The Folk Keeper

by Franny Billingsley

  “One hundred twenty-eight households,” I said.

  “An estate is a far greater thing than a handful of city tradesmen and their scrawny chickens. Think what damage the Folk could do to us — blight our spring crop; raise blisters on the pigs; sour the wine we’ve bottled for the Harvest Fair.”

  Sir Edward knew nothing of the Folk. “They can’t sour the wine,” I said. “It’s neither meat nor egg nor . . .”

  “Before that happens,” said Sir Edward, “I’ll find myself another Folk Keeper.” Lightning flashed through the window and wrapped itself around his head.

  Old Francis stood behind me. “I’ve had enough,” I said. “You may take my plate.”

  That is all I said. It is best not to let your enemy know your anger. Vengeance, my mind was full of it. Sir Edward loved the estate best of all, but I could not destroy that. My place depended on it.

  I trailed after the others to the Music Room, stretching my lips agreeably as they laughed at the hounds, at fierce Liquorice, so terrified of the Storms he tried to squeeze beneath a sofa. He fit only up to his red ears, and there he lay, sides heaving, pretending all of him was hidden.

  Taffy was undisturbed by the thunder. I felt rather smug (he belongs to me more than anyone, following me everywhere as he does) until I realized he is so deaf he doesn’t hear it much.

  The Storms brought out the worst in everyone, and a good thing too, for it was Finian, gibing slyly at Sir Edward, who found my revenge for me.

  “Just the right night for a moonlight sail, eh, Corin?” he said, leaning over the dessert tray and arranging twenty or thirty cakes on his hand.

  “Won’t you ever stop this useless playing around with boats!” said Sir Edward.

  “That’s all it is,” said Finian gently, but he was watching Sir Edward closely. “Just playing.”

  “Why couldn’t you play about with something more fitting?” Lightning struck, illuminating the world fiercely and briefly, catching every leaf and blade of grass in its white eye. “Your stepfather would have been proud to see you add a trophy to our collection. Both he and I have our prizes. Mine, that great pelt from the black jungle beast. Hartley, that silvery one.”

  Sir Edward was speaking almost calmly now, his irritation draining away into small talk. “Hartley took a number of silvery ones over the years, mostly smaller, as I recall. I wonder what became of them?”

  Finian threw a coal on the fire. “How thoughtless of His Lordship to marry my mother.”

  He spoke lightly, but a thread of malice ran beneath his voice, puckering it slightly in hidden places. “Neither she nor I knows how to run the estate, which it seems you must do by tacking dead things to the walls. A pity we ousted you from your inheritance, Edward. I know you were counting on it.”

  Sir Edward sprang to his feet, lithe and muscular as a cat — finicky as one, too, in his black and white satin. Finian shook the cakes from his hand and very calmly took off his spectacles.

  The bear against the cat. I knew which of them would win.

  “For shame, gentlemen!” cried Lady Alicia, spoiling all the fun. Finian bowed coldly to Sir Edward, and I left without a word. I had waited too long to tend the Folk. My revenge would have to wait.

  I slipped past Cook in the Kitchens, who was fighting a lump of dough and raging at the wind. “Will it never be still!”

  I threaded myself through the vegetable gardens and the tangle of out-buildings, hiding from the weather behind the stables, the brewery, the dairy. But on the exposed seaward side, the wind was a fierce thing, almost alive. It flattened me against the wall with an invisible thumb, but I beat at it with my head and shoulders until it gave way. Nothing was going to keep me from the churchyard, and the wind at last understood.

  The latch on the churchyard gate stuck fast. My hands do not grow stiff with cold, but they are clumsy. I finally gave up and scaled the fence, ripping my jacket on a picket. The fingers of the storm scribbled a vast wild portrait on the sky, while through a window, a single candle burned. It was Finian, his hair very red in the glow.

  I scooped a handful of wet earth from His Lordship’s grave. “To ward off the Folk.” The Lady Rona’s grave was not so easy, as the grasses and lichens wove the mold fast into itself. But if the wind couldn’t turn me aside, neither could mere grass. I scrabbled about and gathered another handful of earth, much of it under my fingernails.

