The Bitterbynde Trilogy

by Cecilia Dart-Thornton

  ‘But are not gruagachs dwelling down there?’ asked Caitri, gazing at the black water.

  ‘I doubt it. I consider that leading us here was their way of rewarding us for our rather useless hospitality.’

  Tahquil stripped off her damp clothes and slipped between the greenish water-panes of the billabong. The chill was a sudden violation, like a slap in the face. Mud oozed between her toes. She felt the swollen tubers beneath the mire, dug around them with her feet, gulped air, ducked underwater and pulled them up. Waist-deep she waded among flat discs of pondweed, her hair streaming like wet leaves over the waxy contours of her body. Returning to the banks she reached up and offered the produce to her friends. They took the dripping food from her hands, momentarily in awe of her.

  Carefully, Caitri said, ‘My eyes deceive me. You are a semblance of—’

  Tahquil flicked water in her face, smiling. ‘I am no water wight! In good sooth, I am weary of wetness and long to be dry. I should not be surprised if my ears soon begin to sprout watercress.’ She dived a second time.

  By the time the succulent tubers had been harvested, cooked and consumed, the sun behind the boiling clouds still roofing Lallillir had reached its zenith. Having fed themselves, the travellers fed the fire with the last of the arid fuel and slept until dusk.

  ‘According to the urisk, Black Bridge crosses the Ravenswater upstream of its conjunction with our friend the Blackwater,’ said Tahquil, stuffing her pack with cooked arrowhead tubers. ‘We must direct our steps uphill again from here, away from the river.’

  ‘Besides, the swan told us culicidae lurk down here in the sheltered deeps of the valley,’ added Caitri.

  ‘The rain will have driven them away,’ responded Tahquil, ‘for the nonce. Though, doubtless they will soon return.’

  Uphill they went, veering northeast to where they reckoned Black Bridge must lie.

  More rain fell throughout that night, in listless curtains of monotony. The fishers’ oilskins by now were too ragged to be waterproof. The travellers’ garments again became waterlogged. Mud sucked at their boots. From beyond the rain curtains came the percussive plink of droplets like glass chimes, and sometimes a light patter as of fingertips drumming on a tabletop. Freshets chortled in channels. Of wind there was no breath. Between showers all was silent, save for the chuckle and tinkle of condensing vapour rolling off leaves. Lallillir loomed pearl-grey, her dripping trees swathed in mist, the nearer trunks glistening dark and wet, the further ones fading as they marched into obscurity.

  ‘And my hair to grow toadstools,’ said Tahquil to herself, wiping rain out of her eyes and contemplating the advantages of an afternoon in the desert.

  On the twenty-fifth day of Uianemis the rain contracted to the east. While the travellers slept, or drowsily kept watch, the sky cleared. The primrose sun of Summer bloomed through skies of raucous blue and Lallillir smoked like a flagon of mulled wine in a night-watchman’s chilblained hands. The travellers stowed their tattered oilskins in their packs.

  ‘No need to smear my face with mud for disguise,’ said Tahquil to anyone who cared to listen. ‘It has occurred naturally.’

  The top of Wold Fell was running down to meet them now, descending towards the east-west arm of Ravenstonedale. Sharply it dropped, and by the closing of the following night the travellers had reached its furthest point.

  They stood at the lip of a steep and narrow dene, congested with shadows. Steaming mountain ash trees clad its walls, soaring above tree ferns and low-growing fronds. Tier below hazy tier dropped to the broad band of a river as black as schorl: the Ravenswater.

  Further to the right, a high and airy shape could be discerned. Tall, pointed arches grew out of spindly pillars of black stone. Black Bridge was narrow; it seemed to have been drafted and embellished by a fine-pointed pen.

  Moving down into the shelter of the mountain ashes, the travellers nestled uncomfortably between their massive roots, and there passed the day in vaporous black-green shade.

  Towards nightfall a breeze stirred.

  The howl that tore the mantle of evening was like no vocalisation Tahquil had ever heard. No storm-warner, no Boubrie-bird made such a sound. It was a round, melodious, chilling summons that began with a bass yodel, soared suddenly to a high pitch and finished on a descending note—imperative and primitive as instinct, savage as hunger, wild as wind, remote and solitary as the moon. At the noise, Viviana cursed in courtingle and jumped up, tilting her head back to look up into the tree beneath which they sheltered.

