The Iron Tree: Book One of The Crowthistle Chronicles

by Cecilia Dart-Thornton

  “I give back the Wand,” cried Eolacha in a surprisingly clear, strong voice.

  Jewel gasped and tugged at her father’s sleeve. “What can she mean?” she asked.

  Jarred shook his head, at a loss. At his side stood Earnán, his shoulders slumped, his features twisted with sadness.

  The five of them trudged homeward together, Jarred’s dog trailing after. The old woman appeared as stooped and pale as the crescent moon. Lilith, leaning on her husband’s arm, found herself poised between dread and calm. The old woman’s certainty was an anodyne, yet her actions had been disturbing. “Why have you relinquished your Wand?” she asked in a low voice.

  “It is given to carlins to know when their span of years is drawing to a close.”

  “Whisht! We will not countenance any such talk. You are barely fourscore Winters old. You might live to be a hundred.”

  Eolacha hushed her with a gentle sign. “Sain thee, Lilith. There is no going against it. My time draws nigh, and I know it. There is now another carlin for the marsh. But do not grieve for me too soon! My span has not yet elapsed—not yet.”

  Lilith studied Eolacha anew. How could I have missed it? she thought. She owns but a counterfeit of her former vitality. I have been so preoccupied with my own tasks, I have overlooked her failing health. She never complained …

  Eolacha’s family shepherded her indoors, where she seated herself on the pallet by the hearth. The dog lay down in front of the fire. The upial’s offspring was nowhere to be seen; it was out hunting for moths. Jarred built up the fire while Earnán brought his mother a bowl of hot broth. She looked as weak and fragile as a newly emerged caddis fly.

  Kneeling beside the pallet, Jewel said gravely, “You must never leave us, Grandmother.”

  “Child, I am your great-grandmother—in spirit if not by blood. I am old. Not even a carlin’s Wand can defeat the inexorable timepiece that measures our span of days.”

  “I should like to find that timepiece,” said Jewel earnestly, “and break it.”

  “Hush, hush,” said Eolacha, fondly stroking her hair. “Be joyous now, for my sake.”

  Winter waned.

  Eoin moved his house. He moored it abutting the opposite side of the very island on which the Mosswell cottage stood. The weather vane squeaked in the slightest gasp of wind, but he seemed not to notice. When Lilith asked him to oil it, he did.

  The Spring of 3465 brought Jewel’s twelfth birthday. On that morning, by the hearthside at the Mosswell cottage, a ceremonious giving of gifts took place.

  “How I have longed for this day!” exclaimed Jewel, jigging about with enthusiasm. “’Tis the grandest day of the year!”

  Earnán handed her a small, limp package wrapped in felt. She tore it open immediately, to reveal a headscarf of embroidered linen, whereupon she jumped up and down with glee and tied it over her sable mane. Jarred gave his daughter a pair of warm sheepskin boots. Lilith contributed a birthday cake made with city-bought wheaten flour, nuts, and raisins, and Eolacha, seated in a rocking chair with a shawl wrapped about her shoulders, bestowed an illustrated book of stories.

  As she held the book in her hands for the first time, all jiggling and restlessness flowed out of Jewel. She stood becalmed, gazing upon the yellowed papyrus pages with a look of awe.

  “This is a treasure,” she breathed. “Thank you!”

  Reverently she began to turn a page, but just then the dog began to bark at a disturbance at the staithe outside and Earnán peered out of the window.

  “’Tis the lad himself!” he cried gladly. The door banged open and his son walked in.

  “Good morrow, all!” Eoin cried. He kissed his grandmother and swapped grins with his father. Jarred smiled politely and crossed his arms, saying nothing. The dog wagged his tail agreeably.

  “Would you like some elderberry wine?” Lilith offered.

  “’Tis me you’re talking to, Lily,” Eoin said. “No need to stand on ceremony. I hear there is a birthday today!”

  “There is, Uncle Eoin,” said Jewel happily, “and ’tis mine!”

  Eoin picked Jewel off the floor and swung her around a little, as was his wont. “Ah, but ’tis a grand girl you’re becoming, Mistress Jewel,” he said. “I’ll not be able to sweep you off your feet much longer if you keep on growing like a weed.”

