Into his wrist she sank her teeth.
“Ouch!” His lids flew open.
Dragging at his elbow she shouted, “Come away, lackbrain!” Harsh words were the only other strategy that occurred to her, on the spot, to capture his attention.
Eoin, shocked from his enchanted stupor, looked down. Through the mist he perceived that he and Jewel were standing on the very brink of the ravine. One false step and they would both hurtle down the cliff. Fifteen feet was not far, yet it was far enough to break one’s neck. Smothering a yell he caught the child by the hand, and they fled.
At their backs, the mist reached out frayed strands. Muffled by humidity, the song of the water sounded like wailing, sweet and low, and two powder-blue moths fluttered out of the moonlight.
Later, back at the fire, Jewel demanded, “Who did you think you were talking to?”
“Nobody.”
“That is not true!”
Eoin seemed to have found Lilith only to lose her again, and in the process he had endangered the life of Jewel’s sole protector. Tortured by his distress, he responded with unwonted harshness, snapping, “Leave me alone.”
The child was stung by his gruff retort. She withdrew into her protective shell of silence, feeling that she ought to have guessed he would eventually lash out. The world had recently proved itself a cruel place—how could she expect unfailing kindness from any quarter, even from her beloved uncle?
Other eldritch wights manifested themselves along the way, but after that night none of them greatly troubled the wary wayfarers. Over the next seven days Eoin and Jewel forded many lively tributaries running down from the hills. At length, hungry and weary, they entered the valley bordering the Canterbury Water. These river-drained slopes were broad and shallow. Indeed, they descended toward the watercourse so subtly that the incline was scarcely noticeable. Darkly gleaming forests of evergreen lilly-pillys and silkwoods clothed the valley sides.
Eoin steered by the sun. This was not effortless, now that he and Jewel had penetrated the close-ranked timber. Little trails made by wild things meandered haphazardly, before fading into the creeping herbage. The wayfarers were continually forced to leave these paths when they twisted in the wrong direction, to push their way through a tangle of woody lianas and webs of blossom-starred clematis. Fallen branches and drifts of rotting leaves littered the forest floor.
“We ought to turn east right now, and make for the road,” said Jewel. She twitched the hem of her skirt aside, tearing it from the opportunistic grip of a briar. “We must find the road in any case, since it leads to the bridge—we might as well be striding along in the open spaces, instead of struggling through this wretched gallimaufry. In sooth, we’d be going more swiftly than at present.”
“We cannot risk it,” replied Eoin. “Crossing the bridge will be perilous enough. I do not want to be on the road for longer than necessary.”
“What is so dangerous about the road?”
“We cannot be sure King Maolmórdha’s soldiers did not worm the secret of your existence from the folk of the marsh.”
“Ha!” snorted Jewel, “No amount of gold would make our people betray their own kind to out-marshers.”
“Not gold,” said Eoin somberly. “Maolmórdha and his druids would have other means of extracting information from those who are reluctant to divulge it.”
“Oh,” said Jewel. After a moment’s thought, she added, “I feel ill.”
“Do not,” Eoin instructed briskly. “We have no time for illness on our journey. You understand, little one, that if Maolmórdha has heard of you, the roads will be patrolled by his men.”
“Not here in Narngalis!”
“Even in Narngalis, they may well be able to find some pretext to ride the highways. A species of arm’s length cordiality officially exists between Cathair Rua and King’s Winterbourne, in spite of the fact that the two kings have no love for one another.”
“Does this signify we shall be traveling off-road all the way to King’s Winterbourne?”
“Perhaps.”
“Pish! A plague on’t!” muttered Jewel, wrenching a fold of her skirt off a dead bough and ripping the fabric in the process.
Had he been in a better frame of mind, Eoin might have secretly smiled at his protégée’s outburst. She looked so small, so fragile; yet by nature she was tempestuous and valiant. Instead of wilting like a fallen leaf in the face of adversity, here she was uttering curses, railing at her lot, like some hardy, blustering soldier in the guise of a girl-child. Like anyone she had her faults—indeed, she could be selfish and even somewhat conceited—but Eoin, the indulgent uncle, deemed that any flaw was not her fault; it was due to her being an only child, much spoiled and fussed-over. Her imperfections had always been outweighed, in his view, by her disarming qualities of generosity, kindness, courage, and perseverance, and by her exuberant zeal for knowledge.
