by Wolf, Jack
Viviane looked upon me, and her Countenance was harder than Stone. “And what,” she said. “would you choose?”
“Let me live,” I said. “Let me return home, to my Wife, and care for her, and steward this Valley, until the Daye on which I should naturally die, upon which I shall come to you, and you should have full seven Generations’ Reparation from me, and it shall be gladly rendered.”
“That Daye,” she answered, “may be closer than you think, Caligula.”
“Indeed,” I said. My Breath felt raw upon my Lips. “I know it; still I pray you, Viviane, grant me this! Grant me this, and let all War be ended between us. I will no longer call your People Gypsy, but give them fair Treatment in my Lands. Ye shall not be harried; never shall ye be hanged. Your antient Rights and Ways shall be protected; your Woods and Waterways and Chalklands kept open, never inclosed.”
Viviane stared at me, and tho’ there was no Time, it seemed to me she looked upon me for a Century. “You jabber like a Monkey,” she said, at last. “But it is enow. The Bargain you would offer me is fair and seemly. No more will there be bad Blood between us. You shall steward my Valley. But if you think ever to betray me, if you think to depart it; to break your Word, to abandon your Wife, neglect your People, forget your Promise, my Anger shall fall swift and deadly as the White Owl. The Bat may go to her Mother. She will come back to me of her own Choice when the Seasons change. None of my Kind can endure long amongst yours.”
The white Horse tossed her Head, and the Bits jingled; the Sunne moved again.
Viviane steppt back into the slanting Light. I squinted up mine Eyes to see her, for it seemed the Rays shone thro’ the faint Gossamer of her Dress so bright that she was become the very Dawn. Then she was changing, transforming once again into her other Form; and I wondered whether Viviane was truly the White Owl, or the White Owl was Viviane; or whether both Shapes were never more than Signs.
* * *
As soon as the Owl was gone from my Sight, Bat jumped up from her Place and ran to leap into mine Arms. Startled, I caught her.
The Bat’s Body was light and dry, brittle seeming as a small Twig that hath been left near to a roaring Fire. Yet she had an Heartbeat, and I felt it it rattle furious and strong against mine Hand. So, she is not as inhuman, I thought, as Nathaniel and Viviane would have had me believe.
“So, Tris,” Nathaniel said, rising to his Feet and stretching lazily, his Hands linked behind his Head, as if he were a Fencer cooling his Muscles after a Match. “All’s well that ends well, as the Play hath it. Now all that remains is for us to toss this useless Lump of Flesh in the River, and you shall have carried the Daye.”
“Dost care not,” I said, “that this Flesh, which lately was a Man, died not for his own Fault, but for yours?”
“That,” answered Nathaniel, “may be true; or it may not. What you feared in Joseph Cox was not my monstrous Nature, Tristan, but your own; who shall say whether he died not for that? Anyway, I care not; he was a brutal Swine who did not deserve to go on living, even if he had not earned the Death he got. Better for all he died by your Hand. What matter? Now pick up the Corpse and shov’t as far out as you can into the Current. It is strong.”
“Will it not float?” I said.
Nathaniel laughed. “Nay, Tris, not in these Waters,” he said. “Swollen as they are, they are as treacherous as the Avon. ’Twill be many Weeks before the thing is found, and you know full well what Condition it may attain in that Time.”
I did not move.
“Tristan,” said Nathaniel impatiently. “I am trying to assist you. Be discovered with the Body if you will; there will surely be an Inquest, if not a Trial, and as Joe Cox hath a gaping Hole in his Chest several Inches wide, it cannot go well for you. In vain may you plead Defense of Self when the Look of the Business is that you insanely murdered the Man for Anatomy.”
I knew Nathaniel was right. How I wished that he was not.
“If they do not hang you,” Nathaniel said, “they will lock you away in the Hospital.”
I lowered my Bat, gently, to the Ground. “Stand forth, sweet Heart,” I told her. “I must rid me of this Cadaver, ere it betray me.”
I did not intirely trust Nathaniel’s Assertion regarding the River, so to be more certain of my desired Result I scrabbled around in the dirt Bank until I had unearthed sufficient Quantity of large Stones to have filled Joe Cox’s Coat, and fastened about his Neck a farther two of such Weight that I could scarce lift them together. It was mine Hope that the combined Drag of all these would anchor the Cadaver in Place against the gassy Pressure that would build up within it as it began its Decay, and safeguard against its Rise before the river Eels had done their Work upon it.
