by Ken Altabef
The man winked at him.
“Threadneedle?”
“None other.”
Eric was astonished. He spoke in a low voice, “What news?”
“I may have something for you in a day or two. Something important.”
“Tell. What is it? My troubled heart could well use any scrap of good news you’ve got to offer.”
“It’s nothing definite yet, Lord Eric. I’ll know more later today. But you should stay close. Delay your return to Grayson Hall for a day or two.”
He handed Eric the fish, adding, “And keep spirits up. It’s not over until I say it’s over.”
He tipped his grimy hat and walked on.
Chapter 12
James waited for his cue.
They’d started, as they so often did, with a familiar tune. Roderigo had recently developed a preference for “Alexander’s Feast”, a piece that James also very much enjoyed. Roderigo’s fingers danced across the harp, rendering the baroque genius of Handel’s composition as skillfully as any court musician had ever done.
Roderigo signaled James to join in. Roderigo could no longer speak, considering his nose and mouth had been warped into something resembling a dog’s muzzle. The Chrysalid had changed his appearance in other ways as well. His beard more resembled a nest of twigs than human hair, and his skin had the brown, mottled texture of old wood.
Roderigo handled the complicated strains of “Alexander’s Feast” with absolute perfection.
“It’s beautiful,” whispered Theodora. She sat on the great divan, enjoying the afternoon’s impromptu concert. “Go ahead, James.”
James steadied his violin against his chin and chimed in. James had an aptitude for music and had taken lessons ever since he was six years old, but his skill scarcely matched the expertise of Roderigo’s slender fingers. Roderigo had become a genius. Before his change, Roderigo had never played any instrument at all.
Roderigo continued patiently as James struggled along. When James finally matched the rhythm and flow of the harp Roderigo added another layer, a newer melody whose intricate beauty rose above even the genius of the original. He seemed to be playing two instruments at once, producing two competing strains of music at the same time. He played with a depth of feeling that magnificently translated the harmony of nature through the language of the instrument. That was the faery way.
James let the music take him, settling into the measure and flow of Roderigo’s new composition. In a short while he found himself excelling as well, hitting a crescendo of notes on the violin in rapid succession and adding his own touches to the grand melody. His mind fell in sync with his friend, through their bond of music, and some of Roderigo's feelings were laid bare to him. Since his change, Roderigo had endured a profound sense of loneliness. There were half a dozen other Changed Men housed at the manor, but rather than banding together with a sense of community, they remained a mismatched group of disgruntled servicemen. They were all so different. Some were green-skinned, some blue, others had long pointed noses and ears, others had developed doe's feet or goat's horns. One man had been saddled with a pair of huge owl’s eyes. They still performed their functions, maintaining security on the estate, but most relations with their former families and friends had ceased entirely.
For Roderigo the greatest tragedy of all was the loss of his humanity. He saw himself as unfit for human interaction and shunned most everyone else besides James. We have the great gift of music the Chrysalid has granted you, thought James, passing his sentiment to Roderigo across the bond they temporarily shared.
Yes, the music, thought Roderigo. Let us focus on that.
The song progressed through several key changes, filling the sitting room with beautiful, though mournful, sounds. James felt his violin melding together with Roderigo's strings, their duet becoming one voice, a living organism of music. The song was a flower, opening petal by petal to embrace the sun, a cool breeze across a storm-swept sky.
James again lost himself in the beauty of it, the song now a golden pool of light. He and Roderigo were swimming in the music. Laughing, splashing.
Then suddenly Roderigo stopped. He pulled his hands from the harp as if they'd been burned.
“You alright?” James asked.
Roderigo snuffled and shook his dog-like head.
“What happened?” Theodora asked.
“Not sure,” said James. “A bad taste in the mouth, a sudden flash of some dark emotion. It can happen at any time, but especially when we’re playing. Flashbacks from his experience with the Chrysalid, some horror he’s glimpsed, some terror shrieking though his mind.”
