by Greer Gilman
It was here she met the Outlune fiddler whom the sea cast up. He drowned himself for death of love, and death, dismissive, cast him back. That journey was not his to take. Not yet. And it was here that she and Kit were parted when she told his Thea's death, death's daughter: Ashes, who did choose a mortal love. There, beyond the sea, their daughter is, if any live in that dread country. Under Law. And as Whin's sworn by black and white to seek his daughter, so he's pledged to find her son. Her Ashes brat the old Sun got on her, the boy she'd not give over to the furrow and the knife. No harvest of her blood. So cheating earth, she is forever bound to it: death's journeyman and Ashes ever, teller of the dead.
She turns the lost child's ashing in her hand, the ring of stones. A knot of blood.
No telling.
She has tried. And over and again, she's found herself unbodied in an empty room, has seen a cradle overturned, a burning doll. She's seen a bed, its curtains billowing. Its clawed rings inch and jangle in a moveless wind. Scattered on the floor are painted cards, in twos and threes and gatherings. But as she takes a step, but only one, the floor is sky, the stars are whirling thick about her face, like embers from a brand. And she is falling.
Now is otherwise. Now even as she looks, the pebbles at her feet are dabbled, bright with blood. Her own? The hand is bloodstarred but unhurt.
The ring is drops of blood, is gone.
Not hers.
As mourners do, she marks her face, as her master mistress Brock once did to her: with blood for ashes. Brow and eyelids, cheek and chin. Then mouth. She tastes it.
And the voices wake.
Whin, kneeling at the water's edge, fills up her hands with light. Pale fire: like that shining on the sea that limns the oar's edge, mingles in the wake. It overspills her cup of hands. That light is souls.
The Road that is a River is of souls: not one but many lives in time, a baffling and a braid of streams. The sea is stories. And a wave of them breaks over her: the salt and sting, exhilarating, and the glassy weight. It pulls. The water on her lips is bittersweet.
Whin walks into the sea.
* * * *
It is another air of water and an earth of light. She walks on puzzled ground, like moorland, in a snow of stars. Not dead herself, she thinks—she hopes—her breath still clouds, her blood beads up and clots, her piss falls scalding on the rime—there's rain for yer below. And she desires: she would wap with Kit, left long ago. Not then and never will. She thirsts for it, sweet meddling in the blood. Alive; and yet she does not sleep nor hunger, but for others of her kind.
She drinks snow.
Some times the travellers she spies afar are standing stones; and times—but seldom now—the stones are naked travellers, by one and one, bent onward. Bairns and elders, lads and girls. The dead. But they are blind to her as stones: as silent. Only as they pass her by, she hears an echo of a telling: she is Ashes still.
An old hag with her white hair wild and loose about her, spinning snow. Her distaff is a branch of thorn.
...my father sold me for a plough of land...?
A horseman, shod with snow.
Two lovers, clear as glass new-blown, still burning redly where the pipes were broken off: her vixen and his wyrm.
...at midnight and myself by dawn...?
Once she came upon a space untrodden, with bloody swords flung down, with gouts and spatterings of blood across the snow. A wreath of gold. Nought else. And now she spies a gallows, raven-haunted, with the corbies made of snow.
...my songs unsung...?
Rough-coated as a bear, Whin shambles on. Ship's thyself, she thinks. And telling as she goes, she lays a keel of bone.
* * * *
Under Law
Keys. Shadows. Eyes.
In her room that now was Madam's closet, Margaret bent her neck to the crow-clawed waiting women, Grieve and Rue. They tugged her laces, twisted up her hair from off her shivering nape and shoulders, pinched her slight pale buds in mockery of ripeness. The gown they'd put her in was rich and strange, of cloud-changed shifting silk: steelblue, stormblue, dizzying with musk and wormwood, old and yet unworn. Her jacket and her petticoat, her stout nailed shoes, were locked away. They turned her round in this garb, as they would buy her on a stall. “Here's all to do,” said one, and tweaked a sleeve. Too long for walking in, too low for modesty; chill, billowing and cruelly stayed. “'Twill do,” the other said. In silence, Margaret rose and followed down the winding stair.
