The Grimoire of Kensington Market

by Lauren B. Davis

  The more rumpled of the ravens reached over and pecked her on the top of her head. “Hey!” she cried, and glared at him. He cawed, spread his wings and looked altogether too pleased with himself for her liking. Badger licked her cheek as though to make up for it, or to cheer her, or both. “Oh, fine. I’m not giving up, am I? Aren’t I allowed a little ill humour?”

  Neither the birds nor Badger answered, so she, too, fell silent.

  After a short while a shadow appeared on the horizon. For a moment, Maggie thought it was a smaller mountain, but as they approached she realized it was a forest. How strange, she thought, that way up here in the north there would be trees like these. As the sleigh entered the woods, she noticed aspen next to fir, next to poplar, next to birch, next to spruce, next to Jack pine. She suspected someone had designed the forest this way. Left to naturally develop, one wouldn’t find such trees side by side, and certainly some species would never, at least in Maggie’s world, grow so far north.

  In the distance was a clearing and in the clearing were many round shapes, like snow-covered boulders, and one larger structure, although Maggie couldn’t make out what it was. Usko shook his bells vigorously and his gait slowed. He stretched his neck and made a loud bellowing, barking sort of grunt.

  Like a ripple of wind across water, the smaller mounds shook and shifted and transformed. Caribou, as though growing out of the ground, rose from the hummocks, shaking snow as they did. An enormous herd, antlers everywhere. They turned in the direction of the sleigh and returned Usko’s bellow, running toward their cousin. Maggie drew back, pulled the furs up to her chin and put her hand through Badger’s collar. His hackles stood high and he trembled, lips quivering. “No, boy. Sit. Stay.”

  Within seconds the sleigh was surrounded by a sea of fur, hooves and antlers. Then the caribou circled so they faced the same direction as Usko, parted and walked on either side of the sleigh, bellowing and grunting. The ravens must have flown off in the excitement. The herd and sleigh neared a low-built hut with a steep turf roof that nearly touched the ground. They stopped before the hut’s entrance, a small arched, purple-painted door tucked under the pitched roof.

  A woman’s head, with an old-fashioned white bonnet atop it, poked from the doorway. “You made good time. Come on, don’t sit out there, come in, come in, and bring the dog, but slip Usko out of his harness first, so he can have a nice visit.” And with that the head disappeared.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  MAGGIE TOLD BADGER TO LEAVE THE CARIBOU alone, and he trotted a distance away to do his business. Maggie jumped from the sleigh and unharnessed Usko. She scratched him under the chin and fed him another apple. He jingled his bells and nudged her, then turned back to his friends and relations and merged into the enormous herd.

  The small doorway meant Maggie had to duck her head to enter and she sent Badger in first because, even for the best behaved of dogs, an entire herd of caribou was difficult to ignore and the desire to chase them would be great. Still, he marched in without protest and she, with her pack slung over her shoulder, followed. The entranceway was stone-floored with red rugs, and the walls were smooth, the colour of Usko’s coat, and made from earth, perhaps, or wattle and daub. From the timbered ceiling hung candles in copper and glass lamps.

  The entrance opened into a good-sized room. The walls here were panelled in blue wood, painted with birds and flowers. Shelves over a wooden workbench were filled with herbs and liquids of some sort, and dried flowers and more herbs hung in bunches along the walls. A large cast-iron stove squatted in the centre of the room and cast off a lovely warmth. The oven door was open so the glow of the fire within shone onto the stone floor. Something wonderful smelling simmered in a large black pot. Behind the stove was a cabinet of blue and white that fit snugly from floor to ceiling. On the other wall were bunk beds, built from heavy round timbers, with thick, fluffy mattresses and quilts and pillows. The wall behind each bunk boasted a small round window to look out of. From the ceiling hung a chandelier made of caribou antlers and candles. The square table was set for two with bowls and plates, cups and saucers, and there were two chairs. More woollen rugs were scattered on the stone floor.

