“Where, in Solem’s name, have you been?” she growled, her tone belying the clear relief on her face. “I thought you’d been drowned.” She threw Craith a brief nod before searching her husband’s eyes, at which Craith led Duncan past and to the bottom of the slope.
“I’m sorry, my love,” Sharman could be heard to say before recounting the problems they’d encountered, why they’d been delayed overnight, and how it had all been for no real purpose.
As Craith backed Duncan and the cart up to a slipway on the riverbank, he could still hear the two talking.
“You mean you went to all that trouble and risk for nothing?” and Craith briefly caught a glimpse of Sharman wincing in return.
“Sharman,” Craith called up, “do you want to get your boat unloaded? It’s just, I could do with getting home m’self,” and he smiled disarmingly at Agness.
“Of course, dear,” she enthused as she and Sharman joined him. “Of course you should be on your way. Whatever am I thinking?”
“I’ll give you a hand,” Sharman said, relief padding out his words.
“I’ll go make a brew, then,” Agness said as she made her way back to the house. “You must both be parched.”
Craith soon had Duncan out from between the cart’s shafts and his head back in his feedbag, then Sharman helped Craith roll the cart nearer the slip. Once tipped and the boat unlashed, they dragged it down onto the slip and turned it over, so it wouldn’t fill with rainwater.
By the time Duncan was back between the shafts, Agness was approaching with two beakers of tea in her hands. “Here we are,” she said, handing them out, “some of that fine nutmeg Tramper’s gran’s been grinding.”
“Nutmeg?” Craith said.
“I think it’s a subterfuge, if you ask me,” Sharman told him.
“No,” Agness insisted, “it’s nutmeg. That’s why she calls it nutmeg tea.”
“If you believe that, you’ll believe anything.”
“Well,” Agness almost spat at him, “I like it, and it’s kept me from worrying myself sick about you, and where you’d got to.”
Sharman now did no more than quietly sip at his “nutmeg”.
Craith soon finished off his own, definitely feeling invigorated. “Thanks for that, missus, but I’ll get off now,” and he handed her his empty beaker.
Sharman briefly shifted his weight, his gaze fixed on the now scuffed ground at his feet.
“Come on, husband; what is it?” Agness ground out.
“Well, you see, dear, I’ll…I’ll have to go on with Craith. I need to see Dwelgefa Woodwright, to tell him what’s happened. He’ll have been expecting—”
“And when was the last time you had a decent meal inside you? Eh, Sharman? And you’d be lucky to get back before nightfall. You want another night out under the stars? Worrying me for no good reason.”
“I can tell Woodwright for you,” Craith offered. “You know he’s only up on the ridge behind my place; only an ‘alf hour’s walk.”
“There you go, Sharman,” Agness said, already walking back to the house. “I’m sure Craith can pass on anything you need to tell the dwelgefa.”
“But…” was as far as Sharman got before Agness vanished into the house and his shoulders slumped.
He eyed Craith. “You just take heed, young fella. Take heed when your mind’s wandering to thoughts of young lasses…like our Janeen, maybe,” but Craith could make neither head nor tail of what he’d meant.
Sharman drew him to sit on the upturned hull of his boat and slowly, deliberately and repeatedly went through what he should tell Dwelgefa Woodwright, and more importantly, what he shouldn’t.
Had it not been his insistence that Craith repeat it all back to him—word perfect—then Craith knew his eyes would soon have glazed over. Relief certainly arrived when Sharman finally sat back and stared at him, although doubt seemed to linger in the ferryman’s eyes.
“I’ll remember it all well enough, Sharman. Don’t worry. I ain’t thick, you know.”
Sharman’s eyes closed, as though their lids were too heavy, the weight going on to drag his cheeks down.
“If,” he stressed, his voice dropping as his lids raised, “if you get this wrong, you’ll be putting Janeen at risk. You do know that, don’t you?” and as Craith nodded, some of Sharman’s facial weight seemed to find its way onto his own features.
“I will,” Craith said, getting to his feet. “I’ll go up and see him as soon as I get home, then I won’t have time to forget anything—or will have properly forgotten what I shouldn’t remember, if you see what I mean.”
