Dragonswood

by Janet Lee Carey

  “The song she heard from the meadow was the same tune as the bird’s call. She looked up in the trees. For a moment she thought she’d lost the bird, and she nearly cried out for him, but he fluttered down, landed right at her feet, and grew into a man.”

  “Oh.” Meg sighed. She’d always liked that part.

  “He whistled the tune once more, then the fey man said, ‘My lady, will you dance?’

  “‘I will.’ She crossed the bridge to the meadow, and danced with the whistler.”

  “Tell us they married,” Meg said.

  “The story doesn’t go like that,” Poppy reminded.

  “It should.” Meg stroked Tom’s blood-clotted hair.

  I fumbled with the charcoal in my blackened fingers. As the story went, the girl danced through the seasons, but when she wandered home at last and reached her cottage door, she was a shriveled-up old woman, for a hundred years had passed while she danced with the whistler, and everyone she’d known in her former life had died.

  Meg knew how it went. But when our eyes locked, I saw tonight she couldn’t bear it. I found another bit of charcoal. “That very spring when the meadow was in bloom, the whistler, who had fey power to transform into a bird and sing any girl he wished to into the wood, chose the one girl who’d followed him so bravely and so far to be his wife. And she lived with him and the fey folk deep in Dragonswood in DunGarrow Castle, a place that blends into the mountainside and cannot be seen with human eyes unless the fairies will it so.”

  I drew the couple hand in hand, rough sketches on the cave wall; the stone wasn’t smooth by any means. “She lived free among the fey folk and never wanted to return to her old life that had been full of hunger and sorrow under her father’s roof.”

  I sketched what came next before I could think of it. “A dragon came to their wedding,” I said, drawing his right wing so large, I had to use the ceiling. “He lit a bonfire to celebrate their union.” I drew the left wing spanning over the couple in the meadow. “And they lived all their lives content in Dragonswood.” I sat exhausted, longing for that girl’s happy life over my own.

  Meg bent her head over Tom. Her tears fell on his face as she whispered in his ear. Poppy gave me a little nod as if to say, You’ve done well. But changing the story did not change ours. We were trapped with no whistler to come along and sing us into freedom.

  PART TWO

  The Green Man

  Chapter Ten

  AT DAWN I heard squealing sounds, hearty snorts, and snuffling. A stick whacked hard against a tree. A dog barked. A man’s voice said, “Get on now.”

  I pressed my back up against the cave wall. My companions slept on, curled up on the hard dirt floor behind me. Should I run to the man for aid? If I did, would he turn us in for the bounty?

  Undecided, I huddled inside. A brown-muzzled hound came sniffing. Next a pig poked his snout in and snorted. Poppy and Meg woke with a start. A man’s boots appeared. “Move along,” he said. The animals barring the entryway didn’t budge.

  Then the voice said, “Out with you, trespassers, and mind I have a sword at the ready.”

  We were caught and had no choice but to come out. Meg and Poppy propped Tom up between them. I ducked under the low entrance and stood squinting in the morning sunlight, my knife tucked in my belt under my leper’s robe.

  The man was not far from us, standing in shadow with his pigs and growling bloodhound.

  “We came here only for shelter, Master Woodward,” Poppy said.

  He stepped from the shadow. It was the woodward I’d seen in Harrowton, and later in the barn.

  The man drew his weapon. “I saw you at the harvest feast.”

  Sunlight speared the clouds, the single beam fired his green tunic, his sword sparked, the brightness burned my eyes. A chill tore through me. The green man from my fire-sight. It was he.

  He sliced the air just as he had in my vision. My knees nearly buckled, but I held my place.

  “You are in my part of Dragonswood,” he said.

  “We’ll go,” Poppy cried. “We promise.”

  “This man was in Lady Adela’s custody.”

  “Don’t turn us in, sir,” Meg pleaded.

  “Quiet, Meg,” I warned. If he wasn’t thinking of the bounty money she’d offered for us, he’d recall it now.

  “You’re the ones the witch hunter is after,” he said, putting two and two together with Meg’s help.

  “We’re none of us witches,” she went on. “We aren’t. We’re innocent.”

