The hawthorn smiled. In that moment, I thought she looked very beautiful. ‘You already know why,’ she said.
And I did. In my heart I have always known. Because we are the travelling folk. We are not born. We do not die. We are the cuckoo and the hare; the hawthorn and the mistletoe. We have no families, no home. We are the children of everywhere. Our cradle is the open heath. Our bloodline is the oldest of all. And we will not die, or sicken, or fade, but laugh, and dance, and hunt, and soar; and take what we can from the tame ones, the Folk, whose names and souls protect them. We take what we must, and never look back, and scatter our seeds to the four winds, and into the mountains, and over the sea, and all across the starry sky.
Four
March comes in sheep’s clothing, as do I. But it will go out with a lion’s roar. The white-headed crow keeps me abreast of all news from the castle, but it is not enough. I keep thinking of William’s letter, and of the hawthorn’s gleaming eyes, and of Fiona’s baby.
Fiona has not spoken to me since she sought me out in the woods. In fact, as far as I can see, Fiona has not left her house, not even to go to church. She stays inside, with the curtains drawn, and my wedding-ring charm shows me nothing. Not that I care for Fiona, and yet I think about her often.
I want to tell her the child still lives, safe in the arms of the travelling folk. Nameless, it will always be wild, and fly with the crow and the magpie. Soulless, it will never die, but go into the world again, until the world is ended. This ought to be a comfort to her, if she cares about her child. But the Folk are often strange. Who knows what she thinks? And why do I care?
Soon, the Crow Moon will be full. The hare will dance on the hillside. And maybe it is the March wind, or maybe some darker magic at work, but somehow today I am restless. Nothing can hold my attention: not the song of the blackbird, or the gnats over the lake, or the clouds in the cold blue sky. Today, something larger calls to me.
The road to the castle is safe enough – as long as I travel by night. No one sees me. The fat Crow Moon is not yet risen. My heart beats fast, remembering the last time I travelled by this path, and my bare feet are sore with walking. By the time I arrive, the sky has grown pale. The brown hills are still capped with snow. The path is lined with daffodils. I sit on the ground and watch the dawn that comes up like a primrose, and tell myself that my one true love is watching from his window.
But my one love was not true. I know that in my heart, and yet my heart does not believe me. The hawthorn would tell me that this is why my skills have not returned; that only by his death will I be free. Over the winter, I believed; and yet, with the spring, my mad heart leaps, and once more, I risk everything.
Like the kitchen princess in the tale, I have tried to make myself beautiful. The lake is still as cold as ice, and yet I have washed my hands and face, and combed out the dirt and leaves from my hair. The wedding gown of the April girl is not as suitable for March as my overcoat and scarf, but it is good to feel the silk on my skin. I have no shoes; I have no coach; and yet I can almost imagine what it would be to have him here at my side again; to have him really see me—
Time! Time! Overhead, a magpie croaks. Its warning jolts me from my dream. The morning moon is pale in the sky. Soon, the sun will follow. My wedding-ring charm shows me William’s room, curtained still against the night.
This is my moment, I tell myself. I shall go to his bedside. I shall walk, and never run. And I shall look into his eyes, and see myself reflected there, and know that his weakness is my strength, his helplessness my power . . .
Five
I came in through the servants’ door, as I have done so many times as a housecat or a rat. But this time, I came as my own self, barefoot on the cold stone floor, and, skirting the busy kitchen, with its great ovens, and spits, and fireplace, I found my way upstairs and along the passageway to William’s door.
There was no one there. No maid, no manservant, no doctor. It was still early, and I guessed the household was not yet fully awake. In any case, I walk like a ghost. No one saw me enter. The curtains were drawn: the room was dark; but I could see the canopied bed that I had once shared with William, with its coverlet of silk and its curtains of dull gold brocade. I could see the pillows on which my head had lain so close to his; and I could smell the scent of him, so like the scent of the ocean.
‘William,’ I said.