Sharman placed a hand on his shoulder but said nothing before patting it and turning for his own home. Agness stood waiting in the doorway. When he’d vanished inside, she gave Craith a final wave before closing the door behind them.
Craith put his hand on Duncan’s shoulder.
“You’ll remember it all for me, won’t you, lad?” but the donkey only closed its eyes and, not for the first time, slowly shook its head.
Without the weight of the boat, Craith took to riding on the cart as the track turned and carried it beside the river, now straight towards the spring-set and his home in Crook’s Fold. Along the way, to the left of the track, the reed beds that supplied thatch to The Espousal had all been inundated by the river. More worryingly, though, in the far distance, beyond the river to his right and its press of dense forest along its far bank, the day’s previously blue sky had gained an ominous black stain. Each time he looked that way it had grown, as though racing him to his journey’s end.
When, approaching mid-afternoon, the track at last curved around towards the winter-set and the cottages of Crook’s Fold came into view, the stain had become a dark wall. A wind picked up, rustling the leaves in the trees beside the track. Without need of urging, Duncan lowered his head and trotted on yet faster still.
Large drops of rain had begun battering their way through the leaves, thudding into the dry earth and spotting Craith’s jerkin as Duncan raced into their yard. He and Craith were both wet through by the time the cart had been unhitched and they’d retreated to the barn, each peering out into the deluge.
“By eck, that’s come down wi’ a vengeance,” but as Craith had spoken he’d noticed the backdoor to the house stood wide open. Just inside, his mother’s pale face could be seen through the black sky’s dismal gloom. Less welcomingly, it peeped around the considerable mass of a grim-faced, chin-in-the-air Dwelgefa Woodwright, his beady eyes staring down his nose at Craith.
“So,” he boomed out over the downpour, “what the bleeding Redworg’s going on?” Craith turned to Duncan, but he’d already backed away into the darkest recesses of the barn, now contentedly chomping away at the straw in his trough.
17 Subterfuge
“Well, I’m not coming out to you, lad,” the dwelgefa shouted, and the rain thundered down the harder.
“Right O, Dwelgefa Woodwright,” Craith called back. “Be right with you. Just have to lock up,” and he rushed to swing the doors to and bar them against Duncan getting loose. “Shit,” he said under his breath as rain sluiced down his neck. “What was it Sharman said I had to say?”
After dashing across the yard and in through the open door, he froze at the sight of his mother and younger brother sitting on rickety chairs beside the hearth, both clearly overwhelmed by the authority and sheer presence of the dwelgefa. The man himself now overfilled the only armchair, drawn up close to an unusually hot and blazing log fire. Its flickering light elbowed out the rain-lashed sky’s own dim offering that feebly stole in at the window.
The dwelgefa sighed loudly before, in a hushed rumble, despairingly saying, “I don’t know,” as he shook his head. “Don’t just stand there making a puddle, you idiot,” and his voice now rattled the windows. “Close the door and go get yourself dried off, then straight back here. You’ve some illuminating to do,” and he tipped his head back so he could peer at Craith down each side of his bulbous nose.
Craith’s mother was offering him more tea when, somewhat drier now, Craith slunk back into the room, but the dwelgefa had noticed his return.
“Find yourself a chair or something, and bring it here,” and he pointed at the flagged floor beside his own, where the light from the fire would reveal the look in Craith’s eyes that would soon accompany the words yet to be drawn forth.
A buffet from the scullery had to suffice, its seat stained by rings of old goat’s milk, splashes of distemper and blue flecks of sheet whitener. It rocked as Craith gingerly sat down, then stuck to the seat of his breeches when he leant away from Dwelgefa Woodwright’s pointed scrutiny.
Craith could now hear the rain bouncing down in the yard, the crackle and pop of logs in the fire, and his mother and brother’s shallow breathing. They and the dwelgefa stared at him until Woodwright laced his fingers and bent them back, the report of their joints briefly closing his mother’s eyes.
“So,” and the dwelgefa opened his legs and rested an elbow on the arm of his chair, cupping the side of his chin in his hand, “where’s the demon then?”
