The Stumpwork Robe (The Chronicles of Eirie 1)

by Prue Batten

  ***

  These were the miserable thoughts of the young woman I would come to know so well - well enough to consider her part of my ‘family’. Perhaps with a few more summers under her belt she would have been able to rationalise her grievous loss, for it was grief which consumed her, have no doubt, that dark melancholia that could swallow people whole. Indeed I was to find myself swallowed soon after, as if the Barguest, that black dog of doom, sat at my side. But she was hurting and misunderstood and blind to everything but her own distrait and she had no idea an Other had overheard her in the barn and was now watching her with dark, interested eyes; musing on her private words with deliberate care and thinking on a masterful game.

  Chapter Two

  The tents of the stitching Fair resembled some vivid, gaudy rainbow. They stretched along the bank of the Prosser estuary, the river that flowed through the village of Orford. Ana breathed in the heady aroma of brackish water, seaweed and river-flats, all combining with the smell of roasting chickens, pork sausages and any manner of spiced potatoes. Jongleurs and musicians in gay clothes wandered through the crowd with its hubbub of dialects. Raji traders, Travellers, marketeers from all round Trevallyn and weathered, salty merchants from Pymm called to each other. Ana’s heart lifted for the first time in weeks. She gazed at the flying pennoncels undulating in the light morning breeze, an obscure sensation bubbling away inside that this was going to be an odd day, a remarkable day. The feeling alone was unusual because for weeks now she had despaired.

  ‘Will you come with me now or would you like to wander and we’ll meet later for lunch and choose our garments together?’ Marte tucked a leather wallet in the folds at her waistband.

  Ana smoothed her skirt folds, the fabric a welcome change from the grubby work clothes she wore around the farm. But should one forget her father had not long since died, she had tied a cameo, brought from a Venichese merchant by Mr. Lamb, on a black satin ribbon and it nestled in the hollow of her throat. ‘Can I wander? I’d like to see the Travellers’ embroidery.’

  ‘If you wish. We’ll meet at the Tavern at midday then. Take care.’

  Ana watched her mother stride off into the crowd, her straight shoulders and no-nonsense garb swallowed by the dust. Aine, she’s so removed, thought Ana. It’s as if I’m an acquaintance now, not her daughter, the one she dandled on her knee. What will it take to make her Mother again? She bit her lip, a cloud drifting towards the lighter feeling of earlier, but a loud groan disturbed her troubled reverie and she turned quickly to find a brown camel bearing toward her loaded with rolled rugs and mats, placing one calloused hoof in front of the other and staring down its cambered nose with complete disdain.

  ‘Praise be, lady, we do not wish to run you down. Come to the Corner in a while and Kholi Khatoun will display his wares for your pleasure.’ The speaker greeted Ana and grinned, revealing white teeth.

  ‘Thank you, I will. Have you come all the way from the Raj?’ She hadn’t meant to stare but exotic indigo tattoos stretched across the man’s cheekbones. The curiosity that had died the day her father passed away resurrected itself just a fraction, testing the waters.

  ‘Indeed mistress. From Ahmadabad. I have been there through the Symmer Season for it doesn’t pay to wander the Amritsands at that time.’ Kholi Khatoun flicked back the corners of his grubby djellabah. Thick, black hair sprung out in fierce curls from underneath the brim of a rolled and fur-trimmed caplet crammed on his head.

  ‘Did you come across the mountains and down the Celestine Stairway?’

  ‘Indeed princess.’ He smiled and the camel spat over the top of Ana’s head. ‘But Mogu gets impatient. She would rid herself of her cargo and rest. Salaam alaykum, lady.’ He folded a tanned hand across his midriff and urged Mogu on.

  She watched the camel’s rump swaying away, trying to imagine the huge hooves negotiating the vertiginous, freezing paths of the Celestine Stair and then she began to wander, freedom tugging and pulling at her atrophied spirit. Like the night in the stable, as she unburdened herself to the stallion, she felt a twinge of something, some eldritch goad perhaps, saying ‘go on, keep walking, keep walking.’