He stirred. He turned his head towards me. Sleepy in the darkness, his face a blur. And yet there was something not quite right. Something in the way he moved, perhaps. Something in the scent of him, the scent, not of a sick man, nor even of a young one . . .
‘Is it really you?’ he said. And his voice was not like William’s voice, but deeper, and more powerful. And his hand on mine felt different; not at all like a sick man’s hand, but like the massive paw of a brown bear awakening from slumber.
The big hand tightened over my wrist. And now I knew that, whoever it was, this man was not William. I could feel his strangeness; smell the tobacco scent of him, and the night sweat, and the rage.
I tried to pull away, and he laughed. He was stronger by far than I. And suddenly I knew who he was – William’s doctor, the man of books, who had hanged so many of the Folk in his search for Mad Mary.
He must have changed quarters with William, in the hope that I would come. He must have read his letter to me – maybe even dictated it. And knowing my nature as he did, all he had to do after that was wait for me to take the bait, even though I knew that it was filled with hooks and needles. And he had a knife, of course; because all he needed to break the charm was my heartsblood, spilt under a full Crow Moon.
The man called out in a loud voice: ‘I have her, my Lord! Come quickly!’
There came the sound of a muffled reply from the curtained anteroom. Even through the curtain, I recognised my William’s voice. Soon, there would be servants, guards, bearing swords and pikestaffs. Soon the curtains would be drawn, revealing the ghost moon in the sky . . .
He pulled me towards him, pinning my arms. There came a sound of tearing silk. The clothes of the dead never last, they say, and the April girl’s dress had given way. A stretched seam tore across my breast, and suddenly I was afraid.
The doctor held me close, and laughed. ‘What did you think you were doing?’ he said. ‘Did you think to seduce my Lord in your stolen finery?’
Perhaps I did, I thought. Perhaps I needed to believe. My eyes had seen, my ears had heard; and yet still my heart could not bear the truth. Perhaps it never would, I thought, until it felt the blade go in.
Once more, he laughed. ‘You stupid slut. How could you ever believe that he could care for one of your kind?’
I said, though my voice was trembling: ‘Sir, my kind are everywhere. They are in the air you breathe, and in the dark under your bed, and when you die, and lie in the grave, my kind will be there to feed on you.’
He laughed and pulled me closer. ‘Bold words.’
And now I could smell the musk of him, the wild and hot excitement. There was no fear. No fear at all. Only exhilaration, and the promise of violence.
They think they know me, I told myself. They think I am one of their village girls. They think I will scream, and struggle, and cry, and let them take from me what they can . . .
Suddenly, I was no longer afraid. I was not even angry. Does the wolf feel anger when it turns against the hunter? Does the crow feel anger when it feeds upon the carrion? Instead, I felt something inside me swell and surge like an ocean; lash out like a striking snake; scatter like a flight of birds. I fought, and kicked, and clawed, and bit, and then, somehow I was out of myself, and hovering serenely over the two thrashing forms on the bed, and someone had torn down the curtain, and sunlight was streaming into the room, and there was blood – oh, so much blood – all over the golden coverlet . . .
Then, like a stone falling into the lake, I was back in my skin again. Something hurt: my dress was torn; there was a heavy weight on my chest. A
nd there was William, by the bed, in his nightshirt, pale as the Crow Moon.
‘Oh, my God. What have you done?’
I tried to breathe. It hurt my chest. I struggled against the dead weight of the doctor, lying on top of me. My wedding dress was drenched with blood. My arms were slashed and bleeding. But the doctor was dead, and I pushed him aside, and found the blade was in my hand, grinning like an open throat.
Mary Mack, Mary Mack,
All in blood, and all in black . . .
I started to laugh. It was all too much. The dead man, the Crow Moon, and the way William was staring at me, as if I were Lord Death himself come to take his soul. It was all too terrible, all too absurd for anything but laughter. And the laughter was like a giant wave that swept me into the primrose sky, so that I was thistledown, and fireworks, and starlight.
