“The mill house?” said the old woman. “The family that turned my granddaughter out when she came courting?”
“The same,” the young man said. “But refusing your granddaughter was no wish of mine.” And he told her the story of how he’d been pledged against his desires.
“You poor child,” she said. “The lady of these lands keeps her consorts brightly jeweled and richly dressed, but before long their hearts turn to ice and they die.”
“What can I do?” he asked her. “If I run away, I’ll be a pledge thief and outlaw.”
“Think on this riddle,” said the old woman. “What is yours that you might not give whole? When you have the answer, give a measure to my granddaughter and to her alone. From this very moment speak no word to anyone before you have done this.” Then she took up a knife, reached into the unsmoking fire, and snipped off a little flame as if it were a bit of wool from a sheep’s haunch. The old woman put the flame in a tinder box, put the tinder box into a bread basket, and put the basket under her cot. Only then did she point the way to the mill.
The miller’s son nodded his thanks and departed. He spoke no word during the days that followed, which his father took as a sign of grief and his mother as a sign of stubbornness. But all the while his thoughts were on the riddle.
When the time was up and the lady arrived with her bag of gold, her huntsmen and the justiciar came with her. No sooner had they appeared at the miller’s door than the farm girl, with her brothers and father and mother, also came into the miller’s yard. “We’ve a stake in this matter,” said the girl’s mother, “for we made a prior suit which was not answered.”
“Not answered!” said the miller. “Why I drove you from this very ground.”
“Before you heard our suit,” said the farmer. And her daughter added, “If we made any suit, let your son now repeat the terms of it.”
But the miller’s son was silent. He still puzzled over the riddle.
“A suit not heard is a suit not refused,” said the justiciar. “It is no prior claim, but they’ve a right to be heard now. So stands the weight of the law.”
“Well, let them say what they will,” said the lady. “It’s a small matter. I have a signed contract.”
“A contract for what stands behind the mill, and what stands there now is a cherry tree,” said the farm girl.
“The contract’s well understood,” said the lady, “or why are we arguing?”
“Not clear, not clear,” said the justiciar, clicking her tongue. “A vague contract might not hold. So stands the weight of the law.”
“But you, Justiciar, were witness!” said the lady. And then she threw the bag of gold at the miller’s feet, hoping this would seal the matter. “Miller, is that not the gold as promised?”
The miller hefted the bag and smiled. But her husband took the bag from her, and though it was indeed heavy, he shook it as if it were a bag of eggshells. “Not so heavy as I thought was promised,” he said.
The miller glared at him. “Heavy enough,” she said, taking the bag again. “He’s my son, so it’s my judgment that matters.”
“But the contract was agreed by his father,” said the farm girl.
“Tis so, tis so,” said the justiciar.
The miller and the lady both glared at the justiciar. “Do you mean to say that this contract would not stand?”
“Well,” said the justiciar, and she leaned one way and told one side of the question. Then she leaned the other way and told the other side, as lawyers are wont to do. In the end, her answer said nothing at all.
“The law is slow and uncertain,” said the farm girl. “Let us agree to some other test of the contract.”
The lady smiled at this. “Fine, fine,” she said. “Yon wheatfíeld is in need of harvesting. If all the wheat is cut and sheaved by dawn tomorrow, the contract shall be void. But if there is the smallest scratch or blister on the young man’s hands, he shall be mine.”
With that she reclaimed her bag of gold and rode off, with her huntsmen and the justiciar close behind. The miller was so angry that she marched into the mill house without a word, husband at her heels. The farm girl’s family started away, too, but the girl herself lingered for a moment.
“Have you anything to say to me?” she asked the miller’s son.
“Memory is mine, but I might not give it whole,” he said, for he had solved the riddle. “Here is a thing I remember—deep in the forest is a clearing. In the center and overgrown with bushes stands a brass man so ancient that he sinks into the ground.”