  “What did you bring me? What did you bring?” demanded the child, tugging at his beard, as he leaned down to set her on the ground.

  “Bring you? Why—” Eoin stopped short. “Was I supposed to bring you something?”

  “You were!” Jewel stamped her foot and tossed her head in mock anger.

  “But you’ve enough presents here, by the look of it. What’s this? A new kerchief? And these—a nice pair of boots? What more could a little girl wish for?”

  “Grandfather gave me the headscarf, and my father gave me the boots. But you are teasing me, Uncle Eoin. I know you have brought something. You always do. Where is it?”

  Eoin laughed. “The child sees right through me,” he said roguishly to Lilith. “She’s as acute as her mother.” He turned to Jewel, took her by the hand, and winked. “Now, little lady, come outside with me.”

  Squeaking and skipping with excitement, Jewel accompanied Eoin out to the staithe, followed by her parents, Earnán, and the dog. There, tied to a bollard, was Eoin’s punt. Lying down on the punt was a pony. He was tied securely by his head and his legs, so that he could not move, but he looked happy enough nestled in his bed of hay. His color was roan and his coat was as glossy as polished mahogany. Uttering a shriek of pleasure, Jewel ran to him.

  “Is he mine?” she cried beseechingly. “Is he mine, Uncle?”

  “He is yours indeed,” said Eoin, “and look what else is yours!”

  A little boat had been towed behind the punt. But she was no ordinary vessel—her prow was carved with a figurehead in the shape of a lady carrying a harp, and her timber hull was painted all over with bright patterns and designs, so that she appeared like a gorgeous, multicolored pea pod floating on the water.

  “Oh,” said Jewel in amazement. “Mine too?”

  “Yours too!”

  “Gramercie! Gramercie, best of uncles!”

  And that was not all.

  From within the boat, Eoin lifted a small oaken chest carved all over with patterns of foliage. He placed it on the landing stage and kneeled beside it.

  “Open it,” he said, tilting his face to Jewel’s and fastening his eyes upon her, to gauge her reaction.

  She took a deep breath and hoisted the lid. Wordlessly she lifted out, one after the other, a phial containing attar of roses, a clockwork serinette, and a rosewood lute.

  “Oh!” she repeated in a tremulous voice, overwhelmed. “Gramercie a thousand times, dearest uncle! I have never seen such treasures!” Her face fell as a thought struck her. “But I do not play the lute. Who shall teach me, here in the marsh?”

  “Hang the instrument on your wall for an ornament,” suggested Eoin, unperturbed.

  “Sain thy five wits!” exclaimed Lilith, dismayed. “Eoin, such extravagance! What have you done?”

  “Done? Why I have gifted my favorite niece with some objects suitable to her status,” said Eoin. “Come, let us disembark the pony, and then his new mistress shall give him a name.”

  The pony was unloaded and led to the small grassy apron behind the cottage. Eoin tethered him to one of the apple trees. The animal dropped his head and began cropping the rank grass.

  “Now,” said Eoin, “let us show these pretty trinkets to my grandmother.”

  He carried the carved chest indoors and proudly looked on while Jewel held up the contents one by one, proclaiming their virtues. Eolacha and Earnán looked on with closed faces. Lilith hid her troubled thoughts, but Jarred’s expression was thunderous. While Jewel was occupied marveling over the tinkling music of the serinette, he murmured aside to Eoin, “Why have you spent all this money?”

  Eoin looked astonished. Lo
udly he said, “Allow the poor child a few pleasing trifles! What harm can it do? As a child grows up so prettily, why should she not get something more than an ugly pair of sheep boots?”

  Jarred made as if to strike him, then desisted. Sensing antagonism, the dog growled.

  At the sound of her uncle’s raised voice, Jewel had turned her head. All delight fled from her as she observed the scene.

  “Father, you do not approve!” she cried in consternation, glancing from one grim face to another. “You do not like these presents. Oh, why did you not tell me! I will give them all back, straightaway!”

  Perceiving this would put everyone in a bad light save for Eoin, Jarred said swiftly, “You may keep the gifts, Jewel. Keep them and enjoy them. Your uncle is most generous.” He forced a smile. Slowly, Jewel nodded.

