Cloud and Ashes: Three Winter's Tales

by Greer Gilman

  * * * *

  Autumn. Moving on. No work. The purple of the moors had gone from froth of jam to fleasblood, then from bruise to black; the trees, from blaze to ruin. Rimefrost on the swiddened heath took place of gossamers. The bracken and the bents were smithwork, smoldering in mist, and glinting, brazen in the strike of sun. And barren. While Kit could, he'd gathered haws, hips, brambles, sloes and rowans. Bags of nuts, his pockets full and Thea's apron. And one October afternoon, he'd found a milky way of mushrumps, penny buns, spilled out amid the leaves. They'd had a bit of mutton fat, just then. A feast. Their meal was long since giving out, their poke thin-flanked and dusty. It was poaching now. Hares, moorhens. Snared and spatchcocked. Aye, he'd looked at sheep, dared not. Not yet. He dared not hang and leave her.

  Then it came to thieving. Which he did repent; yet cared not. Scant enough scourings up here on Ask Moor. Back of beyond. A wary and a sken-eyed folk, who cracked doors on long noses, clapped shut. High barred windows, hurtling dogs on chains. He'd eyed geese, but got none. Filched trifles. Neeps and kindling and blue milk. Odd stockings. A smock for Thea, that he'd had to crack, left cat-iced in a drying yard. Handfuls of oatmeal. Eggs left for hobs.

  Thin beggary and thinner shoes. More eyes, more spies, more calling crows. More canting fellows on the road who turned and stared and mocked. Their bold-eyed trulls, who called at Thea, crying out, Brave rags with us. And hiring for thy hobby-horse. And then a broadside flapping at a crossroads: Lunish runagates, it said. A kitfox and her cull. So they'd left the high road for the hags and thickets, laying up on the moors, in folds rough-thatched with heather, ruined barns. And moving on.

  Thea had changed: all bones and belly, swollen fingers. Swollen buds, yet flagging, fretted and embrowned. A side tooth lost with knitting bones. Younger and older both, she seemed: a crone who danced her poppet on her knee and lulled it, and a wizened imp. Great belly and her scabby knees, her cracked and bluenailed hands. Nor mortal, neither, but a changeling, with that pinched white face, that goblin's shock of hair. Yet her bonefast beauty stayed.

  She was—not happy, no. Ecstatic. Danced like chestnuts on a shovel. Slept scarce at all. Since harvest, so he'd thought her sunstruck. Moonsick then. Now still, now restless as a cat in pattens, to and fro. Thrang as Throp's wife, and at nothing, all hours of the sun and moon. Waking and working. So she called it, her work. Poor lass. As good brew ale in eggshells.

  "Is't witchcraft?” he had asked.

  "Riddles,” Thea said.

  He saw her, crouching in her ragged smock, intent on patterning. Ah, hallows on us, but she'd made some wondrous things. All fleeting, left behind to wind, rain, earth, as soon as made. Unharvested, unheld. She scattered.

  Sticks, stalks, leaves and stones. A living hazel branch, lapped all in poppy petals, blood and branching. Leaves picked and shaded in a long streak on the earth: from green through fire to dead black; from ashes to greenwhite. Twigs in a round rattle. Labyrinths of leaves, bark, foxfire punk; or drawn in rime. Spirals of cracked pebbles, scratched white with another. Cubbies of sticks. Snailings and green horns of leaves, or burnished brown as copper: stitched with thorns and plaited in one endless coil and spiral, nestled in the earth. Leaves laid round nothing, bright and brighter toward the O. The same, with pebbles, white and whiter round abyss or origin.

  One day he'd found her wading in a beck for more smooth stones, her apron full. In frost. Wet through and blue and shivering. And would not come with him until he'd waded in.

  A night and day spent weaving stalks, an airy web of them, infilling all the crook and curving of a great low bough.

  And in brief snow, a ball of it, built round and pierced by sharp small living wood. A ball that rolled its own maze, green laid bare; that rounded on its journeying.

  O ever and alas, my Thea. O my dearest girl, my love.

  Stark mad.

  * * * *

  Ah, Margaret, I did make new heavens of the earth. Cast out of that cold sky in which my lucid soul was stringed, I did undo myself, redo: not Thea of the braided hair, but tangly Thea, tattery Thea, Thea of the grubby knees who crouched and plaited in a tinker's petticoats. I was inventing a new magic, for the old was lost with my virginity, with my immortal maidenhead. Oh, I was changing, changing fearfully; yet rounding with thy whiteheart self was Thea: we were sisters, twinned like cherries on a stalk.

