Cloud and Ashes: Three Winter's Tales

by Greer Gilman

  She had never gone so far.

  Beyond her fled a white hare like a furl of fire leaping from a brand, but paler than the waning moon. Like fire it flared and wavered; and went out.

  That card was burnt, she thought.

  Then she came to the Gallows Tree and saw the crow lad hanged.

  He dangled, naked and atwist, agape. She saw his bound hands, writhen struggling against the knotted hemp; she saw his stonebruised feet, now restless, dance on air. She saw his pricket like an angry thorn. His silver hair flared out about the bloodblue face, as if his death eclipsed him. There was something in his tongueless mouth. A stone? And then he twisted and it fell. An egg. S'll harry thee a howlet's nest, he'd told her once. I knaws ae tree. Stooping she picked it up: unbroken, strangely heavy in her hand. It was cloudblack and scrawled with white, with crossings intercrossing. Runes of stars. What tree? For as she gazed, she saw it fathomless, awhirl with light; she saw unfolding galaxies, feathering like frost. She saw the leaves unscattered of the book of heaven.

  They were burnt.

  To Ashes.

  * * * *

  Barbed and hooded, masked as for a play, my lady's women brought Margaret down the winding stair. The dream still tranced her, sliding in her blood like sublimate: a bright envenomed clarity, a swaling heaviness. It was the eve of Hallows Eve. So dark a morning still, at noontide, that they bore a branch of candles. Beeswax, as befitted Madam Covener.

  "Rare play we had of it,” said Grieve to Rue. To Margaret, “The hunt was up, thy lord and all his pack."

  "Afoot and riding."

  "Earth and air."

  "When thou'rt his lady, thou shalt ride with him."

  The girl spoke not, but Grieve answered. “Aye, we took."

  "A white hare, and alive."

  They crossed the empty parlour, shadows and the ghost of flowers, to the high dim crowded hall. It smelled of winter, with a tang that caught her throat, of smoke and damp and mortal dread. Like Morag's kitchen, with its larder of souls. They had dressed her bravely, as befitted Corbet's property; she felt the silver mantle as a tarnish, like a shadow that would slide and leave her naked as the moon. Hard faces turned and stared and mocked.

  She knew them; they had leapt the scythe.

  Then she crossed a cold threshold, and she knew the place. They stood in Law. About them, silent, there were grey-cloaked women, in the places of the stones, the stars.

  Before them stood the crow lad with his hands bound, ringed with scythesmen. Still alive; but the dream had foreshadowed him. Her sullied moon would slide before him; he would flare and die. He seemed now but an afterimage of himself, a scar on sight. Had this poor wretch bestrid her with a knife? Undone the ranting goblin at his fork? Not burning now but quenched. Corbet's men had beaten him; she knew too well that flinch of body, and that bruised despair. Mere pelt and bone and stinking rags, like something that an owl had cast.

  He would not look at her.

  But Corbet sat asprawl, at vantage, like a gallant at a play. No: like the play itself, a masque of old Slae, he that ate the newborn Sun; and Perseis his bride. He beckoned her; she needs must go. They set her by his knee before the company, brought cakes and wine. Flaunting her, he toyed her bare neck with his civet hand. He whispered with his cold breath, musk and charnel.

  "Noll wavers,” said Corbet. “See. But he will find for me."

  Grevil sat on the dais, with a silver chain about his shoulders, and a scythe against his chair. Before him on the table lay a ring with a great tawny stone. Law's child, she knew it for a soul. As he did not. That puzzled her. She saw it clearly: insubstantial and more real than bread or stone or fire. Real as Law. He turned it in his hand, as if it were a rotten orange at a banket: meat he had no stomach for. And by it, like a crumpled napkin, lay a shirt: a little slashed, once fine, but stained with earth and ashes, and a darker stuff. With blood. And beneath that, bright and scattering—her heart clenched—lay several of a woodcut pack of cards. Not hers, but like.

  "Thou nameless known as Crow-lad, masterless. Of no age. Else called Rattlebag; else Clapcraws, Cloudborn, Ashes-got. These things were ta'en on thee,” said Grevil to the lad. “Dost thou deny them?"

  The boy said nothing. His warder cuffed him. “No.” Sullen, defiant. Another buffet. “No. Master."

  "Let him speak or be silent,” Grevil said. “Now, boy, Madlin Flint has sworn by lief and law that she made this shirt for Master Corbet; and Nan Fell that she washed and mended it not three days before thy flight, and laid it in his chamber, in a press."

