Cloud and Ashes: Three Winter's Tales

by Greer Gilman

  "I know. You write of them,” said Margaret. “Of bones."

  "It is my work."

  "And this"—she touched the glass—"is mine."

  "They would spare not for thy philosophy.” He sighed. “I cannot keep a retinue about thee, waking at thy whim—aye, two at least,” he said. “A maid for thine honour's sake, a man to guard you both. I am no lording with a train of followers. My servants work. And so must sleep."

  "And may they not, if I would wake?"

  "Margaret, thou canst not—” Too shrewd: he changed his key. “Thou couldst be injured, soul and body, by a villain. Couldst be—forgive me—whored. In law, there is no reparation, no redress, for outrage on a girl night-wandering, unattended: she is waif and stray. Or even gossip of such thing could undo thee. And being lost, thy name's as weighty as thine honour."

  Not pertly, but in sober fact: “I have no name."

  "Thou hast thy virtue, which is all thy dowry."

  "I do not purpose, sir, to marry."

  "No. No. Understand this: thou wouldst be as an Ashes child, as naught."

  I ever was. A hole to fill. There was a kind of bees’ nest in her blood since Ashes handled her, a loathing longing. If she stung not, she would weep. “And Annot? Is she naught?"

  A silence. Carefully, he closed the compass, leg to leg. “Is vanished.” Cheek in hand, half turned from her. A shining in his eyes, unshed. “In a history, doubtless, she has ended badly. In my tale, she's on the Lyke Road ever. In Unleaving. Let me have my tale.” He rose and paced caterways: his old accustomed figure, chair to press to window. “When the great stars rise in autumn, I would go with thee to gaze, to learn thy new philosophy of stars.” Another turn. “Happen we could raise a lantern-room of sorts, upon the leads. A stair about the chimneystack."

  Hope against all reason rose in her. He'd give her leave to take her glass, to go.

  "But thou art shivering, poor mouse. So thou wert frighted by a maudlin?"

  How cam'st thou by my face? “Not hurt, sir."

  "I am glad of that; but there is worse abroad than poor mad Ashes."

  And she could not say: I know. Yet confinement is worse.

  "I would not hobble thee, but less—far less—would see thee harmed.” Turn and pace. “Thy fault was heedlessness, and not a wilful disobedience; and yet the consequence is grave. Unknowing of the law is no excuse.” He stood behind his chair, a hand on either lion's head. “Thy glass is forfeit for a month."

  "It is my work.” Her cry astounded her, as if like Ashes in the furrow she had bared her privities to him, her fury and her naked anguish. Raw. She wept as if she bled, unstanched.

  He began to spread their papers out, the sorted heaps of books. “So scholarship in Lune was mine: and yet ‘twas not my fortune to go on with it. There I had—companions. Masters. There now.” He unfolded his handkerchief for her. “When my father died—I being still in wardship, scarcely older than thyself—I needs must leave my wood of nightingales, my books, and study muck and wool. I serve this patch of land. It masters me, it is my office. Noll of Anywhere might have his will; but Grevil of Low Askwith is my Ashes coat: I cannot doff my name."

  The daemon in her spoke. “So Margaret is my office, Margaret my coat of skin: I cannot doff my sex."

  He looked at her perplexed. “O Margaret, we are not at liberty."

  But in a small choked voice, she said, “Yet I would walk that other Road."

  "And will in time: but not abroad alone. On this, I am absolute. Thou must swear it, ere thou hast thy starglass back: nevermore to walk by night with it."

  Hands between his hands, she knelt then. “On the Nine: I swear."

  * * * *

  Will dreams of clapping crows. He has no voice to cry them. Cannot run: his feet are cloyed with earth. The ravens stoop and scythe at him. They're harpies, beaked and taloned, naked to their gashes. That blood rains down on him, and bloody flux. But when they tumble in the air, turn back to front, they're men with glutted cocks. They couple in the air like swifts. But clusters of them, clots of three four seven, writhing and tearing in their joyless frenzy. At the ecstasy, they shriek.

  Dry-sobbing, with his crooked arm covering his eyes—they'd pike his eyes—Will struggles on. But a raven stoops and slashes him from throat to fork. His entrails slither out, they loop about his legs and cumber him. Just finish it. Kill. But they do game him, gloating. He must run.

  And there is Ashes in the green corn smiling, holding out his soul. Her brief bright hair like needfire on the summer hills; her face like dawn. But when he touches her, she's turned to stone, unshapen, cleft. He fumbles in her dry hole for his self, and there is nowt.