  O that was ragged bliss, that autumn. What I put my hand to, twisted of itself. Beyond astonishment, I did and did. Would lie but barely in the white of dawn. Wake new-inspired. Rise and work, outdoing what outdid the last, and of that latest making least again, transcending old with new. O Margaret, had I but lived, I would have lived so still: that whirling joy, that weaving steady hand.

  Carriwitchets, Kit would say.

  He'd come and go and bring his hard-won sticks of firing, his stock of provender, prigged rags; would sit and watch. Would coax me, bid me eat or sleep. I felt him sometimes at my shoulder: awed, exasperated, fearful. Dawning with delight. He kept the horn of leaves until it crumbled into dust.

  I worked in what I had to hand, could gather. Sticks, stalks, leaves and stones. All found, unbound and scattering after. I was profligate as frost, as fern. As autumn, lavish, that does set a tree, a wood of trees, ablaze: a thousand thousand tongues to speak one word. As curious as nature's self, whose rarest work is secretest, embow'ring stars within bright clouds of stars, and seed in seed.

  It was the raspberries began it.

  In that cup of imbers did I spell thy blood: nine drops that would unbind my lady's will of thee. Set time going in her very stronghold. Yet I made no breach for thee in her shrewd hedge, but set a riddle for thyself alone. I would not have thee ride another's soul away. Walk barefoot, bloodfoot, if needs must: not use another creature, no, not Morag's dog, as I did Kit.

  For the rest, ‘twas winding spells, thyself thy clew. End and journeying and end, all rounded in a ball. Thine A and O.

  Yet was I naked to the sky. I had no studied craft, no witchery, against my mother's furies, that would fall and rend. No roof.

  In weaving of the garland, I had whispered secrets with that seely witch, that green unhallowed Malykorne. No hallows until hallows, she had said. As she, so I would be unhoused until her sister waked and hunted. Annis. If I could but win to Hallows—

  So it came to stones. I strove, as Kit did, only to go on, to live and keep us until then. I had a garnet ring to stand for thee, that was a child's. I wish thou couldst have had it. Eight stones clustering about a ninth, a knot of seeds of blood. Much like the pomegranate I once found, that split and spilt within my hand. The riddle ring for Kit. And for myself, a ring like rain on gossamer, like cobwebs bright with dew. Nine Weaving. With my absence in't, the stone of Perseis I'd lost. Not wandering, but a falling star: astonishing and gone.

  * * * *

  Her rings were woven in her fantasies. Her trash. One slid along a blade of grass, a small ring for her fingertip, a knot of drops of blood; another dangled from a scarlet thread, like rain in gossamer.

  "Thea. Are there others?"

  "Three. I have them safe.” And showed her hand.

  She would not give them over, though he begged and ranted, reasoned and cajoled, ah, coaxed her as he would a moonsick child to leave her toys. Her babywork. Alas, her wits waned even as she rounded. A greensick girl, and breeding. “Thou'rt worn, dear heart, beyond thy strength. Shouldst have a featherbed, a woman by thee. Physick."

  "Wilt take them of me sleeping?"

  "No,” he said. “Not ever.” And he came and knelt by her, he stroked her urchin head, he rubbed her nape. Inside his shirt, thrice-knotted round his wrist, the serpent of his cunning sleeked and shone. What's done is done, he thought. I rue me of that cheat. “Ah, that undoes."

  He wanted her assent.

  "For thine own sake, Thea."

  Silence. And the twist and glittering of toys.

  "Aye, scatter stones at scarecrow brats, leave none for thine
own child."

  Thea sat back on her heels, smudged her brow with her muddy wrist. “Ah, it comes."

  Or softly, with his hands clasped round her belly. “Plum and stone.” A rippling, as the round girl dived, down-dolphined in her eggshell ocean. “Sweet my love, thy lass wants nurture. Curds and cream. And swaddling. Thou hast not a clout for her."

  At last, beyond all patience, starved and crazed with fear for them, he cracked her fist, uncurled her fingers from her hoard. Stone inward, she had worn them. Wore their imprint still, like Annis’ kiss.

  She had not cried out. He stood appalled; yet could not stay at that: put down the rings, caress the stone-bruised hand, so rudely forced. Could not undo.

  "Thea?"

  "As it must be."

  He went out.