  Turning a corner she came across the site she had hoped to find. Travellers’ vans were lined up in a row, horses tethered and grazing and tents pitched in front with wares laid out on trestles. There was something special she thought, about having all one possessed in a van on wheels and pulled by a horse that was as important as life. To be able to uproot and go wherever the spirit led. No ties, to be free! Such a thing! The Travellers were renowned for their knitting and weaving, for luscious embroideries; beautiful pieces in pastel colours or brights, in silk and wool, on velvet, silk or damask. But the most astonishing of all was the raised and padded embroidery the Travellers called stumpwork and there was only one embroiderer of such skill. Her van was positioned under an old elm tree and Ana filled up with a lascivious envy. The hues of the sea - pale blue, turquoise, mazarine, viridian - all spoke to her of far distant waves and sea creatures. An exquisite banner fluttered above the tent, embellished and wrought in gold and amongst the swathes of silks, satins, and gauzes nestled a trove of treasure; pincushions, mirror-frames, music boxes, caskets, vests, tailcoats and beauteous gowns that excited the crowd. Women chittered like sparrows as they bought and paid for the magnificences. The Traveller pocketed gelt from eager fingers and looked up as Ana reached for a tiny music box which fitted into her cupped palm.

  ‘You can wind it up if you like.’ She smiled and Ana admired the smooth face with its crown of cascading copper hair. The Traveller’s garments whispered as she moved, the topaz silk shot with mauve like a dusk sky and with embroideries of leaves, berries and bees stitched all over.

  ‘May I?’ said Ana and turned the key, a sweet tune tinkling forth, filling the space with its chimes and cadence. Glinting blackberries and copper leaves decorated the lid, with a perfect ladybird crawling across whilst underneath the leaves a silver cobweb sparkled. ‘Oh, it’s exquisite,’ Ana whispered, a moment of wanting to share it with her Pa flicking across her heart.

  ‘Then you may keep it.’

  ‘But I couldn’t afford to pay.’

  ‘No, you mistake me,’ the Traveller laughed. ‘I give it to you as a gift.’ The Traveller began wrapping the box in fine tissue. ‘You see, I remember you. You come every year to my stall and it’s obvious by the way you look at things that you value my work. You appreciate the time and effort and I think touching the threads and fabrics stirs you the way it does me. Trust me, it is my pleasure to give you this as a token.’ The prophecy that had hung above Ana settled over her like a gossamer net and she felt its soft threads. Envy of the Traveller’s way of life, sadness at her own, all conspired to create such a torrent of emotion. She reached for the small parcel and as fingers touched, she thanked the Traveller who brushed aside the gratitude. ‘Goodness, it’s nothing. I’m glad you’ll have it. When you play a tune, think of me. By the way, I am Adelina.’

  ***

  And that is how I met Ana. As I felt that frisson when our hands touched, I looked up quickly, for it was an unusual feeling, quite eldritch in its sensation and yet I knew this young woman to be as ordinary as me. My eyes spied a figure leaning against a tree opposite my van and I instinctively knew the feelings emanated from his corner.

  The man was tall, well formed and graced by a face that could have been painted by a master. Titian hair had been impatiently drawn back at his nape and he crammed hands into the capacious pockets of a long black coat underneath which I could see dusty boots. His dark as night eyes did not flinch in their intense scrutiny of my client. He reminded me of a black panther I had seen in the Raj... sleek as it lounged around but with teeth and claws concealed in the ebony satin package.

  My heart jumped and my breath sucked in and I knew at once the man was Faeran. You may ask why was I scared? Well, does the word ‘Faeran’ not translate in our language to mean fear? We mortals seldom see these str
iking Others but if any of us are unfortunate enough to cross their path, it seems we are doomed to a life of pining and grief if not death. They are an unknown quantity, these people, with their own dubious morality, their questionable antics. Quickly I checked the faces of the crowd walking past to see if they had spied this man, to see if they felt the manifestation of his eldritch personality. No one had. And I realized he had used glamour to hide his nature from all bar me.

  I watched him examine Ana, sure that it meant something devious. Fear for the woman shivered through me and I longed for a warm wrap in which to swathe my trembling body, for suddenly I saw a shatranj board with a life-threatening game underway. Do you know shatranj, that game of black and white shah, vazir, rukh, alfil, asb and sarbaz? This dark stranger would manoeuvre like an aliyat, the most serious of players with a great stake at play. The stake would be the sarbaz and I knew who that pawn would be. The question was, my friend, who would play the white shah and queasiness tickled my belly as I wondered if it might be me.

