The Iron Tree: Book One of The Crowthistle Chronicles

by Cecilia Dart-Thornton

  “As she limped through the Forest, she came to a holly tree.

  “‘O Holly Tree,’ she begged, ‘won’t you prevent the hunt from getting through?’

  “‘Come here to me,’ said the holly, ‘if you want my help.’

  “The vixen was in a terrible state but not so far gone that she did not perceive a sinister tone in the voice of the holly. She noted the way his branches swished and dipped toward her. Then she knew this was a Barren Holly, a wicked and murderous tree of the Forest.

  “Feigning ignorance, she merely glanced innocently at the tree. ‘The pads of my paws are scratched and bleeding,’ she said. ‘To tread on your prickly leaves would be too painful.’ There came a gust of wind, and the boughs of the holly seemed to reach out to clutch at her. ‘Besides,’ she added as she quickly staggered out of his reach, ‘you might sweep me up and dangle me from your branches.’

  “On she went, and the hounds were drawing closer. The vixen was at her wits’ end. She knew she could not go on much longer. Just as the hounds were catching up and she was about to collapse with exhaustion, she came to a great oak tree and feebly crept among its roots. Whining piteously, she said, “‘O Oak Tree, prithee, unclose your seams and let me enter your hollows! I bear important tidings for you.’

  The wights of the oak trees, the Oakmen, did not give credit to much that was said by a fox, for they knew foxes could be sly. Yet it is their duty to protect all wild creatures, so they opened a crack in the tree trunk and hauled the vixen inside. As the crack snapped shut, she could hear the cacophony of the hunt barreling past. She lay safe in the hollow interior, panting hard, her tongue lolling from her jaws. Three wizened faces peered at her in the gloom. Their hair bristled like bunches of twigs, and their layers of clothing were scalloped like oak leaves, tinted with greens and browns and coppery yellows.

  “In between her gasps for breath, the vixen blurted out her news. ‘Axemen coming—they intend to cut your mistletoe bough—I heard them talking—but they are frightened. Have I come in time?’

  “The Oakmen gaped at each other in astonishment. ‘Have you struggled all this way, across the hills, under the wall, and through the Forest, just to tell us this?’

  “‘Indeed I have,’ panted the fox, hoping to gain the wights’ favor and save her life.

  “‘In that case,’ said the Oakmen, ‘we shall pretend we know naught about Farmer Gregg’s missing fowls. We give no succor to robbers, but we will aid a genuine friend.’

  “They paused, and seemed to be listening. From beyond the walls of the oak, the hullabaloo of the hounds was fading.

  “‘The hunt has departed now,’ they said, ‘and you must too. Before you leave, rinse your injured paws in the rainpools that lie between our roots, and drink there too.’

  “The crack in the tree snapped open, and before she knew it the vixen was outside, watching it bite shut. She found herself standing on the deep and luscious piles of leaf mold beneath the wide-spreading boughs of the oak. Here rainpools gleamed, reflecting ragged-edged leaves and fragments of the sky. She lapped with her tongue and dipped her paws, and immediately her pads were healed. Her coat had regrown where the stones had torn it away from her shoulder, and it was shinier and thicker than ever. Her vitality had returned.

  “Then for the last time she heard the voices of the Oakmen, dimly issuing from within the great bole of the tree.

  “‘Avoid the Barren Holly,’ they warned.

  “‘I intend to,’ she replied with fervor.

  “‘And come here nevermore!’

  “The little vixen needed no further admonitions. She bounded off, a bright streak of russet in the sage-colored grasses, and ran all the way back to her den beneath the rocky cliffs. As soon as she arrived, she rolled herself into a ball and went to sleep.

  “She woke up to see her mate, Mr. Fox, pushing in at the entrance to the den. He was carrying something limp and feathery in his jaws, which he placed on the ground in front of her.

  “‘A fine, fat goose for you, my love,’ said Mr. Fox. ‘It belonged to Farmer Gregg, but the farmer won’t be needing it anymore, and a good square meal will do you good.’

  “Fondly the little vixen licked her mate’s nose. But before she began to dine, she asked, ‘Why won’t Farmer Gregg be needing his goose anymore?’