Clouds blew across the sun’s tawny countenance. That night, it rained.
The rain kept up, on and off. Their supplies of food had long since run out, and they were living on the wild fruits of Autumn gathered along the way: hazelnuts and blackberries plucked by the handful, dandelions and astringent rose-hips, mushrooms and watercress, the roots of pignut, silverweed and wild parsnip, and the seeds of the common weed Fat Hen. Eoin became gaunt and haggard, but Jewel appeared to experience no ill-effects from this meager diet.
By the morning of the thirty-second day since they had departed from the marsh, they reached the banks of the Canterbury Water, which were lined with a spangle of willows and river peppermints. The sight of willow trees and large expanses of water was familiar to them both; their spirits rose as they picked their way upstream. The sun was a silver disc behind thin sheets of altostratus cloud. It hung directly overhead by the time they glimpsed, at last, through the vertical slats of the lilly-pilly boles, the gray sash of the road, its rain-puddled surface shining. To the left, they could see the massive stone bridge with its twenty-one arches, soaring across the water. A small building squatted at the bridge’s far terminus: the toll-house.
Traffic was passing to and fro along the road to the bridge. On the north bank, three travelers on foot had come to a halt at the toll-house. A coach-and-four was bowling across the bridge, moving south. From the other direction an ox-cart and a donkey-cart, widely spaced apart, were rattling up the road.
“Have we money for the toll?” questioned Jewel.
“I carry coin,” said Eoin absently. Frowning in concentration, he was peering between heavy draperies of dark, glossy leaves and ripening lilly-pilly berries.
“If the toll-house sentries have been warned to watch for a girl-child who speaks with the lilt of Slievmordhu, then we are indeed in danger,” he mumbled, speaking chiefly to himself.
“But the sentries are Narngalishmen. Why would they heed King Maolmórdha’s edicts?”
“Some fabrication might have been spun, possibly some falsehood about thievery or other crimes. And as I said, officially, goodwill and cooperation are firm between the two kingdoms.”
“In that case we ought to cross the bridge in the company of some Narngalishers returning home,” said Jewel. “The sentries will hear them speak, and believe we are of their party.”
“A profitable notion,” said Eoin, nodding thoughtfully. “However, we can hardly jump out of the bushes at the next group of travelers and begin walking alongside them. If strangers appear unexpectedly from the wilderness, folk naturally demand explanations.”
“We must double back,” said Jewel, “traveling south and staying parallel with the road but hidden from its traffic. At dusk, these comings and goings must surely cease. Most folk mislike being abroad after dark, and will have found themselves shelter at some wayside inn. When the road is empty, we ought to make camp on the very verge, just the other side of the ditch. Come morning, we must listen to the language of passers-by when they hail us. If any prove to be Narngalishers, we should join them.”
&n
bsp; Her step-uncle scratched his head. “I can think of no better way,” he admitted eventually. “Very well, little one—let us put your plan into action.”
As they set off again it came to Eoin that during this exchange Jewel had somehow become the authoritative member of the expedition. The insight reinforced his fond opinion of his niece as a competent, self-assured damsel who would never meekly stand back and allow ill-fortune to get the better of her. He allowed himself to dare hope that she might ultimately prevail over their current trials, even though he was irrevocably doomed.
Slowly, majestically, the treetops bowed and swayed, their foliage glinting in the morning sun as if the underside of each leaf were lined with thinly beaten metal. Near at hand, small wrens chirruped peevishly, bossily, in low bushes of tea-tree. Above the forest roof, a flamingo sunrise painted the eastern skies. Elongated tree-shadows lay across the trampled dirt of the road.
By the roadside the wayfarers were kicking loose soil over the remnants of their diminutive fire when a faint snatch of sound drifted to their ears.