  But I must guide you further and with haste. So much to tell and so little time. You will notice you are now reading the last of these pages so I would like you to place the small wand on the book and say: That is all, be small. Take the book and place it back in the casket, closing the lid but keep the wand with you. Follow the black and gold bee past the stitching of Queen Ann’s Lace and amongst the rosebuds and ladybirds and you will find more bees - chase those and you will arrive at a hive. Ah, I tell you, that hive took me weeks of weaving honey coloured thread in and out until I achieved the semblance of a real willow bee bothy.

  Put your smallest finger in the door of the hive and feel for another tiny book. Those that are unaware will think I’ve padded the hive thickly, one of the techniques of stumpwork. They will have no clue as to what really hides there. See now, you have another book in your palm. Use the wand, say the charm and read on...

  Chapter Three

  A wave of sound rolled down between the aisles of stalls and broke around Ana’s head causing her to look up. ‘It’s the boat races! Oh Adelina, I must go. My brother is racing in our coracle. But I shall see you anon as my mother would buy clothes for us and I’m positive you have things she will love. Oh and by the way, I’m Ana Lamb.’

  Adelina smiled. ‘Good day, Ana. Now get you gone or you’ll miss the fun.’

  Ana turned, her woven wool skirt-hems flying up as she sped off in the direction of the riverbank, her hair beginning to fall, unaware a tall stranger followed at a discrete distance, to all intents and purposes part of the crowd who did not want to miss a minute of the water races. Those already positioned on the bank had secured the best spots and were cheering and laughing as each race ran its course. Ana squeezed and ducked under people’s arms, trying to get closer as friendly banter surged around her. ‘Here, lady, would you like a hand... it’s a good viewing platform.’ A voice shouted above her and she followed the line of the outstretched palm, up to a shoulder and a pleasant face framed in dark titian hair. Hearing the crowd yell again, Ana put out her hand and allowed herself to be pulled onto a broad log from where she could see head and shoulders over everyone. She tossed a breathless thanks in her benefactor’s direction as she searched the oncoming craft for her brother.

  Coracles could hardly be called the fastest and most graceful craft on water. Built of pitch-soaked calico stretched tightly over wicker frames and like a soup bowl in shape, they were propelled by the rower leaning precariously forward and sweeping with one blade around the curved sides of the quaint vessel. The strength and fierce purpose of the competitors made for an unstable lurch as each craft wobbled down the course, the battle spreading white wavelets across the water. To add to the difficulty of the race, the spectators flung small sacks of flour and dried cow dung at the competitors, calling and jeering, urging the rowers on.

  ‘Peter! Harder!’ Ana yelled.

  ‘Which is Peter?’ The stranger spoke over the cheering of the crowd.

  ‘There, the streaked brown hair. Oh come on, Peter. Put your back into it! Go!’

  Ana’s companion bent down level with her shoulder and followed the line of her arm and pointing finger. Her soft-as-satin hair blew back and a tendril caressed his cheek and his hand lifted as if to touch it.

  The timbre of crowd noise began to alter on the breeze and Ana’s gaze sharpened as hissing began to fly across the surface of the water, her angered cries adding to the rest, fists balling. ‘No, NO. Bellingham, you lousy cheat!’

  ‘No,’ the tall companion said. ‘Watch... your Peter will come to no harm.’ Jonty Bellingham, livid at Peter’s skill, had powered in close by and raised his paddle to club his competitor across the shoulders. He lifted the make-do weapon, took aim and brought it forward. The paddle swished towards its target but with a loud crack hit something solid and unseen, foiling his aim, the paddle falling from his grasp, his craft lurching and Jonty flailing backwards. The crowd screamed with delight as he slid under the river surface. To vociferous catcalling, his pugnacious face bobbed up again, red and angry, streaming with brown riverweed. Some fool began chanting ‘Wet, wet, wet, wet!’ Within seconds the crowd had taken it up and the miscreant had swum to the shore to beat a dripping retreat. Peter meanwhile had continued on, gamely crossing the finish line, paddle waving above his head to the applause of the crowd.

