The Iron Tree: Book One of The Crowthistle Chronicles

by Cecilia Dart-Thornton

  Increasingly frustrated, Jarred decided to tackle a different avenue of research. Sometimes when therapies were discussed there would be reference to gypsies, and it so happened that a caravan of gypsies was camped at the outskirts of the Fairfield. This particular group was attached to a theater troupe, the Oswaldtwistle Traveling Players. Behind the temporary wooden stage upon which the players performed, the gypsies’ wagons—gaily painted and adorned with simple carvings—were drawn up in a ring. The nomads sold luxury items brought from distant regions: soaps, attars, and talcum powders; nougats, spices, and peppercorns; waxed oranges, truffles, and rich liqueurs; embroidered clothing; combs of tortoiseshell and ivory; painted tableware of fine ceramic. They also sold dream catchers and practiced divination using runes, cards, and coins. To the gypsies went Jarred.

  He asked for their help and was ushered inside one of their wheeled abodes, where he found himself seated on a fringed rug in front of a woman with a narrow face, whose eyes were quiet and luminous. From her ears depended rings of shiny brass.

  “Have you a cure for madness?” he asked bluntly.

  “That depends on what caused the madness.”

  “Perhaps a curse.”

  “A curse can only be broken if the conditions of the curse are fulfilled, or annulled by paradox, or if the curse-giver reverses it.”

  “Perhaps not a curse.”

  “There are those who say that some madness can be healed, others not.”

  “This madness runs in the family. Does that signify it is incurable?”

  “I say every ill can be cured. It is only that we do not always know how to go about it. I will read the cards for you. You might find some guidance therein.” As she spoke, she shuffled a pack of rectangular wafers, each one illustrated on one side.

  “Before you do so,” said Jarred, “I must ask you if you or any of your family have ever heard of a man called Tréan Connick. He roamed Cathair Rua about sixty years ago, searching for ways to heal his mind, which was sinking into derangement.”

  The gypsy woman gathered up her skirts, rose gracefully to her feet, and left him alone in the wagon. Jarred remained waiting quietly, his head bowed. He had no wish for the woman to “read the cards” and had only acquiesced to this service so that he might quiz her about Tréan and Tornai Connick. The notion that one’s fate was predetermined and could be decoded by way of a random selection of paper scraps was anathema to him. Birth and death set immutable parameters, that he understood, but he preferred to believe that within those limits there existed relative freedom of choice.

  After what seemed a long time, the gypsy reappeared. “I have spoken to them all,” she told him. “No one has any recollection of such a name. Regrettably, I cannot give you information on this matter, but you might find solace in my words.” She settled herself once again opposite him, on the rug. “Bear in mind the famous motto—We are made for both joy and woe, and when this we accept, the better we go. Be assured, young man, there is no pain that does not decrease over time. Know also that if you ask for help, it will be given to you, though in what form, it cannot be foretold.”

  He could find no reply for the gypsy woman and sat in silence while she read the cards for him. Afterward he could not recall much of what the cards had revealed, but he left the wagon in a calm mood, imbued with a sense of inner peace.

  The mellowness wore off as he trudged back to the encampment in the gathering twilight with nothing to show for his exertions.

  That night, it was in a mood of disconsolate melancholy that Jarred lay down. On his hard bed, which was nothing but a groundsheet, he could find no rest. He ached for Lilith, longed for a future he had believed was his but which had turned to vinegar and drained through his fingers. Being so close to her and yet sworn not to touch her was driving him to distraction.

  Tomorrow will see resolution, he said to himself as the heaviness of sleep at last came to rest like winged toads upon his lids.

  As the next morning wore on, Jarred and Lilith strolled side by side up and down the paths of the Fair, she with her headscarf tied around the lower part of her face as if to keep out the dust. They approached a stall displaying bolts of cloth for sale, which was tended by five men. As expected, the vendors shook their heads and gestured to indicate their ignorance when the young man asked his questions about Tornai Connick; all but one, who pursed his lips and frowned. As the two detectives were making to depart, the frowning stallholder spoke up. “My grandfather has great knowledge concerning the past. The distant past, that is to say. He cannot remember what happened yesterday; neither can he totter more than a few steps, but if you wish to be questioning him, I will take you to meet him. However, you must wait until the end of the day’s trading. For now I am needed here.”