  The old woman sat on a stool in front of a spinning wheel and next to her was a large goose. The woman wore a woollen dress and shawl, and black boots. Maggie noticed the sole of the left foot was built up a little, as though that leg was shorter than the other, or the foot shaped differently. A long white braid trailed from under her bonnet. Her skin was brown and deeply lined, and her lips quite red. Her eyes looked as though she were perpetually squinting, but if her face told of a hard life, her smile full of strong white teeth showed good humour.

  “Welcome,” she said and indicated Maggie should take the chair nearest the stove. Badger inched toward the goose, his neck stretched out and his nose twitching. The goose stretched out her own neck, a surprisingly long stretch, and hissed, a red tongue showing within her beak. The old woman laughed. “Go on, Gans, you silly. The dog won’t hurt you, not here, so hop up to bed.” The goose looked indignant but waddled over to a lower bunk bed and flapped up onto it. She waggled her behind into the quilt and then settled, keeping her bright eyes on Badger.

  “Leave it, Badger,” said Maggie and the dog flopped onto the rug near her.

  Maggie took off her hat, gloves and scarf and undid the buttons on her coat. “Are you Perchta?”

  “I am, and you’ve met Gans.” The old woman’s eyes were dark and glinted in the candlelight. Round and round went the spinning wheel, and up and down went the woman’s foot, the one with the built-up shoe. Her fingers nimbly and firmly mated the fleece to the thread. How easy she made it look.

  “My name is Maggie, and this is Badger. We’ve been sent from the people at Lake’s End, from your cousin Aunt Ravna.”

  Perchta nodded. “I know who you are and why you’re here.”

  “You do? Well then, will you help me?”

  “How do you think I can do that?”

  “I don’t know. I just hoped …”

  “Perhaps you had better tell me your story,” said Perchta. “But before that, you must eat.” She left her spinning and dished up stew from the pot on the stove, setting a large bowl in front of Maggie and a smaller one at the other place for herself. She gave a bowl to Badger as well, who gulped it up much quicker than showed good manners, but Perchta said nothing. She took a loaf of bread from the shelf, sliced it thickly and sat. “Eat.”

  Maggie spooned the fragrant stew into her mouth. Chicken and dumplings, scented with thyme and rosemary, enriched with cream.

  “Eat more,” said Perchta, serving her seconds. “It keeps you warm and you’ll need warmth.”

  There was no need to tell Maggie twice. Perchta heated water in a battered kettle and made tea. Maggie didn’t know what kind it was, but it tasted wild and sweet. With the steaming mug in her hands, she told the old woman her story thus far. Perchta asked no questions, merely nodding occasionally.

  As she finished, Maggie said, “But I know so little of what to expect when and if I arrive at this woman’s house, or cave, or whatever it is she lives in. I don’t know how I can possibly rescue Kyle. I don’t even know if he’s still alive.” Saying these words, she felt cold again, and terribly tired.

  “I’m the woman who controls the caribou and they travel far and return and tell me many things. And I have my own ways of seeing.” Perchta winked. “Let me see what I shall see.”

  She went to the shelf above the workbench and picked up a small skin drum. She returned to her chair, held it in her lap and began to beat upon it with a long bone as she sang a strange song. It was high and keening and sounded like all the winds of the world twisted together into a single thread that blew first soft and then sharp and then in braids of air that seemed to enter and exit her throat simultaneously. The drum beat to the pace of Maggie’s hear
t. Boom-ah-boom-ah-boom-ah-boom-ah-boom … The light from the candles and the stove’s fire threw shadows around the walls. Badger lay with his chin on his paws and stared. Maggie, too, stared. The shadows looked like caribou, many, many caribou, running this way and that. It grew very warm in the hut and sweat streaked down Perchta’s face. Badger panted. And now a shadow raven flew. A great bear. A figure … two … three …

  “Drink your tea, Maggie. Drink it all up.”

  Maggie did as she was told and suddenly simply holding her head up involved a massive effort and after another moment she couldn’t manage it. It was understandable, she thought, of course it was. How could she not be bone-weary? And she was safe here. So very safe. She put her elbow on the table and rested her cheek in her palm. Her eyes burned with fatigue. She had to close them. Just for a second. Just to rest her eyes.