Tribunal waited in the wainscot parlor, swept bare of work: Madam in a great chair, with unmastered Grevil standing at her side; a knot of whispering servants at the sill beyond. As she passed, he could not meet her gaze; Barbary lifted her chin.
"Come, girl,” said Madam Covener, and beckoned Margaret to her chair. There were small things in her lap, like lenses—No. But my lady's child did not cry out, nor falter; she was schooled in dread. And it was not her glass dissected. No, the lady held, coin-small and bright, an image to her face: a portrait from her nephew's cabinet. Unlocked, his secrets naked to the eye. And, Ah, the craning household said. Not hers, thought Margaret. Not I. And yet she saw the gown, the lace, the tiring of the pale red hair limned perfectly, as in a dwindling glass, as in the pupil of my lady's eye, diminished.
Turning to her kinsman, Madam spoke.
"It was my brother's maggot, as thou knowst, to wed with an Outlune woman, dowerless and lawless. She did bear him daughters; yet being sickly, of a stillborn son she died. And ere she'd gone a small pace on that road, my brother hurried after, footboy to his folly, as if to light her the way. His bones are laid in Lunish earth. And there he left two girls amongst her barbarous kindred, blood of my blood. As my duty was, I fostered them—” Her glance bade Margaret curtsey. “—myself took ship to bring them unto Cloud, myself unlearned them of their Lunish errors, sained them, schooled and dowered them, and found them Cloudish husbands. Damaris, thy mother—"
Master Grevil bowed his head, hand outward: enough.
"Whelped but a whitely brood: all dead but her cade-lamb. And he unlike to get heirs."
"Madam, I—"
"Her sister Annot—"
All turned toward Margaret.
"—being of an age, was handfast to a gentleman of thirty plough, a lord of great pastures in the north. But on a May morning—"
Grevil broke in eagerly. “She rose before the dawn, and maid amongst maidens, went gathering green. So my nurse did tell it, who did braid her hair that very morn. And laid a cup for her returning, never tasted. Being heedless of our Cloudish custom, she did break a branch of my lady's thorn. And was stolen away under hill."
"And has returned."
Silence. Rain rattled the window glass.
Lifting his palm to her, he swore. “Madam, by this hand, this is no earthly may, but a changeling, nor of Cloud nor Lune."
"That folk are made of air. If they be cut, they wither like a swathe of grass.” Again, she looked at Margaret. “If you prick her, she will bleed."
Pensive, Grevil pleached his cuff; then countered. “If mortal, then a stranger to this realm. And by her manner, not of Lune. I—” Now turning of his ring. “I hear no echo of my mother's nor of Annot's voice in hers, and I have spoken with her many months."
"And I have searched her straitly. There are marks about her body that I ken. She is Annot found."
Still doubting. “Well I know that one who ventures in the sunless lands, the sky below, will turn again no minute older than the day she left, were she gone five hundred years—but was mine aunt then a child?"
"No; but thou wast then in petticoats and prattled of thy nurse's tales. Thou'rt dazed with balladry. Thine elders mind her well."
"As I do. Your pardon, aunt: but Annot stood to me as elder sister and as governess, nay, half my mother, and my dearest playfellow."
"Thou her lapdog rather, or a toy to prink. Her fancy marred thee. She did stuff thy wits with nonsense as a monkey's cheek with grapes."
Her m
ock, it seemed, met air. Grevil's gaze was elsewhere, inward. At last, he turned from memory, as from another room, a gallery. “Yet I know what I do know: that Annot sang."
Madam Covener looked at him, long-lidded. “And this girl does not?"
"Madam, I have heard her not."
"And you?” She turned to the knot of servants. “Does she sing at her needle?"
"Like a cuckoo i't nest,” a servant muttered.
And another: “Like an owl."
"Like any crow,” said Barbary. “Keeps measure but no music."
A dry disdain in Madam's face. “Think you she took cold beyond?” Then turning to the room: “You see. Their teind is what is dearest to their thralls: wits, eyes, tongues.
And souls? thought Margaret.
No murmur now. “They have returned her, but her songs they keep."
The rain fell. In the gathered stillness, Barbary took the image up and studied it. “T'gown's like."
"And the girl?"
"I ne'er laid eyes on her. Awd Mistress Quarrenden, she set me on that summer after. There was t'linen to keep.” She set the image down. “And t'lad."
