by S. E. Grove
“So they are like the pagan gods,” Errol concluded. “They do battle and subject humans to their whims without bothering to consider the consequences.”
Goldenrod hesitated. “They are entirely different. But perhaps you could say your pagans understood by some instinct that the old ones existed, and they attempted, imperfectly, to explain them by describing gods with human aspects.”
“War is war,” Errol said flatly. He held his arm up for Seneca, who landed with a ruffle of feathers. “Only selfish creatures engage in it.”
“I do not disagree with you there,” Goldenrod said. “You can see why the Eerie hold this knowledge secret. With our capacity to speak to the Climes, perhaps even bend their will through persuasion . . . there are many who would want to use such capacities for terrible ends.”
They took cover from the worst of the midday heat in Rosemary’s caravan. Through the white curtains, the sunlight illuminated a room more spacious and more lovely than Sophia had expected. At the front of the wagon, a bed built atop a low wardrobe lay below a window. Two ceiling lamps held the newly scavenged eyes from the fourwings, which were dull and lifeless in the bright sunlight. Shelves and cabinets, many of them painted with gray birds, covered the wall to her right, and these were filled with crockery, jars, and baskets. To the left, a black stove sat short and squat on a large square of painted tiles. Low leather chairs shaped like pincushions had been embroidered in blue and white thread by someone with a patient hand.
It was evident to Sophia that much of the caravan’s contents had been made by Rosemary herself. She invited them to sit, taking a loaf of bread and a pot of butter from one of the cabinets painted with gray birds. She poured water from a blue jug.
Sophia thanked her and ate eagerly. She had left the inn without breakfast, and it seemed ages since their meal the previous night.
“You have a comfortable home,” Errol said to Rosemary with appreciation.
“It is luxurious compared to how you travel, Errol,” Goldenrod remarked, smiling.
“I care little for luxury. But I envy that you are able to carry your home with you,” he admitted to Rosemary.
“There is little to envy,” Rosemary said matter-of-factly. “I lost an entire farm. What you see are the collected pieces of what survived.”
“Forgive me,” he apologized. “But you must admit there is also ingenuity, along with fragments of a lost life. The crossbow—you made it yourself, did you not?”
“I did. I grew tired of fleeing the fourwings every time I heard their detestable cries.” She handed him the crossbow and Errol examined it appraisingly. “And you? What of your home?”
Errol handed the crossbow back. “The only shreds of home I carry are the bow and the boots. Everything else you see has been found in the Papal States, from Seneca to the laces.”
“You must miss it,” Sophia said.
“I do, miting. Oswin, my sister Cat, my mother and father, my grandfather; we are—” He paused. “We were a happy family.”
Sophia offered him a smile. “I hope you will be again.”
“There is something more you have forgotten,” Goldenrod interjected. “Surely you carry your home in your heart and mind.”
“That is true,” Errol assented. “I carry the green hills, the smell of rain in early spring. Long evenings in winter watching my mother and sister with their sewing. The old ruins where my brother and I would play as children.” He sighed.
“We should continue,” Rosemary said, rising from her seat. “The next stretch of road is full of abandoned farms, and there are frequent attacks from the fourwings.”
• • •
AS THEY LEFT the caravan for the midday heat, Errol watched Sophia, chiding himself for mentioning his parents and grandfather. He could see her slipping back into her thoughts, back into the sorrowful memories of the beaded map.
“I will tell you what I miss most about home, miting,” Errol said as he helped her up onto the saddle before Goldenrod. “I miss the stories we told each other in the evenings. After a meal, instead of dashing out into blinding sunlight to flee mad clerics, we would tell tales.”
Sophia gave a slight smile. “That does sound more agreeable.”
“Vastly more agreeable,” Errol said, swinging up into his saddle. “Sometimes for laughter, sometimes for tears, sometimes for the lesson contained in the telling. As we ride east toward the Dark Age, I have in mind a story my grandfather would often recount. The story of Edolie and the woodsman. If none of you objects, I will tell it.”