  “Stay back!” I drew my knife. It was nothing to his sword, but I could not run and leave my friends here with Tom. So that was why I didn’t run when I saw this in the fire-sight.

  “Why draw your knife, lady?”

  “Put away your sword!”

  He didn’t move. “Harm any one of us and I’ll slit your throat,” I warned.

  “Lady leper,” he said. “I have no intention of harming you or your friends if you vacate my wood.”

  The lady leper was in jest. He’d seen Meg and Poppy dancing in the barn and knew we were not infected. “We’ll clear out. No one has to know you saw us here.”

  The woodward tipped his head, gesturing toward the distant boundary wall. “I’ll escort you out.”

  We were less than half an hour’s walk from Kingsway Road. I knew, for I’d gone back and forth from it to beg, but Tom was too ill to move his legs. Meg and Poppy grunted, dragging him between them. I would have offered to help, but I had to keep my knife handy in case the woodward turned on us. Our armed escort was growing more and more impatient with our slow progress. At last he stopped. “Your man looks half dead and the rest of you don’t look much better.” He frowned a moment. “You’ll be arrested in a snap once you’re exposed.” He ran his hand through his hair, paced. “I should not do this, God knows.”

  Tom moaned. His head rolled forward.

  “I’ll shelter you four until you’re strong enough to go,” the woodward said.

  I stayed my ground. I was desperate for help, but not stupid. Shelter us and he could lock us in, go off and find the witch hunter, and gather his reward. “Tell us first where you take us.”

  “The king’s hunting lodge is not far off, a few hills over.” He pointed. “I am called Garth. As woodward I guard the king’s lands, as huntsman I stay in the king’s lodge and tend the animals kept there year-round. Call me Garth Huntsman if you like, and come if you wish to stay under my roof until your man here has mended.”

  “Praise the angels,” exclaimed Poppy.

  The bloodhound inched up and sniffed my hand. The huntsman said, “Stop that, Horace.” Horace stepped away with his tail between his legs.

  I was still wary. This man had vanished from his corner when Lady Adela rode in. Still, he’d recognized Tom, so he must have slipped deeper into the shadows in the barn and stayed long enough to hear Lady Adela’s offer to pay good tender for us. “How do we know you won’t turn us in?”

  “You can’t be certain what I’ll do,” he agreed. “But your man will die without help.”

  “We’ll go with you,” said Meg hurriedly.

  I stayed put, my hand on my knife.

  “Tess!”

  “Quiet, Meg!”

  “Tess,” he said, hearing my name and calling me by it for the first time. “By my troth, I won’t turn you in,” he said. “I will not feed the witch hunter any more logs for her fire!”

  There was no trace of deceit in his face, his eyes fully fixed on me and his sword down now, his hand gripping the hilt, but gently.

  “Not even for the bounty, sir?”

  “Stubborn girl, my own grandmother was tried for witchcraft! She was made to walk the coals. Does that satisfy you?” His chin was high, and shoulders tense. He glowered at me for pushing him to this confession.

  She’d made an old woman walk the coals? That practice was outlawed in Queen Rosalind’s time. “I am sorry to hear it, sir,” I said clumsily.

  Garth
Huntsman took up a stick and nudged the pigs out of their wallowing hole. “Stay here if you like. It’s all the same to me.”

  “Tess!” Meg pleaded. “Think of Tom.”

  So it was we followed Garth Huntsman, his pigs and old hound, Horace, to the king’s lodge. On the way the huntsman bid me herd the pigs so he could help Meg with Tom. “One of you was clever enough to come up with a way to break the law and spring your man here.”

  “That’s Tess,” said Meg proudly, nodding in my direction. The huntsman looked at me with something close to admiration. I felt my cheeks flush, and covered my unsightly cauliflower ear with my hair.

  The king’s hold was but a few miles from our cave. On a windy hilltop we gazed down at the fenced land where sheep wandered in the grassy fields. The large, central lodge was built of river stones, but barn, kennels, and other outbuildings were all of wood. No smoke rose over the lodge, though the day was chill.