With an almighty Effort, I dragged the whole Load across the Grass and droppt it at the River’s Edge.
The swollen Waters roiled before me, black and endless in the long Shaddowe of the Bank, and I recalled how I had sate upon the daye of my Collapse staring into the Thames; and in mine imagined Memory the Thames rose up above the Rooftops of the City, rearing like a black water-Snake, seeking me out, wrapping me up in its Coils and drowning the Life from me. The little River Coller was not the Thames, was not a Fraction of that great River’s Span and seething Depth, but yet it seemed to me in that Moment that it had become’t, and my Balance reeled.
But as I began to tip forward, I felt Nathaniel’s Hand upon mine Arm, strong as a Blacksmith’s Vice, and abruptly my Senses returned to me, like the sharp Clang of an Hammer upon Steel. “Do it,” said Nathaniel.
With one final, Herculean Shove, I pushed the weighted Corpse of the pig-Man, that I had mistaken for Raw Head, into the hurling Waters. It sank immediately, and vanished.
“Come,” said Nathaniel at once. “You shall not be found here. Get up on my Mare, and we shall carry you back to the Highway, where you first fell. There I shall depart you, and you shall never see me more; at least, with mortal Eyes.”
I did not argue, neither did I resist. Both would have been futile, and neither intirely justified. I did not want Assistance from Nathaniel, and I had not asked it; but it appeared he wanted nothing in Return, and I had not the Strength left after mine Efforts with the Cadaver to repel him.
One doth not, unless one is inordinately stupid, blame the Magpie for being what he is. He is not culpable for his Cruelty, tho’ it may be savage; he doth only what his Nature inclines him to do. So it was with Nathaniel Ravenscroft, Goblin Knight, Changeling, Raw Head. Those Gnomes, of which he had upon that distant Afternoon laughingly told me, could not perceive up; ’twas not in their Nature. Nathaniel, Faerie too that he was, could not perceive when he had caused Harm, or done wrong, because to him neither Term had any Meaning. I might have beaten him, and not his Scapegoat Cox, to Death, but never would he have evinced even the slightest Understanding wherefore I had done so. To imagine, then, that he might have comprehended my Sentiments at being asked to ride with him was as fantastic a Design as to think that mine own Chestnut might be taught to read the Greek. I kept my Peace.
Nathaniel mounted before me, and Bat, at mine Insistence, also, and we rode in steady Quietude thro’ the awakening Valley. After a good while, we reached the Crossroads ’pon which stood the Bull, and Way-stone, and here Nathaniel reined in his gleaming Mare and explained that I should dismount. “Right here is where you fell,” he said. “Your Family are all out a-seeking you, in a rare old Panick, the Lot of them. Is’t not remarkable, Tris, that you should be so loved?”
“What of Bat?” I demanded, dismounting clumsily and tumbling once again upon mine Arse on the Greensward.
“You shall have her home; but not upon this Morning. You have need to recover your Health and your Wits; there was Poison on that Scythe, and even now it spreads. If you are still alive on All Soules’ Daye, when the Gate lieth full open betwixt our Kingdoms, look for her then, and you will not be disappointed; tho’ mayhap you’ll come to wish that you had been. Farewell, Bloody Bones, my Brother, mi
ne other Face. I have hugely enjoyed your Company. I shall see you again on your dying Daye. Till then, Tristan Hart.”
He tippt his Hat, as if we had been but fellow Travellers upon one Road, and with a glittering Smile jabbed his Spurs into the Mare’s snowy Flanks. The great Creature half reared, then leapt forward into a Gallop, sinuous and swift against the distant Chalk Hill like white Water all a-flow. I heard her Hooves, loud as Heartbeats, long after she had vanished from my Sight; but I knew not whether I heard them with mine Ears or in mine Imagination.
* * *
Perhaps Nathaniel had spoken true about the Scythe, perhaps not; he was, after all, no Surgeon. But the Wound upon my Shin was raw and hot, and mine Head was aching and spinning as if a Devil had got quite inside it. In this debilitated and bloody State I was found some short Minutes later by Erasmus Glass and my Sister; and while Jane wept, Erasmus got me up into the Chaise, wrappt me in a thick Blanket, and drove me back to Shirelands. I remember little of the Journey except that upon mine Arrival at the Hall I was not permitted to see Katherine—which Denial I vehemently contested, but to no Avail—and put to Bed, where I remained, I later learned, for the succeeding three Weeks.
