ever heard of a man by the unusual name of Jovan, but he thought better of it. “Thank you, no. Good evening to you.”

  “Good evening, sir. Prithee, come back soon.” The proprietor bowed. Jarred strode to the door and flung himself outside, the jingle bell going into hysterics at his back.

  When he had proceeded well along the street, the young man swung his arm and hurled the stone high above the city’s roofs, where it drowned in the lightless sky. All the other apothecaria were closed for the night, so he swiftly returned to the Fairfield.

  “Why in the name of sani
ty do folk patronize apothecaria?” Jarred asked rhetorically as he took the evening meal with the contingent from the marsh. “They are nothing but gardens of bad dreams. Anyone would be a fool to make a purchase there.”

  Earnán quietly studied the young man for a moment, then said gently, “Do not be so swift to judge, Jarred. No man can know what goes on behind another’s eyes. Some poets and writers bestow their custom in those ‘gardens of bad dreams’ in the belief that the apothecaries’ weed releases their imagination and stimulates it to fly to greater heights. People who are ill, or in constant pain, seek the poppy’s analgesic gifts. Others, trapped in humdrum existences, yearn to buy otherworldly experiences.”

  “And there are always the thrill seekers,” said Jarred disparagingly—although not directing his disparagement at Earnán—“who care not if their lives are short, as long as they have been lived elsewhere than inside their own heads. The world is a strange place, where some desire to escape hallucinations while others pay good coin to obtain them.”

  The marshfolk slept uncomfortably in their confined tents. Overnight, sparse drizzle spattered the oiled canvas. By first light it had cleared, giving way to sparkling sunshine. There had been just enough rain to dampen the dust without turning it to mud.

  As soon as practicable, Jarred hastened back to Apothecary Street, where he spent the morning visiting each shop in turn, making his inquiries. Despite his best efforts, no credible information was forthcoming. Having relinquished all hope of discovering anything useful by that means, he returned to the Fairfield. Throughout the afternoon, while his companions from the marsh were touting wares at the stalls, bargaining, bartering or buying, the young man resumed his crisscrossing of the fairgrounds, engaging in the discreet, fruitless quest for clues.

  “Tornai Connick?” ancient stallholders would say, scratching their heads.

  “Tréan Connick? Never heard of them. Come now; see this fine adze of best Narngalis steel! Try this claw hammer, heft it in your hand—feel the weight and the balance of this chisel! If ’tis war axes or spears you’re wanting, Cathal Weaponmonger’s the man to see. Visit his booth over there. He deals in nothing but the best and will reduce the price if you mention my name …”