The Iron Tree: Book One of The Crowthistle Chronicles

by Cecilia Dart-Thornton

  “What happens next?” asked Tolpuddle, and Eoin realized he had been speaking aloud.

  He smiled wryly. “What happens? It is this. Someone else pushes in first and harvests the flower, breaking it off at the stem.”

  “I am thinking that is a sad tale,” said Tolpuddle.

  “’Tis,” said Eoin.

  Silence settled around them again like a blanket of thistledown.

  A small susurration entered the inner chambers of their ears. The young men sat up, staring about. Eoin put his finger to his lips as a warning to his friend to remain quiet.

  They both held themselves very still.

  A diminutive queen rode through the ferns in a tiny coach made of a large snail shell, drawn by insects. Her outriders, mounted on crickets, carried cockleshell shields and stiff stalks of bent grass for spears, whose points were the tongues of horseflies. A tiny retinue followed, wearing cowslip bonnets. Their belts were made of curiously pleated myrtle leaves, studded with droplets of amber and fringed about with daisy buds. Using the common tongue of Tir rather than their own obscure language they trilled in shrill pipings:

  “I do come about the copse, leaping upon flower-tops,

  Then I get upon a fly, she carries me above the sky,

  And trip and go.”

  Continuing to sing, the charming procession wound away into the undergrowth between the alders. Eoin let out his breath in a long sigh.

  “You won’t be after catching those, I hope,” he said.

  “I will not,” averred Tolpuddle. “That’ll be the queen of the siofra. They’re not having crocks of gold, are they.”

  His friend gave no reply.

  A flurry of high-pitched sniggers shook themselves out of the darkness to the right, then stopped as abruptly as a snipped-off thread. After a moment, a garble of incomprehensible chattering started up to the left and moved away at an uncanny rate, fading out of earshot. Eoin shifted closer to the circle of firelight.

  “A crock of gold would be a fine thing,” said Tolpuddle, oblivious of wightish noises. “If I had gold I would give some to Lilith for her wedding. I shall enjoy dancing at the wedding.”

  “We shall miss it,” said Eoin shortly. “Tomorrow is Love’s Day. Even should we finish the raft tonight, we could not return in time.”

  “Ah,” said Tolpuddle.

  A fish leapt out of the water, drawing a splashing arc of polished iridium. Like a warm breath, short-eared owls swept by, hunting for frogs. Hawk moths jiggled in the air in the manner of drowning swimmers. Simultaneously, a giant pike lurked on the murky floor of the channel, far below the campsite. Its would-be killers could not know how close it hovered, nor could the pike be aware of their existence, although it probably was.

  “Good night,” said Tolpuddle heavily, laying himself down and covering his head with his arm.

  Far off, something eldritch shrieked like torn sheet metal.

  Although weary, Eoin could not sleep.

  At the marsh town they would by now have ceased pulling up the bridges and boats for the night, making the place secure from Marauders. Lilith would be involved with last-minute preparations for her wedding; Eoin’s grandmother would wash her thundercloud of hair in fragrant vinegar water; his father would be finalizing plans for the wedding feast; Cuiva would implore Lilith to try on the gown of bleached linen and lace one more time. Neasán Willowfoil would be inspecting the swords of the watchmen guard of honor, Odhrán Rushford would nervously be practicing his speech, Muireadach Stillwater would be ensuring the ringers were ready to sound the handbells after the ceremony, and Lilith’s friends would be too excited to rest, even knowing they must rise early to collect armfuls of flowers in the morning. Jarred—Eoin refused to contemplate Jarred. The coward had even had the gall to reclaim the powerful amulet he’d once given to Lilith. When Eoin had confronted Lilith with the fact, she’d only shrugged. She seemed not to care. Eoin sometimes pictured the amulet hanging around Jarred’s neck, and how it would be if he were garrotted with it.

  Tolpuddle kept muttering “Roasted sparrows” in his sleep.