Craith’s dry tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth and he tried to swallow, snorting instead.
“There…there weren’t none,” he finally managed to say after wiping his sleeve across his mouth. “Sharman didn’t find nowt,” but Craith made the mistake of looking into the dwelgefa’s eyes. Craith bit his lip and clammed up as he watched them half close, one side of the dwelgefa’s mouth slowly lifting.
“I…” and the man snorted the beginnings of a laugh. “I honestly thought you’d just said he’d found nothing.”
“I did…no, he…he did; Sharman did.”
“Did what?”
“Found nowt.”
The dwelgefa turned an imploring look at Craith’s mother.
“He were dropped on ‘is head as a baby,” she offered, and Dwelgefa Woodwright drew in a long breath.
“But there was smoke coming up yesterday morning,” he aimed back at Craith, “red smoke from somewhere around Harclifferd; smoke that means there’s a demon to be brought across. There must’ve been one.”
“Well, Sharman said there were nowt for him when he got over there.”
“Where is our ferryman, anyway?”
Craith told the dwelgefa, as carefully and as convincingly as he could, how the high river had got them down to the Lagoons, and how the flooded river track had forced them back home over the high way and down through Athergap.
“Sharman’s probably where I left ‘im, still at ‘ome in Grosswilleal, well-fed and well into his second beaker of beer by now.” Craith’s stomach rumbled, his mouth yet drier still.
“I can’t afford the time to go chasing after him up there. You’ll have to ride up tomorrow, bring him down to see me.”
“But he told me all he knows; told me to go straight up to see you when I got back. I just didn’t expect you to be waiting around for me here.”
“I’ll have you know, young fellow m’lad, I’ve been waiting since yesterday to do my important duty, everything fully prepared, and…and then no demon damn well turns up.” He stared blankly at Craith’s brother who only stared blankly back. “Did he tell you what he did find?” Woodwright then flung at Craith.
“I just told you: nowt.”
“But what about the fire? He must’ve found where the smoke was coming from.”
“Oh, aye, he did; Harclifferd. Told me the hearth were still smouldering but that it looked like remnants from last year, not—now, how did he put it? ‘Not freshly stacked’, that were it.”
“And no demon?”
“That’s what he said.”
“No evidence of a canvas roll?” to which Craith just shook his head as he remembered looking down upon Janeen’s pale, inanimate face, where she’d lain on Fulmer’s table.
“Hmm,” the dwelgefa mumbled to himself, scratching his chin. “Thought it a bit early in the year. But…but it still doesn’t explain how the fire got started in the first place, remnants or not.”
“Kids,” Craith’s mother said.
“Kids?”
“Aye, probably have the same mischievous buggers over there as we ‘ave here. Probably some prank, or maybe they just lit it as part of playing out some game or other, you know, like kids do. They’d not realise there’d be some of the red clay left in its ashes.”
Everyone stared at her, but she just went back to watching the fire’s flames.
“What does it matter, anyhow? Nowt lost by it,” Craith ventured, to which Dwelgefa Woodwright went an alarming colour of red.
“Nothing lost? Maybe not this time, but Sharman had to risk his life crossing that river. Have you seen how high it’s got? What would have happened if he’d capsized or—” His eyes narrowed until they’d almost closed, but then shot open.
“Sharman didn’t lose the demon overboard, did he? Eh, young carter m’lad? You’re not by any chance covering for him, are you? Or…or maybe he didn’t tell you, yes, that’s more like it: let you swallow his subterfuge.”
Craith absently noted that this was the second time today he’d come across the word “subterfuge”, and that he still didn’t know what it meant.
“Hmm, all appears to hinge on Sharman’s word,” the dwelgefa slowly let slip.
He leaned closer to Craith, placing a hand on his arm. “When you picked it up, did his boat have water in it?”
“Eh?”
“Did it look as though…as though it’d shipped water? You know, been overturned…then righted.”
“Course it did; he’d been across a swollen river. What’d you expect?”
Woodwright jerked back, lifting his hand away from Craith’s arm, as though it were sullied—which indeed it was. “There’s no need to take that attitude. I’ll have you know—”
“There’s no way Sharman would be stupid enough to get caught out like that,” Craith’s brother piped up, drawing their stares. “Knows his craft does Sharman. I’ve watched him. And how would he have got his boat righted again in that kind of flow? They’d have both been lost.”