  Eoin’s grin was triumphant.

  The day after Jewel’s birthday, Eoin was busy cleaning eels inside the curing shed on its lonely islet when Jarred rowed to the makeshift jetty, tied up his boat, and came ashore. Eoin looked up from his work to see the object of his hatred standing outlined in the open doorway.

  “What do you want?” the eel-fisher said roughly, flinging a handful of eel guts toward a tub near the door, so inaccurately that Jarred was splashed with matter and gizzards.

  Jarred did not flinch. Only, a corner of his mouth twitched with suppressed anger. “I shall tell you what I want,” he said quietly. “I want you away from my family.”

  Eoin hoisted an eel’s carcass by the throat, threw it on a slab, and slit open its belly with one long, practiced movement. “You’re a fine one to be talking,” he said in measured tones, “and you living with my own father and grandmother. Why do you not get away from them and find your own roof?”

  “I’ve no choice but to presume on their kindness,” said Jarred between gritted teeth, “and you know it. You, however, are fortunate enough to have a choice. Besides, if they choose to look kindly upon me and my family, what business is it of yours? We repay them as best we can; Lilith keeps house—” Eoin had dug his hands into the eel’s body and scooped out the innards. For a second time he hurled them carelessly toward the basin near the door. Once again, Jarred was splattered with ichor. This time he took a sharp step forward, then brought himself up short.

  “Ha!” said Eoin. “Lilith keeps house, all right. She works like a slave. A fine breadwinner you are. Now get out. I have work to do.” All pretense of courtesy had dissipated like hailstones on a Summer’s day.

  Drawing a deep draft of air, Jarred said in iron tones, “I shall leave, but not until you have given your word you’ll never again offer Jewel such gifts of wanton luxury—useless items that will only attract the jealousy of her friends and cost money to maintain and cause her to think poorly of her parents, who can afford only to give gifts that seem plain by comparison.”

  Eoin barked a humorless laugh. “You speak of jealousy! Jealousy ill befits you, pretty boy,” he said, decapitating the eel. “You are jealous of my gifts? Well, stew in your envy, like an eel in brine”—he tossed the headless carcass into a barrel—“and know this: I will spend my money in any manner that pleases me and gift whomsoever it pleases me to gift. ‘Tis no fault of mine if you cannot featly administer to your household. I have great plans for Lilith’s birthday—a gown of blue velvet to match her eyes. But I must needs know her size, to advise the tailor. What size is her little waist, eh, girl-face? ’Tis a long time since I last had my hands about it. I shall perforce measure again if the gown is to fit—”

  The fist of Jarred struck him hard in the mouth.

  Eoin’s head snapped to one side. When he turned back, a sticky crimson gout was welling from his lower lip, dribbling down into the hairs of his beard. Snarling his outrage, he lifted his right hand, still grasping the eel carcass, which lashed through the air like a whip. Jarred ducked; the weapon of dead flesh sliced through the space he had occupied and thudded into the wall. With a cry, Eoin dropped it and charged headfirst at Jarred’s chest. Jarred’s arms reached to seize him, and the two men locked together in combat, heads down, reeling about like two drunkards, each trying to overbalance the other. They shoved each other against barrels, overturning them; across benches, dashing the contents to the floor; into shelves, splintering the wood. Their boots slithered in a foaming morass of brine, headless eels, and internal organs.

  From one side of the curing shed to the other they slewed like a pair of wounded bulls hooked in an agonizing embrace. Then Jarred stood on an eel and slipped. Instinctively he loosened his grip to catch his balance. As he began to fall, Eoin punched him hard on the jaw then threw all his weight against Jarred’s body, slamming him upright against the wall. He did not fall now, but winded, he struggled for breath. Meanwhile, Eoin seized his advantage. He dealt Jarred several cruel blows across the face, smiting him with his full strength. Jarred was immune to injury and pain, but vulnerable to shock. His wrath, however, numbed his senses. The drums of hatred pounded in his ears as the hammers of vengeance beat inside the skull of Eoin.