  Last, to the tiny headstone. I felt briefly sorry for the baby, set apart to receive the drippings of water from the chapel eaves. But maybe she’s like me: I don’t mind a little wet.

  Before I left, I stood by the stone wall that surrounds the shaft opening into the Caverns. Eight feet around perhaps, and tall as I am. I tried to toss my words inside, where they might fall into the ears of the Folk — if they have ears.

  “I’m ready for you!”

  But I wasn’t sure.

  I was less sure still when I sat in the Cellar, concentric rings of salt, bread, and churchyard mold rippling out around me. I felt the hum of energy behind the Door, closed my eyes, and snuffed the candle.

  The Folk first crackled over the roasted lambs — seven of them! — silently picking them clean, then absorbed the butter and the sardines. Only then did they turn their hollow energy my way.

  When was it they paused? At the ring of churchyard mold? At the crosswise scissors? I only know that bare seconds before they would have touched me, the energy sank back into itself and retreated.

  Sir Edward was wrong: The Folk are mild as lambs during the Storms.

  March 22

  I was full of a strange energy when I left the Cellar, even growing two shadows as I passed between the double rows of candles that lined the corridors. All the sconces were lit on this stormy night. The shadows shrank again into my heels when I stepped into the Trophy Room. There was just enough light to see a dozen wet noses and twice as many glistening eyes turned my way.

  The hounds yawned and stretched to show their contempt. Liquorice and Honeycomb paced beside me as I fetched a step stool. “Puppies!” I said scornfully, just to remind them of how they’d hidden so shamefully from the thunder.

  The jungle beast’s skin was heavier than I’d expected. It toppled me off the stool and onto the bony part of my hip. “At it, lads!” I heaved it as best I could.

  Taffy did not stir, but the others leapt upon the skin. I’d been afraid they might begin that inhuman baying of theirs, but they were silent. Terribly silent. I waited until the skin was savaged beyond recognition.

  Will you be proud, Sir Edward, proud of your prize trophy now? It is a measure of your power, just as my position of Folk Keeper is a measure of mine. Never threaten my power, for then I will threaten yours.

  By twenty-six minutes past three in the morning, my vengeance was complete.

  By ten minutes to seven, all the dogs were in disgrace. They slunk about, red ears pinned to their heads, yellow eyes downcast. Sir Edward spoke of it calmly enough at breakfast. Who could understand it? he asked. He seemed calm, I say, but there was a little scar I’d not noticed before, almost hidden by his eyebrow, which turned livid when he spoke.

  “If anything,” said Sir Edward, “I wish they’d destroyed the silvery skin instead. It looks to be ruined in any event, as it is somehow stretching.”

  Then again and again, “Why did the hounds do it? Why?”

  Lady Alicia said that the Storms must have driven them wild, and so did Mrs. Bains and even the Valet. But Finian did not speak. He removed his spectacles and pinched the bridge of his nose as he does when he’s tired, then looked so purposefully away from me that my heart jumped. He knew!

  I’m back in the Cellar now, inside my triple-layered protection, but not protected from a nasty certainty. He knows. Finian knows.

  And what if he does? He hasn’t given me away; he won’t do so, I think. What more do I care about? I think only of Cook’s promise to save me a platter of sardines, dried and salted. They are so fragile even I can ea
t them, bones and all. Why have I grown ravenous at Marblehaugh Park? I cannot wait to feel the crunch of bones between my teeth.

  April 1 — All Fool’s Day

  Mrs. Bains says the Folk are very well, and quiet. They have consumed:

  Six brace of quail

  A shoulder of pork

  Five chickens.

  The Storms are over, but the memory of them remains. The wind’s voice is rough, tired from screaming.

  I never screamed. What a pity that my writing hand is free from hurt, so I must record what happened the second night of the Storms.

  The Folk didn’t touch me with a touch that is physical, but I have the bruises still. They sank beneath my skin, ripping through tissue and fiber into the heart of my bones. It hurt red-hot for what seemed a long time, then faded into a slow numbness, which faded into a merciful feeling of no feeling at all.