“Voices . . .” said Eoin. Hurriedly, he hoisted the leather pack onto his shoulders. With their provisions gone, he had crammed Jewel’s small bundle inside it, and now carried both.
The hint of conversation ceased, but it was not long before there came into view a straggling group of pedestrians carrying bundles and a basket. Three were adults; two were half-grown children. Eoin and Jewel turned away and feigned ignorance of their approach, busying themselves with adjusting the pack-straps. In low tones the marshman said, “It looks to be a family—husband and wife, children, and the grandfather.”
“Good morrow, strangers!” a man’s voice called. The wayfarers exchanged a quick nod of relief. By his pronunciation, the man was a native of Narngalis.
“Ah! Good morrow, sir!” returned Eoin, trying to appear surprised.
“We are of mortalkind,” said the husband, employing traditional etiquette.
“We also are of mortalkind,” Eoin responded, according to the time-honored formula. Wights of eldritch could not tell outright lies, so this was as good a way as any of finding out who one was dealing with, when one met a stranger on the road or in untame regions. The converse side of the coin was that humankind could lie, and swindlers would not hesitate to do so, with eloquent flair.
With Jewel in tow, Eoin jumped the ditch and walked toward the group. “My niece and I were about to set off again after a cold night spent sleeping amidst the weeds of the wayside. How far is it to the bridge?”
“Not far. Noon should see us all there,” said the man.
It was obvious these people were not affluent. They were not aided in their labor by any beast of burden, and their simple, homespun garments were copiously patched. Yet as Eoin glanced from parents to children he noted they were clean and red-cheeked, their hair combed, their eyes bright.
“I am Daithi, son of Donncha,” said Eoin, “and this is my sister’s daughter, Aisling. May we keep you company for a while?”
“Gladly,” replied the man. “I am Leofric of Fiddler’s Hamlet.” He introduced his smiling wife and children. “We are on our way home,” he continued, “after calling on my wife’s sister in Cathair Rua.”
“She has a newborn infant,” volunteered his wife.
The two children stared at Jewel, whispering to each other.
“What coincidence,” said Eoin, thinking quickly. “We are on our way to visit cousins in King’s Winterbourne.” He turned to the fifth member of the Fiddler’s Hamlet expedition. “But we have not yet been introduced to you, sir—” The marshman’s words were chopped off as if his throat had been squeezed. His eyes bulged like a frog’s as he stared at the ragged, filthy old man.
Leofric of Fiddler’s Hamlet said, somewhat sourly, “In sooth, this graybeard is a stranger to us. He fell in with us three leagues back and continues to follow.”
It was the beggar from the streets of Cathair Rua.
Eoin had no difficulty in recognizing him—that decrepit face was imprinted on his consciousness. . . .
“Good morrow, sir,” he said. Acid was churning in the pit of his stomach. Would the man recognize him? He had encountered the fellow little more than a month ago, yet to him it seemed a lifetime. . . .
“Cat Soup,” the beggar was saying.
The marshman flinched, startled from his ghastly reminiscences.
“Cat Soup,” the beggar repeated. “ ’Tis what they call me, in the city.”
Jewel said demurely, “May the Fates smile upon you, Master Cat Soup.”
The beggar stretched his thin slash of a mouth, uncovering eight brown teeth distributed between gummy gaps. Eoin stepped back, blasted by the stench of the old man’s breath. Alert to her step-uncle’s discomfiture, Jewel diverted attention by asking the others, “Good folk of Fiddler’s Hamlet, prithee, have you any victuals for sale? We carry small coin. We can pay.”
At the mention of coin, the beggar seemed to prick up his ears.
“No need for payment,” said Leofric’s wife affably. “We have food to spare.” She began to rummage through her covered basket.
Meanwhile, Eoin rummaged through his memories. What had altered about his appearance since his first meeting with the beggar? He was wearing exactly the same garments—the dark-red tunic purchased from the innkeeper at the Ace and Cup, the same buckskin leggings. Every item of his clothing, however, was stained, wrinkled, sagging, torn. His face, too, must have changed—a month’s worth of beard covered his jaw, and dirt ingrained the furrows of his skin. Hanks of unkempt hair fell across his forehead and into his eyes, which felt sore and bloodshot. Surely he must be unrecognizable.
