The Magic Mirror

by Susan Hill Long

  “A fair take today, lads,” Book gloated, tossing sacks of goods. His voice was low and rough, rocks ground under a heavy foot. “Sort it, stack it; let’s see what we’ve got.” Three of the men rose from the fire ring and began to pull out items from among a heap of sacks and barrels. A silver tureen; a sack of grain and another of oats; a necklace of gold links, crusted with colored stones; a brooch big as a fist; a satchel.

  Margaret sucked in a breath. Her satchel!

  She crouched down deeper behind the bush to watch, to keep guard of herself, to wait.

  It was a long wait. The men ate, messy and crude, the fat of the cooked rabbits dripping down chins and wrists. The voices were so gruff and coarse as to be a foreign language. After a while the talk turned to song, and then, at last, to snoring. She waited longer; the prospect of stepping any closer to the men sent ice water through her veins. But once sleep had come to the men, they fell fast and hard, as she’d seen Minka do on brewing days, after drinking too much ale.

  Clouds fled, and the moon was high. She waited till the fire was but coals. Then she stepped out from behind the copse, clump-slide—Deus!—clump-slide. Closer to the men, very quiet, very close now. She took up the satchel, felt by its weight and shape that the contents were within—the mirror!—and stepped away from the clearing. Clump-slide, clump-slide, clump-slide; her eyes focused on the sleeping shapes of the men, and she prayed fervently that she would not be heard. Clump—God’s wounds! Her step landed on a twig, and it broke with a tiny snap.

  It was enough to wake John Book.

  A hand darted like a snake, gripped her by the ankle, and felled her with one yank. Then he rose from where he’d slept on the ground, put his hands on his hips, and laughed, a girlish giggle that froze Margaret’s heart in her chest.

  “Ah, we’ve snared ourselves a big rabbit, aye, boys?”

  Several but not all of the men were waking, groggily standing or sitting, clearly ready to do John Book’s bidding. The man called Robert stood and, grunting, stoked the fire, which roared up and cast shadows across the bandits’ greasy faces. The firelight seemed to glint off scores of lances and knives, sharp and cruel as John Book’s nose.

  Without warning, John Book booted Margaret in the ribs; she wheezed and wrapped her arms around her middle, doubling over in agony.

  “Don’t think this one’d fetch a ransom, eh? Nor would anyone pay us to keep her!” John Book leered at her. A couple of the men nodded and laughed, a sound like beasts barking and braying. The woman with the long braid stepped into the light of the fire ring and looked hard at Margaret. Margaret looked at her hopefully, but the woman only lowered her gaze, turned, and stepped away again.

  Margaret tried to keep from eyeing her satchel.

  But John Book saw. “Yours, is it?” He swooped the satchel up and dumped out its few contents. Out tumbled and flung wide the cup, the feather, the extra hose, and the mirror partly wrapped in a velvet scrap. The dancing firelight caught silver, and the mirror shone like fire itself. John Book took two strides and plucked the mirror from the dirt. The men roared with laughter as he giggled, primped, and posed.

  Margaret prayed to God the mirror would fail to work for thieves and murderers.

  Then John Book stopped fussing. His eyes lit with greed. He stared into the mirror as if lost, until a string of drool dripped from the corner of his mouth and roused him from his stupor.

  “Gold!” He giggled like a madman. “Jewels, heaps of coins tossed about by pink-powdered ladies and fat-fingered men!” He grabbed Margaret’s wrist and wrenched it. “What is this mirror? What is its power? Where is the treasure it shows me?”

  Margaret cried out. “It’s mine! Give it here! Give it!”

  John Book yanked her to him. Pressed to his barrel-like chest, she could smell the ale on his breath and see the stubble on his greasy chin. Suddenly there was a knifepoint at her throat; she felt it prick her skin.

  “I can read the mirror!” Margaret shouted. “I—I alone! I can read it.”

  “Then do!” John Book tossed the mirror to her; she fumbled and caught it as tenderly as she could. “You will tell me what you knows, or I’ll be done with you and good riddance.” There was no ghastly giggle now.