“Is it a story about an archer valiantly protecting three women in a dark forest?” Goldenrod asked lightly.
Errol pursed his lips thoughtfully. “That is an even better story. I will tell it to you when we reach Granada. First, Edolie and the woodsman.”
As they set off, he gathered his thoughts and finally spoke. “It is a Faierie tale. My grandfather changed it very little over the years, which leads me to believe that it was truer than most. He always began by reminding us of one important thing: Faieries are not all good and not all evil. They are much like us, in that they combine the good and the bad, and they sometimes change before our very eyes, becoming the opposite of what they were. You must judge for yourselves what manner of Faierie this story describes.”
And with that, he began.
“There was once a little girl who lived in a small village at the edge of the forest. She was a wayward child, who from the time she was very small came and went as she pleased, venturing into the forest despite its many dangers. Though they tried to keep her close, her parents could not contain her, and at least once with each waning and waxing of the moon the girl disappeared into the forest for hours, driving them to despair until she returned, cheerful and unharmed, recounting in her child’s voice the adventures she had had with the Faieries.
“When she grew into adulthood, she began to lose her interest in the forest, and her parents were greatly relieved. There was no more talk of Faieries. Indeed, she no longer remembered them. They began to seem like something she had imagined in those infantile days when she liked to entertain herself with things that were not real. As will happen to young people, she lost her interest in the world of magic and began thinking about love.
“She had heard so many stories about falling in love, a thing both wondrously beautiful and terribly painful, that she watched for it always, the way one watches for a bad cold in winter. But it did not happen. She knew all the people in her village—boys and girls, women and men—and none of them inspired that malady in her. But then, she had known them all her life. Once or twice she felt a pinch of something in her heart—something both beautiful and painful—and wondered if that was it. But no, she decided. That was not love.
“It was customary in this place and time to marry young. When children reached Sophia’s age,” Errol said, raising his voice slightly, “they could already begin thinking of marriage.”
Sophia turned to him in surprise.
Errol smiled. “Not that you should, Sophia. And nor did our heroine, Edolie. In fact, for more than ten years, despite her watchfulness for the arrival of that mysterious ailment, she showed no symptoms of love, nor any interest in marriage, and her parents began to accept that she would never add to their family with a husband and children. Edolie herself began to think less about the malady she had once both dreaded and wished for.
“She realized one morning in early spring, to her great surprise, that the absence of it was a relief. She no longer had to worry about it appearing—about what it would look like or how it would feel. She felt wonderfully unburdened, as if a monumental task that once lay ahead had been suddenly performed, unexpectedly, by someone else. It was no doubt this sense of having cleared her mind and heart that allowed her to see what she had not seen in so many years.
“Walking at the edge of the forest that day, wi
th her mind so newly at ease, Edolie happened to glance into the woods and she saw there, clear as anything, a caped figure retreating. Without a moment’s pause, she stepped toward it. ‘Hello?’ she called. The caped figure turned, and Edolie had a glimpse of a white face before the hood fell forward. It gave a slight whimper before ducking behind a tree. ‘Hello? Are you all right?’ Edolie asked. The figure limped on, clearly in pain, stopping to rest against one tree and then another. Edolie hurried toward it, all her thoughts focused on catching up. She gained ground quickly, calling out to no avail. Finally, she stopped just beside it. The caped figure stood immobile, its shoulders pitifully hunched. Edolie reached out with her hand. ‘Are you hurt? Can I help you?’
“Suddenly the figure turned, and the hood fell away from its face. A Faierie seized Edolie’s outstretched hands, and three more Faieries sprang from the trees around her, seizing her by the clothes and hair. Edolie cried out, but she was so surprised that she hardly had strength to resist. The Faierie that had led her into the woods had skin so white one could see the green veins beneath. Her eyes were large and golden, her features pointed—pointed ears, a small sharp nose, and rows of small sharp teeth. The long, translucent wings on her back sharpened to delicate, blackened tips. The hair about her head, fanning and waving as if it moved through water, was golden-white tinged with green. The others were much the same: tall and imposing, beautiful but dreadful, enchanting and yet full of menace. Their sharp-toothed smiles could turn from sweet to wicked in a moment. Edolie was transfixed. Before she knew what had happened, they had wrapped her in their capes, bundling her in darkness that smelled of musty leaves and moss. And then they carried her away, deep into the woods.
