On the plateau below, dotted amongst the farmsteads and orchards, dwelled the many tradesfolk necessary to the community of High Darioneth: the cobbler and the carpenter, the cooper and the wainwright, the bowyer and the thatcher, and others possessing specialized skills. The blacksmith was also the farrier. Over the forge-fires of his smithy he worked in bronze, iron, and brass, shaping the metals with hot and cold forging, annealing, grinding, and casting. But the relatively low temperatures produced by his charcoal-fueled conflagrations would not make malleable the platinum so well loved by the folk of High Darioneth. For that, there was the Foundry.
The Foundry was situated inside Wychwood Storth, high in a huge, airy cavern accessible through a doorway set into the cliff behind Rowan Green. The tremendous heat required for melting platinum was provided by upwelling lava in natural pipes and shafts that thrust through the fabric of the mountain, jetting liquefied rock from unimaginable depths at temperatures of thousands of degrees. For cooling, the foundrymen used waterfalls of snow-melt from the high crags. Steam and flickering heat hazes rose from the chimneys of the Foundry as the men mixed platinum with iridium to produce a metal of a silver-white color, or with osmium for bluish white. Alloys of nickel they made also, and for hardening they used rhodium, or metallic elements found in platinum ores, such as palladium, ruthenium, and osmium.
Many other industries prospered on the plateau. Farms produced mushrooms, chestnuts, hazelnuts, walnuts, pecans, berries of sundry kinds, apples, asparagus, peppermint, and lavender. There were vineyards and dairies. Hunters bagged deer in the mountain forests; fishers caught salmon and trout in the lake and streams. Prospectors panned alluvial gold from river-gravel, occasionally building complicated water races to aid their efforts. Walnut and chestnut trees provided ample timber for the carpenters and joiners. Other artisans created paintings, sculptures, poetry, and patchwork. Those with a musical bent practiced singing, dancing, or playing the bagpipes.
The human inhabitants had dwelled on the flatlands of High Darioneth for centuries, but they had cleared only a small portion for farming. This was partly because there were relatively few of them on this vast plateau, but chiefly because they had enough respect for the supernatural creatures of the wilderness to leave large tracts of natural forest well alone. Acres of ancient timber covered most of the plain, particularly toward the misty foothills of the mountains. These mysterious forests had been untouched by humankind since the dawn of time. Even within the farmed areas of pasture, meadow, and orchard, many pockets of wildwoods remained intact because some eldritch guardian haunted them. The greater part of the plateau was covered with trees, and no one really knew what was hidden amongst them. It was understood that there were many secret brooks, bogs, ponds and hidden waterfalls, secluded glades, undiscovered dells and hollows, caverns and lairs where unimaginable beings lurked; some kind to mortals, others not so well-disposed.
Fewer than seven hundred people lived in the close-knit community of High Darioneth. Of them all, the weathermaster families were most prominent. Jewel soon learned their names, and the meanings of those names: “Darglistel” was the ancient weathermaster word for Blackfrost, Sibilaurë signified “Whistles-For-The-Wind,” and Longiníme meant “Longcloud.” The translation of Ymberbaillé was “Rainbearer”; of Dommalleo, “Thunderhammer”; of Cilsundror, “Skycleaver”; and of Heaharním, “Highcloud.” Nithulambar was rendered as “Walks-In-Mist.”
Avalloc Maelstronnar was a widower. Arran was his eldest son; his other children were two daughters named Galiene and Lysanor, and an infant son, Dristan. The Storm Lord’s sister, Astolat, was married to Branor Darglistel-Blackfrost, a man burdened with poor health. They had four sons—the eldest of whom was Ryence—and one young daughter.
The carlin at High Darioneth was a woman named Luned LonginímeLongcloud, a steely and business-like body, not friendly, as Eolacha had been. She walked with a skewed gait. All the toes were missing from her left foot. When first she set eyes on Jewel, she said, “What is that about the child’s neck?” and took hold of Jewel’s amulet, which had been retrieved from the body of Eoin. This action pulled Jewel close to the carlin, whose flinty eyes studied the disc of bone, while her sour breath caused Jewel’s nose to wrinkle. “This thing is useless,” snapped Luned Longiníme. “It has no power. Somebody give the child a proper talisman, for goodness’ sake.”