  * * * *

  The door was warped with rain, white-molded. Margaret pushed until it gave upon an empty room, a tower that a storm had wracked. Bare muted walls, smashed glass; and in the naked window, for the first time, sea-blink. O. For a time she gazed at it and wondered; then she turned. Naught else but a daw's nest down the chimney, scattered sticks and trash. She bent and stirred it; she unwove. Smashed eggshells. Sticks and mutes. A key. A pebble. And a bent black ring. She thumbed it, rubbed it in her apron, peering at the outworn letters. This way and that in the wintry light. All gone but a word. Lightwode.

  A voice in the air said, “Margaret."

  That voice she knew; had heard it, ravelled with the wind, the sea. Not always. Since her doll was burnt, her dark-browed lulling nurse—O Norni—taken to her death. ‘Twas now and nowhere, like a gossamer, at first: a glint and gone. Was now her galaxy. Her ground. As tangled in her thought as roots in earth, that flower seldom, yet inhere. But never until this aloud. Is't you?

  "Thy daemon. Thou hast found the last, the lost star of the Nine, and overlooked. The one too quick for the eye."

  * * * *

  Dusk. Late autumn, toward Hallows. Headlong on the road between Cold Law and Soulsgrave Hag, Kit hurtled. Three rings clenched in his right hand, thrust deep within his pocket; shame and fury at his heels. He knew not where he went. To Annis. Or to town. What town? Blind desperate, and pinched with argument and care, intent as a cat at kindling, he knew not where he was. The same place, always, the faster he ran. Round went the millstone, and over turned the wheel. No bread, she has no bread. I had to. Anything they'd get. Bread, firing. One now, the others one by one. Bread, firing, a baby's coats. Ah, fool, a flock of sheep, a sheepwalk. Fell and mutton, fleece and milk. He saw their lass run barefoot on the sward. Red hair, like fires on the hills. And round again: no bread.

  He was at the crossroads before he saw the gang. A cronying of crows. Too late, he was among them. A slouching spade-faced man, whiteheaded, all in black, greenblack and broken swagger, like a swung cock at a fair. A gallows poll, that head, like hemp unravelling. Three trulls a-dangle at his heels. They fleered at Kit; they jostled. Cawed. A black mort, with a blue and scornful eye, her breasts at her kerchief bare and bruised. “Here's game,” she said. “A goslin,” said a pale and sluttish drab. Pissed petticoats and trodden shoes. And Maudlin-drunk, or mad. He swung. A ranting, taunting, roaring girl, a striding and a ride-moon doxy in a soldier's cap and feather, with his long sword buckled at her side. Red shoes.

  Tighter still, he clenched his hand. His knife. He'd left his knife.

  He made to pass by.

  "Lightwood?"

  Kit walked on.

  "Heard tell thou was asking at Jack Daw.” Almost, he turned. “For a fiddle."

  Daw had it out for him; he drew the bow. And at that wauling sound, Kit's soul was snared. He turned and looked. Old and curious, far older than his own had been; rubbed shining as a fallen chestnut, newly split from its green burr. It had a carven woman's head. He yearned for it. A trade, he told himself: not bread but years of bread. A livelihood. He slipped two rings from off his fingers, deep within his coat; held out a third. White-gemmed. Like fleeces heavy with the dew. “Fair trade."

  "What's this? Cuckoo-spit?” said Daw. “That, thy long knife, and a knock at thy vixen. I's a fancy to red hair."

  "White-faced bitch is breeding,” said Cap-and-Feather. “Maggot spied."

  "She's a tongue,” said Black Mort. “Can use it."

  Jack Daw fleered. “I like a brave bellyful. Stir pot wi’ my flesh hook and mek brat dance."

  Kit spat. “Crows eat thee. Cock and eyes."

  "They do,” said Jack Daw, smiling.

  Kit tried to shoulder past, but the doxies mobbed him, like crows at an owl by daylight. Jack Daw plucked at the fiddle. “Thou has strings for it, and all.” His fingers at its neck and belly. “Owt else in yon placket?” Kit's face gave him away. He knew it. Daw twanged a string. “Done, is it? Say, two rings.” He watched hope flicker. “Two rings. And thou serve yon nest o crows—ah, they gape for it. Now. Here. I like a play."

  "No,” said Kit. “No more."

  The drabs were all about him, taunting, lifting up their petticoats. White belly and black joke. Craws wi’ beards. Against all his will, Kit felt a stirring. And a sickening. Hobthrust rose and danced. He stared. A black scut, and a shitten fleece. Old ling. Rustbrown, and the red blood trickling down by her knee.