  The crow lad's voice was small and harsh. “He gi'ed me yon sark."

  "What he?"

  "Yon dawcock.” He jerked his chin at Corbet. “Him smiling.” Margaret saw again the witch's carven mask, the summer lightning of his striding blade. He knew. And if he knew her birth? The scythesmen stirred.

  "Gave thee?"

  "For a jig.” He raised his face to Grevil. “My awd jacket were outworn."

  "Take care, boy,” said Grevil. “Lest thy tongue betray thee.” He slid the cards on the table, brooding. “Of what color were his hangings?"

  "I were never in his bed. He'd not clart his sheets wi’ me.” He tried to wipe his snotted face on his shoulder. “Said he'd threshing, at Cock Moor. So I went."

  "As whore?"

  "Not what I is, it's what I's done. For bread. I'd be elsewhere."

  "For bread, thou sayest. But a holland shirt? A ring?"

  A waggish knave called out, “A lord might tryst wi’ a pisspot, at need, but he'd not pay gold to quaff it."

  "That man,” said Grevil. “Take him out.” He composed himself. “Whore is no excuse for thief, if proved upon thee. For the stealing of a shirt, thou shouldst be whipped; for breaking of a chamber, branded; for bearing tales, thy tongue be slit.” He paused; and turned the great ring in his hand. “But here is graver matter."

  "Ring's mine own,” said the crow lad hopelessly. “By Hallows and t'Nine, I swear it."

  "Thou? Nameless, masterless?"

  "It's what I is."

  Margaret watching saw curiosity, doubt, compunction flicker on Grevil's face. He leaned forward. “Has any seen this thing upon thee? In thy keeping? Hast thou spoken of it?"

  I's a star thou's not spied.

  Still he would not look at Margaret. “No."

  And if she spoke? But Corbet whispered and caressed her. Filthy things. His cold breath stirred his earrings at her cheeks. It tarnished even gold; it woke them, scorpions to sting. He owned her. He would kill them both.

  "Wouldst not have sold it? For that bread thou lack'st?"

  "And wha'd believe it mine?"

  "None yet,” said Grevil. “Thou must prove. How cam'st thou by this ring?"

  "I's never had it. Always."

  Gibes and catcalls. Grevil stilled them with a hand. “Go on."

  "It were given me.” Struggling as if the bonds he tried were Grevil's. “See it's not a ring, but when it is. And then yer see it like a ring. Or owt. An orange."

  "It is gold,” said Grevil. “Valued, and of such-and-such a weight. The stone is adamant.” He squared his papers. “It would buy a plough of land, and all its harvests."

  Corbet's waiting-man, a sly fellow, called out, “Here's a bold ratlin. I have seen yon ring on Master Corbet's hand before this ditchborn dog was whelped, or ere his mother or her mother whored."

  Two scythesmen caught the crow lad as he twisted and spat.

  But Grevil looked coolly at the servant. “What hand?"

  "Why, his left, sir. By his heart."

  "Wouldst thou swear it?"

  He would. And a respectable dame, Corbet's linen-woman, swore that he had it of his first wife, at her death. An heirloom of her family, said a third. His old nurse. But of late it grew small for him, and so he kept it in his closet, in a coffer, locked.

  Grevil beckoned to his clerk. “Here's a paper of his steward's hand, and sealed.” He broke it with his thumbnail. “On h
is oath, he swears the ember ring was ever on his master's swordhand."

  A rustling, as of wind in barley.

  Corbet rose drawing with his left hand, swiftly as he'd scythed; then turned his dagger hiltward to the judge, and bowed. “My masters trained me well,” he said. “I fence equivocally, with either hand."

  He sat, and in the rumour, leaned toward Margaret. “Thou shalt wear it for our play,” he said. “And nothing else."

  Unwilling Grevil rose. “So. Redesmen and riddlewomen: you have heard..."

  But the crow lad said, “There's cards.” A half silence. “I ta'en that pack o them. For gaming wi’ a vixen whore. And what I rue me of, is not your charge; and what you'll hang me for is what I is."

  In the long withdrawing, Margaret stared at the cards, left scattered on the board. The Hanged Lad. The Horseman. No turning them. They'd not painted Slae like her own: not the Old Year in amongst the guisers with his ivy wreath, but with a billhook, by a leafless hedge. He lopped and plaited it about the winter wren, the Sun. Behind him on the wintry skyline stood a pole with a dangling thing on it, a scarecrow or a hanged man. Crowsmeat. They were all about him, rising in the air. And scattered on the fallow field were drops of silver. Coins. Or seed.