  “We would be grateful for your trouble,” said Jarred, eager to pounce on the slightest lead. “We shall return at day’s end.”

  “Nay, Breasal!” protested one of the other stallholders. He clapped his hand on the shoulder of the man who had volunteered to help. “You need not wait for day’s end. Go now with these young folk. We shall sell your cloth for you while you’re away. The Lord Ádh knows, you’ve covered for all of us at one time or another.”

  “Aye,” agreed the other men. “Go, Breasal, and come back when you’re ready.”

  “Gramercie, lads.” Breasal shot his colleagues a look of gratitude, picked up his cloak, and shrugged it onto his shoulders. He led the way from the stall into the city.

  “My friends are knowing full well I dislike manning the stalls,” he explained as he guided Jarred and Lilith through the winding pathways. “I am always glad to be getting away for a while. ‘Tis the haggling I despise, and the customers who have decided they shall never be content. ’Tis a master weaver I am, yet there are folk who’ll try to pay half what my cloth is worth, for the sake of a single pulled thread.”

  “We are in sympathy with you,” said Lilith, “for we also are stallholders. My name is Mistress Hawksburn, and my companion is Master Jovansson.”

  “And ’tis pleased to meet you I am,” said Breasal, his face shining. “Perhaps you will accept a bite to eat when we come to my house.”

  It was clear that the man delighted in his role of helper and host. Lilith and Jarred glanced at each other. Their look said, Here is a generous and honest fellow indeed, but will he take us to the answers we seek?

  The weaver took the couple among the city’s byways and into one of the tradesmen’s precincts. “Here is Warp-and-Weft Close,” he pronounced, preceding his guests along a narrow alley where children played and hens scrounged in the dirt. High overhead, strings of laundered clothing snapped and flapped in the breeze. “And here is my house,” he added, opening a door that led directly off the street.

  They stepped into a cramped vestibule that gave onto a large and comfortable room. In one corner an old man dozed in a wicker armchair with a rug across his knees. In another stood a cradle occupied by a sleeping babe. Three small children were sprawled under the table, playing with some kitchen spoons, a sieve, and a ladle. A second doorway allowed a glimpse of a loom, harp-strung with vertical strings of yarn. A part-completed length of fabric hung in the weft, and the shuttle lay to one side. Beyond, a small window looked out on a tiny courtyard where the boughs of a plum tree nodded, their foliage rustling in the breeze.

  A black cauldron, suspended from an iron hook, was simmering over the hearth fire. The woman who had been stirring this vessel spun around as the visitors entered, wiped her hands on her apron, and smoothed her hair. Breasal gave her a kiss, and introduced her as Neasa.

  “These folk are inquiring after a fellow who has not been in the city for many a long year,” he explained to his wife. “Methinks Gramps might recall something of use to them.”

  Turning back to his guests, the ingenuous Breasal indicated his dwelling place with a sweep of his arm. “‘Tis a fine home we are having here,” he said proudly. “We live well, as you can see. ’Tis chi
efly because of our brownie.”

  “We are honored to be welcomed here,” said Jarred with a bow. Taking his cue, Lilith curtseyed.

  The weaver walked across the room to the old man in the wicker armchair and gently shook him until he wakened. “Gramps,” he said into one cabbagy ear, “visitors are here.”

  After returning to consciousness, the old man tremulously took up a pair of walking sticks, tottered out the back of the house to the privy, then shuffled in again and seated himself awkwardly at the table. Neasa handed him a bowl of pottage and a hunch of bread. “Would you be happy to speak to these good folk after dinner?” she asked.

  The gaffer’s bleary eyes surveyed the newcomers. His hands were trembling and twitching.

  “Aye,” he mumbled waveringly.