  “‘He and another huntsman are dangling from the highest boughs of the Barren Holly in the Forest. Now enjoy your meal, my love, while I go and fetch a nice plump duck for our supper.’

  “And that is the end of the story,” said Lilith.

  “My compliments!” cried a voice at the doorway, and the weaver’s wife came in from the vestibule where she had stood for a moment, eavesdropping. She placed the jar of yeast on the table. Lilith held up the baby, and the mother took it in her arms, whereupon it cooed contentedly.

  Having concluded his reminiscences, the old man had fallen asleep in his chair.

  “He’s off again,” said Neasa, joggling the baby on her hip.

  “We thank you for your hospitality,” said Jarred, rising to his feet. “We shall not impose further.”

  “Another story!” the children begged Lilith.

  The marsh daughter knelt down so that her face was at the same level as theirs. “I must be departing now,” she said, “but other people will tell you stories, if you ask. And you can make up your own stories, which will be better than tales told by others because they can progress exactly as you please. But for now, you have plenty to do helping your mother bake the bread.”

  The children were not satisfied and continued to plead until their mother bade them be quiet. After many pleasantries had been exchanged, Jarred and Lilith made their exit from the weaver’s house and walked back through the city streets to the Fairfield.

  “What have you discovered?” asked Lilith, agog with excitement.

  “Naught,” said Jarred, who by contrast was downcast. “You heard most of it. I found out only that Old Man Connick in his day was a tavern brawler and a street ruffian.”

  “I am sorry to learn of it.”

  “It was said he complained of suffering from some unidentified malady, but according to the gaffer he was not a popular man, and I suspect most folk cared not a whit for his state of health.”

  “Were there no other clues?”

  “None. I asked many a question, trying to pry out some small but significant detail, yet it turns out my efforts were not rewarded.”

  Despondency wrapped the couple in silence as they walked.

  “They are a generous family,” said Jarred at length. “With all those mouths to feed, they still made room for us at their table. I left two sixpences on the mantelshelf.”

  “That was a good deed. The children are delightful.”

  Jarred’s expression remained grim. “’Tis you who is the delight,” he said. His voice was tinged with the bitterness that springs from hope snatched away. “Watching you sitting there with the baby on your lap and the youngsters leaning on your knee, or sitting cross-legged at your feet, all entranced by your words, I thought my heart must break in pieces.”

  Tears welled in Lilith’s eyes. “Once,” she told him, “I assured you I would never have patience enough to raise a child. Now, I admit, my outlook is marvelously altered. I have fallen under nature’s enchantment, yet I find myself a willing victim who can scarcely credit that she could ever have been immune to the spell.”

  To herself, Lilith said, How I long for a child of our own! Yet I will never marry and give rise to a new life that would be cursed. All my yearnings are doomed to despair. ’Tis better far that I never bear a child, rather than give birth to one who is miserably doomed.

  “You are too disconsolate,” said Jarred, reaching out his hand in a gesture of solace.

  She jumped back, out of reach. “No, no! You must not touch me!”

  “I am not afraid.”

  “I will not bring you into danger.”

  “There is only danger in th
at you might break my heart.”

  “Can you prefer death to heartbreak?”

  “Lilith, I cannot endure this separation. It makes me—” He broke off.

  “Nor I,” she said, her blue eyes glimmering with sadness, “but we must. We must.”

  The third day of their sojourn at Cathair Rua also proved unprofitable. It seemed that nowhere in the city or its surrounds was there any person, bar the gaffer, who recalled the name of Connick. Or if there were such a person, they would not admit to the knowledge.

  At the close of the day, a flurry of activity took place down at the Rushy Water landings. “We’ll be departing at sunrise the day after tomorrow,” said Chieftain Stillwater as the marshfolk packed their purchases into their watercraft and covered them with tarpaulins. “Muireadach shall be keeping first watch on the boats tonight.”

  “I’ll take second watch,” volunteered Jarred, “and it may be that I shall not be leaving with you for the marsh.”

  “What’s this?” cried Earnán in amazement. “Not coming with us?”