  She held her breath and gazed into the mirror. All the gold and jewels for which John Book’s heart lusted sparkled and shone, heaps upon heaps of them, and John Book himself sat in the middle of it, a lady’s large necklace on his sweat-soaked chest. Bristles of hair leaped from the neck of his tunic.

  The image faded, and there again was the wild-eyed man. It was dark now, in his chamber, and he sat by candlelight at his table, scribbling and scratching on a parchment, dipping his quill into an ink pot, scribbling again with furious purpose.

  “Quit mooning and tell me what it means!” boomed John Book. “Tell where the riches can be found!”

  Margaret breathed deeply, willing her heart to slow, and cleared her throat. She looked into the mirror.

  “I…” Her voice froze. “I see a coach,” she lied, “a great painted coach, stopped beside a campfire and leaning to one side. A—a spoked wheel is off its post and lying, broken, upon the ground.” She swallowed hard. John Book shook her arm, wrenching bone and socket—she winced and went on. “There is the crest of a noble family on the door of the coach. One of six horses in the line is missing. A rider must have gone for help. A guard paces, keeping watch.”

  “The crest? What does it look like?”

  “Corners colored dark, and a…a bird.”

  “What bird?”

  “Er, a falcon.”

  John Book rattled her wrist. “Where is the coach broken down?”

  Margaret shook her head. “I see only—only woods such as these.”

  John Book twisted her wrist once more to yank the mirror from her hand, and let go her arm. Margaret clutched her shoulder where it hurt. She began to shiver and could not stop. She thought her lie was convincing. But now what?

  John Book stared at her a moment more, then stuffed the mirror in her satchel and spat upon the ground.

  “Wilfred of Woodstock.” John Book picked up a jug from the ground and swigged from it, tipping his head back and staggering. He didn’t bother to wipe his wet mouth. “That’s how the crest reads. And within the broken coach will be his lady, or his daughter, or his aged mum, else travel would be by wagon. I smell a chance,” he said, “to aid and comfort a noble in distress!” The one called Robert snorted.

  Margaret’s breath came shallow and fast. She glanced at John Book and found that he was staring hard at her, as if figuring the value of a cut of beef. When they didn’t find a broken coach, would he kill her? Or would she have to lie again? Could she?

  “The south road, then,” John Book said. “We move to Woodstock with the dawn.” Margaret silently prayed her thanks to God, and thought too of Minka’s two-sided coin of luck: John Book had believed her. ’Twas good luck!

  Then Book turned to Robert. “Bind her!”

  Bad luck.

  Robert laced Margaret’s wrists behind her expertly and painfully, and shoved her to the ground. John Book drank again, a long pull, and then he lay down beside the fire ring.

  Within minutes the thief was snoring, followed one by one by his mates. The watchman’s head drooped, nodded, until his chin settled on his chest and then he slept. Margaret tried to untie herself, but she could not. She looked hopefully for the braided woman, but did not see her. Her wrists ached and burned, and her stomach crawled with hunger and fear. She lay in the dirt hour upon hour, until at last she began to drift into uneasy sleep.

  All at once, a hand covered Margaret’s mouth. She struggled to breathe, tossing her head, twisting, turning to see: curling dark hair, bright eyes—a wink!

  It was the pilgrim boy!

  Without a word the boy sliced away her bindings, then replaced the knife in his belt. Margaret smiled her astonished thanks, then turned and reached to gain her belongings, strewn dangerously cl
ose to the snoring John Book. She managed to grab the scrap of green velvet, but in the next instant the boy threw her over his shoulder like a sack of grain, and off he trotted. Being swept off her feet was not at all as she’d expected, she thought dryly.

  After a while the boy stopped, and Margaret slid from his back. She could glimpse only his white teeth in the moonlight, whether set in smile or grimace she could not tell. He remained silent, no song or bagpipe now. They stood a moment, breathing like horses, listening like rabbits. They’d got away from the slumbering John Book, and for that Margaret was grateful. But the young pilgrim had rushed her away, shushing her protests, without giving her the chance to steal back the satchel and the mirror. She used the scrap of green velvet to stab the tears of frustration that had collected at the corners of her eyes. Though her heart felt the loss cruelly, reason told her it would have been folly to test the limit of John Book’s slumber. He slept with a knife in his fist.

