The Iron Tree: Book One of The Crowthistle Chronicles

by Cecilia Dart-Thornton

“What if there is an odd number?”

  “The odd one is belonging to the cob.”

  “Swans to starboard!” yelled the coxswain. “Heave-ho, lads! Make haste, for we draw perilously close to Hangman’s Bend!”

  It was not only irate swans that posed a problem to the Swan Uppers. They must be vigilant: sinuous water snakes, smooth as polished malachite, inhabited some parts of the marsh. Certain waters must be avoided because they were infested with creatures of unseelie, and there existed other less malignant but more mischievous immortal incarnations of eldritch, mostly nocturnal.

  However, it was the swan maidens, neither unseelie nor habitually mischievous, who most often harassed the procession, for they abhorred the annual ritual of Swan Upping. The men must be careful not to harm them. It would bring ill fortune indeed to hurt a swan maiden, for the wrath of these comely, guiltless beings would certainly descend upon the marsh.

  Swan maidens belonged to the eldritch class of shape-shifters. They had the ability to take the form of either a wild swan or a damsel. When they were swans, it was easy to tell them from the true birds: their feathers were black as soot, with pure white primaries and secondaries, their irises and bills ruby red. The real birds were frost white with orange bills—although it was said that in other kingdoms white swan maidens were sometimes seen.

  In the shape of damsels, swan maidens were preternaturally lovely, forever young. Shy they were too. In general they disliked mortalkind and hid themselves away. Only by chance might some lone walker or hunter at night come upon a bevy of swan maidens in their humanlike shape, bathing in some moonlit pool or dancing on some ferny margin. At the first sign of such an intruder, the damsels would snatch up their feather cloaks and flee for cover. Then a flock of black birds would rise from the trees and fly out across the water, calling sorrowfully.

  During the ceremony of Upping, the swan maidens waxed bolder. In bird form they would warn the true swans of the approach of the procession. Uttering loud hoots and hisses, they drove their charges into the shelter of some region into which they knew mortalkind would not dare to venture; shadowy, sinister washes where long, straggling curtains of moss-draped, half-dead trees; secretive places such as the Hauntings and the Wraith Fens, where lurked the dangerous fuathan.

  Sometimes, when the crews managed to “up” a family of swans, the eldritch birds would descend on the boats in a storm of inky feathers, their wings whipping back and forth so powerfully that they churned the water. Darting close, they hovered and beat about the heads of the Markers and the Pinioners, distracting them from their tasks. In particular, they targeted the hated Pinioners.

  In damsel form, they had been known to wander near the camps of the Uppers in the deeps of night. Spying such delicious girls amidst the gray tree boles, some wakeful young crewman might be lured to join them. Robed in their feather cloaks and their long dark hair, they would surround him, murmuring in their sibilant voices, “Sweet, winsome fellow, save swans! Vow faithfully. Stay home! Why fare far seeking strife? Hearken—succor swans! Soothly we sing.”

  And occasionally the youth would hearken. If their eldritch murmurings won him over, he would creep back to his camp without saying a word, as though in a trance, and the next day he would try to sabotage the Upping by rowing awry, falling overboard, or using any other method at hand. Because of this, groups of six sentinels took turns to keep watch during the dark hours—not only to look out for peril, but so that they might rescue one another from the gentle persuasion of the swan maidens.

  Some, however, including Jarred, secretly hoped for a glimpse of them. The young men were inquisitive; wights were seldom seen, and wights of preternatural loveliness were rarest.

  Irate black swans proved plentiful during this Swan Voyage, yet no feather-cloaked damsel allowed herself to be spied. The procession continued to proceed slowly around the marsh, stopping to camp on different islands each night. It concluded with the traditional feast at the central cruinniú platforms, a salute to “His Majesty the King, Lord of the Swans,” and a toast to the marsh—“May it flourish, channel and pool, forever with Seven and the Chieftain,” followed by seven cheers.

  Jarred and Lilith sat together during the banquet. Their delight in each other’s company was a flame cupping them against the night as they discussed the events of the day, elaborated on their plans for the future, and laughed at foolish jokes that held meaning for only the two of them. There was nothing they needed of anyone or anything else. It was enough for each to breathe the other’s joy, to be nourished by their mutual fascination, to drink in the wonderment of knowing and being known to the utmost.