  Jarred shook his head. “As matters stand, I cannot leave the city yet.” With a significant glance, he added, “There is much to be learnt here.”

  “You have been seeking information about the forebears of Lilith,” said Stillwater. “Why?”

  Jarred barely hesitated. “It is believed,” he said, “there may be some legacy due to her.”

  “Well then,” said Stillwater, “’tis a worthy matter and rightly pursued. I wish you good fortune.”

  Lilith took Jarred aside.

  “Must you be tarrying here?” she said. The prospect of returning to the marsh without him imbued her with dread. It seemed as devastating as a sentence to the gallows.

  “I must.”

  “How will you be getting along?”

  “I will find work.”

  “The hirings are over.”

  “No matter. There is always work to be found—no matter if the pay is poor. I can load carts, sweep streets—”

  “That is no proper employment for one such as you,” protested Lilith.

  “I must do it. If, as you say, you will not have me saddled with a cursed wife, then this is the only path to our union. More importantly, it is the only path to your security.”

  “I shall be staying with you. The amulet shall protect me.”

  “These same words have passed between us before,” sighed Jarred. “Do you think I do not die for you each moment? Do you think I would not bind you to my side with chains if I could? When you are not within my sight, I am in torment. When you are, I burn like forge fires. I know not which state causes me most agony. Yet you cannot stay here, you know it.”

  Waywardly, Lilith cast down her eyes. “That remains to be seen,” she said.

  That evening in the establishment known as the Harp and Clover, the marshfolk joined for conviviality with a group of wool merchants from the Eastern Vales and several seafarers from Grïmnørsland. The tavern was crowded with other fairgoers from the outer districts who wished to enjoy their free time in the city. It was a scene typical of most public houses in the Four Kingdoms: a low-beamed ceiling; a large fireplace—unlit at this time of year; a logjam of wooden trestles and benches; hookmounted lamps, their flames like burning tiger lilies trapped in ice; puny windows paned with diamonds of thick, distorting glass; shadowy corners where hooded men leaned their heads together, deep in conversation; brighter pools of light spilling over loud roisterers. Harried serving-maids edged sideways through the throng, lifting their laden trays over the heads of the customers and thumping them down on the furrowed surfaces of the tables so that the foam spilled from the tankards. The loud hum of voices ebbed and flowed like wind through the barren boughs of a Winter forest.

  Wine and song always went hand in hand. One romantic wistfully raised his eyes to the ceiling and began,

  “My love is a river that flows to the sea,

  With waters that harbor a sweet memory

  And at Time’s ending, when all seas are dry,

  My river of love will still—”

  “Oh, dry up,” called out several impatient voices. “We’re not after wanting that cockeyed milkwater. Give us a real song!”

  A fiercely bearded man struck up a rollicking air on his rebec.

  “There was a jolly farmer’s lad, Jack Idlebones by name.

  He weren’t much good at farming, more like sleeping was his game.

  His master told him, ‘Drive the goats into the acre field.

  It can’t be ploughed, ’tis full of dock, and nothing will it yield.

  “So Idlebones went to the field, and what did he find there?

  A tiny chap sat on the wall as though it were a chair.

  Then softly Jack stepped up behind and grabbed him round the waist.

  ‘I know you have a crock of gold, give it to me—make haste!’

  “‘Have mercy, sir, pray let me go!’ the tiny chap did cry.

  A scarlet cap was on his head, a tear was in his eye.

  But Jack held fast and would not budge. He said, ‘I’ll not let go

  Until the secret of that crock you unto me do show.’

  “The tiny chap cried, ‘Oh alack!’ and shouted, ‘Woe is me!

  I’ll show ye where ‘tis buried, and then you must set me free.’

  He guided Jacky through the field until at last they found

  A dock weed amongst other dock weeds growing in the ground.

  “‘’Tis under this one,’ said the chap who wasn’t very big.

  ‘An iron cauldron full of gold. You only have to dig.’

  Now Idlebones gave such a grin he showed off ev’ry tooth,

  For one thing ev’ry body knows—all wights must tell the truth.