  A slow drum beat return. They rose, and sat.

  Grevil stood bareheaded, bowed before the Riddlestones. “We will hear your will and weird. What rede ye?"

  "Law.” One by one, the cloaked and hooded stones came forward, casting tokens in his rattling bowl. Eight black pebbles and a ninth of clouded grey. He shut his eyes, a moment only, soulstruck: like a tree about to fall, unfallen. Then he swept the tally up and showed them to the moot. “Eight and one."

  He turned to the crow lad. “Thou wilt hear thy doom."

  Dazed silence.

  "Cloud will hang thee. Go by that road that thou cam'st, not walking but astride of wind.” There were ashes in the bowl; Grevil sained him. “Eyes to the ravens; breath to the blind worm; ashes to air.” He took the lykepale face between his hands. “Thy soul, for evermore untold, to Annis, at her will. So be it under Law.” And formally, judicially, he kissed him, mouth to mouth.

  "If I wrong thee, I will take thy road."

  And none but Margaret saw his hand rest, trembling, on the hempwhite hair; nor heard him whisper, “...sorry..."

  But Master Corbet rose and gathered up the shirt. “Well, I'll not ride thee pillion. Here.” He bunched and tossed it at the stonestruck boy. “Thou mayst hang in it. I'll a dance at my wedding."

  He set on the ring.

  * * * *

  In Brock's Bag

  "There is a darknesse in the Road, a rift that runneth to the Scythe; but springing in the Raven it is call'd her Crawe: wherein my Glasse discovereth no starres. Yet here may bee a deeper Water, and a Catch of Souls. Brock's Bagge, our countryfolk do name it. In her secrets is the Soul possess'd..."

  Mist all round him. White and still. No road. No sun nor moon. Nowhere.

  Bonecold and blinded with the fog, the boy kneels by a standing stone. Half naked, in a slashed stained shirt. Bare neck and legs. No jacket—has he drunk that away? No shoes. And frayed rope knotted round each wrist.

  Nothing, he remembers nothing.

  Drunk? he thinks; and tries to stand.

  Reeling, he bows down again, flailed down by a storm of inwit, white black white, like crows that tear, like hailing starfall, like the lashing of a woman's hair, her cursing, as he—black red, the rending of her nails at—No. Leave off.

  The touch of stone steadies him. Starving cold he is, his wits dunted. Should clap. Get on. Late fire. He rises on whitecold feet and turns. Burnt moorland, rime, that endless mist. What way?

  A small jangle and clack, in all that stillness. Like harness; but no horse. He turns, too dazed to ward himself but with an arm before his face, palm outward, and he sees a shadow walk. It shrinks into a traveller: a woman breeched and booted, in a leathern cap, as grey as any brock. There are runes of iron braided in her hair, that swing and jangle; blood and ashes on her coat.

  "Where's here?” he tries to say.

  "Thy road. And thy lodging."

  "Let by. I's nowt."

  "There's thy lawing to pay. For thy room here. Fire and fleet.” She holds out her scarred brown palm. “Gi's thy ring."

  "Gone,” he says. No voice.

  "And i’ thy keeping. It's thysel."

  And dazingly, he has it, hung about his neck on a cord. He takes it in his hand, and turns it, glowering through his fingers like a wintry sun through ice. That wakes a dread in him. Its fire will dwindle him away, like snow from thorn; lay bare his bones. And if...? He stamps and feels no buzz of blood returning. Sees no cloud of breath.

  A bare whisper. “Will you tell a death?"

  The stranger takes and tumbles it from fingertip to finger, burning like an ember; then she quenches it in her bag. “Snaw's to be thy sark,” she says. “And wind's thy horse."

  He stands earthfast, soulstruck. Cold out, his heart. In Ashes.

  What road has he come? He shivers, pathless, in a dazzle of deaths. Again falls blazing from the masthead, burning drowned. Dances naked on the gallantry. Feeds foxes. Crows. Blind worms.

  Brock takes his face between her hands, and kisses and kindles him. Blades pierce. Not blood but grief and memory returning, poignant in his flesh. All afire with cold. He shakes. She haps him in her old coat, black as earth; she lays him to her breast, and strokes him, cheek and chin, clagged hair, clemmed belly, and his sullen dart. He rises not; yet he dies in her. She takes him in her lap, and he is nothing, a worm in a hazelnut, a rattlebag.