Unseelie wights were seldom glimpsed within the ring of storths. Brownies, on the other hand, were everywhere. It seemed the place was teeming with them; almost every household had one.
These seelie, domestic wights were generally nocturnal. Helpful and strong, they were hard workers in homes and farms, and could perform the labors of ten men. Like all wights, brownies had their system of moral precepts; they hated being spied upon, and despised laziness in servants. They could turn mischievous or even unseelie if mistreated, and if anyone gave them presents, they would depart forever.
The brownie of High Darioneth Mill discharged his self-imposed duties with exceptional zeal. He was particularly fond of one member of the household—in this case, Mildthrythe, Elfgifu’s mother. Mildthrythe had grown up at the mill, an only child. Her father was the miller, and in due time her husband, Osweald, became master of the mill. The brownie’s loyalty to Mildthrythe never swerved. When she spoke of him she affectionately called him “Robin,” although everyone else called him “the brownie,” and outside his own home he was often feared. Visitors to the mill avoided traveling along the path that went by the “Auld Pool,” above the weir on the millstream. Although that path was the most direct, it had an ill-name; it was said the mill’s brownie liked to linger there.
Mildthrythe’s friendship with the brownie was so close that she kept no secret from him. When she fell in love with Osweald, the brownie helped smooth the path of the courtship and administered to the particulars of her wedding ceremony. Each time she gave birth to a child, he was solicitous in the extreme. Every night he was busy cleaning out the fireplaces, bringing in new kindling, putting water on the fire to boil, sweeping, washing, hanging out the clean linen to dry, and generally setting things to right in the house—all with barely a whisper of sound. Come morning he would severely pinch the cook and the nurserymaid if they overslept.
A few weeks later, in late Jenever, it happened that heavy rains fell for several days, and the rivers of High Darioneth were roaring in full spate. So much water was pouring down from the mill-weir that the excess flow had to be diverted from the head race through the spillway. At the height of the flooding, the pains of motherhood came upon Mildthrythe and she knew it was nearing time for her ninth babe to be born. Osweald ordered the stable-boy, “Ride at once to fetch the midwife. Make haste!”
“Yes, sir,” said the stable-boy, and he went to the tack-room to put on boots and greatcoat.
The rain pelted on the roof, ranting and racketing. From the window, the boy peered out at its sheer, drenching curtains. The watercourses were all running at full capacity, and word was going around that farther down, the water had inundated the bridge over the swollen millstream. That bridge lay between the mill and the house of the midwife. He knew he would have to go by the Auld Pool, and the thought filled him with dread. So he loitered, fussing with boots and saddle, delaying the moment of departure.
Elfgifu came running into the tack-room, with Jewel following a few paces behind.
“Cynric! Are you not ready yet? You must go straightaway!” cried Elfgifu, thumping him urgently on the shoulder. “Mother says this child is eager to be born. Her time is at hand! Go now!”
“I am dressing as fast as possible,” protested the stable-boy, but even as he uttered the words, a hulking figure came rushing into the room. After flinging the greatcoat over its shoulders, it dashed into the stables next door, mounted the fastest horse, and galloped out into the rain.
“May all that’s charitable protect me,” said the stable-boy, ashen-faced. He propped himself against the wall. “The brownie
has gone for the midwife, and my life is not worth tuppence.”
He fled to the servants’ quarters.
A remarkably short while later, the shape of a horse with two riders loomed out of the rain’s silvery draperies. The midwife, in a state of shock, was deposited at the steps of the side door of the mill, whereupon she was hustled indoors and shepherded directly to Mildthrythe’s bedchamber.
Soon afterward the babe was born. Eager to view the new arrival, the entire family, including Jewel, congregated in Mildthrythe’s chamber. The cries of the newborn presently mingled with roars of pain from the vicinity of the servants’ quarters.