  As for Eoin Mosswell, he took no pleasure in the traditional festival but moped and mourned and watched Lilith both covertly and covetously. To witness her pride in her new husband, to behold the intruder from the desert discovering the fascination of marsh rituals and participating in them as if he had been born and raised in Eoin’s homeland: these experiences galled him almost beyond endurance. His brittle smile was a mask.

  Afterward, the two state barges of the King’s Swanherd departed up the Rushy Water to Cathair Rua. With them they took several wicker cages enclosing a dozen young swans for the king’s table.

  Autumn came treading lightly on unshod feet, strewing leaves before and behind her. By then it was clear that Lilith was carrying a child. Her joy, and Jarred’s, was complete. Only, from time to time a light melancholy settled upon the mother-to-be, proceeding from regret that her mother and grandfather could not bear witness to her happiness.

  In the marsh town, all else continued much as before. Cuiva began a habit of inviting Eoin to dine at her father’s house, Odhrán Rushford began a habit of giving nosegays to Cuiva, and Eoin’s house became grander. He set up a new curing shed on an uninhabited islet, employing Tolpuddle—whose arm had thawed somewhat but remained feeble for the rest of his life—to journey outmarsh collecting green hickory and cherry wood, certain to impart the best flavors to cured meats. Annual festivities were duly celebrated. Many folk attended the Fairs in Cathair Rua.

  Eventually Cuiva abandoned hope of gaining Eoin’s regard and turned to Rushford, whose courtship of her, though largely ignored, had remained steadfast and unwavering. They married on a Salt’s Day in Sevember.

  Winter seized the marsh, and a new year took its turn. According to Eolacha, it was the year 3453. This meant nothing to most marshfolk; the seasons and the weather were more important than enumerating the passage of time. They knew the years by names: the Year of Strong Winds, the Year of Many Raids, the Year of Abundant Eels, and so on.

  As Lilith’s lying-in drew near, it seemed a madness had possessed her stepbrother. When he was at home, not a day passed when he did not move his house to a different mooring. The marshfolk began to look for the iron wind-vane rooster above the treetops, betting with each other where it would pop up next. When he was not moving his floating abode, the son of the eel-fisher would embark on long expeditions to the four corners of the marsh or to Cathair Rua. “The lad dances on hot tin,” the marshfolk would say, quoting one of their favorite sayings, or, jesting, “The trows have stolen the real lad and replaced him with a stock!”

  Tolpuddle, who never noted alteration in his friend, took to accompanying him on duck hunts. He took his water dog along to retrieve arrowpierced birds. To Tolpuddle, Eoin commented bitterly, “The union is surely cemented, now that she’ll bear his brat.”

  But Tolpuddle merely nodded, unconcerned.

  On a King’s Day in Mars, at the beginning of Spring, Lilith’s time arrived. For a day and a night she struggled on her couch in the Mosswell cottage, gradually weakening as hours passed. Jarred and Eolacha remained at her side.

  “This is as difficult a labor as I have ever seen,” Eolacha murmured aside to Earnán. “Lilith’s life is in peril. Methinks the melding of her cursed blood with the sorcerer’s may well have made an infant of extraordinary strength and stubbornness, who refuses to be pushed out in
to the cold world without a fight.”

  “A fight which draws the life out of Lilith as blood flows from a severed artery. Can you save her?” asked Earnán. His grave eyes were fixed on Lilith, whose visage was whiter than the pillow on which she lay. Sable petals of damp hair radiated from that flower-face. Jarred sat at the bedside holding his wife’s hand, dabbing at her brow with a kerchief and speaking soothingly.

  “Any other woman might have lost such a difficult battle by now,” said the carlin. “Two things are in her favor—nay, three. First, she is strong. Second, I have been treating her with inhalants and tisanes made from leaves and berries of the Wand—else we would have lost her by now, nought is more certain. Third, there is the love between those two. I go now to use the Wand again. This time I must resort to the most strenuous measures, else she will not last till morning.”

  “Why did you not employ the strongest measures in the first place?”

  “There are risks.”

  “What risks?”