  He woke. He was lying naked in an icy puddle, in a reeling stench: shit, blood, seed, and stale. A roof above him, and a sill without—forbidden ground. A floor of stone beneath, a gutter running muck. He lay upon a littering of iron: chains, bits, hobbles, flails and rusted scythes. The witchlord and her prize were gone.

  And still, as if he'd looked upon the sun, he saw my lady burning on the air, black violet. She wore the bone mask at her shoulder and her witch robe. Naked else. It stood. She held his star as if she'd plucked it from the sky, had blinded night. White gold. Here's a toy thou'st kept from me. Thy fool has named it. Will, she said. And at the name the boy cried out as if it barbed him, and the fisher played the line. Come, Will, I know thy secrets as thou know'st my will. Wouldst game for it?

  His soul.

  And he had lost.

  He spat the gag out. Tried his limbs, no longer bound. After a time, he could raise himself, and saw the dead light seeping through the slates. And twisting slowly from the roofbeam, now this way and now that, he saw my lady's white shirt hanging like a ghost, the crown of straw.

  * * * *

  Morning. Still in his bedchamber, still in his gown, Grevil sat at his papers, hands raked through his hair on either side. By glazes, who'd rear daughters? And with none but himself to blame for her misgovernment, none to chide with, What thy daughter did. Mall take the lass, and what's to become of her?

  Yon glass, now in his cabinet—'twas curious in her to frame it. If—

  No time. He'd business toward—in that vexatious matter of his aunt—and but a stolen hour for his study. He pushed the spoilt page from him, took another, dipped his pen.

  A tap at the door. His water can.

  Wearily he called, “Aye?"

  In came Barbary with a paper in her hand.

  He sighed. “Still Madam?"

  "Law."

  And at her voice, he turned. Her face—still with anger—silenced him. She laid a warrant on his table, with my lady's seal on it: her mask in little, smiling like the scything moon. Unbroken: but he knew at heart the cause, the witch's enmity. O gods, had Will gone mad? “Assault?"

  "Thievery."

  He broke the wax and read. O Will. He stood as at an open grave, stood snowblind. Burn it, said his heart. And beat the ashes.

  "Fled,” said Barbary. “Happen he'll win away to Lune.” She'd brought a cup for him, burnt wine.

  Mastering himself, he stilled his shaking hands, he drank; but saw the servant's face change to an apprehending sorrow. Ah, she knew, they all knew what he felt. “O Barbary, am I made of glass?"

  "I's knowed yer a while. Y'll not break.” She bent to blow the fire up; he found he was shivering, had lost his voice.

  "If I...?"

  "There's nowt as Noll Grevil yer can do but fret or quarrel—and yon witch keeps swords about him. But yer t'Master here—ye wear that power, same as Ashes—and yer part's to see justice done."

  * * * *

  The great white featherbed came softly down between the maids’ hands.

  "...a ring,” said Ellender. “And all gold but t'stone."

  Cat laughed. “Would look brave on my hand."

  "Worth forty plough,” said Nan. The brisking of her broom. “Says Nick."

  The bump and clatter of Doll's tub. "Ken ye th’ rhyme fo
r grasshopper?" she sang.

  "He'll ride out wi’ my lady's court for that."

  "...a hempen rein, a horse o tree..."

  And Barbary called up the stairs.

  "Here's that marred girl in a pet,” said Nan. “And t'Master waiting his supper for her all this while. It's keeled.” She rapped on Margaret's door. “Thou's wanted."

  * * * *

  Dusk-drawn, as if the hooked moon caught her through the heart, Margaret slipped from shadow to shadow through the trees under Hallinside. Not her old-accustomed way, familiar now as sleep, but slantwise to it, striking north by west. Leaf, shadow. Outcrop, and the rattle of a started sheep. Whin, thorn. She kept the letter of her oath. No glass with her. At the outwall she paused, intent; gazed up and down the pale road from Ask to Owlerdale. No stirring in the dusk. No sound. Soft as if the moon were owling her, she crossed and stole along the edges of the hanging wood to the Whingate. Only to the gate, to see the stars.

  But she was wary now, as if she moved within my lady's walls; unwary, for the quarrel in her blood. Only just to see the stars. No glass. No matter now: but only that she walk at liberty. If dread of night-things bound her—Ashes had awakened terror—she was still my lady's captive, under Law. The night was stained for her. And then her self was lost.