My Family feared, naturally, that I had again gone mad; but of course I reassured—and in two Cases, disappointed—them by waking from my Month long Fever apparently sane, and untroubled in my Mind by that Dread of Viviane and the Goblin Knight that previously had maintained such a cruel and unrelenting Influence over my daily Existence.
Erasmus, who was with me when I woke, sent at once for Mrs H. to tell the Household of my Restoration, and described to me in affectionate and touching Terms the Effect my sudden and dramatick Sicknesse had had upon them. Jane, faced with the Possibility of my Death, had gone intirely against her Husband’s expresst Wishes and moved herself back into her old Chamber, opposite to mine own, in order to assist Katherine, and Erasmus, with my Care. She was not now on any better a Footing with the one Barnaby than our Father was with the other, and Erasmus doubted that she would ever return, sans Force, to Withy Grange. Somewhat to my Surprize, he did not seem at all displeased by this unexpected Turn of Events, and very much the Opposite; but I had neither Strength nor present Inclination to interrogate him on his Change of Heart. This Return of his favourite Child had proved a veritable Tonic to our worthy Father, who, despite an evident and real Distress at my Sickness, had begun himself to recover at an even faster Rate than heretofore, and had regained some Rudiments of civilised Speech; tho’ only, Erasmus cautioned, in my Sister’s Presence.
These Newes pleased me much, but now that I had regained my Senses the only Person I wanted of course to see was my Katherine, and I waited impatiently for her Appearance.
Profound indeed were the Newes I had for her concerning the Restoration of her stolen Child; tho’ I was not certain of the Words I should use to impart them, my Resolve was steady, and mine Excitement great. I was not without some Apprehension of her Reaction. I knew that Katherine had loved her Baby; but whether she would love her now she would be made to raise her seemed a different thing, and one that I could not easily fore-guess. But whatever my Wife’s Sentiments, I knew too that on All Soules’ Morn my dear Bat would fly home to me, and remain with me as my Daughter until she decided of her own Will to return to her natural Kin: as the Changeling Nathaniel had done before her.
I will have that in common with the Rector, I thought. We will both have raised, and lost, a Goblin. The Notion amused me for a Moment, and I laughed aloud; then to my immense Surprize I found that I was weeping, and I did not know for why.
I rubbed at mine Eyes in a vain Effort to forestall these unexpected Tears, but to no Avail; and as I touched mine Eyelids for the third Time I seemed, all on a sudden, to see right thro’ them, as if they had been glass Lenses; and verily the willow Tree appeared in Katherine’s Shape before me, as clear as if she had been living Wood an Arm’s Length from my Face; and before I was able even to cry out in Surprize, she had begun, silently, inexorably to transform into a tall, smooth trunked Ash, and I was peering upwards, thro’ the Foliage, seeing—
Mistletoe.
But Raw Head when he hath discovered about the Babe—
Mine Heart lurched. ’Tis the End of the Tale, I thought. The Tale of Raw Head and the Willow Tree, that Nathaniel interrupted, and would not let me hear out.
“No!” I cried in sudden Dread, for I apprehended already, without in Conscience knowing—what a Marvell is the Mind—what the utter End of the Story was to be—or more truly, what already it had been; and I did not want it; nay, no Part of it, neither to hear it nor to know it nor to understand; but only to misplace it, as far away from me as possible, to lock it away in a sealed Room deep in mine Head, and never think on it again.
Sometimes, Memory whispered, that is how Grief works.
But even as I voiced forth this my Denial, there stole upon me the Understanding, gentle and unexpected as my Mother’s Hand upon the Crown of mine Head, that altho’ during mine Illness my Conscience had done everything in its Power to prevent me from remembering anything of Katherine’s Story, now that I was well, it could—indeed, it must—continue to do so no longer. If I truly wanted to stay sane, I must permit my Memory to unclose the Whole of the Tale, and face up to whatever Truth I had exiled within.
Time to wake up, Tristan Hart.
Slowly, I let my Skull sink upon my Pillow, and the final Words of Katherine’s History washed over me, like white salt Water.
But Raw Head when he hath discovered about the Babe, he hath gone upon the first Morning of May, all by himself under an Ash Tree; and for Shame he hath Hanged himself upon it, high among the Mistletoe, and hath Taken his own Life. This is the worst thing of all, the Secret Never to be Told. But O Bloody Bones, it happened. It was Real.
