by Tam Erskine
He did, and glancing down, saw the foul insect that he'd made. That, at least, had worked. "So, now what?"
"I feel well." The hound grinned. "But I must report your mortal to the Huntsmen. They'll be most interested in his coming here."
"It didn't work." Despite being angry that he'd been misled, Jack had been rather pleased to have such a skill. Now, though, it appeared to have failed. He felt foolish for having spoken so and Ivy still needing to behead the hound. "I could try again. . ."
"It worked just fine." Ivy nudged the bloated insect with her sword tip. "The hound must tell the Huntsmen, to do otherwise would be to go against his very nature, his function."
"I'll tell them I owe a boon to him on account of his gift." The hound shrugged, an odd gesture for a dog. "I bear no malice towards you. In truth, I am humbled by your gift. I shall tell my masters of your gift and your honor."
Ivy nodded. "It is a fair trade."
"Though we are used for callous deeds, it was not always so in the realm." The hound looked past them, as if it saw something that Jack could not fathom. Then he turned that red gaze to Jack. "Perhaps this too might change."
Then, it fled--running so quickly that it was gone before Jack could even speak. He shook his head.
No chance of outrunning that!
Turning to face him, Ivy said, "Well, then, where shall we go from here? Are you for breaking your vow and going back above-ground?"
Jack sputtered, "You are absolutely impossible. You do realize that, don't you?"
Choosing to ignore his remark, Ivy started down the path. He'd follow or he wouldn't. "I understand that your world's rules are that I should've told you sooner."
He followed, kicking a rock and scuffing his feet on the path. "Is your whole family as difficult as you are?"
If only he knew.
Ivy shook her head. "Not at all, Jack. I'm the reasonable one."
"I'm having trouble believing that." He had caught up and was keeping pace with her.
"Truly." She'd taken a turn behind a vine laden copse of trees, gesturing at a field hidden behind it.
Fat drops of water were being sucked from the soil, drawn into clouds that were bloated and heavy with water. Plants withered, crackling into dead things. Perhaps, he'd understand if he saw.
Not that she understood, but she knew it was real. She knew it was reason enough to break the geas, to accept the curse, to mislead Jack. It was reason enough to do much that could lead to trouble.
As Jack looked on, she pointed to the distance where they could see the edge of another field. There, clouds were dripping a sulfurous liquid that smoked and sizzled as it landed on the ground.
"Where are we?" Jack's face looked sickly as he turned to face her.
"My home, Jack." Ivy made her voice as empty, as flat as she could. "Mother's having a bad day."
"But . . ." His gaze went past her, to the waterfall, and he stumbled.
She didn't want to turn--she'd seen it too many times--but she did. Ghastly green sludge glopped down. At the foot of the waterfall, wan water-maidens gasped.
Jack went toward them, and Ivy had no choice but follow.
Jonquil darted from one gasping woman to the next, touching each one's lips until they were all breathing somewhat regularly.
Clematis fluttered over and nodded, once, like a sage old woman. "You did that, gave her the gift that saved these." She gestured towards the water-maidens with a dip of her head. "They'll suffer less because of it."
"What if she weren't here?" He dropped to his knees.
"Not to fear, Jack Merry. They wouldn't all die, even if our Jonquil weren't here." Ivy glanced at the water-maidens: long hair knotted with clumps of green sludge, eyes wide with terror as they clung to the tall grasses on the bank. She turned away, feeling sick inside. "They'd suffocate until the Queen thought to repair the waters, perhaps this eve, perhaps later. She usually remembers before too long passes. Most would survive."
Jack didn't answer; he closed his eyes. "The princess gazed at the water, and she saw that it was suddenly purer than it had ever been. It was glorious--perfect for the creatures that thrived there."
Tears slid down Ivy's cheeks as she watched that thick, noxious sludge turn to clear waters. The water-maidens were slipping off the banks, laughing.
Ivy whispered, "It is glorious, Jack Merry."
But Jack wasn't done. "And the poisonous rain and drought were gone. The fields were perfect, ripe with life. Fresh . . ."