From her basket, the goodwife extricated a strange, green fruit slightly larger than a man’s fist, lumpy and knobbled.
“By all that’s wonderful!” exclaimed Jewel wonderingly. “I’ve never seen such a grotesquerie. What is it?”
“A custard apple,” said the woman, bringing out a small table knife.
“It looks like a goblin’s head.”
“How would you know, little one?” asked Eoin, regaining enough composure to attempt joviality. “You’ve never seen a goblin!”
“I can imagine,” said Jewel.
Eoin fossicked in his money-pouch for some coppers to present to the woman. Having waved away his offering, she sliced some chunks off the fruit and handed them to Eoin and Jewel. After the first nibble they commenced to devour the creamy flesh with gusto.
Cat Soup was by their side, his dripping nose somehow inches from the fruit. The goodwife cut up a second custard apple and gave him a piece, to the evident disgust of her husband.
“Come,” he said brusquely, “let us walk on, if we are to reach the bridge by noon.”
The party of seven moved off.
The road was wide and curved gently between the walls of trees. As the sun lifted, the clouds began to disperse. The few sky-sheened puddles on the road’s surface shrank and disappeared. On Eoin’s brow, perspiration stood out like granules of quartz. Any moment now the old fool will recognize me and say something, he thought, yet we cannot simply part company with these folk. To walk away into the forest must invite speculation of the most detrimental kind.
What if the beggar suddenly blurted, “Have I not seen you in the streets of Cathair Rua? I remember that day, for it was the same day an eldritch funeral mockery came out of the sanctorum, and the jewel was taken from the Iron Tree, and the city was all a-buzz with the news that the king was searching for the thief!” What if the old man went on to demand, “What is your business on the road to Narngalis? Do you know the man they are seeking? Are you he?” And the suspicions of everyone would be aroused. Eoin forced himself to march, rather than breaking into a run, dragging the child with him. He kept steadily on, though needing every particle of effort to maintain his mask of nonchalance. By his side, Jewel glanced frequently up at him, aware his thoughts were troubled, but unsure of the reason.
Th
e sweetness of wild clematis perfumed the air. Contralto magpies warbled in the lilly-pilly forests. Apparently cheered by this, or by his gobbet of fruit, the beggar began to wax voluble.
“I’ve been on this road aforetimes,” he said knowledgeably.
“No doubt,” said Leofric of Fiddler’s Hamlet, “as have we.”
“Ah, but have you, sir?” the old man said, leering up at Eoin from his stooping posture.
“Nay.” The marshman shook his tangled locks further over his features.
“Be warned then,” said Cat Soup, “for if you think the road so far has been perilous, ’tis naught by comparison with the other side of the river.”
“The road north of the bridge is safe enough during daylight hours,” said the goodwife.
“Maybe, maybe not,” the beggar chuckled, “for you see, sir,” he said to Eoin, “before it reaches the village of Saxlingham Netherby, it passes right through a certain field they call Black Goat, which has a dreadful reputation, dreadful indeed. Murderous wights haunt it, they do. ’Tis a brave man who’d set foot there between sunrise and sunset, and a fool who’d try it any other time. I have heard—”
“Prithee, Master Soup, do not repeat any tales of horror you have heard,” said the goodwife. “My husband and I would prefer it if our children were to sleep soundly this night, their dreams untroubled by lurid fancies.”
Cat Soup’s eye alighted on her basket of provisions and his mouth slammed shut like a trapdoor. His silence was annulled by the soft chatter and giggles of the two children from Fiddler’s Hamlet.
Only a trickle of southbound traffic went past in the other direction, and no northbound equipage overtook the party. Well before noon, they reached the Canterbury Water.
“How much is the toll?” Eoin asked Leofric as the bridge again loomed in sight, arches and stanchions formed from huge blocks of granite, solid as a castle.
“Tuppence. ’Tis free for children to cross.”
The marshman dug two pennies from his money-pouch and clutched them in his fist.
The Well of Tears: Book Two of The Crowthistle Chronicles Page 5