  I marveled that food and shelter was so close by. If the huntsman had come upon us a few days later, he’d have likely found four dead souls within. The thought sent cold fingers up my spine. We went downhill, through gate and snow-covered garden. A toothless old man leaning against the chicken coop smoking his pipe hailed us as we passed.

  “That’s Jim Cackler, or just plain Cackle if you like,” said Garth Huntsman. “He keeps an eye on the animals for me.” The bent man looked too feeble to walk much farther than from house to barn and back. He stood to bang his pipe bowl against the coop, the effort seeming to take something out of him; still, he took the stick from my hand and herded the pigs into the pigpen.

  We crossed the muddy yard through scattered rugs of melting snow and waited on the porch for Garth Huntsman to pull out his iron key. The iced-over vegetables and herbs in the side yard had wilted in the unseasonable cold. The sight of any food, however spoiled, made my stomach growl. I blushed at the sound.

  Tupkin saved me further embarrassment with a loud meow. He bounded up to the porch, ready for a cozy spot inside by the master’s hearth. Horace bumped him aside and barked indignantly; that got him a loud hiss and a good scratch on the nose. The dog’s surprised yelp made me jump. I bumped Tom, who moaned.

  “Sorry, Tom,” I said. “We’ll have you in bed soon. See? We’ve arrived.” Tom did not even have the strength to raise his head.

  “Cat stays out,” the huntsman said, pushing open the kitchen door.

  “Oh, but sir,” Poppy pleaded. “Tupkin meant no harm.”

  “Tell that to Horace.”

  Tom’s room was close to the kitchen, the more to tend to his wounds with what ointments and herbs we might mix and boil. Garth built a fire in the room. Poppy and I turned our backs while Meg undressed Tom, so our host might view the full extent of his wounds.

  “I’ve seen this type of thing before,” he said. “Infection causes fever. We must cleanse the wounds to bring the fever down.”

  “Will he be all right?” Meg whispered.

  “We’ll do what we can,” Garth said.

  I went out to the well for water and hung my head over the side, breathing in the dark underwater smell. Don’t give in to this hospitality no matter how tired you are. Stay alert. Guard your friends. I sucked in the damp air praying for courage.

  It took two buckets full to clean the wounds. Meg and Poppy worked patiently. I stood aside, feeling useless as ever in the sickroom. I could have been helpful in some other way if this were my house, my kitchen, but it was not. Anon the huntsman used wine on the abrasions and spread egg whites on the sores. We left Tom sleeping soundly in the room.

  On the bench at the kitchen table I sat with Meg and Poppy in my damp and stinking robes. Garth Huntsman and Cackle served us pears, some hard rye bread, and glory of all glories, cheese and honey! Before we ate, our host filled our fingerbowls with cleansing water from a copper ewer.

  I imagined our Pendragon king and his grown sons using the slender-spouted ewer and the fine fingerbowls to wash their hands in before they supped. I rinsed my fingers humbly and tried to hide my unsightly thumbs as I did so.

  The huntsman slipped outside with Horace and did not eat with us in the kitchen. Cackle followed him out, a hunk of honeyed bread in his fist.

  “Huntsman’s good to us,” Poppy said with a full mouth.

  “Maybe too good,” I said.

  Meg spread honey on her bread. “Why say that, Tess?”

  “You know as well as I this could all be a trick to win our trust. He settles us in, then off he goes to the sheriff or to Lady Adela for the bounty money.” I knew better than to trust a man. Even Grandfather had vanished in my hour of need.

  “He wouldn’t turn us in,” Poppy said, licking the honey from her fingers noisily. We needed his help. Tom most of all. I was just as desperate as they were for a safe haven. Still, I’d seen him in the fire-sight, not just once, but twice. Couldn’t it have been a warning? I’d promised to bring my friends to safety. It was foolhardy to let go my vigilance now only to be trapped.

  Meg went back to Tom. Outside, the huntsman was chopping wood by the shed. I stood in the doorway with Poppy watching as he swung his ax up high and brought it down with a loud crack. The wood split. The pigs ran in circles, squealing in their pen.