"Wheats and sun-fruits."
"Right, wheats and sun-fruits flourished . . . as if they'd been growing all along." Jack's voice became whispery. He swayed.
The clouds vanished, and wheat sprung up.
Ivy steadied Jack.
"Enough." Jonquil was patting Jack's cheek. Her voice sounded awfully loud for such a tiny creature. "Stop, now."
Jack toppled, eyes still firmly closed.
"Jack?" Ivy shook his shoulder.
He didn't move.
Myriad panicked thoughts raced through Ivy's mind. She kept shaking Jack, repeating his name in a fervent plea, "Be well. Please be well, Jack Merry."
Then, Jack opened his mouth and snored.
Clematis snorted in laughter.
And as tears streamed down her face, Ivy began to laugh too, because sometimes the choice is to laugh or simply break into tiny, tiny pieces.
Chapter 8: In which the past is revealed
When Jack woke up, Jonquil was perched on a rock beside him. Her knees were bent, and tiny bare feet were sliding back and forth over the grey surface of the rock with a soft shuffling sound. She hummed to herself, sounding rather like a purring cat.
He propped his head up on one hand. "Is there more to that song?"
"Not sure. Mother used to hum it when we were ill." She glanced at him. "I find it calming." She paused and stared at him. "You're doing well, Jack Merry. The realm is fortunate to have you here."
Jack didn't bother trying to make sense of what she said; things here always seemed so serious. He stretched and asked, "How long did I sleep?"
"Long enough." She fluttered off towards a slow-moving lizard, dipping down to stroke the creature's scaled head as she passed. "I'd better tell the others. They've been like mothers worrying over you."
Jack didn't point out that she was obviously hovering, too. Closing his eyes, Jack thought of having a mother that hummed when he wasn't well. The closest he'd come to such care were the stolen visits from Widow Stonewell. Her face was wrinkled even then. When she smiled, Jack thought her skin would crack like a dry river bed after a drought.
He thought of how she'd stroke his hair, snagging her calloused hand. It wasn't quite an embrace, but when she'd slip in the back door, surprisingly quiet for her age, it was her custom. Then again, so was her refusing to take him to her home. Remembering those moments was bittersweet.
The widow leaned closer so that her dark dress brushed against his legs. "I saw the good Parson at Oldaker's place, so I thought I'd stop by."
Jack looked at her; hoping his pleading would finally work. "Take me to live with you. I swear I'd be good, better than I am now."
Her face crumpled, for just an instant. "Jackie boy, come on now. You know I can't do that." She patted his cheek. "The Good folk wanted you to live here, with the Parson. I'm not one to question their ways."
"Parson says there's no such thing." Jack truly thought she was kind, despite what the Parson said about her 'superstitious ways.' "He says I'm not to talk to you, that you work against his efforts to save me."
Widow Stonewell snorted. "The Parson's a good man, but he doesn't know everything. No one does. Remember that, Jackie. There's more out there than what we see, more than we can understand. . ."
Jack nodded, willing to agree to whatever she wanted.
"When you arrived . . . It was a beautiful thing, Jack. The one that brought you to us was terrible afraid. She was like a wild deer, frozen and trembling as she watched fr
om the trees." Widow Stonewell sighed,and her eyes shone with the glimmer of tears. She always got teary when she talked about the night Jack was brought to the Parson. "A beautiful thing she was--a faery. Her hair glowed like there was fire caught in every strand of it. And she had these big leafy winged that she fluttered as she crept to the Parson's door; then, once she saw him come and lift you in his arms, she was gone. Just gone. Like I'd dreamt her."
Jack shook his head. He wanted to believe her, wanted to think that some strange faery woman left him at the Parson's door--only because she'd had no choice--though she'd loved him. He'd watched the children in the town with their parents--mothers' fussing over tiny falls and fathers' sweeping children into the air. Laughter and proud looks, those were things the Parson didn't offer.
Widow Stonewell settled into one of the Parson's uncomfortable chairs. "So . . . what does our good Parson have you doing on this fine day?"