“Edolie struggled at first, but the capes seemed to have some magic in them, and the more she struggled, the tighter they wove around her, so she tried to remain still. They traveled for some time, and finally Edolie felt herself drop against the ground. She begged the Faieries to give her air, and after a moment the capes were pulled away. Edolie looked around and found herself in a small clearing surrounded by pines. The four Faieries were preparing to take their rest on the carpet of pine needles. The one who had led her into the forest took a strand of hair and wrapped it around Edolie’s wrists. The golden-white strand, sharp and strong as wire, snapped tightly into place of its own accord. ‘Wait,’ Edolie protested. ‘Why have you taken me? I having nothing that you could want. Please let me go.’
“The Faierie gazed at her with a curious expression. Then she spoke in a whisper that sounded like the rustling of wind in a winter tree. ‘You do have something we want. Our king has fallen in love with you, and we are taking you to him.’
“Edolie shook her head. ‘You have made a mistake. It is not me he is looking for. I have never met your king.’
“‘Have you not?’ the Faierie asked. Then, to Edolie’s shock, the Faierie took hold of her bound hands and bit her once, hard, on her fingertip.
“Edolie gasped, and the Faierie gave her a cruel smile before turning away and settling down to sleep, her long translucent wings trembling and then growing still. Edolie dared not move; the capes had tightened around her when she had struggled, and she suspected the Faierie’s hair would do the same. Her finger ached where the Faierie had bitten her; the tiny punctures made by the sharp teeth were bleeding freely.”
Errol paused, taking a moment to settle Seneca on his arm.
“I can see why you are anxious to avoid the company of Faieries,” Goldenrod commented.
“Precisely,” Errol replied. “They are unpredictable creatures.”
“Though as yet I have not bitten any of you. At least that I can recall,” Goldenrod said pensively.
“Fortunately, it is Sophia who rides with you, so I will not be bitten first,” Errol said solemnly. Sophia laughed. “As the Faieries rested,” he continued, “Edolie tried to get her bearings in the forest. It was no use; the sun shone only dimly past the dense tree cover. She could not even tell what time of day it was. The light was gray and violet-tinged, as if it were early morning or early dusk. But as the time passed, the forest seemed to grow darker, and so Edolie surmised that night was falling. The Faieries seemed to be sleeping soundly. Edolie knew this would be her best chance to escape. Rising slowly so as not to cut her wrists, she watched the Faieries for any sign of movement. They slept on. Edolie stepped backward across the pine needles as quietly as she could. Step by step. Still, the Faieries did not wake. Edolie reached the edge of the clearing and went into the woods. She had no idea in which direction her village lay, but it hardly mattered. Taking one silent step and then another, she moved farther from the clearing. It took all her effort to walk slowly when she wanted so desperately to run.
“Then she saw it: a faint flicker of yellow light in the trees ahead. Edolie burst into a run, not caring if the Faieries heard her or if the binding cut her. She ran as fast as she could, restricted as she was, and as she rushed through the trees, the yellow light grew stronger. There it was—she could see it. A cottage, with light in the windows and smoke in the chimney. She sobbed with relief.
“And then she heard a gust of wind and a dim shriek behind her as the Faieries took to the air. Edolie, with great desperate gasps, ran the last few feet toward the cottage and pounded on the door with her bound hands. She could hear the flutter of the Faieries’ wings. She could see them, their white faces and golden-white hair swirling toward her. Their cries were high-pitched whispers, like keening winds rattling in the branches. Edolie watched them with horror, shrinking against the sturdy wooden door of the cottage. And then, at the very edge of the small clearing wherein sat the cottage, they stopped, as if they had arrived at a barrier beyond which they could not pass. At the very same moment, the door opened behind her, and Edolie fell into the room.