  “Maggie,” said Perchta, “take off your clothes and lie on the bed.” Boom-ah-boom-ah-boom-ah.

  “Why?” Maggie found she could open her eyes again. It was so peaceful here and the drum was the sound of her heart.

  Boom-ah-boom-ah-boom-ah … Perchta’s face became hard. “Because I tell you to. Do you think everything is to be handed to you? Should I send a girl to do a woman’s work? Prove yourself. Endure the testing. Do as you’re told.”

  Still the drum droned on, making it hard for Maggie to concentrate. She wasn’t quite so tired now and felt completely reassured. Nothing bothered her, not even when she saw that it was now Gans, the goose, playing the drum, standing on it and stamping with her flat webbed feet.

  Maggie looked at Badger, and only then did she feel a tingle of misgiving. Badger’s eyes were closed, but his feet were moving as if he were running, and his lip twitched. “You won’t hurt him. You’d never hurt Badger, would you?”

  “If you think I might hurt your dog, you shouldn’t do as I say.” The old woman snorted. “You shouldn’t lie on the bed. You shouldn’t go north. You should go home.” Boom-ah-boom-ah-boom-ah-boom …

  “I didn’t think the road went backward.”

  “It doesn’t. Not for you.”

  “Then how would I go home?”

  “The way we all do, in the end. Are you going to endure, or not? Decide. Now.”

  Boom-ah-boom-ah-boom-ah … “The way we all do in the end.” Could this strange old woman mean what Maggie thought she did? Death. Well, death would indeed come for her eventually as it did for everyone. It might even come now. For that matter, she might already be dead. It would make as much sense as anything. Dead or living, though, it seemed she must, as Perchta said, endure a testing.

  “Doesn’t the fact I’ve made it this far mean I’m worthy to continue?” The drum sent vibrations through the room, right into Maggie’s chest.

  “You have no idea what’s before you. Go, or don’t. But it’s now or never. Time is running out.”

  Boom-ah-boom-ah-boom … Follow me … Follow me … Follow me …

  Maggie stripped off her clothes, even her shoes and socks, to the sound of the drum, and lay down on the bed as instructed. It didn’t seem as odd, now that she was lying down, as she thought it would.

  Perchta said, “Maggie, remember this: you must be soft to die.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Go to sleep now,” said the old woman.

  Maggie thought she would stay awake to see what Perchta would do next, but it was no use, the exhaustion was upon her again, and her lids closed. Her breathing slowed.

  In the next instant she saw that she was standing outside the hut, but not in the forest. Rather she was on a frozen plain. She was wearing a long coat made from feathers, goose feathers perhaps, or no, possibly owl, or both. The sky above was a dome of blue-black dotted with diamond-bright stars. It made her dizzy, it was so vast. For a moment, she had the sensation she was utterly alone and sour panic rose in her throat, but the coat was warm and soft and she thought she would be able to stay outside for a long while, snug as a fluffed-up puffin. Not knowing what else to do, she sat down, cross-legged, and took a deep breath.

  She waited. She breathed in and out. She waited. She began to drift off to sleep, and started awake, and waited … and breathed … and drifted. She opened her eyes and stood so she wouldn’t be lulled into sleep. She looked up. She felt very small under the dome of blue-black sky, untethered, as though she could fall up into that glassy space and keep falling forever. She wished the ravens would appear.

  She had the oddest sensation – as though someone was watching her. She swung her head around. A tall figure stood there, cloaked in black. A woman.

  “Perchta?”

  The figure said nothing but moved closer. It was Perchta, but her eyes were like frozen, dark stars, and she was barefoot. Her left foot was webbed, like that of the goose. Her hands were hidden by the long sleeves of her cloak. Her hair flew round her head, white and wild as a winter storm. Perchta spread her arms and Maggie found herself lying on the snow, her coat of feathers open, exposing her completely. She tried to cover herself up, but it was as though the sleeves held her arms fast. She tried to move her legs but they, too, were frozen. Maggie screamed when she saw the knife in Perchta’s right hand, the long blade and antler handle carved with strange symbols along the edge.