"It's awful." He scowled at the parchment where he'd been trying, futilely, to replicate the Parson's precise script. "I don't want to learn to draw letters."
"Aah, Jackie," she lowered her already whispery voice. "Believe me, boy, learning script leads to reading . . . Once that happens it's like opening a door where you didn't even know there was one." She squeezed his arm. "You're special, boy, and even as the Parson might not say it, he knows it too. You'll see one day. They'll all see."
Jack hadn't ever understood why the Widow visited him in secrecy, but he was thankful for the little kindness she offered. It was far more than anyone else had given him. Sometimes it still hurt that she'd refused his years of begging to let him live with her, to be loving when the town watched.
She'd simply say, "It's not what the Good Folk wanted, and if I offer too much notice where the Parson can see . . . Well, it's simply not wise."
Even now, after the Parson had given up on Jack, Widow Stonewell clung to her belief. Nothing would sway her from abiding by "the Good Folk's wisdom."
"Are you well, Jack Merry?"
Jack opened his eyes. Ivy was standing beside him, her hair illuminated by the artificial light of the meadow so it looked like hot coals. She smiled, tentatively.
When he didn't answer, she reached down to brush her hand over his forehead. "Jack?"
"You said you'd watched me for years."
"I did." Her gaze was steadily on him. "But I've not made trouble for you. Not once."
"Why?"
She looked puzzled--eyes widened, a small furrow on her brow. "Well, it's not right to do so. I know that mortals tell such tales, but truly we're not all like that. There's some that--"
"No. I mean, why did you watch me?" He looked at her; she appeared to be of a similar age as him.
She can't be, can she?
Gently, he prompted again, "Why did you watch me?"
She tilted her head, and Jack thought again how like some forest creature she was. "Well, I wasn't sure if that man was a good caretaker. The other mortals asked him for wisdom, and they seemed to regard him well, but one never knows."
The more she said, the more Jack felt sick. Surely, she couldn't be his mother. She was too young. He kept his voice as calm as he could manage, and asked, "So you wanted to be sure that the man who had me was a good man?"
Her face lit up, seemingly pleased. "If he weren't a kind man, I'd have taken you away from him. I swear it, Jack."
"Because you had picked him and felt responsible?" Jack's mouth was dry.
She frowned. "I'd thought of bringing you back home, but it wasn't safe. I couldn't protect you."
"You're too young . . . you can't be my . . . mother?" He couldn't form a clear thought, staring at her.
Her black eyes widened. "No!”
He let out a sigh of relief. He wanted a family, but he didn’t think he wanted Ivy to be his mother.
“Time moves differently above-ground. It was but half of a year ago when I saw your parents hide you." She shivered, rubbing her hands briefly over her arms as if to warm them. "The Hunt strikes terror in everyone, but they--mortals though they were--resisted long enough to tuck you into a hollow, and I couldn't let you there. There are things less frightening than the Hunt, and animals and . . . I did what I could."
The bells chimed then. Like pure silver this time, rich and clear.
"You saw my parents?" Jack was watching her, looking at her intently.
"Yes," she whispered. Though it was several turns of the moon, she felt cold terror at the back of her neck as if it were but last eve. "I saw them, but I couldn't . . . they paused near where I hid."
He patted the ground beside him. "Tell me."
She shook her head. It was already growing dim. "We cannot stay here. The hound will've told the Huntsmen of your presence." Holding out her hand, she hoped he'd listen. Though she didn't tell him, she was weary and the thought of a battle, with even one Huntsmen, made her want to whimper.
He crossed his arms, looking like a petulant child, like he'd often looked when she'd spied him with the Parson. "Ivy, I have spent my whole life knowing nothing, nothing about my life other than the Widow's claims of seeing some faery girl deliver me to the Parson's door."
"The Widow's a wise woman." Ivy nodded, hand still outstretched.
"You know her?" Jack gaped, looking less happy by the moment. "She knew you all this time?"
Ivy gripped his hand, tugging him to his feet. "Please, Jack Merry." She looked around, seeing the Ellyllon hovering nearby. With a motion, she called them closer. "I'll tell you as much as I can. Even if it means coming above-ground after seeking audience with the Queen . . . if there's an after."
