A Pocketful of Crows

by Joanne M Harris

  But was it really William’s gift? What we give freely on Midsummer’s Day will return to us a hundredfold. And now I remember the old woman’s words as she clasped it around my neck: The gold in your eyes is truer by far than the gold he promised you—

  It was noon before Fiona came back. She saw the broken dish on the floor and the picture-book beside it. She gave me a look – for the first time, eye to eye, like an equal. Her eyes are blue, like forget-me-nots, and bolder than I expected. I noticed that she was wearing the necklace William bought for her, and I wanted to tear it from her neck, scatter the beads across the floor, mark her face with my fingernails. Fiona saw the look in my eyes and gave a smile, as if to say: I know what you want to do. But you will not, because you are tamed.

  And then she said in her milksop voice: ‘The Master sends his compliments, and bids me tell you he has important family business to attend to. Regrettably, this means that he can no longer extend his hospitality to guests. He hopes that you will understand, and wishes you a pleasant homeward journey.’

  I stared at her for a moment. ‘William said this?’ I said, forgetting in my rage and astonishment to say Master William.

  ‘Not the young Master,’ she said. ‘’Twas the Master bade me tell you.’

  ‘The Master?’ I said, feeling foolish.

  ‘Yes,’ she said with a little smile. ‘John MacCormac has come home.’

  Four

  I walked home by the high road, avoiding the track to the village. At another time, I would have travelled as a magpie, or maybe as a mountain goat, or crossed the lake as a wild duck, before joining the deer in the forest. But this time I had to walk, and although I carried my high-heeled shoes, it took me most of the rest of the day to return to my hut in the forest.

  It has been too long since I slept on my bed of bracken and wool. Too long since I used my cooking pot, or dried my meat in the campfire smoke. The roof of my hut has partly collapsed under the weight of a fallen branch. Some animal has been inside. My blanket is wet and spotted with mould. And my coloured things – my ribbons and beads – have been plundered from my door. Maybe a magpie, I tell myself. Or maybe just a white-headed crow.

  As I work to make the hut habitable again, I tell myself that William will come. As soon as he can, he will come to me, and we will be together again. And is this not what I wanted? To be with my love in the forest, with the trees as our castle walls and the stars for our ceiling?

  I try to keep merry. I sing to myself, but somehow the words sound hollow.

  Sing a song of starlight,

  A pocket full of crows.

  See the bonny brown girl

  In her borrowed clothes—

  What am I doing here, William? Night is falling. Too late to hunt. Too late to gather fiddleheads. Besides, the season is over now: the ferns have grown tall in my absence. How long has it been? The bluebells are dry; the May buds have gone. Above the lake, the July sky is all aflame in pink and gold. I wonder if William sees the same sky from his rooms in the castle. How worried he must be, I think. How he must long to be with me. But his father is home now, and William is bound to obey. I must be patient. I must not let my anger run free. When his business is done, then perhaps John MacCormac will see me. He will see me, and understand how much my William means to me. Why else would I have stayed by his side, and worn fine gowns to please him? Why else would I have taken a name, and abandoned the ways of the travelling folk?

  And if he does not understand—

  If he does not, my love will come and live with me in the forest. It will be hard for him at first, but has he not told me a hundred times? I would rather live in a hut with you, than in a palace without you. I would rather die than be a single night away from you.

  Well, we may be a night apart. But no one can part us for ever. Tomorrow, I shall rebuild my hut, to prepare for your arrival. I shall build it from green oak, and thatch it with reeds from the lakeside. I shall line it with rabbit skins, and moss, and fern, and heather. I shall catch salmon, and smoke them, and pick green plums from the orchards, and apples from the churchyard, and wild oats from the edge-lands. I shall make you a blanket from the very softest lambswool, and dye it in the colours of love: crimson, blue and purple. And if your father will not relent, then we will live in the forest alone, and gather berries, and hunt the deer, and sleep throughout the winter snow in each other’s arms. And if I never have a veil, or a golden ring on my hand, I will still have you, my love, and that will be enough for me. Sleep well, love, and dream of me. And know that, if I were to live for a thousand years, there would still not be enough nights in which to dream of you.