  A cruel hand caught his wrist, bent backward. Wried his arm round his back until the socket started and the cold sweat sprang. No breaking Jack Daw's hold. Sinewy as yew, he was, inexorable. The voice was wasp honey. “Come, then. A bargain. For t'sake o that night's game thy dam once gave me. Salt and sweet, insatiable. A blue-eyed witch.” Doubt and horror. Daw touched his cheek, mock gently; bent and whispered in his ear. “How cam'st thou by my face?” Kit swayed. In that brief slackening, the old man knocked him backward, winded, to the ground. Cap-and-Feather pinned his arms and Daw knelt on his shoulder, set a knife across his throat. “Where's thy vixen earthed?"

  Clack! goes the old year and the new year tumbles down.

  Kit turned his face. Shut his lips.

  "By my lady's name, it will go ill with thee."

  Skirts about her waist, the Black Mort straddled him; she squatted and undid his breeches flap. “Here's a knocking i't cellar. Here's a bird flies up."

  Pissabed danced wildly, she whirled and wobbled in the road, like a slowing, sleeping top.

  Cap-and-Feather chanted. "The wren, the wren, the king of all birds..."

  "Caught i't furze,” said Black Mort. She spat between thumb and fingers. Laid on.

  Kit gasped.

  "Although he is little, his family is great..."

  "Wring it neck,” said Pissabed.

  "Darkmans and glimmer,” said Jack Daw. “My lady bids. Then do."

  A voice from somewhere cried, “Hang craws!"

  "Craws!” answered from the hills. And all the dogs of Soulsgrave took it up.

  "Cut,” said Jack Daw. “Prig and run."

  Crack! Blind lightning blast, a whirl and burring through his skull.

  No more.

  * * * *

  Kit woke, rolled naked in a ditch. Fiddle's wracked, he thought. Where's here? Himself was lash and scratch and throbbing, ice and fever, and a dizzy thud behind his eye. Dragged through whins, he thought. And tumbled down a bank. That green girl at my bow's end. At the dance. That horseman? His hand moved gingerly. No, his good hand—one was lame. Cracked bagpipes in his side. A broken crown. Wet blood on his mouth. Not his. From Cap-and-Feather. From her other mouth. Remembering, he retched and strangled. Nothing in his gut to puke.

  Nothing left.

  No clothes.

  No rings.

  And at his wrist, no braid of Thea's. Sharper still than all his hurts, he felt that ring of absent fire.

  Gone.

  * * * *

  Whin said in the dark, “Went naked back?"

  "I robbed a scarecrow of his coat.” A clear night mocking him. The Hanged Lad ranting on Cold Law. As naked as himself. They'd left him with one broken shoe, in haste. Derision.


  "So yer done that. Ta'en rings."

  "I did."

  "Lost braid."

  "I did.” That desperate searching in the dark. He'd had a crazed hope it was somehow lost, not stolen for an end. That he would find it, tossed aside as naught. In a small voice, he said, “I didn't tell her. That I had it. That it was gone."

  "Round thy wrist? Had she not see'd it?"

  "No. I thought. We'd not—we hadn't lain together. Not since harvest.” He would not force her crazy innocence, not take his will of her. And yet he had.

  Long silence.

  "At the stones,” said Kit. “At Imber Beck. That kiss she gave me was the first time. Of her will.” He drew one ragged breath. “That other, freely. Not her love.” He was crying. “One other time. The last. I never knew it was. I never knew."

  * * * *

  Waking in the night. Hard ground. And Thea with her back to him, within his curve, and cradling his hand against her breast. Like a child her doll. He felt his ring there, on a thread; he felt her quick heart tap and tap, like a branch at a windowpane; he felt the round drum of her belly thud and kick. She smelled of smoke and Thea. Not asleep.

  She spoke, not drowsily, but low. “Kit. I do love thee. Know that."

  * * * *

  Blood in my lady's place. Blood on her smock. It would not come out.

  Margaret hurried through the dark and winding hallways, down toward her room. No sanctuary there, no more than in a hare's slight form, the impress of her crouch; but licit. Blood, suddenly. A spattering of drops, no more. Herself she'd washed and washed, no trace or tinge of it was left. Flung the water from her sill. But her smock. Would find her out. Bury it? The dogs would out. Burn it? No fire but in my lady's study. Up the chimney? Blood will out. Ah. Cut herself and mingle. Knife. She had a knife.

  Softly now. She lifted the latch.

  Morag and my lady waited with a rod of juniper. “Straying, and thy book undone. Come, Madam."

  Margaret curtsied, rose. “My lady."

  "Closer, girl. I am no basilisk."