James placed his hand atop Roderigo’s. “Do you want to talk about it?”
He was the only one Roderigo could possibly talk with. Over the course of their friendship James had developed an understanding of the guttural sounds he made.
Roderigo shook his head. He whined softly then curled his lips upward along the distorted muzzle as he tried to smile.
“All right then,” said James. “You’d better get some rest. Perhaps after lunch we might take my chargers out for a ride up north. Some fresh air will do you good, I think.”
Roderigo bowed sweetly toward Lady Theodora and shuffled out the double doors of the sitting room.
Theodora looked as if she was about to cry. “Oh, how they suffer. It's terrible, isn’t it, James?”
“It’s not your fault. You didn’t ask that thing to attack us. You fought it.”
“So did they.”
James set the bow and violin down on the coffee table. “And we won.”
“At such great cost to those men. I spent ten years preparing for that battle with the Chrysalid. But I didn’t think. I didn’t even once consider what might happen to the people in the field with us that night. I could have warned them away. I could have kept them safe.”
“The way I heard it, you had your hands full at the time. Mother, you saved all of us that night, including the Changed Men. They understand that.”
“But if there were only something I could do for them. To make things better.”
“We do what we can. They have everything they need.”
“Money doesn’t help. And a warm bed and a hot meal are cold comforts at best. There must be something we haven't tried. With all the healing arts of the faeries, there must be something.”
“The Chrysalid was the mother of all faeries. Her changes won't be undone by faery magic or human doctors...”
Theodora flashed indignant. “The doctors won't even see them. Do you know Duncan Thomas' daughter is sick and Dr. Barrett won't even call upon his house. A physician! And the man won't even listen to sense. I expect fear and superstition from the townspeople but not from Dr. Barrett. I fear for the child.”
Of all the Changed Men, only two would not remain at the manor. Edwin Theobard had also received a gift of music and set off cross-country, to begin a new life as a troubadour, playing his beautiful compositions for rich and poor alike. His green-tinted skin and weird face were thought by most to be nothing more than a clever stagecraft. His lyrics were poetry and his music truly beautiful. The good that comes of tragedy can not be understated, James thought. Theobard embraces his fate. Good for him.
Duncan Thomas was a different sort. He had a wife and two children in Graystown and, disfigured as he was, he insisted on returning to his former life. He continued to ply his trade of cabinetmaking in town, though the people shunned him. His goods remained gathering dust on his shelves, even though their construction and design were exquisite. His family were pariahs. James couldn't imagine how his wife dealt with the troubles, and now their child was sick…
“What's wrong with her?”
“Some type of fever. I've sent word to three other doctors from Durham and South Shields, but none of them are willing to make the trip.”
“Barrett won't go?”
“He's not the man I thought he was. Do you feel it, James? Things have taken a turn. Ev
erything's changing for the worse. And there's more bad news today. Your father’s steward returned from London. Mister Pitt wouldn't agree to Eric’s proposals. We’ve nowhere left to turn.”
“Father didn't come back?”
“Not yet. He must be devastated. He’s put everything on the line for my people. His businesses, his reputation, the Grayson family name. We’ve made a terrible mistake. And it’s all my fault.”
“He’s not doing it for you,” James said. “He’s doing it because he feels it is right.”
“He’s ruined his family name! Our name! The townsfolk in Graystown and Graysport are suffering because of us. Because of me. Don't you see? Your father is everything I’ve ever wanted. I have a beautiful family, a beautiful home, two lovely children. I’m happy, and everyone else around me is suffering!”
James took his mother in his arms and gave her a reassuring squeeze. “We’ll be alright.” He reached for his coat.
“Where are you going?'
“Into town.”
Chapter 13
Is this the right house?