  Only—But she saw no stars. Though dark was rising all around her, though it bled and bled unstanched from earth, so that she waded to the knee, the heart, in shadow, still the sky was sickly pale.

  Only to the gate.

  A stone rattled.

  As she turned, she was stifled with a burning hand. A wave of rank scent bore her backward into spring, it whelmed her in a ghostly foam of flowers. Overborne and struggling, she was dragged into the shadow of trees, in a brash and tangle of underwood. “Sneck,” said her captor, a hoarse hot shadow at her ear. “Just sneck and I'll not mar thee."

  The crow lad.

  Wary, he unclapped her mouth; she was silent. His onset had shaken the stars from her like dew from off the thorn. She stood scattered and unhallowed, burned bare in his fire. Surely he was sick, was taken with a fever: racked and glittering and rank with fear. Still he griped her with clawed hands. A white crow, white as harvest: burning like July. Like green hay smouldering. That fox-rank flowering his angry sweat. He shivered; but he held her fast. Spoke lightly, though his swagger shook. “Thou's late abroad, Mag Moonwise. Gettin eldins?"

  Cold fury gave her voice. “The wood above's mine own,” she said. “I want no leave of thee."

  "I's takin leave, thy will or none. I's flittin."

  "Then be gone,” she said.

  He laughed. “Thou's rue that hour. All on yer's to grieve.” His voice rose, triumphant, terrified. “Leapfire's what I is. An I leave Noll's land, it fails."

  "Go then. And I'll have the sky."

  "Go, starve thee. Eat thy moon for bread. Think thy bones will gaze?"

  That set her back a step.

  "Happen I'll gang for a soldier. Get cap and feather.” Still flaunting. “Or take ship. Out Luneward. Hear t'mermaids sing."

  Unbidden, she saw a fleet of eggshells tossing in a tub. By one and one they sank. “Not thou,” she said. “Thou'rt not for drowning."

  That stilled him a space. Then shifting ground, the boy leaned closer still, spoke darkly as he could. “Think on. Thou's not see'd me."

  "Nor will I."

  "Thou's getten thy master's keys."

  Silence.

  "He's kists o gold and silver."

  "Neither mine nor thine."

  "Only but to leave here.” Wheedling now. “A handful o silver. Nowt else. And never see me more.” He spoke to stone.

  "Not an eggshell."

  "Marget?” A voice she'd not heard. “They's lating me. To hang.” He drew a ragged breath. “For nowt. A ring. A tawdry ring. He—"

  "So taking of my master's silver, thou wouldst have me hang beside?"

  "They'd never.” But he stood appalled. “Not thee. I'd say I forced thee."

  "Wouldst lie?"

  "My lady lies. If I'd a ring, I'd not beg owt o thee. I never taken owt."

  Bare feet in the bracken. “Do you swear this?"

  Small and hoarse: as if he spoke against a stricture. “No.” As if the halter even now were round his neck. “T'ring's mine. What I is: and he ta'en it. That I swear."

  Margaret turned her face. He lied. He lied. “Go hang."

  He spat. “Thou marred bitch. Thou maggot. What does thou know o starving, thou in thy goosefeather bed? Thou's slept soft and etten fleshmeat all thy days."

  A cold key turned in her, undid her tongue. “What do you know of me?"

  "What thou does for thy keep, thou toy.” He had her by the braid and twisted. “Lickdish. Thou's to sell, thou babbywhore. To breed. Awd Noll's a reckoning to pay."

  Nothing. He knew nothing of her secrets. “Whore thyself."

  "What, with Noll Petticoats? I gamed him."

  "No. Thy lady's whore. His game. Thou bent thine arse. He mastered thee."

  A flash, as of talons. For an eyeblink, she thought the moon had stooped at her: then felt the edge. He'd laid a knife against her throat. “Here's mastery. What it wants, it gets. Here's law.” Through a blood-haze in her eyes, she saw the dead hare, skinless but the head; she saw the drawn lip and the glassy stare. “I want what I's owed.” He ran a rough finger along the curve of her jaw, from ear to knifeblade. A caress. That chilled her more than any threat. “Thou greenery. Thou glass,” he said. Half mocking; musing. Almost gently, he touched the hollow of her occluded throat; traced one small stiffened breast. She flinched; outfaced him. His knife pressed harder. “Silver. And a horse."

  Her blood beat against the knifeblade. Still spinning out, the thread.

  "Thou? Canst thou ride, crow boy?"

  "Aye, cunny. And can pace thee, whip and bridle."

