Faerie Heart

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by Livi Michael


  ‘Every household doesn’t need a man,’ I told my mother. ‘Myrna and Mabda live together, alone.’

  ‘But they are old,’ my mother said. ‘Anyway,’ she added, ‘we need someone to look after us.’

  ‘I’ll look after us!’ I said, and my mother sighed and shook her head.

  ‘We need more children,’ she said, and I didn’t say anything to that. That was too much to think about.

  Now they’re arguing in hushed tones as if they think I can’t hear.

  ‘– time she stopped playing,’ I hear Bryn say. ‘We must give her more work.’

  I listen hard, but my mother says nothing to this. I can hear her turning away from him. Bryn will never take the place of my father, not even in my mother’s heart. And he knows that.

  Lu elbows me in the ribs and I shove him so that he lies further away. He could sleep in his own cradle if he wanted to, but he always wants to sleep with me. And keep me awake.

  They are arguing again, about the roof that needs thatching. My mother says that Bryn’s leaving it too long, and Bryn says that the dyke comes first.

  My father would have thatched the roof.

  If I could do magic I’d mend the roof.

  I’d bring my father back.

  The night has grown quiet now, a special kind of quiet, full of the noises you forget to hear in the daytime. Apart from my mother and Bryn. The sound of their muttering mingles with the murmuring of the forest, and Lu’s breathing, and I turn over, curling into him, and clutch the amulet my father made. And nothing changes, I can’t make it change, but I do start to feel just a tiny bit better.

  I shift again on the bumpy sackcloth, and scratch myself, and try to sleep. I can hear the forest talking now. Behind everything there is always the sound of the forest. Boughs creaking, branches moaning, and water running in little rivulets and talking to itself. The great dark trees of the forest stand all around our little huts. Beyond them are trees, and beyond them, more trees. As far as anyone can go to the north, east and west, for a day, a week, or a whole month, there are only trees. All pathways end just a little way in. Then there are no huts and no People, but only the wild animals – wolves and bears and deer, foxes and badgers and birds. The forest is a whole world. It feeds us and gives us wood for shelter and warmth, but it is as dangerous as a wild beast, Myrna says. No one goes into it and leaves again unchanged.

  She says that the spirits of the People live in the trees and whisper together at night. Somewhere in there my father crouches in the bole of a tree, or is stretched out in its branches, watching us. And his parents, and their parents, and Digri’s mother, and Mabda’s two sons. When the wind moans in the branches she says they are mourning their mortal lives. The trees watch over us as we go in, and that’s why we must pick wood only from the forest floor, and never, ever, hurt a tree.

  My mother and Bryn stop arguing, finally, and now I can only hear the voices of the forest. ‘Who – who?’ cries an owl, and the night hawk cries ‘Here – over here’. If I listen closely I can hear all the night creatures settling in branches or scurrying through roots. Closer still, and the forest seems to be calling my name.

  ‘Keri,’ it whispers. ‘Ke-ri.’

  Next day there’s work to do before I can go out and play. Sweeping the hut, minding Lu, who tips over his bowl of porridge then crawls around in it, so that I have to clean him up. Then I have to feed the hens and the pigs. I take Lu with me, though it’s hard to hang on to him and feed the pigs at the same time.

  I can hear the shouts of the men by the river. They are rolling clods of earth and large stones to make a dyke to stop the fields flooding when the rains come. First they fell trees with their stone axes that are always breaking. They’re allowed, because we all need the wood from the trees, and because they make offerings first, to the forest. They hack the branches off the trunks until they’re left with smooth logs. They roll the biggest stones along on these logs, but it’s hard, heavy work. The ground’s uneven and the stones fall off. Someone must always keep moving the logs from the back to the front, and they slither and slide in the mud.

  If we were friends with the faeries, we wouldn’t have to work so hard. They’d teach us their magic.

  Digri and the others are gathering clay from the riverbed to make into pots, but I have to stay here with Lu, while my mother picks the last of the crops. She comes back through the field with a basket of peas and beans.

  ‘If you get all these shelled for the stew,’ she says, ‘you can go and play with the others.’