Now Katherine Montague looks into her Mirrour; and she cannot tell verily if she dreamed Leonora was the Willow Tree, or if the Willow Tree dreamed she was Leonora. And she Prayes beyond all Expectation that Tristan Hart will Forgive her all these Sins, that are too Many, and too Terrible, and too Painfull for one little Heart to Comprehend.
When my Katherine finally found me, sobbing, I had no Words at all with which to tell her anything. Instead, I let her hush my weeping with a Kiss, and hold me – for in all Honesty I was too weak for it to have been the other Way about; and all those things, both wicked and virtuous, that I had heard and seen and felt in mine Illness melted away from me like Ice before the Stove, and I was no longer sure whether what was real had become Dream, or Dream real. And verily it mattered not.
“We shall never see Nathaniel Ravenscroft again,” I said at last to her. It was the only thing I knew for Truth.
“Oh, Tristan,” she said, pressing my wet Cheek against her Breast. “Tristan, Darling, I know. I know. I know.”
She presst Mary’s Sketch into mine Hand, and we lay still together, in Silence.
CHAPTER SEVEN-AND-THIRTY
Despite all Katherine’s Efforts to chear me, for the next few Weeks after mine Awakening, I drooped like a sick Cat, seeking mine own Company and burying my Thoughts in Silence. I could not go near to my Study, for the Aire within conjured such Associations of Simmins, and of Joseph Cox, that I could not breathe it. Erasmus said that I must take my Time, and expect a slow and incremental Progress in my Recovery; I had been exceeding ill, and would not get well in short Order.
I had been all one Afternoon languishing in my Bedchamber with the Window ajar, reading my Mother’s Copy of Spinoza’s Tractatus theologico-politicus, when there came thro’ it another Sound, more piercing than Nathaniel’s hunting Horn, more compelling than the Drumming: a Scream.
* * *
The Daye had been quiet; I had been listening idly, as I read, to the Wind rustling the Ivy. Then, on a sudden so sharp it cut mine Attention all in two, the Scream resounded: an high, agonised, blue-white Shriek, Lightning tearing thro’ the Sunne; a Scream of Pain more vivid, more intense even than the terrible H
owl Lady B.— had given at the first Incision of Dr Hunter’s Knife. It rose before me, vibrating, a naked Rainbow of exclusive Agony, imprinting itself upon the Arc of Heaven. My Lungs quickened; Aire and Blood mixt in my pulmonary Vein, spread like liquid Electricity round my Body, jarring my Spine. The Cry hung on the Aire, a thin curving Line, humming slightly; still pure, still perfect despite that. An Human Sound, closer to Perfection than a Musician’s finest Note: Pain distilled into Sound, Sound into Beauty, Beauty.
Katherine.
I threw down the Tractatus, and I ran.
The Aire in the Ha-ha, whence echoed the Cry, was as cold as a Grave, for no Ray of Sunne had penetrated the Whole of that dampe Summer to dry the sodden Earth. The mossy Path between the Thorns was slippery. I clambered down into the Ditch and looked for her, but there was no Sign. A white Panick leapt up in my Bones, setting my Marrow afire. Surely, I thought, the Babe comes, and before its Time! My Knees shook, and I staggered. “Katherine!” I shouted. “Katherine!”
Where was she?
A blinding Pain crosst my Brow.
Was this Pain Katherine’s Answer? Was it Katherine’s Pain? Or was it the Echo of mine own, returning, many Times increased, from between the high thorn Hedges?
“Tristan?” Her Voice was brittle, a thin, piping Sob, a broken-winged Bird. I took one slow Step toward it, and, at last, I saw her: crumpled in the wet Dirt on the far Side of the Stile that led into the High Field. Her Skin was the whitish grey of old Parchment, drawn tight around the Bones of her Face. Her Lips were almost blue in their Bloodlessness, and her Breath was shallow. Her grey Eyes stared into mine. She seemed antient of Dayes.
Thinking nothing of it, I leapt over the Stile into open Country, and knelt beside her. And then I perceived it; not partus praetemporaneus, but a bodily Dislocation, monstrous in its Degree: the right Humerus displaced from the Scapula, and lying where a Bone had no Purpose to lie; a brutal Disjuncture, ugly and agonising perhaps beyond even my Comprehension. Katherine had slippt upon the Stile, and, in falling, had reached out to try to save herself.