“A most amiable father-in-law,” Jewel commented.
“And a most gormless bridegroom, for he had not the courage to gainsay his father’s cruel edict,” said Arran sternly. “So the bride begins to weep and moan and wring her white hands, and she wanders about the house all sorrowful and distraught. She ends up in the kitchen, late at night when all the servants have gone to bed. And as she’s sitting by the hearth, sobbing, she hears a knocking. It’s coming from low down on the door that leads outside to the kitchen gardens. After drying her eyes with her handkerchief she opens the door; but nobody is there, and she’s mystified, peering out into the lonely night.
“Then a strange voice like the complaining of a rusty hinge says, ‘What are yew a-cryin’ for?’
“The girl looks down and there on the doorstep is a small creature like a dried-out old man, all dusky and shrunken, but with a long, thin tail that’s spinning around slowly. She backs away warily.
“ ‘What’s it to you?’ she says.
“ ‘Niver yew mind,’ the thing replies, ‘but tell me what you’re a-cryin’ for.’ ”
Amusement twitched at the corners of Jewel’s mouth as she listened to Arran mimicking the queer accents of the wight.
He continued: “ ‘I won’t be any better off if I do,’ says the girl, starting to sob once more.
“ ‘Yew doon’t know that for sure,’ says the thing, and its tail spins a little faster.
“The girl reconsiders. ‘Well,’ she says, ‘I suppose it won’t do me any harm, even if it won’t do me any good.’ So she tells the thing all her woes: how she’s going to be placed in a room on her own every day for a month, with a spinning wheel and half a bale of straw to transform into bullion, and if she does not pass the test, she will be mutilated and driven away.
“ ‘This is what I’ll dew,’ says the little dusky thing. ‘I’ll come to yar winder iv’ry mornin’ an’ take the straw an’ bring it back spun iv’ry evening.’
“For the first time a glint of hope kindles in the damsel’s spirits. Yet she would not allow herself to be joyful, for she understood the ways of the world.
“ ‘What pay do you want?’ she inquired suspiciously.
“The thing looked out of the corners of its eyes and said, ‘I’ll give you three chances every night to guess my name, an’ if you hain’t guessed it afore the month’s up yew shall be mine.’ ”
“A generous bargain,” interrupted Arran’s wight, who was perched on a bookshelf, leaning against a vellum-bound tome. “My cous—er, I mean, that was not only offering to save her from ruin; it was also giving her a chance to avoid payment!”
“In my opinion the thing was merely trying to prolong the girl’s dread,” said Arran. “With the unusual name it bore, how could it expect to fail?”
“There you go, seeing the worst in everybody,” grumbled the wight. It sprang across to a curtain, shinned down, and disappeared again behind the window seat.
“The girl accepted the bargain,” Arran told his wife. “After all, what option had she?”
“And she might have imagined she had a chance of guessing the name.”
“Indeed. Then, when she told the thing she agreed, it twirled its tail madly and vanished into the night.”
“Members of those species are most expert at sudden vanishings,” said Jewel loudly, “or so I’ve heard. What happened next?”
“Early in the morning, before the sun came up, the spiteful old viscount had the damsel locked into a room on her own,” said Arran, “along with some food and drink, half a bale of straw, and a spinning wheel. She was told not to come out until she had spun the straw into gold, or the punishment would be immediate.”
“What of the gormless husband?”
“Perhaps he was threatened with disinheritance if he tried to help his bride. Perhaps he was hatching some far-fetched plan. I suspect it was guilt at his own weakness that made facing her unbearable. At any rate, he must have stayed away from his wife, for the story does not mention him at this point. It tells how the damsel sat weeping by the wheel, certain that no help would come, until she heard a knocking at the window. She got up and opened it, and there she saw the little old thing, sitting on the ledge.
“ ‘Where’s the straw?’ it said.
“ ‘Here,’ she said, handing it over.