  He is crying; yet no tears will come. “Marget. I never told..."

  "She's not for thy undoing,” says Brock, lifting his chin. “And thou's not yet done.” She sains him, eyes, mouth, heart. “Thou's nobbut guising for a man; yet thou brings t'sun. Will Ashes."

  * * * *

  Hallows

  The lanterns stood unlatched on the sandwhite scoured table. They had hung in the rafters yearlong, from each hallows to the next, unheeded as the moon by day, or like the stars at a child's birth, that work their ministry beneath the sill of night. At Barbary's hest, the maids had hooked them down, and scoured them with sand and rushes. They were old and curious: of horn and silver, ironwork and tin and copper, wrought and pierced with images of moon and stars.

  She had unlocked the catmallison for cakes and spicery; laid out a score of good wax candles, even to a scruple.

  On the dresser stood the Ashes-supper: soulcakes and sheercake, warden tarts and sharp white cheese, goose pie, gilt parkin, hazelnuts, jugged hare, quince quiddany, a knoll of apple butter and a motte of damson cheese. Now Barbary with her sleeves pinned back bent briskly to the hearthfire, ladling up lambswool in a great turned bowl; and Wick Billy, sticky-mouthed and solemnly resplendent in a turned coat and Nick Hawk's breeches, handed round a plate of gingerbread.

  The master, ill at ease, had sained them with a word and gone.

  Now Madam condescended to the feast. Behind her, bracketed with crows, came Annot. Silence fell. The great witch played the loving mother's part, bid innocence farewell. In ceremony, kissed her daughter; even sained her candle, prettily. How glum these hobnails are, a lady said. For Barbary (in Grevil's name) had bid two or three grave gentlewomen of his kindred—even a Selby—to dress the bridal bed. A quiet wedding, as befit a widower of age: no less in dignity. Will or nill, then, Madam and her waiting women must attend that company, withdrawing to the nobler banket laid for them.

  At their going, there was pandemonium, a racket of girls reeling stories, a charm and chitter like a grove of birds: as if October were the kist of May unlocked, with all its green distilled. Gallipots of gossip. Jug. Jug. And little wit. Blackbirds and thrushes.

  And on the rooftree, the crows. They would follow Annot to the fellside, spying, lest their thrall be fled.

  Margaret half-listened, hidden in the chimney corner. An orange cradled in
her lap, half-peeled: she had no heart for merrymaking. In this hall but yesterday, the crow lad was condemned; and here tomorrow would she wed his death, her own: their wedding-journey to his gallows.

  Just now the maids were teasing Nan.

  "Thou's lang and light heeled,” said Doll her sister. “What if thou falls Ashes?"

  "Happen I may."

  "Wouldst thou bid Is Oddin's Tam frae her? Tam Sledger at forge?"

  "Happen he'd come,” said Nan. And turned about, singing, “...which makes his bright hammer to rise and to fall..."

  "So thou'lt be laid of a brat, come Barley."

  "Happen I'd not be,” said Nan; but doubtfully.

  "How? An if thou dost it head-a-tail, like herrings?"

  "Whist,” said Nan. “I's have no salt fish. Oyster pies."

  Ellender prinked her ribands, smiling. “What I'd take, I'd not give back."

  "What, toss him?"

  "Toy thysel?"

  But heckle as they would, she'd not be drawn. Her silence grew around their teasing like a pearl.

  Doll said, “I'd have a flock o geese and keep feathers."

  "Keep nowt,” cried all.

  "Feathers isn't geese. Not like eggs."

  "Is bloom apples?” said Ellender.

  "If happen thou couldst bid a storm, thou might keep snaw."

  "Hailstones."

  "Wind."

  "Keep feathers, and I'd ha’ a bed,” said Doll. “But I'd not sleep, being Ashes, for t'weight o dark. But lie and shiver, thinking on."

  Nan bent forward in the fireshadow, lowering her voice. “There were a lass were Ashes. And a stranger come asking, would she a tell a death? And he'd a mirror."

  They were quiet then, the embers siffling as they fell.

  Bestirring, Doll cried, “Ey! I knaws what Cat's after.” And she sang, as the maids did reeling off yarn:

  shoemakker leather cracker

  balls o wax and stinkin watter

  three rows o rotten leather who would have a shoemakker?

  But Cat Alys gathered up her skirts disdainfully, and said, “If I were Ashes I'd not take me some clownish swain. I'd walk abroad in siller shoon—"

  "Rare and mucky they'd be wi’ guising."