“Digga has a point,” Craith said. “And why would Sharman lie? Accidents ‘appen. So what?”
“Well,” Woodwright said in a chilling voice, “maybe he’s worried about losing his stipend from Gryff if he’s found out. And the regular beer deliveries that comes with it, eh? Have you thought of that?”
Craith wished Woodwright hadn’t mentioned beer, his own mouth now seeming lined with sand. Why couldn’t the dwelgefa just piss off home, he thought. He’d heard all there was to hear, but Woodwright remained wedged in his chair, now staring unseeingly into the hearth’s fire.
“I suppose,” Craith’s mother said as she stood up, “I’d better make some more tea. I’ve no doubt you’ll be wanting one, Craith. Dwelgefa?”
“Hmm? Oh, no…no thank you, Missus Waindrifa,” and he peered through the window. “Seems to be easing off a bit, so I’ll get on my way. I’ve a letter and stuff to write before the day’s out.”
Craith’s spirits rose, a warm feeling of relief softening the cramp of his beer-empty stomach, only to be short-lived when Woodwright pointed at him.
“You’re going on an errand for me tomorrow, lad. Early start. Be at my place shortly after sunrise, and on your best donkey for a long-distance ride.”
“Eh?” Craith habitually replied. “What about m’jobs? I’m already two days behind.”
The dwelgefa squeezed himself out of his chair and rose, looming over Craith. “And what about your own stipend, eh? A goodly sum and supplies for doing bugger all most of the year. What about that?”
Craith scratched his chin. “Oh, aye, well, suppose I’ll see you up at your end then, early like,” but he narrowed his eyes. “Where am I going?”
Woodwright smiled, but it didn’t reassure Craith. “Gryff,” he said, stretching the word out. “You can take me a letter there—I’ll give you instructions for finding it—then wait for a reply
.”
“Gryff? Why Gryff?”
“Because, mister answer-for-everything, I reckon Sharman did find a demon at Harclifferd, and he did bring it over with him.”
When the whole of the Waindrifa family only stared at him, he grinned, but coldly. “It must have then woken up and buggered off, when he was tying up his boat at the Lagoons.”
“Eh?” the Waindrifas all said at once.
“It’s the only thing that makes sense of it all: a goodly volume of dense red smoke, more than would come from leftover cinders, and—being too early for the new batches to have been sent over yet—the use of one of last year’s therefore weakening pendants.
“It means,” Woodwright announced, staring at them each in turn, “that Gryff has to be alerted to the fact there’s a demon loose in The Espousal, a demon that could cause no end of havoc if it’s not found. And if not, mark my words, there’ll be no end of trouble—for us all.”
18 On a Dwelgefa’s Errand
“I’ve done you a map of how to get there,” Dwelgefa Woodwright said after he’d placed Craith’s beer on the side table at which he’d sat him. Woodwright went to an imposing desk beside the room’s lone, dawn-lit window, rolled open its shutter and groped for a small dun coloured sheet of paper. This he also placed on the table, beside the beaker, and over which Craith bent.
“Er, thanks, Dwelgefa Woodwright, but…but I ain’t that good wi’ words.”
“They’re only names of places you already know, except for—” but the look on Craith’s face must have said it all. Woodwright sighed. “I don’t know. Well, let’s just see how far we get, eh?” and he pulled a chair up beside Craith’s.
“Now,” he said, sitting down and pointing at the squiggles beside one of four blobs, “this says ‘CROOK’S FOLD’. See?” and he spelled it out.
“Still don’t mean owt to me, Dwelgefa Woodwright—sorry.”
Woodwright drew a long breath. “Right,” and he rubbed his hand over his bald pate before going back to the desk and bringing a white, thimble-sized porcelain jar to the table, along with a short black-stained stick. He sat again, pulled the map in front of himself, dipped the end of the stick in the pot and tapped it against its rim. Carefully, with the sharp, blackened end of the stick, he drew a small cart just above the blob.
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