William had dropped to his knees. I could see him from above. I could see myself, too, but I was unimportant. Poor little brown girl, in her torn dress. I could almost feel sorry for her. Let her go, I told myself. Let her crawl away to die, like a fox caught in a trap. I was free of her at last, and wild, and nameless once again.
‘Have pity,’ said William. ‘I was wrong. I made a mistake. Forgive me.’
Forgive you? I repeated. My voice came both from the brown girl, and from everywhere else, it seemed; from the sky, and from the sheep grazing on the open heath, and from the roots under the ground, and the blossoms all ready to break into life. You called me ugly, and a slut. You lied and you betrayed me. Worse than that, you named me. And when I was yours, you cast me aside like a faded garland. How can I forgive you?
‘Just let me live,’ said William. ‘Please, please; I want to be free.’
I blinked, and once more I was the girl, looking out from the girl’s eyes. It hurt, and I felt dizzy, and yet it felt good to see him on his knees in front of me, and to smile, and feel the blood on my arms, and know that I had won at last.
‘I’ll make you a promise, my love,’ I said. And I pulled the golden wedding ring from my bloody finger. ‘Take this as token of my goodwill and forgiveness.’
William took the ring, his face contorted with fear and disgust.
I came a little closer. Now I could see myself in his eyes, like a ghost of summertime.
‘My vow to you will be as true as any made in church,’ I said. ‘And any village maiden knows that gold is a binding promise. Wear this for me, until May Eve. Wear it, and think of me every night. Wear it, as your skin grows cold, and your heart beats ever more slowly. And when you are under the ground at last, I will dance for a year and a day, and sing with the voice of a nightingale.’
And with that I fled from the castle, barefoot in my ruined dress, until I reached the lakeside, and finally collapsed there underneath the blackthorn tree, with my warm blood soaking into its roots and my open eyes reflecting the sky.
April
The Hawthorn Month
‘Prithee,’ said he, ‘forget, forget,
Prithee forget, forgive;
O grant me yet a little space,
That I may be well and live.’
‘O never will I forget, forgive,
So long as I have breath;
I’ll dance above your green, green grave
Where you do lie beneath.’
The Child Ballads, 295
One
Today I am the bird of spring, singing cuckoo over the woods. The village Folk hear my song, and smile, and know that winter is over. The Winter Queen is fading, and the May Queen comes to take her place. The children play a skipping game. Only I hear the words they sing:
Cuckoo, cherry tree,
Good bird tell me,
How many years before I die?
One . . . Two . . . Three . . . Four . . .
The children know what their parents do not. They understand things better. They know there are witches in the woods, and serpents under the silent lake. They know that if they step on a crack, their mother’s life will be forfeit. And they know that the May Queen, for all her youth and beauty, still hungers for their young flesh, and must be appeased with offerings.
I do not know how long I lay underneath the blackthorn tree. When I came to my senses at last, it was night. The stars were out. Above me I could see Corvus, the Crow, and Venus, under her spread wing. I tried to sit up. I was aching with cold. I reeked of blood and sweat – my own, and that of the hateful doctor. My arms were laddered with deep cuts. My dress was nothing but bloody rags. But I was free again, and it felt good to be there under the stars, and to know that my waiting was over.
The white-headed crow was roosting on one of the upper branches. When I began to move, she hopped down, cocking her head attentively. In the starlight, she looked like a toy. She almost seemed to be smiling.
‘You again,’ I said.
Crawk.
‘I did as you said. I am free of him.’
Not quite, said the white-headed crow. There is one thing left to be done.
‘What now?’ I said.
May Eve, said the crow. Come to me when the Milk Moon wanes. When the fairy tree is in bloom. There we shall meet face to face, in our skin, and there we shall celebrate your rebirth.
Then it flew off, and I was left to return to my home on the island. I dressed my wounds with betony, and lamp oil, and a splash of wine. I wrapped myself in blankets and furs, and slept for forty-eight hours, and waking at last in the morning sun, went into an otter in the lake, and hunted, and swam, and played with my cubs, and fed, and sunned myself on the rock, and stayed in the otter’s skin for so long that I almost forgot I was a girl, dreaming of being an otter.