  “If she lives, and if the child lives, she might never bear another.”

  Earnán nodded, too dread-choked for words.

  On Thunder’s Day morning, a child cried.

  Lilith survived, although she was weak and weary. When the parents looked upon their daughter for the first time, the sight of her stole away all words. Tears flowed unchecked down their cheeks. At length Lilith’s voice broke through the husk of her emotion and she murmured, “Now we are truly hostages to fortune.”

  She held the baby in her arms as if she would never let go, and Jarred put his arms around the two of them. For a long time Lilith studied the little face, with its delicate proportions and dewy skin, and she said, “So this is what you look like after all, my darling. You are a stranger no more. I cannot express how glad I am to see you at last.”

  Blinking the saline blur from his eyes, Jarred said, “How is it possible for anything to be so perfect?”

  They could not take their eyes from the sleeping baby and watched her as if mesmerized. Later Jarred said, “She is ours, and belongs to no one else.” And he knew he would do anything in the world to protect her.

  The naming of the child was Lilith’s notion.

  She and Jarred named their daughter Jewel, because it had been the discovery of the white jewel in the Iron Tree that allowed them to marry, and because she was the most precious thing they could ever dream of.

  VI

  The Child

  Still feeble in the aftermath of childbirth, Lilith was hard put to look after the infant by herself. Jarred helped when he could, but he was often away looking for work. Now more than ever he wanted to prove himself a good provider for his family. Eolacha helped wherever possible, but as the healer of the marshfolk, she too was often called away. Cuiva, now looking forward to starting her own family, visited often.

  “I never would have guessed such a small person could be the cause of so much work,” Lilith said to her friend. She sighed. “I am busy from dawn till dusk, dusk till dawn.”

  “People are saying it would be agreeable if your urisk helped, now there’s a baby,” said Cuiva.

  “He never helps. Indeed, not once in living memory has anyone even spoken with the wight—not to my knowledge, in any case. And these past years we have scarcely glimpsed him at all.”

  The Marsh-Chieftain’s daughter lowered her voice. “Everyone is complaining the urisk is not bringing you any luck. The luck comes from the help they’re supposed to give.”

  “Hush! I fancy he’s not lurking nigh, but if he is, he might take offense.”

  “Hmph,” Cuiva snorted.

  The elusive urisk of Lilith’s household seldom entered the thoughts of most marshfolk. When some cognitive association did prompt them to recollect its existence, they spoke of it disparagingly. From time to time they would urge Lilith or Eolacha to lay the unhelpful creature with a gift of clothing. It was unnatural, they’d say—somewhat paradoxically—for a domestic wight to be so shiftless.

  “I say, get rid of the creature,” declared Rathnait Alderfen, the cooper’s wife, a plump, stern woman who liked to provide new mothers with advice on child rearing and other household matters. “’Tis of no use, and it only eats up your food.”

  “But he has been with my family as long as anyone can remember,” said Lilith mildly. “Not even Eolacha can recall a time when he was not inhabiting the marsh. He was attached to the Hawksburns, then moved to the Mosswell cottage with my mother and me.”

  “Many of the young maids fear it,” Rathnait said, instinctively glancing over her shoulders in case the wight itself might be eavesdropping. “It has a habit of sitting solitary by a pool at night sometimes, when the moon is bright, especially in Autumn. When it’s seen, it takes a brave heart to pass nigh the creature.”

  “There is no harm in him.”

  “Not to its own household, maybe.”

  “Not to anyone. Urisks are seelie.”

  “Yours is surly.”

  “Perhaps he is unhappy …”

  Lilith had heard as many stories as anyone about the art of laying brownies. Why anyone would wish to dismiss a hardworking servant who asked for no pay except a bowl of cream and a fresh-baked cake seemed a dilemma—yet it had been accomplished, and not infrequently. It could only have been done out of sheer pity for the industrious wights in their typically ragged costumes.

  Any offer of reward for their services drove away domestic wights—none knew why. It had been suggested that they considered themselves bound to serve until deemed worthy of payment, or it might have been that they were insulted by being given wages by mortals. Offended or pleased, whatever the reason the result was the same: gifts, particularly of garments, inevitably led to the permanent departure of household wights.