  ‘What yowls?’ cried Caitri, following her gaze as though she expected something deadly to immediately drop out on their heads.

  ‘How swiftly can you climb a tree?’ cried the courtier. ‘That was the howl of the morthadu!’ She reached for a low branch.

  ‘Wait,’ said Tahquil. ‘What’s the use of trapping ourselves in a tree? The morthadu might not be able to climb but they will only scent us, and lay siege until we drop down with weakness like starved possums. We are downwind of them—I am certain they have not detected us. See—the breeze that stirs the ash leaves blows from the northeast and that, I suspect, is where the call issued from.’

  ‘How agreeable,’ said Viviana. ‘That is also the direction of the bridge.’

  ‘I’d rather,’ said Caitri, ‘cross the bridge and be stuck in a tree in Cinnarine eating apples than stuck in an ash tree gnawing on my knuckles.’

  ‘Either way you would end up as wight-fodder,’ said Viviana pessimistically.

  The howl issued again, wheeling vertiginously across the sky and through the trees.

  ‘We cannot go back,’ reasoned Tahquil, her voice rising with urgency, ‘nor is there any purpose in turning east or west and remaining in Lallillir. We must depart from this soggy land and the only way is by crossing. the Ravenswater. While the wind continues to blow from the northeast we shall be safe—’

  ‘Oh yes, and the morthadu shall sit back on their haunches and stay exactly where they are to enable us to avoid them,’ said Viviana.

  ‘They will roam,’ answered Tahquil. ‘But with luck they will roam upwind. At any rate—’

  ‘We have no choice,’ Caitri completed the sentence.

  As noiselessly as possible, they set off towards the bridge.

  Hours later, the sun rose, like a rose.

  No light penetrated Ravenstonedale. The high walls of the valley blocked it out. Dark birds floated in circles over the fell-tops.

  ‘Listen,’ said Tahquil. Her face closed in concentration.

  Zephyrs streamed like gauze scarves stitched with the chirruping of birds, the hum and scratch of sequined arthropods, the satiny chains of running water.

  At length Caitri said, ‘To what?’

  ‘The howling. It has ceased.’

  ‘They are nocturnal, the morthadu,’ said Viviana caustically. ‘I thought it common knowledge.’

  ‘Perhaps they sleep,’ said Tahquil. ‘But while they sleep we do not. Beneath the day’s eye we shall continue to make our way to Black Bridge and across it.’

  None argued, but tiredness bullied them for they had trudged all night. Foodless, fireless, sleepless, they had plodded on like three ragged, filthy beggars. Their fisherfolks’ garb hung in unidentifiable tatters. Their boots, softened by water and minced by uneven ground, were coming apart. Mud sullied them in patches from head to foot. Their hair appeared to be all of the same drab shade—a mousy brownish-grey. In matted hanks it tangled about their shoulders, interwoven with small twigs and leaves. Even their eyes, peering dispiritedly from pinched and grimy faces, were not unblemished. Fine blood-threads knitted across their white ground.

  ‘What has she put on today, the queen, the queen? What has she put on today, the comely queen?’ sang Viviana. ‘Is it crimson is it yellow, is it purple is it blue? Are there diamonds on her collar, are there rubies on her shoe?’

  ‘Hold your noise!’ Caitri flared.

  Viviana laughed. ‘No, her gown is dirty brown
and her hair is falling down, and they’ll run her out of town, the comely queen!’

  ‘What are you playing at?’ Tahquil demanded. ‘Are you deliberately trying to make our position known? To identify me?’

  Viviana shrugged. ‘My singing shall make no difference. What might be aware of our presence is aware already and the morthadu are, presumably, asleep.’ She began to hum.

  ‘Please, Via.’

  The courtier smiled, though not with her eyes, and the humming evolved into something more tuneless.

  Caitri said, ‘Via, if you do not stop that, Tahquil and I shall knock you down and stuff rags in your mouth.’

  The humming ceased.

  ‘’Tis a pity the rain could not wash off the taint of goblin fruit,’ sighed Tahquil.

  Two pearls crystallised in Viviana’s eyes.

  ‘I cannot help it,’ she said. Then she blinked, the tears fell and in their dry sources a cold, remote expression returned.

  Halfway down the slope the ring bit into Tahquil’s finger. She raised her hand in mute signal and the three of them fluttered like bedraggled thrushes into concealment beneath the shadows of a linden tree. Tahquil extended her senses, probing out into the far reaches of hearing, taste, scent, sight.