Two
Thus I spent the next two weeks; sleeping in my own skin, but travelling elsewhere by day. I was a wild horse on the heath, a skylark over the wild blue hills. I was a green fern, coiled like a snake; a king crow, pecking carrion. Every day I travelled; every evening, I returned. And thus I grew stronger every day; stronger and more certain.
Travelling as a magpie, I heard of the death of the doctor. Witchcraft, say the servants. Mad Mary, whisper the Folk. In any case, the body was buried in secret, in an unmarked grave, at the back of the village churchyard. In the skin of a tawny owl, I watched them put him in the ground, and when they were gone, I left a pebble inscribed with the rune Hagall, along with the head of a black rat, to show my respect for the deceased.
A week ago, I decided to move from the little island. William’s men have been here again, with hunting dogs and with crossbows. I still have my boat, and have taken it to the far side of the lake, to a cavern concealed behind a curtain of falling water. The spring rains have swollen the mountain stream, and made the entrance invisible. There is space inside the cave for my boat, my bedding and my possessions. And crossing the water keeps me safe from the dogs that might pick up my scent. Far across the lake, I can hear the sounds of their fruitless searching.
I find them almost ridiculous now. I almost pity their efforts. In the shape of a small brown goat, I taunt the hapless hunters. I steal a pack; I scatter the food; I run off with a pair of boots and set the dogs a-barking. And yet, the game soon tires me. I am too old for such childish things.
And today, I am the first cuckoo of spring, counting out the final days of William MacCormac.
Cuckoo, cherry tree,
Good bird tell me,
How many days before I die?
One . . . Two . . . Three . . .
Three
Meanwhile, news from the castle is that William grows weaker. No one knows what ails him, and the doctors have given up hope. The men he sent to hunt me have all gone back to the castle. Now, his servants travel round to every household in the land, hoping to find someone who can lift the witch’s curse on him.
Today, I am a starling. I see them coming from afar. On the path to the village they come, asking to see all the village girls. Young Master William, they say, will marry the girl who can break the spell, and bestow all his fortun
e upon her; lands, gold and cattle.
The village girls are eager to please. Their parents, even more so. There is a fortune to be had for the lucky one who succeeds. Two or three of the bolder girls step forward, ready to volunteer. The servants escort them respectfully back to the castle, where they are kept safely under guard for William to identify.
Mad Mary can change her appearance, they say. She could be any of these girls. And William is running short of time. Pale, his body racked with pains, he searches for his Malmuira; but I have gone into a hare, into a rat, into a frog, into a weeping willow, and I am nowhere to be found.
I think of the tale of the kitchen princess, and of the prince who loved her. What a fool that princeling was, to seek her by her finery. If William had loved me, then he would have known me anywhere: in a fish, a fox, a goat, a bat, a branch of blackthorn. He would have known and loved me wherever I chose to travel, and he would have wanted to be with me, whatever the cost to his heart or soul. But I no longer care for that. Now I am in everything. Now I am the wind, the rain, the love-knots on the hawthorn tree. Now I am the beetles that will feed on his shroud, come May Day.
Four
The showery month brings light and life: and the hawthorn is ready to break into bloom. I see the buds as they thicken: the leaves closely followed by blossom. It smells of milk and honey. The old Folk pick the hawthorn buds. They call them Poor Man’s Bread and Cheese, and many a hungry traveller has taken strength from those pale-green shoots.
But no one plunders the fairy tree. She is too old, too brittle. And yet this year she is full of life; laden with blossom; heavy with the nectar of her six-month sleep. Last year she was half-dead but now she is white from head to toe. Now she is bridal; now she is fine. The season has been good to her.
Meanwhile, the Milk Moon sharpens its horns. The white-headed crow now calls to me. Soon it will be time, she says, and everything will be back in its place.
A Pocketful of Crows Page 10