  In the wood, an owl cried. She lifted her chin to him. “Thy horse is but the gallantry. Go jig on air."

  A fury felled her.

  A thrash and tussle in the underwood. She fought. But he held the knife. It won.

  Hard-breathing, the crow lad knelt on her, the blade against her throat. It stilled her. She stared up at his blurred white face; heard his harsh breath rale. “Thou see if I can ride.” He thrust a knee between her legs, rucked up her petticoat and smock. Chill wind on her naked belly; his grimy, burning hand. Under it, she arced and twisted like a salmon to the gaff. Again the knife stilled her; the hand undid. It skulked and ferreted; withdrew, and fumbled with the rags at his fork. “Vixen.” He tweaked her tuft. “Thou vixen.” Then he slicked his hand with spit and pried her. There.

  Lightning.

  And with the shock, appalling godhead: a tumult of death. She was made my lady's burning glass, annihilated with her blaze. A voice cried out. Her own?

  Dark.

  Reeling, dazed with power, she stood. Thrashed down her skirts. He was kneeling in the brashwood, cradling his hand. He whispered.

  "Witch. Burn thee."

  "My lady eat thee."

  She turned and walked down the hill, not blind with rage but lucid, crazed with Law. The air in shards still falling. She did not look backward at the stars.

  * * * *

  Ablaze with fury, white as crystal fiery from the blast, Margaret strode down Hallinside. Rage enveloped her, unsouled her. She was turned my lady's vessel: void within and crazing as she cooled. White, straw-white, sullen red: she slaked through fury, shame, despair. Grey ashes. Slag.

  Too late she saw that there were torches in the yard. The household was astir. And she was lated: hailed and hunted in a clatter of pattens. Even as she called her rage to arrow her, she knew it spent: a burnt stick whelmed and whirling in an icy river. There was no more heart in her to run. Faces flared out of shadow. Hands caught at her: pinned, plaited, tift and tucked. They did off her draggled apron, scolding; scrubbed her face with their apron corners; smoothed her elf-locked, leafy hair. The crowd bore Margaret away.
No running now: the women thronged her, and on either side, a hind held fast. Their dolly, green and fading, like a thing of plaited straw.

  A chained dog barked. Another, deeper, hurtling at his rope. Now all: a burden to the shrill of servants.

  Looking up, she cracked like cat-ice to a booted heel.

  Down from the road from Ask to Owlerdale came a knot of darkness and a scattering of sparks: a rade of travellers in black. Slow destiny. A footboy ran before, a laden packhorse lagged behind, her fate rode on: a horseman and a mantled woman, cloaked and hooded all in black. I summoned her, she thought. My fury called her down. They brought a stifling dark with them: a scarving, starless night. No air, no flying now. How the torches caught the blink and spiral of the falling leaves. The riders dipped below the turning; rose; impended. They were at the gate. Here, now: the horses stamped and whickered in the courtyard.

  "Madam."

  Grevil gave his hand to one alighting, a woman in a velvet mask and mantled like the dead of moon. He bared his head, he bent his knee to her.

  "Where is the girl?” she said. An old voice: cracked, imperious.

  Rough eager hands pushed Margaret forward. Dazed with horror, she sank to her knees. A crooked finger lifted her chin. Light lapped her face: a torch brought close, compelling sight. She needs must look upon her death. And saw—not my lady, but a stranger dismasked: a small face, crazed with age as china is, abrim with power. A witch. No Annis: yet the dark eyes held her gaze. They saw, not through her, but her flaw: where she might crack. “You are long returning,” said the Cloud witch. “Daughter Annot."

  * * * *

  Journeyman

  "...goes down at Eventide, her long way under Law; red Morag rising now exulteth in her Kist & Keys ..."

  Whin at the world's edge looks to where the stars are setting: at the Road that is a river, at the sea that bears no ship on it—or none of tree—the farther shore that is the impery of death. Her journey: she has sworn.

  And from that journey only sun and stars return; and Ashes, who arose from dark, my lady's daughter and her runaway. The Witches walk that Road; the Ravens travel it, who bear away the souls of men, as treasure for my lady's crown. The Huntsman rides and reaves. But no one—willing soul in body—ever made this venture. She cannot. Or not by sea: unless her winding sheet's her sail. Her boat of Cloudish wood is wracked. She's left the bones of it to bleach on no man's sky, to puzzle all the passing dead. A riddle too for the astrologers, a stillborn falling star. Like Journeyman, she haunts the strand of night. This shore her biding place, betwixt.