  August

  The Harvest Month

  My love he was so high and proud,

  His fortune too so high,

  He for another fair pretty maid

  Me left and passed me by.

  The Child Ballads, 295

  One

  It has been a week since I left, without a word from William. Of course, he does not know where I am, or how to find me in the woods. But I know he will, soon. How I wish I could see him. How I wish I could go to him, even as a housecat. But I cannot go into even the humblest creature. Not an ant, not a frog, not a beetle will grant me passage into their skin.

  An August bride is sweet-tempered and active. I have tried my best to be so. My hut is all lined with fresh new moss, and strewn with summer roses. I lay down clean rushes every day. I hunt for thrush, and trout in the stream, and pick blackberries and wild strawberries, to prepare for the coming of my love.

  But he does not come. Where can he be? No one passes through the glen. There comes no sound of horses’ hooves on the road from the castle. Why has he left me waiting so long? Surely he must know where I am! Is he ill? Is he bewitched? Or could he have forgotten me?

  No. That would be impossible. Our love is as strong as the mountains, as endless as the oceans. Maybe he is testing me. Maybe this is a test to see how much more I will endure for him.

  I have never needed my gift as badly as I need it now. To go into a bird, a hare – even for an hour – would tell me all I need to know. And yet I cannot. How can that be? And how can I make things right again?

  Last night, I went to the fairy tree, the oldest of our people. She rarely leaves her hawthorn skin, except once a year, for the market. But I know she watches, and I hoped she could help me.

  I found her in the meadow mist, her feet already drenched with dew. Around her, the stones looked like islands rising out of the pale mist. Only one of her branches still lives, and the fruit that grows there is sparse and green. I wondered how old she really is: some of the travelling folk believe that she is more than nine hundred years old, and was born at a time when travelling folk covered all of the Nine Worlds. Now we are few, growing fewer, as the tame folk multiply.

  The branches of the fairy tree were covered in rags and ribbons. The hawthorn loves her trinkets, and must always be paid for her charms. Love charms, mostly, of course, with a bird’s skull to ward off the plague, a silver spoon for childbirth. They clicked together as the wind took hold of them, as if the tree were a toothless old crone smacking her gums in the moonlight.

  I whispered: ‘Can you hear me?’

  The hawthorn ticked and fluttered. Over her head, the Barley Moon sharpened her silver sickle.

  ‘I need your help,’ I told her. ‘My power to travel has left me.’

  There came a snickering, whispering sound, almost like distant laughter.

  Left you? said the hawthorn tree in a sighing, creaking voice. You were the one who stopped listening. You gave us up, for a boy of the Folk. For a handful of pretty pebbles. For the promise of a ring.

  ‘That isn’t true,’ I protested.

  A named thing is a tamed thing, said the voice from the hawthorn tree. You let the boy give you a name. How can you live among wild things again?

  ‘There must be a way,’ I told her.

  Oh, there’s a way, said the ha
wthorn tree. But it won’t be easy.

  ‘Tell me,’ I said.

  One thing at a time. Wisdom must always be paid for. Give me those fine shoes you wear, and I will give you my advice.

  I kicked off my shoes and hung them on the hawthorn’s living branch. They were leather, and finely made, with silver buckles and scarlet heels, but I only wore them for William’s sake, and my feet felt better without them.

  ‘Take them with my blessing,’ I said. ‘Now tell me what I must do.’

  The hawthorn made a contented sound. First give away all he has given you, she said. Give away every stitch, every word, every bead, every sigh, every promise. And when you are free of it all, then your name will melt away like the spring snow, and you will be free of him again, and able to travel as you please.

  ‘But I don’t want to be free of him,’ I said. ‘Is there no other way?’

  She sighed. How can you fly with a stone around your neck? How can you run with a chain on your feet?

  ‘But I love him,’ I said.