  The children joined them at the table for the meal. Then, after kissing his wife and all the children and giving a cheery wave to the visitors, Breasal took his leave and headed back to the Fairfield.

  Jarred began speaking with the old man while Lilith sat nearby listening and Neasa fed her baby. The older children rushed outside into the yard, where their mother had set out a tub in which to wash their clothes. The sounds of splashing and giggling mingled with the clucking of the hens, the sweet whisper of breezes in the leaves of the plum tree, and, closer at hand, the occasional soft crunches of burning fuel settling on the hearth.

  It was obvious that Breasal’s grandfather enjoyed reminiscing, and he seemed particularly delighted that the newcomers were taking an interest in him. “The name of Connick is familiar to me,” he said, having given Jarred’s question some thought. Lilith’s eyes widened in surprise and anticipation, and Jarred leaned a little nearer to the weaver’s venerable ancestor.

  “I am remembering something about a Connick,” the old man continued, speaking slowly, “because there was one by that name who was once quite notorious in these parts, although I daresay most of the older folk have forgotten him by now, and the younger ones never knew anything about him, for it was all before their time. This Connick was by way of being a fighter, a sprinter, a man looking for trouble and also looking at all the medicines you could buy: a quarrelsome fellow prone to outbursts of ill temper.”

  “Do you remember his given name?” asked Jarred.

  “Not now, but allow me time and ’twill be coming to me.”

  As Jarred continued the dialogue with the veteran, the weaver’s wife laid the baby on a rug on the floor and called the children indoors to dry themselves by the fire. She bustled about for a while, then leaned down to Lilith and said shyly, “I am for baking the bread, and there’s no yeast to be had in the house. Will you watch the little ones for me while I run down the street to my sister’s place?”

  “Gladly,” responded Lilith.

  No sooner had their mother left the abode than the children—ignored by their great-grandfather, who was engrossed in memories of his youth—began to quarrel among themselves and pull each other’s hair. Alarmed, feeling that she was failing in her duty, Lilith called them to her knee. Three plump-cheeked, grumpy faces confronted her.

  “Now listen,” she said, endeavoring to sound authoritative. “If you behave courteously until your mother returns, I shall be telling you a story.”

  The faces brightened. They stared expectantly while Lilith ransacked her memories.

  “I shall tell you,” she said at last, “the story of the Vixen and the Oakmen.”

  “Maybe ’twas Tréan,” the old man said quaveringly to Jarred at the other end of the table. “Aye, that was it. Tréan Connick.”

  This revelation diverted Lilith’s attention for a moment.

  “Not Tornai?” she heard Jarred ask. “Are you certain?”

  “I was never hearing him called that. As far as the knowledge was at me, ’twere Tréan.”

  “The two names are somewhat similar,” commented Jarred.

  Obstinately, the old man replied, “I know what I know. If you are not believing me, ask another. Who are you? Where is Neasa? Where is Breasal?”

  “I do not doubt you, sir,” said Jarred at once. “I am Master Jovansson. Breasal brought us here. Neasa will return soon. All is well. Do you recall aught else about Tréan Connick?”

  “Tréan Connick … ah, yes. He used to say he had a sickness, but nobody could see a mark on him. He believed this so-called sickness was a punishment for his unvirtuous life. As I recollect, he had reformed in later years, but then he left Rua and nothing more was heard about him.”

  “What about the story?” the oldest child demanded of Lilith.

  Lilith wrenched her attention away from the men’s conversation. “Farmer Gregg was hunting a little red vixen,” she began, “and the hunt had been going all day. The vixen was clever, but despite all her tricks she could not rid herself of the hounds, and by late in the afternoon they were gaining on her. Dazed with exhaustion, she found herself cut off from any escape route by a high stone wall that blocked her path. A hawthorn tree growing beside the wall creaked its twigs and said to her, ‘Spring up and climb my boughs. From there you might jump onto the wall and flee along the top.’

  “‘I have been running all day,’ said the vixen, ‘and I am quite at the limits of my strength. I cannot jump anywhere, let alone into your boughs. But I am grateful for your kind advice. Gramercie.’