“Herebeorht, go and find out what’s amiss!” said the miller to his eldest son. The youth returned, laughing. “Poor old Dobbin is back in the stables, in a sorry plight. He looks as though he has been pixie-ridden! And the brownie has been in the servants’ quarters, dispensing a sound thrashing to our Cynric, with his own horsewhip!”
“Mercy me!” said the midwife, handing the swaddled infant to Mildthrythe and plumping herself down on a stool. She fanned her face with a folded swatch of linen, saying, “I was on my way here with your manservant—as I thought—riding like thunder, when I discovered what a dreadful road he was taking. I screamed, ‘Do not ride by the Auld Pool! We might meet the mill’s brownie!’ And he replied:
“ ‘Have no fear, Goodwife Stanford.
Hold tight; keep your seat.
You’ve met all the mill-brownies
You’re likely to meet!’
“With that, he plunged the horse into the water and bore me safely to the other shore. Mercy me! I’ve never been so flummoxed in all my born days.”
The nurserymaid handed the midwife a cup of blackberry wine, which she gulped gratefully.
“I’ll not be going back by the same road,” she declared, “nor with the same rider!”
“Have no fear of that,” answered Mildthrythe, still smiling fondly on her youngest child. “Osweald will see to it. Ah! What a bonny boy this is. I have you to thank for his safe delivery into this world, and Robin to thank for your safe delivery to our doorstep!”
The midwife shuddered, and held out her cup to be refilled.
The other kinds of wights sporadically glimpsed around High Darioneth were chiefly trows and siofra. The latter, who looked like tiny men and women dressed in leaves, mouse skins, and insect carapaces, were relatively harmless. They could play tricks with their glamour, but usually it was nothing worse than creating the illusion that their clothes were tailored from gorgeous fabrics, or making the indigestible fare sold at their charming, miniature markets appear deliciously inviting to the unwary mortal purchaser.
In the days when Elfgifu’s grandfather worked the mill, he had used his picks to help the siofra scoop out numerous circular basins in the rocky sides of the millstream. On many a moonlit evening the queen of the siofra and her entourage could be seen, like finches and sparrows, flicking and laving in these little pools.
Trows were much larger than the siofra, and less inclined to disguise themselves. Most trow behavior did not threaten humankind. The long-nosed, gray wights were wont to enter houses at night and wash their babies in the clean water set out for them on the hearth. Sometimes they could be seen performing their quaint dances beneath the light of the full moon. But trows, by nature, were thieves. They loved silver, which they stole whenever possible, absconding with it to Trow-land under the ground. They pilfered the fruits of garden and orchard. Sometimes they made off with animals. Other times they stole human beings.
When Spring came strewing buds across the high plateau, Herebeorht, the eldest son of Mildthrythe and Osweald, married his sweetheart and brought her to live at the mill. Her name was Blostma, meaning flowers, and she was as pretty as her name. The trows had long been watching Blostma, and had oft-times tried to entice her away to Trow-land.
Early Winter had brought heavy rains, but come Spring, not a drop had fallen for weeks. The weather remained very cold, so that the snow on the heights of the storths failed to melt. The mountain streams slimmed to a travesty of their normal flow, and by Mai Day the waters of Deeping Lake had retreated.
By this time Jewel had become firm friends with Hilde, Elfgifu’s young sister.
“Come down to the lake, Jewel,” said Hilde after the equinoctial festivities were over. “You should see it—the water has gone down so far that the old mill has risen up out of the depths!”
So Jewel accompanied her to the lake, but she could not resist the temptation to say exasperatedly, “The weathermasters ought to exert more control over the climate here. One moment we’re inundated so enormously that even the bridges are flooded—next instant the streams are drying up.”
Hilde only shrugged.
Draped with waterweed and bedecked with slime, stone ruins protruded from the diminished lake. On seeing these once-sunken remains Jewel was intrigued. She thought they looked eerie, like the ancient skeleton of some drowned city. Gaps in the walls where stones had fallen out, or where windows once had been, now predictably resembled staring, misshapen eyes.