  That’s the stone. That’s the chain, said the hawthorn. And until you can give them back, you will never be free again.

  I sighed. ‘So be it, Old Mother. Better to live in chains with my love than to travel freely without him.’

  She laughed. We’ll see about that, she said. Go back to your cold bed. Think about what I told you. You may change your mind before too long. And thank you for the pretty shoes. Even an old woman like me likes her tricks and trinkets. The ribbons and charms on her branches clinked and fluttered coquettishly. Not for the first time, I wondered if she remembered the adder-stone charm; if this was her way of punishing me for taking what belonged to her. But I could not return it now, or even beg her pardon. The charm was burnt, and the adder-stone given back to the water.

  And so I went back home barefoot through the woods, to my empty hut, and my aching heart, and the bitter smoke from my campfire.

  Two

  At last, a letter from William. I found it this morning by my hut, underneath a hazel tree. There was a white-headed crow by the tree, pecking at the envelope. I tried to talk to the white-headed crow, but all she said was: Letter. And such was my joy at receiving it that I opened it straight away, and when I had read it, the crow was gone.

  I read:

  My dear M-A-L-M-U-I-R-A,

  Forgive me for not having come to see you. My father is recently back from the wars, and there is much B-U-S-I-N-E-S-S to conduct.

  His writing was difficult to make out. There were many flourishes and curlicues in the letters. But I could read it, given time, and besides, it was in his own dear hand, with words that he had chosen for me.

  Do not think I have F-O-R-G-O-T-T –

  Of course. I could never think that.

  It is simply that we may have to be more P-A-T-I-E-N-T than I first hoped. My father is a difficult man. I must try to A-P-P-E-A-S-E him before you meet him in person. I am not yet come of age, or into my I-N-H-E-R-I-T-A-N-C-E. I must gain his A-P-P-R-O-V-A-L before I think of M-A-R-R-I-A-G-E.

  I feel certain that, given time, I can make him U-N-D-E-R-S-T-A-N-D. You are my only love, and I cannot live without you.

  But until then, I shall send F-I-O-N-A to carry my messages, and to bring you whatever you may need. She is a good girl, D-E-V-O-T-E-D to me, and you may trust her to be D-I-S-C-R-E-E-T.

  Your ever-faithful,

  W-I-L-L-I-A-M.

  I supposed Fiona had left the note by the hut in my absence. When I returned, I also found a neatly wrapped parcel of bread and cheese, some honey and a basket of fruit, standing by the firepit. She must have left them here for me, while the white-headed crow watched from the trees.

  Fiona. That pat-a-cake village girl. I hate the thought of her coming here, nosing about outside my door. How did she know where to find me? Do the villagers know where I am? And why did William send her, instead of coming here himself?

  Of course, I know why. These things take time. He said we must be patient. And he thinks of me. That’s good.

  And yet I still wish he had come here himself, with or without his father’s approval. It reminds me somehow of that storybook, and the prince who did not recognise his love when she worked in the kitchens.

  Well, I am not a kitchen princess, to hide away and pine for love. If my William does not come, then I will go to him myself. And if anyone tries to keep us apart—

  Beware the wrath of a brown girl.

  Three

  I shall bind my love with smoke, and moss, and eagle feathers. I shall bind him with runes so strong that even Death will shun him. I shall bind him by his name and mine – the name that has already cost me so much – both stitched into a piece of cloth and carried next to my heart, so that however many miles lie between us, we shall never be apart.

  Fiona came again today, but this time I was waiting. She brought some bread, some honey-cakes, and some milk, some cheese, and a pitcher of wine. There was no note from William. But her cat-in-the-cream look was enough to make me suspicious. Could she have stolen his letter? Could she be trying to steal something more?