  I’m sick of shelling peas and weaving baskets just because I’m a girl. But at least my mother’s taken Lu now, so I don’t have to look after him. I sit down with a sigh in the doorway of our hut, and start splitting the pods.

  Tilse comes over to join me with her own basket.

  Not long ago I would have played with Tilse, but now she is married to Arval, my father’s youngest brother. Tilse is Mabda’s youngest, hardly older than me. Before the raiders came, she ran in the forest and paddled in the river with the rest of us, but now she works with the women and waits for her baby in the spring. That’s all she talks about now. It’s all anyone talks about – new life for the People.

  ‘I was sick again this morning,’ she says to me.

  Don’t want to know.

  ‘But I don’t mind so much now,’ she says. ‘It means the baby’s thriving, Myrna says, the sicker you are. But I was up three times in the night, passing water.’

  I bend over my bowl, shelling the peas as fast as I can.

  ‘You don’t keep the brown ones,’ she tells me. ‘Just the little, sweet green ones. When I got back to bed the third time, I couldn’t sleep. Then I thought I felt him kicking! Though it’s very early, Myrna says.’

  I look at her. ‘You don’t know it’s a boy,’ I say, and she smiles smugly.

  ‘Mothers know. Myrna says that she knew, every time. When you’re a mother, you’ll know.’

  ‘I don’t want to be a mother,’ I tell her, but she only laughs at me and tells me I’ll change my mind.

  I stare at her. Her nut-brown hair is lank and dull; her cheeks, that used to be round and pink, are pale. ‘Maybe I won’t,’ I say.

  ‘Well, you’ll have to one day,’

  ‘I don’t have to!’

  ‘Everyone has to, sooner or later. Or how will the People survive?’

  I don’t know how the People will survive. But I don’t want to spend my whole life having babies.

  I don’t want to grow up.

  I don’t want to marry.

  And I definitely don’t want to breed, like a sow.

  ‘There’s nothing special about having babies,’ I tell her. ‘Even the pigs do it.’ But she only smiles at me in that grown-up way that means she thinks she knows so much better than me.

  ‘I’m going to play with Digri.’ I tell her. ‘You could come with us if you like. Oh – no, you can’t – you’ve got to stay in your hut and cook for your husband.’

  I can’t see her face, bent low over the peas in her basket, but she says, very slyly, ‘Maybe one day you will live in Digri’s hut.’

  Something about the way she says this makes me feel it’s already been discussed, and I’m so angry that I knock over the bowl of peas she’s shelling and run off.

  It’s not hard to follow the sound of the others, shouting and laughing by the river. Before I get there Digri comes to meet me by the water-lily pond. He is red-faced and cheerful as usual, whistling and whittling a stick. Digri is my best friend, but I wouldn’t want to live with him in his hut. His mother died having Ogda, and his father is a red-faced, angry man, mean as his dogs. I’m glad my mother didn’t marry him, and I definitely wouldn’t want to marry Digri.

  ‘I was just coming for you.’ he says. ‘We’re building a dam by the river,’

  I look at the flat leaves floating on the surface of the still pond. I’m hungry, and the bulbs are good to eat. I wade into the pond. The wat
er is freezing cold and the flowers have all gone, but I pluck two bulbs and hold one out to Digri. ‘Let’s play Mabb and Guri,’ I say.

  Digri takes a bite out of the bulb and I say, ‘Ha! Mortal – you have eaten my faerie food! Now you must do as I ask!’

  Digri pulls a face at this because he knows the game. He has to do three things I tell him to and try to catch me out. Then he can stop being my slave. So when I tell him he has to catch a fish with his bare hands, he dives under the water, then grabs my knees and I go under with him, coughing and spluttering. He won’t let me go until I release him from my spell. I shout and kick and splutter, but he just hangs on.

  ‘All right, all right!’ I yell. ‘You can be Mabb now, and I’ll be Guri.’

  But Digri doesn’t want to be Mabb.

  ‘You’re the girl,’ he says. But I’m always Mabb, and sometimes I want to be Guri. Guri was a hero.

  ‘A girl can’t be Guri,’ Digri says. ‘Girls can’t be warriors.’