  “Hush, Maggie, remember what I told you,” said the old women as she knelt next to Maggie’s prone form. “Remember.”

  “You must be soft to die.”

  Maggie bit her tongue to stop from screaming again. She was freezing to death, she was sure of it. The pain of the cold was like burning. She did not want to die. But would Perchta truly kill her? Would Aunt Ravna send her here only to be butchered like a seal on the ice? Be soft.

  She must submit then? Be willing?

  She felt like a sacrifice laid out beneath the distant stars, the witnessing moon.

  Perchta put her hand on Maggie’s forehead and her palm was warm. The warmth ran through Maggie, all the way to her toes. Not to freeze to death then. The knife glinted as Perchta raised it. Maggie could not even move her head to see where it would land. She did not want to see. She closed her eyes.

  “Look up, Maggie. Look up.”

  She opened her eyes again and watched as the ribbons of blue and green and red and violet, the road that had carried her and Badger and Usko to this place, flew and twirled, with a great rushing roar. It was both beautiful and terrible.

  And then the pain, from breastbone to belly. She knew it was the knife, that she was being slit open. She tried to scream, but even that was taken from her. All was taken from her, even breath, everything but the night and the stars and the moon and the dancing waves of roaring light. She felt her insides scooped out and tossed aside and in her agony, the flame-bite-and-tear of it, in the hollowness, the emptiness, she felt herself let go. She rose then, away from the sad, fragile, blood-ragged thing and the black-clad knife wielder, and rose, rose, rose, until she was in the midst of the ribbons of light and they embraced her, covered her, draped themselves around her and she was warm and safe and all was well.

  She turned to look down again and saw her entrails spread across the snow, so dark they looked as black as Perchta’s cape. And she watched as, from pockets inside that cape, the old woman pulled out some very odd objects and began to place them in the gaping wound of Maggie’s stomach: a hive of bees, an acorn, a perfectly spherical stone with a hole in the centre, an egg, a piece of blue sea glass, a flint, a mirror …

  Perchta was saying something over Maggie’s body, singing something, and now she was sewing up the wound. Maggie felt herself spinning, falling, twirling, swirling …

  Boom-ah-boom-ah-boom-ah-boom …

  * * *

  BAH-BOOM-AH!

  The drum stopped. Maggie was on the bunk bed, naked as a trout. Perchta sat, wide eyed, as though looking at something far in the
distance. Gans hunkered next to Perchta, her head cocked, watching Maggie.

  Maggie sat up and her hands grabbed at her stomach. Skin. Muscle. The bones of her hips. Just a faint silver line from her breasts to her pubic bone, and even that seemed to be fading. Perchta moved her lips. Then the old woman closed her eyes. When she opened them, she appeared to have returned to herself.

  Maggie said, “What happened to me? I was outside, and you … you …”

  Perchta smiled. “I did what had to be done. Get dressed now.”

  Maggie hopped from the bunk, a little unsteadily, and pulled on her pants, her turtleneck, her socks and boots.

  “You did well, Maggie,” said Perchta.

  Badger yipped, then stood and shook as though shaking off water. Maggie shivered and sat next to him on the floor by the stove, her arms around him. “What did you do to me?”

  “You were carrying some things you no longer need, and I merely replaced them with things that will serve you, added bits to things you already have, a little more faith and courage, perseverance, steadfastness. Before I sent you on, I needed to know if your heart was large enough to do that which is required to stop the suffering of others.”

  “And you felt you had to open me up to do that? But it was just a dream. Something you gave me, in the tea?”

  “Think of it as you will. Just know that not everyone survives the remaking.”

  Badger licked Maggie’s face. It was odd. She ought to be exhausted and terrified, but she wasn’t. In fact, she felt energized. Stronger.

  “I learned something,” said Perchta. “Your brother is where you think he is. He is not dead, but he’s much changed. If he sent you a message he must have done so some time ago, for he’s not now someone who’d ask you to save him. She has a great power, the one who has him, and she arranges things.”