“Well answered,” said the farm girl. “You must meet me in that place by moonlight, but touch no tool and do no work before then.”
The miller’s son did as she said. When the moon was high, he met her in the clearing where the brass man was. The farm girl chopped down the bushes and dug free the brass man’s legs and feet. Then she opened a tinder box and out jumped the flame of the unsmoking fire. She spoke a word to the flame, and the fire went out as the brass man opened his eyes.
“Command him,” said the farm girl. So the miller’s son told the brass man to harvest the wheat. The brass man was off quick as lightning, and by the time the miller’s son and farmer’s daughter had found their way out of the woods, the sky was just growing light in the east and every stalk of wheat was cut and sheaf bound up.
The brass man, who had done all the work with his metal hands, now bowed before them. A sparrow lighted on his shoulder and said, “Cheap, cheap, cheap! Though I’ve served queens and wizards well, I’ll not find rest ’til I find hell, so let me sink.” Then the brass man’s head nodded, his eyes closed, and the sparrow flew away.
“We should release him,” said the miller’s son. “He has served us well.”
“Not yet,” said the farmer’s daughter, and she covered the brass man with branches to hide him.
When the lady, her huntsman and the justiciar returned, they were quite surprised to see the wheat all cut and bound into sheaves, but what surprised them even more was the condition of the young man’s hands. There was no scratch, nor blister, nor even blemish upon them. The miller herself was no less amazed.
“Let me see again,” the lady insisted, and this time when the miller’s son held out his hands, she marked the palm of his hand with a pin. “I see a scratch,” she said.
“Where none was before!” said the miller’s son.
“A scratch is a scratch,” said the miller, eyeing the bag of gold.
“Justiciar?” said the lady.
Once again, the justiciar leaned to the left and considered the matter in one view, then leaned to the right and considered it another way.
“Enough!” said the lady. “We’ll settle it thus: The wheat needs to be threshed. If he brings in all the sheaves and threshes the grain before tomorrow morning, then the contract shall be void. But if there is any fleck of chaff or straw upon him, then the young man is mine.” With that, she clutched her bag of gold and rode off with her huntsmen and the justiciar. As before, the miller was so upset that she went into her house without a word, and her husband went close behind her.
“Touch no stalk of straw, but meet me by moonlight where we left the brass man,” said the farm girl.
The miller’s son did as she said. When the moon was high, he found her already removing the branches that hid the brass man. To the young man’s surprise, the brass man had sunk into the soft earth a little ways, so that the farm girl had to dig free his ankles. Then she opened her tinder box and out jumped the flame of unsmoking fire. She spoke the word, the flame went out, and the brass man opened his eyes.
“Command him,” said the farm girl. So the miller’s son told the brass man to bring in the sheaves and thresh them. “And winnow as well,” said the farm girl. The brass man was off in a glint of moonlight. Almost faster than the eye could follow, he carried the sheaves to the mill house, threshed the seed from the stalks with his metal hands, and tossed the seed into the night breeze t
o winnow it. He stacked the straw as well. By the time the sky was turning pink in the east, the miller’s yard was covered by a great mound of finished grain, a breeze-blown carpet of chaff, and a haystack.
The brass man now bowed before them. A robin lighted on his shoulder and said, “Cheeryup! Cheeryup! Chereep! Though I’ve served queens and wizards well, I’ll not find rest ’til I find hell, so let me sink.” Then the brass man’s head nodded, his eyes closed, and the robin flew away.
“Truly, we should do as he asks,” said the miller’s son. “He has served us well.”
“Not yet,” said the farmer’s daughter, and she again hid the brass man with branches.
Imagine the surprise of the lady, her huntsman and the justiciar when they returned. Not only was the grain threshed, but winnowed, too! The lady dismounted and sifted the grain in her hands, and it was clean. She sifted the chaff, and there was no grain in it. Even more amazingly, there was no speck of chaff on the young man’s clothes, no sliver of straw in his hair. The miller, too, was amazed.