Hoping her horse would come, she whistled. She'd fashioned a hasty braid, and water-steeds were a picky lot.
"You can tell me more as we ride." Jack released her hand and stepped in front of her. "Your word, Ivy. I'll stay with you in this 'strife' of yours, but I have questions you can answer. You owe me that much."
Though she thought it strange that he needed answers to what was--to him--a lifetime ago, she nodded. "I'll speak of what I know, but there's not much to say."
"It's more than I know now." He stepped closer to her horse, raising his hand and offering a piece of green-birch fruit.
While the horse was distracted by its treat, Ivy looped the new braid over it and climbed astride. "So be it."
Jack nodded once and climbed up.
Once Jack was seated behind her, they were off again.
Though he'd dreamt of having answers to his questions for most of his life, Jack found himself struggling to form even the simplest query now that the chance was upon him. "What happened to my parents?"
"I found you there, in the tree where your mortal mother put you." Ivy paused, as if she weren't sure how much to say. "I couldn't leave you there."
She'd deftly avoided his real question, so Jack repeated, "What happened to them?"
She sighed in a long whoosh, and he realized it was her way of letting on that she was displeased. So, he just waited.
"Oh, Jack Merry, I don't know." She looked back over her shoulder, and her dark eyes were sorrowful. "The Hunt . . . they're a terrible force, and I couldn't . . . I couldn't go after them."
"Would you have?"
"I doubt it." She shook her head just a little, sending white tendrils snaking across his forearm. "I was hiding, Jack. I'm no match for The Hunt. The Huntsmen have ridden longer than I've drawn breath. They say, those that've lived to say, that the touch of the horse's breath will rot your flesh right from the bone."
She dropped back to silence, staring down the path with a vigilance that reminded him of the dangers they were no doubt heading towards.
He could see them, not their faces, but he could picture them running from strange terrors. His voice was rough as he asked, "Why were they chasing my parents?"
"They weren't, not really. It just . . . The Hunt roams. It's simply the way things are."
Over Ivy's shoulder, Jack could see her hands: one was clench
ed into a fist around the reins, the other rested on the hilt of her sword.
He felt badly that she was upset, but he kept on. "So, you found me after they were gone?"
She nodded.
"And you decided to take me to safety?" Jack couldn't remember ever feeling quite this way, like laughing and crying at the same time. He'd finally learned of his parents, but from Ivy's response he had little hope they were still alive. "Tell me."
And so, she did.
After she dropped to the forest floor, Ivy heard the cry from the hollow in the tree. She knew, before she even touched it that there was no way she'd leave the squalling thing behind.
She yanked the twigs and moss out of the hollow, and lifted that bundle tucked behind them.
The cloth around the mortal babe was filthy, so she took down a net of spider-silk and a few strands of moonlight to fashion a cloth to wrap around it. It was hastily fashioned glamour: sure to fade away once morning's light touched it, but till then it'd keep the child warm.
She'd been in the town before, so she knew the way.
First, she'd stopped at the Widow's door; she seemed a good woman--leaving butter or milk on her step, not like some mortals.
She peered in the Widow's window.
"Parson's a good man," the Widow was saying, hands on her hips, scowl on her face. "Give him time, Glenna."
"Bah!" A woman paced, flailing a body as thin as Cerridan's limbs during a drought. "Fool, that's what he is."
"He's a wise man, just not used to our ways." The Widow sighed, looking out her window.
Ivy ducked behind the hedge, holding the babe tight to her chest.
The door opened and the thin woman came outside. "I'm starting to think you're daft, sister."
She stomped down the planks in ill-fitting shoes.
Silently, the Widow stared into the shadows, a half-smile on her lips. "He's good for the town. He wants schooling for the young ones, and he even . . ."
"Enough." The thin woman held up a hand. "I'll talk to him, but I don't like him."
Still looking around the yard, the Widow murmured, "I don't know that I like him either, sister, but he cares for the town. That's enough for me."