  Presently she said, ‘I can detect no danger.’

  ‘Where is the swanmaiden,’ sighed Caitri, ‘when we need her?’

  Tahquil’s finger hurt where the ring stung it. She slipped off both glove and ring, weighing the starry gold circle in her palm. No ridged band of reddened flesh marked its erstwhile abode—her finger remained unmarred.

  Caitri was shading her eyes with her hand, gazing down towards Black Bridge. ‘I am not certain of it,’ the little girl said, ‘but I think I see things moving down there.’

  Tahquil looked again. ‘You may be right.’

  With a flash of inspiration she held the ring to her eye like a spyglass. All at once the world expanded, clarified. Every detail appeared intensified, sharp-cut. There, seemingly close enough to touch, was Black Bridge. It stalked across the deep gorge, over waters as smooth and dark as oil. The stone of the bridge was rotten, necrotic. Mosses crawled in the jointed apexes of each arch. Grotesqueries were carved into its stanchions and its ribbed vaulting. This was an ancient structure, mysterious, and desolate, falling into ruin.

  At the near end of the bridge and almost out on the span between its low walls, prowled long, lean coagulations of twilight, each one pierced by a double-pronged fork to reveal the red fires smoldering within the black hide. On the river’s opposite bank the long grasses stirred, though there was no breeze.

  ‘Five walk on this shore, two wait at the near edge of the bridge,’ Tahquil said wonderingly. ‘Wolfseemings. The morthadu. I suspect that more of their kind prowl on the far side of the bridge.’ Slowly, she moved her spy-ring to the right, scanning the rest of the landscape. Two long, feline shapes disconnected themselves from the arch of a fallen tree trunk, then melted elegantly into a fern brake. ‘And that is not the worst of our troubles,’ Tahquil added. ‘A pair of grey malkins lurks nigh. Being lorraly beasts, mortal to the bone, they will have no qualms about crossing the Ravenswater.’

  A strand of unkempt hair whipped across her face. ‘Obban tesh! The wind—’tis veering to the east. Should it swing further about they will catch our scent for sure.’

  ‘What now?’ asked Caitri.

  ‘What now indeed! Stalemate, for the moment. We have not the power to fight malkins or the morthadu—neither can the swanmaiden drive them off. The great cats would rend a bird to shreds and devour her, eldritch or not—and treat us the same way.’

  ‘Methinks they fear fire,’ suggested Caitri, hesitantly.

  ‘And where’s a dry twig to be had,’ interjected Viviana, ‘let alone enough material to make brands to bear with us? And what if it rained and our torches were extinguished? The trees are still laden with water enough to provide their own rainstorms. See?’

  Perversely she shook a tree fern, kicked its fibrous stem. Glassy beads came rolling off its fronds and showered down on her. She laughed and shook back her wet hair.

  ‘Hush!’ said Tahquil. ‘Sound carries on the wind. The beasts of the pack have sharp ears.’

  ‘’Zooks, that precludes your calling the Bird I suppose,’ said Viviana carelessly. ‘Not that she is much help.’

  As if on cue, a shadow passed briefly overhead. The swan sank behind the trees, instantly reappearing in her alter-native shape, pushing through malachite frondery. The feathers of her cloak were ruffled, as was her previous cool aloofness. Birdlike, her head jerked abruptly. She kept glancing nervously over her shoulder. The pupils of her strange, avian eyes had dilated like black suns—her kind detested taking their humanlike shape during the day. Only dire circumstances would have driven her to such desperate measures.

  ‘Hazard!’ she hissed, without preamble. ‘Unwholesome wolverhounds hold the span. Sly, sneaking malkins hunt hither. The wind wavers and soon sniffing spiracles shall scent humans. Unseelie hounds and feral felines wait, with hidden hopes. Hazard follows subsequently in Lallillir. Foul water wights wander, singing suck-spirits set forth. Three on foot should swiftly surmount strong-streaming watercourse.’

  ‘How shall we elude the cats and the lupine guardians of the bridge?’ demanded Tahquil eloquently. ‘Surely you cannot lift us and fly us across the Ravenswater?’

  ‘Several ways suffice to straddle flowing waters. Follow. Follow.’