“Let me see again,” the lady insisted, and this time when the miller’s son bowed his head before her, she flicked a bit of chaff from her fingers into his hair. “I see chaff,” she said.
“Where none was before!” said the miller’s son.
“Chaff is chaff,” said the miller, looking at the lady’s saddlebags where the bag of gold must be.
“Justiciar?” said the lady.
Once again, the justiciar leaned to the left and considered the matter in one view, then leaned to the right and considered it another way.
“Enough!” said the lady. She put her hands on her hips, and she looked high and low. At last she spied the stream with its meager trickle, too little to drive the grinding wheel. “We’ll settle it thus: The grain must be milled. If he makes flour of all this wheat before tomorrow morning, then the contract shall be void. But if there is any trace of dust or flour upon him, then the young man is mine.” With that, she climbed into her saddle and rode off with her huntsmen and the justiciar. As they went, she leaned toward one of her huntsmen and said, “There’s more to this than we know.” So that huntsman rode into the woods and hid himself to see what he might see.
The miller was again upset, but this time she stayed in the yard. “Are you mad?” she asked her son. “Here a fine lady will have you, and you’ll not be hers?”
So her son told her what he knew of the lady, that the lady kept her consorts brightly jeweled and richly dressed. “But before long, mother, their hearts turn to ice and they die.”
Now at last the miller understood, but she feared it was too late. “The stream will never drive the grinding wheel,” she said. “My son, my son, you are lost!”
“Not so,” said the farm girl. And she told the miller’s son to bathe and to wash his clothes, so that there would be no trace of dust upon him to begin with. “Then meet me by moonlight again,” she said.
The miller’s son did as she said. When the moon was high, he helped her to remove the branches that hid the brass man. This time the brass man had sunk into the soft earth half the distance to his knees, so that the farm girl had to dig him free again. Then she opened her tinder box and out jumped the flame of unsmoking fire. She spoke the word, the flame went out, and the brass man opened his eyes.
“Command him,” said the farm girl. So the miller’s son told the brass man to grind the wheat into flour. “And put it into bags as well,” said the farm girl. The brass man did not even go inside the mill, but did all the grinding with his metal hands and let the flour fall into bags. The farm girl tied the bags when they were full, but the miller’s son stayed well away, so that he’d not be dusted with the flour. By the time the first cock was crowing, the miller’s yard was stacked with bags of flour.
The brass man bowed before them. A kestrel lighted on his shoulder and said, “Killy, killy, killy! Though I’ve served queens and wizards well, I’ll not find rest ’til I find hell, so let me sink.” Then the brass man’s head nodded, his eyes closed, and the bright-feathered kestrel flew away.
“Let us do as he asks,” said the miller’s son. “Has he not served us well?”
“Not quite yet,” said the fanner’s daughter, and she again hid the brass man with branches.
Now all this was seen by the huntsman who had stayed behind, and he rode forth to meet the lady as she approached with the rest of the huntsmen and the justiciar. The lady smiled when she heard what the huntsman had to say. She ordered him to return to her estate to bring the carriage.
In the miller’s yard, the lady made a great show of carefully inspecting the quality of each bag’s flour. She sifted it with her fingers. When the miller’s son stepped forward for the justiciar to see that there was no trace of dust upon him, he was careful not to let the lady dust him with her floury fingers. But the lady did not even try. Instead she said, “The bargain was that the young man would harvest the sheaves, thresh the grain, and grind the flour. But he has not done so. A brass man has done it all!”
“By my command, it was done,” said the young man. “If you command your tenants to build a road, do you not say that the road was your doing?”
The justiciar cleared her throat and began to lean first one way in her saddle, but the lady waved at her impatiently. “I don’t care about the finer points!” she said. “I made an agreement, and I was tricked!” She flung her bag of gold at the miller’s feet.
“No,” said the miller. “I don’t consent. Take back your gold.”