  ‘I can be,’ I tell him, but he shakes his head, stubborn as a tree-stump. ‘I’m going to build that dam,’ he says.

  I might be a girl, but I’m older than he is, and he used to do everything I told him. Now he only wants to play with Arun.

  ‘We can go up Mabb’s Hill,’ I tell him. ‘And you can push me off.’

  I like rolling down Mabb’s Hill. But last time, when I pushed Digri off, he hurt his ankle. He shakes his head.

  ‘We’re not allowed,’ he says.

  ‘Please,’ I beg, but I know that look on his face.

  ‘I’m going to build a dam, and spear fish,’ he says, turning away.

  I throw a handful of small stones after him, but he doesn’t even look round. That’s how it always is these days. Digri plays with Arun, Little Ogda and Peglan trail behind. Lu and Derry are too young yet for playing. They stay with the women, in the huts. So that leaves no one for me.

  I can play by myself, or go back and help my mother with the housework, or tag along behind Digri and Arun. It’s not fair. I wish I had someone else to play with.

  I wade out a little further into the pond, and twist a root out. I can see cloud shadows in the water, and my own head, staring down. Then I can see Mabb’s Hill.

  I look at the reflection of it in the water. They say you can get into the faerie world through the reflections in water. I would like, more than anything, to travel there, on the glimmering roads, where every wish becomes real. I imagine slipping through the water into a different world. What would it be like, in that world? Everything would be upside down, the rain falling upwards, and little streams running uphill, and I would run with them, easy and quick. I could make myself small, like the kernel of a nut, or fly about in the wind like thistlefluff. I wouldn’t have to go back to my ordinary world and do boring jobs because I’m a girl, or turn into a woman and have babies.

  I look up at the real hill. I’m not allowed to travel up there alone, or to light a fire. Anyway, I don’t know how. Bryn showed me once, and I tried, rubbing the point of one stick into a notch cut in another, but it took ages, and no smoke appeared, and I just got cross. Bryn laughed and said that the sticks were probably green inside.

  It would be easier to slip into the water, and up that hill.

  I bend down low over it and whisper, ‘Mabb – can you hear me?’

  Nothing happens, except that my breath makes ripples on the water. Then I pick one of the hollow reeds and blow through it.

  ‘Come out, Mabb,’ I call, blowing bubbles into the water. ‘Come out, wherever you are…’

  A surprised frog plops into the water from a water-lily leaf, but nothing else happens. I watch little minnows swimming together beneath the surface. The minnows are like thin grey shadows in the water, and now and then one of them flashes sunshine from its silvery belly. The air smells of damp roots and mud. I straighten up, putting water-lily leaves on my head, and in my reflection they look like a crown. Don’t know why I say it, it just comes into my mind and out of my mouth.

  ‘Who is queen now?’ I ask.

  Then I see them, hovering over the water, a little swarm of white moths. They are facing me, and perfectly still, except for the whirring of their wings. I look at them, and I know they are looking at me. I have never seen anything like them before. It’s not the right time for moths. Suddenly afraid, I turn and splash out of the pond, hurrying to join the others by the river.

  Feels like walking through a dream. Already I’m not sure I saw anything at all. Without thinking, I follow the sound of voices towards the river, and when Digri leaps out at me I stare at him as though I’ve never seen him before. He’s splashed with mud and there are bits of weed and leaves clinging to him.

  ‘We’re making a dam,’ he says. ‘Come on!’

  I look at the river. We’re not supposed to go in the broad part, where the men are building the dyke. But this part of it’s only a stream, branching off from the main bit, babbling peacefully along. Even Ogda’s in there, up to her knees in the shallow water, her tunic floating around her. Cautiously, I step into the chilly water.

  The gravel hurts and mud swirls where I put my feet. Midges swarm around my face. When I lift a rock, more mud swirls like sandy smoke and tiny creatures flee for cover. Peglan sits down plop in the water and Ogda follows, their backsides black and wet. They’ve all forgotten about digging out clay for pots. Together we build our dam, hoping to trap fish.