  Having caught his breath, Jarred roared his indignation. He raised his forearm to block Eoin’s next punch, then grabbed his opponent by the hair and rammed his head into the wall. After pulling him back, he was about to repeat the procedure when Eoin managed to trip him with a strategically placed foot. Jarred went down into the seething mass of eels and brine. Eoin kicked him viciously in the ribs four times before Jarred was able to take hold of his opponent’s boot and capsize him. Across the floor they rolled among the debris, both their faces now dark with the blood spurting from the gash in Eoin’s forehead.

  Bitter was their duel. All-consuming was their anger, which, pent up over the years, now exploded into madness, beyond reasoning or suffering, beyond humanity. Against tipped-over barrels they crashed, and into walls. They smashed through the door of the smoke room and rolled over the hot hickory coals. Steam hissed from their sodden garments, and Eoin’s back was burned black, so that he screamed in agony and writhed like a hooked eel.

  At this, his madness reached new altitudes, so that when he spied a gutting knife lying on the floor within reach, he snatched it up. Bellowing mindlessly, he struck out.

  Jarred saw the blade descending in the right hand of Eoin. For the greater part of his life he had believed he was as perishable as any man. Therefore reflexes prevailed and he flung up his arm, intuitively swiveling his head in the opposite direction to protect his face and eyes. The force of Eoin’s swing was powerful. Jarred’s arm deflected the blow but failed to block it. The blade seemed driven home in the throat of Jarred.

  Eoin jerked the knife back.

  He hesitated. A cold blue chink appeared in the red miasma of his frenzy, and through it he glimpsed the specter called Murder.

  Then Jarred was up and lunging at him with the fury of a tornado, catching his wrist, bashing the back of his hand against a timber joist until the weapon fell from his limp fingers. Jarred’s other hand was clutching Eoin’s neck; Eoin’s fingers were squeezing Jarred’s throat with all effort—and a third pair of hands came suddenly between them, chopping wildly at the wrists of the combatants. Someone shouted, “Avaunt! Avaunt! Cease this folly, I say! Unhand ye both. Unhand, I say!”

  Suibhne Tolpuddle was between them, forcing them apart as best he could with one half-crippled arm. For several moments three men struggled there on the floor, before Jarred and Eoin simultaneously relinquished their holds on each other and fell back, their chests heaving. Only their eyes remained fixed upon each other.

  “Cry mercy!” yelled Tolpuddle. “Look at this place! I’m coming here with a nice load of cherrywood, and what do I find? All our work ruined!” He was answered with silence. Jarred and Eoin eyed each other with loathing. One of Eoin’s eyes was closed and swollen; blood from his brow ran down the puffy lid. “You’re sore hurt, the two of you,” growled Tolpuddle. “Get you both into my boat and I’ll be taking you to Mistress Arrowgrass—I mean to say, Mistress Stillwater.�
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  Jarred lurched to his feet. “You’ll not take me,” he grunted, half-falling out the door, dizzy from the treatment he had received. He untied his boat, flung himself in, and pulled away over the water.

  On the floor of the curing hut, Eoin groaned. He spat a tooth into the surrounding mess.

  “Come along, my lad,” said Tolpuddle. “Get up. ‘Tis to the carlin’s house for you.”

  On the way home, Jarred deliberately steered his vessel against the horizontal bole of a grand old willow that had fallen into the water. The tree had stood for a hundred years at the very edge of the water, rooted in the mire. The floods of the previous year had washed a quantity of soil from between its roots, and it had toppled. Far out across the lake reached its venerable stock, with half its boughs now thrusting toward the sky and the other half forever drowned. Many of the roots remained embedded in the bank and still drew nourishment from the soil. The tree, half-alive, survived, and its upper branches put forth leaves in Spring. Caddis flies teemed plentifully in that place, the larvae feasting on decomposing willow leaves.

  Jarred shipped the oars. He fastened his boat’s painter to a protruding branch and dived overboard, fully clothed, without removing his boots or even his neckerchief. Down amid the drowned boughs he sank, and his arms drifted loosely above his head; the water’s chill was like a myriad teeth of fishes, nibbling, and the sunlight struck through in a multitude of parallel shafts no wider than the spines of a stickleback.