  They walked on in silence. After a few steps the boy held out his arm, and she took it, and this enabled her to keep up with his long strides, though she could tell he shortened his natural gait for her benefit.

  In a while the boy stopped and held up a hand. He disappeared into the trees. When he returned, he pulled her gently into the cover of a small grove of aspen quaking in the breeze. To the east, the dark blanket of sky leached to gray wool, and Margaret could see the boy’s face in the dawning light. It was grubby, smudged with dirt and stained with what looked like black-currant jelly, but improved by a certain pleasantness of features balanced almost perfectly between dark, thick eyebrows and a strong chin, and between a set of ears that poked out like the handles on Minka’s cook pot. His eyes were dark and large and smart, and his wide mouth was bracketed by dimples, deepened now by smiling. It seemed he thought the danger past, but Margaret was not so certain. She winced at the sound of his voice, loud after so much silence and fear.

  “Now we can rest our bones,” he was saying, “at least long enough to catch a breath and properly introduce ourselves.” He put a hand to his chest and dipped his head. “Forgive my rudeness, lady. I am called Bertram Stanground, and I am at your service.”

  “I am Margaret—Margaret of the Church.” What other name could a foundling claim than the place where she was found? Margaret spoke it in a whisper, as if thieves might be lurking behind every tree. “Thank you,” she said. “And for before: when my wagon passed your band, you kept my secret.”

  “Your wagon?” He sat back. “And did the driver know you owned the cart?”

  “You almost gave me away with your song!” She flushed, remembering suddenly the lines about dancing, and marriage. “How happened you upon me?” she said.

  “I was gathering herbs and medicinals found only in the light of the moon. Good luck I lost my bearings. Rough company you keep. Where are you going? And how came you to be separated from your cartwheels?”

  It was such a long story. The rush of capture and escape past, Margaret felt suddenly faint and weak with hunger. She did not speak, but put her head in her hands.

  “Never mind; there will be time enough to tell your tale,” Bertram said. “My companions will have food and drink, and you’ll be safe with us, no matter what your crime.”

  “Crime!” She jerked her head. “I—”

  But she could see in the growing light that Bertram was smiling, and she knew he was only teasing.

  “Do you think you can travel a bit further?” he asked kindly. Margaret nodded at him. The smile lines disappeared. Instead his face was writ all over with concern.

  “Wait,” he said. He was gone just a few minutes, but during his absence Margaret began already to worry, her mind wandering back through the woods to John Book’s camp, to the danger she’d escaped, and to the magic mirror she’d been so viciously parted from. Again.

  Bertram returned carrying a sturdy stick with a wide fork at one end. He quickly took her measure, broke off the stick’s excess using a foot as a lever, and then presented the crutch to Margaret with a courtly bow. She thanked him, and they began again to walk, and to talk. She told Bertram how she’d come to be captured by John Book. The way was easier, now, and the crutch helped, and the cheering sun was up over the hedgerow. Soon they came out of the trees and onto a field, and from there they could see the road winding in two directions.

  “Ah, the open road at last,” Bertram said, and began first to hum, and then to sing, as they made their way along the road.

  “Maiden, mother without peer, with mercy sweet and kind,

  Pray to him that chose thee here, with whom through grace did find,

  That he forgive us sin and mistake

  And clean of every guilt us make.”

  Then Bertram grinned, and his song took a turn.

  “Ale makes many a man to stick upon a briar,

  Ale makes many a man to slumber by the fire,

  Ale makes many a man to wallow in the mire,

  So doll, doll, doll thy ale, doll, doll thy ale.”

  “My mistress brews ale,” Margaret said.

  “A worthy skill. What is your mistress called?”

  “Minka,” she replied.

  Bertram threw back his head and began again to sing.

  “Minka makes a man to stumble on a stone;

  Minka makes a man to stagger drunken home.

  Minka makes a man to break his bone—

  Join me now!”

  She shook her head shyly, but he grabbed up her hand and swung it in time to the song, the beat of which matched her clump-slide surprisingly neatly.

  “So doll, doll, doll thy ale, doll, doll thy ale.”