  Moodily, Eoin got up and wandered out by Glassmere. As so often, it was borne in on him afresh how glad he was not to be compelled to witness Lilith’s marriage. He found it easy, now, to admit to himself that at the outset of his precipitant voyage he had hoped something might delay his return. With that desire eating at him, he had grown careless with the boat …

  To one side, a shard of silver framed by willow boles caught his eye. Wild goats browsing around the brink of the dark pool glowed whitish in the starlight. A stray maybug blundered into Eoin’s hair. Impatiently he disentangled it; the insect lumbered off through the air, loudly buzzing.

  An owl made mournful cry.

  And there came a stirring.

  Eoin saw a monstrous thing rise out of the funereal cistern among the willows. It seized one of the wild goats, tore it to pieces, and resubmerged, dragging the butchered parts of its victim. The water bubbled, then smoothed to inky satiety.

  For the space of eleven heartbeats, Eoin stood unmanned, as though his toes had mutated into roots and burrowed madly into the ground. His stomach had apparently risen into his gorge. It seemed to be clamoring to be coughed forth from his body.

  Carnivorous unseelie wights were known to be partial to human flesh. No doubt it knew exactly where to find some. He and Tolpuddle were in extreme peril. Already it might be too late to escape.

  Pivoting on his heel, he fled.

  On Love’s Day morning, marsh girls decorated the cruinniú with freshly gathered flowers and garlanded bowers made of wood and withies bent into tall arches. As Lilith’s friends dressed and adorned her in front of Cuiva’s long mirror of polished bronze, they chattered and laughed, but Cuiva continually glanced from the window.

  “Where can Eoin be?” she wondered. “I hope he returns soon.”

  “I too,” said Lilith, between dread for her stepbrother and delight that this longed-for day had arrived.

  She returned her gaze to the mirror. A streak of flawless ivory was reflected therein. Like her namesake she stood, slender and white, her sleeves edged with a spiderweb of Orielthir lace, a veil of the same lace dappling her nocturnal hair. Over the veil she wore a circlet of minuscule daisy buds, mingled with water forget-me-nots to match the azure of her eyes. About her waist was clasped a girdle of soft, creamy leather adorned with leaves carved from horn and bone—the wedding gift of Earnán, who had fashioned it. Eolacha handed the bride a bouquet of blue sword lilies and water forget-me-nots, dripping with the pointillist leaves of maidenhair ferns.

  “Sain thee, a gariníon,” she whispered, and Lilith kissed the papery old cheek.

  Marsh-Chieftain Maghnus Stillwater married Lilith and Jarred on the cruinniú, under the bowers of garlands. The ceremony was followed by a great ringing of bells as the couple passed beneath an arch of swords held aloft by watchmen forming a guard of honor. When they reached the shore, showers of petals were tossed over them; in return, Jarred threw handfuls of bright ha’pennies and farthings to the children, who scrambled for them, uttering shouts and squeals.

  On the front porch of the house of Stillwater and along the shores of the cruinniú mere, the feast commenced. There was much eating, drinking, and music. The guests stood to toast the newlyweds with “Long may they live, happy may they be, dowered with contentment and from misfortune free.”

  Slices of the wedding cake were distributed, and the dancing began.

  “When will Eoin return?” wondered Cuiva.

  Earnán consoled her. “My son may be boisterous, but he is no fool. I’ll warrant he and Suibhne have encountered some unforeseen circumstance. Doubtless they will overcome it and return soon.”

  Odhrán Rushford, Jarred’s best man, became the dancing partner of Cuiva.

  That evening, after every other tradition had been honored, Jarred carried his bride over the threshold of the Mosswell cottage. Conscious of their poverty, Eolach
a and Earnán had invited the couple to move in with them until their fortunes changed. Lilith was delighted. Jarred, perceiving no option, was forced to accept the offer despite his inner shame at being unable to provide a home for his bride.

  Lilith laughed as he bore her in his arms through the doorway. “This ritual is not necessary!” she exclaimed. “’Tis only needful if there’s a domestic wight, and if that wight is a stranger to the bride. The urisk knows me well enough, I dare say!”

  “Not necessary, perhaps, but enjoyable,” her husband assured her, “as will our lives be from this day forth, I vow.”

  Gentle moonlight bathed the chamber Lilith now shared with Jarred.