“Why is the Old Mill underwater?” she demanded curiously.
“It became too severely haunted, in the end,” said Hilde. “But that was a long time ago. The folk of olden times drowned it, and there was no more trouble after that. Only, when the lake ebbs, which is once every ten years or so, the ruins come up, and at nights, passers-by can see strange lights moving therein, and hear voices.”
Jewel wanted to borrow a boat so that they could row over and inspect the ruins, but Hilde said, “No, it is too dangerous. Besides, it is forbidden.”
And Jewel had no choice but to be content.
Six weeks after his marriage, Herebeorht Miller took his nets and went to the lake to catch some fish. The waters were down at their lowest mark, and the skeleton of the Old Mill was clearly visible, thrusting up from the water, suspended over its own solemn reflection.
Herebeorht had not been fishing for long when he heard loud noises coming from the ruins. It sounded as though carpenters were at work inside; he was sure he could hear the rhythmic grating of a saw, the percussion of a hammer, the thud of a mallet driving a chisel.
Carefully and quietly he began to gather in his nets. He had drawn them all in and was rolling them up when a hollow voice from the Old Mill said, “Ho, what’re ye doing?”
Herebeorht dropped his nets and stood, petrified. Then a second voice, with an equally strange accent, answered, “I’m making a wife to Herebeorht Miller.”
Instantly the young man understood that the first voice was not addressing him after all, but the words of the second voice astounded and horrified him. Leaving his nets where they lay, he raced back to the mill and called the family together. They all came, except his father, who was busy with a chisel, “dressing” a pair of mill-stones.
Wrapping his arms about his bride, Herebeorht said breathlessly, “I heard voices in the Old Mill. ’Tis certain the trows will come for Blostma this very night. What shall we do?”
Blostma, despite her amazement, reassured him, “My love, do not be afraid on my account! Any sounds you heard in the Old Mill were, in likelihood, only the wind!”
Emphatically he shook his head.
“Well then,” said his new wife. “Perhaps the voices were those of mischievous siofra, up to their tricks.”
“No,” he said, clasping her more firmly. “They were trows.”
“But surely there is no need to fear,” said his mother. “Robin is here. He will not let trows come in.”
“Of that we cannot be certain!” cried Herebeorht. “The brownie might choose to guard only you, Mother, and those who are of your blood. Or he might have no power over trows.”
“Send Cynric for the carlin,” suggested Hilde.
“Luned is not at Rowan Green today,” said Mildthrythe. “She is sixty miles away. Cook says she has been called to a cottage in the northwest.”
“Then Blostma is
in dire peril!” insisted Herebeorht, in anguish.
“There are druid-sained charms aplenty nailed over every door and window,” Blostma pointed out.
“They will avail you naught,” Jewel advised. “When the trows come for humankind, no charm of stone or wood or iron can stop them. This I know, because my great-grandmother was a carlin and I learned much from her.”
“The child speaks truth,” said the nurserymaid. “I have heard the same.”
“What shall we do?” repeated Herebeorht.
“Will you let me help?” asked Jewel, stepping forward. “I know how to prevent trow-thefts.”
Herebeorht eyed the child askance, but he nodded. “Say on.”
“This is what must be done,” said Jewel. “Tonight you must seal up this house, making it secure against all comers. Bid the entire household remain indoors until sunrise. Tell them they must not be lured outside under any circumstances, and furthermore they must speak no word during the dark hours. Herebeorht, you must prevent Blostma from leaving the premises.”
“But I shall not try to leave!” Blostma said indignantly. “Why should I step beyond the door tonight?”
“Wait and see,” cautioned Jewel. “With respect, Mistress Blostma, you will discover the power of a trow-spell. Be forewarned, all—you will be sorely tempted to cross the threshold and venture forth. Many of you will also yearn to cry out, and methinks it is too much to ask that the object of the spell resist this urge, but at all costs no one else must succumb to the bait. Be prepared!”
The Well of Tears: Book Two of The Crowthistle Chronicles Page 11