  I have written a note of my own. It took me four days, using an eagle-feather quill and on paper made from dried flowers. I kept it to a single page, and sealed it with a candle-stub. It read:

  Dear WILLIAM,

  Thank You for your Note, and the Parcel, although it is Your own Self, and not Provisions, that I need. I miss You so much that my Heart Aches, and wish I could be with You. Do not send FIONA. I have never trusted her. Instead, I shall come to You tomorrow at Noon, and meet You in the Kitchens, where No One will Trouble our Meeting. Till then,

  Your Love,

  Malmuira.

  Malmuira. How strange to write that name. It does not feel like a part of me. And yet it was a gift from him, a gift that I could not refuse. Now I have made him a gift in return: a sachet, stitched with both our names and filled with purple lavender, a token of love for William when I see him tomorrow.

  Fiona took the note with a smirk. But I know she cannot open it without breaking the waxen seal. If she does, my William will know. If she does not, no matter.

  And now, all I must do is wait until tomorrow. Tomorrow I will see him again. Tomorrow, in the kitchens.

  Four

  I shall bind my love with the cry of a snowy owl in the darkness. I shall bind him with nightshade, and the collarbone of a moon hare. I shall bind him in a sheet made from stars and thistledown, and sleep with him for a thousand years, until the seas are nothing but sand, and the mountains are nothing but ocean.

  I took the high road through the hills towards my William’s castle. I wore the dress he gave me, with my tiger’s-eye necklace around my neck, and my hair fastened back with a strand of silk, all tied with purple clover. The sun was already high in the sky, and the hills were garlanded with rainbows. I took it as a good sign:

  Rainbow at morn,

  Put your hook in the corn.

  Rainbow at eve,

  Put your head in the sheave.

  I even sang to myself as I walked along the heathery path through the hills; not as a lark, but as myself, and my voice startled the grouse on the moor, so that they flew out a-clattering.

  At noon I went to the kitchen door, and waited for William to come. But no one came, and finally I had to ring the bell.

  One of the potboys answered. His eyes went wide as he saw me. Then he ran to fetch the chef – the same one who had called me a hoor – who looked at me from a height and said: ‘There’s nothing here for you, miss.’

  ‘Master William knows I am here,’ I said. ‘I wrote to him only yesterday.’

  The chef gave a shrug. ‘If he knows you’re here, then why is he not here to greet you? And why come here, to the kitchen door, like a servant or a thief?’

  I shook my head. I was angry. Not with William – not yet – but with the situation. Had Fiona delivered my note? Did William even know I was here? Had he not seen me coming? Would he not
have known me as I came across the moors?

  ‘Listen, miss.’ Now the look of contempt had changed to something like pity. ‘You should go home, where you belong. There’s no one here.’

  ‘That isn’t true.’ My voice was small, and I hated myself for not being able to go into a bear, or a wolf, or a tiger, and roar—

  ‘There’s no one here, miss. The young Master’s driven off into town.’

  I felt myself starting to tremble. ‘Alone?’

  ‘No, miss.’ That look again: like pity mixed with sour milk.

  ‘Who?’ I said.

  ‘His manservant, miss. And, of course, Miss Fiona.’

  ‘I don’t believe you,’ I said, and now I could feel my eyes burning. I would not cry. I never cry. But the smoke from the kitchens was unbearable, and the heat from the fires was scorching, and the tears came tumbling down my cheeks before I could prevent them.

  The chef said: ‘I’ll get you some water. And there’s bread, if you’re hungry.’

  For a moment I was surprised at the kindness in his voice. But this was the man who had called me a hoor. I would not bear his pity. So I held my head high and walked away, my green dress trailing in the dust. Something purple fell to the ground. It was a piece of clover. Faded, it fell from the strand of silk that bound my wild hair to obedience.

  And now came the anger – at him, at her, but most of all anger at myself. What a fool I have been! I thought. The hawthorn was right. He is faithless: treacherous like all of his kind, cowardly and wanton. I snatched away the piece of silk. I will have no need for it now. I am not one of your village girls, to be tamed and put aside. My power may be gone, but my rage is more than enough to sustain me. Hide behind your castle walls. Hide behind your servants. But the next time you see me, William, I shall be a tiger.