  The new wife lay back upon her pillows. She saw the wide-yoked shoulders of her handsome husband outlined against the window, starshine defining the shape of his strength in contoured undulations. With dilated pupils he looked down at her like a child who gazes upon a wonder, and it was as if his eyes absorbed every particle of her image in their thirsty wells. She returned his regard like one who has drunk too deeply of the fumes of the poppy and beholds at last, against her belief, inner worlds undreamed of. Beyond the window, a star streaked from sky to horizon in a fiery arc. It faded like her simultaneous thought. That thought had concerned the ephemeral nature of all things, and how it sharpens the edge of all that is beautiful and dear, for knowing we must eventually lose that which we love makes loving sweeter by far.

  The unbound, sorrel-streaked hair of her husband fell down in a soft rain upon Lilith’s face. It traced feather patterns across her skin, so that she shivered as if cold, but she was far from cold. For the space of a heart pulse, the world ceased to breathe.

  “So close, no matter how far apart,” Jarred murmured indistinctly, as though intoxicated. “Yet never closer than this.”

  An ache clenched Lilith’s throat like a sob, and she held out her arms to embrace him.

  Salt’s Day and Sun’s Day passed. By Sun’s Day night, concern for Eoin’s welfare was beginning to infiltrate the Mosswell household. Late, under an opaque and starless sky, Odhrán Rushford came knocking on their door.

  “It is I, Odhrán!” he cried. “I bring news of Eoin and Suibhne!”

  Earnán threw the door wide. “Speak!”

  “They have both returned,” panted Rushford, “returned hale and hearty. I ran ahead of them—Eoin must arrive soon.”

  Earnán, Eolacha, and Lilith hastened out of the cottage. It was not long before a boat rowed by two watchmen appeared and maneuvered in to their landing stage. Eoin sat between the rowers, his head hanging. He looked up when the boat bumped the jetty, and broke into a smile.

  “What cheer!” he offered weakly. “I am home, pikeless!”

  After sleeping for a night and a day, Eoin rose up and declared he would go back to his own house. Before he did so, he told of what he had witnessed by Glassmere. The appearance of the violent apparition from the dark pool had inspired him to depart immediately. He and Tolpuddle worked all night to finish their raft, continually glancing fearfully over their shoulders, jumping at the slightest sound. Through the dawn fog of Salt’s Day they set off. Tolpuddle’s left arm was completely paralyzed. It took a great deal of effort to steer and motivate the makeshift raft, which rode so low in the water that all their belongings were drenched. Some, including the hatchet, were washed overboard and lost. They dared not sleep till they had put plenty of distance between themselves and Glassmere. Tolpuddle, thoroughly alarmed by Eoin’s description of the goat’s dismemberment, vowed he would never again venture into remote precincts. And when Eolacha had examined his arm and pronounced it incurable, he fell into a slough of despond that took many weeks to dissipate.

  Thus ended the ill-fated fishing trip.

  Eoin’s greatest disappointment, however, was neither his friend’s injury nor the wasted voyage. He had hoped to find satisfaction in failing to attend the wedding, thereby depriving Jarred of the triumph of marrying Lilith in front of his rival’s eyes. The notion of being forced to feign merriment and congratulate the newlywed groom, lest he appear boorish, was loathsome to the marshman.

  As it turned out, Eoin’s expectations of ruining Jarred’s victory were demolished by his realization that the happiness of the newlyweds was so complete that his own absence failed to affect it. Even his descriptive tales of the perils he had faced seemed to disturb Lilith as scarcely as a passing shadow disturbs a tranquil pool. Once she was assured of his safe return, she ceased to trouble herself about his adventures.

  Once, he thought, she might have made much of me, in light of what I have endured, and taken pains to soothe me after my travails. Once, but no more.

  Spring’s passionate fling blended into Summer’s riot of dazzle and warmth. In the Great Marsh of Slievmordhu the month of Jule brought the annual ceremony of Swan Upping.

  Throughout the known lands of Tir, swans were considered royal birds. Their possession was the scrupulously protected privilege of royalty. The crown’s permission was necessary even if aristocrats wished to keep the birds on their private lakes. In any region of the kingdom of Slievmordhu, the penalty for the unlicensed killing of a swan was nine se’nnights’ hard labor and a fine.