“All day she stayed in the room, chewing on her fingernails and worrying. Not a bite of food did she eat, in her anxiety. Then the sun went down, and as before there came a knocking on the window. She ran to open it, and there was the thing, with a glittering skein of pure gold thread draped over its arm.
“ ‘Here it is,’ said the thing, giving it to her. ‘Now, what’s my name?’ it asked.
“She hazarded a guess, blurting out the first name that entered her head. ‘Is it Bill?’
“ ‘No, that ain’t,’ said the thing. And it twirled its tail.
“ ‘Is it Ned?’ said she.
“ ‘No, that ain’t,’ said the thing. And it twirled its tail.
“ ‘Well, is it Jim?’ she said.
“ ‘No, that ain’t,’ said the thing, and it twirled its tail harder, before vanishing into the night.
“When the door was unlocked, the old viscount almost had an apoplexy in his astonishment, for there stood the damsel with the skein of gold ready in her hands. After grabbing the skein and admiring the way it shone before his eyes he recovered soon enough, saying, ‘I see we shan’t have to cut off your hair and fingers tonight, my dear. Off you go, but come back to work here in the morning and you’ll have your straw and vittles.’ Without another word he hobbled away to his treasury. She went to her bedchamber, where she slept alone. Her husband, apparently, had gone away on a long hunting trip, and was resting each night at the viscount’s country lodge.
“Every day the straw and food were brought, and every day the little dusky thing would appear in the mornings and the evenings. The damsel would spend the entire day trying to decide on the best names to tell it when it arrived at night. But she never hit on the right one, and as it got toward the end of the month the thing’s facial twitches became quite malicious, and it twirled its tail faster and faster each time she made a guess.
“The last day but one eventually dawned. When the thing came that night with the skein of gold, it said, ‘What, hain’t yew got my name yet?’
“ ‘Is it Nicodemus?’ said she.
“ ‘Noo, t’ain’t,’ the thing said.
“ ‘Is it Hvergelmir?’
“ ‘Noo, t’ain’t,’ the thing said.
“ ‘Well,’ she cried in desperation, ‘is it Bozorgmehr?’
“ ‘Noo, t’ain’t that norther,’ the thing said. Then it looked at her with eyes like coals of fire, saying, ‘Woman, there’s only tomorrer night, an’ then yar’ll be mine!’ ”
“And then it vanished into the night?” Jewel inquired.
“Verily; whereupon, the damsel was overwhelmed with fear and alarm. She began to consider that wandering bald and fingerless in the wilderness might have been a better fate than the one she now faced.”
A noise like a snort exploded behind the window seat.
“Just then,” said Arran, “she heard the sound of footsteps coming along the passageway and knew someone was coming to unlock the door. She composed herself as best she could. The door opened and in came the viscount—this time, accompanied by his gormless son. When he saw the skein of gold in the hands of his wife the young husband looked delirious with joy.
“ ‘My sweet!’ he said to her as his father appropriated the gleaming web. ‘You have almost passed the test. Since you have come this far, I don’t see any reason why you will not be able to have the gold ready tomorrow night as well! Our ordeal is as good as over!’
“‘Our ordeal?’ she repeated. Her irony was, however, lost on the infatuated and noticeably fatuous young man.
“ ‘Since all is going so well,’ he enthused, ‘let us dine together this night!’
> “ ‘I am surpassingly tired,’ she began frostily; but on catching the warning eye of the cruel old viscount she revised her intention. ‘Nonetheless I would be delighted.’
“That night supper was laid out for the couple in the best dining hall. Despite that the food and drink were excellent, the bride could scarcely bring herself to touch a morsel. Whenever she looked at her husband, who was as good-looking as he was spineless, it came to her that his personal attentions would be more pleasant than those of the little old thing with the twirling tail. The son of the viscount prattled on, oblivious. They had hardly progressed to the second course when he ceased eating and talking, and began to laugh.
“ ‘What is it?’ she asked.