  As for Eoin, he visited neither mother nor child, but stayed away in the farthest reaches of the marsh, far from both Marshtown and Glassmere.

  “Lilith’s child has blue eyes,” Suibhne told him mildly.

  “Indeed?” Eoin raised an eyebrow. “And you have a nose like a lotus rhizome.”

  Yet it was inevitable there must come a time when he would set eyes for the first time on the daughter of Lilith. Jewel was four weeks old when her stepuncle came, blowing in unannounced and tousle haired, like some wild young owl that had been flung out of its nest in a gale.

  Among the currant bushes behind the Mosswell cottage, Lilith was pegging washed linen on a string to dry. Spring blossom had settled thickly on the black lacework of the apple tree boughs, like great flocks of white butterflies. A capricious breeze plucked thirteen petals and sent them drifting to the turf. The washing flapped as lazily as the wings of doves.

  “Sessa, Lilith,” Eoin said peremptorily. “Where is my father? I have tidings to discuss with him.”

  “He is from home,” she said, straightening from the laundry basket. “Good cheer to you, Eoin. I have not seen you for too long.”

  “How time speeds,” he replied. His tone sounded callous. “I see you are made to work harder than ever these days.”

  Then he met her gaze, and he stood as if impaled. His lip quivered, as though he was about to divulge some matter close to his heart. In response, her smile was affectionate, quizzical, receptive.

  From inside the cottage there came a high-pitched wail.

  Lilith dropped into the basket the square of linen she had been holding. “She wakes,” she said. “Will you not come and see her?”

  Eoin’s lip now curled, but he turned his face away. “I seek my father. When will he return?”

  “Soon. Eolacha too is from home, and Jarred.”

  Eoin’s reply was inaudible.

  “Come indoors, prithee. And perhaps you are thirsty?”

  Absently, Eoin kicked at the stem of a currant bush. “As it please you,” he said. “I might welcome a drink while I wait.” The child’s cry increased in volume. It went through his head like a drill.

  Reluctantly he followed Lilith indoors.
She went straight to a quilt-lined wicker cradle and lifted out a small bundle. The wailing ceased.

  Eoin’s attention was suddenly snatched from him.

  A face peered out from a down of dark hair. Two smudges of milky blue transfixed him. A pastel pink sea anenome opened—a miniature human hand.

  It was as if Eoin had fallen under an enchantment. Light dawned in his eyes. Between awe and terror he dared to reach forth and touch the tiny hand, gazing all the while at the satin bud of a face. He murmured to himself, “Lilith’s child. A treasure, a miracle. Perfect as a porcelain doll.”

  After that meeting, Eoin became a frequent guest at his old home. It chanced that he would most often arrive when Jarred was away, but when he visited, Eoin always carried gifts. He brought rattles made from hollow gourds, the seeds trapped inside. He brought a toy rabbit made of fur; a small blanket of angora; a wind chime composed of sixteen bronze bells the size of thimbles, tuned at harmonious intervals; a handful of blue ribbons. “For her hair,” he explained lamely, “when it grows.”

  He cradled the infant in his arms, rocked her, sang foolish tavern songs to her in lulling tones. When he departed, Eolacha would shake her head incredulously and laugh, saying to Lilith, “That boy is smitten. He cannot do enough for the baby. Who would have thought it? The rogue tamed by an infant!”

  Yet Eoin’s jealousy swelled like a tumor whenever he saw Jarred holding the child.

  At the age of ten months, the daughter of Jarred and Lilith learned to walk. As the seasons revolved, she grew from a clumsy toddler to a pretty little girl. She was the eye of the universe for her doting family. Lilith’s strength returned, but as Eolacha had prophesied, she was barren. At first the knowledge that she would bear no more children made her despondent, but not for long: her pride in her husband and daughter transcended all sorrow and illumined her life with happiness.

  The child grew apace. Seasons spent in happiness seemed to flash past. For Jarred, life was a cup brimming with joy, almost without flaw. He was troubled only when his thoughts flitted to his mother in the deserts of Ashqalêth, reminding him of his concern for her welfare and his yearning to see her again. It seemed that whenever he decided to visit her, some matter needing his attention would always crop up and force him to postpone the journey.