  Slowly, the light shifts. The willows rustle and breathe and the water talks to itself in the dusk. We work on in silence, concentrating on getting the rocks in place. I remember the moths hovering, facing towards me. I should have gone right up to them, and let them land all over me with their fluttering wings. They might have lifted me up, and taken me into the faerie world. But I didn’t let them. I ran away.

  The back of my neck starts to hurt from bending low over the water. Building the dam is slow, and dull. I want something else to happen. Something magical. I wade further upstream, towards a bend in the river, waving at Digri to follow. When we get to the bend I grab his arm.

  ‘Look,’ I say.

  Further on, near the curve where the stream joins the river, something is moving by the riverbed. A grey shape in the grey dusk, leaning forwards. It could be an otter or a beaver, but as it dips towards the water, suddenly I know what it is. The Peggotty Witch.

  The Peggotty Witch is one of the faerie folk – a little washerwoman. She washes bloodstained clothing in deserted streams, and if it’s your clothing, you are bound to die. Tilse said she saw her before the raiders came, washing a great pile of bloodstained clothes. I look at Digri, and at Arun who has splashed up behind him, and they look at me. Peglan and Ogda are poking under stones with a stick, and don’t even look up.

  ‘It’s the Peggotty Witch,’ I tell them.

  They look at me as if they don’t know whether to believe me or not, so without saying a word I start to creep along the bank, picking up a stone, and Digri and Arun follow me with sticks.

  Don’t know what we’ll do when we get to her. She’s terribly ugly, they say, with green skin and webbed feet, and one huge nostril, like a hole in her face, and one long jaggly tooth in her mouth. She doesn’t talk properly, but mumbles and grunts. If you see her before she sees you, and catch hold of her washing, you can ask her three questions and she must answer you true. But if she strikes at your legs with the wet washing you will lose all power in them, and float away in the water like so much washing. Besides, she brings death with her, like I said, so it’s best always to drive her away with sticks and stones.

  Closer and closer we creep, until we can hear a thin tuneless drone, like humming. It makes my blood freeze and my heart pump in my ears. Maybe it is the Peggotty Witch; maybe she really is there. And now I’m sure I can see the shadow of her in the twilight, all wrapped up in grey cloth like a shroud.

  The bank gets steeper and we climb along it until we’re almost directly above the grey shape, and no one has made a s
ound or even cracked a twig. Then Arun’s foot slips and a shower of small stones scatter down.

  Quick as a ferret the grey shrouded shape whips into the water. ‘NOW!’ I shout, and we skid down the bank yelling and waving our sticks. I look for green skin and a face with a hole in it, but there’s nothing there. I leap off the bank and land, crouching at the water’s edge, and grab another stone. Digri’s stick whistles through the air and Arun’s stone lands in the water, and we all stumble and run downstream, splashing after her as far as we dare, but the water’s getting deep, and all we can see is a dark shape scuttling through it, fast as a moorhen after its chicks. It’s hard to believe how fast she can go. She rounds the bend and disappears up the bank, a grey shape in the grey dusk, and we stand together chanting:

  Peg leg, pig leg,

  Pick up your rags and beg,

  Never come here more!

  We daren’t follow her further, leaving Peglan and Ogda behind, but as she disappears we turn to one another and raise our fists and whoop our victory, until we’re hoarse. Then I notice how dark it’s getting.

  ‘It’s late,’ I say. ‘We’ve got to get back.’ And I turn and run ahead of them, back to where Peglan and Ogda are waiting. They’ve noticed we’ve gone and set up loud complaints as we return, but Digri picks up Ogda and Arun pulls Peglan along, and wet and muddy we make it back to our huts for the evening meal.

  Though there are only five households, we all take a lot of feeding. Everyone works all day long to prepare for the winter. The next day Griff and Gwern decide to kill one of their pigs. Bryn and Arval make a fire and heat water over it. Griff brings his long knife. Me and Digri, Arun and Peglan and Ogda run and hide in the long ditch, and stuff our fingers in our ears so that we can’t hear the pig squealing. I hate to see the pigs being butchered because I feed them every day. They nudge and jostle and grunt as though they are pleased to see me. Friendlier than the dogs, that are only for hunting.

 

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