“ ‘The funniest thing happened when I was out hunting,’ he said. ‘We found ourselves in a section of the forest we had never seen before. It seemed a very old part, for the trees were huge, and bedecked all over with long strands of moss. Amongst their great roots was an old chalk pit with a kind of humming sound coming out of its depths. Interested to discover what it might be, I dismounted, stole quietly up to the edge of the pit, and looked down. Well, it was rather dark down there, what with the overhanging trees and all; nevertheless, I could see the funniest little dusky thing you ever set eyes on, and what was it doing but sitting at a little spinning wheel! It was spinning wonderfully fast, while twirling its tail at the same time, and as it spun it sang:
‘ “Nimmy nimmy not,
My name’s Tom Tit Tot.” ’
“When his bride heard this she felt as if she could have jumped out of her skin with happiness, but she forced herself to appear calm, and said nothing.
“Next morning the little thing looked more malicious than ever when it came to take away the straw. When the sun had gone down, she heard the usual knocking on the windowpanes. She opened the window and the thing hopped right over on to the interior sill. It was grinning from pointed ear to pointed ear, and oh! its tail was twirling around so fast!
“ ‘What’s my name?’it said as it gave her the golden skein.
“ ‘Is it Farrokhzad?’
“ ‘Noo, t’ain’t,’ the thing said, and it came further into the room.”
Vastly entertained, Jewel broke in, “What a cool-nerved wench, to sport so impudently with the creature!”
“Why not, when she knew the answer, and it had taunted her for so long?” Arran replied with a smile. “So then the woman guessed again. ‘Well, is it Zedbedee?’ said she.
“ ‘Noo, t’ain’t,’ said the thing, and then it laughed and twirled its tail until the appendage was almost invisible. ‘Take time, woman,’ it said. ‘Next guess and you’re mine!’ And it stretched out its shriveled hands toward her.
“She retreated a step or two, feigning terror as she stared at the creature. Then suddenly she laughed aloud, pointed her finger straight at it, and said:
“ ‘Nimmy nimmy not,
Your name’s Tom Tit Tot.’
“When it heard her words, the creature shrieked like a hundred whistles. The table lamp fell over, and an enormous shadow seemed to flare from behind the creature’s scrawny shoulders. There was a chaotic flapping, like pumping sails of leather, and with a whoosh the thing flew out the window into the dark.
“She never saw it again.”
Arran’s impet had emerged from its sanctuary. It now jumped up and down on the window seat. “That could not fly!” it chirruped shrilly. “That never had wings! Storytellers invented a false ending.”
“Why are you so agitated?” Jewel asked, concealing her mirth at the little creature’s antics.
“That was foolish enough to chant its name when that believed that could not be overheard!” said the wight scornfully. “Foolish enough to spin, while broadcasting that’s name in a vapid example of doggerel. This is how that was thwarted!”
“Exactly!” agreed Arran.
“But I won’t blather out my name, I won’t make rhymes in private or public!” pontificated the impet. “I mind what my mither said. I remember the exact time she said it to me. It were a morning early in Spring, and the frost still unmelted on the ground, and she said to me, ‘Fridayweed, don’t you dare tell your name to any of the big folk. Hearken to me now—don’t you do that!’”
“So that’s your name!” cried Jewel. “Fridayweed!”
The wight looked aghast. “Now, how would you be knowing that?” it screeched. “How did you guess my name?”
“You mentioned it just now,” said Arran.
“Did I? Did I?” the wight shrieked, over-balanced, and fell over backward, disappearing into the corner shadows of the window seat.
Much later it reappeared, looking sheepish.
“What about that anagram?” it suggested.
“Fridayweed,” said Arran, “come here and seat yourself upon the escritoire, and tell us all you know about the Well of Tears.”
The impet obliged.
“I’ll tell you about that well,” it said. “ ’Tis at Whitaker’s Sands. That is the name of the place where the mountain squats. It is the answer to the anagram.”
Instantly Jewel began rifling through a pile of half-unrolled parchment maps. Arran held his breath, keyed up with expectation.