“Too late,” said the lady. “Your word was given and the young man was pledged to me. What’s more, I’m claiming the means by which you have tricked me. The brass man is mine as well.”
Just then, the huntsman drove up with the carriage and pointed out for his lady the place where the brass man was hidden. The brass man had already sunk as far as his ankles again, so that the huntsmen had to dig him out before they could load him into the carriage.
“I tell you,” said the miller, “there is no bargain for my son.”
“And I tell you that I am a lady, mistress of a great house. You are only a miller.”
“Well, before the law—”
“Shut up, Justiciar,” the lady said. She told her huntsmen to draw their long hunting knives so that no one should stop what she next commanded. She had the miller’s son tied hand and foot and thrown over her saddle like a great bag of flour, and her horse was tied behind the carriage. The carriage set out then, with the brass man and the lady riding inside.
When the huntsmen put away their knives and rode off, the farm girl ran after the carriage. She ran until her breath burned in her chest, but she could not keep the carriage in sight. Still she ran. Even as her heart might burst, she ran, but the carriage went on and on.
The miller’s son, on the back of the lady’s horse, was half dead with despair. When he heard the rush of wings sweeping past him, he did not even raise his head until the third time.
A crow circled the carriage and the horse. At last the great black bird settled on the roof of the carriage, and it called, “Caw, caw, caw! Though I’ve served queens and wizards well, I’ll not find rest ’til I find hell, so let me sink.” Then the crow flew away.
Now the young man had troubles of his own to worry about, so he did not say anything at first. But as the carriage was passing a graveyard, he said in a loud voice, “Brass man, though you saved me not you served me well, so let you find your rest in hell. Now may you sink.”
At that, the wheels of the carriage began to rattle and slow. The carriage grew so heavy that the horses could no longer pull it, though the huntsman in the driver’s seat whipped them furiously.
When the ground began to shake, the horse carrying the young man reared and threw him to the ground.
The carriage axles strained and broke. The road cracked open, and the whole carriage, with the brass man, the lady, the huntsman driver, the team of horses before and the lady’s horse behind, all sank into t
he depths of the earth. The remaining huntsmen fled in terror. The ground closed again, and only the justiciar on her horse and the miller’s son remained.
The justiciar cleared her throat. “When one party to a bargain is swallowed up by the earth,” she said, “the contract is undone. So stands the weight of the law.” Then she turned her horse and slowly rode away.
It is said that the farm girl found the miller’s son sitting in the middle of the road, wriggling out of the ropes that had bound him. It is further said that they were soon married and lived their lives in the Delight of Two Hearts.
And that, any woman of the law can tell you, is hearsay. You might lean one way in your saddle and consider it a lie. You might lean the other, and say that it is so.
Introduction to “Ever So Much”
Dogs sometimes appear in fantasy stories, mysteries, or fairy tales, but cats dominate. Of course. It’s not hard to imagine a cat who has a secret, or a secret power. But a mysterious dog? A magical dog? No, if you want clever plots, intrigue, and dead wildlife hidden in your shoes for discovery at a later date, you want a cat.
Ever So Much
I
Once upon a time in a fishing village along the windy shore there lived a boy with neither mother nor father. His name was Duncan, but the villagers called him Small Catch, which described his usual haul. When he might have been mending his nets in his tiny hut, he was as likely to be gazing into the fire while thinking of the grand palaces of kings. When he was out upon the sea, he watched the horizon and dreamed of distant shores and other countries, forgetting to lower his nets until half the day was gone. Even on his best days, he caught hardly enough to feed himself.
Duncan’s boat leaked. One day, as he was pounding bits of old rope into the very worst gaps, he looked up to see one of the village men striding over the rocks toward the sea with a burlap sack in his hand. Something inside the sack squirmed and mewled. Duncan put down his mallet and followed the man. “What do you have there?”
Thirteen Ways to Water Page 11