  It seemed merciful, but it was not. It was the ruinous paralysis from which some never recover. I realized it only when Finian gathered me from the Cellar floor. He was the only one brave enough to charge down the stairs when all at once the dogs set to howling. There was the warmth of my right side against him, the beating of his heart against my ear, and on the other side — nothing. No press of circling arms, no warmth.

  Sir Edward has explained to everybody’s satisfaction how I could have the power of The Last Word and still be injured. (Certainly to Lady Alicia’s satisfaction, who thinks him the Saint of All Knowledge.) It is convenient to be able to say that without a sacrifice, the Folk grow so wild during the Storms they all but overwhelm The Last Word.

  It is less convenient that I cannot believe it. Why didn’t the Folk hurt me as badly as Old Francis? Kill me, even? I shall recover as Old Francis never did.

  Saints be praised that the Folk do not again grow so fierce until the Feast of the Keeper, in July. Between now and then I must find new protection.

  April 12 — Egg Sunday

  I should report on the Folk on this feast day, but I’d rather report on myself.

  Oh, very well: The Folk have been quiet. They have consumed:

  Three dozen buckets of first milk

  Two hundred and seven eggs, leaving no shells

  A side of beef.

  Mrs. Bains insists I am too ill to leave the Manor. But I am quite recovered. Best not tell her I slipped out this morning, hid myself among the drifting fog-wraiths all the way to the cliffs.

  The beach was littered with debris: dead fish and birds, feathers, driftwood (driftwood, on this treeless island!). The sun shone behind the mist like a full moon. Seagulls stood in tidy rows, still exchanging stories about the storm.

  It was low tide and at the edge of the beach was a five-foot drop to a scatter of rocks. The tide pools were overflowing with water, bursting with life. Beneath the tenacious algae, dozens of happy creatures were doubtless going about their daily business.

  Life, life. I smelled it all around. The green sea, bursting with life, from the sea urchins amongst the rocks below to the barnacles and seaweed creeping up the pilings of the pier. The poets always sing of bright blue water, but I don’t care for it. Blue is nothing; blue has only itself to reflect.

  All the others in the Manor will be stuffing themselves with eggs on this Sunday. But not I.

  I leaned off the pier, casting glances over my shoulder even as my hand darted into the water. Mrs. Bains wants to feed me, but she cannot know what I really want. Flesh, sweet and salty, bursting with life. I threw the entrails to the birds, the skeletons to the sea.

  April 17 — Levy Day

  The Folk have eaten:

  Two roast ribs

  Five rounds of cheese

  A barrel of smoked haddock.

  I do not regret destroying Sir Edward’s prize trophy. I do regret that Finian suspects me. I should have known never to reveal any of my true Convictions. And for what? The Secrets were no good. The churchyard mold failed to work against the Folk. What shall I do come July, during the Feast of the Keeper, when the Folk next grow wild?

  8

  Beltane Through Midsummer

  May 1 — Beltane

  Old Francis has disappeared.

  He vanished during the Storms of the Equinox, but I learned of it only this morning, when the chapel bells shook us all out of bed and into the meadow behind the Manor. It was lovely in the early light, gathering violets and marsh marigolds for the May Day garlands. Clouds of sheep floated in distant fields, and dandelions lay scattered like spots of sunshine.

  Lady Alicia made five garlands, and Finian made three. His big fingers are remarkably nimble. Sir Edward gave a little boy a copper to gather flowers for him, but then even he spread his elegant coattails in the grass and constructed his garlands with the deliberate care he devotes to all affairs of the Manor.

  I managed one garland, which might, with luck, fit a head shaped like a triangle.

  “Of all the feast days,” said Lady Alicia, plucking at the grass, “Old Francis loved May Day best.” She brought her palm level with her face, then blew the grass into the wind. “These are easy days, he always said. Easy for a Folk Keeper.”

  Old Francis? I looked about. He was nowhere among the knots of Manor servants laughing and gathering flowers.

  Finian set a garland on my head. “You’ll not see him here. No one’s seen him since the Storms.”

  I hadn’t thought of him for weeks.