  Down the dene’s sheer sides the travellers plunged in the swanmaiden’s wake, slipping beneath the emerald lattices of tree ferns. Embroideries of spaghnum moss squelched underfoot. Whithiue was leading them towards the left, downstream of the bridge. What her purpose was they could not guess.

  ‘Is there a second bridge?’ panted Caitri.

  ‘I saw only one,’ returned Tahquil.

  The breeze swung gently to the south. A ululation, pure and sombre, echoed down the valley. The travellers thrust words aside and hastened on. After an hour, or maybe two or three, it came to Tahquil that the thunder of a mighty river rumbled more loudly through her consciousness. By now they must be almost level with the Ravenswater’s swift and terrible tide. Ahead, the tall stalks of tree ferns parted to reveal the gloss of the sombre river only some ten yards below. Although no rocks tore the surface of the Ravenswater and no snags interrupted the smooth race, foam and bubbles whipping past indicated a flood moving at incalculable speeds.

  ‘I do not care what sort of boat she has waiting!’ declared Caitri. ‘No vessel could navigate that current safely. Even if it withstood the battering, we should be swept down to the sea, for how could we hope to achieve landfall?’

  The swanmaiden beckoned. Glistering droplets on her feather cloak captured reflections of leaves, distorting them to a semblance of dark green lace.

  She stood beside a low stonework thrusting up out of the hillside, as crumbling and corrupt as Black Bridge itself. Leaf mold and detritus had built up against its buttresses, partially submerging them. Moss and lichens velveted the massive blocks so that only their shape betrayed their mortal-sculpted origins.

  The swanmaiden pointed with a bird-bone finger.

  Deep in the stonework loomed an arched void—an entrance screened with leaves.

  ‘Here stair starts,’ their guide said. ‘Step within. Stair sinks subterraneously. Stone-hewn warren sub-fathoms foundations of watercourse. Here’s a historic subway, the hour-honoured under-mine. Wights fail to follow here, for water flows circumjacently, squarely sideways, flawing and fracturing. Finite-span felines fear to stray in such a worm’s warren. Hasten. Sooth, wild ones scent sweet flesh and hunt.’

  As she and her companions fumbled through the archway, extending their toes to feel for the stair, Tahquil briefly thought, Why should grey malkins fear to walk down there?

  But it was too late to reconsider. Fiendish howls came screaming from every direction. Incandescent-eyed bolts of black energy burst out of t
he foliage. Instantaneously, a wraithlike darkness shot up and arrowed away into the sky: the swan taking flight. Scissoring jaws followed Tahquil into the orifice of stone, snapping shut on her sleeve, tearing it away. Still ungloved, the ring flashed with the brilliance of magnified stars. The scarlet eyes sizzled and disappeared. The stair treads pushed themselves at the soles of her feet, and with a crunching patter of boots, the refugees passed rapidly underground.

  By the saffron effulgence of the ring they descended five hundred and eighty-eight corkscrewed steps that plumbed the ground like a vertical drill. Sometimes the walls pressed close, and the stair bored tightly through. At other times they opened out and the stair hung in emptiness from thin stalks of pillars, with no apparent means of support from beneath. As they went down, a dreadful certitude developed in Tahquil’s thoughts—the vial of nathrach deirge was missing. During that last flight down the valley-side the neck-chain had snagged on something—a twig, perhaps. Momentarily trapped, Tahquil had wrenched free, plunged on heedlessly, dwelling only on escape. Her right hand now sought her throat. Uncluttered, the tender expanse of skin stretched over the slender collarbones, the throbbing carotid. Her throat was indeed bereft of its precious ornament.

  The vial shall be sorely missed. Down here, cold reigns.

  Yet this stairwell felt different from the under-roads of Doundelding and the Beithir’s lair. In the first place, no friendly wall-fungi conveniently illuminated it, no ionised taste embittered the air. Dead was the air but not entirely, not as air would be that for aeons had failed to circulate through living tissue, nor been stirred through by the passage of living things. It smelled like air that occasionally escaped to be sweetened with sunlight and leaves, before re-entering refreshed. Ventilation must exist, hereabouts.

  Possibly also, lungs which required it.

  Thoughts berated Tahquil.

  Why should malkins fear to walk beneath the Ravenswater? Has she stooped to perfidy at last, the swanmaiden, and betrayed us? But no. It is impossible for creatures of eldritch to break their word—she promised to see us safe to Cinnarine. Yet perhaps she considers this under-mine to be part of Cinnarine …