  He raised his ax again. Dizzy, I clung to the door. The floor pitched like a ship’s deck.

  From far away I heard Poppy’s voice. “Tess? Are you all right? Tess?”

  All went black.

  They must have carried me to the bed. It was dark when I awoke. I did not know how late it was, how long I’d lain in blackness. I gripped the covers, remembering the sound of breaking wood, the pigs squealing in their pen. It had taken me back to the last time my father had beaten me, the day after Adam died.

  Through the open kitchen door, Mother and I had seen my father out in the backyard. He’d placed the baby’s cradle on the low stone wall dividing our yard from Todd Shoemaker’s. Grandfather had fashioned the pinewood cradle for me when I was newly born. It was smooth and deftly made with vines and playful animals carved around the rim, and I loved it dearly. I’d rocked many of Mother’s babes in it. Adam was the last to sleep there. None had lived long enough to need a larger bed.

  The heat from the backyard fire pit sent a polished shine through the air. My father’s form seemed to waver in the warm air as if beneath a river. The darting flames hid his right side from me.

  “What’s he got in his hand, Mother?”

  “Mallet,” she whispered.

  At the wall my father swung the mallet. The smashing sound as it hit the cradle rang across the yard. Shoemaker’s pigs squealed and ran in circles.

  “God’s teeth! What’s the fool doing?” I raced outside.

  “Tess, don’t!” Mother caught up to me outside and pulled my sleeve. “Come back into the kitchen before you’re hurt.”

  He was in the mood to bash and would strike me if I weren’t careful; still I tore myself away. The cradle rested lopsided now on the four-foot wall. I put out my hands, speaking as softly as I could. “You don’t mean to do this, Father. You’ll be sorry for it later. Let me have the cradle.”

  He waved the mallet overhead. “Get back, girl! A witch curse is on it. Come any closer and I’ll clout ye!”

  “The cradle’s not cursed,” I said in a coaxing tone. “Who told you so?”

  Roaring, he pivoted on his heel and split open the side of the cradle. A foot-long splinter flew over the wall into the pigsty. The pigs scattered.

  “Give it to me. I’ll mend it.” I darted forward, grabbed the cradle. Father dropped the mallet. With a mighty tug, he wrested the cradle from me. Hurling it aside, he punched me in the eye, knocking me onto my backside. I lay in the dirt, the sky spinning overhead.

  “Tess. Oh, Tess.” Mother knelt down. I covered my eye, the pain fierce and stabbing.

  “Leave her be, Merriam!” Father warned, his looming figure swimming in and out of view.

  “Get up,” he said, kicking me in the
side.

  “John,” Mother said. “Don’t.”

  “Woman, don’t defy me!”

  I stood, swaying. “Who t-told you my cradle was cursed?”

  “Joan Midwife.”

  I stepped back, reeling. A sob tore up my throat. Never had I let myself cry in front of Father no matter how hard he hit me. The sob turned to a roar. “Damn the flea-bitten hag! Devil take her! Adam’s death has nothing to do with my cradle. It’s her fault and I told her so when I demanded our money back for her useless sticklewort! She’s the one who snores while Mother’s in pain. She doesn’t lift a hand to help Mother or see the babe is strong before she runs off with her fee. Then when the babe sickens, the biddy has the nerve to sell her useless herbs at a high price so she can buy fresh market meat.”

  The storm shook me to the core, but I couldn’t stop till all was said. “What’s it to her if the child dies?” I screamed. “Joan Midwife’s the one to blame for Adam’s death, his and all the others, Father! She’s the witch!”

  A week after we’d fought in the backyard, the witch hunter came.

  I could not sleep for hours. How carelessly I’d used the word witch in my anger and my grief. The midwife had called me a witch when I’d gone after our money. But did it matter which one of us said it first? Between us we’d released hellfire.

  Sometime much later in the night, I fell into a dreamless sleep in the unfamiliar bed.

  Chapter Eleven

  HERE YOU ARE,” said Poppy, coming into the room. “You gave us all a scare.”

  “I’m all right.” I sat up slowly looking around. A warm fire blazed. A child’s brightly painted rocking horse sat before shelves lined with books.