  “‘There is a culvert beneath the wall,’ said the hawthorn. ‘Beyond the wall lies the Forest. Cram yourself through the culvert. The hedgehog always does it.’

  “‘Alas, I am bigger than the hedgehog,’ said the vixen. ‘However, again I thank you for your kind advice.’

  “‘Aroo! Aroo!’ came the cry of the hounds, and the sound frightened the little fox so much that she made herself as thin as she could and squeezed herself inside the drain. But the space was so narrow that she became wedged and could go no farther.”

  Huddled at Lilith’s knee, the children watched her with round eyes and solemn expressions. “Poor fox,” said the eldest.

  “The hunt was coming her way, and she could hear the beat of the horse’s hooves and the baying of the hounds and the halloo! of the huntsmen,” said Lilith. “So she tucked in her brush and pushed herself a little farther under the wall.” She paused for dramatic effect.

  “And what happened?” asked the eldest child.

  “The hunters could not spy her.”

  “Did they go away then?”

  “No. They kept looking for her. They thought she’d got through under the wall. ‘Shove your nose out the other side of the wall,’ urged the hawthorn tree. ‘Keep trying. You have plenty of time—they’ll have to detour for a mile before they’ll find an opening in the wall, and another mile to get back to this spot.’

  “Encouraged by the tree’s words, the little vixen twisted and squirmed, and the stones scraped cruelly on her shoulder, so that part of her pelt was torn off, but at last she managed to worm her way through the drain. Even though her shoulder was hurting, she paused to say ‘Gramercie’ to the hawthorn before hobbling away.

  “But one last hound was still searching in the vicinity of the culvert, and he heard the fox thanking the tree.”

  The children gasped.

  “The hound came sniffing at the drain,” said the storyteller, “and he smelled the fox’s pelt. He stuck one of his big paws into the culvert and raised his muzzle to call the hunters, but the hawthorn let fall a cluster of haws, which fell into his mouth. Instead of baying, the hound started coughing!”

  The laughter of the children filled the room. Amused by their merriment, Lilith went on. “‘Play fair,’ said the tree to the hound. ‘You’re twice as big as that little vixen. At any rate, you’re too big too fit through that gap. You’ll have to run around the wall if you want to get her.’

  “The hound spluttered and hacked.

  “‘She’s only a fox, but at least she is courteous!’ said the tree. ‘She did not hawk and spit upon my lovely roots. Get you gone!’

  “Having rega
ined his breath, the hound took to his heels. He could not wait to get as far from the hawthorn tree as possible!”

  The second round of raucous childish laughter disturbed the baby, which had been kicking its legs on the rug. It began to whimper, whereupon Lilith scooped it into her arms. The infant was heavy and warm, and faintly scented with lavender water. Lilith recalled that as a youngster she and some of her peers had considered babies to be rather tiresome. Among her adult friends there were still those who deemed them ugly and displeasing, with their bald pates and their gummy mouths, their incessant, selfish demands, their grating cries. Babies have the power to cast a spell on us, she thought. They use glamour to make us perceive their very helplessness their very neediness as endearing. Perhaps it is only nature’s enchantment, but to me it is clear this child is a beautiful, lovable creature. And she happily dandled the child on her knee while she narrated the rest of the story.

  “The little vixen had been running all day. Her paws were cut and chafed, partially crippling her, and she was very tired. Desperate for some rest, she crawled into a fern brake and hid there. To her horror, she heard the sound of men coming through the Forest. She crouched lower among the ferns, cringing in fear. These men, however, were not behaving like hunters. They were trying to make as little noise as possible, and they whispered to one another even though they were a long way from other men, and they carried axes.

  “Hidden among the ferns, the little vixen heard what they were murmuring about, and when the axemen stealthily moved off, she emerged from the thicket and hobbled away. The hullabaloo of the hounds started up dimly in the distance, and the little vixen went as fast as she could, for she knew with cold certainty that the huntsmen were on her trail once more.