  “King Maolmórdha is owning all swans on open waters,” Odhrán Rushford had informed Jarred during the Ashqalêthan’s first year at the marsh. “This law exempts only a number of marsh swans, which are the property of the elders and the watchmen. Centuries ago, King Urlámhaí the Gracious granted them swan rights in the marsh, and his royal grant has never been retracted. Therefore, since those ancient days these two fraternities hold an annual Swan Voyage through the marsh at this season, about two months after the new broods of cygnets have hatched. For the occasion, the King’s Swanherd comes down the Rushy Water from Cathair Rua with his retinue. Much ritual and banqueting goes on during the Upping. A rich and gorgeous spectacle it is, and all take delight in it. I myself always row for the watchmen.”

  This was to be the first year Jarred and Lilith would celebrate the festival as man and wife. The great day arrived. In his magnificent state barge, the nobly born King’s Swanherd led the procession of six shallow-draft rowing boats as they cast off from their moorings in Main Channel. At the prow streamed a banner worked with the king’s crowned initials, while the stern flag sported an embroidered swan. The second royal barge followed behind. Rowers clad in purple, the royal livery color that also attired the King’s Swanherd, propeled both vessels. Dressed in his own ceremonial finery of kingfisher blue, the Elders’ Swan Marker commanded the two boats of the marsh elders. These displayed splendid flags worked with the arms of the marsh and a swan badge. Flying equivalent flags, a pair of boats rowed by the green-uniformed watchmen brought up the rear.

  All the vessels were richly festooned with amulets and charms to ward off unseelie visitations. Red ribbons strung with small silver bells stretched from prow to stern. Iron horse brasses cast in the shapes of roosters had been nailed along the planking. The ceremonial swan figureheads were carved from rowan wood, with eyes of amber. Protective bunches of daisies, red berries, and hypericum leaves had been gathered from outmarsh areas. They adorned every spare nook. About their necks, the crewmen wore amulets. Most were made of rowan, ash, or amber; one or two were of iron. One man possessed a so-called self-bored stone. Such stones, through which running water had worn a hole, were found in streambeds, but so rarely that they were highly valued.

  Willowfoil, as captain of the watchmen, also held the office of their Swan Marker. The crew of his boat included Jarred, who had volunteered to be a rower. Seated behind his friend Odhrán Rushford, the young hunter was eagerly looking forward to the divertissement, for he had known nothing like it in Ashqalêth and had delighted in the proceedings ever since he had lived in the marsh. On his sleeve he wore the green-dyed kerchief of nettle linen that Lilith had woven for him. He waved energetically to her as she stood on the banks among the crowd, watching the six boats leave their moorings. Laug
hing, she returned the salute. At her side, Cuiva Stillwater frolicked, boldly blowing kisses to one of the other rowers, while Eoin Mosswell scowled from the midst of the milling crowd lining the banks.

  The procession departed on its seven-day voyage amidst great cheering and blowing of horns and barking of dogs. As it proceeded through the sultry backwaters and bayous, the reedy inlets and dreaming tarns of the Great Marsh of Slievmordhu, all three companies of Uppers worked closely together. First they must skillfully maneuver their vessels into position to capture a paddling family of swans. Then, with speed and adroitness, they must “up” the entire family into the boats and bind their legs together. This was no easy task—swans, when roused to anger, would hiss ferociously, flapping their powerful wings at full span and attacking savagely with their beaks.

  Once the swans were “upped” from the water, the adults could be inspected for the beak scratches that differentiated the marsh swans from the unmarked royal birds. The Swan Markers carefully scored the beaks of the cygnets in keeping with their parentage and proprietorship, and then the Pinioners clipped their wings so that the young birds would be unable to fly any great distance from the marsh.

  If both cob and hen turned out to be unmarked king’s swans, they and their offspring were swiftly untied and released on the water. Swans with a single scratch belonged to the elders, while the watchmen owned those that bore two scratches. The offspring of marked parents were scored with corresponding marks before being freed.

  Jarred, throwing his weight against his oar, looked on with interest. “If the cygnets are born of mixed parentage, what then?” he asked his shipmate Odhrán.

  “In that case, half the brood is marked like the cob and half like the hen,” panted Rushford, shaking strands of sweat-soaked hair from his eyes.