Meadowlark stepped lightly across the pine-strewn lawn. He’d followed Black Annis’ directions, as well as he could understand them. And this cottage fit the bill, a log cabin set back in the woods on the outskirts of Leicestershire. A beautiful job it was too. Good square joints, a perfectly pitched gable, double lintels, second story dormer windows. Towers of corded wood stacked on either side, a carpet of chips underfoot. It certainly looked like the work of a country woodcutter with a lot of time on his hands. But Annis had said the front porch would be marked by a set of buck antlers and this house had none. Daft old crone.
Meadowlark checked the front door and the back, both of which had iron horseshoes nailed in their center. He wasn’t getting inside by either of those doors in the dead of night, with the family all asleep in their beds. No matter. There was a tall pine adjacent to the house. Close enough for a look-see.
So. Up the tree. As Meadowlark scooted up the shaggy bark, a lone owl hooted down at him, jealous of its place among the high branches. He paid the bird no mind. In another minute he’d scrambled far enough up the tree to reach a thick branch sitting level with the second story windows. The shutters were open to the night air.
The owl hooted again. “Will you kindly shut it?” he said. “I don’t need you waking up half the town, do I?”
It was a ten-foot gap from the tree to the flower box outside the bedroom window, but Meadowlark leapt across the distance easily, throwing in a somersault flip for good measure.
The flower box was old and worm-eaten and nearly gave way under his weight. Meadowlark thought for a moment he might have to jump back, but the groaning nails held.
He peered into the bedroom. It was a spare little room of shaved wooden beams and boards, a little homemade writing desk in one corner, a rickety bookshelf in the other. A rocking chair. An undersized bed lay along the opposite wall and in it, asleep amid a bundle of ragged bedclothes, lay a small child. The boy snored slightly, only his little head visible above well-tucked covers.
Bingo!
Meadowlark climbed in through the open window. But wait! Something was amiss. He stopped suddenly and held fast. He smelled a familiar tangy scent. A circle had been drawn around the bed, freshly laid with a thin line of St John’s Wort, surrounded by another line of white salt. A ring of protection. The wort had already begun to make his skin crawl. The woodcutter’s wife knew her business well. He could not cross the line.
“Oh, bother!” he said. Really this whole thing was becoming much too much work. It would have been easier just to service the blind old bat with his cock.
Well, anything worth doing is worth doing, I suppose. A ring of protection was an adequate safeguard against a dull-witted faery who didn’t know any better. It might even have worked against Black Annis herself. Meadowlark considered, given all the protections this couple had put in place, there was perhaps good reason the old hag had enlisted his help. She’d probably gazed through the window countless nights, a slimy bead of anticipatory drool trickling down from her mouth, wanting but not daring approach her little sweetmeat.
Meadowlark retreated through the window and leapt back into the welcoming arms of the pine tree. The owl hooted again, startling him from the branch. He barely kept from tumbling to the ground below. “Oh, shut up!” He swung half-heartedly at the bird but it deftly avoided his fist with a flutter of its broad wings.
Meadowlark turned his attention back to the open window and its sleeping charge. Now came the hard part. He concentrated on the steady breathing, the muffled snoring of the little boy. Little boys, little boys. He had been a little boy once, many years ago. Meadowlark stared into the child’s soul, linking his emotional state with that of the little boy. Children were so easy. He was content and serene, dreaming Meadowlark realized, of a summer’s day and a lake of cool water and a talking catfish. How sweet!
Meadowlark projected a few popping faery lights in front of the sleeping boy’s nose, in bursts of bright yellow. The child’s eyes fluttered open.
Projecting lights was a simple thing, but Meadowlark had to concentrate to conjure his next trick. Peppermint. Yes, peppermint.
Taking full advantage of the child’s groggy state, Meadowlark projected the smell of peppermint candy in the vicinity of the windowsill. The smell was not really there, but the boy was suddenly convinced that he smelled it. He stepped sleepily from his bed, his little foot smearing the lines of dried herb and salt that had been so carefully placed on the floor board.
Bingo again!