  Easy days for a Folk Keeper. Yes, the Folk are quiet now a long while, today eating only a hogshead of boiled pig knuckles. The May Day garlands are scattered in a circle round the Manor, restricting the power of the Folk to the Caverns. Likewise, during the Masquerade Ball on Midsummer Eve, the Manor will be circled with a ring of burning torches. We do not celebrate Midsummer Eve on the Mainland, but Mrs. Bains assures me this fiery ring will keep the Folk subdued.

  These have indeed been easy days. I’ve been busy with Finian, putting the final touches on the Windcuffer. We’ve been breaking in her new set of sails, puttying her cracks and seams with lead-and-linseed oil, and painting her properly, with many thin coats. She dried slowly, gleaming in the spring sun.

  The Windcuffer has come alive, just as everything in Cliffsend has sprung suddenly to life. Banks of buttercups shine everywhere, and the hyacinths are making a great show of themselves, each of their leaves carefully combed and curled.

  Everything’s come to life, and all this while I never noticed Old Francis was gone. I wish I’d noticed earlier. Then I’d never have worried he’d tell my secret, reveal I don’t have the power of The Last Word. He can’t tell anyone, now.

  June 16 — Feast of Saint Jerud, Who Throttled a Sea Serpent

  It has taken the Folk all day to eat a mere dozen cheeses, but I rose for breakfast at dawn. There was just a tiny brightening to the east, like the pinkish-gray luster in the lining of a shell. The fish were easy marks, hovering at the surface during their great nightly grazing. I struck again and again.

  By the time Finian arrived, I was bursting with Convictions.

  I told him the sun shines on the seafloor in a grillwork of fractured light.

  I told him the sky is delicately cobwebbed with clouds, that gulls fly over the water like scattered confetti.

  “I like these new Convictions,” he said. “How wonderfully you Folk Keepers are schooled. You find the right words to describe the Folk, and everything else, too.”

  But no one schooled me. I had to school myself.

  I told Finian he owes me two Secrets.

  When I read this over, I realize how different I sound from the old Corinna. I’m not turning into a sentimental girl, am I? Swooning over the sunset and dabbing lavender water on my wrists? I must be alert to signs of encroaching softness. I need a new morning routine: clean teeth, wash face, check heart for signs of dry rot. Replace it with good mahogany planking, as we did the Windcuffer. It’ll last a long time.

  June 21 — Midsummer Eve

  It is half past ten, and there’s
still an underglow to the sky. The Cliffsenders boast that on Midsummer midnight you can read without a candle, or play a game of ball, if the ball is white.

  I sit on the cliffs, but even here I am not far enough removed from the Midsummer festivities. Why do people do it, having guests to stay for a whole week? First you have to endure the washing of draperies and airing of beds and beating of carpets (all of which had seemed more than clean enough to me). Then you have to endure the hideous chatter of the ladies and gentlemen and their maids and valets; and even beg Cook for a barrel of dried beef for the Folk on this feast day.

  You can never get far enough away. Sounds from the Masquerade Ball drift across the lawn. Arching streamers of violin music, the rumble of distant talking and laughter, a happy scream. Someone won at cards, or had her dress trod on, or was kissed!

  I stood out from the others earlier tonight when I entered the Ballroom in my Samson costume. Yes, I dressed as Samson, he of the long hair. We are a little alike, he and I, for our hair sets us apart. His gave him strength, and mine — well, it is inconvenient that it grows two inches each night, but it is one of my secret powers. Not for anything would I give it up.

  My white tunic was very plain among the jesters and their bells, the wizards and their staffs, the fairies and their jewels, fragile shoulders rising from beds of ribbon and gauze. But my costume hid more secrets than theirs. So did my hair, which I’ve grown to my chin and colored with a walnut stain. I seem to be wearing a wig. No one would guess it’s mine. I like to be fooling them all.

  Midsummer Eve is my birthday, and there is one disappointment that has come with turning sixteen. I seem to be starting to grow. I can wear the tunic and still be thought a boy, but not for long, perhaps. Not for long.

  I slipped round the edges of the crowd, avoiding the crystal chandeliers, whose hundreds of candles were already dripping hot wax. Poor Mrs. Bains. I knew her armies had spent hours polishing the Ballroom floor with beeswax and cleaning the chandeliers until each crystal was beautifully radiant.