  Margaret smiled in spite of her hunger and weariness. She was out of danger for the moment, and although she had lost her mirror once again, she was alive to walk another day. And, thanks be to God, her rescuer had not brought his horrid bleating bagpipe.

  “Doll, doll thy ale, doll thy ale!”

  The sun cast early-morning shadows as Bilious’s cart bounced into Eastham. In no time he’d paid tradesman duties and fees for pontage and pavage, set out his wares, and begun to hawk them.

  “Ten-penny nails! Shining pots of brass and copper plate! Pennywhistles and port! Darning needles, thistledown, fine soap!”

  Minka humphed. “If you’ve fine soap, why then do you smell so ripe?”

  “Soap I use on my person is soap I cannot sell.”

  “Soap you’ll not sell if ripe you smell,” countered Minka. “Consider sampling such wares as soap and scent, and see what then you sell!” She smiled and crossed her arms across her bosom.

  Bilious grinned. “As you wish it, I shall sample the scent.” He bowed low, then rose and rooted around in a wooden box. At last he pulled out a tiny vial, which he opened and passed beneath his nose. “Good stuff,” he proclaimed, eyes watering, and dabbed a bit behind each ear.

  “Good God,” said Minka, waving a hand in front of her face. “I couldn’t say what’s worse—your natural aroma or whatever vile sack of skunk is in that bottle.”

  Bilious had a customer. “Observe,” he said to Minka, and turned to the approaching fellow. The customer, tall and skinny and gaunt of cheek, fairly jingled with coin. “Good sir!” said Bilious. “May I interest you in a—”

  The man held up a hand. “Have you any needles?”

  “Needles? Needles? Of course, my good sir. I’ve needles of any size you may require. I’ve needles fine enough to stitch a lady’s dainties, wink-wink, or tough enough for saddle leather.”

  “I’ll take one fine and one sturdy,” said the customer, “and never mind what use I make of them.”

  “Of course, of course, dear sir.” He eyed the man’s garb and the quality of his shoe, and arrived at a figure he thought he might afford. “That’ll be a halfpenny for the pair.”

  “A halfpenny! For a pair of needles! Certainly not. I’ll give you in trade a hunk of beef jerky.”

  “Hardly!”

  “Fine jerky,”
the man said, “fine as this needle.”

  “Fine jerky for the fine needle, then,” said Bilious, “but I’ll not include the saddle-weight.”

  “Fine.”

  The deal was struck and the fellow strode away.

  Bilious turned to Minka. “Now you see how it’s done,” he said, and stuck a bit of jerky in his gums.

  Minka turned up her nose, then turned to go in search of Margaret. “The value of the trade would depend on the eye of the beholder.”

  “What’s true of trade is true of love and beauty,” said Bilious, chewing vigorously and economically with his few teeth. “It’s all in the angle of the squint.”

  Minka returned a time later. She’d asked after Margaret with no luck, but Bilious seemed happy.

  “I see by the foolish set of your head upon your shoulders that you are well pleased.”

  “I’ve come away with an uncommon good trade,” he admitted. “I began with a basket and traded for a bucket. Next a broom of clustered twigs for a tallow candle.” He ticked the items off on his fingers. “One item for the next, if you follow: a funnel, two tin plates, a large brass pot, a remnant of cloth, a rug of blue linsey-woolsey, and a cup made out of a coconut!” he finished.

  Minka nodded eagerly. “A cup made out of a coconut?”

  “With small silver feet.”

  Minka marveled at Bilious’s skill. “Silver feet! I admit you’ve come out far ahead. Well done! Where is this rare cup made out of a coconut and finished with silver feet?”

  Bilious beamed more brightly, if it were possible, and leaned toward Minka. “The cup made out of a coconut were not my final trade.” He stood back triumphantly, stomach out, as with hands on hips he grinned and waggled his eyebrows, waiting for Minka to ask what it was he’d acquired.

  Minka, frowning, shrugged. “It matters not to me,” she said. She sighed and removed her squashed hat, scratched at her scalp beneath her wimple, then placed the hat once more upon her head. She puffed out her cheeks and let the air go in a great whoosh. She whistled a snippet of a dirge. At last she said, “If you’re not going to come out with it, you vexing man, then I’m sure I care not what the item is. At all.”