  Ana crowed. Cheering loudly, a tiny piece of her realized it was the happiest she’d been for months. She turned to her companion. ‘Well sir,’ she said. ‘You were right. He came to no harm.’

  ‘Indeed. And what does he win for being the victor?’

  ‘A kiss from the Stitching Queen; she’s pretty mind, and Peter and she are betrothed and will be married in a fortnight. And a hundred gelt. Which Mother will no doubt purloin for seed or some such. But it doesn’t matter. He beat Bellingham and in my eyes that’s all that matters.’

  ‘Not a nice person then?’

  ‘No,’ she edged along the log, eager to leave, and the stranger jumped down, reaching to swing her off. His hands circled her waist and he swung her in an arc, secure and balanced.

  The world seemed to slow. His eyes and the ink blackness of them dragged her down into their velvet depths, as surely as if he had weighted her with boulders. Nothing existed but the swing of her skirt, the air swishing passed her ears and the man who held her. Her feet touched the ground but the man’s hands stayed where they were, encircling her gently as he spoke. ‘I am Liam.’

  Ana nodded, her heart skipping, stomach light. She brushed at her hair, the movement soft, her glance fixed on this tall gallant. ‘I am Ana.’

  ‘I know.’

  She floated in the dark comfort of his gaze until her brother’s shout broke the crystal clear moment, shattering it with a whoop that all around could hear. ‘I must go...’ she hesitated, the man’s hands still encircling her, a feeling of dismay crowding in as he let them drop. She went to run to her brother’s call but stopped to stare again. And then she was off, brown skirt kicking up, hair flying.

  ***

  Ana was now under Faeran thrall, her heart and her soul belonged to the aliyat, the game-player who would move her wherever he wanted on his shatranj board, until the opposing shah was forced to declare.

  I was to find out the two had shared this crucial moment because I spent many hours in Ana's company and she related her first meeting with this Other, her feelings and so many other things to me as we journeyed in close quarters. As for myself, it was my skill with the needle that brought me in touch with the eldritch world. Can you imagine I was a better stitcher than the rest of the Others put together? Ah, but it hardly matters. What matters is that I became a player and as my friendship with Ana grew, I needed to draw up every ounce of tactical skill to try and equal my opponent, the Faeran who was called Liam.

  There I was on that fateful day, sitting at my stall with a birchwood hoop in my hand and tiny strips of green basilisk skin, fashioning the thoraxes of goldwork beetles. Th
e gold thread, small skeins of tightly plied fine metal, lay cut to lengths in front of me. My needle slipped back and forth through the taupe silk in the hoop with a shushing sound, anchoring the basilisk skin with tiny stitches. Occasionally, as the roar of the crowd surged around my ears, I would turn the screw at the head of the hoop and stretch the fabric as tight as a drum, tapping to test for a hollow resonance that indicated the perfect tension for my work. As the needle flew in and out I mused on Ana.

  You know when you meet someone who will be a kindred spirit, don’t you? Bells don’t ring loudly but maybe they tinkle a little, as if some sort of eldritch harmony could occur. That’s what happened when I met the young woman from Trevallyn. She reacted to my embroidery in a way that delighted me and I felt a common bond as if she wanted to know so much more. But more than anything I saw a sadness that intrigued me. I wanted to pass the time, to delve into the shadows of her melancholia. But the thing that pricked every one of my senses to a state of alarm was the entry of that Other into her life. Being sad she was weak and being weak she was vulnerable.

  The perfect pawn.

  Chapter Four

  ‘Oh, Peter, well done.’ Ana ran to her brother, grabbed him in a hug, the first for months, and then stood back as Fiona, the Stitching Queen and Peter’s betrothed, moved to his side. ‘Fee, good day to you. Didn’t he do well? Oh, Peter, I think the river spirits were with you today as something stopped Jonty for sure. He meant nothing but ill will.’

  ‘Aye.’ Peter pulled a shirt on. ‘I don’t know what was wrong with the git but I was never so glad when I saw him tumble. Hell I hate him. And I hate that he’s about to be…’