The boy went to the window and looked out. He saw nothing of consequence besides a familiar pine tree and an old barn owl. Meadowlark held his breath, secure in his glamour of concealing pine needles. We can’t have the boy screaming now, can we?
The boy regarded the tree, the owl, the night sky, and then turned away. Of course there was no candy. He’d been dreaming.
He climbed back into bed. And in another minute he’d fallen fast asleep and was dreaming again. Through their fading link, Meadowlark caught the briny scent of the talking catfish.
He stepped once again through the window. The wort pricked at his heels, causing an itch and then a mild burn, but the ring had been broken and there was nothing to stop him from taking advantage if he acted quickly enough. He peeled back the blankets. Yes, children were easy. All they wanted was a soft warm bed, to dream their carefree little dreams. They didn’t realize there were monsters lurking about, perhaps leaning directly over their little bed, breathing down their little neck, ready to deliver them to torture and death.
Meadowlark seized the boy by his ankles and whisked him through the air. He woke with a start, circling the room, his little arms flailing.
Meadowlark deposited him back in his bed, leaned close and said, “Rhubarb!”
The child’s eyes nearly leapt from their sockets. He screamed.
Meadowlark didn’t bother with the tree-hold. He knew where to find Black Annis now. She’d be in her cave sharpening her knives and making ready.
“Annis!” he called, at the cave’s slit entrance.
She did not answer.
He stepped inside, taking a moment to let his eyes adjust to the murky gloom. He held the little body wrapped in rags in a bundle close to his chest.
Annis appeared suddenly right next to him, her fetid breath close, her drooling mouth already pouring spittle. “Give! Give it to me!”
Her eyes were thrown wide with anticipation but still clouded and milky white.
“Where is it? Where? My little sweet-meat!”
“Right here,” returned Meadowlark evenly, “just as promised.” He adjusted the grimy wrapping. The little owl’s body, plucked of all feathers, did look something like a baby, though smaller than the woodcutter’s child. The plucked wings even resembled arms of a sort.
“I want it!”
“I know. I know. I must confess, I bit his hands off on the way ov
er. I couldn’t help myself. So sweet. So tasty.”
“I don’t care about the hands. Give! Give it now!” The ancient faery dug her clawed fingers into his shoulder.
Meadowlark swept his bundle aside. “Now, now…”
“A taste!” she shrieked, “I must have a taste!” Spittle flew from her lips and ran down the curve her little chin.
“Tell me first,” he said, “before your pretty little mouth gets to ripping and tearing.”
Annis flew at him. Meadowlark dodged nimbly aside, but not before her clawed hand struck a fistful of flesh from the corpse. Meadowlark made a small squealing noise out of the side of his mouth, just for fun. It was a poor imitation of a baby’s cry but he hoped Annis was almost as deaf as she was blind. She stuffed her handful into her mouth, shredded rags and all.
“Oh, now you’re too busy chewing to talk,” complained Meadowlark.
“Sweet! Sweet, I’ll crack the bones.”
She seemed very pleased. He was glad he’d taken the time to stuff the bird’s corpse with stewed yams, which tasted very much like sweet bone marrow. The glamour he’d put on the owl would eventually wear off and Annis would realize the deception, but by that time, he’d be long gone.
“Tell me what I want to know, or you’ll get no more. I’ll split the bones and suck out the sweet marrow myself. Tell me how to find the Winter Court.”
“Court. Court,” she rasped, still advancing on him in eager fits. He danced carefully away.
“Deepgrave,” he prodded.
“Deepgrave.” She growled the name as if it were half curse, half warning.
“That’s right. Tell me.”
“Yes, Deepgrave. The Winter Court lives there, in a shadow under the cemetery at Newcastle-upon-Tyne. In the field planted with unbaptized children. A marker lies there, for the un-named baby of Alderberry. Walk nine times around, left to right, always left to right, in the dark of the new moon. That is the only way for the uninitiated. Nine times around and the way will open.”