  “Then Jacky looked about and saw ten thousand dock weeds stood,

  As like each other as the trees all crowded in a wood.

  ‘I’ll mark this weed,’ said crafty Jack, ‘so I’ll know it from them.’

  And then he took his red kerchief and tied it to the stem.

  “‘I’ll let you go, my friend,’ said Jack, ‘but first I’ll hear you say

  You won’t untie my red kerchief.’ The tiny man said, ‘Yea!’

  ‘Well now, begone,’ said Idlebones. He opened up his fist

  And in a trice the tiny chap had vanished like a mist.

  “Then Jack looked down upon the ground so stony, cruel, and hard.

  ‘I’ll need a shovel here,’ he said. ‘I’ll get it from the yard.’

  So off he galloped like the wind to fetch himself a spade.

  ‘I’ve made my fortune, sure,’ crowed he. ‘A rich man I am made!’

  “Those tricksy wights are not so wise, with all their gramarye,

  They’ve met their match with Idlebones—there ain’t no flies on me!

  But when he ran back to the field, it made his poor heart bleed—

  Lo and behold! A red kerchief was tied to ev’ry weed!”

  Chortles from many throats jogged along together companionably.

  “Not bad, Donagh,” someone called out, “but let me sing ye the last verse!

  “‘I’ll dig this field!’ Jack cried in rage,

  ‘I’ll have my rightful pay!’

  If stones ain’t broke his master’s spade,

  He’s digging to this day!”

  No sooner had this third singer finished and the merriment faded to an energetic thrum than Jarred became aware that a fair-haired lad was observing him from amongst the crowd. When he pondered on the matter, it seemed to him that this boy had been watching him for a long time, staring from half-lidded eyes. Perhaps fourteen Winters old, the lad was remarkable only for his dirtiness. The glint of his unkempt hair was almost obscured by the grease thereon. His face was smudged, as though he worked for a charcoal burner, and his ragged raiment was of no recognizable color. As soon as Jarred’s eyes alighted on him, the lad looked away.

  “That boy is after watching us,”
said Lilith, seated at Jarred’s right side.

  “Aye.”

  She was sitting very close to him. Recalling the yielding firmness of her mouth, he fought the urge to push back the shadowy strands of hair from her lovely face and taste again; instead, he forced himself to stare into his tankard as though deep in thought. Most of their companions were listening to the thickly accented expositions of a sweaty, blond-bearded Grïmnørslander, Bjolf Sharkküller by name. He was dressed in an open jerkin fashioned from overlapping tabs of hard leather and woolen breeches dyed dark turquoise with the strong blue-green stain the coast villagers extracted from seaweed. His sealskin boots were tied from ankle to knee with crisscrossing cords. Decorated copper bands encircled his wiry forearms, while a heavy iron amulet dangled against his bare chest. A many-oared boat with a square sail was tattooed on his chest—the emblem of his kingdom.

  “I arrived un thus sutty during the fistevities for the third birthday of Prunce Uabhar,” Sharkküller was telling Chieftain Stillwater. “King Maolmórdha knows will how to cilibrate. There was much pomp end cirimony.” His drooping mustaches dipped into his ale as he took a gulp. “Iveryone ixpicted to see the child wave from the palace balcony, but he dudn’t appear. Ut was whuspered thet he refused. Uf ut hed been my own son, I would hev struck hum wuth my belt as punushmint for such dusobedience. Ach, but the young prunce uz stronger minded than huz father seems!”

  Sharkküller’s guffaws racketed off the walls. Earnán, who had noted the disapproving stares of the Slievmordhuan wool merchants at the other side of the table, smoothly diverted the topic to the Grïmnørsland pearl trade. Soon Sharkküller was drawn into an argument with a rival Grïmnørsland trader, Bergelmir Hirrungwünner, concerning sources of the most valued pearls: white, black, rose, and cream.

  Such secrets were jealously guarded; Jarred knew full well they were feeding each other outrageous lies, each trying to pierce the other’s bluff. Grinning, he reached for his own tankard, only to see that the dirty, fair-haired boy who had been watching him had squeezed into the place to the left of him on the bench.