“Edolie found herself on a wooden floor that gleamed, honey-colored, in the light of the fire. She looked up to see who had opened the door—who had saved her from the Faieries—and there, standing above her, was a woodsman. He was a stranger. Tall and slim, with dark eyes under heavy brows, he glared forbiddingly. Edolie felt a moment’s apprehension. But then, as his eyes locked with hers, the woodsman’s face changed. His frown vanished. His dark eyes softened with something like surprise—and then compassion. He had seen the Faierie shackles upon her wrists.
“If you have ever tried it, you know that it is surpassingly difficult to get to your feet when your hands are bound. With some effort, Edolie managed to rise to her knees. The woodsman put out a hand to help her. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, in a voice that was low and courteous, ‘that I did not open the door sooner. I never have visitors in these woods.’ He led her to a chair by the fire.
“‘And I am sorry to intrude,’ Edolie replied. ‘I was being pursued.’
“He nodded, motioning toward her bound hands. ‘By the Faieries.’
“‘Yes,’ said Edolie.
“‘Let me get that strand off your wrists,’ he said, kneeling before her.
“‘I fear it will never come off,’ Edolie lamented. ‘It is as strong as an iron chain and as sharp as a knife’s blade.’ And, in fact, poor Edolie’s wrists had been cut to bleeding as she ran through the forest and the tight strand of hair sliced into her skin.
“Unexpectedly, the woodsman smiled up at her from where he knelt, holding her hands. Edolie suddenly felt all of the air leave her chest, as if it had been stolen. The woodsman’s face—his clear brown eyes, his smile—seemed suddenly so familiar and dear and at the same time so wonderfully rare that she could not imagine life without it. The malady had struck her at last.
“Edolie gazed at him, stunned. ‘You will feel a fool,’ he said, still smiling, ‘when I show you how the Faierie hair is cut.’
“‘Will I?’ Edolie asked, wonderingly.
“‘No blade will cut it. No metal scissor or sharpened glass. How do you think it must be done?’
“Edolie shook her head. ‘I don’t know.’
“The woodsman bent his face toward her hands, and Edolie stared at him uncomprehendingly. He brought his mouth to her wrist and bit at the thin strand of hair. Instantly, the bond was severed, and the golden-white thread fell to the floor. The woodsman looked up at Edolie, still smiling. ‘You see?’
“Despite herself, Edolie smiled back. ‘I do.’
“‘What you do not see is this. Just as Faierie hair can bind human flesh, so can human hair bind a Faierie. Tie your hair around a Faierie finger, and that Faierie heart is yours forever.’ Edolie was astonished. She stared at the strand of golden-white hair on the stone hearth and wondered at the unknown power of ordinary things.
“‘Now,’ the woodsman said, ‘I will clean and bind those cuts, for I can see that they must be painful.’
“And he did clean and bind them, his gentle hands wrapping the bandages around her wrists, while Edolie watched him and told him about the village and how she had strayed into the forest. The woodsman gave her a supper of mushroom stew and dark brown bread. And then he pointed her to an alcove that was tucked away at the top of a ladder: a narrow bed with a railing that overlooked the room. Edolie fell asleep watching the woodsman as he sat by the fire, whittling a stick of wood and humming, just audibly, a tune she could have sworn she knew.
“In the morning, when Edolie awoke, the cabin was quiet and empty. It was an orderly room, with its blue dishes stacked on the shelves and the well-worn broom standing at attention by the cold fireplace. Edolie heard the sound of an ax splitting wood, and she climbed from her perch down into the cabin and peered through the window. There, she saw the woodsman splitting wood just beside his house. The sight of him filled her with a sudden, calm contentment. He is still here, Edolie thought to herself. He is real.