Its vocabulary and grammatical skills having become vastly more sophisticated since it had taken to frequenting the library and sleeping amongst the dictionaries, the impet fluently expounded: “At Whitaker’s Sands in this very kingdom, there is a waterfall in the core of a haunted mountain called Whitaker’s Peak. It can only be reached by way of a declension called the Deep Stair, accessed by a doorway that gives on to the high places near the summit. Four thousand, nine hundred, and thirty-one steps lead down to a cliff beside that waterfall. It is said by the wights inhabiting Whitaker’s Peak that no mortal being can descend the cliff, except on ropes of sand. Near the foot of the cascade, but in a small, separate area, the ground is scooped out in the shape of a bowl. This is the Well of Tears. Long ago a Star, or part of a Star, fell through a fissure in the mountainside and plowed a downward shaft. In later centuries the shaft was hacked into the shape of a stairway by mining wights, the Fridean, Blue-caps, Knockers, and the like.”
Between excitement and incredulity Arran said, “And can you take me to this doorway? Do you know how to find it?”
“That I can. That I do.”
Jewel’s forefinger stabbed a map. “We have found the place!” she yelled in triumph.
Arran jumped to his feet, his eyes blazing like embers imprisoned within emeralds. “I shall inform my father and depart this very hour!”
While Fridayweed jumped up and down twirling its tail, Jewel and Arran joined hands and swung around the library in a whirling dance, until Jewel, pausing for breath, said suddenly, “Wait.”
“What is the matter?”
Jewel made no reply. Her face folded in on itself, and she pressed her hands to her distended sides. Arran’s arms encircled his wife; all his attention was focused on her.
At length she drew a deep breath and murmured, “I suspect our child is on the way.”
Her husband drew her to a settle and assisted her to rest there, while he knelt at her side. They stared at each other, and the look that passed between them was charged with all the incredulity, delight, and amazement of two lovers on the brink of parenthood for the first time.
“Well then,” said Arran softly, “all else fades to shadows, when viewed by the light of this wonderful event!”
The child was born on 28th Aoust. They named her Astăriel, meaning The Storm. Black as thunder was her hair. In her flower of a face, her newborn eyes were two misty petals, the tint of sorrow.
Jewel and Arran were so lost in the joy of meeting their child, so delirious with awe at the miracle of her existence, and so obsessed with this small scrap of humankind that nothing else mattered to them. The Storm Lord and his councillors permitted the couple a period of uninterrupted peace to acquaint themselves with their infant and learn
how best to nurture her. Astăriel’s Naming Day was celebrated on 18th Sevembre, two weeks after the King’s Winterbourne Horn Dance and the same week as the Autumn Fair in Cathair Rua. It was then, when the baby was three weeks old, that Avalloc called his son to a meeting.
“Ever since you and Jewel found the location of the Well of Tears the councillors have been anxious,” said the Maelstronnar. “The Draught must be secured. If you will not go to the Well, someone else must make the journey. Already the sun has risen many times since the wight revealed the riddle’s answer.”
Emerging from his universe of flower-petal eyes, tiny hands waving like seaanemones, and piercing wails that scored his brain and heart like nails, Arran looked upon his father with clear eyes and knew he had the implicit authority of the entire Council backing him. It was as if the young man suddenly awoke from a dream. All at once the pressing importance of the quest returned to the son of the Maelstronnar. The sheer urgency of his situation rushed at him as overwhelmingly as a tidal wave. Rapidly he began to calculate and plan, endeavoring to anticipate all contingencies.
“Yet there is little purpose in the quest unless we can answer the other portion of the riddle,” he said. “What of these ‘ropes of sand’?”
“My dear boy, I surmised you would have consulted your wight on that matter. The creature appears to be knowledgeable enough, doesn’t he? Hmm?”
“Indeed, Father, I shall quiz Fridayweed. And I shall immediately make preparations for the journey,” Arran said. He was astounded at his own laxity. How could it be that three weeks had passed and he had scarcely spared a thought for the Well of Tears?
The Well of Tears: Book Two of The Crowthistle Chronicles Page 56