"Then I call one who did.” Madam beckoned to a servant at the threshold. “Mab Kelder."
Blind Mab hobbled to the silent girl, and felt her cheek and chin. “Aye, ‘tis her, ‘tis Mistress Annot, right enough. Did I not tell ye? And didn't I knit her same stockins?"
A murmur.
"'Twas good yarn as ever Jinny span, but she's dead and ashes—poor soul! And she'll never cry holly and ivy no more."
"That will do. Tom Arket."
"Happen she could be,” said the shepherd. “I's heared folk gan there and back, and no more changed than delf in a dunghill."
Madam Covener said, “Is this the girl?"
Crook Tom squinnied solemnly at Margaret. “Mistress Annot were another such as yon vixen, aye, bonewhite and blaze. Like as kits of ae kindle."
"And if she is,” said blunt Barbary. “What on't? She's away wi’ t'fairies yet."
"Such freaks may be physicked.” Madam Covener drank deep. “And she is handfast yet. Her lord lives on, thrice-widowed; and has garnered gold on gold, and rare learning. He is great among my lady's servants."
Barbary said, “Would such as he take a nameless girl, a hedgebird?"
"Her name I warrant. And her maidenhead.” Grieve glanced at Rue. “She is virgin."
Margaret drew herself still further in. No door, no sky.
"There's one you've not asked.” Mistress Barbary turned to Margaret, looked long at her and level. “By t'moon: are you this Annot that were lost?"
A small voice, disused, despairing. “By the moon and dark of moon and all the wood above, I know her not."
"Then tell your name, or wear another's garland to her bed."
Smaller still. “I cannot say."
Madam now disclosed her hand. There lay on it a ring of silver, black with age. “Where got'st thou this? For it was Annot's."
Silence.
"It was hidden in thy chamber. It is found.” Flawless Ellender smoothed down her apron. Turning to the whitefaced Grevil, Madam said, “Do you vouch for it?"
He took it, turned it his hand. “It is like her ring. But if it were, the room was also Annot's room; belike she left it there, for she took nothing."
"This she would not leave: it was an ashing of her mother's kindred.” Madam bent her gaze on Margaret. “By her face, the girl's a liar. She is Annot."
"Or—"
"Or thou'st taken in a thief and whore. Wouldst see her whipped before the town? Turned out upon the road to serve Daw's pack?” He was silenced. “Now girl, by Annis and her night, I conjure thee: where got'st thou Annot's ring?"
In darkness. Room on room of shadows, and the glint of things that spilled from broken coffers: all the ashings of the dead untold. She would not speak, would never speak: but that her lady's name compelled her. “From one that's dead,” said Margaret. Under Law.
* * * *
Annot stood, scratched and breathless, on a hillside, at the edges of a leafing wood. Wavering, as in a dance half-learned, the music fallen still—Now which? Now which? The exaltation that had carried her to this fell back, the wave of it withdrawing from the printless reaches of her heart. Nothing but a shining on the sand laid bare. A momentary gleam. It sank away.
Ashes? Thou didst call the dance. What road?
The stars, too, sunken into grey. All vanished now, the Road that she had followed, white as wave-edge, the Fiddler and the Thorn. The Shepherd's Fold. Before her in the paling east, the Nine had faded into air, triumphant. It was May that marked their rising out of Law. As I hope to rise. The morning star, bright Perseis, still shone beside a fainter star, she knew not which. O Perseis. Thy story mine.
A rustling in the wood behind her. Turning, she looked back. She saw a young man, all in gold and violet: amazement in his face, and dangling from his hand, a garland of the thorn, both white and black. She knew this dance, the soundless music of it moved them both. Now he would speak.
* * * *
"I find no flaw in it.” said Grevil. He looked wearily to Margaret, turning the parchment for her to the waning light.
She looked at a winter hedge of words, at the lash and eddering of quickset strokes. A cage of law, close-woven. Here a crow-blotch of sealing wax; there, a gout of it like blood new-spilt on snow. A hand—long dead and laid in earth—had set her seal on it: a ship like a clinched moon, riding on its keel; a mast of tree, that flowered into stars; and all about it, falling, leaves or stars.
Lief wode I fall, an light wode spring.
The riddle in her ring. No stone in it, and yet a skein: a knot of blood.
"It is not my hand."
He sighed. “It is my mother's mothers’ ring. Her kindred's, that I wear. And Master Corbet his stamp—” A fiddle and a flaunting crow, blunt-struck, blurred with vehemence. “—both signed and countersigned. Did they chaffer for an eggshell, for a bride of straw, that seal is proof."
She could cipher. “You would sell me."
"No,” he said, dismayed. “'Twas none of my doing, by the air and Ashes. I would lief undo.” He turned to her. “Think you I would sell a child?"
The crow lad had given her a blade of elfshot, bitter cold and true. She flung it. “You have bought."
Too carefully, as if he bore a cup unspilled, he said, “I do not take.” Glass-cold and quarrelled. She could see where he had cracked, long since; how still he bore himself in shards. “Go marry."
Madam Covener did up the clasp; she held the mirror to her ward's unseeing face. “Thou wilt mind thee of this chain I gave thee, at thy trothing. I have kept it well.” She touched the girl's bright head, close-braided, quenched; sought trembling in the body, still as tree.
The north light, passionless, played evenly on all: the heap of jewels on the table; the woman, soberly and richly clad, still handsome, with the silvered glass; the servant by the window, hands folded in her apron; the girl, pale as frost in autumn, in a stillness of despair.
The woman bent to her casket. “Does she bleed?"
"Madam?” said Barbary.
"Thou hast change of her linen. Will she breed?"
"Scarce yet.” The servant made her courtesy contempt.
Madam Covener slipped a ring on a roll of parchment. “Bedding will ripen her."
Sharp-eyed Barbary took up her tray. “He's a taste for green fruit, yon gallant."
"'Tis not his belly will ache for't.” The witch half smiled. “Go. I will bid thee."
As she turned, Madam Covener held stones to Margaret's cheeks, half made to hook them in her ears; was checked. No piercings, not a scar. She called to the kist where her own maid knelt, turning out long-folded linens. “Grieve, my needlecase.” Her black-browed waiting woman brought needle and thread. “Hold her."
Margaret dared not flinch; she felt the shock of power still, that laid her naked to my lady's thought. This meddling bruised her f
lesh and spirit; but that rush of godhead was annihilation: it laid waste her soul. Her mind sought shelter elsewhere, amid the stars and numbers in her head: but the air was no liberty, the heavens were no roof. She stumbled in a labyrinth of dread.
Slow lightning, sawing at each lobe. The point was burred with salt. No cry: but Margaret's eyes went wide, her irises half drowned in dark. Pain made itself a door of seeing; made of light a rape. Unwilling tears, yet two or three slid down her captor's hand. “Ah, the stones become thee.” She tilted Margaret's chin and gazed. “Thou braid'st of thy grandame that wore them. Blood will tell."
* * * *
The boy is running, bloodfoot on the moor. He's made his way by holt and hollow, ditch and slough: mud-slubbered, thicket-torn. Lain shuddering and burning in the pale of day. Slept scarce at all, with listening for the brash of hounds. Slogs on now. He is far beyond the fields he knows; knows nothing, but the sea's his only hope. Knows not if it lies east or west. And he might die, if he's not taken. There's a green fire burning in his lights, rust-ropy when he hacks it up; a fire in his blood. And when he drinks to quench it, then a black frost in his gut. As if he's swallowed attercaps. He cannot last.
So at nightfall he breaks covert. And he's running on a moorland, white as if with frost. So light, he's never run so light: as if he's starved away the clag of mortalness. He swivels in the moon for joy. And yet the wind outrides him. Tig last! he cries to it. And laughs: Will Shadowslip. Now the air is thick with flying leaves, black leaves before the moon: though not a tree stands by him. Laying back his ears, he runs.
All round him, there's a scent, blood-cousin, that he knows for sea.
Then he hears the cry of hounds. Can feel it in his prick and marrow. In his stones. Can feel the scorching of their breath—No. No, that clamoring is fear. Those flying leaves are ashes, eyed with sparks. He swings about. There's fire on the hills. Not daybreak. North, east, west. As frantically he seeks a trance in it, it closes on him in a ring of gold.